His visits to the city continued, and he slowly did the round of museums and galleries. He was not exactly disappointed by what he saw —who could be dismissive of the Louvre?—but he did regret the lack of information for the casual visitor. Without some kind of intelligent labelling, the halls filled with paintings and statues became something like a high class warehouse. Nevertheless, he soldiered on, determined to take the opportunities of one of the great centres of Western culture while he had the chance.
One afternoon he found himself near the Bois de Boulogne and decided to walk across it to the river. The beech trees were all dressed in their summer green, and the light filtered luminously through the leaves. After the rigid formality of other parks, he found the wildness of this woodland attractive, a small island of tranquillity in the centre of the busy city. His path wound through the trees, and he had soon walked out of sight and hearing of the modern world. He strolled along with the place to himself.
Turning a corner, he found a monument to some heroes of the Resistance, shot by the Gestapo right here under the old trees. It gave him a shock to think that people of his father's generation could have behaved in such an uncivilised fashion in a place like this.
His path continued. Small tracks of bare earth led off into the undergrowth at the side, but he kept to the main route. The still heaviness of the air was enervating, and if he had brought his book, he would have sat down to read with his back to one of these grand old trees. Then he decided to sit down anyway and started to look for a comfortable place. With a start, he realised he was not alone. Standing a little way off on one of the side trails, watching him intently, was a single girl.
His first glance took in her pretty face and shoulder-length brown hair cut with a fringe, and her very short summer frock. She had a small handbag over her shoulder and stood with long, straight legs slightly apart. She beckoned to him, and in a flash, he realised he was looking at a professional, a prostitute. Shocked, he hurried on.
He must have been passing through a recognised business area because he began to see more girls standing under the trees or sitting down and smoking in pairs. One or two men were either moving into the woods with their chosen playmate or returning alone. Tim was fascinated. How did they manage, he asked himself? Did they bring blankets and lie on the ground, or did they do it standing up against a tree? He did not favour standing up and only used the position for emergencies. And how did they wash? He guessed the girls would insist on condoms, but even then, they must be pretty unattractive by the end of their working day. And what about weather? The business must be seasonal because who would be desperate enough to stand under the trees in winter? Spring showers must make the beginning of the season pretty hit or miss as well. He was intrigued, as he was by anything to do with sex, but not enough to join in the fun.
Work had settled into a tedious routine. Rising at six fifteen he showered and shaved, and went down for a pathetic continental breakfast. He reached the laboratory just before seven when the security guards were opening up. The first hour or so was normally busy as the day's initial tests were set up, and after that he could take coffee with the laboratory's full time occupants. They were all young and well-educated, and invariably answered his stumbling French with English, before returning to their normal conversations. It took great persistence if he wanted to use the fruits of his evenings with Hussein.
He had not managed to meet local people socially. Evening time Montrouge lacked welcoming restaurants, perhaps because summer had come and much of Paris had shut up shop and gone to the beach. Life in the suburbs became noticeably quieter. Strolling around the centre of any big city is not a good way to make friends, and Paris was no exception. He did meet a Lithuanian carpenter one Sunday by the Seine, and they joined the crowds waiting for the Tour de France to pass. After they had stood talking for more than two hours, with the crowd becoming denser and denser around them, some large team vans rushed through. The crowd became restless and jockeyed for position on the pavement. After a short wait, a gaggle of bicycles flashed past at inhuman speed. And that was that.
He left the Lithuanian without making any future plans. He decided to buy a pornographic novel in French and spend the evening studying the language. As he browsed through the black-jacketed paperbacks, looking for one that might not be too stultifying, a magazine caught his eye. It was not a glossy girlie magazine, although it shared the same rack. It was slim and cheaply printed in black and white, the only flash of colour being some red in the title. It was called ‘La Vie Parisienne’ and had a photograph of a pair of long and enticing female legs on the front. He bought a copy along with his novel.
He enjoyed the magazine. It had some racy and interesting articles, and its sexy advertising and dubious classifieds renewed his hope that the Paris Englishmen dream of did still exist out there somewhere. He was absorbed in a review of an explicit show at a place called Club Lola when the telephone rang. It was Dulcina, calling from Santa Cruz.
How had she got his number? From the Singapore office, he supposed. As his mind struggled to shift gears into Spanish, her voice brought back fond memories of the good times they had spent together, and of her total dedication to the pleasures of lovemaking.
“Tim, I'm coming to England to study English. I'll come and visit you.”
“Coming to England to study? That must cost a fortune. You never told me your family was that rich.”
“Not so rich. I'm going to Bournemouth—is that how you say it?— and I'll live with my cousin. She's married to a lecturer at the university. So first I'll come and visit you.”
“But I'm not in England. I'm in France, in Paris.”
“That's not in England? I thought it was part of England, like Scotland.”
Tim winced at the thought. “No, you've got it wrong. They're both different countries.”
“Never mind. I'll visit you anyway. Is it too far away?”
Tim rapidly considered the benefits of having Dulcina in his hotel room, and part of him was all for it. In fact, that part started to stand up to be counted in the event of a vote. But Tim did not want Dulcina trying to establish any rights over him.
She must have sensed his doubt because she came right back at him with a laugh. “Tim, you have a girlfriend already! Is she from Paris? I suppose she's very beautiful.”
“Well, yes,” he lied, “But she's not here right now.”
“Where is she?”
“Oh, she's on holiday.”
“Good. Then I'll come quickly. When is she coming back?” Within minutes she had engaged space for herself with Tim for a fortnight and would call back with her flight details. He returned to the delights of the Club Lola.
The prospect of Dulcina's visit brought something extra into his life. At work, the tedious job of accumulating data remained unchanged, but now he had something to look forward to – something nice.
The lab results continued to be unexciting, and his blind check samples came in with exactly the results they should. The project as a whole looked set to be a boring failure. This did not upset Tim unduly. Exploration geologists are used to the majority of their prospects failing to yield. At least he no longer had to worry about his technicians' honesty.
With work becoming more routine, he had more chance to spend his afternoons in town. He would make sure the afternoon tests were running and at around two-thirty or three, he would leave and walk to the Metro.
One afternoon, sitting outside a small cafe off the Boulevard Haussman, he decided to suspend his program of cultural improvement and walk past the Club Lola. The address had remained in his mind quite unbidden, and spreading his tourist map over the table, he found it was not too far away. His route took him up through the Place St. Augustine and around the side of the Gare St. Lazare.
Tim's yearning for a woman was making him very susceptible to sexual suggestion. Every inaccessible young woman on the street caught his eye and piqued his hunger further. Still, the sexual life of
Paris eluded him, or at best showed itself only in tantalising glimpses. The scene that greeted Tim as he left St Lazare and turned into a narrow nineteenth century street surprised him as much as the girls of the Bois de Boulogne.
The vibrant colours of Africa had taken over the steps of the tall houses. On both sides of the street stood black girls dressed in extravagantly tight clothes. Singly, or in pairs or small groups, they waited for men to taste the sultry pleasures they offered. Tim's stomach leapt at the shop-window display the girls put on to entice their customers—soft brown breasts revealed rather than hidden by tight tee-shirts or plunging bodice tops. Some had ridiculously short mini-skirts, but most chose to ornament their naked backsides with thin, clinging hot-pants. Tim could not keep his eyes from the full, ripe mounds between the tops of their thighs. They smiled encouragingly at him as he passed within touching distance and, catching the direction of his glances, thrust their hips towards him. Their fat and fertile sexes called out to him.
Behind the girls, looking very black and menacing, their minders sat on the hot stone steps. Tim wondered if he could ever have the courage to try one of their girls.
As he continued to climb away from the river, he left the commercial centre of the city behind. People lived and worked in the side streets he passed, and old men sat outside in the sun. Soon his route brought him to the Place Pigalle, and he started looking for Club Lola. This part of Paris was devoted to one proposition only; that men’s interest in sex can be transmuted into money. He found himself passing lines of establishments offering non-stop nude dancing girls. Each had its come-on posters outside, and usually a pretty shill to tempt the customers to enter. Interspersed with the strip joints were girlie bars. He peered into these red and chrome tunnels at the scantily dressed girls waiting to make him feel at home.
The Club Lola stood at the edge of the busy area and looked unimpressive. To one side of the closed doors was a photo-poster of three nude girls. They were smiling temptations at the camera while hiding their ultimate secrets behind carefully placed legs and hands. On the other side of the doors hung a schedule of performances: four times nightly, starting at seven. There was nothing else to see, so he headed back to the bright lights, but did no more than stroll around and enjoy the atmosphere.
Dulcina was scheduled to arrive at Charles de Gaulle at five thirty, and he took the train out to meet her. The flight from Caracas arrived on time, and he waited nervously, trying to guess which passengers had come on her flight. He waited for over an hour before admitting to himself that she was not going to come out of the Customs exit. He hurried home to wait for a phone call.
As he entered the little square in front of his hotel, an elongated grey Mercedes swept past him and drew up at the hotel steps. He recognised Dulcina's frizzy hair inside and ran to meet her. A uniformed chauffeur drove the limousine, and beside him sat a beautiful blonde girl, wearing an elegantly daring cocktail dress and dripping costume diamonds. She presumably came along with the car. It was an equipage designed to melt the heart of a rich Arab.
Dulcina explained that she had asked the tourist information service at Charles de Gaulle for directions and was sent to the bus service over to Orly airport. Arriving at the terminal, she had been confronted by a line of ordinary taxis. This one had looked nicer, and was exhibiting a sign saying 'libre,' something she recognised from Spanish. Tim paid the exorbitant fee the chauffeur demanded and led her inside. Her arrival had impressed the hotel greatly, and she would certainly be talked about.
She announced her schedule as she tore her clothes off and threw them on the bed. “First a shower. Then we will eat. And afterwards, we will make love.” Within twenty minutes, the first had been taken care of, and they set off to meet Hussein.
She was an instant success with Hussein and his friends. Nothing was too much trouble, and the simple cous-cous mergueuse was transformed into an elegant meal. She enjoyed the spicy food and sparkled over her tumbler of rough red wine. Then, deliberately, she refused to be hurried away. If Tim was eager for her, then waiting a little would make him appreciate her more. She became involved in a long comparison with Hussein of their respective countries that only ended when Tim refused to translate anymore and asked for the bill. They walked back to the hotel arm in arm with a mounting excitement bringing butterflies to Tim's stomach.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Tim pulled her to him. She pressed herself against him, kissing eagerly. He had forgotten what a firm and muscular figure she had. Goodness knew why, for she seemed to take no exercise outside the bedroom. Perhaps that was enough, he thought, gripping the resilient cheeks of her bottom. His desire mushroomed, and soon their excitement made her push him away and start tearing at her clothes. Tim lost the race to undress, and his jeans were still around his ankles when she pushed him back onto the bed. Without hesitation, she knelt over him and impaled herself recklessly on his upright cock. Her hunger must have been great, because she immediately fell forward, wailing and trembling as her orgasm carried her away. For moments they lay still, clinging to each other and immersed in the delightful sensation of being together.
Tim kicked himself free of his jeans and rolled her over, his hungry cock still embedded deep inside her. For a moment, she looked at him fondly, and then her arms and legs came up to clasp him to her. “Si, mi amor, si,” she whispered as he manoeuvred her to the edge of the bed. With his feet on the floor, he started to hammer at her. Her moaning filled the room.
“You have not forgotten me, Tim. That was very good.”
“No one could forget you. There's nobody that makes love like you do.”
She laughed happily, making her succulent sheath tighten and ripple around him. “Was it better than your French girlfriend? Good. We must do it some more.”
Tim had never experienced a girl who took such an obvious delight in lovemaking. Once Dulcina started, she was energetic and inventive in finding ways to prolong her pleasure. It was some time later that she brought him to a second shuddering orgasm that left him limp and weak. But still she wanted more. Recognising that Tim would do little to help her for a while, she took the matter into her own hands and slowly coaxed some stiffness back into his plaything. He lay still and let her mouth and fingers breathe life back into him.
Leaving the bed, she flung the window shutters wide and stood for a moment looking out over the Parisian rooftops. The city slept, and there was little traffic noise. Conscious of Tim lying on the bed behind her, she slowly knelt on the window seat, set her elbows on the sill and bent forward to rest her head on her arms. The split globe of her bottom glowed faintly silver against the dark of the sky. Its shadowed divide plunged down into the dark and secret place between the tops of her thighs. This perfect sculpture was irresistible, and Tim moved to take her. He slipped easily into her flowing sex. He had no sense of urgency left as he slid in and out of her. Much later the sounds of her climax filled the air, and her cries floated under the night sky like a strange call to prayer in the countries of the Faithful.
Next morning, she slept heavily. “So many orgasms,” she grunted as she rolled away from him. “Today I do nothing.” Tim breakfasted alone under the admiring glances of the other guests and the staff, who did not seem to have minded having their sleep disturbed. She woke long enough to take a salad with him for lunch, and he took her into town for dinner, but they returned early.
She did not really recover from her jet lag until the following day. Tim returned home after work to find her trying to read La Vie Parisienne. She was looking at the photos from the Club Lola. “What is this? Is it a nightclub? Take me tonight.”
Why not? he thought. It would be interesting to watch her reaction.
“What do I wear to go to a place like this?” she asked as she started to root through her suitcase.
When Tim came out of the shower, she was sitting naked in front of the mirror putting on make-up. “You like them?” On the bed lay a black leather mini-skirt and a loose s
atin top. “The skirt is from Argentina, and it's very soft.” As he stood drying his hair, she slipped into the two garments. The white satin moulded itself to her breasts. She looked very desirable. “No more,” she said, pulling on a pair of sandals. “It might be inconvenient.” Tim swallowed as he tried to imagine the circumstances in which even a pair of panties might be an inconvenience.
Their taxi did not pull up outside the Club Lola until after eight o'clock. Beyond the door was a foyer like the lobby of a miniature cinema, complete with a box office. The only advertising of forthcoming attractions was a larger version of the poster outside. They were shown to a curtained entrance. In the small auditorium, the light was dim and they stood for a moment to let their eyes adjust.
In front of them, four rows of old-fashioned tip-up cinema seats pressed against the front of the stage. To the side, a single row of seats ran along the wall parallel to the side of the stage, but these were roped off. Perhaps half the seats were filled, their occupants glued to the scene in front of them. Tim and Dulcina slipped into the back row.
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