Flash and Filigree

by Terry Southern

  Meanwhile, Ralph’s other hand had not been idle, though it only lay carefully inside the blouse, over the lace-wrought bosom, which he caressed gently, almost soothingly, as if not to frighten the dear sparrow-thing huddled there, waiting until his mouth covered hers again before attempting the filigreed nest itself—which he did, at last, with steely tenderness. This new effort, however, was met with an outburst of actual tears, even though, or perhaps because, it succeeded. The girl sobbed up through the kisses wet and piteously, her body going limp and lifeless again, except for the mouth with tremored softly as she cried, while Ralph kissed her—her cheeks and her eyes—with great, real lovingness.

  “Ralph . . . please don’t. Oh, please, please, please . . .”

  “Don’t cry, Babs,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry. I love you so much.” And he continued to kiss her face all over, her throat and ears, fondling her bare nipple the while, until the girl seemed on the brink of hysteria.

  “Oh PLEASE stop, Ralph, please stop. Oh stop, please stop, please, please, please.”

  “Kiss me, Babs, please kiss me. I love you so.”

  She shook her head blindly, sobbing. “No! No, no!”

  “Please, darling, I love you so much.”

  “No, I can’t, I can’t. Please STOP . . .”

  But when he kissed her again, violently on the mouth, and released both of her arms, she flung them around his neck, and it was as if she wanted to do nothing so much as eat him alive. She pressed against him furiously, and Ralph, very gradually, gave way, even pulling a little, until their bodies were leaning at something like a 45° angle to the seat, completely off balance, in favor of reclining, at which point he allowed them to fall, though slowly, at the same time turning Babs clockwise by the shoulders, so that she was, at the end of this maneuver, on the inside of the seat, with her back to its wall, so to speak.

  This was a transition of which Babs, lost in kisses, seemed fervidly oblivious—until Ralph’s left hand abandoned the bosom for the pelvic region, a move that touched off, like a hair-triggered device, a phase of unparalleled outrage and frantic defense. But the girl was even more securely bridled than before, under the additional handicap now of Ralph’s partial weight upon her. And except that their embrace was now more or less horizontal, their positions had remained exactly the same, with Babs’ left arm being half under and on the other side of him, and, of course, hopelessly out of it, while her right was still locked at the wrist by his own right, which encircled her shoulders and held her fast against him.

  Writhing and convulsing, she sobbed great pleas up through the kisses, and seemed so on the verge of some sort of internal explosion, that Ralph released, almost as a gift, her right hand, which immediately seized his own left and tried desperately to undo its maddening design, whereupon Ralph’s right hand was at once lowered into the shattered arrow of Babs’ dress-front, and the girl was able to wrench her mouth from his, crying, “Ralph, oh please, Ralph please, oh Ralph.”

  And he, woefully: “Oh Babs, I love you so much. Babs, I love you so.”

  But Babs was too near hysteria for romantic talk. She suddenly made her voice perversely calm, trying to sound reasonable, yet with a good deal of warmth and promise, too. “Ralph, let’s stop for a few minutes, please, just for a minute, please, darling, please . . .” at which point he kissed her deeply in the ear, and along the neck; and she, almost as in a fit, snatched the hand at her breast and tried to bite it, at the same time bursting into tears again.

  Ralph withdrew his hand from her bosom and returned it to her face, which he held again for kissing; and then he raised the pelvic hand as well, using it now to stroke her hair and face as he kissed her, soothingly, saying: “Don’t be afraid, darling. I love you so much, please don’t be afraid,” and he put both arms around her in gentle closeness, calming her wondrously, as he allowed his left hand to go lovingly down her side and over to her knees, under the dress, and as high as the top of her stockings before the girl awakened again, as by apoplexy, closing her legs frantically tight on his hand, trapping it.

  “NO!” she said. It was almost a scream. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” but he covered her mouth so fully with his own, as the hand slowly inched forward, that Babs could only writhe and shudder, until the hand did reach the point where she burst into tears as if now and never really before her heart-of-hearts was surely broken. But the hand was there, so searchingly, findingly, undeniably there. “Oh no Ralph darling please no Ralph please I love you so, please don’t Ralph oh please stop please oh please please please please PLEASE STOP Ralph please oh please Ralph God please stop please God make him stop I can’t stand it RALPH oh please oh I’m going to scream! Ralph I will oh please I will scream Ralph I will! I will!”

  And Ralph did stop, moaning, “Please, Babs, please, darling, kiss me, Babs, I love you so much.” And she kissed him insanely, half in gratitude for his having stopped, and half in raging hunger, as he, left hand resting quietly on the top part of her leg, gently undid the stocking-hooks.

  “Please don’t be afraid, Babs, darling,” he said, returning his hand inside, and easing one knee between her own. “You know I love you so much, Babs, please, I love you so.”

  “No, Ralph, not any more, please, not now, Ralph, please listen, Ralph, not here, please, let’s wait, really, Ralph, darling, please, no really please, oh Ralph I love you please don’t, really don’t please Ralph I can’t darling I love you please, oh Ralph, please, I can’t Ralph you don’t know please I’d rather the please God oh please God Ralph you’re hurting me please oh no please oh no oh please no . . .”

  During the final crucial assault, Babs, let it be said for the darling girl, comported herself like a thing possessed, creature-like, threatening to bite and scratch the boy, and though, never actually going quite so far as that, did fight with an otherwise frenetic desperation until the last lace-edged line of defense was breached aside, and even then, when all strength had deserted her and she was incapable of further effort, she still imagined herself, for a time, to be resisting.

  Finally, however, she felt herself yielding to rest, as though one part of her were outside, disinterestedly watching, while another part of her stayed in so far inside herself that everything was in a sort of soft-focus blur where the only reality was a gnawing want and, finally, a pain. And then she clasped him and the tearing pain to her viciously, as though this had suddenly become the last, or first, touch with dear life; and as she felt the proverbial wings of the great moth spread upward flexing within, her, carrying the myth of reality and a part of awareness up and away, the moth grew to the size of some great winged bird, chained to the bottom of a vat of champagne, moving his wings with powerful, majestic slowness, and the bubbles rose on every side, streaming in deathless, thrilling flights to nowhere.

  “Oh Ralph,” she breathed, worshipfully, “Ralph.”

  Chapter XIX

  BACK AT THE MAYFAIR, Dr. Eichner shakily fell in again with Jean-baby, and on the hope of restoring his composure, quickly downed a double-brandy neat.

  “How was it, Doc?” asked the girl as soon as they were seated in the booth.

  “What’s that!” said Eichner crossly. A searing ache had moved in behind his eyes, making it difficult for him to focus his attention, and he had suddenly become so suspicious of his surroundings, that he felt a desperate want of time.

  “Well, the broadcast, how was it? Where’s Marty?”

  The Doctor took his head in both hands. “Why do you ask?”

  Jean-baby didn’t bother to reply. “You’re cute,” she said a second later, and gave his wrist a pinch that made him start.

  “I can’t discuss it with you now,” said Eichner, ignoring her gesture momentarily, but then shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “My—my head hurts.” This note of childlike apology may have struck some remote maternal device inside the girl, for she laughed with soft embarrassment and touched his temple slightly.

  “Too much hemp,” said
the Doctor vaguely, trying to explain. “Too-much-hemp.”

  “Yes,” she keened, not comprehending, “yes, yes,” stroking his bent head. And, in less than a minute, he was asleep and slowly easing his head down to the table and forward on cradling arms.

  At that moment someone entered the bar and Jean-baby raised her eyes to see Frost glide past the booth like a zombie.

  “Here Marty!” she said brightly, reaching out for him with one arm while with the other giving Fred Eichner a sharp nudge. “Come on, Doc, join the party!”

  Frost turned and, after staring at them sat down opposite. For a moment he seemed strangely detached.

  “Fred Eichner, is it?” he asked, frowning over the great inert head. “Well, we’ve got to get cracking. Something’s up. Bring him around.”

  “Let him snort some schmeck!” said Jean-baby, wide-eyed, reaching for her purse.

  “No, no,” said Frost irritably. “Get pepper.” He looked toward the bar for a waiter.

  “Pepper?” asked Jean. “What’s the kick? What kind of pepper?”

  “Ordinary pepper, of course,” said Frost. “Black pepper.”

  “What’s it have in it, black pepper?” but Frost didn’t seem to be listening. Looking toward the bar, his face had contorted into a grimace of extraordinary annoyance.

  “Pepper here!” he said loudly. “Black pepper here!”

  “Cool it, Marty,” said Jean-baby. “I’ll make the run.” She appeared dramatically apprehensive as she rose and went toward the rear of the bar, but she was back very soon, all smiles.

  “Marty, the score’s set—and here’s the stash!”

  She put a small can of black pepper down on the table in front of him.

  “Open her up,” said Frost, gazing down on the can with heavy purpose.

  Jean carefully seated herself, then opened and punched down the pouring section of the can.

  “Looks like the end groove count,” she said, dumping about half the contents into her cupped hand.

  “Give it to me,” said Frost, “and cut that hipster gab. It’s making me sick.”

  Jean thoughtfully transferred the pile of black pepper to Frost’s hand, even lightly tapping the back of her own to free the clinging fragments.

  “How do you make it?” she demanded, watching Frost intently.

  “Like this,” said Frost, and with an abrupt little movement he flung the handful of pepper on the table under the Doctor’s face.

  It had the effect of some sort of unusual personnel bomb in that the Doctor went abruptly upright in an explosion of sneezes and coughs.

  “Steady on,” said Frost, putting out a hand to detain the Doctor when he started to rise.

  “Wow!” marveled Jean-baby, “what a flash!” She was watching them both very closely now, really impressed.

  “Something’s up, Doc,” said Frost. “We’ve got to get cracking.”

  Eichner looked terrible. Eyes all red and streaming, his face seemed caught up in a kind of permanent twist of wrath and anxiety. He tried to speak but only made a gurgling sound.

  Jean-baby sat gazing at the box in her hand, in complete wonder over the simple phenomenon.

  “Wow,” she mused, “it must be the end groove kick!” And suddenly she put her own head down on the table the way Fred Eichner’s had been, closing her eyes and pushing the can toward Frost. “Go!” she said. “Make it!”

  “Will you shut up,” said Frost, that impatient with her now. “Something’s up, Fred,” he went on in even tones to the Doctor. “Do you follow me?”

  Dr. Eichner continued to stare at him, horror-stricken and seemingly with no comprehension at all, but he nodded his head rather oddly to show understanding, and Frost continued, leaning forward in confidence. “A trap,” he said softly. “A trap for Treevly.”

  Dr. Eichner nodded again, this time making a funny little effort to wax sage as well.

  “Here’s the set-up,” said Frost, taking out a very small address book and gesturing with it to make points of emphasis. “After the broadcast, I got talking to Treevly—and his friend, and I invited them to a party. At your place! Tonight. They’ll be there in an hour. We’ve got to get cracking.”

  “I’ll get the chicks—you get the lush!” cried Jean shrilly. Marty’s got-a-party and

  a trap for Treev-ly!”

  “All right, cool it!” said Frost to the girl. “Get a couple of interesting chicks, and let’s make it.”

  “What about a hashish and peyote buffet?” asked Jean. “I’ll make the run.”

  Frost frowned heavily at first, then seemed to consider it, tapping the address book against his open hand. “Hmm. Make it look like a real party, eh? Hmm, I wonder.” He took a side-look at Fred Eichner, who was holding on gamely. “This Dr. Eichner has a well-stocked liquor cabinet. I’ve no doubts on that count. Still some mah-joong and a bit of the green might go nicely toward—ambiance. All right, but make it fast, we’ve got to get cracking. Now, here’s the address.” He ripped a page out of the address book. “Be there in half-an-hour, and no slip-ups!”

  “Right Marty!” said Jean, smart in her attempt at efficiency, but getting to her feet rather jerkily.

  The minute she was gone, Frost ordered up.

  “We’ll slap down a couple of hard ones, then we’ll be getting this show on the road, Fred.”

  Dr. Eichner, passing a hand slowly across his eyes, didn’t speak but appeared to be following Frost’s words more easily now.

  Chapter XX

  BY THE TIME Frost and Fred Eichner reached the Doctor’s home in Lord’s Canyon, it was evident, even as they ascended the drive, that a party of sorts was already under way. Strains of soft music wafted across the wide lawn from the house, and girl-sounds as well, all tinkles and laughter.

  “Good,” said Frost as he assisted Dr. Eichner on the steps, “Jean’s set it up nicely.”

  The Doctor’s house was a large and pleasant one—white colonial with great French windows fronting the wide-terraced grounds.

  Stretched the long full face of the house was one wide unbroken room, a sweep of grayed-pearl elegance; a spatial room, delicately poised, yet hushed and restful, with ebony, cream, or satin-wood appointments and a blackening-red portrait or two on the farther walls. Opening from one corner of this room where the guests moved about as in an underwater ballet, was the half-closed door of a darkened study, seen rich and cozy by the soft blazing grate that played rose-blue firelight in tints of gold across paneled walls and the malt, blood, and moss colored tomes of vellum and suede.

  Upon entering, the Doctor seemed to recover himself momentarily and, with the manner of a man suddenly aware of his position as host, began moving about the room wanting to see to all things at once. The guests, however, appeared already comfortably engaged. Jean had brought along three other young girls, and two of them caressed in slowly viscous dance, in the center of the room, while the third swayed alone nearby in closed-eyed languor, to a dripping saxophone’s “Indian Love Call.”

  Jean-baby herself was active at the sideboard, preparing more canapés from the hashish-candy, mah-joong, and peyote-paste—the latter which she made by chopping up the edible part of the cactus-bulbs and dumping them into a Waring Blender.

  “Here, now,” said Fred Eichner, disturbed, when he reached her, “my man will see to the buffet, you’ve only to—”

  “That creep,” said Jean-baby, scooping the wet paste from the machine with a big spoon and spreading it over the hashish wafers, “I told him to hop it.” She turned to Frost and threw him a look of warning. “No cornballs on the scene, Marty, they might hip the fuzz. I told the cat just to cut-on-out.”

  “The girl may be right, Fred,” said Marty. “Anyway, better safe than sorry, eh?”

  Dr. Eichner seemed confounded and Martin Frost took his arm.

  “You get comfortable, Fred, I’ll see to the arrangements here,” and so saying he led the Doctor to a big deep cloth chair near where the girls were dan
cing and set him in it, and there the Doctor seemed to lapse at once into a sort of expectant coma, watching the graceful movements of the girls in dance and nodding his head and tilting it about, a pleasant smile on his face. The two girls moved throughout the large room, weaving a dreamy arabesque across the scene: and sometimes circling the Doctor’s chair.

  “Make it,” said Jean-baby to Frost when he went back to the sideboard, “it’s the proverbial end groove kick.”

  “Hmm,” said Frost skeptically, frowning over the arrangements there, but he took one of the canapés, then grimaced painfully at the taste of it.

  On the sideboard as well, bottle-dark in their yellow lacquered chilling-buckets, were several magna of champagne, one of which was open, and Jean handed him a brimming glass.

  “Wash it down with juice, daddy, it’s a gas.”

  Frost swigged it down.

  “Cut that argot,” he said to her quietly, “or I’ll break your head open.”

  Jean arched her brows prettily and, with a toss of her head, left the sideboard carrying a tray of the prepared canapés, which she proffered about among the guests.