by Ray Connolly
His commercial over for the day, Hardin stepped down from the stage, embarrassed. This was the part of being a chef de village he hated most. It was so degrading.
Karen, meanwhile, was having her pareo adjusted by both Florinda and Chloe. From the dance floor the sound of Chuck Berry singing “Sweet Little Sixteen” burst from the speakers. Amusements never stopped at Club Village.
“Do you think I could change this pareo for one in green?” Karen asked Florinda. “Or would that be asking too much?”
“Not at all. Come over to the boutique now, before we get mobbed,” said Florinda, putting a friendly arm around her.
Karen didn’t have much in common with Florinda and Chloe. But since they were old hands at Club Village, they knew all there was about discouraging the attentions of unwelcome males, and, in the absence of any other friends, Karen found herself gravitating toward them. She felt at ease with them.
It wasn’t until just before dinner, when Karen (now wearing a pale green pareo, tied seductively at her waist so that it hung over one shoulder, leaving the other bare) was having a drink with Florinda and Chloe, that she saw Sacha again, having carefully avoided him since their picnic. Florinda and Chloe had just been told that they were to be the guests of Quatre Bras and Scorcese at dinner, and all three girls were becoming extremely giggly when Karen suddenly looked up and found herself staring into the perfectly malevolent gaze of Sacha. For a long moment he gazed at her, as Florinda and Chloe continued to laugh. The sight of him drove any thoughts of gaiety from Karen’s mind.
At that moment the ragtime music that announced dinner began to play and as she joined the crush on the steps, she found Sacha pressing against her.
“Why did you tell them?” he hissed. “I told you not to tell anyone.”
“I didn’t, Sacha. I didn’t say a word.”
“They were laughing at me.”
“No … they were laughing at something else.”
“I saw them. I saw them laughing at me. I told you never to tell anyone.” And with that he disappeared into the crowd of people.
Jesus, thought Karen. He certainly was difficult. She was determined not to let him near her again.
By careful management, Ronay and Quatre Bras did not actually meet in Elixir until each went into the bustling restaurant for dinner at a quarter to nine. Ronay was accompanied by the lithesome but now subdued Beta, who had not spoken to him since their sharp exchanges of the afternoon, while Quatre Bras and Scorcese were with Florinda and Chloe.
Hardin had asked Cassandra to be his guest for dinner. He knew he was playing with fire inviting Cassandra along, not only from the point of view of his recent involvement with Beta, but also because of her story. He had therefore checked with Quatre Bras, who had largely been amused by the idea. “We have nothing to hide, James,” he had said. “And anyway, nothing important is ever discussed over dinner.”
So it was that Cassandra found herself being flirted with outrageously by Quatre Bras, who had always had a soft spot for journalists, particularly the prettier ones.
“You came here to write a critical story, did you?” he said, laughing. “To drag Club Village through the mud? You should have told us before you left London. We would have paid your fare.”
“If you’d done that how could I possibly have been objective?” asked Cassandra. “In London we call those trips ‘freebies,’ and the people who pay the bill sometimes get very nasty if they don’t like what one writes.”
“In Club Village we don’t care what you write, so long as it’s the truth,” said Quatre Bras, beaming and passing her a glass of champagne.
“But truth can change its shape, depending upon the perspective of the viewer,” said Cassandra.
Again Quatre Bras laughed aloud. But Hardin, who was listening intently, was not taken in. Cassandra was being buttered up with the half promise of future free vacations at the club’s expense, so long as she wrote a favorable story. He hoped it would have not have any effect on her.
Normally two ladies as attractive as Florinda and Chloe would have found themselves being waited on and flattered by the men to whom they had been assigned, but Quatre Bras and Scorcese did not behave predictably. To Quatre Bras they were attractive employees who helped the image of Club Village, while to Scorcese they were far too young to be of any real interest. He was nearly fifty years old, recently divorced after his wife had suddenly decided she wanted to be eighteen again and had gone off with a music and dance instructor whom she had met at a midtown Manhattan rich ladies’ gymnasium. Scorcese had found himself picking up the pieces of his life, throwing himself ever deeper into the running of his business. For fifteen years he had wished that they had been able to have a family. Now he was relieved that they had not.
Scorcese liked the idea of Universal-American buying into Club Village; it made obvious good sense for a company like his to spread its capitalization into as many areas linked with travel and vacations as possible. But, unlike Quatre Bras, he had no powers of patronage over his board. He knew that in many ways the Club Village board was like a medieval court, with all but Ernst Ronay and his banking cohorts bowing to Quatre Bras. But at Universal-American he was merely a very clever accountant who had been voted president by the board, and who could be unseated just as easily should the figures begin to go against him. If he were to recommend buying a large share of Club Village and began to set up a massive American chain of villages, then he would have to have some very convincing arguments to put before his colleagues.
Only after the group had had a drink did Ronay present himself. Presuming the aristocratic privilege of being late without excuse, he suddenly strode across the polished wooden floor, smiling graciously to left and right, like a politician on a whistle-stop tour. On his arm was the mute, though beautiful, Beta.
Quatre Bras leaped to his feet as he saw the chief thorn in his side approaching. “Ernst, we were so worried about you. We thought you might miss dinner,” he cooed.
Ronay smiled and extended his hand around the table, regal in everything he did. When he reached Scorcese, he smiled warmly. “I’m so pleased to see you,” he said. “I understand you’re interested in diversification.”
Scorcese made a noncommittal reply. His eyes had suddenly fixed on Beta; who was now standing just a pace behind Ronay, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
“Might I introduce Beta Ullman,” said Ronay. And he went around the table, dismissing Florinda and Chloe with a cursory nod. Only when he reached Scorcese did Beta react.
“Hello again,” said Scorcese easily.
“You two know each other?” asked Ronay, taken aback slightly by the warmth of their smiles.
“We met this afternoon by the pool,” said Scorcese.
Then, turning to Beta, he added quietly, “I trust you’re feeling a little happier now.”
“Much, thank you,” said Beta. And at that moment she began to feel that the loss of Ronay might not be the end of the world after all.
Dinner was a polite maze of conversational culs de sac, driven along by Quatre Bras’ bonhomie and Cassandra’s polite inquiries. Quatre Bras insisted that no business be discussed that evening, which suited everyone. Ronay was behaving like a pompous ram, bearing down on both Florinda and Chloe at the same time, while Scorcese only had eyes for Beta. Hardin sat quietly, watching the elaborate game-playing that was being carried on before him.
Across the room, Sacha sat with a group of CVs who had not been assigned to assist at any of the guests’ tables. He was quiet and morose. From time to time he looked up from the food he was tampering with, allowing his eyes to seek out the pretty faces of first Karen Sorensen and then Florinda and Chloe.
Karen could hardly have been unaware of his attentions. By chance she had found herself sitting with the Arrowsmiths and the Roegs, and conversation at their table was hardly lively.
“Didn’t I see you playing water polo this afternoon?” she asked of Roeg, not because she was i
nterested, but because someone had to say something.
Roeg nodded, sourly.
“He nearly drowned, didn’t you dear?” said his wife, smiling sweetly.
“I swallowed a lungful of salt water,” said Roeg.
“His poor little heart couldn’t take the exertion,” Joanna stated. “He really isn’t awfully good at anything physical, are you, dear?”
Roeg shot her a look of hostility which would have frozen the Amazon.
Karen tried the other couple. “Is this your first Club Village vacation?” she asked of dark, pretty Ruth Arrowsmith.
“Yes,” said Ruth, and neatly severed the head of her grilled plaice.
“And what do you think of it?” asked Karen.
Ruth paused before answering. “I think,” she said, choosing her words with great care, “I think that everyone should try a Club Village vacation at some time during their lives, particularly during their married lives. There’s something about this place that opens up all the wounds of a lifetime. Wouldn’t you say so, John?”
“Maybe,” sighed Arrowsmith, and sank lower in his chair.
Behind the bar, Alex, the bartender, watched the scene sourly. Everyone looked so nice. Everyone was so well dressed. But these were not nice people. They were gross and ugly and evil. This was a place of sin. Something terrible would have to happen to straighten all these people out. He shook his head. Yes, something terrible would have to happen.
Forty-Eight
Later, everyone who was at Elixir would swear they had sensed danger and violence in the air the last Saturday night in January.
Perhaps it was the masked ball, or perhaps it was simply the atmosphere shrouding the island. Whatever it was, Cassandra felt strange presentiments of anxiety, and she was the least likely person to suffer imaginings.
The ball was a huge success, all of the guests joining in with exhilaration. Sacha had done a remarkable job in preparing the dance hall and the masks. From the supporting pillars hung huge, lasciviously drawn masks, while from the crossbeams hundreds of streamers and more masks trailed thirty feet to the floor, tying themselves around the dancers as they moved in muggy confusion from partner to partner, always deliberately avoiding the one with whom they had arrived.
The face masks caused even Ernst Ronay to comment favorably. “I see we have something of an artist here,” he said as he admired the intricate design of Florinda’s mask.
“That’s Sacha’s work,” said Florinda. “He’s had half the CVs in the village working on them for the past four days. He’s a genius at design.”
Among the less exalted company, the ball was the high spot of the week, coming after a series of rather lame revues on the other evenings.
“I’ve wanted to hold you like this all week,” said Roeg to Ruth Arrowsmith as he belly-hugged her around the floor. Normally Ruth would have held the horny little man at a distance and reminded him coldly that he was married to her best friend. But she didn’t, and even surprised herself by enjoying the physical attentions.
Arrowsmith sat by the bar and watched in futile misery. Any notions he might once have had toward Joanna had been stifled by the events of the past week.
Joanna, meanwhile, was changing partners enthusiastically. Early in the week it had been noticed, by those who made it their business to be aware of these things, that Mrs. Roeg had an eye for younger men. Suitors who had been reluctant to make passes on other nights found a new confidence in hiding behind their masks. In quick succession, Joanna danced and body-flirted with Homer Wolford; Hector, the picnic chief; a photographer from Charleston; and various other men behaving like boys, and boys who thought they were men. If the air in that dance floor had not been so heavy climatically, it would have been leaden with libido.
Karen Sorensen was having no less a good time. Her friendship with Florinda and Chloe had given her confidence, and she rejoiced in her own attractiveness, keeping her suitors at arm’s length, but moving from one to the other with self-assurance.
Befittingly on such a night, when the most conservative people found themselves behaving quite uncharacteristically, Michael Girardot did indeed have the good fortune to bump into Ingrid, the nymphomaniac from Stuttgart with whom Karen Sorensen had been roomed. And before the evening was out Ingrid generously agreed to spend a couple of hours in Girardot’s room.
To Quatre Bras, the ball was quite the best advertisement for Club Village. He had intended that Scorcese should be entertained by one of the two CVs he had provided, but with great amusement he noticed the New Yorker moving slowly on the floor with Beta Ullman, while the streamers tied themselves around them and the lights were dimmed to a romantic low. Ronay seemed oblivious to this arrangement, and was talking animatedly to Chloe and Florinda, displaying the wealth and good breeding for which he was renowned.
“I must congratulate you, James,” said Quatre Bras in Hardin’s ear, speaking above the sound of the record that had temporarily replaced the reggae house band. “This is the best Club Village ball I’ve ever attended.”
Hardin shrugged. “Sacha, the CV here in charge of design, did most of the work,” he said.
“But there is also a certain ambience here tonight,” insisted Quatre Bras. “And in Club Village the ambience always stems from the chief.”
Hardin accepted the compliment with a mumbled comment.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” asked a masked Cassandra, approaching the two men.
“I didn’t want to monopolize your company,” said Hardin as he led her to the floor.
The disc jockey who had been put in charge of the night’s music was now playing Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.” Slowly they moved around the floor together, their bodies warm and close. It was the first time they had been alone since the previous night.
“You know, I came out here hating the very idea of Club Village,” said Cassandra. “It seemed so vulgar. But if it is, then I suppose I must like vulgarity, because I’m having a lovely time.”
Hardin held her a little closer. “You’re right, it is vulgar. But it’s also seductive. Somehow I have to break the habit.”
“I don’t understand,” said Cassandra. “I thought you enjoyed the club.”
“I enjoy it from day to day, but when I get to the end of the year I look back and wonder what I’ve done with that year. There has to be more to life than a permanent vacation.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Cassandra, and allowed her head to rest on his shoulder.
On the far side of the floor, Anthony Scorcese was holding Beta Ullman at arm’s length, although his inclination was to wrap himself around her. With his mask on he looked not unlike the Lone Ranger, while she looked demure and enchantingly mysterious.
“If I didn’t know that you were here with your boyfriend I might suggest that we take a walk around the village, or maybe down to the beach,” he said quietly.
Beta looked around and saw Ronay locked in deep conversation with Florinda and Chloe. “I think my boyfriend is trying to maneuver himself into a menage that is intended to exclude me,” she said. “I’d like a walk on the beach very much.” And, leading him by the hand, she left the dance floor.
At that moment the sinewy figure of Hamlet Yablans sidled up to where Quatre Bras was sitting at a corner table.
“Methinks it is a midsummer night’s dream in January,” he whispered breathily into Quatre Bras’ ear. Quatre Bras withdrew his face instinctively as the foul breath of Yablans smothered him.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
Hamlet raised his shoulders in an affected stage pose and lifted his eyes to heaven. “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” he said. And before Quatre Bras could question him further, he danced away to where his eccentricity was better appreciated.
Quatre Bras watched him go with misgivings. First thing tomorrow he was going to fire that man. There was something obscenely unpleasant about him. Besides, he had bad breath. What sort
of advertisement was he for the club?
Down by the tennis courts, those CVs who were not joining in the spirit of the ball were lying around on foam pillow mattresses, drinking beer, and sweating.
“God, it’s hot,” said Henry, the English boy.
Nobody answered. There was nothing to be said. At the end of the mattresses Sacha sat alone, quiet and thoughtful.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Mary.
Nobody answered her either.
Mary got up and walked down the bank of mattresses to Sacha. “You’re looking pretty depressed,” she said, putting a hand on his fair hair.
He jumped, badly startled, and Mary withdrew her hand.
“My God, Sacha, you’re touchy tonight.”
Sacha recovered quickly and tried a wry grin. “I’m sorry, I was thinking of something,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
“Anything you want to tell us about?” said Sharon Kennedy, who had wandered down to join Mary. Since the death of Pagett she had rarely been down to the tennis courts at night, but tonight the heat around the bar had become oppressive.
“No, nothing I want to tell anyone about,” said Sacha. “Thanks for the thought, though.”
“That’s okay,” said Sharon and ruffled his hair with her hand. He was such a beautiful boy, so clean and fair, and now so troubled-looking that he brought out the latent mother in just about every woman in the village.