Chapter 5
"Maman Lala say dat somethin' bad is gonna' happen."
Verbena had just returned from shopping and her trip to the Voodoo woman and had rushed to tell Angel all about it.
Angel half-listened, thinking of her experience with Lucien that afternoon.
"I don't know why you go to that old Voodoo woman. She just upsets you."
"She know what she talkin' about."
"I don't believe in all that Voodoo nonsense."
"Never call alligator long-mouth till yo' pass him," Verbena solemnly answered.
"What's the terrible smell, Verbena?"
"I got Maman Lala to fix me up with a wish bag."
Angel glanced at the small cotton bag which was hanging around Verbena's thick brown neck.
"I wish fo' nothin' to happen here at Cinnamon Hall."
"Whoooo, it smells to high heaven," Angel said. "Take it off. I won't have you smelling like a field hand around here."
"But, Miss Angel ... "
"Take it off!"
Verbena's large brown eyes looked hurt, but she did what her mistress said.
"Ain't gonna' be responsible fo' anythin' bad happenin' now," she replied sarcastically, setting the bag on the sideboard of the kitchen. "Yo' stayin' in tonight or yo' goin' gallavantin' around?"
Angel remembered that she had forgotten to call Damien. "I'm going out, Verbena, but I'm going to have dinner here. Make something light, perhaps a fish and salad and some white wine."
"I got us a good red snapper at the market today. I get dat lazy Calinda to clean it up. And I make sure she do it proper. She a quashi buffuto (a worthless fool)."
"Well, if you're not happy with her, Verbena, get rid of her."
"I mean to talk to yo' father 'bout it."
"I'm the mistress of the house while he's gone."
"Yo' ain't de mistress yet. No matter what yo' think, yo' father still run de place."
Angel ignored Verbena's remark and went into the sunroom to call Damien. He answered on the second ring.
"Angel, I thought you wouldn't call."
"I said I would, didn't I?"
"Can we do something tonight?"
"Yes, but let's go out later and. I want to do something really grownup."
"Like what?"
"I'll leave it up to you."
There was a pause on the other end of the receiver while Damien thought. "How about the show at the Maison Fleurs? Have you ever seen that crazy puppeteer, Rexall Fleurs, at work?"
"No, I haven't. My father would never let me go there. He said it was dirty."
"Well, it is a little off-color, but I wouldn't call it dirty."
"That sounds like fun. I'll pick you up at nine o'clock at your place."
"All right, Angel, I'll see you then."
Angel had dinner with Verbena. A big red snapper, fresh fruit salad, and a bottle of her father's white wine. Verbena was still pouting about the wish bag.
"I sho' wish yo' let me keep dat thing, Miss Angel."
"I don't want to talk about it anymore. It smelled like perspiration."
During dinner Angel noticed Calinda staring at her oddly. She wondered if the servant suspected anything about her afternoon frolic with Lucien. Angel had never liked the young girl. She was lazy and did most of her work half-heartedly. But it had never been her place to fire her. It had been her father's. She made a mental note to speak to her father when he returned. Had she been mistress of the house, Calinda wouldn't have lasted more than a week.
After dinner she went up to her room to get ready for her date with Damien. When she had showered, Angel rubbed her flesh with a scented body oil and went about the business of putting up her hair. She wanted to look older, so she combed it into an upsweep and, using a curling iron, curled the ends so that a profuse cluster of curls fell down the nape of her neck. Then she made up her face a little heavier than usual. Satisfied with the result, she went to her closet and got into the other dress that she had bought at Hattie's. She was going to have to get more clothes if she were going to be a woman of the world. The dress was a marvelous choice. It was a full length white crepe gown made on the style of a slip and it clung to her body like a layer of frost. When she walked down the staircase, Verbena was there, as usual, to look her over.
Angel's companion slapped her hands to her cheeks, exclaiming, "Miss Angel, dat dress is a scandal. It too tight in de batty and de boobies. And it don't look like yo' wearin' anythin' 'neath it."
Angel threw her head back and replied, "I'm not, and don't wait up for me tonight, Verbena. I may not be in until very late."
Angel didn't put the top up on her yellow sports car even though the night air threatened rain. And as she drove down the mountainside, she rubbed her thighs together in anticipation of seeing Damien again. She drove through the narrow cobblestone streets until she came to a lime stucco house, the bottom floor of which contained a spice shop. She honked the horn and a few seconds later a shutter on the second floor opened and Damien stuck his head out.
"I'll be down in a minute, Angel. I just stepped out of the shower. I was delayed at the shop."
Angel looked up at her young lover. His body was still wet and he had a bright blue towel wrapped around his middle. She mouthed the words, "Take off the towel."
Damien grinned at her and dropped the towel. She stared at his thick cock and heavy balls and blew him a kiss.
"Enough of the striptease," said Damien, laughing. "I'll be down shortly."
Five minutes later he appeared at the bottom of the stairway dressed in a pair of skin-tight white ducks, a light-weight navy blue blazer and a red bandana print shirt, open halfway down his chest.
"You look terrific, Angel."
"So do you, Damien. And after all, aren't we the most beautiful couple on the island?"
She slid over in the seat and Damien took the wheel.
"Maison Fleurs?"
"Maison Fleurs."
The nightclub called Maison Fleurs contained the only X-rated club act in town. Rexall Fleurs, an internationally known puppeteer, had performed in all the top clubs throughout the capitals of the world. He spoke many languages fluently and his "obscene" puppets delighted audiences everywhere.
The outside of the club was decorated like a New Orleans whore house. The veranda and balconies were covered with wrought iron grill work overgrown with bougainvillea. Hanging from the rafters of the veranda were strings of brightly colored Christmas tree lights, an affectation which was used in the West Indies to advertise houses of prostitution. Over the stairs leading to the veranda ran an ornately lettered sign saying "Maison Fleurs."
"I hope they serve me," said Angel.
"They will. I know the maitre'd here."
Standing by the door was a large poster of Rexall Fleurs with his hand puppet, a dirty old woman known as Nicole. The puppet had a profusion of blond hair and heavy eyelashes. She was not unlike a thin Mae West. Inside, the club was crowded with tourists, even though it was offseason. Fleur's show was one of the "must see" entertainments in Montego Bay. The long bar was full of people, and the main room, which was sprinkled with tiny round tables, was nearly filled. There was a small stage area and next to it a baby grand piano. Angel and Damien waited a few moments until the maitre'd, a young man named Terry, came to seat them. Terry was a tall, slender American with shoulder-length blond hair and an easy smile. After the two young men exchanged greetings, Damien introduced Angel to Terry.
"Is this your first time in Montego Bay?" he asked, eyeing her body appreciatively.
"Oh, no, I live here."
"Really? I've never seen you before," implying he would like to see her again.
Terry showed the young couple to a table near ringside and said that he would see them later.
"What would you like to drink?" Damien asked.
"Something adult. Rum cocos are for tourists and children."
A native waiter came to take their order and Damien said, "Two vodka and tonics, please. And instead of limes, use a slice of cucumber."
The waiter eyed the young girl dubiously, but said nothing. When the drinks arrived, Angel was delighted.
"These taste marvelous, Damien."
"There's Rexall," said Damien, pointing to the edge of the room.
Angel turned her head and looked at the puppeteer. She had seen him before. He was bond, very tanned and around thirty-five, with a stocky, but muscular body. Fleurs stopped at most of the tables, greeting his customers and making jokes with them. When he reached Angel and Damien's table, he stopped short and said, "It can't be. You're not Leveque's daughter?"
"Yes, I am, Mr. Fleurs."
"Well, I'm glad to have you here. How are you, Damien?"
"I'm fine, Mr. Fleurs. Anxious to see your show."
"Well, I'm going on right now. I hope you enjoy it." And he added to Angel, "And I hope it doesn't offend you. Some of it is a little bit risqué."
A short time later the house lights dimmed and Rexall Fleurs and his puppet, Nicole, appeared in a pink spotlight. Fleurs was dressed in a lightweight, black tux and his puppet was dressed in red satin.
Fleurs asked the puppet, "How's your hole, Nicole?"
"It could be tighter," she replied lasciviously. "I'm thinking it might be time for a retread job. Some of them have to throw in a handful of gravel to get a little traction."
The audience roared at the naughty dialogue and Nicole went on.
"I did have a hot date the other night with Pinocchio. I sat on his face and told him to tell another lie!"
After Nicole made an exit, two puppets representing a penis and a vagina did a song about fornication. The entire show was about sex in one form or another. The finale number was entitled "Hand Job."
After the show was over, Fleurs had changed back into a casual suit and sat with Damien and Angel.
"I hope the show didn't offend you," he said.
"Not at all," said Angel. "I thought it was marvelous."
When the waiter came around, Fleurs instructed him to put the bill on his tab. Then he excused himself and went to another table.
"That was a nice gesture," said Angel.
"Nice, hell," replied Damien. "He was just trying to come on to you."
"Oh, was he?" replied Angel innocently.
On their way out of the club Terry stopped them and thanked them for coming.
"Everybody's being so pleasant," said Angel.
"That's because they all want you."
"Oh, really," Angel said demurely. She didn't add that she wanted all of them, too.
When they got back in the car, Damien asked, "Where to?"
Overhead the sky rumbled like the belly of a beggar.
"Let's go to your place," suggested Angel. "It's going to rain any minute and I don't want to bother putting the top up."
"My place? Angel, I've only got a single bed."
"I'm sure we can work out something."
They parked the car under the awning of the spice shop and ascended the narrow stairs which led to Damien's one room apartment. The walls of the room were papered with French newspapers. To one side there was a small kitchen and a door leading to the bath. The room was sparsely furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers, a small table and two rattan chairs.
"I told you it wasn't much," said Damien.
Angel put her arms around Damien, and pressed her lips against his. His hands slid down her bare back and came to rest on her round buttocks.
"Let's undress," he said hoarsely.
She nodded and kissed him on the tip of the nose.
Damien turned out the light and opened the shutters. The moonlight streamed into the small room and outlined their bodies.
A forked tongue of lightning split the sky and suddenly it began to rain. The rain resounded against the tin roof of the building and filled the room with a sensuous, rhythmic sound. Angel threw her dress over the back of a rattan chair and stood in front of the window, the yellow light silhouetting her form. Damien crossed the room, his cock throbbing with desire, and Angel threw her arms around his neck. They sat down on the edge of the bed. He kissed her, sliding his tongue between her sensuous lips. His hands sought out her breasts and began massaging them. Her nipples hardened between his thumb and forefinger. Angel moved one of her hands down his smooth, muscular back, slid it around his waist and let it come to rest on his cock and balls. She wrapped her small fingers around the whole length of his shaft and, kneading the flesh, she lay back on the bed and waited. She loved the feel of his cockflesh and wanted it inside her. Admiring the graceful lines of her beautiful body, Damien straddled Angel's chest and squatted down until his heavy balls rested on her breasts and the head of his cock pressed against her chin. Angel pulled him forward, opened her mouth and took the head of his cock inside, toying with the opening with the tip of her tongue. Damien put his hand behind his back. His fingers slid over her cunt and touched her throbbing clitoris. Angel spread her legs further apart, allowing his hand to have complete access to her cunt. He massaged her clit by inserting his thumb and forefinger into her vagina. Then he swung his body around until he lay on top of Angel. She wrapped her legs around his head. He pressed his face against her downy pubic hair. His cock and balls were lying on her face. They turned over on their sides.
Angel took his cock in her hand and pulled it to her lips. She flattened her tongue and began licking it. Damien buried his face in the moistness of her cunt. He separated her outer labial lips with his thumbs and sucked her clitoris between his teeth, gently nibbling on it. Then he felt the head of his cock slide inside her hot mouth, and she began sucking on it expertly. He, in turn, sucked hard on her clitoris and teased her outer lips with his fingers. He spread her legs further apart so that he could slip his probing tongue inside the mouth of her cunt. Angel was going up and down on the full length of his cock with a smooth, but rapid, rhythm. He pulled his tongue out of her cunt mouth and began concentrating on her clit, lavishing tongue caresses on the nerve center of her sexuality.
He felt her readjust her head position and slide her mouth forward until her nose was buried in the curly tangle of his pubic hairs. Angel's mouth felt terrific to Damien. It felt like a cunt, only it was better. Cunts didn't have tongues. He concentrated on lapping her clit and massaging her full breasts at the same time. Angel's mouth continued to glide back and forth over his stiff prick, stopping occasionally to bite it lightly with her teeth. She kept his heavy balls in her hands and squeezed them, occasionally pulling her mouth off his cock to suck on one of them. Angel began moving her hips back and forth, pressing her cunt hard against Damien's mouth. She started making little gasping noises, muffled by the presence of his fat cock in her mouth and throat. Angel's thighs began to tense and she began to suck him even harder. She wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, fanatically pumping on it. He squeezed both of her nipples and licked furiously as she ground her cunt hard against his mouth. Angel's entire body began to convulse with spasmodic twitchings of orgasm. Damien continued licking until he started to shoot himself. He heard her choke on the first jet of warm sperm that shot down her throat. She swallowed and he licked. He licked and she swallowed. Both of them reached a quivering peak of orgasm together. They broke away from each other's crotch and lay side by side on the narrow bed, gasping for air.
The wind had shifted and the rain started coming in through the windows. Damien got up from the bed and went to close the shutters. He lay back down on top of Angel, pressing his own, wet mouth against hers. Their faces were smeared with saliva and a mixture of each other's juices. They held onto one another while the storm raged outside. Damien kissed the corners of Angel's mouth and then her eyelids. His hands caught both of hers while his half-hard cock pressed against her cunt. Angel slid her hand down between their bodies and began jerking on his cock, causing it to lengthen and harden. When it was finally stiff, she rubbed it against her damp pubic hairs.
"Fuck me, Damien. Fuck me good!"
Damien didn't need coaxing as he guided his cock to the entrance of her cunt. Angel's back arched up, pushing her flesh against his flesh. He shoved his cock against the wet opening of her cunt until the head of it was encased in the damp warmth. Angel spread her legs wider and Damien let go and sunk into the warmth and softness of her moist hole. He licked her face as her hips rotated rhythmically. Angel trailed her hands down his back and grabbed his pumping buttocks, then she slid her legs up until her ankles were locked around his lower back. She clawed at his buttocks as he pumped furiously.
"Mmmmmmmmmm, Damien. Oh, God, that's good," she groaned into his ear.
He thrust it in to the limit and Angel accepted all the cock he could give her. Angel ran her hands between his buttocks, touching his asshole with her finger. The opening was soft and rubbery and she wanted to put her finger inside. She moved one hand back up to her mouth, stuck her finger inside, and got it slippery with saliva. Then she slid it back down to his asshole and sneaked it inside, and began fingerfucking his ass with the same rhythm as he was fucking her cunt.
"Christ, Angel," he cried. "That feels good. Don't stop. Keep it up."
One of the shutters blew open and the rain pelted against the floor of the room, but they didn't stop. The room began to spin as both of them approached orgasm. Angel was uttering little, soft cries of pleasure as the first orgasm came. Damien felt his cock swell to its peak and he knew he was about to let go, too. Angel continued jamming her finger in and out of his ass as a steady stream of come shot out of the head of his cock, coating the walls of her pussy, filling it up and overflowing until it began running down the insides of her legs. Angel continued fucking his ass with her finger until she could feel that he'd finished shooting. Then slowly she eased it out and enjoyed the pleasure of feeling him deflate inside her cunt.
"I had better get up and close the window," he breathed.
He slid out of her, padded across the room and rehooked the shutter.
"That's some storm out there. I don't think you'd better go home tonight."
"I hadn't planned to—that is, if you don't mind me staying here."
"Mind? I'd love it, but won't Verbena be worried?"
"I told her I'd be out very late."
"Should I get you a towel? You're all covered with come."
"No, thank you. I'm going into the bathroom."
Angel slipped out of bed and went into Damien's bath and took a quick shower. Damien smoothed out the sheets and was lying on the bed smoking a cigarette when Angel reentered the room.
"It's a little chilly in here, Damien. Do you have an old tee-shirt or something I could put on to sleep in?"
"Sure," he replied.
He got up and dug through the chest of drawers and handed Angel a tie-dyed blue tee-shirt. She slipped it over her head and it came down over her hips, almost covering her pubic area, but not quite.
Damien ground out his cigarette butt.
"C'mon, Angel. Let's get some sleep."
He held out his arms to her and she lay down on the bed beside him.
"I love the way our bodies fit. Don't you?" she asked.
"Yes, they fit perfectly."
With their arms around each other, they fell into a deep, contented sleep.
Angel opened her eyes, aware that she was alone in bed. The delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee floated through the air. She looked toward the kitchen area. Damien had shaved and showered and was wearing a lemon-colored robe. The shutters were open, and outside the sky was washed clean by the rain. It was a beautiful, sunny day.
"Mmmm. That smells good."
"Oh, so you're awake. I grind it myself. I use a mixture of three different South American beans. Would you like cream?"
"Yes, please."
He poured her a cup of coffee, adding enough cream to make it cafee au lait.
"You should have awakened me, Damien. I would have made the coffee."
"You looked so lovely, I didn't want to disturb you. Would you like a croissant?"
"Mmmmm. Yes, I would. Do you have an extra robe?"
"Yes. I'll get it for you."
He opened the closet and threw a white terry cloth robe to Angel. Carrying her coffee cup, she walked across the room and sat down at the small table across from Damien. The croissants were flaky and buttery.
"These are great. Where do you get them?"
"From Titubua's Bakery."
After eating, Angel brushed her hair, put on some lipstick, and got dressed in her white gown.
"I'll feel a little conspicuous in the streets in this dress."
"Tell you what. I have a raincoat here that might fit you. Put that on over the dress and hike the dress up around your waist. Nobody will know the difference."
Angel belted the raincoat and pulled her dress up above her knees.
"You're right," she laughed. "Nobody will ever know. I'd better be getting back to Cinnamon Hall. I'll give you a call later, Damien."
He kissed her on the mouth.
"Thanks for the beautiful evening. I'm glad it rained and you had to stay."
"So am I."
When Angel got to her car, she found that she been given a ticket. Unmiffed, she put it into the glove compartment and drove through the streets of Montego Bay. They were alive with the calliope of honking horns. Above, the white sun blazed, absorbing every color except the intense black of the natives. Angel drove past farmers coming into Montego Bay to sell their wares at market. They balanced on their heads baskets of poultry, fruit, eggs, charcoal, calabashes and sisal. Others pushed rickety carts filled with flowers and cocoa-colored children. Those more fortunate, called "Hurry come-ups" meaning nouveau riche, carried nothing themselves, but loftily switched their burros which were laden with their goods to sell. She passed a trinket vendor, an extremely thin black man nearly seven feet tall, who was decorated from head to toe in an array of bells fashioned from discarded tin cans, who was dancing along the roadside, shaking his arms and legs and buttocks. High above his head, he held the skeleton of an umbrella, and hanging from his ribs were various beads, shells and amulets which swayed from side to side, creating a light tympani sound. Several of the vendors were calling out advertisements for their wares.
"Sea-puss! Sea-puss! (Octopus)."
"Yabah! Yabah! (clay pots.)
"Tenky-massa! Tenky-massa! (scarves and neckerchiefs)."
"Jesga! Jesga! (iron pots)."
Angel drove to the edge of town and waited patiently while a flirtatious traffic man allowed a group of mountain girls to pass. They carried large cans of kerosene on their heads and sang out in harmony.
"G-e-e-a-a-az!"
After bowing lowly to the lithe young maidens, the traffic man waved his arm.
When Angel entered Cinammon Hall, Verbena came running out of the kitchen. There were tears in her eyes, and evidentially the woman had been up all night long.
"Where yo' been?" she blubbered. "Somethin' terrible done happened."
"What's happened?" asked Angel.
"Oh, Miss Angel, yo' should let me keep dat wish bag. Yo' should have. Yo' shouldn't oughtn't a made me throw it away."
Verbena sniffed loudly, dug into the pocket of her dress and handed Angel a crumpled telegram. The telegram stated simply and briefly that her father Maxim Leveque had been killed in an airplane crash over the Atlantic. Angel read it twice then she folded it up and handed it back to Verbena.
"Well, Miss Angel, ain't yo' gonna say nothin'? Ain't yo' gonna cry?"
"Verbena, I'm not a hypocrite. You know that I never liked my father and I don't think he ever liked me. I'm sorry he's dead, but I'm alive and now I'm mistress of Cinnamon Hall. I want you and Calinda to clear my father's things out of the master bedroom and move my things in.
"But, Miss Angel ... "
"Do as I say. And after you're finished, I want to speak with Calinda."
Angel went into the kitchen and poured herself a second cup of coffee, which she spiked with a dollop of rum. Then she went into the sun room and sat down at her father's desk. Leveque's desk was an old-fashioned roll top type which had been popular at the turn of the century. Angel pushed it open and started going through the various papers which were filed neatly into the separate slots. She didn't find what she was looking for. She knew that her father had a secret drawer, but she didn't know where the key was. He had probably had it on him. She pulled at the knob of the locked drawer, but it wouldn't give. She fished around in the desk until she found a letter opener and worked it around the drawer until the lock broke. She pulled the drawer open and felt on the bottom for the small button which opened the secret compartment. The back of the drawer flipped open and she slid her hand into the depths of the desk and pulled out the last will and testament of Maxim Leveque. Her eyes scanned the pages. "To my daughter Angelique Leveque I bequeath Cinnamon Hall and all its furnishings and the twenty-four acres of land which surround it. I also bequeath her my shop and the land it stands on and my assets which are one million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars or thereabouts. I'm hoping that this will in some way make up for all the things I didn't do for her. To my younger brother Philippe, I bequeath complete control of our businesses in Bordeaux and Paris. I also request that if Angel decides to continue the business in Montego Bay, that he advise her."
Angel was surprised to find tears in her eyes. They spilled out and ran down her cheeks leaving trails like transparent ribbons. Verbena entered the sun room, glanced down, and knew what Angel was reading.
"Angel, yo' father is dead. Yo' got to forgive him."
Angel looked and replied, "I forgave him a long time ago."