The Sun Place

by Ray Connolly

  Part IV

  Thirty-Four

  It snowed heavily in Paris during the last week in January, bringing that familiar muffled silence to the city, throwing the Métro into chaos, closing down the airports for a time, and even restricting Quatre Bras. He detested snow because it interfered with business. Snow was for the mountains; the city was for work. The fortunes of Club Village were at a critical stage, and the last thing he wanted was interference.

  At eight-thirty on the Monday of the blizzard Girardot called, prompt as usual, though six inches of snow covered the city.

  Quatre Bras was in his office reading the Telexes from the previous night as Girardot entered.

  “Sit down,” said Quatre Bras without looking up.

  Quatre Bras stared at the Telexes. There were fourteen, ranging in subject from a flu epidemic in Kenya to a suspected shark killing in the Bay of Islands in the far north of New Zealand. Quatre Bras flicked through them. At the moment he had time only for the American zone. The most important message had, therefore, come directly from Elixir and Hardin.

  “Our friend Hardin says he has no immediate problems other than a group of lazy CVs,” Quatre Bras told Girardot while the latter sipped a cup of coffee. “He says there is absolutely no news on the death of Pagett, but he would be surprised if it turned out to be a complete accident. He wants the London bureau to make discreet inquiries about a woman called Cassandra Mallinson. He thinks she is probably a journalist trying to uncover a dirty story.”

  “We’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” said Girardot indignantly.

  “We may not have, my friend, but someone down there in the islands certainly has.” He looked back at the Telex. “He also wants information on the comic there, someone called Hamlet Yablans. With a name like that he certainly needs investigating.”

  Girardot had been uncertain when Quatre Bras decided to send Hardin to Elixir. There were more experienced people in Club Village, and the rumors about Hardin’s romantic attachments, particularly the latest one with Beta Ullman, were constant sources of amusement to the secretaries and discomfort to the senior staff.

  But Quatre Bras had refused to be dissuaded. He wanted someone who could act on his own, who was not owned body and soul by the club and would not be afraid to come up with unorthodox solutions.

  Quatre Bras stared out at the falling snow. “Perhaps the weather in New York will be better,” he said.

  “New York?”

  Quatre Bras nodded: “It’s time for serious discussions. We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Concorde?” asked Girardot with some misgivings. He distrusted the superplane, convinced that sooner or later the great Anglo-French folly was certain to crash, and that the passengers would be immortalized in jokes, the way the band on the Titanic had become famous.

  “Of course,” said Quatre Bras. “Come on, don’t be so suspicious, Corporal, remember how we began.”

  “We were young men then … boys,” said Girardot. “And everything was fun. Nothing seems like fun anymore.”

  Quatre Bras looked sharply at Girardot. “Well, maybe not to you. But this trip to New York will be the biggest adventure of my life.”

  “But that’s only business,” retorted Girardot. “Rich men sitting around a table smoking cigars and talking in numbers isn’t fun.”

  “But that’s the real adventure,” said Quatre Bras. “Don’t you see? Only power can provide true adventure.”

  Girardot shook his head. “No, I don’t see,” he said. Club Village had become so big that it was too big for him to comprehend. Now, against all advice, Quatre Bras was going to make it even bigger.

  It would be more fun, thought Girardot, if they went back to picking pockets.

  Thirty-Five

  Beta Ullman used the Paris blizzard as an excuse to keep Ernst Ronay in bed for an extra hour that morning. She needed to, for his peace of mind and for her future.

  She awoke first at the small, bijou apartment Ronay provided for her in Rue Winterman, a small Left Bank street popular with students. For a while she enjoyed looking out at the city in snow. It reminded her of her childhood in Helsinki.

  Ronay was just waking as she reentered the room, carrying the morning papers and a pot of coffee. He glanced at his watch, but she quickly covered it with her hand.

  “It’s late, I must be going,” he insisted, running his free hand up her thigh and under her nightgown.

  “There’s been a blizzard. The radio says that Paris is in chaos, and if you look out the window you’ll see that your car is buried under snow,” she said, handing him a large cup of coffee and climbing in bed alongside him. “No one will be working in the Bourse until at least lunchtime.”

  “Quatre Bras will,” said Ronay. “If Paris were covered by a ton of volcanic ash that old bastard would still be at the office, scheming.”

  “Do you love me, Ernst?” Beta asked after a moment.

  Ronay hesitated, suspecting a trap. “What kind of a question is that?”

  “A lover’s question. I mean, I’d like to know if you’re getting bored. People do get bored with each other.”

  For the first time that morning Ronay looked closely at her. “But of course I do, Beta. Would I be here if I didn’t?”

  “Probably,” said Beta.

  Ronay considered that for a moment before answering. “Yes, that is possible. But I do love you. It just happens that there’s no way I can show you. If I weren’t married …”

  Beta stopped him. “I wasn’t angling for a proposal. Marriage doesn’t come into it. I just like to hear you tell me.” And with that she began a slow ritual with her tongue and lips, starting high on his bronzed, stern forehead and working downward.

  After they had finished making love, Ronay stared at the ceiling for several minutes. At last he spoke. “This man Hardin, the one Quatre Bras sent out to Elixir, I think you know him. Don’t you?”

  Beta kept her eyes closed. She decided it was best to be as honest as possible. “Yes, he was in Val d’Isabelle last week.”

  “And would you say he was a good chef de village?”

  “Yes, I think so. He was very popular.”

  Ronay went quiet again, musing. His interest in Hardin was strictly business. “You know, Beta, I think you and I could do with a small vacation in the sun. What do you say?”

  “I’ve only just come back from the mountains.”

  “Yes, but we should spend more time together. I’ll make arrangements for us to go to Elixir next week.”

  “Elixir?” Beta heard alarm bells ring.

  “Yes,” smiled Ronay. “We can go see whether Quatre Bras is right or not about the American adventure.”

  Beta thought quickly. “I did have a job here next week,” she said, which was true. She had been booked by David Bailey to do a fashion spread for the September edition of Italian Vogue.

  “I’m sure you can cancel it.”

  Beta bit her lip. Bailey wasn’t the sort of photographer that you canceled just like that, and Elixir was the last place in the world she wanted to go with Ronay. But if she didn’t go it might make him suspicious. She made one last effort. “Does it have to be so soon?” she asked.

  “Of course, if you don’t want to come …” Ronay was playing his hurt-little-man act, with just a hint of blackmail.

  “No. I want to come. I’ll get Olga to call Bailey and tell him I’m ill.”

  “Good girl.” Ronay smiled, kissed her, and climbed out of bed. His elegant figure looked gaunt when naked. “And now I really must get out there and face that snow and see what mischief our chairman has been up to.”

  Beta watched him disappear into the bathroom. An awful lot could happen during a week in Elixir. She hoped nobody was going to regret anything.

  Thirty-Six

  It was never John Arrowsmith’s intention to get Piebald Jane into bed, but at the same time it was not his intention to ignore such an opportunity should it occur. On Tuesday, one did occur.

/>   That morning Ruth announced that she, Joanna, and Roeg were going on a boat trip to the outer cays. Since this would be a six-hour trip in the burning sun, Arrowsmith turned down her invitation to join them. He played tennis all morning, feeling younger and bolder with every winning shot. The idea that Ruth was going to be away for the whole day gave him an illusion of freedom.

  At lunch he accidently-on-purpose found himself sitting next to Piebald Jane. She was now extremely tanned, and had come to lunch in the briefest of white crocheted bikinis.

  “Having a good time?” he asked, as he had done on the five or six occasions he had bought her a drink.

  “The best,” she replied with a dimpled, sensuous smile.

  “Where is your roommate today?” asked Arrowsmith. In the past couple of days he had seen Jane talking a great deal with a tall, snobby English girl.

  “She went on the boat trip. She’ll probably fry out there,” said Jane.

  “Oh. My wife went too,” said Arrowsmith.

  “That’s nice,” said Jane.

  What she intended to be interpreted by that remark Arrowsmith had no way of knowing, but it sounded friendly, perhaps even encouraging.

  “Do you like my roommate?” Jane asked.

  “I hardly know her,” said Arrowsmith, which was true.

  “But do you want to screw her?” asked Jane as she sawed a steak in half. Arrowsmith’s jaw sagged.

  “Well, I think the chance would be a fine thing,” he said weakly.

  Jane thought about this for a couple of seconds and then carried on. “If you don’t like them long and lanky, then, what about little and plump like me?” she said.

  Arrowsmith felt the hairs at the back of his neck begin to rise. Was this a come-on? It was so long since he had been in a position to be propositioned that he couldn’t be sure, and there was no way he was going to risk making a fool of himself.

  “I think you’re very … attractive,” he said. “Would you like some strawberries?”

  “Oh, yes … thank you.” Jane had given up on the steak and was fiddling with the salad.

  Arrowsmith hurried over to the fruit table and piled two dishes with strawberries. It seemed such a luxury to have strawberries in January. When he sat down again, Jane was in conversation with an unattractive Canadian CV on the far side of her. Arrowsmith watched, jealousy lancing him. Piebald Jane was such a wayward spirit. She had quite captured his imagination during the past few days. He put down the strawberries and began to eat slowly. At last Jane shook off the attentions of the CV and returned to him.

  “That was very nice of you,” she said. Slowly she picked up the largest of the strawberries between two deliciously painted fingers. “You know, something just occurred to me,” she said. “Why do people always talk about losing their cherry? I would have thought a strawberry much more appropriate, wouldn’t you?”

  Arrowsmith stared at the strawberry. Indeed, now that she mentioned it, he could see there was indeed a strong similarity between a strawberry and a pudendum.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said, feeling once again the full force of her baby-blue-eyed gaze.

  Then, suddenly dropping the fruit into her mouth, she abruptly changed the subject and began to talk about the fun she’d had as a kid picking fruit in California. The moment had gone, Arrowsmith thought.

  But of course it hadn’t. As they finished lunch and walked out toward the sun Arrowsmith said, “Well, what are your plans?”

  “Long-term or short-term?” asked Piebald Jane.

  “Whichever you want to tell me about,” said Arrowsmith.

  “Well, long-term I want to take a trip to Nepal before it gets invaded by the Russians or Chinese, and I also want to be a Playmate of the Month.”

  Arrowsmith smiled. “And short-term?” he asked.

  “Short-term, I want to go back to your room with you for the rest of the afternoon and fool around.”

  It took several seconds for her remark to sink in.

  “Of course, if you don’t want to, I’ll go lie by the pool and think about Robert Redford.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”

  “You didn’t say you did.”

  “I—was surprised. No one ever said that to me before.”

  “I’m surprised, too. A good-looking guy like you? You’ve been married to that sports freak for too long.”

  Defense of Ruth leaped to Arrowsmith’s mind. But at the same time he didn’t want to do anything to make the lady change her mind. In the end, he said nothing.

  Piebald Jane took a deep breath. “Well, what is it gonna be?”

  “We’re in C34,” he said. Do you want to follow me up?”

  “Can’t we go together?”

  Arrowsmith looked around. Guilt was already pursuing him. “We’ll go together,” he said quietly, and began to walk along the concrete pathway toward C Block.

  Without further conversation they reached C Block, and climbing the outside stairs made their way to the Arrowsmiths’ room. By now Arrowsmith could feel his heart palpitations slamming into his ribs beneath his tennis shirt. With one last quick glance along the balcony to ascertain that he was not being observed, Arrowsmith opened the door. Jane slipped in ahead of him. Quickly he stepped inside and closing the door tried to draw the flimsy lock. It didn’t work. But it hardly mattered. Ruth was away for the day. Ignoring it, he lowered the venetian blinds.

  “Exactly the same,” said Jane as she promptly sat down on Ruth’s bed.

  “What’s the same?” said Arrowsmith, wishing that she had chosen his bed to sit on. It bothered him to think that his first act of adultery would be on his wife’s bed.

  “The room. Exactly like mine.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  There was a momentary pause while Jane unfastened her shoes and let them drop onto the floor. They clattered noisily, and Arrowsmith wondered if anyone on the floor below would hear them. He moved nearer to her. His tennis shorts were sticking to him. He realized that the air-conditioning unit wasn’t working as effectively as it might and wondered whether he should try to fix it.

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” said Jane, lying back and watching him.

  “No,” he lied, and leaning over her, he kissed her on the forehead. She made no move to react to the kiss so he pulled himself away and went into the bathroom.

  In the yellow of the bathroom lights his reflection looked pale and wan. He examined himself in the mirror, then brushed his teeth and combed his hair so that the thinning patch at the front was partly disguised. Last he sprayed some Givenchy deodorant under his arms and with Givenchy eau de toilette on his hands ran his fingers through his hair again so that he might not have that coiffured look. He wanted to appear tousled and virile.

  God, he mused to himself, he didn’t even know how to get started anymore. What did he have to do? Did he just rip off all his clothes and say, “Here it is, baby, come and get it”? Did he start necking with her and gradually ease off her bra and pants? Was he supposed to go down on her before they made love? Was that the fashion these days?

  Opening the bathroom door he went back into the bedroom.

  Jane was now in bed, in Ruth’s bed. As he entered the room, he saw her reach for her little beach bag and swallow something.

  She noticed his expression. “Just a little cocktail,” she said, indicating the bag. “Whatever you want, I’ve got. You want some amyl nitrite … coke, acid?”

  “Acid?” He thought that had gone out of fashion.

  “I’m a walking drugstore. What do you want?”

  “What have you had?” he inquired.

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “No, thanks anyway. I think I’ll just stick to the wine I had at lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  There was another pause.

  “Well?” Piebald Jane was looking at Arrowsmith with mystification.

  “Yes,” said Arrowsmith, and suddenly began to peel off his clothes, deli
berately turning away from the bed so that his slightly paunchy, middle-aged stomach was hidden. He left his shorts till the very end, and then suddenly pulled them and his underpants down together and, swinging around, climbed into the bed.

  “You know, you have a nice body,” Jane said. “I don’t know why you’re so ashamed of it.”

  She made room for him under the sheets. Alongside him her body felt firm and smooth, and he began to feel an excitement he had almost forgotten.

  “I’m not ashamed of my body,” he said quietly, running his hand across her breasts and down across her stomach.

  “But you’re bashful. That’s okay. I can’t stand those macho guys who are covered with hair. I hate a hairy back.”

  “Me too,” he said, stroking her back and running his hands under her bottom.

  “I bet you have a whole lot of affairs, don’t you, John?” she said.

  He tried to attempt a shrug under the sheets. “Oh, you know, one or two, now and again …” he said, and slipping his hand between her thighs he began to kiss her. He could taste the wine she had drunk at lunch.

  Suddenly she broke off the kiss. “You know, I’ve been trying to think of a way of getting you into bed since I saw you at the airport,” she said.

  “That’s very nice. Why?”

  “I like married men. I like the way they look at me,” she said. “You were like a kid looking in a candy-store window. Single guys, guys who screw everything, they just assume that all they have to do is get me stoned and I’ll go down on them right there. Married men treat a girl with respect.”

  Arrowsmith wished she wouldn’t talk about married men at all. He didn’t want to think about it. He also didn’t want to talk. He started to kiss her again. She was cool and silky under the sheets, a very different feel from Ruth. He pushed his head into her hair, marveling at the line around her ears where the dark brown turned into creamy blond. Slowly she pushed him over onto his back and began to kiss his body, murmuring all the time about how nice his skin felt, how free from hair he was, and how clean he smelled. He thanked God for Givenchy. He was as excited as he had been in years, but Piebald Jane was an artiste of eroticism. Slowly she washed him with her mouth, alternately exciting him and then allowing him breathing space in which to control himself. If this is foreplay, who needs the tournament? he thought. By now they had both stopped talking and he was content simply to lie there, slightly drunk, and allow his body to be manipulated. She was like a little animal, he thought, nuzzling him all over, and he wondered how long it was since Ruth had shown so much joy in exploring his body.