by Anne Rice
“Hello, Goldilocks.”
A low voice, that made me think of caramel or melted chocolate, something delicious like that, almost a woman’s voice coming out of her little girl mouth. I could scarcely stand it.
She drew a pen out of her leather mail pouch bag.
“I had to get this at another store,” she said. Unbelievable blue eyes. “They sold out at the party before I realized it.”
You see, she’s not a thief. I took it out of her hands, took the pen. I tried to place the voice geographically, but I couldn’t. Words almost British crisp but it wasn’t a British accent.
“What’s your name, Goldilocks? Or may I just write Goldilocks?” There were freckles on her nose, and a touch of gray mascara on her blond lashes. Skill again. Lipstick bubblegum pink and perfect on her poochy little mouth. And what a smile. Am I still breathing?
“Belinda,” she said. “But you don’t have to write anything. Just sign your name. That will be plenty.” Poise all right. Slow, even-spaced words for all the clear articulation. And the steadiness of the gaze, amazing.
Yet she was so young. Just a baby up close, if there’d been any doubt at a distance. I reached out and stroked her hair. Nothing illegal in that, is there? It was thick, yes, but it gave under my touch as if it were full of air.
She actually had dimples. Two little dimples. “That’s very sweet of you, Mr. Walker.”
“Pleasure, Belinda.”
‘q heard them saying you’d be coming over here. I hope you don’t mind “
“Not at all, sweetheart. Want to go to the party?”
Had I said that?
Jody shot me an incredulous glance. She was holding the elevator door. “Sure, Mr. Walker. If you really want me to—” Her eyes were dark blue, that was the thing. They’d never look anything but blue. She glided past me into the glass car. Small bones, very straight posture.
“Of course, I do,” I said. The doors swished shut. “It’s a press party, lots of people will be there.”
Very official, you see, I am not a child molester, and no one is going to grab your beautiful hair in two handfuls. Streaks of yellow in it. It could have been naturally that light. Then you wouldn’t call it platinum. “I thought you were all tuckered out,” said Jody.
The elevator shot up soundlessly past the roof of the old building, and the city spread out around us all the way to the bay, frightening in its clarity. Union Square got smaller and smaller.
Belinda was looking up at me, and when I looked down, she smiled again and the dimples came back just for a second.
She held the book close to her side with her left hand. And with her right she fished another little cigarette out of her blouse pocket. Gauloises. Crumpled blue pack there.
I reached for my lighter.
“No, watch this,” she said, letting the cigarette hang on her lip. Out of the pocket with the same hand she pulled a matchbook.
I knew this trick. But I didn’t believe she was going to do it. With the one hand she opened the book, freed a match, bent it back, closed the book, and struck the match with her thumb. “See?” she said as she touched the flame to the cigarette. “I just learned that.”
I started laughing. Jody was staring at her, vaguely astonished. I just couldn’t stop laughing.
“Yes, that’s very good,” I said. “You did it perfectly.”
“Are you old enough to smoke?” Jody asked. “I don’t think she’s old enough to smoke.”
“Give her a break,” I said. “We’re going to a party.”
Belinda was still looking up at me and she dissolved into giggles without making a sound. I stroked her hair again, touched the barrette that held it in back. Big silver barrette. She had enough hair for at least two people. I wanted to touch her cheek, touch the dimples.
She looked down, cigarette dangling from the lip again, reached into her pouch and pulled out a big pair of sunglasses.
“I don’t think she’s old enough to smoke,” said Jody again. “Besides, she shouldn’t smoke in the elevator.”
“There’s nobody but us in this elevator.”
Belinda had the glasses on when the door opened.
“You’re safe now,” I said. “They’ll never recognize you.”
She gave me a little startled glance. Her mouth and cheeks looked even more adorable under the big square rims. Skin so brand-new. I couldn’t stand it.
“You can’t be too careful,” she said with a little smile.
Butter, that’s what the voice was, warm butter, which I happen to like better actually than caramel.
THE suite was jammed and full of smoke. I could hear Alex Clementine’s deep movie-star voice rolling over the seamless chatter. Passed cookbook queen Ursula Hall utterly mobbed. I took Belinda’s arm and forced my way through to the bar, acknowledging a few hellos here and there. I asked for a Scotch and water, and she whispered that she wanted the same thing. I decided to chance it.
Her cheeks looked so full and soft, I wanted to kiss them, kiss her candy mouth.
Get her off in a corner, I thought, and keep her talking as you memorize every detail of her so you can paint her later. Tell her that’s what you’re doing, she will understand. There is absolutely nothing lecherous about just wanting to paint her.
The fact was I could see her in the pages of a book already, and her name was making strings of words in my head, something to do with an old poem by Ogden Nash: “Belinda lived in a little white house ...”
Flash of her thin gold bracelet as she pushed at the glasses. The lenses were pink, and pale enough for me to see her eyes. Faint white fleece on her arm, barely visible. She was looking around as if she didn’t like it here, and she was starting to get the inevitable glances. How could people not look at her? She bowed her head as if she was really uncomfortable. For the first time I noticed she had breasts under the white blouse, rather large ones. The collar gaped a little and the tan went all the way down-Breasts on a baby like this, imagine.
I took the two drinks. Best to move out of sight of the bartender before I gave it to her. I wished now I’d ordered gin. No way did this look like a soft drink.
Somebody touching my shoulder. Andy Fisher, columnist from the Oakland Tribune, old friend. I was trying hard not to spill the two drinks.
“just want to know one thing, one thing,” he said. He gave Belinda the eye, lost a beat. “Do you even like children?”
“Very funny, Andy.” Belinda was headed away. I followed her.
“No, seriously, Jeremy, you’ve never told me that, do you actually like kids, that’s what I want to know—”
“Ask Jody, Andy. Jody knows everything.”
I caught a sudden glimpse of Alex’s profile through the crowd.
“On the twelfth floor of this very hotel,” Alex was saying, “and she was a real darling little girl, her name was Virginia Rappe, and, of course, Arbuckle was famous for these drunken—”Where the hell was Belinda?
Alex turned, caught my eye, waved. I gave him a little salute. But I’d lost Belinda.
“Mr. Walker!”
There she was. She was whispering to me from the entrance to a little hallway. She seemed to be hiding in there. But somebody had my sleeve again, a Hollywood columnist I rather loathed.
“What about the picture deal, Jeremy? This going to happen with Disney?”
“Seems like it, Barb,” I said. “Ask Jody. She knows. Probably not Disney though, probably Rainbow Productions.”
“Saw that sweet little suck-up piece they did on you in the Bay Bulletin this morning.”
“I didn’t.”
Belinda turned her back to me, moved on, head down.
“Well, I heard the movie deal was dead in the water. They think you’re too difficult, trying to teach their artists how to draw.”
“Wrong, Barb.” Fuck you, Barb. “Besides, I don’t give a damn what they do with it.”
“The conscientious artist.”
“Of course, I am.
The books are forever. They can have the movies.”
“For the right price, I hear.”
“And why not, I’d like to know. But why do you waste your time with this, Barb? You can write your usual lies without hearing the truth from me first, can’t you?”
“Jeremy, I think you’re a little too drunk to be at a publicity party.”
“Not drunk at all, that’s the problem.” Just turn your back and she’ll disappear.
Belinda reached out, tugged on my arm. Thank you, darling. We moved down the little hallway. There were two bathrooms there side by side, and the bedroom with its own bath, which I could see through the open doorway. She was looking at the bedroom. Then she looked up, her eyes dark and deceptively grown-up behind the pink lenses. Could have been a woman then. Except that the pink glasses went with the candy-pink mouth.
“Listen, I want you to believe what I’m going to say,” I said. “I want you to understand that I am perfectly sincere.”
“About what?” Dimples. Her voice made me want to kiss her throat. “I want to paint your picture,” I said. “Just really paint your picture. I’d like you to come to my house. Nothing more to it than that, honestly, I swear to you. Lots of times I use models, all on the up and up. I call reputable agencies. I’d like to paint you—”
“Why shouldn’t I believe that?” she asked, almost laughing. I thought she would start giggling again, the way she had in the elevator. “I know all about you, Mr. Walker. I’ve read your books all my life.”
She went into the open bedroom, short pleated skirt swinging tightly with her hips, showing the naked thigh right above her knees.
I slipped in after her, backing away from her a little, just watching her. Her hair was very long down her back.
The noise dropped off somewhat, and the air was cooler here. A wall of mirrors made it seem impossibly enormous. She turned to me.
“May I have my Scotch now?” she asked.
“Sure you can.”
She took a deep swallow and looked around again. Then she took off the glasses and shoved them in her open bag and looked at me again. Her eyes seemed to be swimming with light that came from the low lamps and the reflections of the lamps in the mirrors.
The room seemed overdone to me, padded and draped, as it was, and stretching on through the glass into infinity. Not a sharp edge anywhere. The light was almost caressing. The hotel bed, covered in gold satin, resembled a great altar. The sheets would be smooth and cool.
I scarcely noticed that she had put down her bag and put out the cigarette. She took another swallow of the Scotch without even a wince. And she wasn’t faking it. Remarkable poise actually. I don’t even think she knew I was studying her.
And a sad realization drifted through my head, something to do with how young she was, how good she looked in any light, how light didn’t make the slightest difference with her. And how old I was, and how all young people, even plain young people, had begun to look beautiful to me.
I didn’t know whether this was a gift or a curse. It just made me sad. I didn’t want to think about it. And I didn’t want to stay in here with her. It was too much.
“Will you come to the house then?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
She went to the door and closed it and turned the latch, and the noise of the party simply evaporated. She stood against the door and took another swallow of the drink. No smiles, no giggles. Just that adorable poochy little mouth and the woman eyes above it and her breasts pushing against the cotton blouse.
I felt my heart shut down rather abruptly. Then a painful warmth in my face, and a change of gears from man to animal. I wondered if she had the slightest idea what that shift was like, if any young girl could be expected to. I thought of Arbuckle again. What had he done? Grabbed the doomed starlet Virginia Rappe and shredded her clothes—something like that. Shredded his career in something less than fifteen minutes probably—
Her face was so earnest, yet so innocent. Wetness on her lips from the Scotch.
I said,
“Don’t do this, honey.”
“Don’t you want to?” she asked.
My God. I had thought she’d pretend not to understand me.
“This just isn’t very smart,” I said.
“Why isn’t it?” she asked. Nothing flippant, artificial.
I knew absolutely and positively I wasn’t going to lay a hand on her. Cigarette or no cigarette, Scotch or no Scotch, she was no street kid. The doomed don’t look like this, no, never. And I had only helped myself to those sad lost little girls just a few times in my life, just a few times, when desire and opportunity collided with more heat than I’d expected. The shame never went away. The shame of this would be unbearable.
“Come on, honey, open the door,” I said.
She didn’t do anything. I couldn’t imagine what was going through her mind. Mine was sort of letting me down. I was looking at her breasts again, at her socks so tight on her legs. I wanted to peel them off. Strip them off, I think the word is, actually. Forget about Fatty Arbuckle. This isn’t murder, it’s just sex. And she’s what, sixteen? No, just another part of the criminal code, that’s all.
She put her drink down on the table. And she came towards me slowly. She lifted her arms and put them around my neck, and the soft babycheek was against my face, her breasts against my chest, her candy mouth opening.
“Oh, Goldilocks,” I said.
“Belinda,” she whispered.
“Hmmmmm ... Belinda.” I kissed her. I lifted her pleated skirt and slid my hands up her thighs and they were as soft as her face. Her bottom was so tight and smooth under her cotton panties.
“Come on,” she said in my ear. “Don’t you want to do it before they come and ruin everything?”
“Honey—”
“I like you so much.”
I WOKE up when I heard the door click shut. The digital clock on the bedside table told me I’d slept for maybe half an hour. She was gone.
I found my wallet lying neatly on top of my pants, and all my money was still in the silver money clip in the front pants pocket.
Either she hadn’t found it or she had not been trying to rob me in the first place. I didn’t think too much about it. I was too busy getting dressed, combing my hair, straightening up the bed and getting out into the party to find her. I was also pretty busy feeling guilty. Of course, she wasn’t there.
I was halfway down to the first floor when I realized this was futile. She had too big a head start. Yet I searched the entire maze of dim carpeted hallways, went in and out of the swanky dress shops, the restaurants.
I checked with the doorman out front. Had he seen her, gotten her a cab?
She was just gone again. And I was standing there in the late afternoon thinking, well, I’d done it with her and she was probably sixteen and somebody’s daughter. No consolation that it had been simply terrific.
TIHE dinner was particularly awful. And no amount of Pinot Chardonnay could make it any better. Strictly big bucks, contracts, agents, TV and movie talk. And Alex Clementine had not been there to lend any charm to it. They were holding him back for his own dinner later on this week.
When the subject of the new book came up, I heard myself say: “Look, it was what my audience wanted.” And after that I shut up.
A serious writer, artist, whatever the hell I was, has to be smart enough not to say things like that. And the funny thing was the remark surprised me. Maybe I had begun to believe my own hype, or begun to believe that my hype was hype. In any case, by the time the dinner was over, I felt rotten.
I was thinking of her. How tender and fragile she had seemed, and yet so sure of herself. It was not new to her, making love, no matter how new she was. And yet she’d been so delicate, so purely romantic in the way that she’d kissed, touched, let me touch her.
No hint of guilt or old-fashioned shame or the defiance they can produce. No, none of that.
I was going mad over
it. I couldn’t figure it out.
Too fast it had all been. And then the short sleep afterwards with my arm around her. I had never figured on her slipping away. I hated myself and I was angry with her.
Some rich kid she was, probably, skipping school; and now safe in her mansion in Pacific Heights telling some other brat on the phone about what she’d done. No, that didn’t fit. She was too sweet for all that.
I picked up a pack of Gauloises before I left downtown. Very strong, no filter, too short. just the kind of thing a kid would think was romantic. In my Beat Generation days we had smoked Camels. So with her it was Gauloises.
I smoked the Gauloises in the cab on the way home, my eyes searching every downtown block for her.
Iv was still hot after dark, truly unusual for San Francisco. But the big high-ceiling rooms of my old Victorian house were cool as always.
I made some coffee and sat for a while, smoking another one of those miserable cigarettes, and I just looked around me at the shadowy living room, thinking about her.
Toys everywhere. Dust and disarray of an antique shop on the worn oriental carpets. I was rather sick of it. Had the urge to sweep it all into the street, just clean the place to the bare walls. But I knew I’d regret it.
It had taken me twenty-five years to collect these things, and I did love them. They were props in those early days. When I did Bettina’s World, I bought the first of the antique dolls, and the first old standard-gauge railroad train, and the big fancy Victorian doll house because these were Bettina’s things, and I needed to have them before me when I painted the pictures.
I’d photograph them in black and white from every angle, in every combination. Then take the photographs up to my studio and work in oil on canvas from the flat patterns that had been created in these photographs.
But I began to like the toys for their own sake. When I found a rare French doll, a porcelain beauty with almond eyes and withered lace clothes, I built the book Angelica’s Dreams around her. And as the years passed, it continued to work that way, toys generating books, and books swallowing toys, and so on.
