Chapter 18
For more than an hour after Garnett had left her room, Clara lay on the bed, tossing and turning. Finally, she rose and began to dress. Less then ten minutes later, she had completed a modest toilette and was making her way downstairs.
The usually crowded hallway at the foot of the staircase was almost deserted. Clara, in her high-heeled evening pumps, tip-tapped quickly through it into the large room with the sideboard where she and the devil's advocate had begun their "investigation" earlier in the evening. There were not too many more people in here than there had been in the hallway.
She lingered in the doorway for a moment, and a tall, young man approached her carrying a glass of white wine. He offered it to her gravely. She accepted it with thanks, then fled while he was still deciding how to phrase his next offer.
She now slowly toured the ground floor of the house, wandering in and out of alcoves, libraries, nooks, conservatories, drawing rooms and a maze of hallways. Several of the rooms had bars or sideboards in them, and, by the end of a half an hour, she had quaffed Liebfraumilch from a bright blue goblet, sipped Soave from a cut crystal wine glass and gulped Chablis from a large brandy snifter.
It was the brandy snifter which she clutched as she made her way through the passageway which led to the discreetly hidden theatre. About halfway along the corridor she stopped and sipped from the snifter, as a girl came careening down the hallway, practically knocking her over.
"I'm so sorry," said the girl, who was tall and slender, with very prominent breasts and sensual lips. She helped Clara to steady herself, saying: "It was all my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."
"No," argued Clara, her words just slightly blurred, "I shouldn't a been standing there ... in the middle like that."
The girl laughed. "Well, there's no point in bickering about who's fault it was. Let's just go on together, shall we?"
"Have some wine, first," said Clara, graciously extending the snifter.
"No thanks. Never touch the stuff."
"Well, I will, if you don't mind." Clara polished off the rest of the Chablis. She set the glass down on a small carved table. "Verry nice wine," she slurred, smiling at the girl, who now linked her arm through Clara's as naturally as if they had been old friends.
As they walked towards the theatre, Clara's new companion said: "I saw you several times today. I envied your escort."
"Why ... why, thank you," said Clara, apparently embarrassed by this forthright statement. "I ... I've noticed you, too. Yesterday, I think it was. In a pink bathing suit."
"Yes, that was me. Have you tried the pool yet?"
"No. I've been wanting to ever since I arrived, but it seems like every time I get near liquid, it's in a glass! I don't think I'll ever get to the pool."
The girl laughed, tossing her pale blonde hair back from her shoulders. "But you must! And you ought to play tennis, too. You can't live this sort of life without some kind of antidote. You have to eat a lot and sleep late and get a lot of exercise if you want to go on being sinful." She smiled. "I do a great deal of sinning, so I have to pay a lot of attention to the antidote."
Clara held open the door which led onto the balcony of the theatre, and they entered just as the lights were dimming. They fumbled toward a loge. 'You've never been on stage, have you?" the blonde asked casually as they slid together into a love seat.
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Clara. She seemed shocked that anyone could even ask her such a question. The girl offered her a cigarette, and she accepted it. "Have you?" she asked in return.
"Have I what?" asked the girl, lighting Clara's cigarette with the lighted tip of her own. "Oh you mean have I ever been on stage? Yes. Once. I wanted to see what it was like to perform for a less intimate audience than I was accustomed to."
"You mean that you'd had people watch you before?" Clara seemed incredulous.
"Oh," said the girl lightly, "you know how it is. The first time, you're in an alcoholic fog, and, when someone suggests it, it seems like a grand idea. Then, the second time, you just pretend to be drunk, and you watch everybody else out of the corner of your eye. After that, you don't bother to pretend anything-you don't need an excuse for liking to have people watch you. But I'd never done it in front of more than three or four other people until I gave my little performance here." She smiled reminiscently, then asked: "You've never had an audience?"
"Well," replied Clara. "Just once. But then I was forced into it. And I didn't find it a bit exciting. I thought it was just horrible. I don't see how you can enjoy it." By now the blurriness had gone out of her voice and her sentences were more coherent than when she had first met the blonde. "What was it like ... down there?" she asked.
"Fun enough that I'll probably do it again. There was one other girl and four men. We took them two at a time, then three and finally four. It was fun, but it was hard, too. You have to be a contortionist to manage the positions."
"But didn't you feel awfully ashamed?"
"Of course I did. That's part of the thrill. And, of course, it pays to advertise. When my act was over, two men came up to me and said that they'd watched my performance and had been very impressed by it. One of them was a sexologist, with a degree from some University in Vienna. He comphmented me on my ensemble work and didn't believe me when I said that this had been my first time. The two men asked me to join them for the evening, and I accepted. Then they took me to a room and we just worked out all night along. They even rigged up a whirling basket with no bottom, which they hooked up to a pulley on the ceiling with three cords. They dumped me into it and took turns lying underneath and spun me around on their shafts while the basket went up and down as the cords twisted and untwisted. It was a scream."
Clara appeared completely bewildered, but the other girl did not seem to notice. "And just look" she went on, extending her hand, on which a diamond flashed and winked, "I'm going to marry one of them next month."
"Which one? The sex-what-did-you-call-him?"
"Sexologist. No. His beard tickled. And his shaft wasn't as big as the other one's."
Clara shook her head. She still seemed bewildered. "You mean that man is going to marry you after seeing you down there? Doing all those things...? "
"Why not?" asked the girl breezily. "This is the twentieth century, you know. Men nowadays want a sample of your brand of sex before they marry you and promise to cherish you for the rest of their life. And references won't do. It has to be a sample." She looked at Clara intently for a moment. "Don't you think I'll make a good wife?"
"Why, why ... I don't know...."
"Well, I think I will. I can cook and sew and make beds, and I can make love all night without tiring-or tiring of it. And I know enough little tricks to keep my husband happily at home for quite a while before he starts wanting some variety in his sex life. And I'm in wonderful shape to have babies. And I'm relatively well-informed about politics and literature and things like that. And I'm easy to get along with. That's what makes a marriage stick-comparability, both sexual and intellectual. Not all this garbage you see in the movies about undying love. Believe me, if a wife can't keep her house clean and attractive, and feed her husband well, and satisfy him in bed, then no matter how undying she thought their love was, she's going to find her husband spending 'late nights' in the office and taking frequent weekend trips 'out of town.'"
Clara sighed, seemingly dazzled.
"Now, don't misunderstand me," the blonde went on. "I don't mean that you have to be as much of a trollop as I am to be successfully married. But, contrary to popular belief, if you are, it won't hurt a thing-and sometimes it even helps."
The two girls now fell silent as a pinkish light began to glow on the darkened stage. The strains of Ravel's Danse Lascive-moie commonly known as the Bolero-rose above the resonance of the gong and the soprano moaning of the vibraharp.
The pink light brightened. Soon the audience could discern a naked woman on the stage, leaning languidly against what appeared to be an upholstered version of a gymnasium horse.
More light ... and the woman drew into focus. The audience could see lushly full breasts with prominent nipples encircled by wine-red rings. They could see the slight swelling of her belly, and the dark, thick tangle of hair between her thighs. They could even see the finely chiseled features of her smooth, oval-shaped face, features unmarred by the almost overpowering sensuality of her body.
And they could see another form on the dais: the form of a dwarfed Mongolian pony, which now rose out of the shadows and pranced forward to take the lump of sugar which the woman held in her outstretched hand.
The pony licked the sugar from the woman's palm and began to muzzle her melon-shaped breasts. "She must have put something sweet on her nipples for him. Yes, see what he's doing?"
The pony's long tongue reached out and flicked over one of the woman's nipples. He licked it several times, and then she offered him the other one.
"Why, she's deliberately making him do it," gasped Clara, crossing her hands over her own breasts as if to protect them from a similar outrage.
The pony lowered his head, rubbing his soft muzzle against her stomach. There probably was some honey smeared across it, for he began to lick the soft white flesh. The woman leaned further back against the padded rail, her thighs slightly apart, her back slightly arched.
Suddenly Clara gasped again. "Why, isn't that Gertrude Torrance?" she whispered.
"Yes. That's Gertrude all right."
"But ... but ... I don't believe itl A famous actress like that, letting herself be seen without any clothes on ... in a place like this."
The blonde smiled. "Why not? Who'll give away her secret? We're all in this together, aren't we?"
Clara nodded. "I suppose so."
On the dais, the pony was insistently pushing his muzzle between the woman's thighs.
Next to Clara, the blonde lit a cigarette, dragged deeply, exhaled quickly and dragged again. She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the stage. Suddenly she exclaimed softly: "I know! She must have put a sugar cube inside her! See how he keeps trying to lick into her?"
"I don't want to see!" Clara shuddered. But she did not turn away from the spectacle. "I never dreamed such things existed.
"You mean you've never seen a woman with an animal before? Any kind of animal?"
"No. I never have. And I don't ever want to see it again."
There was a pause. Then the blonde said slowly: "You know, it's rather astonishing to meet someone like you at this type of party. You seem repelled by almost everything. If you don't like sex, I can't understand what you're doing in a place like this."
"It isn't that I don't like sex," said Clara. "It's just that most of the things I've seen here are new to me, and some of them do seem rather appalling. And this ... why this is unspeakable. It's perverted!"
"I suppose it is," replied the blonde. "But some animals are really quite satisfying. Of course, if a woman went only with animals and never with men, she'd really be unnatural. But, as an occasional stimulant, it's-well, stimulating!"
"Then you've done it yourself?" Clara gasped.
"Oh, yes. A couple of times. Once with a poodle, and once-or was it twice?-with the cutest little gray fluffy kitten. I've never had a pony, though...." Her voice trailed off dreamily.
Clara sucked in her breath audibly, but did not reply. On the dais, Gertrude Torrance was rubbing her breasts against the pony's soft flank and with great tenderness, drew his organ toward her lips.
Clara grasped the wrist of the girl beside her. "She's ... kissing it!" she cried. There were a few snickers in the darkness around them, and the blonde whispered fiercely: "Shush!"
The pony, began snorting and stamping and pawing the floor. He reared excitedly and danced for a moment on his hind legs.
She quieted him, stroking his neck, ruffling his mane and whispering softly into his ear. Then she walked toward the cushioned railing. She bent over it once again, this time pulling herself up on it until her feet no longer touched the ground and she was spread-eagled across it. The pony trotted after her and stood sniffing her buttocks.
His pointed ears flattened, and he raised himself on his hind legs. Delicately resting his forelegs on the railing alongside the woman's waist, he neighed softly, and his gigantic shaft began to probe between the woman's thighs.
An excited murmur rippled through the audience, merging with the throbbing beat of the music. Clara covered her ears and closed her eyes tightly, burying her head in her lap.
"Watch it!" said the blonde. "Watch what he's doing to her! You'll never see Torrance give another performance like this one!" Then, smiling, she added softly: "It doesn't matter that I know that you watched. Well probably never see each other again. I don't even know your name."
"Oh, God," whispered Clara. "I think I'm going to be sick! He's going to tear her apart!"
"It is exciting, isn't it?" whispered the blonde. "Admit it. Admit that it thrills you. Admit that, deep down inside, you're thrilled-and excited-and maybe even just a tiny bit envious."
"Yes," said Clara, her voice almost lost in the torrential flood of the music. "I admit it. And that's what frightens me. It is exciting, and I don't want to be excited by it. I don't understand how I can be thrilled by such an awful thing! But you're right-I am!"
The girl leaned very close. She ran her tanned fingers up Clara's arm and breathed warmly into her ear. Smiling, she said: "I don't think you can choose which things you want to be exciting to you. And I think you have to accept the fact that you, like most people, will be excited, emotionally and physically, by things which disgust you intellectually."
"Why," exclaimed Clara, "that's what Alice Burton says!"
"Yes. I know. She's the one who taught me to believe that."
"Maybe it's true," said Clara. "I certainly don't seem to be able to choose the things which excite me lately."
The lusty animal neighed shrilly, and his trumpeting pierced through the rising crescendo of the music. Clara shivered.
"He makes you understand what a mare must feel, doesn't he?" asked the blonde. "They say that some women simply go insane with excitement when they hear a jackass bray. Now I know why."
Now the spectators were shouting encouragement, their voices blending with the passionate raucousness of the Bolero. Suddenly Clara drew in her breath sharply. "She isn't going to let him...." Her last words were lost in a sudden blaring of trumpets and rolling of drums as the music abruptly deviated from the previously unremitting tempo and swerved off on a brassy tangent.
But the blonde must have understood what Clara had meant to ask, for she whispered into Clara's ear: "If she doesn't, I'll go down there and take it myself. I wouldn't even care if nine months from now I gave birth to a little centaur."
Both girls giggled at this, their laughter faintly tinged with hysteria. Then Clara cried out: "He is! She's letting him do it inside of her!"
Gertrude moaned. The pony trumpeted frenziedly. Suddenly he dropped to all fours and Gertrude went completely limp. As she lay there, sprawled out across the railing the last tinge of pink light disappeared into blackness, and the theatre was once again in total darkness. The music had stopped, and every cough, every whisper was amplified in the black stillness.
The blonde began to stroke Clara's arm and press her thigh. "You know," she whispered very softly, "I like you. As naive and silly as you are, I like you. Maybe I even like you because you're so jejeune."
Even in the stillness, Clara's reply was barely audible. "I like you, too," she breathed, making no motion to remove the blonde's hand, which by now had crept slowly over her breast.
Then the lights began to seep through the darkness and swell into an almost dazzling brilliance. Clara sat up suddenly, recoiling from the girl's hand as though it had bitten her. The girl seemed amused by Clara's reaction, but she made no reference to it. Instead, she stood up and said: "I think I'll go and find out if my fianc' has-gotten here yet."
"So late?" asked Clara.
"He was supposed to drive out tonight after he finished work. But it's a good six-hour trip, so I didn't expect him to arrive before one this morning." Then, since Clara remained seated, she asked: "Are you staying here?"
"No. I'm going too. I don't want to see anymore." She rose, and the two girls walked out of the theatre arm-in-arm.
"Why don't you come to the pool tomorrow?" asked the blonde. "It'll really do you a lot of good."
"Yes, I know. I probably will," Clara acquiesced.
"I'll tell you what. Why don't you come to my room about one o'clock. Then we can go down to the pool together."
"Why, I'd like that very much. Where is your room?"
"It's the second door to the left after the staircase, on the first floor."
"That's easy enough to remember. I'm sure I can find it. But do tell me your name, just in case I can't."
"I thought you wouldn't want to trade names." The girl smiled. "Mine is Bess Lynd. And I lied to you before. I already know who you are." As she said this, a peculiarly knowing expression came over her face.
"You know who I am?" asked Clara. "How? Oh! You mentioned knowing Alice Burton. Did she tell you about me?"
"That would be telling," said the girl softly. She hastily flung her arms around Clara, lightly brushing the girl's cheek with her lips, then turned into a side passageway. She smiled back over her shoulder as she sprinted off, saying: "Goodnight, Clara. I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well."