"I am a great believer in the truth."
* * *
A few months later, on a rainy afternoon, she went to his apartment and it was just as he said. He was kind and gentle and she did not hurt at all. And all the while, she felt the power in her, the power to bring him to a point of ecstasy from which he would never return, a power that could never turn into terror for her because she could always control it or him.
She watched him buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. "Jacques."
He turned. "What is it, my sweet?"
She held out her arms to him. "Come here, Jacques."
He came over to the bed. He bent swiftly and kissed her naked breast. "When you make love, my darling," he said, "your nipples are full like bursting purple plums. Now they are like little pink poppies."
"It was like you said it would be, Jacques."
"I am glad."
She took his strong brown hands in her own and looked down at them. His gold wedding ring shone up at her. She looked up into his face. "I think I would like to be your mistress," she said softly.
"Bon," he said. "I had hoped you would say that. That is why I took this little apartment. You can move in tonight."
She was surprised. "Move in here?"
He nodded. "If you do not like this place, I will get another."
"But I can't do that! What about Peggy?"
"What about her?" He shrugged. "It is fini."
"Can't we just go on like this? I’ll meet you here whenever you like."
"You mean you will not move in?"
She shook her head. "I can't. What would Peggy do? She needs my help to keep the apartment. Besides, if my father ever found out, he'd kill me."
"But he does not worry about your living with that — that lesbienne?" he said bitterly.
"You don't know my father. Back in Boston, they don't ever think about things like that."
"What does he think she is?"
"What she has always been," she answered. "My teacher, my companion."
He laughed shortly. "She has been your teacher, yes."
"Oh, Jacques," she said in a hurt voice. "Don't spoil everything now. Why can't we go on like this?"
He looked at her. "Then you won't move in here?"
"I can't," she said. "Don't you understand, I can't."
He got to his feet, and walked back to the dresser. He finished buttoning his shirt and picked up his tie.
"I don't see what difference it would make. After all, you're married. How much time do you think you could spend here, anyway?"
He studied her. "That is different," he said coldly.
"Different?" she shouted in anger. "Why is it different for you and not for me?"
He stared at her. "A man may be unfaithful to his wife, as she may to him if she is so minded. But a man is never unfaithful to his mistress, nor is a woman unfaithful to her lover."
"But Peggy is not a man!"
"No, she is not," he said grimly. "She is something worse than a man."
Rina looked at him for a moment. She drew her head up proudly. "Those are your terms?" she asked quietly.
She sat there proudly, her back straight, her naked breasts magnificent over her deep chest. He could see the outlines of her ribs against her flesh as they rose and fell with her breath. Never in my life have I known so much beauty, he thought. Aloud he said, "If that's the way you put it, those are my terms."
She didn't answer.
"I just don't understand," she said. She looked up at him. "You had better hand me my dress."
That had been many months ago and oddly enough, they still remained friends. She raised the Pernod to her lips and emptied her glass. "And now I really must go," she said. "I promised Pavan I would be at his studio by three o'clock."
He raised an eyebrow. "Pavan? You have taken up sculpting?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm modeling for him."
Jacques knew how Pavan worked. He used many models for just one statue. He was always trying to create the ideal. He would never succeed.
She felt his quizzical gaze sweep down to her breasts. She laughed. "No, it's not what you think."
"No?" he asked. "Why not?"
"He says they're too large."
"He is mad," Jacques said quickly. "But then, all artists are mad. What is it, then?"
She got to her feet. "My pubis," she said.
For the first time since she had known him, he was speechless.
She laughed.
He found his voice. "But why?"
"Because it's the highest mountain any man will ever climb, he says, and more men will die trying to climb it than ever fell from Mount Everest." She smiled and bent over him. "But we won't tell him that you survived the ascent, will we, Jacques?"
She kissed his cheek quickly and turned and walked out onto the sidewalk. He watched her until she was lost in the crowded street, then turned back to the waiter. "Psst!" he said. "I think I will have another drink!"
11
SHE HURRIED PAST THE POLITE GREETING OF the concierge, up the three narrow flights of the staircase. She'd stayed at the studio later than she thought. There would be just enough time to prepare dinner before Peggy got home.
Rina went through the tiny living room into the kitchen. Swiftly she lit the gas under the hot-water heater for the tub and with the same match, the oven, leaving the flame low. She took the small, browned chicken she'd just purchased, already cooked, at the corner rotisserie and put it into a pan and into the oven to keep warm. Rapidly she sliced bread from a long loaf, arranged it next to a large piece of cheese and began to set the table. In a few minutes, she was finished.
She looked down at her watch. There would even be time enough for a bath if the water was hot enough. She walked over and felt the tank. It was lukewarm. There would be enough if she didn't fill the tub more than half full.
She walked back into the living room on her way to the bathroom, her fingers already busy with the buttons of her blouse. The door opened and she turned toward it. "You're early," she said.
Peggy looked at her coldly and without answering, she closed the door behind her. Rina shrugged her shoulders. Peggy had these moods. One moment, she'd be bright, warm and gay, the next cold, even sullen. It would pass. "There's some wine and cheese on the table if you'd like something before dinner," she said, starting for the bathroom again.
Peggy's hand spun her around. "I thought I told you not to see Deschamps again!"
Rina stared at her. So that was it. Someone must have seen them at the restaurant and told Peggy. Strange that of all the men they knew, Peggy was jealous of none except Jacques. The younger men never upset her, but Jacques, with his curious, confident smile and the bright-gray hair at his temples, always managed to upset her.
"I just ran into him and he invited me to lunch," she said. It wasn't that she was afraid of Peggy's jealous rages but she didn't feel like having a quarrel. "I just couldn't be rude."
"Then where were you all afternoon?" Peggy demanded. "You weren't at art school, you weren't home. I kept calling both places until I became frantic with worry."
"I didn't feel like going to school," she said.
Peggy's eyes squinted at her. "You didn't walk over to his apartment, by any chance?"
Rina stared back at her. "No, I didn't."
"He was seen entering his apartment with a blonde about four o'clock."
Rina raised an eyebrow. Jacques hadn't wasted any time. "I'm not the only blonde in Paris," she said.
"He didn't answer his phone," Peggy said accusingly.
Rina smiled. "I can't say that I blame him, do you?"
Peggy's hand slashed across Rina's face. "You're lying!"
Rina's hand flew to her cheek. She stared at Peggy.
The other side of her face flamed as Peggy slapped her again. She grabbed Rina's shoulders and began to shake her. "Now I want the truth!"
"I told you the truth!" Rina screamed. She struck out at Peggy wil
dly.
Peggy fell back in surprise at the sudden onslaught. A hurt expression came over her face. "Why do you do these things to me when you know I love you so much?"
Rina stared at her. For the first time, a feeling of revulsion swept over her. First for Peggy, then for herself.
Almost instantly, Peggy threw herself to her knees, her arms clasped around Rina's thighs. "Please, please, darling, don't look at me like that. Don't be angry with me. I'm sorry. I was crazy jealous."
Rina's face ached where it had been slapped. Suddenly, she was tired. "Don't do that again — ever," she said wearily.
"I won't, I won't," Peggy promised wildly. "It's just that I can't bear to think of that lecher getting his filthy hands on you again."
"He's not a lecher, he's a man," Rina said. She looked down at Peggy. A faint note of contempt came into her voice. "A real man. Not an imitation!"
"I have shown you more than you would learn from all the men in the world."
A sudden knowledge came to Rina — the first faint revelation of self-truth. A cold fright ran through her. She looked down at the dark-brown head pressed against the front of her skirt.
"That's what's wrong. You're so anxious to show me love, to teach me love. But it's all from the outside in. Why can't you teach me to feel love, to give love?" Slowly she pushed Peggy away from her. And then, for the lack of a better place to do it, she dropped to her knees and turned her face into Peggy's bosom and began to cry.
"Cry, lover, cry," Peggy whispered. "Cry it all out. I’ll always take care of you. That's what love is for."
* * *
It was early when Amru Singh arrived at the party that Pavan was giving to celebrate the unveiling of his master statue. It was about six o'clock when Amru Singh made his obeisance to his host, politely refused a drink and took his usual place against the wall in the empty room.
As was his habit, he took off his shirt and folded it neatly and placed it on the floor. Then he took off his shoes — he wore no socks — and placed them next to the shirt. He took a very deep breath and placing his back against the wall, slid down until he was seated squarely on the shirt with his legs crossed beneath him.
It was thus that he could observe, without turning his head, the actions of every person in the room. It was also from this position that he could most easily fill his mind. He thought about many things, but mostly about the vanities and ambitions of man. Amru Singh was seeking a man whose vanities and ambitions transcended the personal, aspiring only to the glory that had been buried by the centuries deep in the human spirit. That he had not yet found such a man did not discourage him.
He felt his muscles lock in the familiar tension which was at the same time relaxed and comforting; he felt his breathing become slower, shallower. He closed off a corner of his mind for a few minutes, though his eyes remained open and alert. It could be any night, perhaps tonight, that his search would be ended.
But he could already feel the evil spirit of the goddess Kali unleashed in the room. With an inward shrug of his shoulders, he cast from him the feeling of disappointment. There were so many little people in the room.
On the floor, in the corner behind the big sofa, a man and a woman were committing an act of fornication, hidden, or so they thought, from the others. He thought of the positions of obscenity carved high into the walls of the temple of the goddess and felt a distaste seep through him. This ugly copulation, which he could observe through the space between the high Regency legs of the couch, was not justified by even a holy worship of the evil one.
In a niche near the door, with a single light shining down on it from above, stood the draped statue on a pedestal. It stood there very still, like a corpse in a shroud, and did not even stir when the door opened for two newly entered guests. Without moving his eyes, Amru knew them. The blond American girl and her friend, the dark woman. He closed his mind to them as the clock began to toll the hour and Pavan began his speech.
It was nothing but a repetition of what he had been saying all evening, and many times before, but at its finish, he suddenly began to weep. He was very drunk and he almost fell as, with a quick gesture, he tore the covering from the statue.
There was a silence in the room as all looked at the cold marble form of the statue. It was scaled to two-thirds life size and carved from a rose-blush Italian marble that took on a soft hue of warm life from the light in the room. The figure stood poised on tiptoe, the hands held over her upturned face, reaching for her lover, the sun.
Then the silence was broken as all at once began to comment and congratulate the sculptor. That is all except one. He was Leocadia, the art dealer. A small, gray man with the thin, pursed lips of the money-changer.
In the end, no matter what anyone said, his was the final judgment. It was he who determined its value. It did not matter that the price he set might forever prohibit a sale, his evaluation was the recognition of art.
Pavan approached him anxiously. "Well, monsieur?" he asked. "What do you think?"
Leocadia did not look at Pavan. He never looked at anyone while he spoke to him. The artists claimed that he could not meet their gaze because he was a parasite living better from the proceeds of their life's blood than they themselves did. "The market for sculpture is very weak," he said.
"Bah!" Pavan snorted. "I do not ask about the market. I ask about my work!"
"Your work is as always," the dealer said evasively.
Pavan turned and gestured, his arm outflung toward the silent statue. "Look at those breasts. I took them from different girls to achieve the symmetry that nature did not provide. And the face. Flawless! Notice the brow, the eyes, the cheekbones, the nose!" He was suddenly silent, staring up at the statue. "The nose," he said, almost whispering.
He turned toward the models, huddling against the wall. "Bring monsieur a bottle of wine! The nose, monsieur," he said accusingly. "Why did you not tell me about the nose?"
Leocadia was silent. This was no time to tell Pavan he had found nothing at fault with the nose. He had a reputation to maintain.
"My chisel!" Pavan roared. He climbed upon a chair and positioned the chisel delicately. He scraped the stone slightly, then polished the surface with his sleeve. The marble shone once more and he stepped down and looked.
Suddenly he screamed in frustrated agony. "It's wrong!" he cried, "It's all wrong! Why didn't you tell me, monsieur? Why did you let me make a fool of myself?"
Leocadia still did not speak.
Pavan stared dumbly at the dealer, tears coming to his eyes, then he turned and violently swung the mallet at the statue's head. The marble cracked and the head fell into fragments on the floor. Pavan began to swing wildly at the rest of the statue. The arms fell, then a shoulder; a crack appeared across the bust and that, too, shattered. The statue rocked crazily on its pedestal, then crashed forward.
Pavan knelt over the pieces, swinging his mallet like a man possessed. "I loved you!" he screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I loved you and you betrayed me!" At last, he sank exhausted to the floor, amidst the debris.
As suddenly as they had come, the tears stopped and Pavan began searching frantically among the pieces of shattered marble. At last, he found what he sought. He got to his feet. Holding the fragment in his hand, he weaved unsteadily toward the art dealer. Cupping the marble in his hands, he held it out. "I see now where I went wrong, monsieur," he said. "Do you?"
Leocadia looked at the piece of stone. He didn't even know what it was intended to be. But again, this was no time for him to speak. He nodded cautiously.
"Thank God!" Pavan cried. "Thank the good Lord that I did not destroy the sole thing of beauty in the stupidity of my disappointment!"
The crowd pushed forward to see what Pavan held in his hand. It seemed to be only a piece of broken marble. "What is it?" one of them whispered to another.
"You stupid fools! Do you not recognize where you come from? The soul itself of a woman's beauty?" Pavan roared.
"Now I see my error," he said. "It is around this tiny core that I will carve into stone the perfect Woman!" He looked around at them dramatically.
Leocadia looked at the piece of marble again. So that was what it was. Almost immediately, he thought of the fat young Egyptian prince who had come into the gallery. This was something he would appreciate. "A thousand francs," he said.
Pavan looked at the dealer, his confidence suddenly restored. "A thousand francs!" he said scornfully.
"Fifteen hundred, then," Leocadia murmured.
Pavan was caught up now in the never-ending struggle between artist and dealer. He turned to his fellow artists. "Only fifteen hundred francs he offers me!"
He whirled back to the dealer. "Not a centime less than twenty-five hundred and a commission to do the sculpture of the woman from whom this was taken!" he shouted.
Leocadia looked down at the floor. "How can I undertake such a commission when I do not know the model?"
Pavan spun around. The models looked at each other curiously, wondering which of them had posed for that particular portion of the statue. But it was none of them. Suddenly, Pavan's arm shot out. "You!" he shouted, pointing. "Come here!"
They turned and followed his pointing finger. Rina stood frozen to the spot. Her face began to flame, then hands pulled her forward, propelling her toward the sculptor.
Pavan seized her hand and turned toward the dealer. For once, Leocadia looked. Almost immediately, he looked away again. "Agreed!" he murmured.
A deep bellow of triumph arose from the sculptor's throat. He lifted Rina into his arms and kissed her excitedly on both cheeks. "You will live forever, my lovely one!" he cried proudly. "I will carve your beauty into the stone for all eternity to worship!"
Rina began to laugh. It was crazy. They were all crazy. Pavan began to sing lustily, dragging her with him in an erratic dance. He lifted her up onto the pedestal where the statue formerly stood. She felt hands tugging at her dress, at her clothing. She reached out her arms to brace herself, to keep from falling. Then she was completely nude on the pedestal. A strange hush fell over the room.
JC1 The Carpetbaggers Page 28