Nightwork (24 page)

“Tell me, old man,” Fabian said, hearty and friendly, “what do you think of our little opus so far?”

“
Merde
. A piece of shit.”

“Really?” Lily sounded surprised.

“Philippe,” Nadine said warningly. “Priscilla hunderstands English. You don’t want to hundermine her performance, do you?”

“That’s all right,” Priscilla said, in her pure corn-fed, high-school soprano, “I never take what a Frenchman says seriously.”

“We are in the city where Racine presented
Phèdre
, where Molière died,” the critic recited, “where Flaubert went to court to defend
Madame Bovary
, where they rioted in the streets after the first performance of Hernani, where Heine was welcomed because of his poetry in another language, and Turgenev found a home.” Philippe’s beard was electric with argument, the great names luscious on his tongue. “In our own time, in the same medium—film—we have to our credit at least
Grand Illusion, Poil de Carotte
,
Forbidden Games.
And what have we gathered tonight to discuss? A comic and distasteful attempt to arouse our basest emotions …”

“Do not sound,
chéri
,” Nadine Bonheur said calmly, “as though you are too fine to fuck. I could gather testimony.”

The critic glowered at her and waved for another beer. “What have you shown me? The rutting of an empty-faced American
poupée
and a Moroccan pimp, the …”

“
Chéri
,” Nadine said, more sharply now, “remember, you are halways signing petitions against racism.”

“That’s all right, Nadine,” Priscilla said. She was spooning away at a huge bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce. “I never take what a Frenchman says seriously.”

The Moroccan smiled benignly, his English obviously not up to complicated observations on aesthetics in that language.

“Made in France,” the critic said, “written in France, composed in France, painted in France—You remember—” He pointed an accusing finger at Nadine. “I ask you to remember what that used to mean. Glory. Devotion to beauty, to art, to the highest aspirations of the human race. What does
your
Made in France mean? A tickling of the balls, a lubricity of the vagina …”

“Hear, hear,” Lily said.

“English lightness of character,” the critic said, leaning forward over the table, jutting his beard fiercely at Lily. “The Empire is gone. Now we will emit a Buckingham Palace snicker.”

“Old man,” Miles said amiably, “if I may say so, I think you’re missing the point.”

“If I may say so, sir,” Philippe said, “I think I am missing nothing. What is the point?”

“For one thing, the point is to make a dollar or two,” Miles said. “From what I’ve heard, that isn’t
completely
against the French character.”

“That is not the French character. That is capitalism in France. They are two different things, monsieur.”

“All right,” Fabian said good-naturedly, “let’s leave money out of it for the time being. Although permit me to point out in passing that the greatest number of pornographic films and the most—ah—explicit ones—come out of Sweden and Denmark, two Socialist countries, if I have my facts straight.”

“Scandinavians,” the critic said. He snorted, dismissing the North. “A mockery of the word Socialism. I piss on such Socialism.”

Fabian sighed. “You’re a hard man to do business with, Philippe.

“I have my definitions,” Philippe said. “I define Socialism.”

“China, again,” Nadine said. She made a small, wailing sound.

“We can’t all live in China, now, can we?” Fabian spoke reasonably. “Whether we like it or not, we live in a world that has a different history, different tastes, different needs …”

“I piss on a world that needs
merde
like the
merde
we saw tonight.” Philippe called for another beer. He would have a belly like a barrel by the time he was forty.

“I went to the Louvre with my young friend this afternoon.” Fabian waved in my direction, his voice gentle. “And yesterday I treated myself to a visit to the Jeu de Paume. Where the Impressionists are collected.”

“I do not have to have the museums of Paris described to me, monsieur,” Philippe said coldly.

“Forgive me,” Fabian said. “Tell me, monsieur, do you disapprove of the works of art in these museums?”

“Not all of them,” Philippe said reluctantly. “No.”

“The nudes, the embracing figures, the busty madonnas, the goddesses promising all sorts of carnal pleasures to the poor mortals below, the beautiful boys, the reclining princesses …Do you disapprove of all that?”

“I do not gather what you are heading for, monsieur,” Philippe said, sprinkling beer on his beard.

“What I’m getting at,” Fabian said, all patience and bonhomie, “is that throughout our civilization artists have presented objects of sexual desire, in one form or another, sacred, profane, lowly, elevated—the stuff of sensual fantasy. For example, yesterday in the Jeu de Paume, I saw, with pleasure, for perhaps the tenth time, the large canvas by Manet,
Le déjeuner sur l’herbe
, the one with the two superb ladies lolling naked on the grass with their fully dressed gentlemen friends watching admiringly and …”

“I am familiar with the work,” Philippe said flatly. “Continue.”

“Obviously,” Fabian said with relish, “Monsieur Manet did not mean for the viewer to understand that nothing went before that moment and that nothing would happen
after
the moment. The impression
I
get, at least, is one of delicious familiarity, with all that that connotes. …Are you beginning to follow me?”

“I understand.” Philippe was surly now. “I do not follow.”

“Perhaps,” Fabian said, “if Manet had had the time, he would have painted some scenes of what went on before that peaceful, suspended moment and what would go on after it. And they might not be so terribly different from some of the scenes that were screened for us tonight. Shall we admit that dear Nadine is perhaps not as great an artist as Manet and that sweet little Priscilla might not be as agelessly attractive as the ladies in the painting, but that in its modest way, Nadine’s film springs from some of the same basic motives as Manet’s oil …?”

“Bravo,” Nadine said. “He’s halways trying to get me to fuck him hout in the hopen hair. Don’t deny hit, Philippe. Remember Brittany last summer? Hall that sand up my hassole.”

“I deny nothing,” Philippe said unhappily.

“Sex, love, whatever you call it,” Fabian rolled on sonorously, “is never just plain flesh. There is always an element of fantasy involved. Each age looks to its artists for the fantasies that deepen or improve or even make possible the actual act. Nadine, once again in her modest way—forgive me, dear …” He leaned over and patted Nadine’s hand in a fatherly way. “Nadine is trying to enrich the fantasies of her fellowmen and women. In this dark, joyless, imaginatively stunted age, I would say that she should be saluted, not criticized.”

“Talk the hind leg off a donkey,” Lily said, in full Cockney, “that one would.”

“You can say that again, sister,” I said, remembering what Fabian had already talked me into in the space of one afternoon. It suddenly occurred to me that he must be a disbarred lawyer. Disbarred for a very good reason, no doubt.

“Someday, monsieur,” Philippe said, with dignity, “I would like to have a discussion with you in my native language. I am at a disadvantage in English.” He stood up. “I have to rise early in the morning. Pay the bill, Nadine, and let us find a taxi.”

“That’s all right, Nadine,” Fabian said, waving his hand, although she had made no move toward her purse. “The refreshments are on us.” The plural did not escape me. “And thank you for a jolly evening.”

We all stood up and Nadine kissed Fabian on both cheeks. She merely shook my hand. I was a little disappointed. The film had had its effect on me, blushes or no blushes. The touch of her lips would have been bracing. I wondered how the Moroccan boy, who had disported with her as her undeniably willing partner in at least two long scenes, could stand meekly aside and watch her go off with another man. Actors, I thought. They must divide themselves into compartments.

“Do you live near here?” Fabian asked Miss Dean.

“Not far.”

“Perhaps you’d like us to escort you home—”

“No, thanks, I’m not going home,” Priscilla said. “I have a date with my fiancé.” She put out her hand to me and I shook it. “G’bye, see you in church,” she said. I felt a small, rolled-up piece of paper in my palm. For the first time I looked directly at her. There was a little smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were a deep sea blue, the tide coming in rapidly, bringing incalculable sunken treasure.

“See you,” I mumbled and closed my hand over the bit of paper as she stepped away.

Outside, on the avenue, in the soft wet air of the February Paris night, after we had parted with Priscilla and the Moroccan and the cameraman, I dug into my pocket, where I had dropped the piece of paper. I unrolled it and, by the light of a streetlamp, saw that it had a telephone number written on it. I put the piece of paper back in my pocket and hurried after Fabian and Lily, who were walking ahead of me.

“Glad you came to Paris, Douglas?” Fabian asked.

“It’s been a lively day,” I said. “Most educational.”

“It’s only the beginning,” said Fabian. “There are vistas ahead of you, vistas.”

“Did you believe all that stuff you were spouting back there?” I asked. “About Nadine and Manet and so on?”

Fabian laughed. “Not at the start maybe,” he said. “I was just giving in to my normal reaction when I hear a Frenchman start orating about Racine and Molière and Victor Hugo. But by the end I damn near had myself convinced that I was a patron of the arts. That includes you, of course,” he added hastily.

“You’re not going to put your name—
our
name—on it, are you?” I said, alarmed.

“No.” Fabian sounded almost regretful. “I suppose that would be going too far. We’ll have to find a company name. Have you any ideas, Lily? You’ve always been the clever girl.”

“Up, Down, and Over Productions,” Lily said.

“Don’t be vulgar, dear,” Fabian said prissily. “Remember, we want a review in
The Times
. We’ll have to put our minds to it in the calm light of day. Oh, by the way, Douglas, get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be up at five. We have to drive out to Chantilly for the workouts.”

“What workouts?” I had no idea where Chantilly was and for a moment I thought that it was a special place where actors in pornographic movies kept in shape. From what I had seen that evening, a day’s shooting involved as much physical expenditure for man and woman alike as ten fast rounds with a bantamweight prizefighter.

“Our horse,” Fabian said. “There was a cable waiting for me at the desk when we got back from the Louvre this afternoon—By the way, you did enjoy the Louvre, didn’t you?”

“Yes. What about our horse?”

“The cable was from my friend in Kentucky. Somehow, he found out about the splints. He’s not ready to buy at the moment …”

“Oh, God,” I said.

“Not to fret, dear boy,” Fabian said. “My friend in Kentucky wants the animal to run in one decent race before he puts his money down. You can’t blame the man, can you?”

“No. But I can blame you.”

“I’m afraid you’re starting our relationship on the wrong note, Douglas,” Fabian said, hurt. “We just have to explain matters to the trainer. He has great faith in the horse, great faith. All he has to do is to make sure the horse is fit and pick the appropriate race to enter him in. The trainer’s name is Coombs. An English name, but his family’s been in Chantilly since the Empress Josephine. He’s a wizard at picking appropriate races, an absolute wizard. He’s won races with animals they were about to sell to pull junk wagons. Anyway, you’ll love Chantilly. No lover of horses should come to Paris without seeing Chantilly.”

“I’m no lover of horses,” I said. “I hate horses. I’m scared stiff of them.”

“Ah, Douglas,” Fabian said as we reached the hotel, “you have a long way to go, a long, long way.” He tapped me, old comrade, on the shoulder, as we went in. “But you’ll make it, I guarantee you’ll make it.”

I went up to my room, looked at the bed, turned down for the night, and stared at the telephone. I remembered some of the scenes in the movie I had seen that evening and decided I wasn’t sleepy. I went down to the bar and ordered a whiskey and soda. I drank it slowly, then took out the slip of paper Priscilla Dean had put in my hand and spread it out before me on the bar. “Is there a telephone here?” I asked the barman.

“Downstairs,” he said.

I went downstairs and gave the number to the girl who was on duty there and went into the booth she indicated to me and picked up the phone. There was a moment’s silence, then a busy signal. I listened to the signal for thirty seconds, then replaced the phone. So be it, I thought.

I went back to the bar, paid for my drink. Ten minutes later I was in my bed. Alone.

The name of the horse was Rêve de Minuit. Lily, Fabian, and I were standing with Coombs, the trainer, in the morning mist at the head of one of the
allées
in the forest of Chantilly, watching the exercise boys gallop in pairs and trios. It was seven in the morning and cold. My shoes and the cuffs of my trousers were muddy and wet through. I was hunched in my old, sooty, greenish overcoat, the same one I had when I was at the St. Augustine, and I felt citified and out of place in the dripping woods, with the smell of wet foliage and steaming horses all around me. Fabian, ready for any occasion, was wearing jodphur boots and a smart, short, canvas hunting coat over his houndstooth jacket and corduroy pants. An Irish tweed cap sat squarely on his head and moisture glinted on his moustache. He looked as though dawn was his favorite time of day and as if he had owned a string of thoroughbreds all his life. Anyone seeing him there for the first time would be sure that no trainer would be able to pull any crafty trainer’s tricks on him.

Lily, too, was dressed for the scene, in high brown boots and loose belted polo coat, her English complexion brought to its genetic perfection by the dank atmosphere of the forest. If I intended to remain in their company—and by now I would have been hard put to figure out how I could disentangle myself—I would have to rethink my wardrobe.