Chapter 4
"Well, well! If it isn't the very gal I was looking for!" Smiling broadly, Dubois held the door open and gestured Monica inside. "And just in the nick of time, too."
The girl stared at him blankly for a moment, and then paranoia broke through her confusion and her brown eyes grew wide and afraid as a wild fawn. Had he been looking for her and seen her watching, was that what he meant? Oh, God! Her summer--no, her whole life!--was falling around her head in ruins before it even began!
In her acute distress, she entirely failed to notice the sweet-sour bourbon scent on Dubois' breath, or the barely perceptible slur in his hearty voice.
"I stopped by your room earlier to see if you'd like to go out on the town with me, but the kid down at reception said you'd gone out." He took her arm and led her into his room when she remained frozen in the doorway, not at first noticing her stricken expression in his effort to come across as a jet-setting man of the world. "Want to join me for a late supper now? After, we can see some real nightlife d la Paris. I happen to know some pretty great spots."
Even when Monica finally comprehended that her boss hadn't been accusing her of peeping, she was still too flustered to control her overwrought-nerves. Her voice caught in her throat as she started to stammer, "I-uh, Mr. Du-Dubois ... I can't-I don't-I mean, I've got to . . ."
Alan shot her a sharp glance. There were feverish red spots on her high cheekbones although the rest of her face was bone-china white, her eyes were-un-naturally glassy, and her breathing was so ragged that her full young breasts thrust spasmodically against the thin cotton of her high-necked blouse. Was she so shy that a casual dinner invitation sent her spinning into such a state, he wondered. He was just vain enough to half-consciously decide that the shapely schoolteacher must have a violent crush on him.
"Awh, come on, Monica! Cafeteria chow'll do for the kids-if they're like most groups, they're gonna spend the next three weeks bitching 'cause they can't get a hamburger and a shake, so it doesn't make any difference what you feed them. But that's no reason we should pass up a meal in the food capital of the world!"
"I-I'm really not hungry, Mr. Dubois, I j-just-"
"Oh, come along anyway-you'll feel an appetite when you smell that good cuisine cooking, I bet," Dubois interrupted. He was putting on his suit jacket and checking his wallet for credit cards, as though everything was all decided. "And hey, didn't we decide you'd call me Alan? No need for formality among friends."
If only he'd stop talking and let her get a word in edgewise! She simply wanted to tell her embarrassing story and then flee to the privacy of her room.
"Please, Mr.-uh, Alan! You've got to listen to me!" Her voice rang too shrill in her own ears, and she drew a deep breath to steady it. "Something dreadful's happened!
Alan stared at her again. Was she ill, perhaps? "Hey, what's the matter, Monica?" he asked solicitously, easing her down onto his bed. "Don't you feel well-you look awfully pale?"
Without realizing what he was doing, the man had switched from his role of debonair playboy cautiously stalking virgin to one of almost fatherly sympathizer. Though there were many who called Alan Dubois a hypocrite thanks to his talent for changing character to suit his own selfish interests, Monica wasn't one of them. Innocently, instinctively, she began to relax.
"No, no, I'm not sick," she managed the ghost of a smile. "It's just that I feel sort of-uh-dizzy. You see-"
"Drink's what you need to bring the color back to those cheeks!" Alan interrupted again. "I know just the thing to fix you up in no time flat!"
She tried to explain that she really didn't much care for alcohol-it sounded altogether too prudish to say that she honestly didn't feel it was right for a church group chaperone to consume liquor-but he merely laughed and continued mixing the contents of several different bottles into the toothbrush glass. It seemed ungrateful to argue when he was being so kind to her; besides, drinking as medicine was entirely different from drinking to grow intoxicated. Even Grandma Blakesley had prescribed hot toddies for spring colds, hadn't she .. .
The Black Russian tasted so good it was easy to pretend it didn't contain anything more powerful than a drop or two of Grannie's homemade spirits. When she looked up at Dubois, her full lips were parted in a nearly normal smile.
"You were right-this does calm me down," she took another sip. "I do feel better, and I'm sorry I was such a nuisance. It's just that something happened I think you have to know about, because I don't know wh-what to do . . ."
As she spoke, a larger-than-life image of Spike's pulsating red penis lunging in and out of his girl friend's saliva and male fluid slickened lips rose before her mind's eye. She began quivering again, finished her Black Russian in a nervous swallow, and nearly jumped out of her skin as the man beside her laid a paternal hand on her bare shoulder.
"Did something happen on your walk?" he asked. 'This isn't the best neighborhood to go strolling around in-guess I ought to have warned you."
For the first time in many minutes Monica remembered the humiliating incident with the North Africans. A blush spread over her face, and she grew hopelessly tongue-tied as she fiddled with her empty glass. Alan, watching her closely, made a fairly accurate guess as to what had happened and noted with lecherous delight that the girl was physically excited without realizing it. Here was one hell of a situation to capitalize on!
"Come on, let's go have that dinner." He really wasn't very hungry anymore, but there was only one toothpaste glass and he was thirsty. "You can tell me about it over a good bottle of French wine."
It required a couple glasses of Beaujolais before Monica's inhibitions evaporated enough for her to stammer a heavily edited account of the lurid cock-sucking scene she'd stumbled upon. Much to her astonishment, he wasn't the least bit shocked or angry. In fact, he actually laughed aloud as he refilled their wine glasses and signaled the waiter that they were ready to order.
"My God, Monica, from the way you were carrying on I thought something really serious had happened!"
"I think it's serious enough! That little girl's only fifteen, and she's got no business even knowing about dirty things like that. You can't mean you approve?!"
Dubois saw he'd made a tactical error, and swiftly sought to rectify this indiscretion. Shit, he didn't want to spoil a good thing just when little Miss Goodie-Goodie was unwittingly starting to feel the effects of the booze he was pouring into her.
"Of course not!"
"I certainly hope not! What would World Worshipers think about that?"
The waiter was hovering above them, pen poised over his order pad, so the argument had to be postponed until he'd ordered escargots and veal escallops a la creme for both of them. In this interval Monica began to regret her angry outburst and to worry what had come over her. She never talked back to people, particularly people who were in a position of authority, and she certainly didn't want to alienate kind Mr. Dubois . .. uh, Alan .. . before their joint trip had begun. Now he would think she was a silly, immature college girl who didn't know the first thing about life.
Which I am, I suppose, she thought in a rush of self-inadequacy. But I don't want to be that way. . . she took another fortifying gulp of wine; its rich fruity taste was so refreshing, so light, that she never thought to associate it with her uneven mood.
"I'm sorry," she murmured as the white-jacketed waiter left their candlelit corner table. "I didn't mean to snap like that. It's just that I feel a responsibility . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized she was sounding like a prig again.
Alan was all smooth smiles. "I just think you should look at things sensibly, my dear. Fifteen year olds from suburbia are pretty sophisticated these clays, you know, and it's not unusual for them to-uh-experiment with their budding sexuality. This doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing, either. Have you read the new book by Reverend Gordon Thesander, I wonder?"
As she shook her head no, he congratulated himself on this stroke of genius. Must have been all that first-rate Jack Daniels that inspired the invention of the good Reverend! And here came the snails, fragrant and sizzling in their garlic and herb butter, to provide food for both body and creative invention! He called for another bottle of Beaujolais-Village.
Good Dr. Gordon Thesander's avant-garde theories about the compatibility of spiritual and physical love carried them all the way through the coffee and liqueur, and by the time they were once again out on the street trying to hail a taxi, Monica realized that deep in her heart she'd carried doubts about the strict Fundamentalist dogma preached in her hometown parish. She also realized she was feeling extremely dizzy, and caught herself giggling at things that weren't really especially funny . . . yet she was still unaware how intoxicated she actually was. In the cab, when Alan's arm snaked around her shoulders, she allowed it to rest there despite a spasm of guilty discomfort. After all, Thesander said bodily contact was an important tool for touching another person's soul . . . and hadn't she longed for deeper communication all through her lonely adolescence ...
The scheming church school tour director gently, very gently kneaded the satin-smooth flesh of the girl's warm upper arms, and his penis jerked into eager alertness as she quivered slightly beneath his touch. All during the meal he'd been bothered by the way his incipient erection strained against his tight-crotched French trousers, and now the titillating tension was so extreme that he decided it was time to drop the subject of avant-garde Christianity in favor of more personal topics. All this talk about tactile contact and passion being God's message of love and so forth, combined with his earlier fantasies about the delectable Francine and his detailed recreation of the scene Monica had described between the teenagers, was putting him in a mood for some immediate satisfaction.
"Look at the lights on the Seine," he inched closer, letting his taut-muscled thigh press her softer, feminine leg as he whispered against the clean-smelling silk of her baby-fine hair. "Paris is so romantic at night, don't you think? Look, there's an almost-full moon hanging over the Eiffel Tower . . ."
Monica swung around to look, giving Dubois the chance to ease his hand around to the side of her firm, melon-round right breast. It felt warm under his stroking fingers, even though she was wearing one of those goddamn heavy-duty brassieres that he loathed, and a fantasy of her naked figure turned him on so much that he gave the luscious mound a hungry squeeze.
The young girl didn't seem to notice his attentions. "Oh, yes!" she breathed, staring in romantic rapture at the glowing lamplights on the Pont Alexandre. "This is the way I knew Paris would be-not like that horrible Place Pigalle with all those nasty shops and people like those two Arabs who ..."
"Paris is a city where you should be with someone you care about, someone who understands you . .."
For several moments he waxed poetic, not noticing that she'd broken off her speech in a gasp until he perceived that her body had grown rigid and that she was pulling away from him toward the far corner of the lurching cab. Crap! he thought. He was going too fast, scaring her away. Jesus Christ! Tonight he wasn't in a mood to have to sweet-talk a chick into the sack, and he'd hoped the liquor and lecture would have resolved that problem by now.
The instant Monica had recalled the swarthy North Africans who'd tried to pick her up, she'd felt the hand squeezing her breast, the leg pressing her skirt-protected upper leg. Just exactly the way that greasy Arab had touched her! Was it possible that Mr. Dubois, despite the fact that he seemed so very cultured and intelligent, was harboring the same lewd ideas? She didn't want to believe that of him, but all the same she was heartily grateful to see that the taxi was pulling to a stop in front of the Hotel Modern.
In an effort to re-ingratiate himself, Alan helped her from the car with old-world gallantry and made mindless noises about how he'd have a man-to-man talk with Spike. What a naive little sucker this Blakesely dame was! He felt her arm relax in his, heard the relief in her voice, and his pulse quickened and penis hardened in optimistic anticipation.
"Would you like to borrow Reverend Thesander's book, Monica?" he stopped her before she continued up the next flight to the girl's floor. "It's something I really think you ought to read . .. something that'll help you deal with the kids better."
Monica hesitated; she was really very tired by now, and after having stumbled three times on the steps she was unwillingly having to admit that she'd drunk a good deal more than she ought. Still, when he put it like that, it didn't seem possible to say no without acting as though she had no interest in her job.
"That would be nice," she said in her prim, schoolteacher voice, then hiccuped. "But I'm afraid I'm too sleepy to read it tonight," she added hastily, hoping he'd not noticed the image-destroying sound.
"Well, let me dig it out of my bag now, while we're thinking of it. And I've got some super stuff to drink that'll keep you from having a hangover tomorrow."
"Oh, I feel so ashamed for having drunk so much!" They were back in Dubois' room, she hunched against the wall by the door like a guilt-stricken schoolgirl while he fixed two drinks in the glasses he'd lifted from the restaurant. "It's disgusting! I promise you I'll never do it again!"
Dubois laughed as he handed her the "anti-hangover" elixir, a mildly sweet but very potent concoction of his own invention. "That's just the kind of promise I don't want," he said, pulling her down onto the creaking bed beside him. "You know what your trouble is, Monica?"
She bit her lip, feeling suddenly like a stupid sixteen year old instead of a supposedly mature college graduate. It was an unpleasant sensation, and she heartily wished she were a different girl, one who could toss back flippant, flirtatious banter instead of blushing.
"You're too inhibited, that's what. How can you enjoy life to the full when you're afraid of living, really living, I mean? Hell, good wine's one of the world's greatest gifts. Even in the goddamn Bible-remember the story about Jesus turning water into wine?
It was impossible to argue with such airtight logic, though Monica did think it unlikely that the founder of her religion had overindulged in homemade spirits. Still, now she thought about it. her parents' and Pastor Briggs' taboo against alcohol didn't make much sense. The way they carried on, you'd think there was an eleventh commandment stating: "Thou shalt not allow a drop of liquor to pass thy lips."
Even the communion "wine" back in Orchardburg was really Welch's grape juice . . .
"I ... I guess you're probably right, Alan. Sometimes I feel like-like I haven't really started to live yet, and that's why I was so excited to get this summer job in France." Suddenly she broke off with a nervous giggle. "Wine must be a good thing-it's sure loosened my tongue. I never talk like this with strangers!"
He leaned down, slipping one arm around her shoulder, the other hand resting on her bare knee, their faces nearly rubbing noses in an Eskimo-style kiss. "Do you really think of me like that-as a stranger?"
Monica was immediately contrite. Not realizing that the unsuccessful ex-actor's hurt expression and mournful eyes were assumed purely to arouse her sympathy, she felt guilty for having hurt his feelings. And indeed, she did find it far easier to talk to him than she did with Gene back home whom she'd known practically all her life ...
"N-no," she stammered in embarrassment. "I-I only m-meant..."
Dubois interrupted in a low, emotion-laden tone that matched the intense glow in his eyes. "The way I feel about it is that there's some people who click the minute they meet. .. people who were destined to be close friends. Do you know what I mean, Monica?"
"Oohhh ..." No one had ever said anything like that to her before! Quite unconsciously, the young blonde translated his words to mean, "falling in love" and a series of peculiar sensations began surging through her love-starved loins. "Oh, yes..."
She felt simultaneously warm and secure in having won the admiration of such a sophisticated and handsome older man, and flushed and trembled with an inexplicably feverish excitement. Outside in the neon-splashed darkness, the bells of the Sacre Coeur cathedral chimed midnight. This sure has been the craziest day of my life, her mind whirled dizzily.
If the innocent college girl had had even the slightest inkling of what the new day had in store for her, she'd never have dared accept the second drink Dubois offered her ... nor would she have allowed his arm to snake around and ever so lightly graze her left breast.