Leonie (60 page)

Roberto felt a shock of disappointment. There were no black stockings and scarlet garters, no gay laughing blond women in satin knickers drinking champagne. These girls were not here to flirt and tempt and seduce; they were ready for action. Am I? he wondered in panic. What do we do now?

“Senhores.” The girl’s lips were red and wet-looking as she smiled at them. She had pretty teeth, he thought abstractedly, white and even, and her breasts were wonderful. He’d never seen a girl’s breasts before—he lowered his eyes quickly. She wore a peacock-colored scarf wrapped around her waist and a pair of high-heeled shoes. And that was all. Her thighs were heavy and the triangle of hair was dark and crisp-looking. He felt hypnotized by
the triangle, that secret place. “Welcome to the Orfeo,” she said. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Cachaça,” commanded Diego, putting his arm around her and caressing her breasts familiarly. She giggled and pressed closer to him as Roberto averted his eyes. The curtain was flung back suddenly and a caricature of a woman appeared in the doorway. Her mouth was a shapeless scarlet gash in a white-powdered face that was folded and creased with fat and age. Small pale eyes as hard and as dead as discarded nutshells peered from spiked black lashes and her thin reddish hair was brushed in elaborate curls around the mask of her face. A shiny, low-cut black dress, bejeweled with the glittering rewards of her profession, slithered over her shapeless body and rings flashed from every finger of her plump hands. Her face contorted into a replica of a smile. “Good afternoon, senhores,” she said, “and what can we offer you this afternoon? You see our girls … and we have, of course, a selection of ‘specialties.’ Just tell me what you like and I’ll make sure you have it; payment in advance, of course.”

“Of course,” said Diego coolly, tossing back his glass of Cachaça at a gulp, watching her disparagingly as she tottered toward the bar in shoes that were too tight for her plump feet. “She calls herself Madame Victoria,” he murmured mockingly to Roberto, “because she thinks she looks like the old English queen.” He laughed. “But that’s one of the advantages of a place like this: they’ll be anyone you ask … anything your fancy takes.” A dark girl sauntered across the floor and stopped in front of him. She flicked back her hair and licked her wide pink lips invitingly. “I’m Marisa,” she said, moving closer. Roberto gasped as Diego touched her heavy breasts, feeling them, lifting their weight, crushing them without tenderness under his groping hands. His fingers closed over her erect nipples, twisting them cruelly. The girl screamed in protest. “She’s a cow,” Diego said. “Let’s see what else there is.”

“Jesus, Diego, you didn’t have to hurt her like that!” cried Roberto.

“You don’t know these girls, they’re used to anything. I told you, you can do what you want here.”

Roberto drank his Cachaça rapidly, aware of the waiting eyes of the girls on the sofa. He felt the sweat trickle down his back and reached for another drink, watching as Diego settled himself between two of the girls, who giggled as they wrapped pale naked
arms around him. “Come on, Roberto, bring the bottle over here and join us,” he called.

Roberto walked cautiously across the room, stumbling slightly as the strong Cachaça hit him, hearing the girls laugh as though from a distance. He paused, shaking his head to clear it. That was better. He sat down carefully on the edge of the red plush sofa, staring into those waiting eyes—brown eyes smiling at him mockingly, blue eyes sullen and impatient, eager to get it over with, green eyes that had seen it all before—welcoming scarlet smiles on blank faces, naked breasts with rouged nipples, predatory hands that fluttered over him, caressing his hair, his face, his thighs. A girl settled herself on his lap, putting her arms around his neck, and desire surged through him so uncontrollably he was afraid he’d make a fool of himself. He took a deep breath and she wriggled appreciatively, laughing. “I’m Romana,” she murmured. “Here, I have another drink for you.” She held the glass to his lips. “Let me do it for you, there, drink it up. My, but you’re pretty. I’m lucky today. I don’t usually have boys as pretty as you.”

She had wild red hair and pale blue eyes and skin the color of fresh milk. He put his hand on her breast, blue-veined and soft. “That’s better,” she whispered. “Don’t be shy.” She leaned back, pulling his head down, and his mouth found her hard pink nipples. “Isn’t that better … isn’t it nice? Ah, yes, you like that, don’t you?” He was lost in the sensation of her breasts, her soft flesh, her nakedness.

Diego pushed the dark-haired girl from his lap and stood for a moment watching them. Romana smiled at him secretively as he walked across the room to speak to Madame Victoria. Diego wanted to laugh. It had been so much easier than he had thought, Roberto hadn’t been able to resist.

With all that Cachaça in him and the services of a couple of the girls, he’d never get through those exams tomorrow. He’d have to stay in Brazil. With me, he thought triumphantly. He couldn’t have borne it if Roberto had left. He’d have been stuck out there alone on the
fazenda
with no money, no girls—nothing! Now he had him. His hand trembled as he whispered in Madame Victoria’s ear, counting out the notes. Romana nodded as the madame gestured to the corridor.

“This way, my blond boy,” she said, pulling Roberto to his feet
and putting an arm around his waist to support him along the corridor.

His knees felt odd and this room looked odd—weren’t the walls too close, or was it that the bed was so big? He fell backward onto it, turning his head away—the light hurt his eyes. Romana untied the scarf from her waist and flung it across the lamp, dimming it to a red glow. She looked warm now, he thought dazedly, warm and soft. She unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it from his shoulders, and he put his hands on her breasts as she unbuttoned his pants. She laughed as she eased them over the bulge of his erection. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, “oh, yes, my boy, you’re ready all right.”

She straddled his body, leaning over him so that her breasts tickled his chest, the crisp red triangle of hair rubbed against him, she was warm, moist, soft. He was going to die from excitement, to burst, to explode; she was doing something to him, touching him, rubbing him.… Oh, my God, he was inside her, sliding, rubbing; she was squeezing him inside her, crushing his testicles with her hands. Oh, God, he was coming.

Diego and the dark-haired girl rolled next to them, on the bed, naked, laughing. He felt wetness as Romana moved away. His head reeled. He felt exhausted, drained.

Roberto awoke with a start. He was still lying on the bed, naked, and he could hear the murmur of voices and soft cries from somewhere close beside him. Opening his eyes he saw Diego crouched next to him. He was watching the two girls. They lay together in a tangle of arms and parted legs, caressing each other, kissing, tongues flickering, nipple pressed against nipple, hands searching. Roberto’s body throbbed in response, his throat was dry and the Cachaça flowed in his veins. He shut his eyes. The image of the two bodies still burned behind them, scarlet in the lamplight. He felt a hand snake across his belly, a tongue flicked across his thigh, closer, closer. A second soft mouth fastened on his, and Romana’s red hair brushed across his face as the dark girl bent over and took him in her mouth. Oh, he couldn’t bear it, she was wonderful. He moaned and bit at Romana’s flickering tongue. He could see Diego behind Romana and heard her gasp as he thrust himself into her. Oh, my God, he was fucking her. He kissed her again, sucking on her tongue, watching as Diego ground himself into her. He couldn’t stand it, his body trembled; he closed his eyes, lost in an ecstasy of flesh and sensation—writhing, touching, trembling. The dark girl moved away from him;
there was a new mouth, new hands, harder, more forceful hands, a familiar, more brutal mouth. He screamed with lust; his body was rocketing into new heights, new explosions of light, color, fantasy. It was Diego and he knew it. And he wanted it. It was the ultimate pleasure.

–
• 54 •

It was five-thirty on an August afternoon in Key West and the day was following a familiar pattern. First the warm pleasant early morning, then a gradual building of heat and rising humidity, until by evening it was stifling. Amélie sat by the open window of her room at the Villa Encantada, watching the purple clouds banking over the bay while the earth waited in breathless silence. No bird called, no insect buzzed, and even the rattling palm fronds were stilled. Then promptly at six o’clock, the jagged fluorescent fork of lightning split the lowering sky, its brilliant zigzagging blue plunging into the bay as thunder rolled across the heavens, rattling the timbers of Villa Encantada. Simultaneously the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, blocking out the angry sea, drumming on the roof and bouncing off the terrace, streaming from gutters and steps and flooding down the hill.

The ritual evening storm lasted for an hour and then quite suddenly the rain would stop and the sky would begin to brighten, the evening sun would reemerge and the sodden ground begin to steam as it dried in the heat. Birds trilled happily, insects continued where they had left off, and the palms rustled once more in the small fresh breeze. In a little while the terrace would be dry and they would sit out again, enjoying the cooler air and the smells of the garden refreshed by the rain, contemplating whether to go down the hill to the St. James for dinner or whether to barbecue the fish she and Edouard had caught that day. They were getting quite good at it—once Edouard had even caught a shark, a small one that the boatman had superstitiously cast back into the water.

Tonight Xara seemed especially tired and Amélie glanced at her anxiously. She was sitting in the big rattan chair with her feet up on the stool; the bulk of her full-term pregnancy made her look
uncomfortable. Xara was enormous and even her own amazed eyes wondered how her body could cope with the expanding needs of the twin babies that kicked and wriggled contentedly inside her.

“I’m really not hungry tonight, Amélie,” she said with a smile. “You go with Edouard to the hotel for dinner and bring me back some mango ice cream.” The local ice-cream parlor had come to know them well. Xara’s sudden passion for mango and Amélie’s for chocolate with marshmallow had become, like the storm, a nightly ritual.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Edouard with concern.

She looked so tired and he knew that she was having trouble sleeping. “Why don’t we stay here with you?” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’m all right, Edouard … I’m just pregnant. I’m certainly not ill. Besides, I’ll sleep better if you’re not here.”

“Very well, then, if you’re sure. Come on, Amélie. I’ll buy you the biggest steak at the St. James.”

They walked with their arms around each other down the sandy path, turning to wave at the corner as Xara waved back, thanking heaven that finally things had turned out so well between her and Amélie. It had been difficult until Amélie had realized that there was no threat to her relationship with Edouard, and though Amélie would never think of her as a mother, they were friends. She closed her eyes happily. She needed a couple of hours to herself. She knew these babies meant to be born that night, she had known all day.

Edouard sipped his wine and watched Amélie munching her steak appreciatively. She still veered between uncertain adolescent and young lady, though nowadays, he thought regretfully, she was more often the young lady. Roberto’s unexplained banishment to the
fazenda
had left Amélie bewildered and lonely and it had been Xara’s suggestion to take her to Florida with them. “Amélie will be company for me,” she had said, “when you’re busy poring over plans with the architects, or have to dash off to Miami.”

“Edouard,” Amélie interrupted his thoughts. “Why do you think Roberto hasn’t written to me?”

Her face was worried and he felt that pang of regret and helplessness that a man feels for his daughter when, because she is no longer a child, it becomes impossible to shield her from life’s bruises. He wished for a moment that she was still a carefree six-year-old
tomboy; it had all been so easy then. “I’m not sure, Amélie, but it’s probably because he’s working so hard.”

She put down her knife and fork and contemplated the tablecloth. She didn’t know what Roberto had done, only that he hadn’t come home for two nights—he hadn’t even shown up for his important exams—and when he had finally come home she’d heard that he looked terrible. No one would tell her, but she’d pieced the story together from the maids’ gossip and from snatches of conversation between Isabelle and Edouard and Edouard and Xara. He’d been disheveled and ill and he’d been confined to the house for a week. She hadn’t been allowed to see him—no one had—and it was the only time in her life she could remember seeing Francisco do Santos in a rage. Luiza had tried to calm him, to tell him that it had been just a boyish prank, but he had been adamant. There would be no European university for Roberto—he automatically failed the exam by his absence. He was banished to the
fazenda
for three months while his father contemplated what to do with him. “He can work out in the fields with the men,” he had said. “The hard work’ll do him good, give him time to clear his head.” But Diego was at the
fazenda
, too.

“It’s all Diego Benavente’s fault, you know,” she said seriously, “whatever happened, it was because of him. He’s a bad influence on Roberto. But because Teo Benavente is a good friend of Francisco’s, no one seems to notice. Diego is bad, Edouard … I know it.”

“Are you sure it’s not just that you’re a little bit jealous of him, Amélie? You’ve always thought of Roberto as
your
friend, just the two of you together. That was all right when you were kids, but now you’re growing up. You’ll be sixteen soon—and Roberto is eighteen. He’s a young man, he’ll have to make his own way in the world.”

She pushed back her hair impatiently. Why would no one except Sebastião see how bad Diego was? “I think he’s evil,” she said passionately, her amber eyes glinting with tears. “I know Roberto will have his own life, but all this has happened because of Diego, and I’m sure it’s
because
of Diego that he hasn’t written. Don’t you see, I’d rather he was away at a university in Europe, at least he’d write, he’d tell me things … he’d share things with me.”