by F M Land
Guilty Little Secret
By F. M. Land
For Larry Gold and David Mose
Copyright © 2018 Frances Mary Land
All rights reserved.
Dizzy (1977)
Whore’s eyes, les yeux de la pute, that’s what Dizzy called the matched pair of knotholes set menacingly at eye level in the ancient oak door that opened into the kitchen of our house in Anjoie. I didn’t know exactly what a pute was, but I figured it had to do with sex. Dizzy had that know-it-all look in his eyes when he said it, “les yeux de la pute.” Then again, everything about my older brother, Dizzy, had to do with sex these days. Like the thing about Dizzy and that French girl down the lane. I heard my parents discussing it, that very moment, as I stood waiting in the hall between the backstairs and the kitchen, waiting for them to stop talking. I pressed my forehead against the rough oak door, my fingers tracing the flowery pattern of the China-silk wallpaper that my mother had imported from Italy.
I had spent a good deal of my life, it seemed to me, standing outside closed doors, listening, waiting. I never really felt like I was part of my family. Instead, I imagined I was a stranger, a spy of sorts, who had arrived on the scene five years after Dizzy. Five years too late. Dizzy was the star of the family, I waited in the wings. At age 11, I was sure of one thing: everything that Dizzy did was remarkable, and anything that I, Paul Koster, did went unnoticed.
We were staying in the family house in Anjoie, a very old château in the Loire Valley, which was unusual in August. Usually we lived in France from November to March, then moved to New York for a few months, spending June and July in Scotland before returning to New York for the autumn. But this year, my mother, whose name is Justine, had insisted on visiting her stepfather, Etienne, in Anjoie after our stay in Scotland. For only a week, she promised. Then Dizzy went and met this French girl, and now my parents were making plans to stay longer.
“Damn Dizzy,” I muttered to myself. I wanted to get back to New York. Terry was there. Terry and Drew left Paris in June, stopping for a brief visit in Scotland on their way home to New York. I hadn’t seen Terry in nearly two months. Damn Dizzy. And damn that stupid French girl, anyway.
I listened closely to my parents’ conversation.
“What time should I pick up Robbie?” my father asked Maman.
Robbie was my cousin. His mother was my father’s sister, his twin sister. Robbie was six months older than Dizzy, and he was Dizzy’s best friend. They went to boarding school together in New York. They went everywhere together, and they never included me. I wasn’t surprised to hear Robbie was coming to Anjoie.
My parents were speaking in French. I could understand French, but I refused to speak it. I was an American. I spoke English. Dizzy spoke French all the time, even in New York. Drew spoke French, too. But not Terry. Terry couldn’t even half understand French. When we were all together, Terry and I whispered together in English, while my parents, Dizzy, and Drew growled to each other in French.
I decided to go upstairs to write Terry a letter. It would be my fourth letter to Terry that week. But, when I heard my name mentioned, I drew closer to the kitchen door.
“Just take Paul with you,” Maman was saying.
Take me where? My dad and I had planned to go to a drawing class at the university that afternoon. I had tried to get my parents to take me back to New York, complaining that I was missing my drawing classes at the Met. It almost worked until Maman called the university in Anjoie and made arrangements for me to go there for drawing instructions. The university had a month-long program for American tourists. A month. I sighed.
I pushed open the kitchen door. My parents were embracing. They could never keep their hands off each other. They disgusted me. I averted my eyes.
My parents had the easy manner of two people who never worried about time or money. Neither Davy Koster (my dad) nor Justine had worked since before I was born. They called themselves “musicians.” Robbie’s dad, Uncle Rob, said they were “recording artists.” There were lots of gold records on the walls of Uncle Rob’s music room, back from when my dad played in Uncle Rob’s band. But the last record came out in 1965, the year before I was born. Most of the money came from Maman, I suspected. She owned the house in France and the house in Scotland. She owned the brownstone in the Village, but we lived in my dad’s house in Valhalla. It didn’t matter. We had plenty of money.
“Take me where?” I asked.
“To get Robbie at the airport.” Maman twisted around in my father’s arms to look at me. “He’s spending a few weeks with us.”
My father snickered and caressed Maman’s cheek. “Leave it to Robbie to dash over here for a piece of the action.” He kissed Maman swiftly, then turned to me. “Ready to go, son?”
I waited until we were alone in the car before I spoke about the sex business. “What’s the big deal, Dad?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“All this stuff about Dizzy and the French girl. What’s the big deal?”
My father snorted. “You are too young to understand right now, Paul. Wait ‘til you have your first affair! This is an exciting time for Dizzy.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, thinking about the word “affair.” This was an “affair,” this thing between Dizzy and that girl? On Dizzy’s order, I had stood guard once, to warn them against approaching adults. I stole a few long glimpses of their activity. Dizzy lying face down on her belly, rubbing up and down over her. Like those two ducks I saw in the park. Only less interesting.
I was the only student under the age of 20 in the drawing class, but I didn’t mind. I preferred the company of adults. The only playmates I’d ever had, besides Dizzy, were our cousins, Robbie and Kate Fremont, who were more than five years older than me. I took my school lessons at home, so I didn’t know any kids my own age.
The class was called “Life Drawing.” Usually the dozen or so of us students sat sketching in a circle around a model who held poses for 15 to 20 minutes at a time. That day’s model was a well-built young man, probably a university student. I was delighted. I held my breath while the model opened his robe. Yep, he was naked. Not a speck of clothing covered the golden hair that fanned across the model’s chest like a butterfly or the darker, thicker hair of his groin or the zizi that poked out jauntily from its hairy nest.
The model’s first pose faced me and Dad. I avoided the model’s eyes. They seemed to bore into my brain. They made me think of Terry.
Reeling with self-consciousness, I leaned against my father. I was sitting on Dad’s right, because Dad was left-handed and I was right-handed. Dad smiled down at me, his amazing gray eyes sparkling like flecks of polished stone. Dizzy had those same vivid eyes. My eyes were dark brown, almost black, like Maman’s.
Snuggling closer to Dad, I returned his smile, then went back to my sketch pad. As I roughed out an outline of the model’s legs, I thought about how much I admired my father. Davy Koster moved slowly and spoke seldom. He observed mostly, keeping his thoughts locked behind his smoky gray eyes. I liked that about my father. I even liked the way Dad looked at Maman, the way his eyes sought hers, the way he waited for her to speak, like a dog waiting for a morsel of meat to be dropped to it.
I sketched the model’s torso, daydreaming contentedly about playing music with Dad. I messed around a lot with 6-strings, but I preferred playing bass. So did Dad. He showed me how a bass guitar can play rhythm or play lead, or do both. Maman played bass, too, and often, on long afternoons when Dizzy was away at boarding school, the three of us would belt out crazy loud bass riffs. We’d take turns plucking out some funk line while the other two of us would keep the beat flowing. Then we’d howl, like Dad used to do on his records. Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa! I l
oved these moments. I wanted to be just like my father. I wanted to be a famous song writer, singer, and guitar player. I knew I could do it. I had a future. Terry told me so.
Later, at the airport, Dad and I stopped at a newspaper stand while waiting for Robbie’s plane to arrive. Dad held up the latest issue of Cherie, featuring a bare-breasted young woman nibbling a lollypop on the cover. I stared at the lollypop.
“Do you think Dizzy has this one already?” Dad asked me.
I shrugged. I didn’t know what girlie magazines Dizzy had. Dizzy had so many. How could anyone know? It didn’t seem like Dizzy could need many more. I found them revolting.
“Do you want something, too?” My dad’s eyes sparkled at me.
I eyed a copy of Avec Lui, a tanned, muscular man on its cover. Dad followed my gaze.
“You don’t want that, do you?”
Again I shrugged. I avoided my father’s eyes.
“You mean for your drawing? You want to sketch those men?” Dad strode over to the rack to retrieve the magazine. He casually flipped through the pages. “Well, don’t let your mother see it.” He winked at me. “Or Dizzy. He’ll tease you unmercifully. Understand?”
I loved my father intensely at that moment. When Dad handed me the sack, I clutched the magazines, mine and Dizzy’s, to my chest. I couldn’t wait to tell Terry about my new magazine.
As soon as my cousin Robbie got to our house, he was anxious to meet Dizzy’s new playmate. He and Dizzy wasted no time heading down the lane and were already scooting out their bicycles when Dad called them back into the house. I was on my way to hide my magazine but stopped to eavesdrop before sneaking upstairs.
“ -- rubbers,” Dad was saying. “You must be responsible.” He said this to Robbie. Dizzy was always responsible. “Do you have rubbers?”
Robbie and Dizzy exchanged looks.
“Yes,” Dizzy answered.
“Make sure you use them. Always use rubbers.”
I sat on the east portico, out of the hot afternoon sun, my ears straining for activity in the lane. I lazily studied the stone walls of the château that had been my mother’s family home for over two centuries. To house their growing family, the Morgons actually built three châteaux, all three nearly identical, along the banks of the Loire in Anjoie. The oldest of the three châteaux had been donated to the ville of Anjoie and, in 1977, housed a museum and library. The French girl and her family, no relation to my mother, lived in the second oldest château. We Kosters resided in the newest (still over 200 years old) of the Morgon châteaux. The estates were well off the road, ours being well hidden by a thick grove of cedars. A series of footpaths and gravel lanes connected our home with the French girl’s.
The two cousins returned in high spirits. I heard them riding up the lane, their voices whooping with conquest. I waited for them to park their bikes and come onto the patio. I followed them into the kitchen.
“Well, well, well!” Dad greeted them. “Back so soon?”
Both boys were grinning broadly. They nodded in unison.
“How is Jeanne Marie?” Maman inquired.
“Fine, fine.” Dizzy turned to Dad. “You won’t believe it, Dad! Jeanne Marie let Robbie do it, too!”
“She said I was cute,” Robbie added, his jaw thrust forward with pride.
“How do you know?” I asked my cousin. “You can’t speak French.”
Dizzy nodded. “I had to be their translator. She said she wanted Robbie to touch her breasts.”
Maman sighed loudly. Dad folded her onto his lap, wrapping his long arms around her.
“So I did. Then she told Dizzy to tell me to run my hands inside of her shorts. And I did. Then, she asked Dizzy to ask me if I wanted to screw her!”
“And you did?” Dad wasn’t smiling anymore.
Robbie hooted like a happy pirate. “It was far-out!”
“Far-out,” Dad murmured. “Robbie, you sound more like your old man every day.” He turned to Dizzy. “And what did you do while Robbie was messing around with Jeanne Marie?”
“Oh, I watched,” Dizzy replied, with a casual air. “It didn’t take very long.” He had a smug look on his face. “Robbie needs more experience.”
Dad snorted. “Well, you’re certainly a man of experience, eh?” he said to Dizzy in French, his cold gray eyes holding Dizzy’s for a long moment, making Dizzy blush.
“Well, I know how to satisfy her. She made me screw her when Robbie was done,” Dizzy retorted, in English, so Robbie could hear it, too.
Maman clucked her tongue and pressed her lips together like she was pouting. Then she spied me. “You,” she said, pointing at me, “you go upstairs and read for awhile.” She waited until I was out of the room before I heard her say, “You are shameless, all three of you!”
I hurried upstairs, not caring to hear any more about Robbie and Dizzy and that French girl. I wanted to look at my new magazine. Then I planned to write Terry all about it.
At Maman’s insistence, Jeanne Marie and her father, Monsieur le Battier, were invited to dinner a few nights later. Jeanne Marie’s mother had died when Jeanne Marie was six years old, during the last month of her second pregnancy. I overheard my parents discussing her death. A twisted intestin, my mother had said. The thought made me shudder.
Women’s bodies grossed me out. That empty space between their legs. Their bony shoulders and soft flesh. Dad told me these feelings would pass. Someday I would find women fascinating, that’s what Dad said.
I wanted to tell Terry about the twisted intestin. I sat down at the escritoire in my bedroom to begin a letter, but was called down to dinner.
It was an uncomfortable affair, with everyone talking in French except for me and Robbie. Robbie tried to follow the conversation at first, then gave up, preferring to stare provocatively at Jeanne Marie instead. Jeanne Marie returned his gaze from time to time, whenever her father was turned toward Maman and Dad, talking excitedly in that way French people do. Maman seemed determined to draw Jeanne Marie into the conversation.
I tried to distract Robbie. “I worked out the chords to ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’” I told him. “The bass, too.”
“The bass is easy,” Robbie replied smugly.
Yeh, I said to myself, but you can’t do it by yourself. Not even the bass. Instead, feeling full of charity, I offered, “I’ll show you after dinner.”
“Yeh, sure.” Robbie went back to gazing at the French girl.
The three teenagers excused themselves before dessert and hurried downstairs to listen to music. I was left at the table with the adults.
“You have a very lovely daughter,” Maman told Monsieur le Battier with measured politeness.
Monsieur le Battier nodded, obviously pleased. “Yes, yes, she’s been brought up well. Her grandmother and great aunt have done an excellent job raising her correctly. I don’t have to worry about my Jeanne Marie getting into trouble. She’s been taught to live morally. Not like the last mistress of our house.” He was referring, of course, to Maman’s mother, and my grandmother, Isobel Morgon, a wild société chérie who had a bunch of publicized affairs in the 20’s and 30’s.
Dad frowned at Monsieur le Battier’s rude remark. But his face relaxed into a smile as he turned to wink at me. “Would you like more wine, Bertrand?”
I watched my parents exchange knowing glances. My mother almost looked like she was going to giggle. It served Monsieur le Battier right, to think his family somehow had a monopoly on moral conduct.
“Why don’t you go downstairs with the others, Paul?” Maman suggested, smiling across the table at me.
I rose dutifully and trudged down to the music room in the basement. Outside the door, I paused to listen. Dizzy and Jeanne Marie were standing near the closed door, arguing in French.
“Why do you want me to get out of here?” Dizzy was asking her.
“Because I want to be alone with your cousin.”
“But, why? He can’t even speak French. I can talk to you!�
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“He is cuter than you. He kisses better than you. He even kisses me between my legs.”
“I’ll kiss you there, too! Let me --”
“No, I want you to go. Leave us!”
I raced upstairs, not wanting to be caught écoutant aux portes. I went directly to my room to work on my letter to Terry. Within minutes, I heard Dizzy’s footstep on the stairs. Then the door to Dizzy’s room slammed shut. I was glad to have company upstairs. It was unnerving – I was too old to consider myself scared – to be alone upstairs in that rambling old house at night.
Impulsively, I grabbed my chessboard. I would let Dizzy beat me at a game of chess. That ought to make Dizzy feel better.
I opened the door to Dizzy’s room without knocking. Dizzy was standing in front of his dresser, looking at himself in the mirror. Too late, I saw that his pants were open and that he had his zizi in his hand.
“Get out!” Dizzy growled at me.
I stood frozen in place, staring at Dizzy’s zizi. It was huge. It was thick and straight as a pipe. Suddenly white foam began to spray out of Dizzy’s zizi. I watched, fascinated.
“Get out of here!” Dizzy repeated, this time in French. “And close the door behind you, tu petit merdeux!”
Terry and Drew (1977)
Dizzy and Robbie had an incredibly tight relationship. Even the French girl couldn’t keep them at odds for long. Not even her vagina. The tables were turned a bit, though. It was Robbie who now regaled Dizzy with stories of his record-breaking sexual feats. Robbie was, by his own account, a great lover. Sometimes Dizzy went with him down the lane to Jeanne Marie’s. But usually he stayed at home, reading and waiting for Robbie to return with more stories. Then he would laugh that funny laugh he had when Robbie was around, laugh and clap Robbie on the back.
I wrote all this to Terry in a letter. I wrote Terry lots of letters, almost one a day when there was an ocean between us. When I was feeling desperately lonely, I telephoned Terry. As soon as I finished the letter about Robbie and Dizzy, I was feeling pretty desperate. So I reached for the phone.
