Lace (86 page)

O
UTSIDE IT WAS
still snowing hard. If it didn’t stop, there wouldn’t be much point in going with Nick to
Saanenmoser tomorrow, thought Judy. The 1949 ski trials would probably be postponed, so they might as well stay in Gstaad. Midnight had just passed; it was officially February 7, her mother’s
birthday. Judy had sent her a card and beautiful cream lace blouse. It must be awful to be thirty-five, she thought, thirty-five and stuck in Rossville forever! “Happy Birthday,” Judy
murmured as slowly she bent down outside the bedroom door, picked up a tray heaped with the debris of a meal, then hurried along the dim passage of the Hotel Imperial. In another hour and a half
she could get to bed. She was almost asleep on her feet; she’d never felt so exhausted.

Eight months of too little sleep, tough physical work and the effort of concentrated study in a foreign language were starting to whittle away her youthful resilience. Longingly, she thought of
her iron bed in the partitioned cubicle under the attic roof. She was lucky to have a room to herself. She drew a deep breath, puffed it out and straightened her back.

As she hurried along the corridor toward the back staircase, the metal door of the old-fashioned elevator was suddenly flung open.

Judy crashed straight into it.

Filthy half-filled ashtrays, semiempty coffee cups and sauce-smeared plates flew into the air and fell silently on the maroon carpet. Judy’s elaborately embroidered blouse and scarlet
skirt were splattered with dark brown stains.

“Goddammit,” she said, and burst into tears.

The man who had charged out of the elevator looked uncertainly at her in the dim light. “I regret this deeply.”

Snivelling with exhaustion, Judy ignored him as she wearily bent to pick up the broken china.

“It was clumsy of me. I ask your forgiveness.” She turned a white, tear-streaked face toward the man and wobbled to her feet again, holding the tray.

“Don’t drop it again,” he said, taking the tray from her. “Let’s clean you up a bit. My room is the second on the left.” Balancing the tray on one hand he
unlocked a door and beckoned her in. Judy followed.

This was one of their best suites, Judy thought, looking around the sitting room. He must be an important guest. Side lights were already switched on, lazy flames flickered from the log fire
onto a black bearskin rug; glasses and a jug of orange juice stood on the low table.

“Sit on the couch,” said the strange man. He put down the tray of shattered china and went into another room. When he returned he had a towel, a sponge and a glass of water. “I
really don’t know how you do such things, I thought maybe these . . .”

Dazed and exhausted, the coffee-smeared blouse sticking to her breasts, Judy drooped in front of the fire, wishing she were in bed with no problems. She took the sponge from the man, and for the
first time he saw her pale and fragile face. Then she bent her head and he could only see fair hair as she started to rub at her skirt.

Judy supposed he was very good-looking, if you liked dark foreigners. Then she jumped. He had sat on the couch beside her, stretched out one hand and gently touched the base of her neck.

The stranger drew her toward him, pulled her head against his chest and slowly stroked her hair. Judy let him do so, surprised by her lack of resistance. But it was very nice. This soothing
stroking could easily send her to sleep. It was
very
nice.

She caught her breath as she felt a warm mouth brush her neck. Then the tip of his tongue touched her earlobe. Slowly and surely, Judy felt her body relax. Her exhaustion fell away to be
replaced by a softly erotic trance. As the dark stranger murmured softly into her ear, she felt an odd, silken sensation that she had never felt before, as if each slow movement was somehow
predestined and she could only respond to it. She gave a soft sigh of satisfaction as she felt his arms shelter her in the comforting warmth of his body. She felt safe, surrounded by the silence
and quiet warmth of the room, as he gently lowered her onto the rich fur rug.

She could smell the crackling pine logs, the musky harsh prick of fur against her face, the disturbing scent of this man whose cheek was rubbing hers, whose firm mouth softly pressed upon hers.
Judy no longer felt in charge of her suddenly languorous body as he tugged the drawstring of her blouse, and then she felt the flesh of his warm mouth. Her body twisted as desire fought shame and
apprehension, then she yielded to that mouth.

Sometime later she was naked to the waist and clinging to him, mouth to mouth. She felt as if she were swimming in warm water, in a delightful dream. Then she felt his hand cup her knee, slide
snakelike up her leg until it reached the taut, black stocking top and hesitate for a moment at the black elastic garter. Roughly he thrust his hand up between the soft flesh of her thighs.

The spell broke. Judy jerked sharply back to reality. She couldn’t believe this was happening to
her.
That she lay, half-naked, under a total stranger, had been eagerly responding
to his hands, his mouth, his warmth as it melted into passion and passion pounded into frenzy.

She
had
to stop this. She tried to move away but his body pinned her to the fur rug. Still she struggled to push him from her body. But suddenly his breath was almost a snarl in her ear
as he thrust his hand higher between her wriggling thighs, up her pantie leg. Then his thumb found the quivering point it sought, and at this new, sharp ecstasy, Judy again felt her body blot out
her mind. She felt the strength of her surprising passion crash against the barrier of her puritanical upbringing.

“Stop, stop,” she panted. “Please. Please!” She struggled to get away. “No, I mean please
stop
.”

He was far stronger than she and his body pinned her to the floor.

“Please, you don’t know what you’re doing.” She started to sob but he fastened his mouth to hers. She could not jerk her head away from his.

Fiercely he yanked at her skirt and Judy heard the fabric rip. Then he was pinning the top of her body to the floor with his chest and tearing at her panties with one hand. For one moment Judy
didn’t want him to get off her. Except for her black laced corselet and stockings, she was now naked, and nobody had seen her naked since she was ten years old.

She had to
stop
him!

She jerked her head away and gave a wild, strangled cry, but the stranger thrust his left hand over her mouth. She couldn’t cry now. She couldn’t breathe. He was stifling her. He was
going to smother her. Maybe he was going
to kill her
.

Judy had been alarmed when she felt her body respond to the man. When he thrust his hand over her mouth and nose she was frightened. But she felt claustrophobic terror as he roughly forced his
way inside her body, tearing her flesh, plunging into her, gasping, thrusting. No longer able to struggle, Judy could smell his animal lust, could feel salt tears run silently down her cheeks and
into her ears. She cried with no sound, eyes open, blindly staring upward. Oh the pain, the splitting
pain!

She felt her puny weakness, the hopelessness, the soundless panic, then desolate shame engulfed her as, with a wild cry, the dark stranger climaxed.

“Don’t cry, little bird,” he murmured, “why this weeping? The first time there is always pain, little bird.” Like many men he didn’t regard rape as rape if it
didn’t happen in a back alley and there weren’t any bruises. He rolled over on his back, stretched luxuriantly upon the rug, and the fire’s shadow blackened the lower part of his
face and his crumpled clothing. Thank God for that, she thought, because she couldn’t bear to see his thing.

At first unable to believe that she was free, she lay there limp, spread-eagled on the rug, then she curled her body, ashamed that he should see her nakedness, her humiliation. Then slowly she
got up and staggered to the door—clutching to her body what was left of her traditional Swiss costume—grabbed the handle with a hand that trembled, flung open the door and ran along the
corridor, naked except for black stockings and corselet, her only thought to get to her room at the top of the servants’ staircase.

She spent the rest of the night trying to scrub him off. She was disgusted by the physical evidence of his possession, his power over her, that relentless animal lust She was disgusted by his
slime and her blood. She washed it off fiercely, hating to touch it, hating it to touch her.

Nobody must ever know. No boy ever goes with a girl that’s been raped. She would only be despised. She had to suffer this misery
by herself.

Once in bed, she couldn’t sleep, she felt humiliated, embarrassed and oddly vexed. What a stinking rotten way to lose your virginity. She didn’t worry about catching a sexual disease
because she didn’t know that they existed, and oddly enough, it never once occurred to her that she might be pregnant. Not when it had happened only once. Not when the Lord knew that she
hadn’t really wanted it to happen, that she had been harshly violated, taken by force.

But one thing worried her very much. Across the valley, above the dawn mist, snowcaps slowly turned pink as Judy reluctantly faced her anxiety. Had it been . . . that is, how
much
had it
been . . . in what way had that incident been her own fault?

Had she led him on? And, if so, to what extent was
she
guilty?

For two days Judy refused to leave her room. Listless and pale, she pretended to be ill. Knowing that she worked zealously, nobody disbelieved her. They thought she had either overtaxed her
strength or was suffering from a bout of influenza. Nick hovered anxiously at her door, brought her hot milk, homemade beef broth, glasses of fresh orange juice and aspirin.

On the third morning, Judy watched the red winter sun scatter diamonds on the snow beneath her window. I must put this behind me, she thought. I mustn’t let it ruin my life.

With determination she buried her shame and mortification, lifted her chin and went out to face the world.

On the night of St. Valentine there was an excited bustle in the ballroom as pretty girls and muscular young men swarmed to foxtrot in aid of the Swiss ski team. Then the band
slid into “Mean to Me” and more couples moved to the dance floor. Judy had just started night work again. During the holiday season you worked without query or complaint until all the
work was finished, and the Chesa staff often had to help out at the Imperial on gala nights.

Suddenly the music stopped. Everyone felt that expectant hush that precedes the entrance of royalty, and the band launched into a boom-badoom national anthem.

Two figures appeared in the doorway. The girl was Pagan, wearing a spangled cloud of gray tulle as she stood in the doorway, her hand on Prince Abdullah’s immaculately tailored arm.

Judy almost dropped another tray.

The man with Pagan was the one who had raped Judy the previous week. Her dark stranger was the Prince of Sydon.

With a half-smile, he turned to murmur fondly into Pagan’s ear, and Judy realised something else, something that upset and bewildered her. The dark stranger was obviously in love with
Pagan.

Judy felt a rush of indignation and pain. Suddenly she felt again the humiliation and anxiety that she had felt on that dreadful night. She felt unable to breathe, she needed air.

Carefully she put her tray on a table, pushed through the staff swing doors, down the backstairs, out of the crowded noisy kitchen and into the starlit night. Shivering, she watched the black
shadow of a dog lope along the silver walls of the street.

It didn’t really matter who he was or why he had behaved as he had. If he was Pagan’s man, she was going to stay silent. She wouldn’t say a word and, by God, he’d better
stay quiet too! Eventually, she rubbed her cold bare arms and turned back to the kitchen door.

She wasn’t waiting on the top tables, and although Pagan twice winked at Judy as she passed them, Prince Abdullah never noticed her. It would not occur to him to notice the face of a
waitress. He was accustomed to being surrounded by obsequious servants: they were there to give service, and he no more thought of paying attention to their feelings than he would to the feelings
of a door or a chair.

On the evening when Abdullah had so unexpectedly bumped into Judy, he had just left Pagan, who had aroused his passion to an extent that he would never have believed possible. But she was
maddeningly elusive. In spite of his rank, his royal wishes and the arts taught him by the
hakim
, she resisted him. One moment he thought that he held her, and then she would give a throaty
laugh, he would hear that damned bathwater gurgle of hers, as physically and mentally she slipped away. He wanted to possess her, not only her body, but also her brain: he wanted all of Pagan with
a power and an urgency that he knew he could convey to her if only she’d let him.

But he couldn’t have her. She wouldn’t allow it.

So he had left her, but his blood was pulsing with passion and frustrated desire as he crashed toward his rooms. Then there was a smash of china and that tiny blond girl was weeping on the
floor. What had happened afterward would be considered an honour for a serving girl in his country. Abdullah had been mildly surprised that Judy had disappeared before he could press a benefice
into her hand, but apart from that he never again thought about the incident.

B
Y
A
PRIL
J
UDY
had missed two periods and woke up retching every morning.
She felt even more tired than usual, and kept rushing to the lavatory.

She knew why, of course. Her main reaction was fear—not of giving birth, but fear of her father and mother. Nothing so shameful had ever happened in her family. Whatever happened, she
couldn’t go back to America before it was all over.

Apart from her family’s reaction, Judy also panicked at the thought of being responsible for another life. Although she rarely admitted it, Judy knew that she was still only a schoolgirl
herself.