Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  Célestine sighed, and stroked his hair. Like many women of her kind, she found it difficult to reach orgasm with a man. She had long ago accepted this. She enjoyed lovemaking, and the absence of climax never worried her greatly. She found fulfillment enough in embraces and caresses, and if she did not, then it was easy enough to relieve the tension in her body after the man had gone. To give pleasure was her pleasure; when she had been younger, with her first lover, her second, it had been different. They had been able to bring her to a peak of excitement, quite easily. But they had left, and it had become harder; she thought sometimes that her own mind held her back, refused to let her give everything to men who were—more and more often—strangers.

  But she was touched by the boy’s request, so she smiled up at him.

  “Watch—let me show you.”

  Gently she slipped her hand between her legs, one finger between the lips; she moved.

  “You see? Where you touched me before, chéri. If you touch me there—not too hard, quite softly, there’s no need to be quick…”

  She withdrew her hand, its fingers glistening. Edouard touched her as she had touched herself, felt the small hard swelling of her clitoris between the soft lips, and then, on impulse, knelt, and bent his head, and kissed her. That heady moist salt scent; he touched the little swollen bud gently with his tongue, and the effect was instantaneous. Again she arched, her hands came down to cradle his head as he lapped. His hand reached for the swell of her breasts, and Célestine moaned.

  “Like that?” He paused for an instant, and she quickly drew him back.

  “Oh, yes—Edouard, yes. There. Like that…”

  Célestine trembled. It was not that he was perfectly expert, but someone more expert could have left her unmoved. It was him, she realized with surprise, as she felt the waves of heat start to build in her groin. It was something about him, a little magic, the fact that he wanted to please her, the way he looked at her body, lustfully, of course, but also tenderly, shyly. It reminded her of the past, and it felt good, so good…and yes, it was going to happen after all, she knew it would happen now: she felt her body poise, wait for the sudden rush of sensation, and as if he sensed that, he stopped the soft rhythmic motion of his tongue, the pressure of his lips, so she cried out in an agony of sudden want. Then he touched her again, his mouth moist, his hands clasping her hips and lifting her up to him, and she cried out as the tide of heat took her. Edouard felt the fierce sudden pulse against his lips. He moved, thrust hard up inside her, and felt to his great joy the soft contraction and relaxing of her body against his flesh.

  This time there were more than four or five thrusts. He discovered, triumphantly, how fine, how extraordinary, how tantalizing it felt to withdraw almost out of her body, and then to push so deep he felt he touched the neck of her womb; to alter his rhythm from slow to fast and back to slow. And he discovered how it felt when Célestine, too, moved, slowly at first, and then more insistently, circling as he pulled back from her, circling again as he thrust. He came with a sharp agonizing sweetness, and afterward she lay along the curve of his arm, and they both slept a little, their bodies entwined.

  When he woke, Célestine lifted his chin in her hand, and looked down with amusement and understanding into his eyes.

  “You learn fast. So fast. Soon, I shall have nothing to teach you…”

  Edouard laughed, and slipped his arms around her. He was covered in silken sweat, his body heavy with a sweet languor.

  “I want to see you again. Soon. And then again and again. Célestine. Célestine…”

  “I should like that,” Célestine answered simply.

  That night, Edouard dined at home with his mother and Jean-Paul, the only guest being Isobel. Such occasions, when they were en famille, were rarely a success. Jean-Paul chafed at them, and itched to be off to a nightclub. Louise, perhaps because she sensed this, perhaps simply because she, too, wished for more brilliant company, was often irritable. Usually, Edouard would try hard to cheer them both, and to supply some of the spirit and gaiety there was at family meals in France, when his father was present.

  But tonight, seated at the long table, wearing evening dress, he was dreamy and abstracted. Try as he would, he could not concentrate on what was being said, or who was saying it. His mind was miles across London, in a little room in Maida Vale.

  These dinners were never brief affairs, for Louise insisted on rigorous standards. They were served by Parsons and two immaculate footmen; there were never less than six courses; the wine was always exceptionally fine. Tonight, the evening seemed to Edouard interminable. The foie gras was without taste; the grilled sole was cardboard; the pheasant he pushed away scarcely touched.

  This unusual loss of appetite did not go unremarked. Once or twice Edouard looked up to find Isobel, who was seated opposite him, regarding him mischievously, her emerald eyes glinting, a little smile curving her bright scarlet lips. She, too, said very little. The conversation dragged, and Louise became peevish. When peevish, she complained, and tonight she grew quite eloquent—nothing suited her. She found London dull, she told Isobel; it was quite amusing at first, but now, more and more she missed Paris. The same faces, again and again—and really, though Englishmen could be charming, Englishwomen were so odd, so dowdy most of them, and so lacking in chic—here she gave Isobel a sharp glance. And then there was their passion for animals, their obsession with dogs; it was charming to stay the weekend in the country, yes, but then to be leaped upon by labradors…to be expected to go for long walks, even when it was raining…truly the English were a curious race, quite unlike the French, quite unlike Americans. And then—well, of course, she missed dearest Xavi so terribly. So little news got through, and she worried constantly.

  “He should have known how much I would worry.” Her voice rose slightly. “To have packed us off here, and left us to fend for ourselves…I know you won’t agree with this, Jean-Paul, but really, on reflection, it seems to me a little selfish. Dearest Xavi can be so terribly obstinate. I’m perfectly sure he could have come with us if he wished. He can have no idea how difficult life is. One can’t buy petrol—which seems to me perfectly absurd—how on earth is one supposed to motor out of London? I live in dread that one of the servants will give notice, because—well, you will know this, Isobel—it’s quite impossible to find replacements. The men are all in the army, and the women are all making ball bearings in factories—what can they be doing with all those ball bearings? And these wretched sirens. Just when one is about to go out, they always sound, and then the streets are cleared. I don’t think Xavi understands how wearing it all is…”

  “There is a war on, Maman.” Jean-Paul looked up. He winked at Isobel, and Louise, who saw the wink, flushed.

  “Jean-Paul, please, there is no need to take that attitude. I know that. I’ve just been explaining that I know that. I must say that neither you nor Edouard help, you know. Both of you—tied up with your own affairs, you never seem to give a thought to my feelings…” She broke off. At the word affairs, Jean-Paul had given a snort of laughter. Louise’s face grew tight; her dark eyes glared down the length of the table.

  “Have I said something to amuse you, Jean-Paul? Please explain. We should all like to share the joke.”

  “Forgive me, Maman.” Jean-Paul gave her his most winning smile. Edouard glanced up, waiting to see how he would extricate himself. He always could: Louise could never be angry with him for long—she always succumbed to his charm—and sometimes Edouard thought Jean-Paul was contemptuous of her for that.

  “It’s just that you know what you say isn’t true. Edouard and I are devoted to you. You know that…”

  “You might make it a little more obvious, occasionally.” Louise gave him a reproving glance, but she was mollified.

  Jean-Paul rose to his feet with a masterful air, and the discreetest glance at his watch.

  “Dearest Maman.” He came to her side and lifted her hand in his. “You’re tired. You should r
est more, you know. Come—why don’t you let me show you to your room? I’ll have your coffee brought up to you there. I’ll send your maid to you—no arguments now. I promised Papa to look after you. You shall have a really good night’s sleep…”

  It worked like a charm. Louise rose, and leaned on his arm. She left them without protest. At the door, Jean-Paul looked back and gave Edouard and Isobel another wink. Isobel rose restlessly to her feet the moment the door was shut. She tossed her napkin on the table. Edouard, returning with difficulty from the room in Maida Vale, looked at her uncertainly.

  “Does he always manage your mother like that?” The green eyes met his for a second, curiously. Edouard rose.

  “Usually.” He shrugged. “She adores Jean-Paul. She always has. He can do anything with her…” He paused. “She doesn’t mean everything she says, you know,” he added defensively, for his mother often made him ashamed. “It’s just her way of speaking. And she gets very strung-up…”

  “Oh, never mind, anyway.” Isobel moved off impatiently. “Let’s play some music. I want to dance…”

  She reached for Edouard’s hand and dragged him out of the dining room into another room which they sometimes used in the evenings. It had a smooth parquet floor, and sometimes Edouard would patiently wind the gramophone and play records while Jean-Paul and Isobel danced together dreamily in the center of the room. He had never danced with Isobel himself, but tonight she selected a record, she wound the gramophone, she pushed aside the rug.

  “Come on…” She stood in the center of the floor, and lifted her arms to him, scarlet lips smiling, emerald eyes glinting with amusement and challenge. “You can dance, I suppose? If you can’t, I’ll teach you…”

  “I can dance.” Edouard stepped forward and took her in his arms. In fact, he danced rather well, and felt eager to demonstrate that, but when he attempted to waltz, Isobel pulled him closer.

  “Not like that. Don’t let’s be ambitious. Let’s just shuffle, it’s more peaceful…”

  They shuffled. The music was soft and low, the record pleasantly scratchy; Isobel felt light in his arms, and after a while, Edouard relaxed. They stepped and turned, turned and stepped; his mind drifted away again to the afternoon, and to Célestine. He began to feel extraordinarily happy.

  Once or twice, Isobel lifted her face and looked at him. The record ran down, she replaced it, rewound the handle, and drifted back into his arms with a little smile on her lips.

  “You’re laughing at me…” Edouard looked down at her.

  “No, I’m not. I’m laughing at myself. It’s a long time since I’ve felt so invisible. It’s good for my vanity.”

  “Invisible? You?”

  “Oh, Edouard. So gallant. There’s no need to pretend. You’re miles away. That’s all right. I don’t mind. I quite like it. It’s restful.”

  She sighed, and after a while, as they continued to circle, she rested her face gently against his shoulder. Edouard was a little surprised at this, but he said nothing; they were still dancing in this way when Jean-Paul returned to them. He stood and watched them for a while, leaning against a chair and smoking a cigarette. Isobel ignored him. When, finally, the record ran down again, Jean-Paul rewound it, and then he cut in.

  “My turn, I think. My fiancée.”

  He danced with Isobel for the remainder of the evening, and it was only after she left, and they were alone together, that Edouard noticed his brother was not in a very good temper. Jean-Paul removed the record from the gramophone irritably, scratching it as he did so. Then he paced up and down the room, as if he found it confining.

  “Was Maman all right?” Edouard looked up at him.

  “What? Oh, yes. She was fine. She just wanted some attention paid her. Like all women.” Jean-Paul slumped in a chair; one foot tapped the carpet.

  “I expect she does miss Papa,” Edouard began hesitantly. “It can’t be easy for her…”

  “You think so?” Jean-Paul gave a bark of laughter. “Well, you may be right, but I doubt it. I’d say it was simpler than that—she wants everyone at her beck and call, running round her in small circles, paying court to her. Isobel’s precisely the same. I tell you, little brother, it wears me out sometimes. Women.” He frowned. His face had taken on a sullen expression, and Edouard was puzzled. He felt a little embarrassed that Jean-Paul should speak in this way—it seemed to him disloyal. As if sensing that, Jean-Paul looked up. He stretched, and then grinned.

  “Still. They have their uses, eh? We wouldn’t be without them. So—tell me, let’s get down to something more important. How did you get on this afternoon? Good, was she?”

  Edouard was aware he was blushing. He looked at the carpet. Jean-Paul was adopting a man-to-man tone that he usually found flattering; now, for the first time, something in him resisted it.

  “It was fine,” he said stiffly, after a pause. “Thank you, Jean-Pâul, for arranging it.”

  Jean-Paul threw back his head and gave a bellow of laughter.

  “He’s embarrassed. I do believe my own little brother is embarrassed. Fine? What kind of a report is that? Don’t I get a few more details? I went to a lot of trouble, you know, Edouard, to fix this…”

  Edouard stood up. He looked at his brother, and he thought of Célestine, and for the first time in his life two loyalties conflicted. He knew, quite suddenly, that he couldn’t bear to tell Jean-Paul what had happened. He couldn’t bear to tell anyone; it belonged to himself and Célestine.

  “Oh, you know.” He shrugged, hesitated. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “I see.” There was a pause. “That bad, was it? Oh, well…”

  Jean-Paul yawned and stretched once more. The smile on his face broadened, as if the supposition of Edouard’s failure pleased him. Edouard looked at him in confusion: Why should that be?

  Jean-Paul stood up and put his arm around Edouard’s shoulders.

  “Well, well, happens to everyone. Better luck next time. Don’t worry about it, eh?” He chuckled to himself. “You won’t be seeing her again, then? Well, there’s plenty of others—just let me know when you want another address. Maybe she just didn’t suit you. I shouldn’t worry. Not yet, anyway, little brother…”

  He went off to bed then, humming the dance tune to himself, obviously in a high good humor. Edouard watched him go with a sense of puzzled dismay. Beneath the bonhomie he had detected resentment, even rivalry—had it not been Jean-Paul, he might even have thought jealousy. The idea perturbed him, then he pushed it out of his mind. It was a ridiculous idea, and a disloyal one: Jean-Paul was his brother, he was the most generous of men.

  Still, a certain caution remained, a slight wariness. The next afternoon he returned to Célestine and spent a rapturous two hours with her.

  When he returned to Eaton Square, Jean-Paul was there, and quizzed him on his absence.

  “I—was walking in the park,” Edouard replied before he could stop himself.

  He had walked through the park on the way to Célestine’s flat, but nonetheless it was a lie, designed to mislead, and Edouard knew it.

  He felt guilty afterward, and ashamed. It was the first time in his life that he had ever lied to his brother.

  Hélène

  Alabama, 1950

  OUT BACK BEHIND THE trailer, there was a tree. She didn’t know what kind of tree, and Mother didn’t know either: it was an American tree, she said, they didn’t have trees like that in England. It was real big—very big, she corrected herself carefully, and its branches hung down low. If she took a chair out and balanced on it carefully, she could pull off long strands of the stuff that grew on it. Spanish moss, Mother said it was called; it looked spooky when the light was fading. But not now. Now it was the middle of the August afternoon, and very hot, and she had made a little pile of it in the dirt in front of the trailer.

  Lovely soft crinkly gray moss. And some little rocks that Mother called pebbles, and some daisies. She was making a garden, an English garden, fo
r when Mother came home.

  The window of the trailer was open, and she could see the big round face of the clock that stood on top of the icebox. She could see the little red stickers Mother put on it by the four and the twelve. She couldn’t read the time yet, not quite, but when the hands were pointing at those two stickers, Mother would be home. They were nearly there; not long now. The garden was all finished, and she had three crackers left. Maybe she’d eat them now.

  She broke a corner off, and handed it to Doll politely, the way Mother had shown her. But Doll just stared up with her painted eyes, so Hélène ate it for her. Then she ate the other crackers, and carefully brushed the crumbs off her dress. She looked down at her skirt anxiously. The dust was a horrible red-brown. It left marks everywhere, and Mother said to stay put, and not to get into trouble, not to move from right there in front of the trailer. Not to get dirty.

  You didn’t get dirty in English gardens. The grass grew the way it should there, and there were gardeners to keep it watered in summer, and the ladies sat in wicker chairs and the servants brought them iced lemonade in long cool glasses. Not nasty lemonade that came in bottles like Coke, but fresh lemonade, made with fruit and water and sugar, with a long silver spoon to stir it.

  She glanced over her shoulder guiltily. She’d like some lemonade. Making the garden had made her throat all dry and tickly. She’d even like some Coke, or that funny green tea Mississippi Mary made, that tasted of mint like toothpaste. But she wasn’t allowed to talk to Mary. And if the Tanner children came by, Mother said not to talk to them either, but just to go and sit inside in the trailer and wait for her to come home.

  She pushed a long fair lock of hair back from her sticky forehead. The Tanner children wouldn’t come by anyway. She knew where they were, she could hear them shouting. They were down by the river, in the waterhole there, and they were skinny-dipping. She’d never done that, of course, but she’d crept up on them once and watched them. It looked nice. It looked like fun. The boys and the girls, no clothes, and jumping in and out of the brown water and splashing. It looked so cool, that brown water, so cool and lovely. And besides, it was interesting. All the Tanner girls looked like she did, but the Tanner boys were different. They had this funny thing between their legs, like a little pouch, and then, just when she was craning her head to get a better look, one of the Tanner boys spread his legs, and held this thing, and a big arc of water came out, right down in the pool, and all the other children laughed. She told Mother about that, and Mother got very cross. She slapped her, hard, on the arm, so there was a big red mark. She said the Tanners were common. “White trash or black trash,” Mother said, “either way, you stay away from them.”