Faces of Fear

by Graham Masterton

  “Pardon, monsieur?” she frowned.

  “It’s you. I saw you in St Malo. I saw you in Rouen. It’s you.”

  Slowly, she smiled. “I’ve never been to St Malo. And I haven’t been to Rouen since I was at school.”

  “I don’t understand this,” he said. “How can it not be you?”

  She stood up, still smiling. “Are you disappointed that I’m someone else? Who did you want me to be?”

  “You’re Marianne. You must be.”

  The girl shook her head. “My name is Stephanie. I live in the 6 arrondissement with my father and my mother and a big fat cat.”

  Gerry looked at her more closely. He simply couldn’t believe that it wasn’t Marianne. Yet, seriously, how could it be?

  “You know that it’s rude to stare,” Stephanie told him. Underneath her yellow blouse she had the same full breasts as Marianne.

  “I’m sorry. I made a stupid mistake, that’s all.”

  “Well, perhaps you could make up for it by buying me an ice-cream. I cycled all the way here and I forgot it was Tuesday, and that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays.”

  He actually opened his mouth to form the word “yes”. But then something warned him; something disturbed him. It wasn’t just the fact that Stephanie looked so much like Marianne. There seemed to be something wrong the whole day. The light was odd. The shadow of the bicycle didn’t seem to fall where he would have expected it to fall. He was attracted to her. He wanted her. He thought of Marianne, lying back in the orchard, with her thighs wide apart. But for some reason he turned around and they were standing not far away, the silver-haired man and his wife in black.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m late. I have to go.”

  “Well, you’re mean, as well as rude,” she pouted.

  “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  He began walking away as fast as he could. Stephanie stayed where she was, beside the pyramid, watching him. The silver-haired man and the woman in black watched him, too.

  That night he fell asleep as soon as he went to bed and dreamed of Marianne, and the orchard. He could almost feel his penis sliding in and out of her warm vagina. He woke up, sweating, with a painful erection, and the deepest sense of loss that he had ever experienced.

  It was still only eight o’clock in Connecticut, so he phoned Freddie.

  “Freddie, what would you do if Larry died, but then you found somebody exactly the same?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “It’s just a question. What would you do?”

  “When you say exactly the same, how exactly?”

  “Exactly exactly. Right down to the last mole.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t help finding him attractive. I mean, since Larry is my type, then this guy who was exactly the same would have to be my type, too.”

  Gerry looked across at his empty, crumpled bed, and said, “Yes, of course.”

  They stepped out of the comfortable warmth of the Huitre d’Or and straight into a brisk, face-slapping wind from the Channel. Carl gripped his arm, his hair flying, and said, “How about going back for another marc?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I have to get back to Paris this evening. Marketing conference eight thirty sharp.”

  “Oh, well, another time. At least you’re looking a damned sight better than you did before.”

  “You can’t grieve for ever. And maybe somebody else will come along, just when I’m least expecting it.”

  They were walking along the promenade at Arromanches, which had once been Gold Beach, where the Allies landed on D-Day. The dark hulking remains of the Mulberry harbour still lay in the shallows, and a Sherman tank still perched on top of a nearby hill. Gerry was here to evaluate the possibilities of TransWestern opening a hotel/restaurant to cater for ‘living history’ package tours.

  The Channel was the colour of pale gum. The wind was thick with salt and grit, and they had to shield their faces with their hands.

  “I’ll say goodbye,” Carl told him, and clasped his hand. “Take more care of yourself, will you? And if that right person comes along – well, grab her with both hands.”

  He watched Carl drive away, and then he walked a little further along the front, and down to the beach. He was crying, but only because of the wind. Two spaniels were scampering around and around on the sand, and a small boy was huddled against the promenade wall with his trousers round his ankles, trying unsuccessfully to pee against the wind.

  Gerry walked out to the water’s edge, even though he was wearing Oxfords. A little way away, a young woman was standing on her own, a woman with a yellow headscarf and a long cream coat. He wondered what she was doing out here, all by herself, staring at the rusting remains of a war that must have been over twenty years before she was born.

  He walked up to her. She didn’t turn around, but stood with one hand clasping the knot of her scarf, quite still, oblivious to the single strand of blonde hair which waved in front of her face.

  “Kind of spooky, isn’t it?” he asked her.

  At first he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then she said, “I don’t think so. I think it’s sad. So many lives lost. So many lovers, husbands and sons. So much grief.”

  “Do you know how they built the Mulberry harbour? They towed the damn thing all the way from England.”

  She turned and faced him. “I’m not very interested in old things. I like only new things.”

  He stared at her and he felt as if centipedes were crawling down his back. She was so much like Marianne that it could have been her. The same complexion, the same cheekbones, the same faint overbite. Most of all, she had the same colour eyes; like a reflection on a winter lake.

  He knew that it couldn’t be Marianne, any more than the girl on the bus in Rouen had been Marianne, or Stephanie, outside the Louvre. But she was so much alike that he couldn’t speak. He just stood looking at her, his arms by his sides, while the wind flapped his collar against his cheek.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You remind me of somebody, that’s all.”

  “I hope it was somebody you were fond of.”

  He gave her a tight smile. He didn’t know that he could answer that question without a catch in his throat.

  “Well,” she said, “I have to be going now. My parents are expecting me.”

  “I was just going for a cup of coffee. Why don’t you join me? We could have it the Norman way – you know, with a dash of calvados in it. Just the thing to warm you up.”

  She hesitated, and then she said, “All right. But not for too long. My father gets impatient.”

  They walked back across the beach.

  “Do you live nearby?” he asked her.

  “I live in St Martin de Fontenay. It’s a little town near Caen. I keep telling myself that I must get out and see the world, but I don’t know. Something always conspires to stop me.”

  They went into a small café with a tiled floor and tables covered with red checkered cloths. The ceiling was hung with fishing nets and plaster lobsters. They sat by the window and ordered two cups of black coffee and two small glasses of calvados. It was too cold to take off their coats.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?” the woman said. “Do you come from a big city in America?”

  “I was born in a place called New Milford. That wasn’t exactly your throbbing metropolis. But since then I’ve spent a lot of time in New York, and London, England.”

  “I’d love to live in a big city.”

  “Believe me, it’s no great shakes.”

  “I don’t care. I’d love to be famous all over the world, and live in a big city.”

  He tipped his calvados into his coffee and stirred it. “What do you want to be famous for? Or do you just want to be famous?”

  “I play the cello. Well, I’m learning to play the cello. It’s very demanding for a woman.”

  Gerry lowered his
cup and stared at her intently. The woman stared back, quite unabashed. Neither of them said anything for almost a minute.

  “You’re her,” he whispered.

  Her eyes flickered for the first time. “I don’t know what you mean. My name isn’t Marianne. It’s Chloe.”

  “And your father isn’t a magistrate?”

  “Of course not. He’s retired. He used to be the head-teacher at the lycee.”

  Gerry cleared his throat. “I know this is really a stupid thing to ask you, and I won’t be offended if you don’t want to answer, but do you know me at all? Have you ever met me before, anywhere?”

  Chloe shook her head. “I would have remembered, don’t you think?”

  Gerry said, “It’s incredible. The resemblance is incredible. You’re just like her.”

  There was another long pause, during which they simply sat and looked at each other. Even though Chloe wasn’t Marianne, there seemed to be the same affinity between them, the same erotic magnetism. When they started talking, they talked as if they were continuing a conversation which they had broken off only yesterday, and as the afternoon began to darken they leaned closer and closer together across the table, until Gerry’s hand was resting on hers, and they could smell the coffee and the cider spirit on each other’s breath.

  At 4:30, Chloe looked at her watch and said, “Oh, no! It’s so late! Father will be furious!”

  “Can I see you tonight?” asked Gerry.

  “I thought you were supposed to be going back to Paris.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Not just because of me?”

  “What other reason could there be to stay in Arromanches?”

  He walked her back along the windy, twilit promenade until they reached her hotel, Le Due Guillaume. They pushed their way through the revolving doors into the empty, overheated lobby, which smelled of polish and French cigarettes. Unexpectedly, Chloe took hold of both of Gerry’s hands and kissed him.

  “Meet me at eight,” she smiled.

  “I’ll bring some champagne.”

  “No, no. Just bring money.”

  “Money?”

  “You want to make love to me, don’t you?”

  “For money?”

  “Why not? All women are prostitutes, in one way or another. If I can’t be the greatest cellist of all time, perhaps I could be the greatest prostitute of all time.”

  He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression. “This is a game, isn’t it?”

  “A game? Only if you want it to be.”

  They ate in the hotel restaurant. It was off-season, of course, and they were the only diners, apart from a very old couple who scarcely spoke, and a single bald man who read a book while he ate and kept clearing his throat. The waiter’s shoes squeaked monotonously as he brought them moules marinieres, demoiselle lobsters and stuffed Seine shad. Their eyes glittered in the lamplight.

  “Do you think it’s possible for two people to be exactly alike?” asked Gerry.

  “Of course not. There will always be differences. Even one person isn’t exactly alike to all of the different people who know them.”

  Under the table, Chloe dropped off her shoe and began to massage the side of Gerry’s calf with her stockinged foot. It was so gentle and so familiar that he could almost believe that she was doing it absent-mindedly, but all the same he felt his penis stiffen, and he knew that he wanted her very much.

  He didn’t care whether it was impossible that she looked so much like Marianne. It just seemed to him that Marianne had been trying to get back to him, in one form or another, ever since her death. Why should he deny her any longer – especially when he wanted her so much. Blurred pictures of the orchard flickered through his mind; and the waiter’s squeaking shoes became the squeaking of a yellow waterproof on a rumpled bed.

  After their meal, they sat in the hotel lounge and finished their wine. The clock by the fireplace sonorously struck twelve.

  “I’d better go,” said Gerry. “At midnight, I turn into a langoustine.”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot your money?”

  He had already half-risen from his chair. He sat down again, and took hold of her hand. “Listen, don’t get me wrong. I think you’re fabulous. I want to make love to you. But before we get into anything serious, I have to be sure about the way I feel.”

  “Who said anything about anything serious? This is commerce.”

  Her words sounded cold but she said them with such a teasing smile that Gerry gave in. He took out his billfold and said, “How about 7,500F?”

  She took the money and tucked it into the front of her dress. “Come on,” she said, and led the way to the elevator.

  Her room was high-ceilinged, very warm, lit only by a bedside lamp with a dim pink shade. She drew back the bedcover as if she were unveiling a painting. Then she turned to him and kissed him again. Her tongue licked and teased at his lips, and then deeply penetrated his mouth. All the time she kept her eyes open, staring at him unblinkingly. Her eyes were as grey as thunderstorms, and ball-bearings, and empty country roads.

  She unbuttoned her long black woollen dress, and as it fell to the floor it exhaled female warmth and Chanel No.5. Underneath she wore a lacy black bra and a black lace thong, and black hold-up stockings with lace-edged tops. She took off her bra, and her breasts were just like Marianne’s, full and rounded and pale as milk. He touched her nipples with his fingertips, and she kissed him again, her head uptilted, eager for the taste of his mouth.

  He stripped off his clothes. His penis stood up at an acute angle and cast a shadow on the wallpaper. She kissed him and laughed and said, “Look,” so that he could see her stroking it in silhouette. She rubbed the shaft slowly up and down, so slowly that it was almost frustrating.

  “Now … you’ve paid for me, you can take me,” she whispered. She turned and lay face-down on the bed, her breasts pressed against the sheet. She raised her bottom and reached behind her with both hands to part the cheeks of her bottom, although she was still wearing her thong.

  Gerry, naked, mounted the bed behind her. He pulled the thong aside, so that her vulva was exposed. It was already moist, and slightly gaping. The curves of her inner lips were pink and wavelike.

  He took hold of his penis in his fist, and buried it inside her, as deep as he could, until he was pressing her into the bed. With one hand she reached between his legs and began to stroke his scrotum with his fingernails, very lightly at first, but then harder and harder, until she was digging her nails into his skin and forcibly tugging it. His thighs quaked, and he felt as if his whole soul was concentrated between his legs.

  At the instant he climaxed, Chloe deliberately pulled him out of her, and rolled over, so that his semen sprayed all over her leg. She held him and scratched him and nuzzled him and bit him, thrashing from side to side on the bedcover, until he felt that he was being attacked by wild animals.

  Afterward, she lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He rested on one elbow and watched her, tracing a pattern on her bare stomach with his fingertip, occasionally sliding it down far enough to entwine it with her pubic hair.

  “Where did you first make love to your Marianne? Tell me.”

  “An apple orchard, near Clecy.”

  Chloe smiled at him. “Did you know that whenever they brought apples anywhere near to Duchesne, the secretary to Francois I, blood poured from his nose?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. But blood didn’t pour from my nose.”

  “Just from your heart?”

  He nodded. He still felt grief for Marianne, but it was difficult to grieve quite so sorely while another Marianne was lying next to him: a woman of the same erotic appetites, a woman of the same game-playing flirtatiousness, a woman who would do anything to please him.

  They made love twice more before dawn. The third time, Chloe insisted that he tie her wrists and ankles with silk scarves, and cover her eyes with a blindfold. As the first grey l
ight began to fill the room, he knelt between her thighs, his fingers deep inside her, while she gasped, and gasped, and called out his name.

  Just before he fell asleep, he heard her watch ticking on the nightstand, and he was sure that when she breathed out she whispered, “Pity me.”

  When he dressed he found that his money was back in his billfold. He took it out and went to the bathroom where she was standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth.

  “What’s this?” he asked her.

  Her reflection grinned at him. “You didn’t think that I was really a prostitute, did you? I want to be a great cellist.”

  “Marry me,” he told her.

  “Marry you? You don’t even know me. I might be the worst cellist in the world.”

  “I don’t have to know you. I feel like we were fated to meet each other, that’s all. I mean, did you ever make love with any other man before?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “But did you?”

  She brushed past him, naked. He caught her arm. They stared intensely into each other’s eyes. He could smell the peppermint of her toothpaste, as well as the smell of sex.

  “Marry me,” he repeated.

  “Why should I? Because I remind you so much of your Marianne?”

  “Because you’ve allowed me to forget her.”

  She didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no. But she kissed her own fingertip, and placed it on his lips, and he knew that what she had done was both a seal and a sign, and that one day soon they would be married.

  She took him to meet her parents, in a large grey house just outside the village of Ossuaire, on the flat water-meadows that led to Mont St-Michel. Gerry parked in the curving shingled driveway, and climbed out. It was always windy here, so close to the sea, and the grey house fluttered with pale wisteria. In the distance, the 200-foot peak of Mont St-Michel stood dark in a sun-dazzling sea, but somehow the heart seemed to have gone out of it. It had withstood the English in the Hundred Years’ War and the Huguenots in the religious wars, but it had fallen, in the end, to tourists.

  Her father was waiting for them in the dim, uncarpeted sitting-room, his back to the light. He wore a grey suit and a grey silk necktie, and a grey cat sat on his lap, its eyes squeezed shut in self-satisfaction. Gerry approached him and held out his hand. The old man kept on stroking the cat, and made no attempt to take it. “Chloe tells me that you wish to marry her,” he said, in the dryest of voices.