by Judy Nunn
Maudie chose not to enter into the conversation. The outcome of the disagreement would make very little difference to Harry’s lifestyle anyway. He spent his evenings at Restaurant Picot gambling with his friends. If he now needed to change his venue, what difference would it make? Surely it was immaterial whether he gambled at Restaurant Picot or at Hannan’s Club.
Maudie had given up nagging Harry about his gambling. If he wanted to throw his money away, then he could, she’d decided. It had been unrealistic and foolish of her to ever presume she could make him change his ways.
But no amount of self-chastisement could alter the fact that Maudie was once again disappointed in Harry—he seemed hell bent on presenting her with a lifetime of disappointments—and she kept her own money well and truly locked away. Just as well she was a self-sufficient woman with a healthy business, she thought, Harry was not a good provider.
He was still a good father to the twins, however, and for that Maudie was thankful. The twins worshipped him, just as little Jack Brearley had done.
Jack. God how she missed him. Of course he was probably giving the army as many headaches as he’d given her—he was trouble, that boy, she thought, with a wistful smile.
Maudie never let herself think of Jack dying. Even as she read the horrific newspaper accounts of the casualties at Gallipoli, she told herself that it wouldn’t happen to Jack. The boy would come home, she told herself. He was the sort that did.
‘What good will Louis Picot do for the restaurant anyway?’ Harry was still ranting on. ‘He’s a poseur. All he cares about is the cut of his hair and the clothes on his back.’
Maudie didn’t point out that, for the whole of Harry’s life, he had been consumed by self-image and was a slave to fashion. He was probably envious of Louis Picot, she thought. These days, because of his weight, Harry opted for bulky comfort rather than slenderness of cut, although he still insisted upon the very finest of fabrics. Yes, that was it, she thought, he was envious of young Picot.
It was true that Louis Picot’s sartorial elegance irked Harry who, in the main, successfully avoided full-length mirrors and anything else that would tell him the truth. Until recently, he had enjoyed cutting a fine figure as he circulated amongst the diners. He was still a splendid-looking fellow, he told himself. His face was still handsome; he still had a fine head of hair and he certainly felt as young and debonair as ever.
But these days, when young Louis Picot walked into the restaurant, Harry would watch the heads turn and he would catch sight of his own reflection in a window or mirror and realise that he was a bloated middle-aged man with a florid nose, puffy eyes and rather large ears. It was always a shock and he hated it.
The mere thought that this arrogant young peacock was going to usurp his position was intolerable and, for days, Harry fumed. Whether the boy was Gaston’s son or not, what right did the Frenchman have to make such a decision? Harry had shares in the restaurant, after all; surely he had some say as to who should manage the place.
But, after the initial assurance that Harry should take a rest, Gaston had studiously avoided him. And now he had left for Europe. Or so Gabrielle had informed Harry when he’d telephoned Maison Picot. Not that Harry had believed her. Picot would be a damn fool to go to Europe now there was a war on. There was little Harry could do but wait for Gaston to contact him.
He’d be waiting a long time, however.
Gaston Picot had finished with Harry Brearley. His own son now had the maturity and experience to take over Restaurant Picot, the legitimacy of the brothels had long been established and, as far as Gaston was concerned, neither Harry nor his position as Deputy Mayor were of any further use. Indeed, it had only been Gaston’s money and influence that had kept Harry in office over the last several years, the people were no longer interested in him and the next elections would certainly not see him reinstated. If, after that, Harry were to become too much of a nuisance, the Frenchman held the final ace. Harry had used his shares in Restaurant Picot as collateral to raise money and pay off his gambling debts. It would be simple for Gaston, through his contacts, to have the loan called in. That would certainly finish flashy Harry Brearley.
LOUIS SEDUCED CARMELINA two weeks after she commenced work at Restaurant Picot. He could have accomplished the seduction much earlier, probably on the first night, but he so enjoyed tantalising her that the wait became exquisite.
For days, in dark corners when no one was watching, Louis had kissed and caressed her and whispered such passionate endearments that, by the time they were actually alone in his room at the Palace Hotel, Carmelina couldn’t wait for him to undress her. Any modesty she might once have felt at the prospect of appearing naked in front of a man had vanished. Her passion had been teased beyond endurance, and she now needed to feel his caresses upon her bare skin and to feel his flesh against hers.
Louis was as gentle as possible when he entered her. In total control, he nursed her through the initial pain. ‘My darling,’ he whispered over and over again, ‘you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful, my darling.’ And, when he sensed that she was beyond the pain and there was nothing left but pure pleasure, he brought her to the brink of fulfilment, then withdrew. Again and again he teased her until she was begging him, clutching him, trying to draw him deep inside her. But he wouldn’t allow it. Not until he sensed that she could not be tantalised once more without climaxing.
‘No,’ she begged as he withdrew. ‘No.’
‘One more time, my darling.’ It had been dangerously close then, he thought. ‘Just one more time.’ Then one more time after that. And yet again. ‘Just one more time, my darling, one more time.’
Louis was enjoying himself now. This was the way he liked it. He was the master and she the slave, begging for pleasure. Or pain. It made little difference to Louis so long as he was the one in total control.
It was only when she was close to passing out, when she was hyperventilating and her eyelids were fluttering, that he delivered her from her torment. By then, the ecstasy of her orgasm was born of sheer relief and she cried out as she clung to him, her body heaving.
Louis finally allowed himself to ejaculate but, as usual, his climax was the least important aspect of the exercise. A necessary release of energy, that was all. It was Carmelina’s responses which had truly excited him. And this was only the beginning. There was so much for her to learn, so much for her to discover, and Louis’s pleasure lay in her discovery. He would teach her. He would help her to explore herself and then he would watch as she surrendered to the sexuality which raged within.
Carmelina was the new jewel in Louis’s crown and already he had plans for the next step.
‘“… THE ATTEMPT TO capture the Dardanelles, and eventually Constantinople, has been acknowledged by the High Command as a complete failure”,’ Carmelina read out loud. ‘“Tomorrow, Monday, the 20th of December, will mark the completion of the evacuation of Australian troops from the bloody shores of the Gallipoli peninsula.”’
Teresa and Salvatore sat beside her listening in rapt attention as she continued, whilst at the head of the table sat Rico, feigning disinterest.
‘“The now legendary valour of the ANZACs has cost Australia dearly. Over 8,000 dead and over 19,000 wounded on this barren finger of land …”’
There was silence as she put down the newspaper.
‘At least they are away from that dreadful place,’ Teresa said. She crossed herself and silently prayed that Enrico was amongst the soldiers evacuated.
‘I must go now, Mamma.’ Carmelina rose and carefully smoothed down the skirts of her new dress which she’d taken care not to crease as she sat at the table reading.
‘But Caterina and Giovanni will be here soon,’ Teresa said, taken aback. ‘And Briony and little Rosalina.’
‘Where do you go?’ Rico demanded suspiciously. ‘Where do you go in your new dress?’
Rico was scowling but Carmelina interrupted before he could say anything. ‘You like my
pretty new dress, Papa?’ She twirled about flirtatiously. ‘That’s why I’m wearing it. To show it to Maria.’
‘But why do you go to Maria’s today?’ Teresa argued. ‘Today your uncle is coming, and your cousins. Why do you go to Maria’s this Sunday?’
Carmelina stopped twirling and picked up her purse. ‘Because I promised.’
‘You stay here,’ Rico commanded. ‘You stay here and entertain your cousins.’
‘But Sunday is the only day I have off, Papa,’ Carmelina protested. ‘It’s the only day I have to see my friends.’
‘You stay here and help your Mamma.’
Teresa shrugged. She didn’t need help and she was not going to enter the argument. What was the point? Rico would give in to Carmelina anyway, he always did.
‘But that’s not fair, Papa.’ Carmelina was on the verge of tears. ‘I work so hard at Restaurant Picot, you know I do.’
That was it, Teresa thought, that was the argument which always won him around. Carmelina never actually mentioned the substantial weekly contributions she made to the household finances but it was an argument that couldn’t really be refuted. Even Rico had to admit that the girl earned the right to do as she wished on her day off.
‘Sunday is my special day.’ She was wheedling now, she knew he was weakening. ‘Please, Papa.’ Her hand was around his shoulders, any minute she would sit on his lap and nuzzle up to him as she used to do when she was a little girl.
‘Go on,’ he said gruffly. ‘Off with you. And don’t be late.’
‘I won’t.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘Bye, Papa, bye, Mamma, bye, Salvatore.’ And she was gone, leaving Salvatore shaking his head in admiration.
IT WAS A pleasant Sunday. It always was when Caterina and Giovanni and their two daughters came to visit. If, somehow, a little bittersweet for Teresa. When she looked at Caterina, as beautiful as ever, Teresa could not help but feel a deep envy. It was easy for Caterina to remain beautiful, she told herself—Caterina’s firstborn son was not at war. There were no visions in Caterina’s mind of a bloodied Paolo dying an agonising death on foreign soil.
Again and again she would shake her envy from her. Dear Caterina was so caring. And Giovanni loved to read aloud the letters Enrico sent him. The boy was closer to Giovanni than he was to his own father.
Teresa knew that Giovanni censored the letters as he read them but even so they revealed an intimacy Enrico could never have shared with his father. It was good, Teresa thought. Enrico was a sensitive boy and he needed a man to whom he could reveal his innermost thoughts. But she cursed her own illiteracy. If only her son could write to her like that.
There were no letters to read aloud this Sunday so they rejoiced in the fact that the troops had been evacuated from Gallipoli. Before eating, Teresa, Caterina and Giovanni sat and discussed the newspaper reports whilst Rico smoked a pipe and refused to join in.
Outside, in the gathering dusk, Salvatore sat and watched his cousins play hopscotch on the dusty pavement. ‘Nah, that’s a girl’s game,’ he insisted from the comfort of the front verandah when Briony asked him to play. Secretly, he would have rather liked to join in, it might have led to some chance contact with Briony. When he’d tackled her in the football game they’d played last visit, he’d actually felt her breasts, unintentionally of course, and he couldn’t wait to repeat the experience. But it would be more than his life was worth if any of his mates saw him playing hopscotch with girls.
Briony was nine months older than Salvatore—she would be sixteen early next year—and she too would have preferred not to play hopscotch, it was a game for babies, but she’d promised Rosalina. She threw the taw into the first square. ‘Just the one game, Rosie,’ she said.
‘Do you want to play football instead?’ Salvatore asked hopefully.
‘No,’ she replied with a touch of regret. ‘This is a new dress, Mum’d be mad.’
Salvatore had noticed the new dress. It suited her. She looked very pretty. But then Briony always looked pretty, even in her old dungarees. She had a body verging on womanhood. Budding and healthy. Her eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer’s day and her hair was as red as the outback earth itself. But it wasn’t just because she was pretty that Salvatore liked her. Briony wasn’t like other girls. She didn’t giggle and tease and she didn’t play devious games like his sister. Briony always said exactly what she thought. She was more like a boy in that regard. Briony was bold and Salvatore respected her for that.
It was only over the past several months that Salvatore had really come to know Briony. Only since Carmelina had been working at the restaurant. Before that, when the two Gianni families gathered, Carmelina and Briony would huddle together to talk, ignoring Salvatore for the most part. But that had changed now that Carmelina was away all the time, working at the restaurant or with her girlfriends on Sundays.
‘I was born out in the scrub. In a humpy. And my mother nearly died.’ That’s what Briony had told him when they’d sat on the verandah after their football game and swigged water from the old hessian water bag which hung from a nail by the door. He’d been impressed.
Salvatore watched the game of hopscotch impatiently. He wished they’d hurry up so he and Briony could sit and talk before they were called in for dinner.
Briony was thinking the same thing. ‘That’s it, Rosie, you’ve won.’ She made it a habit to let her little sister win every third game. ‘Go inside and wash your hands, it’ll be dinner soon.’
Rosalina did as she was told and Briony joined Salvatore on the porch. ‘Where’s Carmelina?’ she asked.
‘At Maria’s.’
‘Oh.’
‘I thought there was going to be a fight to start with,’ Salvatore continued. ‘“Stay here and entertain your cousins”, that’s what he said. But she got around him. She always gets around Papa. I don’t know how she does it, but she does.’
There was a moment’s pause whilst Briony gazed up at the sky. It would be night soon. A clear night, and the stars would be very, very bright. She loved such nights. ‘Rosalina’s your cousin,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know,’ Salvatore replied, mystified.
‘I’m not.’ When he looked blankly back at her, she added, ‘Giovanni is not my father, I’m not your cousin.’
Of course, he realised, she was right. It had never occurred to him before.
‘I’m not related to you at all, Salvatore.’
He stared back at her, but her gaze had returned to the sky. ‘The stars are going to be very, very bright tonight,’ she said, then got up and walked inside.
After dinner, Giovanni played his piano accordion and they all sang. Just like old times, they agreed. Except that Giovanni himself did not sing. ‘My voice is weary,’ he said, ‘it would not sound good,’ and he encouraged the others to sing instead.
Giovanni, too, had aged, Teresa thought. He was as handsome as ever, perhaps even more so, his youthful beauty now hardy and weathered—why was it, she wondered, that life’s experience sat so well upon the face of a man and not upon that of a woman?—but he had certainly aged.
Rico got drunk. Harmlessly so, but drunk nonetheless. Filled with brotherly love, he toasted Giovanni. ‘To the finest brother a man could have.’ He toasted Teresa. ‘To the only woman I have ever loved.’ He toasted the family. ‘To the Giannis, a name to bear with pride.’ And the only time he became even mildly aggressive was when he berated Carmelina for not being present. ‘A night such as this, the girl should be with her family,’ he muttered. ‘With her own blood.’ And he raised his glass once more. ‘To the Giannis!’
CARMELINA’S SENSES WERE screaming. Every inch of her body had been explored, it seemed, and yet still she was left wanting. Her flesh trembled where tongues had teased and fingers had touched. She’d been played upon intimately and expertly and now she begged him to give her the final release.
‘Please, Louis, please,’ she moaned, her body writhing on the pink satin sheets, her face turned to h
im imploringly.
He sat, fully clothed, beside the door, watching in the soft rose-coloured light as the two whores knelt over her. One of them looked at him, a question in her eyes. He shook his head imperceptibly.
‘Soon, my darling, soon,’ he said. ‘You’re so beautiful.’
Through the haze of her pleasure, she could see him watching her. He was touching himself. He wanted her, she thought. He was deeply aroused and soon it would be just the two of them, making love. Carmelina would do anything for Louis, anything that excited him and made him love her.
At first it had been the forbidden thrill of making love in a brothel. ‘At Red Ruby’s,’ he’d whispered, ‘I hear they have satin sheets and rose-coloured lights, it is a pleasure palace.’ He’d kissed her and assured her that no one would find out. ‘It would excite me,’ he’d said and the mere mention of his excitement had aroused Carmelina.
Then it had been a whore to caress her whilst he watched. If it pleased him, she thought, where was the harm? And, just recently, it had become two whores to play upon her body until she abandoned her senses. And if that was what Louis wanted, if that was what made him love her, then Carmelina was more than willing to abandon herself.
‘Please, Louis, please,’ she implored and, finally, he nodded to the whores who quickly gathered their robes and left as quietly as they’d arrived.
He crossed to her and lowered his trousers. He didn’t bother to fully undress. It wasn’t necessary, she would climax as soon as he entered her.
‘My darling,’ he murmured, pretending a haste he didn’t feel as she groaned her ecstasy.
Louis would rather have remained watching. There were many more carnal pleasures Carmelina had yet to be taught, many more thresholds yet to be overcome. And Louis would derive his own pleasure from watching her learn. But, for now, she required that he serve her. He was a patient man, he could bide his time and the waiting would be well worth his while, Louis knew it.
‘When do you leave?’