The 1st Deadly Sin (48 page)

It was just so—so
physical.
That steaming mixture to be cut into manageable forkfuls and shoved through the small hole that was his mouth, to emerge, changed and compounded, a day later via another small hole. Perhaps it was the vulgarity of the process that offended him. Or its animality. Whatever, the sight of food, however well prepared, now made him queasy. It was all he could do, for politeness’ sake, to eat a bit of his duckling quarter, two small potatoes, dabble in the salad. He wasn’t comfortable until, finally, they were seated on sofas and in soft chairs, having black coffee and vodka stingers.

“Hey, Dan,” Samuel Morton said abruptly, “you got any money to invest?”

“Sure,” Blank said amiably. “Not a lot, but some. In what?”

“First of all, this health club you belong to—what does it cost you?”

“Five hundred a year. That doesn’t include massage or food, if you want it. They have sandwiches and salads. Nothing fancy.”

“Liquor?”

“You can keep a bottle in your locker if you like. They sell set-ups.”

“A swimming pool?”

“A small one. And a small sundeck. Gymnasium, of course. A sauna. What’s this all about?”

“Can you swim naked in the pool?”

“Naked? I don’t know. I suppose you could if you wanted to. It’s for men only. I’ve never seen anyone do it. Why do you ask?”

“Sam and I had this marvy idea,” Florence Morton said. “A natural,” Sam said. “Can’t miss.”

“There’s this health club on East Fifty-seventh Street,” Flo said. “It started as a reducing salon, but it’s not making it. It’s up for grabs now.”

“Good asking price.” Sam nodded. “And they’ll shave.”

“It’s got a big pool,” Flo nodded. “A gym with all the machines, two saunas, locker room, showers. The works.”

“And a completely equipped kitchen,” Sam added. “A nice indoor-outdoor lounge with tables and chairs.”

“The decor is hideous,” Flo added. “Hideous. But all the basic stuff is there.”

“You’re thinking of opening a health club?” Celia Montfort asked.

“But different,” Flo laughed.

“Totally different,” Sam laughed.

“For men
and
women,” Flo grinned.

“Using the same locker room and showers,” Sam grinned. “With nude sunbathing on the roof,” Sam noted.

Blank looked from one to the other. “You’re kidding?” They shook their heads.

“You’d take only married couples and families for members?”

“Oh no,” Flo said. “Swinging singles only.”

“That’s just the point,” Sam said. “That’s where the money comes from. Lonely singles. And it won’t be cheap. We figure five hundred members at a thousand a year each. We’ll try to keep the membership about sixty-forty.”

“Sixty percent men and forty percent women,” Flo explained.

Blank stared at them, shook his head. “You’ll go to jail,” he told them. “And so will your members.”

“Not necessarily,” Flo said. “We’ve had our lawyers looking into it.”

“There are some encouraging precedents,” Sam said. “There are beaches out in California set aside for swimming in the nude. All four sexes. The courts have upheld the legality. The law is very hazy in New York. No one’s ever challenged the right to have mixed nude bathing in a private club. We think we can get away with it.”

“It all hinges on whether or not you’re ‘maintaining a public nuisance,”’ Flo explained.

“If it’s private and well-run and no nudity in public, we think we can do it,” Sam explained.

“No nudity in public?” Daniel Blank asked. “You mean fornication in the sauna or in a mop closet or underwater groping is okay?”

“It’s all private,” Flo shrugged.

“Who’s hurting whom?” Sam shrugged. “Consenting adults.” Daniel looked at Celia Montfort. She sat still, her face expressionless. She seemed waiting for his reaction.

“We’re forming a corporation,” Flo said.

“We figure we’ll need a hundred thousand tops,” Sam said, “for lease, mortgage, conversion, insurance, etcetera.”

“We’re selling shares,” Flo said.

“Interested?” Sam asked.

Daniel Blank patted his Via Veneto wig gently.

“Oh,” he said. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Not my cup of tea. But I think, if you can get around the legal angle, it’s a good idea.”

“You think it’ll catch on?” Sam asked.

“Profitable?” Flo asked.

“No doubt about it,” Blank assured them. “If the law doesn’t close you down, you’ll make a mint. Just walk down Eighth Avenue, which I do almost every day. Places where you can get a woman to give you a rub-down, or you can paint her body, or watch films, or get tickled with feathers. And ordinary prostitution too, of course. Mixed nude bathing in a private pool? Why not? Yes, I think it’s a profitable idea.”

“Then why don’t you want to invest?” Celia asked him.

“What? Oh…I don’t know. I told you—not my style. I’m tired of it all. Maybe just bored. Anyway, it puts me off. I don’t like it.”

They stared at him, the three of them, and waited. But when he said nothing more, Celia spurred him on.

“What don’t you like?” she asked quietly. “The idea of men and women swimming naked together? You think it’s immoral?”

“Oh God no!” he laughed loudly. “I’m no deacon. It’s just that…”

“It’s just what?”

“Well,” he said, showing his teeth, “sex is so—so inconsequential, isn’t it? I mean, compared to death and—well, virginity. I mean, they’re so absolute, aren’t they? And sex never is. Always something more. But with death and virginity you’re dealing with absolutes. Celia, that word you used? Finitudes. Was that it? Or finalities. Something like that. It’s so nice to—it’s so warm to—I know life is trouble, but still…What you’re planning is wrong. Not in the moral sense. Oh no. But you’re skirting the issue. You know? You’re wandering around and around, and you don’t see the goal, don’t even glimpse it. Oh yes. Profitable? It will surely be profitable. For a year or two. Different. New. The in-thing. But then it will fall away. Just die. Because you’re not giving them the answer, don’t you see? Fucking underwater or in a sauna. And then. No, no! It’s all so—so superficial. I told you. Those people tonight. Well, there you are. What have they learned or won? Maybe masturbation is the answer. Have you ever considered that? I know it’s ridiculous. I apologize for mentioning it. But still…Because, you see, in your permissive world they say porn, perv and S-M. That’s how much it means, that you can abbreviate it. So there you are. And it offends me. The vulgarity. Because it might have been a way, a path, but is no longer. Sex? Oh no. Shall we have another martini or shall we fuck? That important. I knew a girl once…Well. So you’ve got to go beyond. I tell you, it’s just not enough. So, putting aside sex, you decide what comes next. What number bus to the absolute. And so you—”

Celia Montfort interrupted swiftly.

“What Daniel is trying to say,” she told the astounded Mortons, “is that in a totally permissive society, virginity becomes the ultimate perversion. Isn’t that what you wanted to say, dear?”

He nodded dumbly. Finally, they got out of there. She was trembling but he was not.

6

H
E PROPPED HIMSELF
on his left elbow, let his right palm slide lightly down that silky back.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about this woman, Celia Montfort.”

Soft laughter.

“What do you want to know about ‘this woman, Celia Montfort’?”

“Who is she? What is she?”

“I thought you knew all about her.”

“I know she is beautiful and passionate. But so mysterious and withdrawn. She’s so locked up within herself.”

“Yes, she is, luv. Very deep, is our Celia.”

“When she goes away, unexpectedly, where does she go?”

“Oh…places.”

“To other men?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes to other women.”

“Oh.”

“Are you shocked, darling?”

“Not really. I guess I suspected it. But she comes back so weary. Sometimes she’s been hurt. Does she want to be? I mean, does she deliberately seek it?”

“I thought you knew. You saw those bandages on her wrists. I saw you staring at them. She tried to slash her veins.”

“My God.”

“She tried it before and will probably try it again. Pills or driving too fast or a razor.”

“Oh sweetheart, why does she do it?”

“Why? She really doesn’t know. Except life has no value for her. No real value. She said that once.”

He kissed those soft lips and with his fingertips touched the closed eyes gently. The limpid body moved to him, pressed sweetly; he smelled again that precious flesh, skin as thin, as smooth as watered silk.

“I thought I made her happy.”

“Oh you did, Dan. As much as any man can. But it’s not enough for her. She’s seen everything, done everything, and still nothing has meaning for her. She’s run through a dozen religions and faiths, tried alcohol and all kinds of drugs, done things with men and women and children you wouldn’t believe. She’s burned out now. Isn’t it obvious? Celia Montfort. Poor twit.”

“I love her.”

“Do you? I think it’s too late for her, Dan. She’s—she’s beyond love. All she wants now is release.”

“Release from what?”

“From living, I suppose. Since she’s trying so hard to kill herself. Perhaps her problem is that she’s too intelligent. She’s painted and written poetry. She was very good but couldn’t endure the thought of being just ‘very good.’ If she didn’t have the talent of a genius, she couldn’t settle for second-best. Always, she wants the best, the most, the final. I think her problem is that she wants to be
sure.
Of something, anything. She wants final answers. I think that’s why she was attracted to you, darling. She felt you were searching for the same thing.”

“You’re so old for your age.”

“Am I? I’m ancient. I was born ancient.”

They laughed gently, together, and moved together, holding each other. Then kissing, kissing, with love but without passion, wet lips clinging. Blank stroked webbed hair and with a fingertip traced convolution of delicate ear, slender throat, thrust of rib beneath satin skin.

Finally they drew apart, lay on their backs, side by side, inside hands clasped loosely.

“What about Valenter?”

“What about him?”

“What is his role in your home?”

“His
role?
He’s a servant, a houseman.”

“He seems so—so sinister.”

Mocking: “Do you think he’s sleeping with brother or sister? Or both?”

“I don’t know. It’s a strange house.”

“It may be a strange house, but I assure you Valenter is only a servant. It’s your imagination, Dan.”

“I suppose so. That room upstairs. Are there peepholes where other people can watch? Or is the place wired to pick up conversation?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“I suppose so. Perhaps I was believing what I wanted to believe. But why that room?”

“Why did I take you there? Because it’s at the top of the house. No one ever goes there. It’s private, and I knew we wouldn’t be interrupted. It’s shabby, I know, but it was fun, wasn’t it? Didn’t you think it was fun? Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. Because I read so much into it that doesn’t exist. Perhaps.”

“Like what?”

“Well, this woman—”

“I know, ‘this Celia Montfort.’”

“Yes. Well, I thought this Celia Montfort might be manipulating me, using me.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. But I feel she wants something from me. She’s waiting for something. From me. Is she?”

“I don’t know, Dan. I just don’t know. She is a very complex woman. I don’t know too much about women; most of my experience has been with men, as you very well know. But I don’t think Celia Montfort knows exactly what she wants. I think she senses it and is fumbling toward it, making all kinds of false starts and wrong turnings. She’s always having accidents. Slipping, upsetting things. Knocking things over, falling and breaking this or that. But she’s moving toward something. Do you have that feeling?”

“Yes. Oh yes. Are you rested now?”

“Yes, darling, I’m rested.”

“Can we make love again?”

“Please. Slowly.”

“Tony, Tony, I love you.”

“Oh pooh,” Tony Montfort said.

7

T
HE STRANGE THING,
the strange thing, Daniel Blank decided, was that the world, his world, was expanding at the same time he, himself, was contracting. That is, Tony and Mrs. Cleek and Valenter and the Mortons—everyone he knew and everyone he saw on the streets—well, he loved them all. So sad. They were all so sad. But then, just as he had told Celia that night at the Erotica, he felt apart from them. But still he could love them. That was curious and insolvable.

At the same time his love and understanding were going out to encompass all living things—people, animals, rocks, the whirling skies—he pulled in within himself, chuckling, to nibble on his own heart and hug his secret life. He was condensing, coiling in upon himself, penetrating deeper and deeper. It was a closed life of shadow, scent, and gasps. And yet, and yet there were stars keening their courses, a music in the treacherous world.

Well, it came to this: should he or should he not be a hermit? He could twirl naked before a mirrored wall and embrace himself in golden chains. That was one answer. Or he could go out into the clotted life of the streets, and mingle. Join. Penetrate, and know them all. Loving.

He opted for the streets, the evil streets, and openness. The answer, he decided, was there. It was not in AMROK II; it was in Charles Lipsky, and all the other striving, defeated clods. He hated them for their weaknesses and vices, and loved them for their weaknesses and vices. Was he a Christ? It was a vagrant thought. Still, he acknowledged, he could be. He had Christ’s love. But, of course, he was not a religious man.

So. Daniel Blank on the prowl. Grinning at the dull winter sky, determined to solve the mystery of life.

This night he had bathed, oiled and scented his slender body, dressed slowly and carefully in black suit, black turtle-neck sweater, crepe-soled shoes, the slit-pocket topcoat with the ice ax looped over his left wrist within. He sauntered out to search for his demon lover, a Mongol of a man, so happy, so happy. It was eleven days after the murder of Detective third grade Roger Kope.