He moved away.
Dominique said, “Wait! Where are you going?”
“Change,” he said. “Put on a party dress. I’ll be back.”
“A party?”
“Yes,” he said, and walked off to the guest room. It took him only a few minutes to find the gun. His own gun. It was hidden—rather amateurishly—in the lowest drawer of the bureau, underneath some shirts. Hardly a clever place to hide it, if he said so himself. Old Raynaud not up to snuff.
He broke open the gun and counted the cartridges. Only five—that was odd. Very odd. He wondered what it meant. He sniffed the barrel, trying to determine if it had been fired recently, but it was impossible to tell. The gun smelled like a gun; it had a cold, metallic, oily smell, nothing more.
Ah well.
He shook out one of the cartridges and stared at it for a moment Then he touched the bullet head with his fingers, feeling the consistency. Must be careful in such things.
He sipped his martini and decided everything was all right. He returned the gun to its hiding place, then turned his attention to a rather more complex problem: the tape recorder lying next to the gun. What the hell was Raynaud doing with a tape recorder? It didn’t make sense at all. It was small, compact model, perfectly suited to carrying in your jacket pocket. From the worn edges, he determined that it bed seen lots of use.
Clever, Raynaud.
But what the hell was he using it for?
He sat down on the bed to think about it and to finish his martini. At that moment Dominique walked in, wearing a short yellow dress.
“How do you like?”
“Extremely,” he said.
She turned for him; he caught a glimpse of yellow panties.
“But you must take those off.”
“What?”
“The panties. Take them off.”
“Why?”
“They are forbidden,” Pierce said, “at the party we are going to.”
11. THE OPENING
THE PARTY WAS HELD in an immense, high-ceilinged room which had once been a Quaker meetinghouse. Now it was bare, except for racks of clothes and stacks of accessories: shirts, sweaters, belts, ties. The entire room was bathed in blue light and an acid rock group blared sound through the walls and corners.
Raynaud got a scotch while Pet lit a cigarette and puffed it slowly, holding the smoke in her lungs. She refused a drink. When he came back from the bar he saw her staring moodily across the room. He followed her gaze and saw Sandra, talking with a group of six or seven girls.
“Bad,” Pet said. “Very bad.”
“What?”
“The whole scene. Look at her.”
“I am. She looks fine.”
“Then you should have some of this,” She waved the cigarette. “You’d see it differently. Look at her face, she’s afraid.”
“That’s silly. Why should she be afraid?”
“She is,” Pet said. “Are you sure Richard isn’t coming tonight?”
“Of course.” Raynaud checked his watch. It was already ten-thirty.
“I hope you’re right,” Pet said.
A few minutes later, he was introduced to the owner. Susan Locke. She turned out to be a heavily endowed blonde wearing a military-cut jacket which reached barely to her thighs.
“Gorgeous to have you,” Susan Locke said.
“Thank you,” Raynaud said.
“Don’t thank me,” Susan said. “Not yet.”
She wandered off. Pet stared after her. “Poor Susan. Such a lost soul. But a good business sense.”
Raynaud looked at her legs. “Yes.”
All the girls at the opening wore short skirts; if they showed more leg they’d be arrested for obscenity—or catch a cold. “Wrong climate for clothes like this,” he said.
“You complaining?”
“Never,” he said.
Above the dressing rooms was a large, purple sign: UNDERWEAR IS IMMORAL.
Half an hour later, Pet had wandered over to join a small group passing the cigarettes in a corner. Raynaud got hooked into a conversation with an intense Indian reading PPE at Oxford. He was grateful when Sandra came over.
“Charles.” She took his arm. “I didn’t expect you to be here. Come, we must talk.”
She steered him away from the Indian.
“I thought you needed help,” she said.
“I did, I did.” He smiled. “Very expertly done.”
“Oh, he’s a crashing bore. Well known. He comes to all the parties and searches for a new face, then grabs him. He always says the same thing to everybody. Was he talking about Chandrigar again tonight?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he was.”
“Terrible person. These Commonwealth students can be deadly. Will you get me another drink?”
“Certainly.”
“Cinzano.”
They walked to the bar. He made it for her. In a far corner, he heard a loud voice say, “And I think he’s a ghastly writer, and a bugger besides.”
Sandra took the drink with a smile. She was wearing a simple linen A-line with a low bodice.
“You look rested,” he said.
She paused, then said: “Where is Richard?”
“I don’t know. At the flat, I suppose.”
“I just called there.”
“Perhaps he’s sleeping.”
She shook her head. “I wish you’d tell me.”
“I would, if I knew. Maybe he went down to his local for drink.”
At that moment, with a drunken shout of greeting, Richard burst stumbling into the room. Cradled under his arm was Dominique, laughing and clutching him as he almost fell.
Sandra looked over. Her eyes turned cold. “I see,” she said.
At the door, Richard was leaning against the wall, drinking from a flask. A thin yellow stream trickled down his chin, staining his collar. Dominique was laughing. She wore a yellow, lasciviously tight dress with a ruffled skirt.
“Whose side are you on?” Sandra asked Raynaud.
“Hey, everybody,” Richard was shouting. “Here she is, the sexiest bit in creation. And she has a tattoo, to prove it!”
Raynaud turned away and looked at Sandra. “Yours,” he said.
“I may need your help later.” Her voice was steely calm. He marveled at her self-control. There was no trembling, no cracking of her voice, no outward display at all.
Richard saw them and staggered over. “Well, well, well,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Well, well, well.”
“Hello, Richard,” Sandra said.
“If this isn’t a pretty sight. My best man and my fiancée. My lovely little wop fiancée. Having a quiet drink together. And she says to me, ‘Hello, Richard.’ Isn’t that lovely? What’s the matter, sweets? I remember when it used to be Dickie-bird. I remember all the other things you used to say when you were kissing it. I distinctly remember, in fact—distinctly, I tell you—I distinctly remember one particular little word you used. Do you remember?”
“Be quiet, Richard. You’re drunk.”
“What do you say, San? Should I tell my best man here what the word was? Or have you already whispered it into his ruggedly masculine ear?”
“Richard, go away. You’re drunk.”
“Drunk? Drunk? Me? Don’t be absurd. I’m not drunk. I am pleasantly high. I am on top of the world….Oh, I say. I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced you. Dominique, meet my fiancée. Miss Sandra Callarini. She had a word for me, you know. And I had a word for her. It was a French word, and it fitted perfectly.”
He laughed, leaned over, and kissed Dominique wetly on the mouth.
Raynaud said, “All right, Richard. Take it easy.”
“Take it easy? Lad, I couldn’t do anything else. A few minutes ago, I could have gotten down on this nice rug here, this beautiful Persian rug, and given you a dazzling spectacle. But in the meantime—in the meantime—I have been temporarily discharged. I can do nothing but take it easy.”
&
nbsp; Raynaud glanced at Sandra. She was pale, staring straight forward, her body tense. He wanted to hit Pierce, and felt his fists clenching.
“Oh, say, look at that. Our friend is all worked up. I do believe he’s going to strike me.” Pierce released Dominique and walked up to Raynaud. “I do believe it. He’d like nothing better than to strike me. He’s wanted to for years, for years and years. But he won’t. You know that? He won’t touch me. And you know why? He can’t afford it. That’s why.”
Raynaud smelled whisky. He looked at Richard’s red, sweating face.
“Go away.”
“Dismissing me, eh? Ordering me about, eh? Pretty big man. Pretty big man.”
He turned from Raynaud to Sandra. His face softened in a drunken parody of tenderness. “Oh, Sandra dear. You look so hurt, so shocked. Can’t you understand? Isn’t it quite simple? I simply couldn’t bear to spend another day with you. Not one more day, not one more lay. No indeed. I had had my fill of you. Sweet, sweet Sandra.”
Richard burped, and then laughed.
Raynaud suddenly became aware of the party around him, which had turned silent. Everyone was watching. Raynaud said, “That’s enough, Richard. Get yourself a drink.”
“A drink? You want to get me drunk? You son of a bitch, I’m going to teach you a lesson. I’m going to whip you here and now—”
He started to unbuckle his belt, but Dominique, standing back, had been watching Raynaud and sensed the seriousness of the situation. She grabbed Richard’s arm. “Come on, Richard.”
“No, leave me alone. I’m going to beat that son of a bitch—”
“Richard, come.”
She tugged. Richard lost his balance and fell heavily on the floor. He sat for a moment and stared stupidly at the carpet, racing the pattern with his fingers.
Dominique said, “I’m sorry for this.” To Sandra, she said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Richard struggled to his feet. He was still angry, but the fall seemed to have subdued him. He glared at Raynaud, and brushed off his jacket, and walked away.
The party became noisy again, supplied with a new topic of discussion.
Sandra said, “Do you have a cigarette? A straight one?”
“Yes.” He lit it for her. Her hands were trembling. “You all right?”
“I will be. I think I need a drink.”
“I’ll get you one.”
“No. Not here.”
“All right. Let’s go somewhere else.” He looked around for Pet, to tell her, but he could not see her anywhere. The hell with it. “Let’s go,” he said. “Did you bring a coat?”
“No.”
They slipped out of the party. He thought they did it unobtrusively, but just as he stepped out the door, he looked back and saw Richard, leaning against the bar, watching.
There was a slight misty rain outside. They got in the car and he started the windshield wipers, and said, “Where to?”
“I don’t care. Some place quiet.”
He put the car in gear. “You have anywhere in particular in mind?”
“We could go to my flat.” Her voice was calm.
He glanced over. She was staring directly forward, watching the rain on the windshield.
“Let’s go somewhere else.”
“My flat is logical. It’s quiet. We can relax there.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“All right. Where is it?”
“In South Ken. Off Gloucester Road.”
As he started up Euston Road, she said, “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” he said.
“I have a terrible headache.” And she said nothing more until they arrived.
To the right was Sandra Callarini, biting her thumb with even, sharp white teeth. To the left was Sandra Callarini in a bikini, laughing in the sunlight. Straight ahead was Sandra Callarini with her hair elegantly coiffed, her lips pouting. Alongside was Sandra Callarini looking surprised and amused, her mouth forming an o.
“Well,” he said, looking at the pictures. They were all two feet by three feet, matte black-and-white enlargements. “How long have you had these?”
“A year. The studio made me: I’m supposed to be a narcissist or something. Part of the whole thing. I hardly notice them any more.”
She stood beside a giant head portrait of herself biting her thumb. In the flesh she seemed small and fragile.
“You photograph well.”
“So they say. But I act badly. You take scotch, if I remember.”
“Yes. On ice, if you have it.”
“Coming up.” She tried a smile, a brave one, and went into the next room to make the drinks. He wandered from one photograph to the next examining them.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said.
“It’s all right. In a way, I expected it.”
She gave him his drink, and put her own on the table while she set a stack of records on the phonograph in the corner. A moment later, the music clicked on. Romantic violins, muted.
“Sandra—”
She sat on the sofa and said, “Sit over there, so I can see you. Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“About Mexico. I’ve never been.”
Mexico seemed very far away. He said so. He watched her and saw that she was still calm, still controlling herself.
“It’s not so far,” she said. “Tell me.”
He told her a little bit about what he did, about the expeditions and the natives. For a while she seemed to be paying attention as she sipped her drink. Later, she looked away toward a corner of the room and frowned.
He stopped. “Still with me?”
“That bastard,” she said. “That rotten bastard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “I blame myself. Another drink?”
“I should be going.”
“No, you shouldn’t. I’ll never forgive you if you leave me now.”
She took his glass and mixed him another, and a second for herself. She did not seem drunk, or even slightly high.
“You may not believe this,” she said, “but at one time I really loved Richard. Or thought I did. He can be considerate and gentle when he wants to. And although he had occasional…outbursts I felt it was because of his family. He’s had an unhappy family life, you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Enough to make anyone peculiar at times. I disregarded all the signs, all the evidence…”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“That bastard,” she said. She lapsed into Italian, and swore fluently for several minutes. Finally she stopped, out of breath. “I hope you didn’t understand that”
He smiled. “Tutto.”
“You speak Italian?”
“Si. Scusi.”
She laughed, and said in Italian, “That’s really very funny.”
“I learned a long time ago,” he said in Italian.
“Where? Your accent is good.”
“Florence. Rome. Naples.”
“You have been to Naples?”
He nodded.
“I was born there,” she said. “Or did I tell you? I went to school and was studying physics—do you believe it?—when I won a beauty contest. It was a joke. And then there was a screen test…”
“Very lucky.”
“Perhaps. But I have been in England now two years, with the films. I would like to go back.”
“Will you?”
“I doubt it.” She frowned. “That bastard doesn’t speak a word of Italian. I tried to teach him, but he pays no attention.”
“He’s not a student.”
“And you look like less of a student. It’s odd, isn’t it? The way people look, and the way they are. Most people see me, and they think one thing. Bed.”
“You resent that?”
“Sometimes. The trouble is a man can see your body, and not your mind.”
“Most women would willingly trade bodies with you.”
She snorted. “Look at those photographs. Is that a sexy body? That’s plucked eyebrows and shaved legs and makeup and beauty parlors. There isn’t a person there at all. You know,” she said, “sometimes I walk into a room, and I see the men stare, and I am pleased. In my heart I am pleased because I am Italian and I love the stares. But sometimes I want to scream at them: talk to me, I am a person, I am alive.”
He smiled.
“I sound stupid, I know. But I cannot help it. It is a cliché, the actress who wants to talk, not make love. But it is true, too.”
“I know,” he said.
“My mother thought I was going to hell, to live in sin. My father thought the same thing, but he was glad, because he knew I would make a lot of money and buy him a new house, and clothes…”
He let her talk, not interrupting.
“And it is so cold here, the climate, the people, everything so cold.”
“Why don’t you go back? For a vacation, at least.”
“You’re sweet.” She gave him a direct look, her eyes steady, the meaning unmistakable.
“Look, Sandra, it’s late and I really should be going.” He started to rise, but she got up and pushed him back.
She stood over him, holding the empty glass in her hand. Her hair fell softly over her face. “I won’t beg you.”
“All right. I’ll stay: for one more drink.”
“Thank you.”
When she gave him his third drink, she sat on the arm of his chair and stroked his hair.
“Sandra, this is foolish.”
She leaned over and kissed him. He was unprepared for the shock, the softness, gentleness of her mouth. It took him a moment to find the energy to break away.
“Please, sit over there.”
Silently, she did as he asked. She smoothed out her skirt over her legs and said, “Are you trying to be virtuous?”
“No. Just avoiding something messy.”
She threw her head back defiantly. “I never regret anything. Not even Richard: I do not regret him. I knew all along, and I think I learned from him.”
He was feeling uncomfortable; he finished his drink hurriedly, and stood to go. It was then that she reached out and kissed him, and he stood very still.
“Charles,” she said, “you cannot help it. I am seducing you.”
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