It is after noon. I have struggled hard to write what I have written. It seems rather pointless now. But I am so near the end of my story, so near the point at which my leaving Marseilles merges with my present life, that it would be a pity not to go on.
I was fed a short while ago. The same fat woman. The food more succulent than that which I have been used to. Stewed lamb and eggplants. Some kind of rich honeyed pastry afterwards. I rubbed my stomach as the woman did last night, made motions of eating from the small bowl, and said: ‘Gut!’ questioningly. She laughed with her broad mouth, smacked her large belly, and nodded comprehendingly and said, ‘Ya ya ya ya ya ya!’ over and over again. I am sure she means I will have more of the mixture tonight. And so meanwhile I shall go on with my story.
But it is difficult to concentrate. My imagination is held by her broad friendly mouth saying, ‘Ya ya ya ya ya ya!’
Devlin sat facing me. The train had just pulled out of Toulon on its way to that string of pleasure-spots which constitutes the French Riviera: St Tropez, St Raphael, Cannes, Juan les Pins, Antibes, Nice, and so on to Monte Carlo. We had taken tickets as far as Ventimiglia because in the haste of our departure we had been unable to decide the exact location of our ‘honeymoon.’ We had eloped. Pretending to have business to do in Marseilles, we had left Nadya in Mario’s company, secured our suitcases, and boarded the first train of the Côte d’Azur.
Devlin was in high spirits. We were both, I believe, almost as excited as newlyweds.We had never slept together, and this was in fact a kind of honeymoon. The excitement was heightened by the fact that we had as yet not decided upon our destination, and, as we left each station behind us, unable at the last moment to make up our minds to get off, we experienced a feeling of loss almost, for perhaps we should have got off at St Tropez, or at Cannes, or at Antibes. How were we to know? By the time we reached Nice, we were both feeling a little desperate, but neither one of us was willing to make the necessary decision to get off. Thus we found ourselves running along the coast past Villefranche, St Jean Cap Ferrat, Eze, Cap d’Ail in the direction of Monaco. At Monaco station, Devlin finally took action.
‘Let’s get the bags,’ he said. ‘We’ll get off at Monte Carlo. It’s about two minutes. If we don’t, we’ll find ourselves in Italy!’
Laughing, I helped him down with the bags, and a few minutes later, the porters were bundling our luggage onto a taxi.
We took rooms at the Hotel de P . . . , bathed, and walked out of the luxurious foyer onto the square.
‘That’s the Casino,’ Devlin said, pointing to the Christmas cake-like structure that obscured our view of the sea. ‘Gambling is one of my vices. We’ll go there this evening. Later, we’ll go to the Sporting Club, it’s a bit more chic. The old Casino’s become rather a barn since the First World War.’
Devlin was a mine of information, and his happy and very shy American manner endeared him to me.
I thought little of the fact that our presence here was part of a complicated plan to protect Nadya from him. I accepted the present moment and luxuriated in it. We were sitting on the terrace of the pleasant café that looks onto the Casino square gardens.
‘Fabulous things have happened in that Casino,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Tell me some of them!’
‘Did you never hear the story of the Russian admiral?’
I shook my head.
‘I’m not sure when it was,’ he said. ‘Sometime before the First World War. Part of the Russian Fleet, a couple of heavy cruisers and things were lying offshore. The Admiral came ashore one night and lost a fortune, literally a fortune at the wheels. He returned to his ship in a helluva stew.’ At this point Devlin ordered two fines à l’eau from the waiter. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the Admiral returned the next night with the entire payroll of the Russian Fleet. As was to be expected, he lost every penny. He was a broken man. He went to see the boss, whoever he was, and explained to him that he had not only lost his personal fortune, but his honour. He would face a court martial on his return to Russia. He pleaded with this guy to return at least the money which belonged to the Russian Navy. The Casino official was polite but firm. In the way these men have, he explained that if the Admiral had won, the Casino would not have expected reimbursement. The Admiral had to admit that and was persuaded to return to his ship. That might have been the end of the story, but it wasn’t. About eleven o’clock in the morning, the Admiral’s barge entered the harbour. He took a coach up to the Casino and asked to see the boss again. The boss was none too pleased to see him but the Admiral appeared to be in a very good humour, so he offered him a drink and conducted him into a private room. He asked him what he could do for him. The Admiral explained again that he wanted his money back, only he wanted it all back and not only the money that belonged to the Navy. Of course the official turned nasty. But the Admiral interrupted him. Did the official realise that he (the Admiral) would have to commit suicide? The official said that he was sorry and all that but that there was nothing he could do. The Admiral just smiled. He told the official that the money had better be produced immediately because he had left orders with the fleet that it was to open fire and destroy every stick and stone of Monaco if he had not returned to the flagship by noon. And if he returned without the money he would give the order to open fire himself. It was all the same to him, he explained. If he had to die, he might as well have this little bit of revenge! It was a quarter past eleven. At a quarter to twelve the Admiral’s barge returned to the flagship with all the money on board. At twelve-thirty the Russian Fleet steamed away on its Mediterranean cruise!’
Devlin told me of this and many other legends, of the lost fortunes and of the suicides. ‘There’s a regular graveyard of suicides here,’ he said with a laugh.
Later in the afternoon we visited the tropical aquarium, the gardens, drove around the town in an open carriage, did, in fact, all the things which a young honeymoon couple would have done, dined well at our own hotel and ended the evening at the Casino, where Devlin lost a few hundred dollars at roulette.
That night, slightly tipsy and inspired by all the silly things we had done during the day, we lay naked in one another’s arms, like a pair of newlyweds, sleeping only when the first light broke through our window.
Looking back, that was the only entirely happy day we spent in each other’s company.
As the days passed Devlin drank more and more. He had been losing heavily at the Casino. On the third night he lost $25,000. He kept repeating that it wasn’t serious, that he could afford it, but he drank more and by the end of the first week he was going to the Casino at ten o’clock in the morning when it opened. Several times, I tried to get him to cut his losses, but he grew more and more bad-tempered and began to blame me for ill-luck.
‘If you don’t want to come with me, then for God’s sake stay in the hotel! Do you think a man can gamble when there’s someone looking over his shoulder watching every move he makes? Stay in the hotel, goddamn you, and leave me alone!’
I did so for two nights, but he lost more heavily than ever, returning completely drunk to our room in the early hours of the morning. I tried to encourage him to leave Monte Carlo.
The third night we went out together. We walked silently upwards away from the Casino. He had obviously no wish to go there with me. And yet I felt he was quite glad to have my company.
I had a sudden brainwave.
‘Let’s drive to Nice tonight,’ I said. ‘It’ll do you good to get away from here for a few hours.’
He was immediately eager.
‘We’ll hire a car,’ he said.
It was still light. We drove along the Moyenne Corniche with the Mediterranean down below us to the left, exposed suddenly between rocks and villas, glimmering blue-grey patches of darkening sea. Devlin was driving and he didn’t speak much. He pointed out an occasional villa whose owner he knew or had read about.
‘Some people live here all the year round,’ he said, ‘but that ty
pe usually hasn’t much money. Nice is different. It’s also a city.’
We descended at last, ran quickly through Nice to the sea front, and drove slowly along the Promenade des Anglais. We came to a halt opposite a side street whose discreet neon bar signs stretched backwards in the near darkness towards the old city.
‘A drink?’
I nodded. ‘Park the car, anyway,’ I said.
A moment later we entered a softly lighted bar and sat in one corner at the back.
Three single women were sitting at the bar. They were dressed rather daringly in unfashionable evening dresses, cut low to expose a naked expanse of back. Their legs, their heavy thighs smooth under silk, dangled indolently from high stools. They glanced at us occasionally. Two of them were not remarkable in any way, women merely, like taxis waiting, over a small drink, for whatever men might enter. But the third, though obviously a prostitute also, was different. Her curves were softer than those of the other two, who were almost hard in their angularity. She had richly flowing black hair which sprouted out of a low and startlingly white forehead. Her fleshy face, with its big lips and high cheekbones, was, I felt, softly desirable, as the warm breadth of her hips certainly was, and the heavy but well-shaped flesh of her arms. Devlin, I could see, was obviously attracted by her. She glanced at us more than the other two, almost inviting us to call her over.
‘What about it?’ I said to Devlin with a smile.
He pretended not to understand.
‘What about what?’ he said.
‘That woman,’ I said. ‘We could take her to a hotel.’
He flushed. ‘We?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You don’t expect me to wait for you, do you?’
‘Who said anything about her?’ Devlin said.
‘Don’t be silly! You’re dying to take her to bed with you!’
Devlin laughed. ‘I think you’re exaggerating!’
‘Well, you’d like to anyway.’ As he didn’t deny it, I went on. ‘And she’s just the right build. She’d make love very smoothly. It’d be a pleasure to watch her.’
‘Now we’re getting at the truth,’ Devlin said with a smile.
‘Let’s call her over.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said.
I watched Devlin make what was meant to be a discreet but what turned out to be a very obvious gesture.
Smiling, the woman slipped down off the stool and approached us with a voluptuous walk. The other two looked at us almost with contempt, but I held their eyes and theirs were lowered first.
‘Hillo! You want something?’ said the big girl who confronted us.
‘Won’t you join us in a drink?’ Devlin said with his most attractive smile.
‘I like to very much,’ the woman replied.
Devlin seated her and called the waiter. The woman wanted whisky and soda. It was brought to her.
‘You are on holiday?’
‘We’re on our honeymoon,’ I said with a smile.
The woman didn’t seem the least put out.
‘I have many friends on their honeymoon,’ she said ambiguously, for she didn’t speak much English.
‘In that case you will know roughly what we want,’ I said suggestively.
‘Roughly? I don’t undersatained roughly . . .’ said the woman, somewhat nervously.
Devlin laughed. ‘C’est-à-dire, rien,’ he said in his best French.
‘Rien? Comment rien?’
Devlin waved his hand in the air as though to erase what had been said.
‘Elle vous a demandé,’ he said slowly, ‘si vous savez faire comme il faut.’ He ended his sentence with a vague motion of the hand.
‘Moi!’ said the big girl with a broad smile, ‘mais bien sûr!’
‘Because if you don’t,’ I said with a smile, ‘you’re going to learn!’
‘Ah weee!’ said the girl, ‘I teach you. No worry!’
We were all smiling at one another. The girl said to Devlin: ‘She is vairy beautiful, you wife.’
‘But he’s going to enjoy you all the same,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you, Harry?’
‘What she say?’ said the girl.
‘Elle a dit que tu es belle aussi,’ Devlin said.
‘Ah oui, moi!’ said the girl bursting into laughter.
‘Look at all that flesh, Harry,’ I said cruelly. ‘Aren’t you just dying to knead it in your hands?’
‘It was your idea,’ he said, somewhat hurt.
I laughed. ‘Yes, I know it was, darling. I’m just dying to see you mount her!’
‘I’m not so sure it’s a good idea,’ he said pompously.
‘What he say?’ the girl said.
‘He says it’s time we started,’ I said.
‘Good,’ the girl said. ‘I got hotel. You come with me.’
Harry paid up silently and followed us out.
‘I do for mainy honeymoons copples,’ said the girl as we walked through the revolving door into the street. ‘They all have very good time!’
I put my arm round her waist. ‘I’m sure they do,’ I said.
Harry followed a few paces behind, like a scolded dog.
I watched the girl’s superb buttocks mount the narrow stair in front of me, glossy and full of promise as ripe melons, and I imagined her then and there opening her thighs for a man, and, like a ripe melon from which a large slice had been extracted, she was at that part hung with a wet and ambiguous core, her clung seam voracious between her widening knees. And there indeed she was after a few moments, after she had taken Devlin into the cabinet, and returned in her various body garters to set herself like a goblet of lust on the bed. She was fatter, the flesh thicker, than I had expected.
A moment later, Devlin came through from the cabinet. He was naked except for his socks and obviously embarrassed.
‘Come make me warm!’ the girl said. ‘Your wife watch just now.’
With a last glance, almost of hatred, towards me, Devlin laid himself down close to the woman’s gleaming chops. When she laughed, the voluptuous heaviness of her belly quivered. She reached out and drew him towards her. His reluctant body arched and then fell passively against her. She wrapped him in her folds and with softly muttered words inspired a slight rotatory movement at his hips. She grunted as though with pleasure, allowed her thick dark head to fall backwards onto the pillow, and, cupping him in her hands at the buttocks, urged him forwards towards his passion. Then she allowed her head to roll sideways like a doll’s, his face buried in her neck, and she looked up at me and said throatily: ‘It wonderful!’
I smiled. The woman was obviously bored. But that, after all, was what she was paid for. I moved forward and knelt beside the bed, watching closely as in the increasing wetness the hairs of his belly combed hers, voluptuously with a ripple at the meeting of muscles. I couldn’t resist what I did next. I slid one hand in between the oiled heat of their bodies, searching between two glowering brows of hair for the rising masticity, and found it, with the delicate hooks of my fingers, pleasant to stimulate, the woman breathing harder under my experienced touch, and the flat bounding wall of my lover almost frantic now to bring about its assertion.
But how for me?
Swiftly, I removed all my clothes and threw myself naked beside them. I had to prise my knee between them to separate them, my thigh as it moved between the slickness of their sweat wedging them apart. I was concerned now only with my own urgency. But I had counted without the strength of Devlin’s desire. He was beyond thought. His one desire was to be sucked right into the pit of his bought woman. He had no time for me. He grasped me at the knee and prised my leg outwards again, causing his belly to meet again in a hot flap with the dark girl’s. Her thighs were now working like pistons.
I struck backwards, wet a towel under the tap, and, using it as a whip, I struck the pair again as they rolled about the bed. But my blows only made them more passionate and finally, in disgust, I hurled t
he towel aside. At that moment, his whole frame quivering, Devlin uttered a groan of fulfilment. The prostitute, with the slickness of an electric light switch, became business-like. She slipped from underneath him, and, grinning at me, walked over towards the cabinet. Devlin lay with his face buried in the pillow.
‘What about me?’ I said angrily.
He didn’t answer. I crossed to the door and threw it open. As it happened, coming down the stairs was a Negro soldier. When he saw me naked at the door he stopped and grinned. I beckoned to him to follow me. I lay down on the other bed and opened my arms to the unknown man. He took in the situation at a glance, grinned, and, a moment later, was at me with his hard core. All the while as I groaned with passion and pleasure. Devlin watched, his head on one cheek on the pillow, but his obvious horror only acted as a catalyst to my delicate lust. And, a few moments later, when the prostitute returned fully dressed, I felt the delicious shift at my vital centre and I slid softly like a tadpole’s moving into my delirium.
As I returned to my senses, the woman was hooting with laughter, and Devlin, already dressed, was disappearing through the doorway. What a bore! I remember thinking. By the time I had extricated myself from the clutches of my Negro lover, Devlin was completely gone, that’s to say the car was missing from the place we had parked it.
More bored than angry, I returned to Monte Carlo by taxi.
We made it up the following day, but he was already back in the clutches of his gambling mania. Things had gone too far.
‘I’ll try once more, Helen. I promise, that’ll be the last time. Only you come with me tonight.’
I agreed, happy that he seemed to be coming to his senses. We arrived in the Casino after dinner towards ten o’clock at night. He wrote a cheque for $1,000 and began to play roulette. I watched him play an indecisive game for some time, winning and losing, winning and losing, being slightly down after the first half hour. I noticed that many of the habitués, that breed of human being which lingers on at Monte Carlo, having come there and lost everything or almost everything before 1914, the person who bets approximately the same number of francs as he did half a century ago and pretends not to notice that the currency has depreciated. They took a vicarious pleasure in watching the undulations of Devlin’s fortune, sharing his small triumphs and sneakingly triumphant at his sudden misfortunes. Old gentlemen with white hair, clad dapperly in moth-eaten black suits, old women in unfashionable evening dresses, supporting gaudy strings of artificial pearls, and fixing a tense face, built up of layers of powder and rouge, on the spinning wheel. I suppose they recognised in Devlin a compatriot, that is to say ‘a born loser,’ a man who is going to win, but always tomorrow, and were fascinated by the familiar ritual of a man on his way to destitution. I thought I glimpsed a certain sadness, a certain reluctance to take this young man’s money, in the eyes of the croupiers. As he became more reckless – they had watched him now for over a week – their faces assumed a wooden unexpressiveness. As I turned away to go to the bar, I caught the eye of an old lady who was sniffing eau de cologne in her handkerchief. Her eyes left the ambiguous blur of the spinning wheel, and as she looked at me almost – I felt it with a shiver – with a gleam of lust in her watery eyes, her bird’s head seemed to nod in a kind of occult sympathy with the clock-clock-clock-clock of the settling ball.
Helen And Desire Page 14