by James Munro
"My world?"
"Les affaires. Business," she said. "It is different for Maria and me. We don't need anything. We have so many friends. Do you know that eight of us share a room? It is true. In an hour it will be our turn to sleep. I would rather sleep with you."
"No," said Craig, and kissed her lightly. "I can't. I wish I could." He looked into her eyes. Very grave eyes she had, gray and serene.
"I'm sorry," said Craig. "I can't do it."
"Why not?"
He sighed, and looked at her again. Beneath the easy manner, the propositioning demands for four-star meals and a five-star bed, there was something else that he had no right to. This girl liked him, liked him so much that she was ready to love him. As Tessa had done. It would not be easy to turn her down. She knew well enough how desirable she was, how much men wanted her. If he said no, she would remember, and she would not forgive--
"Why did you pick on me?" he asked. "Grierson's the good-looking one. Your sight must be bad."
"I can see very well," she said. "Grierson is attractive, certainly. But you-you are far more interesting. You are much stronger than he is, and much more gentle."
"You're wrong," Craig said.
"No, I'm not. If you were fond of someone, they would always be safe. I know this."
How safe was Tessa? How safe would this girl be?
"You are also much more intense," said Sophie, and laughed at his bewilderment. "You five so much more than anyone else-every minute I have been with you, you have been eating up life. Avignon, the Alfa, me, sardines for dinner. You gobble it all up. You are so greedy, my dear."
Because I have so little time.
"Why won't you?" she asked.
"I'm sharing a room," he said.
"Couldn't you ask your friend to go somewhere else?"
"No," said Craig. "I couldn't. He would think he knew about us. He wouldn't-but he'd think he did. I'd never let him do that."
"You'd sooner do nothing?"
"Much sooner," Craig said. "You're a dream, Sophie. You come from somewhere unbelievable-" "A club called Venus," Sophie said.
"-and you'll disappear into somewhere beyond the stars."
"A club called La Ultima."
"The places dreams come from. If I can't have my dreams perfect, I don't want them at all."
"Where can we get some Scotch?" Sophie asked.
"At my hotel, I suppose. Do you want a drink?"
"It will be cold later," the girl said, and sighed. "I would have liked to sleep in a bed tonight. A big, warm, comfortable bed." Then she laughed. "I'm a very substantial dream, John. I weigh fifty kilos." She put her hands on his arms, and suddenly her nails dug into the long, smooth muscles.
"I may not be as strong as you are, but I bet I can scream much louder, and if you don't come with me I will, too. I mean it!"
And Craig knew that she did and went, telling himself that she would be suspicious if he didn't, and knowing that it wasn't for that at all. She was offering him life, perhaps for the last time, and he wasn't strong enough to refuse. Not like Grierson. Perhaps Grierson was the stronger, after all. And Tessa-perhaps he would not see Tessa again. Perhaps this would be the last time.
He drove to his hotel, and bought a bottle of Scotch, then went to Sophie's place and waited till she came out, bent under the weight of a vast sleeping bag, and put it in the car. He drove as she directed, along the moonlit road to the beach, until she told him to turn off, and the car jolted along a rutted track in second gear. She told him to pull over at last, and they climbed a fence, Craig struggling with the unwieldy mass of the sleeping bag, and found themselves in a vineyard. She led the way through the vines, and they were back by the road, with the sea below.
At last she let him put the sleeping bag down, and spread it out beneath an old, espaliered vine. Nearby, the tideless waves whispered, and slapped at the rocks. The thin, bitter scent of the vines was everywhere.
"I slept here last year," said Sophie. "By myself. Always. Nobody else knows this place. Only you. It is a strange place to make love. Strange enough for a dream."
He looked at her in the shadowed moonlight that turned her golden hair and skin to a delicate silver, and for a moment she belonged to a dream world, then frankly, without sophistication or teasing, she took off her clothes, folded them neatly by the sleeping bag, and stood naked before him, grave and patient as Craig looked at her strong, shapely body before he undressed and took her in his arms.
Her skin was cool as he touched her, and she gasped at his hard strength, and they kissed, her mouth soft, yielding under his, until, incredibly, she broke away.
"Now we swim," she said. "In the best dreams there is always swimming."
And Craig, cursing, wrapped the towel she gave him around his waist, put on his shoes, looked out for cars, then ran across the road and scrambled down the rocks to the sea. Naked they poised together on a ledge of rock, and dived into the dark water beyond the flurry of spray. Craig gasped at its coldness, surfaced, and struck out in a rapid crawl, swirling in the water toward the girl as she raced to meet him, her body silver in a nimbus of foam, white as the froth on champagne. He took her in his arms and they sank beneath the water, kissing, kissing, until they surfaced once more and swam back, side by side, scrambled up the rocks and back to the vineyard. The rubbed themselves dry and sipped the whisky until their bodies warmed to each other again, and she lay in his arms, shivering still, her skin smelling of the clean, salt smell of the sea as he possessed her. She was skilled, compassionate, eager for his pleasure as for her own, so that their love was demanding and complete. When they had done, they crawled inside the sleeping bag, luxuriating in its fleece-lined warmth, and drank once more.
Sophie took his hand in hers, kissed his fingers, drew the hand down to touch her body as she relaxed against him.
"You are very good-for an old man," she said. Craig pinched her and she squealed.
"You young people nowadays have no manners," he said.
Sophie said submissively, "Yes, monsieur. I'm very sorry, monsieur," and rolled over toward him, teasing him, willing him to want her again.
"I read about making love like this," she said. "It was in a book by Ernest Hemingway. The girl loved a man who was a soldier. He had come to kill his enemies." Craig tensed, and she moved closer to him, not understanding. "She had so little time. Like me… You've got a girl, haven't you? And you will go back to her, won't you, even after this?"
Craig began to say "I must," but she kissed him before he could answer, her body enfolding him, urging him to love.
At last they slept, and at dawn they bathed once more, then dressed and drove back to the hotel. Maria was there, with Grierson, who looked angry, and half asleep. Maria had been telling him all about Detroit.
"Hey, what happened to you two?" she asked.
"We went for a moonlight swim," said Sophie.
"We've just been talking. I propositioned him, but he turned me down." She seemed surprised.
Sophie looked at Craig. He shook his head.
"I think mine did too," she said.
Maria laughed, and swept her hand across the open strings of her guitar.
CHAPTER 14
Ashford came in next day from Nice. He was tall, dark, elegant, and on edge. These two men, he knew, were very special, very tough. They looked it. The dark one, the one he'd met before, wasn't too bad, might even turn out to be sympathique in other circumstances, but the other one, the one with the beard, the one who was forcing him to do this terrible thing-an absolute iron man, brutal and determined. He would be glad to get away and leave things to these stormtroopers. His voice, as he talked to them, was bitter.
Grierson said, "Take it easy. You're supposed to be on our side. That's why John's paying you."
"I'm sorry," said Ashford. "The whole thing's been a terrible strain for me. They've nearly been on to me twice. I've been on this job for weeks."
"You'll be off it as soon as our mutual
friend gets back," said Grierson.
"He's due back at his office tomorrow," Ashford said. "It's in the rue Desmoulins, that's off the Place Mas-sena. He'll go there first, then to the villa. That's almost in Villefranche. I'll know more or less what his movements will be by this evening. If you like, I'll stay on here till you've done-it."
"There's no need," said Craig.
"You may need me," said Ashford. "He's a very wicked man. If he weren't, I wouldn't be helping you. But he is. Absolutely evil. He destroys people. He's destroying my friend. I won't let him do that." He paused, then went on: "You promised me that Captain La Valere won't be hurt."
"He won't be," Craig said.
"He isn't wicked, not like the other one. But the things he has to do-they're destroying him. Turning him into a beast. It's awful to sit there and watch someone you love being degraded like that. Worked on-like so much clay. I won't let him do it." He shuddered. "I think you'd better drive into Nice today. I've booked you in at the Rialto. That's on the Promenade des Anglais. Drop around for drinks at the new Casino at nine o'clock. I'll try to have some news for you."
"We'll be there," Craig said.
"Good." Ashford stood up to go. "I really must get back. I've simply loads to do."
When he left, Craig asked, "What does he do?"
"He designs beach clothes," Grierson said, "for the fuller figure."
"That's a funny way to learn to be brave." Craig said.
Grierson wanted to leave but Craig wouldn't hurry. They had all day to go to Nice, he said. St. Briac's people didn't know they were there, and they had a lot of time to kill before they were due to see Ashford. They were safer in St. Tropez.
"You want to see that French girl again," Grierson said.
"I like her," Craig said. "Why shouldn't I be with someone I like for a little while?"
In his mind were the memories of his last meeting with McLaren, and, by contrast, the sense of responsibility he felt for Tessa, and now this new delight in Sophie's company. They didn't make it any easier for him to kill St. Briac. At one time they would have made no difference at all, but now the difference was there, and he could feel it. Now it was life he cared about, not death. Death was all he knew, his driving-force, his livelihood, his passion. He had killed quickly, neatly, as an animal kills; without remorse. That he would do so again he did not doubt, for St. Briac had to die; but this time would be the last. McLaren had been right about him that night in Sicily, but that was because McLaren had imagined him as a man alone, always alone.
He hadn't considered the possibility of women like Tessa and Sophie, enriching his life, yet endangering it too.
"It's not your business to like people," Grierson said.
"Look," said Craig, "when the job starts, I'll do what I have to do. Till then I'll make my own amusements. I'll even like a girl if I want to." He yawned and stretched in the sun-warmed room.
"They said they'd be at the Plage de Tahiti," he said to Grierson. "I'm going there too."
Grierson grumbled, but went with him.
On the beach the bodies of both men were rich and golden, among the golden riches of the sand. Row upon row the other bodies lay, like sardines waiting to be canned: fat, ungainly bodies; thin, unpadded bodies; and, infrequently, bodies elegant, proportioned, splendid. Craig saw a golden head moving parallel with the shore, and ran to the sea, waded, leaped in a flat, smacking dive, swam toward her in a fast crawl. Grierson watched him, and shook his head in angry admiration. Surely there must be something he couldn't do well.
Craig swam out to Sophie, dived beneath her, reappearing at her other side. The girl continued to swim with an unhurried elegance of movement.
"Have you changed your mind?" she asked.
"I can't," Craig said. "I'm sorry, Sophie."
"I'm sorry too," Sophie said, then turned to him, was in his arms, and the two, clinging together, sank beneath the surface of the sea, kissing, kissing, her nearly naked body pressed firmly to his. When they came up, she broke free, and swam toward the shore. He followed her slowly, lazily, and they waded in together.
"I don't think you'll forget me," she said.
He looked at her. She wore a blue and white bikini of a cloth that looked like gingham, and her skin glowed dark gold against the white gold of her hair. Her body was full to plumpness, rounded, feminine, the richness of her breasts disciplined by their perfect shape. She could not fail to satisfy, and even as she did so, create a new desire. Her body, like her mind, mirrored her utter content in being a woman. She took his hand and pressed it to her naked hip.
"No. You won't forget me," she said.
"I wouldn't want to," said Craig.
She came closer to him, looking into his eyes, and he looked back at her, telling her nothing, the eyes just eyes, no warmth in them at all.
"You've only just met me," he said. "I gave you a lift and we were together for one day. That's all. If things had been different-"
"But they're not," she said. "This other woman is too important."
Craig said nothing.
"If she ever leaves you, I want you to come and tell me, John. Will you promise that?" "I promise," Craig said.
Sophie said bitterly, "She won't leave you. Not unless she's a fool-and you wouldn't choose a fool."
She turned and took his arm, and led him up the beach.
"One thing is different this morning," she said. "We have a millionaire. An American millionaire. Come and see."
She took him to a stretch of beach that was almost empty when every other place was packed.
"He rented it all," said Sophie. "He doesn't like crowds. And yet he wants us to sleep with him, John. Isn't that strange?"
"Both of you?"
"I think so," said Sophie. "He's a very nice man. You'll like him."
This seemed to Craig to be improbable, but Sophie was right. Dan Turner was a very likable man.
He lay sprawled like a pasha, while Maria leaned over, teasing him, and he basked, porpoise-sleek, in the warmth of the sunshine and the girl's dark, shining-rounded body. Beside them Grierson stood, noble and aloof, and very English.
Sophie said, "Dan, I want you to meet John."
"Hi," said Turner, then sat up suddenly to look at Craig, his body tall, yet compact with muscle. Craig glanced down at him; a gross mountain of a man with a beet-red face and a superb beak of a Roman nose that had been broken and reset very badly.
"Sit down," Turner said. "Have a beer."
"There isn't any," said Maria.
"Sure there is. Hey, Larry. Larry," Turner bawled, in a voice that could crack concrete.
A very black Negro, built like a light-heavyweight, staggered up and plonked down a vast silver bucket on the sand. From inside it came the chilly tinkle of ice. Turner groped in it with a hand like a crab, extracted a bottle and threw it to Craig, who caught it neatly, then another for Sophie. Faster and faster Turner's hands flew, and dark bottles gleamed in the clear blue air and smacked into Grierson's hands, then Larry's; this last an impossible catch, high to his left. Yet the Negro picked it out of the air one-handed, as if it had been passed to him on a conveyor belt.
"Larry used to play baseball. Best third baseman in the business. Now he's my chauffeur." Turner drank beer from the bottle. "Believe me, that boy can drive. And I should know. I was in trucking. Big hauls. Anything- anywhere-any time. I made eighteen million bucks."
"Why?" asked Maria.
"So I could sit on the beach and drink beer," he said. "And proposition you two."
"Dan, we told you," said Sophie.
"Sure, baby. Sure," Turner said. "But I like asking. You get so steamed up about it." He turned to Craig. "You staying long?"
"No," Craig said. "I've got to get on to Cannes."
"Too bad." Turner said, then looked at Sophie and chuckled. "I mean it, kid. What the hell, there's plenty of girls. I just want to see you have a good time." He winked at Craig. "And you're her idea of a good time. Have another be
er."
Again the great hand moved, and the air was full of flying bottles.
"I've got a villa in Cap Ferrat," said Turner. "Come and see me there if you've got time." "Thanks. I'd like to," Craig said.
"I want these two to come with me," Turner said. "A place as big as that needs a few women to fill it up." Sophie yawned, stretched, and lay down on a beach towel. Turner's red face turned redder than ever.
"I guess that's what we all need," he said, and waddled, massive and bear-like, to the sea. He could swim like a porpoise. Craig stretched out beside Sophie, the sun's heat as enervating as a tranquilizer, and watched him swim.
"He really does want us to go with him," said Sophie. "Why don't you come too?" "I wish I could," said Craig.
They left soon afterwards, and drove along the coast road to Nice. The air had an Alpine clarity, the vineyards and flowers, palms and pines, the villas and rocks, the purity of white stone and blue sea, were exactly what the travel agents say. They always will be. But for Craig and Grierson all this beauty was without relevance, without meaning. Their business was with death, and its setting was of no importance.
The Rialto is a luxury hotel that is very slowly going to seed, and is already a little frayed, a littie anxious about its future. It is a decaying Edwardian wedding cake stuffed with the memories of past splendors: the archdukes and millionaires and courtesans of la belle epoque, regretting that any motorcar, even an Alfa Romeo, should have supplanted the two-horse brougham.
Pages and doormen in gleaming gray swarmed around them, a vision in gold braid like a Bolivian admiral spoke words of command, and they were borne on a wave of opulence to a reception desk of mahogany and marble, an elevator of mahogany and red plush. On the second floor, two pages ran taps, raised blinds and palmed tips with a conjuror's deftness, and disappeared.
Craig examined his room, then sprawled on the hard-sprung bed, looking at the ceiling that was painted cool, pale blue. The walls had an embossed, creamy wallpaper, the bed linen was pink. The general effect was of a dispirited patriotism he did not share.
