Chapter 10

What do you think," Roul De Fonseca addressed his wife, both of them in their bedroom, both in the process of dressing, "will ever become of our bumbling friends, the Kinsolvings?" They were preparing to go out for dinner, they were to meet Mayo and Joanna within the hour.

"Think?" Aimee smirked, leaning to drop her breasts into the black brassiere, wriggling now in self-delight as she appraised her uptilted bosoms in the mirror. "Does it really matter? They'll probably divorce, make a mess of the rest of their lives, go running from pillar to post. They're such helpless babies, really."

Has Joanna told you that?"

"No, she hasn't. But I get that feeling. She looks so frantic and desperate at times. I assume that's the only solution that's ever crossed her mind. Has Mayo said anything to you?"

"No, he's very secretive. That's a damnable trait with these Americans. A code of honor with them, seemingly. Never breathe a word of your personal problems to anyone. Least of all to anyone with more experience, someone who could helpfully advise you." Roul finished tying a jaunty bow in his tie. "Bah! These Americans! They are fools. It's a source of constant amazement that they do as well in business as they do. They don't know the first thing about living. Real living, I mean."

Aimee's smile was sly. "There's quite a difference between business and the art. of living, my dear. Or should I say the art of loving?"

"You twist everything so charmingly, you little devil."

"And Joanna ... she's never said anything to you? During all your countless little assignations at that apartment of yours?"

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm, kitten? Don't tell me you're beginning to pry at this late date. Could that be jealousy? I thought we had made an agreement...."

Aimee shrugged, arranged her dress, began running zippers. "Not jealous, just curious." Her laugh was brittle. "Perhaps somewhat miffed. You seem to be so much more successful with Joanna than I am with that priggish husband of hers. Such an insufferable man."

"Troubles, pet? I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be unable to make your lover jump through any hoop you chose."

"That man is impossible. He finds sin in every corner, he seems to think he's violating some false code every time I do manage to lure him up to my menage. He has to be almost drunk before he loosens up." Her eyes glittered. She lifted her skirt, straightened her seams, studied her legs, the new red pumps, in the mirror. "I'm sure you know what I mean by 'loosening up.' "

"Indeed I do, my dear. I'm glad to say that Joanna suffers from no such inhibitions. She's a real find, a wood nymph, a truly passionate woman. There are times when she amazes me. And you know how much it takes to surprise an old ram like me."

"Indeed I do. She must be quite something." Aimee became pettish. "But you don't have to brag so tediously. Four rendezvous you've had with her now? Well, I'll soon even up the score, surpass that by far. I'm beginning to get under Mayo's skin. He'll come around yet."

She changed the subject. "Where are we going tonight?"

"I thought we'd go to Maxim's. It's not really top drawer any more, but these Americans don't think they've seen Paris if they haven't been to Maxim's."

"And afterward?"

"The Crazy Horse Saloon, I suppose. Perhaps Club Sexy. They've seen better already. But tourists ... Afterward we'll hit some spots in Montmarte. Moulin Rouge and such. Maybe even detour into Pigalle. Things are dead there now since the girls were outlawed, but you're always sure to find a few violators abroad."

"Sounds simply charming, dear," Aimee said acidly. "But aren't you being condescending?"

Roul shrugged. "If this is what Americans come to Paris to see? Why fight it?"

But if the De Fonsecas were conducting a calm, civilized chat in their bedroom, theirs was quite a contrast to the tomb-like silence encompassing the Kinsolvings' boudoir at that same moment. As they, too, prepared for their evening out.

Joanna got into an especially provocative green shiffon she'd purchased at Molyneux, felt a small darting of pleasure as she saw Mayo glance at the gown, then at her, stirrings of desire in his eyes. Her heart sank when he glowered suddenly, turned away.

The steel wall still existed between them, their silence became more inviolable with each passing day. Now, with barely seven days remaining of their stay in Paris, their strategy was, seemingly, to wait the other out. There would be time to talk, in court, when they returned to the states. And Joanna, daily more certain that her husband was conducting an affair with Aimee De Fonseca (this certainty reinforcing her own resolve to continue her liaison with Roul virtually up until flight time), didn't hesitate to further barricade that chasm of silence, to sprinkle ground glass on the rim of that parapet looming between them.

Now, as she slipped on a pair of black patent pumps she knew would please the fetish-riddled Roul, she recalled their last few meetings in that plush love nest of his, she wondered at the ease with which she now answered his summons, succumbed to his erotic caresses. Conscience barely nettled her now, shame was a cowering phantom.

For if everything was lost anyway, if there was no hope for her marriage any longer, if Mayo was determined to go on with his floozies, why shouldn't she live, indulge in fantastic sexual excesses to the hilt?

Who was to say no to her now?

She shivered at the thought of coming face to face with Roul again within a few minutes. To know that they would both remember their last intimate session together. That silk-she thought now, the hot tingling instantly reborn within her-that hair-curling love.

And in that moment she was transported, back into time, ancient history-like yesterday afternoon-to that torrid reunion at Roul's apartment. Again she was wallowing nakedly on that bed, letting him touch and kiss her everywhere. Again she was submissively letting him dress her in that clinging, red silk costume, a creation that covered her from feet to neck, made her feel slippery as she waited on the bed. Waited while Roul had put his matching suit on.

Weird, incredible? she thought in retrospect. Yes, it was that. And yet, unbelievable as the getup might sound, as its raison de etre might be, at that moment her surrender to his addled request had seemed perfectly normal, it had enhanced their love immeasurably.

The red silk suit had been altered in the same way as the rubber suit, her nipples, another elemental portion of her anatomy had been exposed. There had been a convenient slit in Roul's suit also.

And when he'd tired of kissing her, of maddening her, of tormenting her nipples, when he'd had enough of the by now commonplace subservience on Joanna's part. When their bodies had come together, fused in that most transporting manner, when their bodies had commenced to slide-

Flesh against silk, silk against silk-

They had nearly gone out of their minds at the advent of that final devastating deliverance

The mere remembrance of that triumph, of those flashing colors behind her eyelids, of that incredible heat, was enough, now, to make her freeze, wince from the pain stabbing her loins, jumbling her very entrails.

She shook her head, focused her eyes, saw Mayo staring at her in a strange way. Abruptly Joanna averted her gaze, fumbled with her earrings.

"Ready?" Mayo grunted.

"In a minute," she said.

They were the first words they'd exchanged in the past two hours.

As Roul De Fonseca had predicted, the Kinsolvings were delighted with Maxim's. They found the strip extravaganzas at Club Sexy, at the Crazy Horse Saloon flat in comparison to Le Vrenetique and other such clubs they'd visited previously. They were but pale imitation of what has been offered in L.A.'s "Sunset Strip" for a decade now. The luster of Montmarte nightlife was somewhat tarnished now, they came away with the impression that Moulin Rouge, The Lido, Paris Revue, were only faded shadows of what they'd once been in the time of Toulouse-Lautrec and his other Bohemian compatriots.

The streets were picturesque, still exciting, the illuminated dome of Sacre Coeur dominating whichever way they turned. The types on the streets, the vendors, the polyglot hash of conversation, the random mixture of the races were all vastly fascinating, and all of them well insulated with liquor, they were open to any and all suggestions. They bought hot chestnuts, they threw coins at the wrestlers and jugglers and other down-at-the-heels entertainers they found performing in the center of certain squares. Some of the vitality of this section inevitably infected them, and they were loathe to end the evening even when they realized it was almost 2:00 in the morning. They went on.

Again true to his word, Roul guided them to the Pigalle section, the seamy, anything-for-a-franc district of Paris. As Roul had predicted, the street-walkers of Pigalle were out in force. Nothing like the old days, but still prevalent enough to not be missed.

Joanna was amazed at the extremes of beauty and ugliness the prostitutes exhibited. There were the extremely young, slim, clear-complexioned, innocent, beautiful. There were the old, grandmothers who scavanged for the dregs of male humanity. There were the in-betweens, hard-faced, realistic, their beauty coming from a bottle, their bodies barely on this side of futility.

Also she was amazed at the boldness these sidewalk commandos displayed. They thought nothing of approaching their strolling foursome, offering their services in no-nonsense terms, describing their specialties without blinking an eye. And invariably finishing with: "The ladies? Perhaps they would like something too? We have friends . . .men or women ... who will serve." Then noting the distaste registering on Joanna's face: "Or perhaps you would like to watch. Tres interessante, mesdames...."

In time Joanna became hardened to their vulgar offers. Once a ratty, disheveled harridan of perhaps fifty stopped them, opened her coat in plain sight of all the passersby, revealed herself naked to the waist, offered her surprisingly high, plump breasts for her would-be clients' appraisal.

"Good job, Monsieur," she husked. "I give you a very fine job. Not like these kids. Real professional...."

This, along with the casual way with which Roul reached out, fingered those nipples, managed to shock Joanna.

Again, later, as they found a covey of prostitutes huddled in a dark corner, when Roul approached a gorgeous female of perhaps 22 or 23 dressed in a lavish fur coat, ran a quick reconnaissance of her entire body with her backed against the wall, Joanna was stunned. Not so much at the inhuman way Roul abused her as at the manner with which the girl accepted the indignity.

Her eyes vacant, her face expressionless, she merely moved deeper into the shadows, stared at both Joanna and Aimee. While Roul opened her coat, raised her skirts, opened her bodice, revealed the girl was stripped for action beneath the flashy clothes.

And when Roul had played long enough: She shrugged her body to dismiss him, let her skirt fall. "Monsieur, no more free samples. If you are interested ... my room is a few doors from here. Bring-your-friends."

Roul only snickered, pressed a fifty-franc bill into her palm, the "going-rate" for such a visit. He muttered a French vulgarity at her, suggested the strumpet return to her room, take care of things by herself.

"Merci, Monsieur," the girl said, taking the bill. "The same to you." She flicked her coat shut, spat on the cobbles at Roul's feet. Before they'd gone ten feet she was already accosting another male pedestrian.

Joanna's head was spinning when they finally lit at a nearby cafe, had coffee and a snack. Both from the liquor, from the kaleidoscopic jumble of things they'd seen and experienced this night. And from the contradictory thoughts concerning her own condition that clattered in her brain.

It was here that talk of Carcassonne came up once more. "This weekend," Aimee insisted animatedly. "This will be our last chance. You'll be leaving us next week." She made a mawkish expression of sadness. "And how we'll miss our good, American friends."

At that moment Roul's eyes burned into Joanna's, Aimee's locked with Mayo's.

There was good reason the Americans would be missed.

"Please," Roul said. "Be our guests on this last excursion. Let this be our farewell gift to you. I know we've been promising you for a long time now. And here, at last...."

"We'll spend Friday in Carcassonne touring the city, walking the walls," Aimee interrupted." The scenery is fantastic, the sense of history something you can't get out of your bones. Then we'll motor down to St. Tropez, spend Saturday there. Saturday night should be frantic."

"Sunday," Roul took the ball, "should see us in Lourdes. We can visit the shrines in a day, go on to Biarritz. If we're lucky there might be a bull fight, a jai-alai match at any rate. We'll make a regular vacation of it, won't return to Paris until Tuesday."

The prospect of such a lengthy diversion immediately intrigued Joanna. What better way to end their French tour? She looked to her husband. "What do you say, Mayo?" While in the back of her mind: Don't look so glum, creep. Who knows, somewhere along in there you and Aimee might find a chance to sneak into bed together.

A risque smile stretched her lips. Lord knows, Roul and I will be right in there pitching.

"Sounds okay to me," Mayo agreed with no real enthusiasm. "Sure we can spare the time, Roul?"

"Surely. We're about finished. We deserve a break."

And so it was decided. This was Tuesday. Tomorrow Roul would make train reservations. And Thursday evening, at Gore de Vest-

It was on that expectant note that the sensualist quartet decided to call it a night.

Mayo, Joanna discovered when they arrived back at their hotel, had hit the bottle hard tonight. As he evidenced when he got into bed with her, immediately began pawing her, his attentions clumsy and coarse, disgusting Joanna. "Well, Casanova," she mocked tartly. "What's this all about? Am I finally good enough for you?"

And irresponsible herself, she didn't have the good sense to sublimate her bitterness, use this opening to attempt healing their marital rift. She purposely set out to inflict even more pain, to rub salt into already bloody wounds.

"Please, baby," he rasped, the night's eroticism infecting him, "I need you. Don't be like this...."

"You don't need me," she sneered. "All you need is my body. Any body, any female will do for you. Why didn't you go with one of those sweet maidens in Pigalle?" Her voice became even harsher. "Or better still, why don't you go sniffing after your beloved Aimee? She'd be overjoyed to have you."

She felt his body stiffen, she heard his muffled growl. And wondered if she hadn't blundered. "How ... how'd you find ... out about that?"

"Roul told me," Aimee said, the vindictiveness mounting by the second. "He told me all about that cute little hideaway Aimee has, how she's been entertaining you there."

"How ... how'd he know? She has a place ... like that?"

"Because," she mimicked, "he has a place like that too." Then, a ripping vindictiveness goading her: "Because I've been going to his place," she gritted. "Because I've been getting my kicks too."

And now, an overpowering tide of spitefulness swamping her, sweeping all good judgment before it, she clinically inventoried all the times she'd been to Roul's, she described the vile stunts she'd allowed, had welcomed.

And with every gasped, "No, Joanna, no ... No more, don't tell me any more ... " she became even wilder, more graphic in her narration, she rubbed his nose in description of her excesses.

Then, finally, when she was drained, purged: "What does any of it matter, Mayo? Our marriage has been a sham all these years. You never wanted me, really wanted to be married. I was just some sort of status symbol for you. That house, a pretty, chaste wife-another trophy to put on the mantle, to dazzle your friends, make them jealous...."

"I wanted you, Joanna," he gasped raggedly, in the throes of near hysteria now. "I always did. Only I didn't know how...."

"You wanted my body, my presence. But in reality all you wanted was that damnable witch-goddess, success, you wanted to wheel and deal."

"Joanna ... " he croaked.

" ... And what was left after that-and after all your hot-pants chippies, of course-was good enough for me. You didn't want me. Not the way I wanted you. I didn't feature in your life the way you featured in mine. Say it, damn you! Admit it once and for all! You don't want me

Confused, hurt, angered, seeking to strike out at Joanna in any way left him, he took up the plaint. "All right" he lashed. "I didn't want you. I want my career, I wanted that success. I wanted money and power. You were only incidental. And when you got to nagging, got to following me around with that martyr look of yours, I just couldn't take things anymore."

"You started operating," she sneered.

"I started operating. A wife, kids, family ... they get a man all mixed up. They complicate everything. And I don't have the time, damn it! I've got places to go."

"Tell me again. You don't want me."

"How many times must I say it!" he groaned, out of his head with anger. "We're through. You'll get your divorce, we'll both be free. And hooray, damn it, hooray"

And with that he buried his face in his pillow, began sobbing in anguished, racking howls.

Finally he dropped off to sleep.

Joanna, assailed by a million warring emotions and thoughts, lay awake until almost dawn. Then, only because of extreme physical and mental exhaustion, she at last fell into a fitful, haunted doze.

Mayo was gone when she awoke the next morning. She arose sluggishly, saw to her morning toilette, felt like her head was jam-packed with dentist's cottons. Movement seemed to be an effort, her head ached from the nonstop tumble and rattle of thoughts going through it.

At midmorning, distraught, jumpy as a cat, wanting to scream at each little thing that went wrong, Joanna realized she was really in a bad way. That she had to get out of this hotel room, out of Paris, or lapse into a nervous breakdown. She had to go somewhere, alone. Somewhere where she could think, attempt to make some sense out of this tangled web her life had become. She had to come to terms with her badly riddled conscience, decide once and for all what she wanted to do.

Remembrance of the projected trip to Carcassonne came naturally to mind, and she wondered if, by going in advance of the others. That seemed the perfect answer to her quandary.

Even so, she got cold feet at the last moment, called Aimee, asked her to flee early with her. But Aimee was all tied up, she had to beg off. Couldn't Joanna wait? What was the big rush?

Joanna refused to confide in Aimee. After all, how could she trust the very woman at the root of her difficulties? But the idea of flight still burned as bright, the frenzy still existed.

And at 2:10 that afternoon she called the station, made reservations on the night express to Carcassonne.

She left a vague note, gave Mayo the name of the hotel Aimee had recommended. She had to get away, do some thinking, she would be waiting for them at 2:00 a.m.

Joanna packed the things she thought she might need in two bags, called for a cab. She checked her bags at the station, spent the remaining time wandering the streets surrounding Gore de I'Est, she had a small dinner. And at 6:10, Mayo arriving back at the hotel too late to stop her even if he had wanted to-Joanna boarded the night express, found her compartment.

She watched Paris disappear into the distance, saw it become a mere blur of firefly lights. Then they faded altogether, she shook up from her sad reverie, found herself staring into opaque blackness. She straightened, reached for the magazines (English-language) she'd purchased at the station. She sent a wry, distant smile at the rumpled fat man (unfortunately she'd been unable to get a private compartment on such late notice) who sat across from her.

Which he took as an invitation to conversation. "You are English, Madame? Or American?"

"American," she said in clipped tones. "I am here on vacation with my husband."

"Wonderful. You have picked a perfect season to visit France. And your husband?"

"He's still in Paris. He's joining me in Carcassonne later." Her smile was wary. "Business, you know...."

"Carcassonne?" His eyes became suddenly sly. "You will love Carcassonne. The colors are magnificent in the south at this time of year. I would be glad to tell you some things about that noble city. But perhaps I bore you-I intrude...."

Gradually Joanna warmed toward the funny man with the outrageous accent. There was certainly no harm in being friendly. "No, please go on. Tell me about Carcassonne. The more one knows about a city he's visiting for the first time...."

Within the hour they were on amiable terms, they'd introduced themselves. Tonight the swarthy, mustached man called himself Butro Simbel; he was of Libyan descent.

Short moments later he brought out the inevitable box of candy. "A bonbon, Madame Kinsolving? There are very good. I buy them at one of Paris' finest shops." He patted his big belly lightly. "I have a weakness for sweets as you can see."

Without a moment's hesitation, slightly hungry after her skimpy meal, Joanna reached out, took one chocolate. "Please, Madame, take more. Save me from myself."

Joanna chose the drugged bonbon on her third try. It was this piece she brought immediately to her mouth. Biting into the candy she found it bitter. But recalling Monsieur Simbel's pride in the candy's quality, not wanting to offend, she said nothing, finished the chocolate.

Not too much later she became strangely and suddenly sleepy. It was impossible to keep her eyes open. She blamed the lapse on her restless night the night before, suspected nothing out of the way.

When she woke next she found herself lying on her back on the floor of the compartment. Even more amazing she realized she was completely naked. The watery blur before her eyes dissolved, and she looked up to see her traveling companion, naked also, sitting on the bench looking down.

A curious dullness infested her. It was a long time before the sick thing the man was doing to her, registered.

And she realized that he was stirring and pressuring her breasts with his soft feet, one foot on each globe, lazily revolving. Now he saw she was awake, smiled down at her, began tickling her nipples with his toes. Joanna smiled back at him.

Then, the recognition slamming her, the smile was instantly erased, replaced by terror, by wooden confusion.

The pervert giggled softly, his smile stretching his silly face ridiculously. "You are awake at last, my dear," he hissed. "Lovely. We can begin to play now. You are very beautiful, Madame. I am going to enjoy you immensely."

And with that he let his one foot drift upward from her breasts, he poised it over her face. Joanna fought to twist her head, felt searing helplessness as she realized she simply couldn't move. "Kiss, my sweet lady. Kiss my feet, my toes...."

The foot came down, pressured her lips.

Seemingly she heard a scream inside her head. Then she knew that same suffocating feeling all of Sharkawi's previous victims had known. She performed this appalling servility, found herself helpless to do otherwise.

The heavy, brown torpor, almost furry and warm, closed in on her again. In desperation, fighting to remain conscious, she strained, reached for handhold, clamped herself to reality in the only way left her.

Above her, ringing piercingly, she heard the man's wheezed, deranged giggles.

Now, as the lovely, golden-haired woman sank into unconsciousness again, Sharkawi leaned, lifted her onto the bench opposite. For a long time he continued poking his feet into her mouth. But finally, tiring of this, he came to sit beside the limp body, began to fondle and pinch and examine Joanna with fervid fingers. His eyes glowed, a fanatic smile played constantly about his lips.

An American, he gloated inwardly. I've always wanted an American woman. His hands moved more wildly, he shifted and posed the form for more erotic effect.

The Americans, especially the pampered, domineering American woman, own the world. The subjugation of this beauty, this prime example of American womanhood, would be a supreme highlight of his aberrated career. He would inflict vile tortures on this pig, he would make her prime target for some as-yet-untried fantasies of his.

Now, as his hands flitted and probed, as his fingers defiled nonstop, he wasn't sure that this interlude in this compartment would be long enough. He would dearly love to have this spoiled goddess at his disposal for a much longer time. Already his mind reeled, raced ahead.

Then, Joanna stirring, he came more alert, he scrambled over her. As she opened her eyes, saw the depraved way the man hovered over, the abomination he offered now she wished she could instantly be redelivered to that oblivion.

His giggles, as she was forced to this ultimate homage (or so she thought, little dreaming of what still lay in store for her) would echo in the corridors of her memory as long as she lived.

More horrendous-the fact that there wasn't one shard of resistance, one thing she could do to escape this vilification. She could only submit, only pray that the blessed swoon would overtake her soon.

But as the thing went on and on, as the madman crooned a vile litany over her, mocked her without stop, she realized that she was gradually becoming more clear in her head, she realized her spells of unconsciousness would come less and less now, that lucidity would remain longer.

A humming began in her brain, a swarm of black bats wheeled and screeched there. She joyfully surrendered herself to that darkness once more.

She lost all track of time, of incident. She could only vaguely remember now that the obese animal had come over her, nearly crushed her, violated her twice already. And now, some feeling returning to her muscles, she was kneeling before him, valiantly attempting to revive him once more. Every time she faltered, attempted to rebel, he slapped her viciously, pinched her nipples, tore at her hair. There was nothing to do but submit, pray that she would soon awake from this bad dream.

"My little American," he intoned over and over again, "my sweet little American." He seemed to obtain some special joy in calling her this. "You are having fun, are you not? You never dreamed there could be such joys."

He slapped her when she didn't answer.

"Yes," she forced. "Fun, so much fun...."

And now the man was raising her, rolling her onto her belly. He was coming over her. Joanna froze, tried to scream. Surely he didn't mean to-

But he did. His reeking hand came over her mouth, shut off her first maniacal shriek.

The night went on, seemed to last an eternity.

While at the same moment, in the suite at the Palais Royale: Mayo Kinsolving was decidedly not alone. Wrapped in a libertine knot with Aimee De Fonseca, he was in the midst of a variationistic prelude to love. Both of them well liquored up, there was little they stopped at this night.

"Please," Aimee was pleading thickly. "If I can do this for you, mon gallant, surely you can do as much.

"Do not be shy, Mayo. It isn't as if you've never done this before. Remember the last time? How good I was afterward? Come now, don't act like some bumbling provincial. Be a man ... Aimee's wonderful man...."

Bit by bit she wore down his prudish resistance. Until finally, as she became totally aboriginal in her own adoration-

"Yes, darling," she choked, "yes! That's my fine little man. like that. Wonderful, wonderful! That's not as bad as you thought...."

That was wonderful. That wasn't bad at all. Mayo Kinsolving lent himself completely to the excess. At that moment there wasn't the faintest thought of his wife in his mind. Doubtless, had he known of her dire peril, he couldn't have been pulled away at that moment. Except, perhaps, by force.

Aimee squealed, Mayo groaned. Both worked faster, more dedicatedly.