Trick or Treat?

by Ray Connolly

The lobby to the apartment house was quite dark as she opened the heavy doors, and as she was feeling her way towards the light at the bottom of the stairs she heard the sweet, timid sounds of Chinese music, a music of discordant bells and plucked strings, coming from the doorway to Madame Diem’s apartment. More out of curiosity than anything else Kathy approached the doorway, and finding it opened, pushed it slightly that she might see into the apartment. It was dark inside. And smoky. And she instantly recognized the smell of that smoke. The poppy was again providing a bliss for the inhabitants of Rue de Dragon. Half-lit by a shaded lamp in one corner Kathy could make out Madame Diem and Ille both lying in a state of semi-awareness side by side on cushions, sharing a pipe that bubbled between them. The smell of the opium was overpowering. When Ille had introduced Kathy to opium all those months ago she had described it in such beautiful and lyrical terms that it had sounded like a wonder of the world, a treat only for the aesthetic and beautiful. And to fully enjoy the treat they had dressed accordingly in the most ornate gowns they could find. But now there was nothing ornate about what was happening in Madame Diem’s room. The whole place reeked of addiction, and mental and spiritual corruption. Kathy shuddered as she watched her friend take the pipe from the mouth of the concierge and inhale further. Neither woman had seen her watching. Slowly she entered the room, and just as slowly the two women became aware of her. But there was no surprise in their expressions; merely an acceptance that now Kathy had joined them. Kathy looked round the room. In Ille’s apartment the antiques were objects of art, of great beauty and value: but here the furniture was cheap and broken and dirty. Everywhere was dirty. And under the glowing brazier which separated the two women was a pile of dross, heaped high in a tray. Kathy looked at Ille, who, recognizing her, smiled a welcome, but made no other motion, nor showed any further emotion. Then turning her attention on Madame Diem Kathy for once forgot her fears of the woman and studied hard the little withered form. And for the first time she noticed the burn marks that made a pattern down the front of the concierge’s black dress and cardigan, and the singes on the floor where she lay. The marks of the true opium addict. And instead of the glamour and beauty of opium which Ille had once described to her Kathy saw nothing but this relic of a woman who had grown old prematurely; a woman shrivelled with the poppy. Kathy felt disgusted. And while neither Ille nor Madame Diem were looking she made her way out of the small dank room and back up towards the apartment.

  The long-distance operator took some time in getting her call through to Los Angeles. Kathy checked her watch and seeing that it was now just after midnight figured that her father would be back in his office by just after three Californian time. At last, after going through two secretaries, she was advised that her father was in a meeting and could she call again later. She repeated her name: ‘This is Kathy Crawford. His daughter. I want to speak with my father now, so will you kindly put me through.’ It was the first time she had ever spoken sharply to one of her father’s employees. The line went dead for a moment: then she heard her father’s gruff, business tone.

  ‘Kathy, Kathy? Are you calling from Paris?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I just felt I wanted to talk with you. I mean it’s been a long time.’ For some unaccountable reason Kathy could feel a lump rising in her throat as she imagined her father sitting there in his office in Burbank, probably surrounded by a small army of underlings.

  Clearly Mr Crawford didn’t quite know what to say: ‘Well, that’s very nice, Kathy. But it’s a sort of difficult moment right now…. I’m in a meeting. Eh … are you sure everything’s okay with you? Listen, I’m having the Chase Manhattan increase your allowance. Inflation’s getting worse in Europe so you may need a little extra. I tell you what, I’ll double it.’

  ‘Father, I didn’t call about money.’

  ‘No? Well everything’s all right, isn’t it? I mean there’s nothing that can’t wait, is there? You see I’m in the middle of a meeting, right now, Kathy … why don’t you write me?’

  Kathy swallowed back some tears of self-pity, but forced herself to go on: ‘I wondered if we might spend Christmas together. You know, like we used to?’

  There was an interminable pause at the other end of the phone: ‘You know, I wish you’d called a couple of weeks ago because I’ve already made arrangements to go off on a tour of South America during the end of December and into January. I don’t know whether I told you but we have openings out there. It could be an important market.’

  ‘But Father … I miss you.’

  There was another pause from Los Angeles. ‘Yes, we miss you, too, Kathy. Hawkins often asks about you. Now are you sure you’re okay for money? That guy at the Chase behaving himself okay for you? If you have any problems he’ll settle them for you.’

  Kathy thought of the baby in her belly and wilfully wondered whether she should tell him. But the words never came. She doubted if even that would have got through. ‘No, everything’s fine, Father. Just fine. It snowed today. That was nice … never snows in southern California….’ She was now beginning to ramble, but quickly pulled herself together as her comments on the meteorological situation drew no response from her father. ‘Anyway, I just thought I’d call. I won’t keep you, Father.’

  ‘Well maybe we can get together next year. I may come to Paris in March. We’re interested in the French hypermarkets.’

  ‘Yes. Well, you’d better get back to business.’ Kathy felt a slow sinking feeling beginning to spread throughout her whole being; an aura of physical depression that sent her body shaking in tiredness and loneliness.

  ‘Yes. Well take care, Kathy. Goodbye now.’ And without even giving her a chance to follow up with her own goodbye the line from Los Angeles went dead, as her father resumed his business meeting.

  For some time Kathy stared at the ’phone, and then allowing her mind to run over the events of the past day he found her hand running gently over her stomach, wondering just where her baby would be at that moment, and how big it might be. And then with hardly another thought she slipped into a gown and going out of the apartment climbed back down the stairs and let herself silently into Madame Diem’s room, where she lay down next to her amid the dross, and burns and filth, and taking the pipe proceeded to follow the other two women into the mental stupor to which they had both now sunk.

  Chapter 10

  Hélène was waiting for them at the terminal at Orly West: and together they kissed and became a party, while their bags were weighed and their tickets checked against the computer: three remarkably attractive women, two younger girls, red eyed and bleary, still unsteady on their feet, putting a brave face on this new day when their bodies and minds called out for sleep. And Hélène, the perfect sophisticate, more manly than either of her gouene friends, now in a blazer and trousers, trousers that curled round her thighs and dipped inside knee-high boots, the whole extravagant facade topped by a hat too stylish for a cowboy, too cute for a witch.

  They chose three adjacent seats on the right-hand side of the Air Inter 707 for Ajaccio, Ille sitting in the middle, while Kathy, the youngest, gazed half-dreaming out of the window at the busy traffic of planes queuing up to make their departures around the world: there a British Airways jet which might have taken her to a clinic in London, and there the TWA Jumbo which had brought her on this adventure, and which, had her father’s reaction last night been different, might be now taking her away from it again.

  The 707 taxied down the runway and then with a roar it was airborne: and for the first time in her life Kathy felt the nausea of flying, iron cramps gripping her stomach as she fought to keep down the coffee she had taken before they left the apartment. Was it morning sickness, she wondered, or the sea-sickness of a person new to opium? She rested her head back in her seat and closed her eyes as the plane soared into the sky, fighting the sweat which was breaking out in the palms of her hands. And then just as it was becoming unbearable and she was about to reach for the paper bag tucked in the pocket of th
e seat in front of her the flight path of the plane levelled out and the nausea passed. She opened her eyes and saw both Ille and Hélène staring at her. Hélène looked concerned: Ille’s face was expressionless. She and Ille had hardly spoken again that morning. When at last they had both dragged themselves upstairs from Madame Diem’s room it was almost time to be off for the airport, and although Kathy had made coffee Ille had not bothered to drink hers. It had occurred to Kathy that she need not go to Corsica, but she had not given the alternatives much serious thought after the useless conversation with her father. She still loved Ille, although she also feared her now, but at least Ille did represent a kind of home for her. She felt tied to her, and perhaps this trip would give them both an opportunity to sort out the confusion of their lives.

  Hélène could see that neither girl was in much mood for talking, indeed Ille’s eyes were shut virtually as soon as the plane had taken off, so diving into her bag she produced her knitting and concentrated on a baby coat she was making for her latest godchild – the steel needles keeping up the rhythmic pattern of the habitual knitter. Her trip to Corsica had, in fact, been quite unpremeditated, and would not have come about had Claude not come home a couple of evenings ago and announced that he would be going to the Milan Book Fair the week before Christmas, and asking her whether she would mind being left on her own. She knew it was only a question asked out of politeness, and that she was not expected to raise any opposition to anything which he deemed necessary for the business, but it had instantly occurred to her that this would make an ideal opportunity to take Ille down to Corsica for a few days. Since the Hallowe’en party Claude had made something of a point of trying not to mention either of the girls, so she guessed he had not over-enjoyed himself on that particular evening, but since she had seen little of him that night, and indeed been probably too drunk herself to have noticed whatever it was that might have annoyed him, she had no idea what his exception to them might be. He had said at one time in the rather sombre way he had when making judgements on things, that he thought that a woman of her age and position should associate with friends more of her own generation, and not with girls with lesbian tendencies. But she was her own master and although outwardly she would bend to his whims she continued to do exactly as she wanted. Kathy held absolutely no interest for her. But Ille never ceased to be fascinating, and so together once a week they would have a gossipy lunch, and to her own amazement she actually found herself becoming intrigued with the idea of making love to another woman. And it was during the course of these lunches that she had first ascertained that the relationship between Kathy and Ille was going through a rough and unhappy patch. And although Ille had never said it Hélène half believed that Ille might in some way now be feeling less sure of her own affection for Kathy. At first Hélène had wanted to invite only Ille to Corsica when she knew that Claude was going to be away, but Ille insisted that she could hardly go without her friend. And so it was agreed. A holiday in the winter sun for three women, about which Arbus must never know. So far as he was concerned Hélène was going down to Corsica by herself to prepare their villa for the Christmas celebrations which they invariably held there.

  Though Ille’s eyes were closed her brain rejected the solace of sleep, and turmoil stormed through her mind. With the news of Kathy’s pregnancy her attitude towards her friend had become a morass of ambivalences and jealousies which she could only hide in dope and sleep: but sleep wouldn’t come to her. It had been her wild and insane idea for them both to fuck Arbus, a notion spurred on as much by the prospect of humiliating the man as procuring his child, but now it had backfired on her. There was no way that she could see herself and Kathy setting up home to live happily ever after into the future, bringing up a child like a typical family. All that had been a silly dream which she had sold herself, just another game which she had wanted to play out. Now she wondered if she really wanted Kathy any more. And Kathy’s incident with Arbus in the courtyard had soured their relationship in a way she found difficult to describe to herself. It had changed things. It had changed both of them. But it was Kathy who was going to have the baby. The baby she wanted for herself, not a baby she wanted to share with anybody else. She didn’t want to share anything. With a baby she would have an insurance against a future as an old and lonely dyke. That was what she dreaded most. She had told herself and she told Kathy that she had come to terms with what she was. But it was a lie. She was a hypocrite always. Always pretending. Fucking men rather than women: wanting to be the normal heterosexual. And because she wasn’t, nor could ever be, she hated people like Hélène who thought it fun to flirt with homosexuality, because they knew in themselves how safe they were: safe from the desires, and safe from the faces that despite everything would still mock at the extraordinary. And yet as a person she did not hate Hélène. On the contrary she found her increasingly attractive. As the plane throbbed its way south across France and the Mediterranean she tried to examine and re-examine her motives for toying with the emotions of herself and her two companions but no lucid reasoning would come out. It seemed she possessed a manic sense of vertigo which she now wanted to test and play with. And although she knew she was running incredible risks the game of chance offered an hypnotic attraction for her.

  It was warm when they landed at Ajaccio, probably almost sixty degrees, and Kathy suddenly felt herself sweating under her heavy town coat as they stepped off the aeroplane and began the short walk into the airport reception. Always fully organized Hélène had booked a hire car in advance and within a few minutes of landing the three women were racing south of the town towards the mountains. Hélène was a fast and nervy driver and the road to Olméto was frequently pitted, often steep and always winding. Alone in the back seat Kathy was thrown from side to side, although she hung on to the safety strap, and although Hélène must have been aware of her discomfort she made no attempt to slow down, but with frequent glances in the rear mirror to study the condition of Kathy, she did in fact tend to drive more quickly the more distressed Kathy became.

  ‘Do you think you might drive a little more slowly, I’m getting car sick?’ asked Kathy at last, and so as the car pulled away from the warm sun of the sea plain into the snows of the mountains Hélène, her little bout of sadism over, eased back on the acceleration and allowed both girls to enjoy the lush and full beauty that belonged to Corsica even in the depths of winter. To Kathy Corsica seemed like the most unspoiled place she had ever seen: the richness of the vegetation reminding her of parts of California. For a time her mind relived the arid conversation she had had with her father just thirteen hours ago, but the total absence of commerciality in the tiny hamlets and villages through which Hélène raced put her a million miles from home. At the top of the Col St Georges they stopped for a light lunch, and although the road had been cleared Kathy wandered to a deep drift that had accumulated on the kerbside and pushed her hands into the snow now melting in the lunchtime sun. Tonight it would freeze again leaving two hand marks petrified in ice until the next fall would obliterate them.

  At four o’clock they reached Olméto, after a winding drive down the mountain pass towards the sea. Since lunchtime Hélène and Ille had begun a conversation of sorts, mainly in French, not all of which Kathy was able to understand, and to most of which she didn’t even listen. She felt as though she were being deliberately excluded, but because her mind was still hazy from dope she didn’t altogether care. Somehow she had to work out some pattern for her future, she thought, but even that seemed to have no urgency despite her situation. Nothing seemed urgent or important any more.

  Olméto was an ancient, one-street town, clinging to the cliffs of a pass and overlooking the Gulf of Valinco. Ille saw the sea before anybody else, and at her request Hélène pulled into a lay-by at the side of the road so that they might all get out of the car and admire the view. Even in winter Corsica had the fragrance of summer, thought Kathy, as she breathed in the heady, bittersweet scent of the maquis, and gaz
ed out across the pine-topped gorge and across the silver blue of the sea. There was something perfectly peaceful, hanging like a languid veil across the island: the perfect place for her to make the decisions she knew she was facing.

  Hélène picked up some provisions in the town’s one small grocery shop while the two girls sat outside in the car. It was the first time in the day that they had been alone and had had the chance to speak privately but there was nothing that either of them could think to say. And it was indeed a relief for both of them when Hélène returned and they set off again.

  The Arbuses’ villa, which had to be reached by a long and rough cart track, was not, as Kathy had imagined, an old, Ideal Homely redesigned building. It was in fact a large, new house, built on a jutting-out piece of rock and with a large balcony that hung out over vineyards and olive groves which many feet below swept down through the woods and onwards to the sea. It was new, but it was beautiful, and even before they were in the house Hélène was describing to them how it had been built to her specifications with local granite quarried near the village, and local timber from up the mountain. And it had, said Hélène, probably one of the best views in southern Corsica since the living room and balcony took in the great wide expanse of the bay to the right, and the mountains of Sartène to the left. For people as rich as the Arbuses it was remarkably spartan inside, quite unlike the summer homes that Kathy was used to, but the very bareness of the house added happily to the lightness and airiness that had been the intention of the designers.

  No sooner were they through the doors than Hélène was organizing them: ‘Ille … your bedroom will be this one,’ she said, opening the first door inside the hallway. ‘Mine is next door and Kathy you shall have the end one.’ Noting a slight flicker of surprise in Kathy’s eyes, she quickly explained her reasoning: ‘When Claude and I had the house built we purposely, and I suppose rather selfishly, took the biggest room, and the room with the best view, for ourselves, which means that our guests are always separated by us when they come to stay.’