Perfect Freedom (50 page)

Robbie had no trouble denying himself an eleventh man. Whatever went on on the port didn't penetrate the world they frequented. It was redolent of sex but only of the most conventional sort. Affairs vied with troop movements as a favored topic of conversation. Only Mrs. Rawls provided a touch of the perverse. She always had attractive young men staying with her.

“You're a very cruel boy,” she accused Robbie one evening with a flirtatious tilt of her head. “Don't you know you're breaking all my poor friends hearts? They think I keep you away from them.”

“But, Mrs. Rawls—”

“Now, now. Won't you even give an old lady some small pleasure and call me Flip?”

He smiled in an attempt at his worldly manner but he still dreaded anybody making assumptions about him. “I'd like to call you Flip but you mustn't embarrass me. I may not be as sophisticated as I should be but I don't like what you said about your friends.”

“Good heavens. I'm sorry. I'm the soul of discretion. I find it so natural for attractive boys to be attracted to each other that it never occurred to me I'd offend you.”

He avoided her young friends although there were a few he stole second and third glances at and whose eyes promised uninhibited sex. He belonged to Toni. Their lovemaking might never amount to much but it was more precious to him than he would've believed possible. They belonged to each other, despite Toni's girls.

The month was drawing to a close when a note arrived from Carl von Eschenstadt announcing his imminent arrival. He was traveling by boat to Marseilles and would be here in a matter of days. Helene read it while she was having breakfast in bed and tossed it over to Stuart.

“Good,” he said as he glanced through it. “Those guest rooms are growing cobwebs.”

When he had withdrawn to the bathroom, she rose and carried the note to her dressing table where she sat and read its impersonal phrases again. She tucked it behind some bottles and smiled at herself in the mirror. He would have to outdo himself to hold his own now, she thought.

Robbie heard the news with intense excitement and a touch of apprehension. He had done his best to follow Carl's advice. He had fallen in love with a boy roughly his age. It wasn't his fault if Toni hadn't fallen in love with him. Would Carl think he was silly to pin all his hopes and dreams on a boy who liked girls?

He remembered the almost hypnotic power Carl exercised over him, but perhaps that had been because they had met so early in his discovery of himself. He'd been awfully young two months ago. Even so, despite his total dedication to Toni, he knew it would require an enormous effort of will to refuse if Carl wanted him. Need he refuse? Carl wouldn't be the eleventh man. He had been the eighth, to be exact. Toni was trying to prove that he wouldn't go on wanting new boys. Maybe he wouldn't. He hadn't for a month. Looking speculatively at Flip Rawls' friends wasn't the same as wanting them. At least he would be able to talk about everything with Carl.

Toni's engagement at the Tour Engloutie had only four more days to go. Robbie begged to be allowed to come see his performance but Toni was adamant. He didn't want Robbie to see him in that atmosphere. He warned him that he would be out a lot until his final appearance. Mado de Mornay was staying over for it and then was off for Italy. She had plans for their last few days.

His hair was beginning to grow out into its natural color but it wasn't different enough to look odd. It had coppery rather than golden tones but was still very blond. Robbie loved watching the transformation; it made him feel that he was getting to know more of the real Toni. He had so little hair under his arms that Robbie wondered why he'd bothered to shave it. As for the pubic part, it was turning into a lovely froth of blond curls.

On one of the evenings Toni was engaged with Mado, the Coslings had been invited to dinner by a poet famous primarily for his friendship with Picasso. Picasso was there. Robbie was speechless with awe. When he was introduced to the great man, somebody said something about his being a painter, too. Robbie wanted to drop through the floor.

“No, no,” the master said with robust laughter. “He's too beautiful to do anything. He must just sit and let us all eat him up with our eyes.” His own black bullet eyes looked as if they could shoot him dead.

Robbie remained so overwhelmed by the commanding presence that it wasn't until dinner was half over that he became fully aware that he had acquired a dark admirer. The evening was an informal affair with a buffet meal and tables set up in a garden where the guests could eat it. Robbie had somehow become part of a quartet made up of two young women and a trim, handsome man in his thirties, Latin in type and slightly reminiscent of his childhood hero Valentino, although Robbie had gathered that he was an American called Jeff. His eyes were dark and seductive. Without paying much attention, Robbie let his own eyes grow flirtatious as the glances he intercepted became more explicit and provocative. A knee pressed against his under the table finally captured his full attention and told him how far the flirtation had gone.

Alert at last, with a burgeoning erection, he saw that Jeff was the most exquisitely groomed man he'd ever seen and made him think of silly words he'd never used like “suave” and “svelte.” His shapely hands had gleaming manicured nails and every hair of his dark head looked as if it had received individual attention. His brows were perfectly shaped arches and his lips were red and lush. Something about him seemed to offer rare and exotic sexual thrills. Robbie suddenly felt cheated by the lack of development in his sex life.

He exerted insinuating pressure with his own knee and promptly reprimanded himself and broke the contact. Their eyes met briefly and Robbie immediately re-established it, which committed him more deeply. He forced himself to think of Toni, getting a grip on himself and making a definite break by moving his chair back from the table. He launched into a rather forced discussion of Picasso with the woman on his left, remembering that Jeff had introduced him to his wife. She was here. He was married. What did Jeff hope to accomplish by making a pass at him?

Robbie was ashamed for having responded but it helped him rally his virtue. What would Toni think of him if he knew what he'd been doing? He'd probably leave. In a few days, he wouldn't even have his work to keep him here. That was the end of it. He wasn't going to betray everything that was most precious to him.

As soon as the meal was finished, he broke away from his group and mingled with the other guests. Whenever he saw Jeff getting close, he drifted on. In order to avoid the risk of further contact, when it was time to leave, he slipped away with his parents without saying goodnight to him.

He had felt the surrender in himself and had barely avoided disaster. Nobody had ever made him feel needed, hot even Edward. He had recognized something in Jeff that forced him to confront his need to be needed. Safely back in his house, he subdued the hunger that had been stirred in him by imagining Toni everywhere, naked and godlike. He had his return to look forward to. By tomorrow, he would have forgotten Jeff.

At lunch the next day, Stuart told his family that he'd had a call from their host of the night before. “Paul wants to bring Picasso and his crowd over some time this afternoon. Actually, I suggested it last night to that American associate of his, Jeff Benjamin, but he thought Mr. P. was going to Antibes today.”

“Jeff Benjamin?” Robbie asked with a small shiver of guilt.

“Yes. Weren't you sitting with him at dinner last night? He has something to do with the master's American interests. His wife's attractive but she got rather pissed. Wouldn't it be sort of exciting to let Picasso see your work?”

“My God. No,” Robbie cried. “I'd die. There's nothing finished anyway.”

Toni took his hand and pressed it encouragingly. “Don't be silly. He's a painter. He can see what you're doing whether it's finished or not. You've got to get used to showing. Why not start at the top with Picasso as your first public?”

“Will you be there to catch me if I faint?” They all laughed.

“Not if he isn't here before four. I'd hate to miss him but I have a date.”

Robbie tried to go back to work after lunch but he was too nervous to concentrate. He lined up the three canvases he'd been working on. One of them was almost finished, the other two in varying stages of progress. He supposed Toni was right. A painter might not like them but he could see what Robbie was driving at and how he was going about it. A good hour's work was probably all that was needed for the nearly finished one but he didn't dare touch it for fear of making a false move. He had too much on his mind. Would Jeff be part of the “crowd”?

Toni joined him for half an hour to dress for his date. He gave him a peck on the cheek as he was leaving. “I'll bet he's impressed. Watch him closely and remember everything he says. I want to hear all about it tomorrow. I probably won't see you till dawn. Sleep tight.”

He wasn't going to have Toni to protect him. He was on his own. He pottered about at his worktable for an hour and began to wonder if they were really coming. His rational side hoped they wouldn't. It would be too nerve-wracking and wouldn't accomplish anything, anyway. Picasso couldn't make him a better painter and he was determined to ignore the other. Agnes appeared to say that his mother had sent word that M. Picasso had arrived.

Robbie quickly changed into swimming trunks and combed his hair and went down to see what fate had in store for him. Jeff was there, looking suavely, urbanely, impeccably hand-some in the daylight. His casual summer clothes neutralized his body. Robbie wished he could see some saving blemish, like a lot of hair on his back and shoulders or a tiny cock. Their eyes met and Robbie knew that Jeff had come for him.

The squat massive figure of the master was surrounded by an entourage that included several strikingly handsome women and a beautiful young boy. Robbie recognized one of the women as Jeff's wife. Stuart was handing out drinks, assisted by Felix.

Robbie watched Picasso taking in everything around him. His eyes didn't dart but moved deliberately from one focal point to another, piercing everything that came within their range. He kept up a running commentary to anybody who happened to be listening, breaking into laughter easily. He moved briskly around the terrace, drawing his entourage with him, comparing the place to some other property, to the other's detriment. His eyes settled on Robbie and ran him through.

“Ah, the young painter,” he greeted him. “One doesn't expect a painter to be so beautiful. Don't you agree, Raoul? Notice the hands. Remarkable. They don't belong to him. Perhaps they're the painter. Where do you work, young man?”

“I'll show you if it wouldn't be a bore for you. You don't have to look at my work. I don't have much anyway.”

“One picture. Show me one picture that's been painted with spirit and I'll be satisfied.”

Robbie sought Jeff's eyes once more and found them waiting attentively for his. He was thrilled by the need he saw in them but he remained determined not to give in to it. He turned and led the group across the glade and up the steps to his house. They all crowded in and stood near the easel. Picasso took a few steps into the room and looked around.

“You have this for your work at your age? You're a very fortunate young man.” He turned to the pictures. Robbie had left the almost completed one on the easel. The other two were propped on the table beside it. Everybody moved in close around the master while his eyes tore the canvas on the easel to ribbons. He picked up one of the others. He handled it deftly, not touching the painted surface.

Robbie took a step back to give him room and came up against Jeff. Waiting fingertips strayed over the back of his naked thighs. He was immediately aroused. He let a hand creep around behind him and encountered hard flesh. He moved his hand over it and gripped it. His curiosity was satisfied. He knew now what he had decided to deny himself; it felt like a great deal. Fingers climbed up under the leg of his trunks and caressed the cleft between his buttocks. His heart pounded. To have Picasso holding his work while he held a hard cock was a lot to absorb all at once. The great man turned to him.

“You're very beautiful, young man. If you work hard, you may also be a painter. Continue.”

The group seemed to exhale a collective breath of relief and everybody started to talk at once. If they were talking about Robbie, he didn't hear them. Tears stung his eyes. Picasso had told him he might be a painter. He wanted to throw his arms around the stocky figure and smother him with gratitude. He turned instinctively to Jeff and saw a glint of conquest harden in his eyes, coupled with humor as if he were amused to find him so easy to get. Robbie had indulged himself more than he should have only because he was sure he couldn't be had. What about the wife? Where could it happen? Certainly not here in Toni's house. Jeff joined his wife in a general exodus.

Robbie closed the door on the last of the visitors and fell onto the sofa and sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet on the floor. He dropped his head onto the backrest and closed his eyes and waited to calm down. He was bursting with pride and self-confidence. You may be a painter. Continue. He wished that he either hadn't let Jeff distract him in his moment of triumph or that Tom's cure were working more quickly. He didn't want an eleventh man; he wanted only to experience again the passion of need he had known on a changing-room floor. Could a girl make him feel it?

He sat up and stretched hugely and let his body go slack. It had been a grueling ordeal. He hoped that everybody had gone. He was dying to tell his mother all about his showing and repeat the master's words.

He gave a hitch to his trunks and hurried out and went springing down through the terraces. There was nobody out around the house. He went to the statue and looked down at the beach. There was a scattering of people there, all wearing swimming things. He didn't see Picasso or others of his party but he saw Jeff. He too was in trunks. He was talking to Hilda. Robbie started down, reassembling his resistance.