Oracle Night (17 page)

Once my eyes had adjusted a little, I noticed some dim low-wattage lamps glowing in various places around the room. Each one had been fitted with a bulb of a different color – red, yellow, purple, blue – and for a moment I thought about the Portuguese notebooks in Chang’s bankrupt store. I wondered if the ones I’d seen on Saturday were still available and, if they were, whether he’d be willing to sell them to me. I made a mental note to ask him about it before we left.

By and by, he led me to a tall chair or stool, something made of leather or imitation leather that swiveled on its base and had a nice cushiony feel to it. I sat down, and he sat down next to me, and I realized that we were at some kind of bar – a lacquered, oval-shaped bar that occupied the center of the room. Things were becoming clearer to me now. I could make out several people sitting across from us, a couple of men in suits and ties, an Asian man in what looked like a Hawaiian shirt, and two or three women, none of whom seemed to be wearing any clothes. Ah, I said to myself, so that’s what this place is. A sex club. Oddly enough, it was only then that I noticed the music playing in the background – a soft, rumbling piece that wafted in from some invisible sound system. I strained to pick out the song, but I couldn’t identify it. Some Musak version of an old rock-and-roll number – maybe the Beatles, I thought, but maybe not.

‘Well, Mr. Sid,’ Chang said, ‘what do you think?’

Before I could answer him, a bartender appeared in front of us and asked for our orders. It might have been the old man who had opened the door earlier, but I wasn’t certain. It could have been his brother, or perhaps some other relative with a stake in the enterprise. Chang leaned over and whispered in my ear. ‘No alcohol,’ he said. ‘Fake beer, 7-Up, Coke. Too risky to sell booze in place like this. No liquor license.’ Now that I’d been informed of the possibilities, I opted for a Coke. Chang did the same.

‘Brand-new place,’ the ex-stationer continued. ‘Just open on Saturday. They still iron out the kinks, but I see large potential here. They ask if I want to invest as minority partner.’

‘It’s a brothel,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you want to get mixed up in an illegal business?’

‘Not brothel. Relaxation club with naked women. Help the workingman feel better.’

‘I’m not going to split hairs with you. If you’re so keen on it, go ahead. But I thought you were broke.’

‘Money never a problem. I borrow. If profit from investment stay ahead of interest on loan, everything okay.’

‘If.’

‘Very little if. They find gorgeous girls to work here. Miss Universe, Marilyn Monroe, Playmate of Month. Only the hottest, most sexy women. No man can resist. Look, I show you.’

‘No thanks. I’m a married man. I have everything I need at home.’

‘Every man say that. But the dick always win out over duty. I prove it to you now.’

Before I could stop him, Chang wheeled around in his chair and made a beckoning gesture with his hand. I looked over in that direction myself and saw five or six cocktail booths lining the wall, something I had managed to miss when I first entered the room. Naked women sat at three of them, apparently waiting for customers, but the others had been curtained off, presumably because the women who occupied those spots were busy at work. One of the women rose from her seat and came walking toward us. ‘This one the best,’ Chang said, ‘the most beautiful of all. They call her the African Princess.’

A tall black woman emerged from the darkness. She was wearing a pearl-and-rhinestone choker, knee-high white boots, and a white G-string. Her hair was done up in elaborate cornrow braids, ornamented with bangles at the ends that tinkled like wind chimes when she moved. Her walk was graceful, languorous, erect – a regal sort of bearing that no doubt explained why she was called the Princess. By the time she was within six feet of the bar, I understood that Chang had not been exaggerating. She was a stunningly beautiful woman – perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And all of twenty, perhaps twenty-two years old. Her skin looked so smooth and inviting, I found it almost impossible to resist touching it.

‘Say hello to my friend,’ Chang instructed her. ‘I settle up with you later.’

She turned to me and smiled, exposing a set of astonishing white teeth. ‘Bonjour, chéri,’ she said. ‘Tu parles français?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I only speak English.’

‘My name is Martine,’ she said, with a heavy Creole accent.

‘I’m Sidney,’ I answered, and then, trying to make a stab at conversation, I asked her which country in Africa she came from.

She laughed. ‘Pas d’Afrique! Haiti.’ She pronounced the last word in three syllables,
Ha-ee-tee
. ‘A bad place,’ she said. ‘Duvalier is very méchant. It is nicer here.’

I nodded, having no idea what to say next. I wanted to get up and leave before I got myself into trouble, but I couldn’t move. The girl was too much, and I couldn’t stop looking at her.

‘Tu veux danser avec moi?’ she said. ‘You dance with me?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not a very good dancer.’

‘Something else?’

‘I don’t know. Well, maybe one thing … if it isn’t too much to ask.’

‘One thing?’

‘I was wondering…. Would you mind terribly if I touched you?’

‘Touched me? Of course. That is easy. Touch me anywhere you like.’

I reached out my hand and ran it down the length of her bare arm. ‘You are very timide,’ she said. ‘Do you not see my breasts? Mes seins sont très jolis, n’est-ce pas?’

I was sober enough to realize that I was traveling down the road to perdition, but I didn’t let that stop me. I cupped her small round breasts in my two hands and held them there for some time – long enough to feel her nipples harden.

‘Ah, that is better,’ she said. ‘Now you let me touch you, okay?’

I didn’t say yes, but neither did I say no. I assumed she had something innocent in mind – a pat on the cheek, a finger traced across my lips, a playful squeeze of the hand. Nothing to compare with what she actually did, in any case, which was to press herself against me, slide her elegant hand down into my jeans, and take hold of the erection that had been growing in there for the past two minutes. When she felt how stiff I was, she smiled. ‘I think we are ready to dance,’ she said. ‘You come with me now, okay?’

To his credit, Chang didn’t laugh at this sad little spectacle of male weakness. He had proved his point, and rather than gloat over his triumph, he merely winked at me as I walked off with Martine to her booth.

The whole transaction seemed to last no longer than the time it takes to fill a bathtub. She closed the curtain around the booth and immediately unbuckled my pants. Then she dropped to her knees and put her right hand around my penis, and after a few gentle strokes, followed by some timely licks of the tongue, she put it in her mouth. Her head began to move, and as I listened to the tinkling of her braids and looked down at her extraordinary bare back, I felt a rush of warmth rising up through my legs and into my groin. I wanted to prolong the experience and savor it for a little while, but I couldn’t. Martine’s mouth was a deadly instrument, and like any aroused teenage boy, I came almost at once.

Regret set in within a matter of seconds. By the time I’d pulled up my jeans and fastened my belt, regret had turned into shame and remorse. The only thing I wanted was to get out of there as quickly as I could. I asked Martine how much I owed her, but she waved me off and said my friend had already taken care of it. She kissed me when I said good-bye, an amiable little peck on the cheek, and then I parted the curtain and went back to the bar to look for Chang. He wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d found a woman for himself and was already with her in another booth, testing the professional qualifications of one of his future employees. I didn’t bother to stick around to find out. I walked around the bar once, just to make sure I hadn’t missed him, and then I found the door that led to the dress factory and started out for home.

The next morning, Wednesday, I served Grace breakfast in bed again. There was no talk about dreams this time, and neither one of us mentioned the pregnancy or what she was planning to do about it. The issue was still up in the air, but after my disgraceful behavior in Queens the day before, I felt too embarrassed to broach the subject. In the span of thirty-six short hours, I had gone from being a self-righteous defender of moral certainties to an abject, guilt-ridden husband.

Nevertheless, I tried to keep up a good front, and even though she was unusually quiet that morning, I don’t think Grace suspected anything was wrong. I insisted on walking her to the subway, holding her hand for the entire four blocks to the Bergen Street station, and for most of the way we talked about ordinary matters: a jacket she was designing for a book on nineteenth-century French photography, the film treatment I had handed in the day before and the money I hoped would come from it, what we would have for dinner that night. On the last block, however, Grace abruptly changed the tone of the conversation. She gripped my hand tightly and said: ‘We trust each other, don’t we, Sid?’

‘Of course we do. We wouldn’t be able to live together if we didn’t. The whole idea of marriage is based on trust.’

‘People can go through rough times, can’t they? But that doesn’t mean things can’t work out in the end.’

‘This isn’t a rough time, Grace. We’ve been through that already, and we’re beginning to pull ourselves together again.’

‘I’m glad you said that.’

‘I’m glad you’re glad. But why?’

‘Because that’s what I think too. No matter what happens with the baby, everything between us is going to be fine. We’re going to make it.’

‘We’ve already made it. We’re cruising down Easy Street, kid, and that’s where we’re going to stay.’

Grace stopped walking, put her hand on the back of my neck, and pulled my face toward her for a kiss. ‘You’re the best, Sidney,’ she said, and then she kissed me once more for good measure. ‘No matter what happens, don’t ever forget that.’

I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but before I could ask her what she meant, she disentangled herself from my arms and started running toward the subway. I stood where I was on the sidewalk, watching her cover the last ten yards. Then she came to the top step, grabbed hold of the railing, and disappeared down the stairs.

Back at the apartment, I kept myself busy for the next hour, killing time until the Sklarr Agency opened at nine-thirty. I washed the breakfast dishes, made the bed, tidied up the living room, and then I went back into the kitchen and called Mary. The ostensible reason was to make sure Angela had remembered to give her my pages, but knowing that she had, I was actually calling to find out what Mary thought of them. ‘Good job,’ she said, sounding neither greatly excited nor terribly disappointed. The fact that I had written the outline so quickly, however, had enabled her to pull off a high-speed communications miracle, and that had her gushing with excitement. In those days before fax machines, e-mails, and express letters, she had sent the treatment to California by private courier, which meant that my work had already traveled across the country on last night’s red-eye. ‘I had to get a contract off to another client in LA,’ Mary said, ‘so I hired the courier service to come by the office at three o’clock. I read your treatment right after lunch, and half an hour later the guy shows up for the contract. “This one’s also going to LA,” I said, “so you might as well take it too.” So I handed him your manuscript, and off it went, just like that. It should be on Hunter’s desk in about three hours.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘But what about the idea? Do you think it has a chance?’

‘I only read it once. I didn’t have time to study it, but it seemed fine to me, Sid. Very interesting, nicely worked out. But you never know with those Hollywood people. My guess is it’s too complicated for them.’

‘So I shouldn’t get my hopes up.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. Just don’t count on it, that’s all.’

‘I won’t. But the money would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, I do have some good news for you on that front. I was just going to call you, in fact, but you beat me to it. A Portuguese publisher has made an offer on your last two novels.’

‘Portugal?’

‘
Self-Portrait
was published in Spain while you were in the hospital. You know that, I told you. The reviews were very good. Now the Portuguese are interested.’

‘That’s nice. I suppose they’re offering something like three hundred dollars.’

‘Four hundred for each book. But I can easily get them up to five.’

‘Go for it, Mary. After you deduct the agents’ fees and foreign taxes, I’ll wind up with about forty cents.’

‘True. But at least you’ll be published in Portugal. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing. Pessoa is one of my favorite writers. They’ve kicked out Salazar and have a decent government now. The Lisbon earthquake inspired Voltaire to write
Candide
. And Portugal helped get thousands of Jews out of Europe during the war. It’s a terrific country. I’ve never been there, of course, but that’s where I live now, whether I like it or not. Portugal is perfect. The way things have been going these past few days, it had to be Portugal.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time.’

I made it to Trause’s apartment on the dot of one. As I rang the bell, it occurred to me that I should have stopped off somewhere in the neighborhood and bought take-out lunches for the two of us, but I had forgotten about Madame Dumas, the woman from Martinique who managed the household. The meal was already prepared, and it was served to us in John’s den on the second floor, the same room where we had eaten our Chinese dinner on Saturday night. I should note that Madame Dumas was not on duty that day. It was her daughter, Régine, who opened the door and led me upstairs to
Monsieur John
. I remembered that Trause had called her ‘nice to look at,’ and now that I’d seen her myself, I was forced to admit that I, too, found her remarkably attractive – a tall, well-proportioned young woman with glowing ebony skin and keen, watchful eyes. No G-string, of course, no bare breasts or white leather boots, but this was the second twenty-year-old French-speaking black woman I had met in two days, and I found the repetition jarring, almost intolerable. Why couldn’t Régine Dumas have been a short, homely girl with a bad complexion and a hump on her back? She wasn’t the heart-stopping beauty that Martine of Haiti was, perhaps, but she was a fetching creature in her own right, and when she opened the door and smiled at me in her friendly, self-assured way, I felt it as a reproof, a mocking rejoinder from my own troubled conscience. I had been doing everything in my power not to think about what had happened the day before, to forget my sorry peccadillo and put it behind me, but there was no escape from what I had done. Martine had come to life again in the form of Régine Dumas. She was everywhere now, even in my friend’s Barrow Street apartment, half a world away from that shabby cinder-block building in Queens.