Kiss and Kill (9 page)

Then the business of arranging the tour intruded, and she was perhaps more cleverly businesslike than usual with the little director. When she left the office, the young man was gone. She felt no regret, oddly, but relief, as if she had escaped some subtle danger.

The following morning he was helping the monster driver stow the luggage on top of the limousine. He smiled at her as though they shared some secret.

“Let me take your suitcase,” he said. “I'll put it under mine.”

Everything he said seemed to have a sexual meaning. For a moment she saw, not the suitcases, but herself and the young man, lying together on the car. It was appalling. Claire thought, Maybe I shouldn't have dropped that psychiatrist.

“Are you going to Mexico?” she asked, handing him the bag.

“Nothing could keep me away.”

The absurd adolescent thought came to her that he was planning to go because of her. She turned quickly away.

Johnny Talbot made no further advances. With the others he easily established a camaraderie. The garrulous old man, Maynard Barton, had lived in Mexico as an engineer during the twenties; old Barton enjoyed Johnny's company, for the young man listened to his endless stories. With old Susan Barton, fussily worried about dirt and germs, he was reassuring and helpful. It was Johnny who kept her flask filled with purified drinking water or, if it was not available, treated it with halazone tablets until her jug reeked. The balding schoolteacher from Detroit, Rodney Aiken, had studied Spanish at college; Johnny's eagerness to learn the language from Aiken was calculated flattery, and Aiken's interest in sociology led them into technical discussions of penal systems and criminology, so that Claire wondered where the young man had picked up his information. When she asked him, he grinned and said, “I used to be a juvenile delinquent.” “When was that, last year?” Johnny looked her up and down. “Careful, I might take that as a dare.” Then he went after Sue Barton's purified water, leaving Claire to wonder if she had meant it as a dare.

But Johnny rarely spoke to her as he went about endearing himself to the other members of the tour. For each of them he put on a different face. With the industrial librarian from Indianapolis, Ingrid Johns, he talked about a pet raccoon he had had as a boy. Because of her connection with a chemical company, Ingrid was curious about the medicinal herbs the Indians used; in Saltillo Johnny took Rodney Aiken with him to the market and came back with a shopping bag full of dried herbs, each labeled with its Mexican name.

And the driver—Claire never understood the basis of his friendship with Johnny. Kiddoo was an enormous blob who got along with everyone. He knew little about Mexico, and his Spanish vocabulary was limited to making hotel arrangements and servicing the car. He let the group have their way—he only drove the car and cared for it; where it pointed its nose was entirely up to his passengers. Yet Claire could not see that anyone got really close to him: he was so self-effacing that a sort of master-flunkey relationship developed that made friendship impossible. With Johnny, Kiddoo was different. Johnny was the only passenger he allowed to take the wheel on occasion. When they stopped at a Pemex station, Kiddoo would not leave the limousine until Johnny returned from the men's room, or wherever he had wandered off. The pair talked of car racing; Claire first decided that Johnny had been a race driver, then changed her mind and decided that it was only his chameleon way of getting on with people. She had the feeling that, if she were to ask what Johnny Talbot was like, she would get a different answer from every member of the tour.

His relationship with Liz Tollman fascinated Claire most of all: intimate, yet free of the double meanings and innuendos which so unnerved Claire. They could say anything to each other, and neither seemed to take it personally. They were like brother and sister. When Johnny offered Claire his seat near the window—in a flamboyant manner that made it impossible to accept—Liz said: “Stop acting like a movie actor, Johnny.”

“Hell, she makes me feel like one. What do you advise, Liz?”

“I don't know, but do something natural. You'll both wind up with bags under your eyes.”

Johnny glanced at Claire. “You see? Everybody's on to us.”

Claire saw nothing to seize upon; he gave her no leads. So she did nothing, although she found herself wanting to.

She was the only single young woman in the group, and he, the only young man. Fading Ingrid and prissy Rodney Aiken had developed a sort of hands-off romance; they sat together and talked and talked, and you could see that something was growing. Old Maynard Barton had his wife, Kiddoo the driver had his car, and Liz Tollman—Liz had everybody. Liz was the catalyst; when the group drew apart, she did or said something that pulled it together again.

By the time they reached Torreón, a bustling oasis on the barren plateau, Claire was afflicted by a sense of time's fleeting. This was the first vacation she had allowed herself in five years. She had been working hard, and when she held her mirror close, she could see tiny crevices around her mouth. She had 30,000 dollars in the bank—not bad for a lone woman of thirty. She had never intended to live without men. Take your pleasure when you choose, she told herself; kiss the boys goodbye and owe them nothing.

Somewhere between Torreón and Durango, Johnny, who was sitting behind her, blew softly on her neck. “I've watched you long enough,” he whispered in her ear. “Let's peel off in Durango and go dancing.”

She nodded without thinking. She felt an immense relief.

In Durango, Claire bathed, powdered and perfumed her body. She was selecting her filmiest underthings when she suddenly thought, Whoa, girl, what are you—Miss Round-heels? Take it slow. And on impulse she asked Liz, who was sharing her hotel room, to go along. She was sorry the moment Liz dressed. Her fresh beauty made Claire feel artificial and aging.

Johnny blinked when he met them in the lobby. But then he grinned at Claire and gallantly handed them both into a taxi. After dinner he danced with Liz and left Claire to deal with local Lotharios whose English consisted of, “May I half these dance, pleece?”

At eleven Liz said: “I'm tired, Johnny. If you'd get me a taxi …”

But Johnny took them both home, and Claire was furious with herself.

“I suppose I should thank you for a lovely evening,” she said in the corridor after Liz had gone inside.

Johnny said, “Let's go to my room.”

No, she thought,
no
, you vulgar oaf. “Isn't there some subtler line in your kit bag?”

He leaned against the wall. “Rod Aiken told me a story about the bowerbird. The male fixes up a little bower, or run, for the hen, decorates it with bits of glass, tinfoil, colored paper, and then he goes into his song. The hen comes along and looks around. If she digs the bower, she stays. If not, she splits.”

Claire found herself laughing. “That's
much
better.”

“I've got a bottle, some ice, and a portable radio which picks up El Paso—”

“I'm a little tired.”

“—and a bed. I'd even tuck you in.”

There, she thought, you've done it wrong again. “Johnny, the bowerbird doesn't tell the hen what will happen if she stays.”

“But she knows—”

“All the more reason not to be explicit.”

“What do you say, Claire?”

“I say good night.”

“Claire, you've got a lovely body. Why not share the wealth? I can show you a thing or two, too.”

“Good night,”
Mister
Talbot.”

In bed, in the dark, Claire tossed. He was impossible, a boor. She had always hated men who were verbal slobs, who had no finesse. Why did he have to be that way? It could be so wonderful. She felt her body grow hot all over, and she knew it was pink again from head to toes, and she hated him and herself.

The next day they paused in the tour long enough to have a picnic in the wildly beautiful Sierra Madre range. The air was so cool under the big scented pines that they had to don sweaters. Claire got out her camera and snapped the group. Suddenly she noticed that John Torrance Talbot kept turning his face away.

“What's the matter, Johnny? Shy?”

“Don't want to break your camera.”

“Good heavens! Can't you think of anything more original than that?”

Johnny got up and walked away. After a few minutes, Claire quietly followed. She found him staring up at a squirrel in a tree.

“Got you,” she said as she clicked the shutter.

He shot her a curious look of annoyance; it lasted only a split second. Then he smiled.

“Come here, I want to show you something.”

They walked farther away from the limousine. Someone had broken out a case of beer and they were all drinking it, except old Sue Barton, who insisted that Mexican beer contained unpurified water. When they were out of earshot, Johnny said: “I thought you knew I didn't want my picture taken.”

He said it in such a peculiar tone that, in spite of its absurdity, Claire began to feel nervous and wish that they were not so far from the others. “Don't be such a goop,” she said with an effort at lightness. “I'll give you a print.”

“I'd rather have the film.” He spread his lips in a smile that somehow failed to break the rigidity of his expression. “It's my religion: No photographs.”

“I don't understand, Johnny.”

“Just say I'm a nut on the subject. Give me the film.”

“Of all things! I most certainly will not.”

His hand snaked out for the camera. Claire gasped and ran. He caught her and tore the camera from her grasp. She lunged for it, but he seized her wrist and twisted. When he spoke it was in a flat, icy tone:

“I only want the film. Don't make me smash your camera.”

Trembling, unbelieving, she watched him remove the film and throw it over a cliff. When he handed the camera back, she took it in her left hand and swung her right with all her strength at his face. “You bastard!”

It was like something out of her night thoughts. He grabbed her arms and yanked her against him. She tried to get away, but he dug his big fingers into her neck just below her jaws and forced her face up and toward him. Then his face was coming down and his lips were on hers.

He kissed her in a way that outraged and humiliated her and sent waves of heat up her legs. She struggled. She even tried to bite him. But his right arm and hand across the small of her back kept her immobilized, and the pressure of his lips was so hard that she could get no purchase with her teeth. She began to feel dizzy.

And suddenly she realized that he was no longer coercing her. She was responding, pressing against him with all her strength, moving her tongue thirstily. The discovery was such a shock that she drew back with a cry.

He looked down at her. His eyes were laughing.

“Does that make up for the film?”

She did not know what to say, to do. She felt futilely for her hair. “I could kill you, Johnny Talbot.”

“That's pride. I've got it, so have you. If we didn't, we'd have been in bed together long ago.”

She looked at him and thought: Now, here under the pines, before I spoil it.

The car horn blatted, and it was over.

“They'll come looking,” she whispered, hoping he had a solution. But he only took her hand and started walking.

“Tonight,” he said as they came in view of the car.

“Yes,” Claire whispered.

But that evening the group found Mazatlán too dirty and overrun by tourists. Maynard Barton had been to San Blas—forty years ago—which he described as a paradise, so they voted to push on. They arrived after midnight because of a flat tire, and by the time they had checked into the hotel they were all fagged out and crossly swatting mosquitoes. “I'll be seeing you,” said Johnny as they dispersed to their rooms.

“Yes?” Claire said, puzzled, but he gave no explanation. In bed she tried to stay awake, just in case … but the next thing she knew Liz Tollman was shaking her. The salmony dawn bathed the room and a sea breeze came through the louvered windows.

“You have a gentleman caller,” mumbled Liz, then crawled back into bed muttering about the strange habits of one Johnny Talbot. He remained on the sunporch.

“I've got a boat,” he said in a low voice. “We'll take a ride up the river.”

“Are the others going?”

“No.” His eyes were going over her like the breeze against her sheer pajamas. He can see every pore in my body, Claire thought. Good!

She went through the whole routine of preparation again; the shower, perfume, powder, surveying herself in the mirror, thinking: He's right when he says you can't enjoy the view alone; without him it's just an intellectual appreciation of conical breasts and a flat stomach. He gives it emotion; he wants this, and I enjoy his wanting this. She ran her hands down her body. What must it be like to be a flower, with both male and female parts? Ah, but the bees had to carry the wherewithal, so nothing worked by itself. Suddenly she felt like dancing; it was like the time she had won a prize for selling the most Girl Scout cookies. She decided to go out and tell him: Let's not bother with the river trip, the courtship scene, the bowerbird bit; let's have it
now
.

But he had left the sunporch, so she went back into the room and began sorting through her underwear. She selected her best, and then she thought: What if they get torn? Eight ninety-five, and I'll have to replace them with shoddy Mexican panties. She picked out a cheaper pair, thought What the hell?, threw them aside, and pulled her shorts on over the bare skin.

The river was a snake of clear water wriggling through mangroves and giant ferns. Brilliant birds screeched down; orchids clung to tree trunks tantalizingly out of reach; once an alligator splashed. Claire was glad they had come.

“We're back at the beginning of time. It's all going to start here,” she said.