The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  “It will take me about two weeks to clean up my desk here. Doubleday wants me on the first of September.”

  “You can still spend the last two weeks of August with me,” he said. “I’ll pick up a car and we’ll travel along the French Riviera. I hear that it’s fantastic.”

  She laughed again. “You’re really crazy. Do you know how much money that would cost?”

  “I can afford it,” he said. “Besides, I would like to see you.”

  “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry about that goddam agency spying on you all the time. You’re the boss now. We’ll have a real ball. I’ll send you the ticket.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Would you give me a little time to think it out?” she asked.

  “How much time?” he asked.

  “Call me on the tenth,” she said. “Maybe I’ll feel better about it then.”

  “I’ll call you on the tenth, but I’ll send the ticket now,” he said.

  “Where will you be?” she asked.

  “I’ll be traveling but the ticket will be open. I’ll be wherever you are when you give me the okay.”

  “Don’t send me a ticket. I can afford my own,” she said. “And call me at home, not at the office.”

  “Gotcha. Have you ever been to Europe before?”

  “I spent two years in college in Paris.”

  “Then you speak French?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then you have to come over,” he said. “You’ll be able to take me around.”

  She laughed. “Just call me on the tenth and start thinking about the new book.”

  “I can think of more fun things than a new book,” he said.

  “Don’t play games with me,” she said. “I’m a very serious person.”

  “I’m being very serious,” he replied. “You just tell me that you’re joining me and you’ll find out just how serious I can be.”

  He stared down at the telephone for a moment, then placed his monthly call to his parents. He put down the receiver and checked his watch. It was six hours earlier in New York than it was in Italy. The chances were that there would be no answer on their end. But he was wrong. Miraculously, the call went through in ten minutes.

  His mother answered. “Hello?”

  “Mama, how are you?” he asked.

  “Where are you?” she asked suspiciously. “You sound like from the corner.”

  “I’m still in Rome,” he said. “How’s Papa?”

  “Papa’s all right. He takes care of himself and he is all right. When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There is another job on the way and I’m taking a month’s vacation in France.”

  “In France,” she said. “You’re becoming so fancy-shmancy. France has nothing but the most expensive whores.”

  He laughed. “You’ll never change, Mama.”

  “What should I change? When your book came out I thought you had some respect. But instead, all our friends that read it said they never read so much filth like that. I don’t understand, it was on the best-seller list for fifteen weeks.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “I should read filth like that?” she asked. “I don’t even tell anybody that you’re my son, I’m so ashamed.”

  “You’re never going to change,” he repeated. “Is Papa home?”

  “No,” she said. “He went to the market today, just for a few hours.”

  “Then tell him that I called.” He put down the phone.

  It was no use. He could never win with her.

  29

  HE LEFT THE bathroom door open so that he could hear the telephone ring as he slid into the comfort of the large, deep Italian bathtub filled with lukewarm water. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the curve of the bathtub. It was almost nine o’clock and still bright daylight. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about the party tonight. There was no rush. Italian parties didn’t start until midnight.

  He heard a knock from the living-room door. He shouted from the bathroom. “Who is it?”

  “Marissa,” the girl’s voice came through the door. “I’ve brought all your files from the office.”

  Marissa was the black girl who had acted as his secretary while he worked on the scripts for Santini. She was the daughter of an Italian consulate attaché in New York who had married a black American woman, and when he was recalled to Italy in 1940, he brought his wife and daughter, Marissa, then fifteen, to Rome with him. She had worked as an interpreter for the American Army when they came to Rome during the war, and afterward she had worked at various jobs, winding up as secretary-interpreter for various Italian film producers.

  “Come in!” he yelled, from the tub. “The door is open.”

  He looked into the small living room. She was carrying a large olive-drab canvas army surplus duffel bag, which she dropped on the floor. “What the hell have you got in there?” he called.

  “My clothes,” she replied. “I need a place to stay for a few days.”

  “What happened?”

  “Santini closed the office for August without paying me. My pensione is very strict about the rent. I’m out of money, so I thought I would get my things before they locked me out.”

  “The cheap bastard screwed you too!” he exclaimed.

  “Did he pay you?” she asked.

  “You gotta be joking,” he answered. “He said he’d pay me as soon as he made a distribution deal for the States.”

  “I also brought over your files,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She came to the bathroom doorway. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  He gestured. “On the shelf under the mirror.” He watched her light a cigarette. There were sweat stains under her armpits and the silk blouse seemed glued across her strong breasts. “How long would you need to stay here?”

  “Just the weekend,” she said. “My girlfriend will give me her apartment for the month of August. She’s going to Ischia with her boyfriend.”

  He looked up at her. “Okay.”

  “You’re wonderful!” She bent over to kiss his cheek. “I won’t be any problem,” she added. “If you have anybody over I can sleep on the couch.”

  “I don’t have any plans,” he said, glancing down the open neckline of her blouse. Her nipples were dark lavender against the lighter tan of her breasts. Beads of perspiration rolled down the valley of her chest. “You’re sweating bullets,” he said. “Why don’t you get into the bathtub with me?”

  She dragged on the cigarette. “I stink that bad?”

  “No.” He laughed, holding his erection out of the water so that she could see it. “I just want to fuck.”

  She began taking off her clothes. “Great!” she said. “I’m always horny.” In a moment she was naked. She stepped into the tub, standing erect over him. Quickly she masturbated her vulva, then spread her vagina with two fingers so that the small purple clitoris peeked out between her labia. “How about that?” she laughed, looking down at him.

  “Fantastic!” He held his erection and arched his back to meet her. “Get on it.”

  “In a second,” she said, reaching for a bar of soap. Quickly she soaped and rubbed his phallus until he thought every nerve was burning through to his testicles, then she held him tightly and, sitting on her haunches, brought him into her.

  He gasped for breath. It felt as if he had been dipped into a vat of burning oil. He grasped her buttocks to bring her closer to him as she leaned over his face, her breasts smothering him.

  He felt himself slipping back down into the tub, the water beginning to reach his face. “You’re going to fucking drown me.”

  “Don’t worry.” She laughed. “I’ll save you. I have a lifeguard’s certificate.” She began writhing and bringing him more inside her, never letting him slip out. “Just relax.” She smiled, sure of her power. “Let me do all the work. Just think as if I’m a
propeller spinning on your shaft.”

  He looked up at her. “I never knew you could fuck like this when we were in the office.”

  “Office fucks are never the best,” she said. “They’re always quickie duty fucks. You can never be creative. Just get your rocks off and run.”

  “Hallelujah!” he cried.

  Suddenly she held him still. “Don’t move!” she ordered.

  He glanced up at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m starting to pee. Ooh,” she whispered ecstatically. “Now you do it inside me.”

  “I can’t pee through a hard on,” he said.

  “Yes, you can,” she said. “I’ll show you.” Quickly she placed a finger under his testicles and pressed a nerve. His urine came pouring forth like a spout. At the same moment, she took his phallus from her and lifted it still urinating onto her face and gulped as much of it as she could catch in her mouth. When the urine had stopped she replaced him instantly inside her. She moved her face close to him. “I love the taste of your pee,” she said. “It’s like sweet sugar.”

  He felt her exciting writhing again. “Where did you ever get into that?” he gasped.

  “From the American soldiers during the war,” she said huskily. “They all wanted to give me golden showers, and after a while I really got into it.”

  “Christ,” he said.

  “That wasn’t all,” she said. “The Americans were more fun than the Germans. The Boche were straight fuck and suck. The Americans even loved to stick Mars Bars and Baby Ruths up my ass and cunt.”

  “Then what did they do?” he asked.

  “Either they ate it or I did,” she said.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “That, too,” she answered. “When you’re on the losing side you do what they tell you. Otherwise you’re out. Nothing to eat, no jobs, no favors.”

  “Is it that way now?” he asked.

  “In a kind of way,” she said. “You don’t get any kind of job unless you fuck for it.”

  “You didn’t have to fuck me for the job.”

  “You didn’t hire me,” she said. “Santini did.” She looked down at him. “You’re losing your hard,” she said. “That’s what happens when you think too much and talk too much.”

  He stared up at her silently.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ll get it back for you in a moment.” She moved slightly to one side and passed her hand under his buttocks. A moment later she had slipped two fingers into his anus and began lightly pressing and massaging his prostate. His erection was instantly resurrected.

  “Now, you motherfucker!” she cried. “Do it! Do it hard!”

  * * *

  HE WAS HALF dozing on top of the bed when the telephone began to ring. Sleepily he looked across the room toward Marissa. Nude, she was moving around the living room, unpacking her clothes. She glanced at him questioningly.

  “Answer it,” he said.

  She picked up the telephone. “Pronto.”

  He could hear an Italian woman’s voice in the receiver. She listened for a moment, then called to him. “It’s Mara Benetti,” she said. “She wants to know if you are going to the contessa’s party?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he said.

  “It’s after ten o’clock,” she pointed out.

  “So what? Nobody ever gets there until midnight,” he answered.

  Marissa spoke to the actress in Italian, who then fired a number of words at her. “She wants you to escort her,” she told him.

  “What happened to Santini?” he asked. “He was supposed to take her.”

  More words spewed from the telephone. “Santini screwed her,” Marissa explained. “He’s taking the American actress instead. Her boyfriend said he’d give her a limousine to use tonight, if you’d take her.”

  “Why doesn’t he take her?”

  “He’s a Mafioso,” Marissa said flatly. “He’s maybe got other things to do.”

  “He’ll blow my fucking head off after the party,” he said.

  “Not if you bring me along with you,” Marissa said shrewdly. “That will show him that you respect him.”

  “You’d like to go?” he asked curiously.

  “Of course. It’s the big party of the season,” she answered. “And I stole a great dress from the wardrobe in the studio just for a chance like this.”

  Joe shrugged. “Ask her if she would mind if I brought you along?”

  “I’ll explain it,” she said. “After all, you don’t speak Italian, I’m your secretary and you need me to interpret for you. Also, she knows me.”

  “Okay.”

  Marissa turned to the telephone again, spoke quickly in Italian. “She said okay. The car will be here to pick us up.”

  30

  HE WAS JUST taking his white dinner jacket from the closet when she came from the bathroom. He stared at her.

  She smiled. “You like?”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “But you look naked under your gown.”

  “I am naked,” she answered. “Flesh-colored sheer form-fitting chiffon sprinkled with bugle beads.”

  “I can see your pussy and the crack of your ass as you turn around. Even the purple-red color of your nipples.”

  She laughed. “That’s makeup. I also dusted some silver sprinkles over me. I think it’s exciting.”

  He looked at her. She was completely made up with mascara, blue and gold eye shadow, rose rouge highlighting her cheekbones, and scarlet lips. A soft black curled long-haired wig covered her own tightly crinkled hair. “You look like a Harlem hooker I used to know.”

  “Sexy?”

  “Very,” he answered. “Mara’s going to blow her mind. I don’t think she expected this kind of competition.”

  She laughed. “I told her what I was wearing. She said it would be okay. She’s wearing a black dress, lace, open-cut down between her breasts to her pussy in front and down her back to the middle of the crack of her ass. She said that between us we’d put the American actress away.”

  “I’ll never understand you women,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” she said. “Just enjoy it.”

  * * *

  THE PAPARAZZI WERE having a field day. Vieri came over to Joe. “How did you manage it?”

  Joe held out his hands. “It just happened.”

  “You’re fucking both of them?” he asked.

  Joe smiled without answering.

  “Lucky bastard,” Vieri said. “These have to be the best pictures of the night. I’ll be able to sell them all over Europe.”

  “Good,” Joe said. He looked at the photographer. “Did Santini show up yet?”

  “Yes. About a half an hour ago. The American girl is stupid. She wore a simple white organza dress. Nothing but big tits and ass, not sexy at all, and the white doesn’t photograph well.”

  Joe laughed.

  “Mara’s boyfriend know you took her out?” Vieri asked.

  “He arranged it,” Joe said. “It’s his car that we’re using.”

  Vieri nodded. “Good,” he said. “I was worried that you might get into trouble. He’s a tough man.”

  “It’s okay,” Joe said. He walked toward the girls still standing at the steps posing for the photographers. “I think we’ll go in now.”

  “Just stop a moment at the top of the steps,” Vieri said. “That way I can shoot up and get a shot of the girls with their pussies showing right through their dresses.”

  “You’ve got it,” Joe said. He walked up with the girls, held still for a moment, then turned as the footman opened the door.

  The foyer of the house was almost as large as a ballroom and crowded with people. Joe vaguely recognized many of them but didn’t know their names. Whispering behind her hand, Marissa identified them for him. He looked at her gratefully. She was a perfect secretary.

  Slowly they moved through the foyer; the girls’ hands were kissed again and again. He han
ded his card to the butler, with both their names beneath his.

  The butler called out, “Dottore Joseph Crown and Signorina Mara Benetti and Signorina Marissa Panzoni.”

  They walked down the steps to the ballroom. A waiter walked toward them with a tray of champagne glasses. Joe handed a glass to each of the girls. “Salute.”

  Mara was smiling. She felt good. She knew that everyone had been looking at them. “Salute,” she said to Joe, and in her accented English, her eyes glancing across the room, “Have you seen that son of a bitch yet?”

  “Not yet.” Joe smiled.

  “I will tear his eyes out,” Mara said sweetly. “And that putana with him.”

  Joe laughed. “You don’t have to worry about them. Everyone has already forgotten them, blinded by the dazzle of your beauty.”

  Mara nodded seriously. “I am much more beautiful than her?”

  “Without question,” Joe said quickly. “You’re the most beautiful woman in this party.”

  Marissa nodded in agreement. “If I were a man I would throw myself at your feet.”

  “You’re so sweet.” Mara smiled. “And Joe, too. I am so glad I invited you both to this party.”

  Marissa and Joe glanced at each other. Who invited who, who was invited by who? They smiled. “I am happy too,” Joe said.

  At the far end of the ballroom an orchestra played and people began dancing. The cool night air was coming in through the large French doors. In the next room was a long buffet table laden with food and a long line of guests queuing up for dinner.

  Another uniformed footman came toward him. “Dottore Crown?”

  Joe nodded.

  The footman spoke to him in Italian. Joe glanced at Marissa, who translated. “The contessa would like you and your guests to come to her private apartment.”

  Again Joe nodded and they followed the footman through the dining room and a narrow hallway, then up a staircase and through another corridor. He opened large double doors and closed the doors behind them as they entered.

  The contessa was seated on a large thronelike chair at the head of a table also laden with food. The contessa was a beautiful woman with an imperious manner. She gestured for Joe to come to her. “Joe,” she said, laughing. “My brilliant American writer.”