Perfect Freedom (40 page)

“Yes, a very thorough one. It's quite big.”

“Well, that shows he's interested in it. That's something. He's not blasé.”

“Oh no, I didn't say that,” Robbie agreed, making amends for his disloyalty. He smiled to himself as he added, “He was very enthusiastic about it during our tour.”

They fell silent as they approached the last curve in the sweeping drive and sat forward. They rounded it and drove up to the segment of village square. The new plaster, shaded from ochre to soft pink to gray on the various surfaces of the irregular façade, had already weathered slightly and glowed in the late sun. Vines were climbing up it. There were flowers everywhere and the big cork oak they had carefully guarded from the builders cast a lacy shadow on one end of the structure.

Stuart brought the car to a halt and turned off the motor. “So far so good,” he said with quiet pride.

“It's lovely,” Helene exclaimed incredulously.

The antique wrought-iron gates of the central arch were flung open and people came spilling through, Boldoni and his wife and Felix and Agnès, the handsome new maid. The Coslings were caught up in a tumultuous homecoming. They crowded through flagged passages, jostling each other and all talking at once, past the cloistered courtyard of the guest wing and out to the vast terrace hanging over the sea. They all fell silent abruptly as the proprietors looked around them.

The fountain splashed into a pool of lilies. The rich colors of draperies were visible through the wide French doors of the main house. Red rocks tumbled into the azure sea at the mouth of the cove. The descending colonnade of cypresses joined the beach house to the upper complex. White pigeons strutted on the lush green lawn under the olive trees. Behind, terraces of lemon and orange trees mounted to where “Robbie's Folly” should have been visible.

For a moment, Robbie couldn't find it and then he saw a corner of the small house emerging from the foliage. The last time he'd seen it, it had stood out stark and bare against the hillside. Without knowing why the question had occurred to him, he. had wondered then how anybody could come to see him without being observed. The problem now would be to make sure his guests knew how to find him.

“Felix has been at work,” Stuart said, breaking the silence. Robbie let out a whoop of joy and went running off down the glade. Pigeons whirled up around his head with a clatter of wings. He found the path he had planned to lead up to the house and leaped up the steps from terrace to terrace, glancing back down as he went to see that he was adequately screened from view all the way. A cypress guarded the door. It was unlocked and Robbie let himself into his private domain.

He stood in a living room about the size of the all-purpose room in the little house he had grown up in. The furniture was simple and serviceable, with a sofa and a few chairs in front of a fireplace. A skylight had been let into the top half of the north end of the wall and adjacent ceiling and the area below it was bare except for a sturdy worktable, waiting for Robbie's easel and brushes and paints. He glanced into the bedroom and his eyes lingered on the double bed he had requested, also without knowing why. Even then he apparently had been thinking of finding someone to share it.

The bathroom and tiny kitchenette, including a refrigerator, completed his house. He went to the end of the living room and stepped out onto the terrace that looked out over the sea. He had to go to the edge of it before he could see down into the main living quarters and the cove below. He could lie naked in the sun in perfect privacy. It was all too good to be believed.

He poked about in closets and cupboards and saw that everything he had sent back from school was here, as were the bags from the boat. He set to work moving in. By the time he had created some order, he had arrived at the realization that no challenges faced him here. This was his refuge; he would stay away from town. Nobody need know who he brought here. He had his work to help him resist temptation. Edward already took it for granted that they would make forays into town together but if the English boy continued to fall in love he would probably be delighted to keep Robbie for himself out here.

It occurred to Robbie that the Cumberleighs' self-proclaimed liberation from their elders was as limiting as secrecy and self-denial. He couldn't be the only one who would be hesitant about public association with Edward's open admission of homosexuality. By saying everything, they made themselves conspicuous. He could indulge himself more freely than they because nobody would be paying any attention. He supposed he had to go back to town for the statue but he wouldn't go to the Tour Engloutie even if he could get away from his father. It sounded like the sort of place that offered nothing but trouble. No matter what Edward said, he wasn't ready to be found out.

Bathed, dressed in cool clean clothes, somewhat rested, the Coslings had Boldoni's gala dinner under the stars. The great terrace was furnished like a living room with groupings of handsome outdoor furniture set about on it. The dining table was set near the edge over the sea. Stuart doubted they would use their impressive reception rooms till winter. Before the meal was half over, Robbie was getting drowsy on wine.

“The statue,” he exclaimed to wake himself up. “Do you suppose either of us has the strength to lift it?”

“I hope Hilliard is in good shape. We could let it go till tomorrow. The boat doesn't have to be back for three days. Still, I'd feel better getting it ashore now.”

“Me too.”

“Look, we don't both have to go in. Stanley's having dinner with friends. We won't have any trouble picking up an extra hand. Even better, I'll take Felix. He has the strength of ten. The statue won't be any secret from him.”

“You sure you don't mind?”

“Of course not. It doesn't make any sense for both of us to knock ourselves out.” He was disappointed and hurt—he had thought of the statue as a joint venture that they would conclude together—but he was too numb with exhaustion and drink to feel anything very deeply.

“I'm sure Felix could handle it all by himself,” Helene said, approving Robbie's withdrawal.

“If you happen to see Anne and Edward, tell them I've collapsed. They wanted to take me to the Tour Engloutie to see some dancer.”

“Yes, several people mentioned him,” Helene said dismissively. “It doesn't sound like the sort of thing we'd be interested in.” She had been shocked by what she'd heard about the Tour Engloutie. She'd caught men eying Robbie during the cruise. She didn't know what men did together nor how widespread such practices were, but she wouldn't allow his beauty to be defiled. He still had a glow of innocence that she hoped he wouldn't lose for a few more years.

“He'd have to be fairly sensational to keep me awake,” Robbie said. The subject was closed.

Stuart drove carefully. He wasn't drunk. He was functioning on alcohol. He left Felix in the car and found Hilliard and his girl and they crossed to a café where they found several couples whose names couldn't penetrate the sheath of numbness in which he was encased. The evening crowd was at its height and Stuart had seen lights on
Northern Star
, which meant that the crew was still awake. He resigned himself to waiting till after midnight and ordered a brandy.

“We're going to the Tour Engloutie in a little while, if it's all right with you,” Hilliard said. “Have you heard about it?”

“It opened last year. I understand it's properly disreputable.”

“They've got a kid dancing there. All the pansies in town go. Next to you, he's the sensation of the season. Pat's crazy for him.”

“Nuts,” Hilliard's girl said succinctly. She was a smart hard-looking young American. “As any dope can see, he's damn beautiful. He's a nice kid, too. The Lambrechts know him. He's not a pansy.”

“You mean you hope he's not,” Hilliard said.

“The way you carry on about him, anybody'd think
you
were. I bet Mr. Cosling agrees with me when he sees him.”

“You two are coming back with me afterward, aren't you?” Stuart asked.

“Our bags are packed. Nobody'll ask us for a marriage license when we register?”

“Mr. and Mrs. John Doe will do for our circumspect establishment.”

All of St. Tropez seemed to be trying to get into the Tour Engloutie. The narrow gangway that led across the rocks to it was so crowded that Stuart's party had to shuffle slowly to the door. Within was a large circular stone-walled room partially open to the sky. The lighting was dim. There was a three-piece band against the wall and a small platform in front of them on which people jigged up and down because lateral movement was out of the question. With the dark and the noise, Stuart had no clear impression of the people around him. They had more drinks and waited.

He felt as if he'd been there all night when the music stopped, people left the floor, the band evoked a flourish, and a man in a white dinner jacket stepped forward and announced, “The sensation of the dance, the great artist for whom you are all waiting: Toni.” The room was plunged into darkness and a spotlight flashed on, revealing the dancer.

Stuart's first thought was of the statue. Toni stood with his hands on his hips, his head lifted and turned slightly to one side, poised and relaxed and naked except for a skimpy
cache-sexe.
His. body was beautiful but it was his face that held Stuart's attention. His features were neither classic nor pretty in a theatrical way, but oddly pure and distinguished in spite of his youth. Even the golden curls that looked as if they'd been tampered with didn't make him look effeminate. He emanated a godlike pastoral freshness. His exhibiting himself in this way seemed inappropriate but Stuart blamed the audience rather than the boy.

The band burst into a fast blaring Slavic number and the dancer whirled into motion. The dance was preposterous, composed of scraps of classic ballet and bits derived from folk dancing and others that suggested the music hall, but he moved with athletic abandon and a personal style that made the performance arresting. As he watched, Stuart was conscious of a feeling of familiarity. There seemed to be something that eluded him. Did the boy remind him of someone? Of Robbie? No, although they were not unlike in type in spite of the different coloring. The feeling persisted, nagging but not particularly interesting.

As abruptly as it had started, the performance was over. There was a split second of silence and then a storm of applause. The youth stood up to it, breathing heavily. Then he smiled and Stuart knew. It was the smile. He had seen it before. In his semi-drugged condition, doubt, skepticism, incredulity, all were in abeyance. The notion lay in his mind and he stared, deaf to the obscene witticisms being screamed at the boy, to the laughter and the applause. The room was plunged once more into darkness. When the lights came on, the dancer was gone. Stuart leaned over to Hilliard.

“I've got to talk to that kid,” he said, feeling an excitement that exhaustion kept out of his voice. “You say you know him?”

“Good God, you too? Stuart, you're a family man. You have a wife and son. Anyway, he's coming to join us. He's a friend of the Lambrechts.”

In a few minutes Toni appeared on the other side of the room and started toward them. Men and women caught at him, tried to detain him. He moved slowly through the tables, smiling amiably, disengaging himself gently but firmly from importunate hands. He was wearing a blouselike shirt and tight dark trousers. He reached them finally. Somebody handed him a stool and he sat between Pat and Mrs. Lambrecht, one place removed from Stuart.

At close range, he was more an ordinary good-looking young man. He was heavily tanned and his hair looked less golden. The distinction remained but the godlike quality was canceled by an air of quite mortal good health. Stuart waited until general conversation had been resumed and then, feeling the absurdity of his interest, he leaned back around Pat and touched the youth on the shoulder. He turned with the smile Stuart had found so familiar but it faded and was replaced by a watchful expression.

“Where are you from?” Stuart asked bluntly. The boy hesitated, as if in the habit of appraising strangers' intentions.

“Are you French?” he asked in his turn.

“No, but I live here. My name's Cosling.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I've heard of you.” The boy relaxed visibly and the smile reappeared.

“And your name?” Stuart asked impatiently.

“Toni.”

“Yes, I know, but your family name.”

“I don't use it in the theater. It's Guilloux.”

“And where are you from?”

“Brittany, a little village called Guéquamp.”

“Is that anywhere near Belcoe?”

“Oh, yes, about twenty kilometers.”

“Do you know a family called Sémillon there?”

“Sémillon? Not that I know of. I've never even been to Belcoe. You know it?”

“I used to long ago. There was a girl called Marguerite Sémillon. She's probably married now and called by another name.”

“I don't know,” the dancer said. “I've never been there.” Stuart scarcely heard the other's voice. Belcoe. Marguerite Sémillon. Toni. Toni Guilloux. Was his appearance when he smiled only a racial resemblance? Did Bretons from that part of the coast look alike, as did natives of many remote provinces?

“Your mother and father, they're both still alive?” Stuart struggled on.

“Oh yes, although they're both quite old now. I'm the youngest. It's funny, your knowing Belcoe.”

“How old are you?” Stuart persisted.

“Almost twenty-three.” A puzzled look crept into the boy's face.

“What's your birthdate?”

“What do you do? Read horoscopes?” Toni asked with a laugh that bordered on insolence. It was the first touch of coarseness Stuart had detected in him and he was reminded of his feeling at the beginning of the dance. It wasn't the boy's fault. How could he avoid being corrupted by such an atmosphere?