Moloch: Or, This Gentile World (13 page)

“Very well, then, let her stew, Leslie.”

With the progress of the meal, and a few drafts of wine, Marcelle reconsidered. She wanted to be coaxed.

“But supposing your aunt returns suddenly … ?”

“She won’t,” said Leslie promptly. “And what if she did? You’re not going naked.” He looked to Moloch for support.

“Of course!” Moloch chimed in. “Don’t be stupid, Marcelle. Make yourself comfortable.” (He was in his suspenders.) “Here, have another glass of wine.”

“All right, then,” she assented timidly. “Where can I undress?”

Leslie showed her to the bathroom and handed her a piece of silk.

Marcelle loitered in the bathroom listening to the droning of Moloch’s voice. Moloch had stumbled into a nest of reminiscences.

Leslie wondered when he would get the opportunity to speak to him privately.

“Another time I remember a peculiar thing happening to me,” Moloch was saying. “It was a night similar to this … frightfully close. I was at the beach with a girl—I don’t remember how or where I picked her up. We were buried in the shadow of a giant Ferris wheel. There was a peculiar fascination about—the way it swished slowly and majestically through the suffocating blanket of humidity. An insane desire took hold of me to rip off my clothes and plunge into the surf. I mean this seriously. It wasn’t just an idea that you toy with and dismiss after you’ve had your fill of it. This was an obsession that I had to fight against with all my strength. Each time I got to the point of jumping up and carrying out this impulse one of the big carriages on the Ferris wheel would come sliding out toward the rim as though to make a nose dive into the sea. You could hear the occupants gasp and shriek when it started on its terrific lunge into space. I suppose my mind was diverted, for an instant, each time this happened by the notion of what would take place should these merrymakers suddenly be hurled to death by that twisted piece of steel. And that led me to thinking about God. No profound thoughts, mind you … just the ordinary lazy speculations about a frowning giant, with long whiskers, floating on his throne, over a heap of beautiful clouds. I thought to myself—
old
man
,
if you actually do exist, there is nothing I envy you except, perhaps, your memories. In three seconds, no doubt I went through five hundred pages of history. For an endless time I lay there, hypnotized by the incessant purring of this enormous, senseless contraption. The young lady in my arms was slightly peeved because I didn’t ask her to do things which I knew she would refuse. And then— golly, it must have been right on top of us!—an accordion suddenly broke loose. It had just the effect you might expect if you suddenly saw a comet swing out of its orbit—and you had nowhere to run.”

The narrative was interrupted by Leslie, who had succumbed to an inexplicable seizure of hysterics. Tears rolled down his cheeks; he held his sides to prevent them from bursting under the violent paroxysms of mirth.

“What’s wrong, kid?” said Moloch. He failed to perceive anything explosively comic in his anecdote. … “I hadn’t finished telling …”

“Don’t! Wait a second,” sputtered Leslie. “Don’t go on just yet.”

Marcelle returned and put out the lights; then she went over to Moloch and sat in his lap. In the sudden gloom the latter accidentally slipped his arm through the loose sleeve of her kimono. Her flesh was soft night and powder smooth. She made no attempt to change her position. Gently and quite casually he opened her kimono and clasped his hands about her dimpled form. She offered no more resistance to his embrace than a violet crushed between the leaves of the
Heptameron
.
Their lips met and matched the silence of the dark. In a few seconds Marcelle straightened up taut and commenced talking in a rapid nervous staccato.

It was so very black in the room the instant after the lights went out that Leslie was not sure of his impressions. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy, strangely excited, as if the ether had communicated the intoxication of this silent union.

Marcelle begged Moloch to continue his tale.... “Why did you laugh so, Leslie?”

“That accordion!” he gasped. “Don’t let him go on … please. I can’t stand it!”

They waited again for him to subside.

“I swear he never heard an accordion,” Leslie ripped out after a valiant struggle to control himself. “He got that out of a book, or else he made it up. I swear it never happened.
Not an accordion!
Never, never!” He threatened to erupt again.

“Oh, damn the accordion!” said Moloch. “Let’s have some canned music.”

Marcelle scrambled to her feet. “Let me look, will you, Leslie?”

Leslie Ut a match while she knelt down to go over the records. As he did so, he peered defiantly through the partly opened kimono at her violet-tinted breasts. His hands trembled so that he dropped the match. It flickered out quickly and he was obliged to fumble for another, availing himself meanwhile of the sudden blackness to rub against her body. The touch of her thigh made him glow all over. He quivered with premeditated ecstasies.

“Just one dance,” he whispered stealthily.

Marcelle rose instantly and left his side. She too trembled. In the same manner the islands of the Pacific, just before they slip from under the light of the sun, seem to glow with a dying zeal and tremble under the avalanche of extinction.

The floor space in which Marcelle and Moloch simulated the execution of the dance was an irregular clearing, a rather circuitous lane studded with chairs and other objects against which they bumped cautiously, and with the speed of snails.

Leslie flung himself on a divan. He was absorbed in following the tantalizing movements of these two. With effort he could distinguish vaguely their welded forms, but he chose instead to lie back with eyes closed and listen to their heavy, irregular breathing, or the awkward scraping of their feet, drugged with desire. At times he had a feeling that they were not moving at all. Then the breathing grew heavier; the very atmosphere of the room became vitalized with their shuddering transports. He felt completely overpowered.

The touch of Marcelle’s thigh stuck to him. It phosphorized his senses. How had it affected her, he wondered; and immediately after he had formulated the thought came regret that he had
taken so little advantage of his opportunity. It was useless to believe that she would give him a chance. If she did, it would be from pity. He didn’t want any of her god-damned sympathy. But wait.. . just let her get too gay, and then see. She’d be coming to him yet, with a tale of woe … asking his sweet advice. He’d give it to her—and something more! Christ, couldn’t she see what Moloch was after? It sickened him to see what an idol she made of her Dion. Walking into a trap with her eyes shut—that’s all
she was doing. He wished Moloch had chosen another night,
another place, to perpetrate his seduction. That’s what it was. Not a damned thing else! He could actually feel that something was going to happen. It was in the air.

They were perspiring freely, Moloch and Marcelle.

“Anything cool to drink around here?” asked Moloch.

“Yeah … water!” Leslie answered.

“You’re a hell of a host.”

“Run out and get something. It’s my treat.” It was Marcelle who said this. She dashed to the bathroom to get her purse.

Leslie detected the gleam of two slim white legs as she swished hurriedly past him. He was sorely tempted to reach out and grab her … grab her anywhere. It made him sore, the two of them coming here and using the place as if it were a house of assignation. It wouldn’t be so bad if they showed some regard for his feelings, but—Christ, he was no better than a louse.

He took the money she offered unceremoniously and stuffed it in his pocket.

“How long do you want me to stay?” he said bitterly.

“Don’t be smart!” Marcelle came back at him like a spitfire. “You come right back … I’m dying of thirst.”

“Are you sure you’re merely thirsty?” he fired as he slammed the door.

“What a dirty little cad!” Marcelle felt her way to the armchair where Moloch was sitting, quietly puffing at a cigarette. He flung the butt on the floor and stamped on it. Then he seized her and carried her over to the divan.

“Please don’t let him find us here,” she murmured. “He’s such a nasty little devil.”

His lips, glued against the marble of her bosom, responded with meaningless yum-yums. It was apparent that he cared little whether Leslie found them in this position or in the morgue. His feelings were comparable to those of a husband who sees his wife departing up the gangplank, and by a violation of natural law also sees himself on the terrace of the golf club, sipping a gin rickey.

A parched zephyr invaded the stifling chamber. The tang of sea air, faint but unmistakable, permeated Marcelle’s disheveled hair....

To be spiteful, Leslie returned promptly. He knew the location of their bodies but it was impossible, coming in from the brilliant light of the street, to unravel the twisted skein of flesh.

“What would you do if you two had to get out of here suddenly?” The tone of Leslie’s voice was a rich mixture of malevolence and glee.

“Why, I guess we’d go to the park,” said Moloch indifferently.

“What’s ailing you?” said Marcelle, disengaging herself. “You know, Leslie, you’re nothing but a filthy little brat!… If we get on your nerves, why don’t you go downstairs and pick up someone. Get it out of your system! Don’t be mooning all night … and plaguing us to death. We know you’re suffering from adolescence.”

“You might try writing to Beatrice Fairfax,” said Moloch, his voice velvety smooth.

Marcelle tittered. “Yes, that’s a bright idea, Leslie.”

“Go to hell—the two of you!”

“What—on a hot night like this?” Moloch proceeded calmly to open the bottles. “Get a corkscrew, will you, Leslie?”

“Is there anything else you’d like?” He suggested an article of convenience usually associated with bedrooms.

“Now, Leslie! Don’t get nasty! You’re losing your poise. Remember what I told you on another occasion. This is a free country. If you don’t like it here, you can get out and try some other place.”

“Oh, have some regard for his feelings,” Marcelle pleaded. “We shouldn’t expect too much of him. He’s just a child.”

At this Leslie was in a fair way to burst.

“A lot of control you people display!” he blurted resentfully. “I can turn you out, if I want, do you know it?”

“The perfect host!” cried Moloch. “Have a drink, kid, it’ll cool you off. When you dance with Marcelle you’ll need a barrel of poise. Try to control yourself. …”

Marcelle spoke up quickly. “No, thanks. No more dancing tonight for me. It’s too beastly hot.”

“All right, then. Let’s finish this stuff and take a stroll in the park.”

“I hope you two enjoyed yourselves,” Leslie moaned.

“Of course we did, kid. Of course, we did.... Er, next time, make it sour wine. I can’t go this sweet stuff!”

“You managed to get away with a few bottles, I notice.”

“Out of politeness, kid … sheer politeness.”

“Well, next time don’t be so damned polite.” He turned and commenced to stalk out of the room. “I wish to hell I’d never met you two,” he flung at them over his shoulder.

“What a tantrum!” exclaimed Marcelle.

“Leslie! How about a nice little carousel ride?”

No answer.

The heat was less intolerable down in the street. Marcelle hung on Moloch’s arm. They walked in silence for a few blocks.

“Must we go through the park?” Marcelle asked suddenly.

“No-o-o-h … it’s a shortcut, that’s all.”

“I’d rather talk to you, Dion.”

“Can’t we talk in the park?” He wondered what disturbed her now.

She was hesitant. He knew very well what she meant—why did he pretend? She was disgusted with herself sometimes. The park seemed as indecent as a menagerie.

She struggled to screen the nakedness of her thoughts. “It’s just this, Dion—we hardly ever seem to talk anymore. You used to tell me so many things; you don’t confide in me anymore. You never have time to say anything to me … oh, you know what

I’m talking about.... You’re not a good comrade, that’s what I mean.”

“Come, come!” he protested. “You know that’s not true. Heavens! All day long, in the office, I look at you and I’m aching to walk over and throw my arms around you. We seldom have a chance to be alone anymore.”