Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “Are you sure it’s all right?” Sandy hung back. He nudged Jean-Paul. “What about Edouard?”

  “Edouard’s all right. Edouard’s my friend.” Chog put a plump arm around Edouard’s shoulder. He lurched. “’S Edouard’s birthday, isn’t it? He’s a man now. You are a man, aren’t you, Edouard? You want to come to Pauline’s, don’t you?”

  “Of course he does.” Jean-Paul decided the matter. He opened the Daimler’s doors and pushed Edouard inside. Edouard slumped onto the leather seat. Jean-Paul clambered in beside him and patted his thigh. “Not a word to Maman about this, eh? She might think you were a bit young. Women never understand these things…”

  “Women? Who mentioned women?” Chog was in the driver’s seat attempting to locate the steering wheel. “I’ll sing you a song about women. This song is a wonderful song, and it says it all. I shall sing it to you now.”

  And he did.

  Like a bird scenting carrion, Pauline Simonescu had arrived in London in 1939 with the advent of war. No one knew her exact origins, but rumors proliferated: she was Romanian; she had been brought up in Paris; she had been the mistress of King Carol of Romania; she had Gypsy blood, or Jewish, or Arab; she had previously run the most luxurious brothel in Paris, but, like the Baron de Chavigny, had foreseen the arrival of the Germans; she had left just in time. She had money, but her Mayfair establishment was also bankrolled: by a famous and distinguished city financier; by the American wife of an English peer with whom she had a lesbian alliance; by a German steel magnate attempting to corrupt the morale of the Allied officer classes. She was discreet; she was a spy; she took drugs; she never touched alcohol. Her world was the twilit zone where the pleasures money and connections bought shaded from excess into vice; no one liked her, but many found her useful. As far as Chog was concerned, she was a madam, and her premises were just off Berkeley Square.

  But where exactly? They drove three times around the square, squinting through the darkness at the side streets; then the Daimler ran out of petrol.

  “Not to worry,” Chog cried cheerfully as they all piled out onto the sidewalk. “Easier on foot. My nose will lead me to it.”

  He turned right into a dark street of expensive houses, felt the stubs of eighteenth-century railings that had gone to be melted down for bomb casings, and began to count. Three houses along, he stopped, just as the air-raid siren began to wail and searchlights suddenly knifed the sky.

  “Merde…”

  “It’s all right, for God’s sake. We’re there. I told you my nose would find it…” He lifted his nose into the air, sniffed loudly, and began to yowl like a dog. Sandy and Jean-Paul doubled up with laughter.

  “I can smell it. I can smell it. I can smell—Ah, good evening.” The door opened; very dim light spilled out over the impressive portico steps. A very large black man in a white suit with a gold bracelet stood in the doorway.

  Chog looked at him, and he looked at Chog.

  “Lord Vvyan Knollys.” He waved at Sandy. “The Earl of Newhaven. Two very old friends of mine who are…who are—French.”

  The black man did not move.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I was here last Tuesday.” He began fumbling for his wallet.

  Jean-Paul stepped forward superbly.

  “The Baron de Chavigny presents his compliments to Madame Simonescu.”

  A folded twenty-pound note exchanged hands with scarcely a rustle. The black man stepped back, the four entered, and the door shut.

  “Jean-Paul…”

  “Edouard. Shut up.”

  They were ushered out of the narrow passageway into a magnificent and brilliantly lit hall. The floor was marble; a huge crystal chandelier scintillated, throwing diamond light on the wide, branched staircase, on two superb Fragonards and one Titian. Flesh tints eddied before Edouard’s eyes. At the foot of the staircase a tiny woman held out her hand with the air of a grand duchess.

  Pauline Simonescu was perhaps five feet tall, certainly no more. She made stature seem unimportant. Jet black hair was combed straight back from a handsome, slightly vulpine face dominated by the strength of the nose and the glitter of the black eyes. She was dressed in a full-length scarlet dress with a neckline that made no attempt to disguise angular masculine shoulders. From her ears, pendant rubies the size of pigeon eggs hung like gouts of blood. The hand she held out to them was weighted with a matching ring. Edouard, as he bent over it, recognized de Chavigny workmanship.

  She greeted each of them in turn, pausing a little to look more closely at Jean-Paul.

  “Monsieur le Baron.” A fractional pause. “But of course. I am acquainted with your father. He is well, I hope?”

  Her voice was deep, heavily accented. Jean-Paul, for once discomfited, stammered some reply to which she scarcely listened. She twisted her head a little to one side, and Edouard was reminded of a bird. There was the sound of a distant explosion, well muffled.

  “The bombs.” She shrugged the wide shoulders. “In a moment we shall hear the lorries. I dislike them more. They make me think of tumbrels—but of course, that is only fancy. Come with me. What will you drink? What will you smoke? We have some fine cognac. There is a case left of the ’thirty-seven Krug, which is excellent. Perhaps you prefer malt whisky?”

  She was leading them toward a magnificent drawing room. Through its half-open doors, Edouard could hear the sounds of conversation and laughter, the clink of glasses, the rustle of dresses. He glimpsed young men in uniform, older men in evening dress, beautiful women, none of them old. He heard the click of a roulette wheel; an Aubusson carpet rippled; the tall carved mahogany doors bent on their hinges. He leaned up against the wall. Sandy and Chog were having a whispered conversation. Pauline Simonescu turned.

  “But of course, you are correct. Tonight is the special night—you are fortunate. Carlotta is here.” She paused. “Also Sylvie—you remember her, perhaps, Lord Vvyan? And Leila, our little Egyptian. Mary—she came to me from Ireland, a true Celt, such beautiful red hair. Christine. Pamela. Patricia. Joanne—you like Americans? I am looking ahead, you see, to when the brave American boys join forces with the Allies. Juliet. Adeline. Beatrice. But no. Tonight you would like to see Carlotta. You have taste. Carlotta is not for every day, but then, this is not every day. It is a mad time, this war, a hectic time for the nerves of you brave young men. And Carlotta is so soothing.”

  She stepped to one side.

  “Downstairs. Pascal will show you the way. The Krug, I think. And perhaps some coffee for our young friend? He looks a little tired, and it would be such a pity if he couldn’t…”

  “Participate?” Sandy put in with a chuckle of laughter. Madame Simonescu’s black eyes flashed.

  “Exactly so.” She lifted her hand; the ruby struck the light.

  “Pascal.”

  The black man materialized. He bowed.

  “Suivez-moi.”

  Once it had been a cellar, Edouard thought, or perhaps a dark half-basement, the domain of servants. But there was no trace of that now, except that the room was only dimly lit by the flicker of candles, and there were no windows. The floor was thickly carpeted; the walls and ceiling were tented in dark red velvet, on which a series of pictures in severe black frames hung at intervals. Set in a U-shape around a square of bare polished wood were three couches also upholstered in red velvet. At their corners were low tables, on one of which stood two silver ice buckets containing the bottles of Krug, and on the other a silver tray with black coffee. The four men sat down. Pascal opened the champagne, poured it, poured the coffee, and left. The door closed softly behind him. Music began to play. In the distance Edouard heard the soft explosions of bombs. He drank the coffee.

  “We’re in luck. Just us.”

  “We must be in that old bitch’s good books for some reason. Maybe she likes you, Jean-Paul. Or perhaps Edouard struck a chord…”

  “Have you seen her before, this Carlotta?”

  “No. But I’ve heard.”

&nb
sp; “Is it true that she…?”

  “And more. So I’ve heard.”

  “One after another?”

  “She likes it like that.”

  “And the others watch, while she…?”

  “But of course.”

  “Jesus. Who goes first?”

  “Over the top, men! Who got us in here, I’d like to know?”

  “We’ll all pull together…”

  “No, we bloody well won’t. Me first. Then Jean. Then you.”

  “What about Edouard?”

  “Edouard after Jean.”

  “Sod off. Why should I have to wait?”

  “Patience, mes amis. We shall conduct ourselves like gentlemen…”

  “Ballocks.”

  “Each in turn. And then…”

  “Then what, for God’s sake?”

  “Then the men among us give the lady a repeat performance…”

  “Roll me over…”

  “In the clover…”

  “Roll me over…”

  “And do it again!”

  They finished in unison. Hearty male laughter was followed by silence.

  “God. This place is a bit creepy. Don’t you think, chaps? Reminds me of chapel at school.”

  “Holy.”

  “As the actress said to the bishop.”

  “That wasn’t what the actress said to the bishop.”

  “What say we open the other bottle of champers? Jean-Paul?”

  A cork popped softly.

  “Down the hatch!”

  “Dutch courage…”

  Edouard had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes and found his head was much clearer. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, then he saw the candles and the red velvet, and the pictures. The pictures. His eyes focused on them in disbelief. Hands and apertures; great breasts and thighs; open mouths; spread buttocks; women open and softly pink like ripe fruit; men proudly staggering under the weight of gigantic phalluses. For a moment the room seemed to him as red as hell. The candles flared; shadows flickered on the red walls, and words and images swooped through his mind like a dark tide: the confessional box; Father Clément; his beautiful Célestine.

  Célestine. He stood up.

  “Jean-Paul. I’m not staying.”

  One of them pushed him, so he fell back onto the couch. Jean-Paul’s arm came around his shoulders like a vise.

  “Not now. Look.”

  Carlotta—it had to be she—and two other women had come into the room.

  She remained in front of the door; they moved to the wooden square between the couches. One girl was white, the other black; the white girl carried a silk cushion. She set it on the floor, then lowered herself gracefully and leaned back on it. The black girl knelt beside her. Both were wearing thin loose dresses of transparent gauze. They looked at each other. Carlotta looked at the four men.

  She was tall, and exceptionally beautiful. Long jet black hair tumbled around her face and over the red silk shawl she wore draped across her breasts and shoulders. Her head was tilted back haughtily, the eyes were dark and arrogant, the painted carmine mouth wide and full. She wore a tightly waisted full-skirted dress of black silk that reached to the floor, and she stood as a flamenco dancer stands before the dance begins: poised, and still.

  Jean-Paul sighed; she began to sing. The two girls on the floor lifted their arms and embraced each other.

  Carlotta’s low throaty contralto voice was without sweetness, but had a gutter edge to it that gave it power. She sang first in Spanish, a rasping lingering night-club song, and Edouard understood not one word of it. Then she switched to German, a song of wicked allure, shot through with Berlin melancholy. Cheap music, and Edouard was mesmerized; he felt as if his limbs had turned to stone.

  On the floor in front of them, the two women were now naked. Their slender full-breasted bodies were oiled, and their pubic hair had been shaved, which Edouard thought ugly. He found their graceful pantomime unarousing.

  Slowly, to the rhythms of the music, they began to move: three beats, four of the song. Their limbs entwined and relaxed; their hands moved and then were still. Dark skin and pale: Edouard looked up, Carlotta’s eyes met his, he felt his penis leap and harden. Carlotta took off her shawl.

  Under it, her breasts were bare, the nipples rouged, exposed above the black silk like those of a Cretan priestess. Very slowly she lifted her hands as she sang, and caressed the dark aureole. Edouard saw her nipples stiffen; beside him Jean-Paul groaned. The song came to an end, but the hypnotic beat of the music continued.

  Carlotta’s feet were bare. Silently she came across the room to the four men. Edouard felt her silk skirt brush his trousers. She paused, looking from face to face. None of them spoke; they just stared at her. Then Chog made an attempt; he leaned forward, grasping for the black silk skirt. “Me first…” he said thickly.

  Carlotta flicked the skirt away from his hand. She looked down at him contemptuously, then, as if making an elaborate curtsy, she knelt, the black skirt belling out in a circle, and parted his thighs. Behind her, the two women lay entwined, writhed, but no one was watching them.

  Carlotta leaned forward. Her bare uplifted breasts rested against the thick wool of Chog’s Guards’ trousers. His mouth was parted slackly; he was sweating, his breath coming fast. He reached up a small pink hand to the luscious breasts, and Carlotta knocked it aside. He leaned back with a sigh, and her jeweled fingers stroked upward from knee to groin, touched the swollen bulge beneath the thick wool, once, twice, very lightly. Then, button by button, she undid his fly, and drew out a thick stubby penis. She held it a moment in her hands appraisingly, bent forward so her dark nipples brushed fleetingly over the taut stretched skin; Chog’s body shuddered convulsively. She parted his thighs farther, and reached in to cup his balls in her hands.

  Edouard tried to wrench his eyes away, but he couldn’t. His penis was rock hard, pressing to be released, pulsing with the need to touch, to come. Beside him Jean-Paul shifted on the couch, muttered something thickly under his breath, reached down, and touched the bulge of his own erection.

  Carlotta had eased Chog’s trousers lower. He lay sprawled back, legs apart, the angry red shaft jutting up between Carlotta’s heavy breasts. Slowly she took the knob into her red mouth, and began to suck.

  Her prowess was legendary; it was clear she took pride in her skill. Her hands and her lips never stopped moving, and the rhythms she used constantly changed. Her magnificent breasts heaved; the expression of contempt in her eyes never lessened. She bent her throat, holding back her own hair so the other men should have a clearer view, and, using only her lips, she took the whole of the swollen member into her mouth. On the red sofa Chog’s hands jerked and clenched; he bent his head so he could see as well as feel what she was doing to him. Both Jean-Paul and Sandy were touching themselves now, holding their crotches as if terrified that merely watching would bring them to climax.

  Chog began to grunt; he heaved his plump body up to thrust into her mouth. And he began to swear, his voice just audible over the beat of the music.

  “Yes. Oh yes. You bitch. You fucking bitch. More. Yes.” His voice was hoarse. His hands clenched. “Whore. Fucking whore. Cunt.”

  A spasm shook his body. Carlotta quickly drew back, lips parted. The other men saw the first spurts of semen travel from tip to mouth—it was one of the things they had paid to see. Then her mouth closed over the throbbing shaft once more, until the frantic pumping stopped. Then she lifted her head, and swallowed. Jean-Paul’s hands were already fumbling with his fly as she turned to him. Carlotta smiled for the first time, widely, tauntingly, removed Jean-Paul’s fingers from his fly, and parted his trousers quickly, expertly. Edouard looked down. His brother’s penis was large, longer than Chog’s and thicker, engorged with blood; Carlotta looked down at it for a second as if it were a particular prize. She darted out her tongue and touched the tiny hole at its tip. Jean-Paul shuddered. He reached his hands down frantically, trying to gr
asp her breasts.

  “Vite, chérie, vite…”

  Edouard looked away. The spell had been unbroken up until the moment Chog began to swear. Then, abruptly, it had shattered. His erection was gone; he felt violently sick. Carlotta’s seeking mouth, the slumped form of Chog, his uniform still in obscene disarray, the clingings and twinings of the girls on the floor, the panting of his brother next to him, his glazed eyes—all this was suddenly so obscene to him, so repellent, he knew he could not stay in that room one second longer.

  As Carlotta took the full length of Jean-Paul’s penis into her mouth, Edouard stood up and pushed past her blindly. No one tried to stop him, they were all too far gone for that. They hardly even looked up. He pushed out through the door, stopped on the stairs, heard, less muffled this time, the crash and thunder of another explosion, thought of Célestine, ran up the last flight into the marbled hall.

  The doors to the drawing room were shut now. The hall was empty, except for Pauline Simonescu. She was standing by the entrance door, head tilted, listening. She showed no surprise when Edouard burst from the stairwell; it was as if she had been expecting him.

  He walked quickly to the door, and she stopped him, resting one hand on his arm.

  “Wait. The all clear hasn’t sounded yet. It will go in a minute.”

  Edouard almost brushed her aside, then he hesitated. A peculiar energy, like an electric current, seemed to flow from her thin hand, from the clawlike fingers. He looked down at her uncertainly; then he heard the wail of the siren start up. “There. It is over. You see?” She unfastened the door and held it back just enough for Edouard to slip through.

  “Au revoir, Monsieur le Baron…” Her voice was soft and its intonation mocking.

  Edouard looked at her in confusion, paused, then ran down the steps and into the dark.

  On the night of December 5, Xavier de Chavigny was sitting in a basement room beneath a small café in the working-class suburb of La Villette. Five men and one woman sat with him. In the center of the room was a small billiard table, though no one was playing billiards; if necessary, however, the game could apparently be resumed at any instant.