Maestra

by L. S. Hilton

  “Very good.”

  As she moved on, I sat at one of the dressing tables. My hair was twisted up with the flower held in the cornet. I had been given a dark bronze kimono with white and cobalt embroidery, the silk stitching picking up the pale gleam of the petals. The table looked like a counter at Sephora, every kind of cream and cosmetic. I took a cotton pad and swiped off my makeup, which looked too modern for this setting, replacing it with just a dark red stain on my lips. My reflection looked strange, as though I had been redrawn by Ingres, and looking about, I could see that the other women were altered too. Yvette wore a scarlet gown, with wide sleeves to the elbows, both her arms bound by a filigree of gold chains interwoven with leather and peacock feathers, like a hawk’s jesses. The little woman clapped her hands, though the room was curiously silent, concentrated, none of the giggling or exclaiming that usually feature when women are dressing together.

  “Allez, mesdames.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, as if we were a troop of schoolgirls being herded worthily around a museum.

  Heavy hems and vicious heels swooped and clacked over the parquet. We crossed the hallway to a set of double doors, the low hum within indicating that the men were already inside. The room was lit with candles, small tables positioned between sofas and low dining chairs. The waiting men were dressed in thick black satin pajamas with frogged jackets, the sheen in the weft of the fabric offsetting their starched shirts. An occasional heavy cuff link or slim watch flashed gold in the candlelight, an embroidered monogram rippled beneath a flamboyant silk handkerchief. It would have felt silly, theatrical, had the details not been so perfect, but I felt hypnotized, my pulse slow and deep. Yvette was being led away by a man with a peacock feather pinned in his cuff—I looked up and saw another man approaching me, a gardenia like my own in his lapel.

  “So it works like that?”

  “While we eat, yes. Afterward, you can choose. Bonsoir.”

  “Bonsoir.”

  He was tall and slim, though his body was younger than his face, rather hard and lined, with graying hair swept back over a high forehead and large, slightly hooded eyes like a Byzantine saint. He led me to a sofa, waited while I sat, and handed me a plain crystal glass of white wine, clean and flinty. The formality was arch, but I liked the choreography. Julien clearly appreciated the pleasure of anticipation. The mostly nude waitresses reappeared with small plates of tiny lobster pastries, then slices of duck breast in a honey-and-ginger paste, tuiles of raspberries and strawberries. Gestures at food, nothing to sate us.

  “Red fruit makes a woman’s cunt taste so beautiful,” my dinner companion remarked.

  “I know.”

  There was some quiet conversation, but mostly people watched and drank, their eyes moving from one another to the swift movements of the waitresses, who had dancer’s bodies, I saw, slim but strongly muscled, their calves full over their tight boots. Moonlighting from the corps de ballet? I saw Yvette dimly across the room, being fed almond-stuffed figs with a sharp-tined silver fork, her body laid out like a serpent’s, one dark thigh a hint between the red silk. Solemnly, the waitresses circled the room with candle snuffers, dimming the lights in a cloud of beeswax, and as they did so I felt the man’s hand on my thigh, circling and stroking, entirely unhurried, and an answering tautness between my legs. The girls set out shallow lacquered trays containing condoms, small crystal bottles of monoï oil, lube decanted into bonbon dishes. Some of the couples were kissing, happy with their matched partners; others rose politely and crossed the room to find the prey they had selected earlier. Yvette’s robe was fully open, her man’s head dipped to her cunt. I caught her eye, she nodded before letting her head fall back with the ecstatic motion of a junkie nodding out.

  Saint’s hands had reached my cunt. He stopped, unfastened my kimono, and traced his fingers over my breast, twisting the nipple gently. I thought of that poor girl last night, coked out and whimpering in the penthouse.

  “Do you like this?”

  “Yes. I like it.”

  I did. I liked the slip of his hands over my body, easy as water. I liked his mouth as he began to flick his tongue from my collarbone, over my stomach, to the lips of my cunt, changing the shimmering tap to firm strokes, wet, penetrating. I opened my legs a little.

  “Deeper.”

  He moved so that he was kneeling on the floor, one hand still caressing me, his eyes level with the gaping lips of my cunt. He worked one finger inside me, two, then three, opening me fully, his tongue never leaving my clit. I closed my eyes, but it was no good, I wanted more.

  “Do you have a friend?”

  “Certainly. Come with me.”

  We stood; he took my hand and looked around. The room was all bodies now, twisting and melding, sighs of pleasure and requests for more muffled by skin. He nodded to a man being straddled by a vanilla-fleshed brunette; he lifted her off and her mouth sought that of the woman next to her, a blonde, their hair mingling as they kissed, hands groping for another man, who slipped off his jacket as he sank down between them.

  Even in the low, flattering light, Saint’s friend was worn-looking, youngish but pale, his shirt with its initials straining a little over the beginnings of a paunchy belly.

  “Mademoiselle needs some assistance.”

  If I hadn’t been so hot, I would have laughed then. When were they going to stop with the faux fin de siècle manners?

  He reached for my other hand, and I walked carefully to keep my heels from skewering the skirt of my kimono as they led me through to a small, dim boudoir, entirely filled with a low divan, lit only with a stemmed candelabra. An incense burner released a dense scent of cinnamon and musk, leather straps hung from the ceiling like the tendrils of vines. I reached for one, gripping it between both palms, feeling the length of my legs, my breasts taut and erect against the cool silk, knowing I was lovely, knowing I was powerful. I nodded to Saint and he got into position behind me, fumbling for a moment with the condom, then he was in me, good, firm, and very confident, hands flat on my buttocks, thrusting hard.

  “Do you like that?”

  I nodded to Saint, reached for my clit, closed my eyes, and lost myself in him pounding me. The second man’s hands were stroking my back, the insides of my thighs, I tightened the muscles of my cunt, flattening my thumb against my clit, dark red and black waves at the center of me, deeper, harder. I came, ramming my hips down on his cock, and felt the swell of his own orgasm before they changed places.

  “You want to fuck some more?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “I want to fuck your arse. May I?”

  Saint was lying back on one elbow. He handed up a little porcelain dish of lube and propped himself up, watching avidly.

  “Go ahead.”

  I took a deep breath and bit my lip, readying myself for the first quick shot of pain. He was a beauty, obviously proud of his unexpected treasure, and he eased himself in skillfully, not pulling back until he was fully inside, his fingers working deep in my pussy until they rested against the wall of flesh that separated them from his cock. I moaned a little, pushed myself back and started grinding him, answering the pressure. I felt glutted, crammed. I wanted him to get me off before he came. I loved this, I love being mined by a hard cock; I like it better without a condom in the arse, the balm of the sperm after that first hot wrench of opening. He slapped me hard across the buttocks with the flat of his hand.

  “Again.” I felt the blood rushing in, the exquisite heightening in my nerves.

  He knew what I wanted, did it again, putting his back into it this time, so that I tottered and spun on my strap.

  “Like that?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s what I—”

  The cuff came from nowhere, a boxer’s jab across the jaw. I felt my eyelids judder.

 
“And that?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Spread wider, good girl, like that.”

  My hair was tumbling down, and he looped it into a knot around his fist, pulling my head back, giving it a tug as he slammed into me, so that I felt his cock was going all the way into my throat. He was fantastic. I worked two fingers inside myself, feeling that swollen head through the fine wall of flesh. He slammed me until I came, once, twice, three times. I was sweating, sagging like a broken marionette on the leather, he pushed me forward and hooked the straps under my arms, harnessing me, fucking me the whole time. He lifted my thighs around that thick waist, one arm tight against my ribs, so that I was suspended against him, the angle taking him even farther into me. I couldn’t keep my fingers off my clit, I had stopped counting now, I was gasping, growling in my throat, wanting him to cum, to flood me, but then I felt his hands releasing my wrists from the straps, lowering me, spread-eagled to the divan, where Saint was waiting on his back, ready again. He pulled out, I was soaked, so wet that the first push took Saint into me with a speed and depth that made me grunt, then I sat back and found the sweet spot, riding him with my face bowed beneath the curtain of my hair, his friend’s voice murmuring rhythmically in my ear, yes, like that, like that, darling, take that cock, take it in you, until I came, as I felt him jerk and give inside me, and I rolled off him, slick with sweat beneath my robe. The friend reached across us for a glass and filled his mouth with wine, pulled me to him so I could suck it from his lips, its coolness spreading through my lungs. I took three cigarettes from a case that had appeared on a side table and lit us one each. The friend took my hand, turning it until my wrist was exposed to his kiss, then wandered off to the drawing room. I rested against Saint’s chest while we smoked, his hand played gently on my neck. I felt glorious, molten gold inside. He took the stubs and leaned forward to tamp them out, releasing me. I gave him a soft kiss on the side of his mouth, scenting the fresh tobacco, restored my hair, pinned back the fallen flower.

  “Ça était?”

  I leaned back down, put my mouth by his ear. “Thanks. You were fucking great. But I’m busy now.”

  “Go ahead, darling. Have fun.”

  So I did. Until I felt—what was the right word? Slaked. When Yvette and I wandered out hand in hand onto the pavement several hours later and a thousand euro poorer, I felt a rush of soft affection for her, gratitude for her having given me so exactly what I needed. Julien’s card was in my bag, along with the crushed silk flower.

  “We can go down to the boulevard, look for a cab.”

  “I think I’ll take the Metro. It’s still running.”

  We were sober and oddly polite, as though what each of us had seen the other do had occurred in a dream, far from us. I wanted to do something for her.

  “I’ll lend you the fare. Sorry I haven’t got anything smaller. You can bring me the change another time.” I shoved a crumpled five-hundred-euro note at her hand. The bells of Sacré-Cœur chimed three. We were passing a boulangerie, spilling out yellow light and the thick sweet scent of butter and flour as the ovens were started.

  “Take your shoes off.”

  “What?”

  I took a quick peek round the door, grabbed a few hot pains au chocolat and threw them into my bag, pastry flaking everywhere. “Breakfast. Run.”

  We scuttled down toward Rochechouart barefoot, carried by the steepness until we couldn’t stop. Yvette started laughing and so did I, our dresses flapping round our knees, until the running and the laughing were the same, and somewhere above us a man’s voice shouted what was going on, which made us laugh and run harder, until we clutched each other to a stop at the edge of the road, gasping and rubbing our eyes. The gutter was swirling with purpled water; we sat on the curbstone with our aching feet in the blissful dirty stream and stuffed scorching handfuls of dough and chocolate into our mouths, spluttering and swallowing, sucking the butter from our hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IT WAS SOME MONTHS later that I first noticed him, at the café on the corner of the Place du Panthéon. From the moment I set eyes on him, I sensed something odd. There was no reason for it, he was just another customer in another pleasant Parisian spot. Over the sticky city summer, I’d made a routine of starting my day there, after my laps of the Luxembourg and a shower; it was a short walk from Rue de l’Abbé-de-l’Épée, with a fantastic view up to the severe monument on the right and down to the gardens on the left. It was always full of university students, huddled in a fug of Marlboro Lights in the enclosed smoking terrace, not hipster types but bourgeois bohemians from the sixth and seventh arrondissements, their wealth subtly visible in their complexions, the turn of their collars, the girls with shiny hair tucked into vintage Hermès scarves. I never failed to take pleasure in how perfectly I fit in, though equally I never spoke to them. A couple times one of the guys would nod to me, and I exchanged saluts with some of the girls, even, but that was all. I couldn’t have that sort of friend, even if I wanted them.

  When you’re no one from nowhere it’s best to know your limits. Rich kids can play at bohemia, but wealth has long tendrils; it twines into a safety net that can also be a trap for the unprepared. Rich kids have families and backgrounds and connections, and they ask questions, because their world functions on being able to place people. I couldn’t expose myself to that. Still, I ordered my grand crème and an orange presse, and after a while the waiter brought them without asking, with that familiar Parisian efficiency that made me feel again, pleasingly, that I belonged. I usually brought a couple auction catalogs with me, as well as the Pariscope to catch up on shows and private views and Le Monde for conversation. In case I ever needed conversation. Of course, every day I did a scan of the press online for safety.

  He didn’t stick out immediately among the early crowd; I think it could have been several days before I registered his presence. But again, when I did, my body registered a tension that I realized had been there for some time. Not a polished lawyer or banker, but one of those awkwardly dressed French businessmen whose jackets are always too boxy, ties too bright for a nation with such a reputation for chic. A civil servant or middle manager of some sort. His blue shirt had a monogram over an unhealthy swag of stomach that looked recently acquired, the fat of an active man who is too busy or unloved to care anymore, but the shirts themselves were cheap, button-cuffed, the initials an affectation stitched on at a dry cleaner’s, probably. I began to watch him. No wedding ring, bad shoes, usually a copy of Le Figaro. He ordered double espressos, which came with a glass of water he never drank. He looked as though his breath would be dry and stale. How long did it take before I realized that he was watching me?

  At first, I simply assumed that he fancied me. I didn’t acknowledge it with my eyes or a polite nod—he was hardly my type. Then I thought he might have a little crush—he was there whenever I arrived and remained at his table until I had smoked my luxurious after-breakfast cigarette, gathered my things, and placed six euros fifty in the saucer. I began to look over my shoulder as I made for the door and turned right up to the square. His eyes were always on me, hovering on the horizon of his folded paper. So then I got scared. I took a snap of him with my phone while pretending to make a call and studied it. I was still telling myself it was just a precaution. Nothing. Completely bland face, no one I recognized. Just a middle-aged sentimental nutter with a secret passion for a girl with swingy hair and good taste in newspapers.

  I knew he was following me when I went out to the Arab convenience store on my street corner for cigarettes one evening and saw him at the bus stop down toward the boulevard, still reading his bloody paper. I tried to tell myself it was a coincidence—this was Paris, after all, a city of neighborhoods where one did recognize people from one’s own quartier. He could perfectly well live round here, in a twenty-three-square-meter studio with a huge flat screen and the photos of the children of his divorce on an
IKEA bookshelf. But I knew. In that tiny, plenteous moment of recognition, the monsters swarmed, chuckling and gibbering, tweaking at my chilled flesh with severed thumbs. He saw me, and in the line of his vision I watched the walls I had so carefully constructed around my life suddenly disintegrate, their solidity spun intangible as air.

  I felt savage, hunted. I had a crazy urge to rush down the pavement and push him into the traffic. Of course, I didn’t. I went into the shop and lingered, buying a few things I didn’t need, cleaning liquids, gum, a packet of string dishcloths, took my time finding the change, exchanging the time of day pleasantly with the leather-jacketed son of the couple who kept the store. As I looked down the street when I left, a bus was pulling away from the stop, but he was still there. He could be meeting someone, waiting? No. He was only waiting for me. I tried to keep my breathing smooth, but I couldn’t help looking round as I punched in the door code. I called “Bonsoir” to the concierge, although I’d only just done so on the way out, letting him know another human was there, in case he was lurking behind me in the twilight. I let myself into the flat, dropped the thin plastic bag, and leaned against the wall, didn’t turn on the light. Whoever he was, did it matter? I could call a cab to the airport right now.

  Every day, after I’d scanned the international news on my laptop, I checked the bag, a plain leather holdall I’d bought from a Tunisian street vendor. Five thousand euro cash, the same in American dollars, carefully changed in small amounts in the tourist den of the Latin Quarter, wadded in toweling sports socks. A few changes of clothes, toiletries, a couple paperbacks, a steel Rolex still in its box and some gaudy gold earrings in case I wound up somewhere money didn’t work, photocopies of my documents and the papers for the paintings. Not a professional’s scarpering kit, but I thought it would do.

  Yet I had a sick feeling that wherever I took a plane, I would turn round as the seat-belt signs came off and see him, watching me. Stop. This was insane, stupid. If he was following me it was because he wanted something. Always, desire and lack. Find the space between, Judith. I took out my phone and scrolled back to his photo, scrolling through my memory at the same time.