Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  “Sounds like you’re all ouzo’d out,” he punned. It got no reaction from her. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Harvey said he put a package of a new kind of grass,” she said. “I found it,” she said, holding it up triumphantly. “Number sixteen.”

  “What does he call that one?”

  “Fantasy grass,” she answered, already rolling a joint. “He said that gives you almost the same kind of high you get from mescaline or peyote.”

  “Fantasy,” he repeated, intrigued by the thought. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her lick the cigarette paper. “That’s what every honeymoon should be. A time for fantasy.”

  “I’m not complaining,” she said, lighting the cigarette. She drew two deep tokes, then passed it to him. “Try it,” she said. “I can feel a buzz already.”

  He took several tokes. “Do you ever fantasize?” he asked, holding the cigarette.

  “About what?” she asked, leaning back against the pillows.

  He drew on the cigarette again, then passed it back to her. He let his fingers play with her pubic hair. “Like about shaving your quim and having it all soft and pink like a little girl’s.”

  She dragged on the joint. Harvey was right as usual. This grass did numbers on your head. She was really getting a buzz on. She giggled. “Would you like to do that?”

  He nodded.

  She gave him the cigarette, jumped out of bed and went to the bathroom. A moment later she was back, her pubis all covered with shaving foam, his razor in her hand. “Okay,” she said. “Do it.”

  A few minutes later she was standing in front of the mirror, examining herself. She giggled. “My clit’s like a little pink tongue sticking out between my lips.” She turned to him. “Do you like it?”

  “I think it’s beautiful.” He took another toke of the joint and passed it to her. “What do you fantasize about?”

  She drew on the cigarette and giggled. “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  “What you look like without your beard,” she said. She giggled again. “Funny. Here I am married to you and I don’t even know what you look like. Really.”

  He paused for a moment trying to gather his thoughts. He was having trouble remembering them long enough to speak them. “I look the same,” he finally said.

  “What is the same?” She giggled.

  “The same as I always looked,” he said. He began to laugh. “That’s funny, isn’t it? I mean. The same.”

  “It is funny.”

  “I’ll show you what I mean,” he said, going into the bathroom. She followed him and watched as he rubbed the foam into his beard. When he had shaved half his face, he turned that side to her. “See?” he asked, putting down the razor. “I look the same.”

  “Patrick, you’re really beautiful,” she said.

  “I told you,” he said, reaching for the towel to wipe his face.

  “You can’t stop now,” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “You can’t go around with a beard just on one half of your face,” she said, giggling. “That’s silly.”

  He turned and looked at himself in the mirror. He laughed. “You’re absolutely right. That would be silly.” Quickly he added more shaving foam to his beard and shaved the rest of it off. He rubbed his fingers thoughtfully over his cheeks. “It feels strange,” he said. “I’ve had that beard for eight years. I’d almost forgotten what it was like without it.”

  “You look younger,” she said.

  “Do you really like it?”

  “I really do. I never knew it but you’re very handsome. Now I’ll have to worry. All the girls will be after you.”

  He turned back to the mirror, rubbing his face again. “It still feels strange.”

  “So does my pussy,” she giggled. “What do you say we introduce the two strangers to each other?”

  A few minutes later she held his face away from her. “I can’t wait anymore,” she said breathlessly, trying to pull him over her. “I want you inside me.”

  He rolled over on the bed so that she was over him. “Get on it.”

  “Yeah,” she said, rising to her knees. Then guiding him into her with her hand, she slowly lowered herself on him. The breath rushed out of her with a sigh. “Oh, that’s good.” Slowly she began to move on him. “Oh, man, I can feel it. It’s like a hot rock in my pussy.”

  “Harder,” he said. “I want you to beat it!”

  She began to move faster, her body slamming down on him. She leaned over him, shaking her breasts in his face. “I’m beating you with my titties,” she said.

  “They’re black like a nigger’s,” he said.

  “You like that?” She pinned his arms to the bed. “Now you can’t move. I’m going to nigger-rape you.”

  “Please don’t!” he almost shouted, feeling his orgasm rising inside him.

  “You can’t stop me!” she said fiercely. Then her own frenzy caught up with her. “I can feel your cock shooting inside me!” Her body began to wrack with orgasms. “I’m coming and coming and coming!”

  She slumped over him while they both caught their breath. After a moment, he made a gesture as if to move. She stopped him. “Leave it in there. Don’t take it out yet.”

  “I want a cigarette,” he said.

  “In a moment.” Her eyes looked into his. “Did you really fantasize that I was a nigger?”

  He nodded without speaking.

  “What else do you fantasize?”

  “Lots of things,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “I want a cigarette,” he said. She moved away from him and he got out of the bed and went to the dressing table for his cigarettes. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and stood there for a moment staring at it. Then he touched his face with his fingers. “Oh, shit!” he said, turning to look at her. “What the hell did Harvey put in that grass? I really did shave off my beard.”

  “And I really let you shave my pussy.” She laughed, getting out of bed and walking to him. She took a cigarette from his pack, lit it and gave it to him. “That was the best fuck we ever had. We should smoke that fantasy grass more often.”

  He dragged on the cigarette and then finally smiled. “It could get ridiculous,” he said. “I’d look awfully funny with a shaven head.”

  “Can’t you come up with any better fantasies than that?” She smiled.

  He smiled slowly and went back to the bed. “I sure as hell can,” he said. He looked at her. “I have the feeling that you’ve had it with the Greek islands.”

  She nodded.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed the bridge. “Forget about Hydra,” he told the captain. “Set course for Saint-Tropez.” He put down the telephone and looked at her. “How’s that for a fantasy?”

  She laughed. “Now you’re really getting into it.”

  “I thought you would like it,” he smiled. “We’ll be there in three days. Janette’s having her annual big bash Sunday night. We’ll surprise the hell out of her and just walk in.”

  ***

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and the party was going into high gear. Lauren’s head felt as if it were bursting with the noise. She could handle the grass and the coke but the champagne that Patrick had plied her with from the moment they arrived had put her away. She kept telling him that she couldn’t handle it, but he had just laughed and kept refilling her glass. Now her head was spinning and she was beginning to feel nauseated. She began to search for him in the crowd. She wanted to go back to the yacht and sleep.

  August was party month in Saint-Tropez and Janette had gone all out for this one. Catered by Félix of L’Escale, the giant buffet table set under the eaves on the terrace was bursting with all kinds of food. Magnificent roasts of beef and lamb, platters piled high with lobster and shrimp, baskets of crudités decorated all the tables. Before dinner had been served a half dozen waiters had circulated through t
he crowd, each with a bowl of caviar piled mountain high on a tray. There were candles on each table, and overhead under the eaves and around the garden, hanging from the branches of the trees, Chinese lanterns flickered. Los Paraguayanos played flamenco before and during dinner, and afterward two rock groups blasted the night for dancing.

  The center of the large living room had been cleared for dancing and was impossible to cross because of the crowd. Slowly she made her way around the edge of the room to the corner where Janette had remained for most of the evening. It was a vantage point where she could see almost everything that was happening.

  Janette was flushed and smiling as she spoke to the group of people surrounding her. She didn’t have to be told the party was a success. She knew that the moment the fogies from Monte Carlo began to arrive in their long gowns and smokings. That crowd wouldn’t have undertaken the two-hour drive if they didn’t feel the party was important. Not only that, Jack Nysberg, the official photographer for French Vogue, was there shooting pictures, and that was like the official stamp of approval.

  Lauren touched her arm to attract her attention. Janette turned to her. “Oui, chérie?”

  “Have you seen Patrick?” Lauren asked.

  Janette glanced around the room. “No, I haven’t. Maybe he’s gone out on the terrace. Do you want me to send someone to find him?”

  “No,” Lauren said. “You have enough to do. I’ll find him.”

  “Okay.” Janette smiled and turned back to her coterie as Lauren made her way out to the terrace.

  There were people still sitting at the tables, eating, when Lauren came out. A quick glance told her that Patrick wasn’t there. Screams of laughter from the pool attracted her attention and she went out into the garden.

  As she passed through the small cluster of trees that separated the pool from the house, she could see several couples on the grass obviously making it and either oblivious or not caring who saw them. She came out at the near end of the pool.

  There seemed to be about twenty naked men and women splashing around in the water; another twenty-odd people stood at the sides watching them and screaming in laughter at their antics. Patrick wasn’t with them. There was another crowd at the far end of the pool and she walked toward them.

  Patrick was there, standing in a group of about nine people. He was holding a bottle of champagne in his hand and a glass in the other. She came up behind him and touched his arm.

  He turned to her and smiled. “I was waiting for you to come,” he said thickly. He held the champagne glass toward her. “Have a drink and watch the show.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve had enough to drink. I think maybe you have too.”

  “Don’t be a party pooper,” he said, pushing her in front of him. “Then just watch.”

  At first she thought it was just three naked girls rolling over each other on the ground, but then she realized there was someone else. Maybe it was because he was so black that he blended into the semidarkness that she didn’t see him immediately. Or because the naked girls were all over him almost hiding him.

  “How did he get here?” She turned to Patrick angrily.

  “I sent for him,” Patrick said. “Even niggers are entitled to have a little fun.”

  She started to move away from him but he held her fast. “Look at that,” he said laughing. One of the girls was lowering herself on Noah. “A hundred pounds she can’t take him. He’s too big for her,” he shouted.

  “You’re on,” one of the men said.

  Patrick looked down at her. “How’s that for a fantasy? Wouldn’t you like to join them?”

  “I want to go back to the boat,” she said, pulling herself free angrily. “I don’t feel well.”

  He stared at her. “The car and chauffeur are out there. You can go if you want to but I’m staying. I’m having the first good time I’ve had in a month.”

  She half ran back to the house, blinking back her tears. She would have to go through it to get to the parking area out in front. But when she got into the house, the body heat and the noise hit her and she felt the nausea rising in her. She knew that she could never make it to the car if she had to go through the crowd. She ran up the staircase into the room she had occupied last year and through it into the bathroom.

  Kneeling on the floor, her hands supporting her by holding the rim of the toilet, her body was wracked by spasm after spasm as she vomited into the bowl. It seemed as if she were throwing up everything that she had eaten in the last week. Finally, it was over and she sank back, exhausted, to her haunches.

  For a moment she rested until she felt strong enough to get up. She made her way to the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked terrible, her makeup running, her face pale with sweat. She turned on the cold water and taking a washcloth began to clean her face. Afterward she held the washcloth to the back of her neck and rinsed her mouth to get rid of the awful taste.

  Wearily she opened her bag and began to repair her makeup. But it was slow going. She still felt weak and exhausted. It had to be all the champagne she had drunk. She had never been this sick before. It even seemed to be an effort to put on her lipstick.

  Even when she had finished with the makeup and started from the bathroom, she felt as if she had no strength, her body still trembling. She went into the bedroom and stood there a moment looking down at the bed. A few minutes’ rest and she was bound to feel better.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes, then stretched out. She was right—she was beginning to feel better already. Gratefully she closed her eyes. Gradually the trembling ceased. Much better, she thought. Then she was asleep.

  She awoke to the sound of voices in the next room. It took a moment for her to remember where she was. It was still dark in the room but there was a faint hint of the coming daylight at the windows. Slowly she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She washed her face again with cold water and looked in the mirror. The color had returned to her face. It was just as well she had fallen asleep. She had needed the rest.

  She opened her purse. What she needed now was an upper to get her moving. Then she remembered that she had left her pillbox on the boat and had given the coke to Patrick to carry. She heard the voices in the room next door again. Janette was still awake. She could get some from her.

  She went into the bedroom and stepped into her shoes. She opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The house seemed strangely silent. She went to the railing and looked down. Through the archway she could see into the living room. It was still a shambles but no one was there.

  Again the sound of voices came from Janette’s room. She went to it and knocked softly. The voices continued as if they hadn’t heard her. Tentatively she opened the door slightly and looked through. One whole wall of Janette’s bedroom was completely mirrored and from where she stood she could see the whole room reflected in it. A numbingly cold wave ran through her, freezing her into momentary paralysis.

  Three naked figures were framed in the mirror as if on a giant screen. Patrick, on his knees before the African, was masturbating himself violently while with the other hand he held Noah’s phallus in his mouth. He writhed in pain as Stéphane, lashing his back with a riding crop, her face contorted with a strange hatred, snarled, “Plus dur! Scum! Pig! Suce plus fort!”

  For a moment she felt as if she would faint, then her anger brought an unsuspected strength from somewhere inside her. Slowly she closed the door and leaned against it, fighting to regain her self-control. Suddenly she understood many things. The welts on his back the day after they were married. Why he always wanted her in the dominant position whenever they were making love. Why he refused to part with the African. It all came together now. She had been a fool not to see it before.

  Then the hurt came up in her and her eyes began to fill with tears. She moved toward the staircase and went slowly down the steps and toward the front door.

  It opened just as she reached it and Janette cam
e in through the door. She stopped and stared at Lauren in surprise. “I just came back from breakfast at La Gorille,” she said. “I was told that you went back to the boat early.”

  Suddenly Lauren felt ashamed. Her eyes dropped. “No,” she said.

  “Then where were you?” Janette asked.

  “I fell asleep in my old room,” she said, still looking at the floor.

  “Oh,” Janette exclaimed.

  Lauren raised her eyes. “Did you know that Patrick is up in your room with the nigger and your girlfriend?”

  Janette’s eyes never wavered as she lied. “No.” But she did know, because she had arranged it. She started for the staircase. “I’ll throw them out.”

  Lauren stopped her. “Don’t bother,” she said dully. “It won’t change anything.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?” Janette asked.

  “Take me to the boat,” Lauren said. “I’m going to pack and go home.”

  Silently they went to the car and got into it. It was almost daylight as they turned out of the driveway onto the narrow road leading to the village.

  Lauren looked at her sister. Janette’s eyes were squinting against the sun as she watched the road. “Why didn’t you tell me he was like that?” she asked.

  “He promised me he was going to change,” Janette answered without taking her eyes from the road. “After all, he did go back to work.”

  Lauren began to cry, the hurt rising even more in her. “You still should have told me. I feel like an idiot. Everybody had to know but me. I bet they all think I’m the jerk of all time.”

  “They’re all jealous of you,” Janette said. “There isn’t one of them that wouldn’t exchange places with you, even right now.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Lauren cried softly.

  “When you get older you will,” Janette said. She glanced at Lauren. “Things like this happen all the time. Men are strange animals, they act in strange ways, but eventually they straighten out.”