A château…
“Lieutenant? Something wrong?” Bernie asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Kingsley said. Quite possibly something very right. “Tell the colonel I’ll do it.”
“You’re braver than I am,” Bernie said.
“I know. Now get out.”
“But—”
“Out. I’ll be in touch when I can.”
Kingsley held the door open for Bernie. The poor boy had to scramble to push all his papers back into his bag. It appeared there was an actual bowling ball in his bowling bag. Kingsley decided that either Bernie was literally the worst spy in the entire world or the best.
“Leaving, leaving,” Bernie said. “But don’t you want the book? You might need it?”
He held it out to Kingsley again.
“You keep it. Read it. You might learn something,” Kingsley said, before shutting the door in Bernie’s face.
He didn’t need to keep the book, after all.
Kingsley had his own copy.
5
Was this real life?
Was this really happening?
This woman, Madame, not only ran a sex cult, but a cult that worshipped Story of O? Crazy, right? It had to be crazy. Rumors, misinformation, you couldn’t trust stories like that. They were all urban legends, blown out of proportion. More likely that Madame was a madam. Instead of kidnapping important men, she probably operated a brothel that catered to rich, deviant men, and those rich, deviant men lied to their not-so-deviant wives about how they ended up in the pocket of this woman. That was Kingsley’s theory. And it was very possible that’s why his little corner of France’s intelligence community wanted to know where she was and exactly what and who she was doing. The colonel’s nephew strapped to a bed by a beautiful woman might give up secrets he didn’t know he knew.
In the wooden crate at the foot of his bed, the one he used for a makeshift bookcase, he found his copy of Story of O. He’d first read the book when he was a boy, sneaking it from his parents’ bedroom shelf when they were out. He told himself he’d only kept the book because it had his mother’s initials written inside it. K.B. The same as his. But that wasn’t why.
He’d read it a dozen times since, this strange slim novel about a woman whose name is nothing but an O, a hole, and the terrible things done to her that she hates while they happen and misses when they’re over. Sometimes when he read the book he imagined himself as one of the mysterious men who used O for his own perverse and violent pleasures. And sometimes—often even—Kingsley imagined he was O.
Kingsley opened the book to an earmarked page and read. To say that from the moment her lover had left, O began to await his return would be an understatement. She turned into pure vigil, darkness in waiting expectation of light.
Kingsley closed the book and put it back in the crate. He watched the street from behind the window curtain. The second Bernie’s putting red Citroën pulled away from the curb, Kingsley flew into action. He burst out of the door of his flat, ran down the three flights of stairs, and out onto the street where he nearly bumped into an old woman carrying her groceries. She swore at him, and he muttered a quick “Je suis désolé” before running off again down the street to the next block over where he knew he would find a payphone.
As soon as he arrived, Kingsley pushed the door open so hard he almost wrenched it off the hinges. He grabbed the receiver, put in his coin, dialed the number, and panted while he waited, waited while he panted.
One ring.
Two.
Three rings.
Four.
The rings ceased. Kingsley heard silence, white noise, a breath.
“Looking glass,” he said in perfect English, sounding as American as possible.
More silence.
A long silence.
A long and terrible silence.
Then finally…
“Not again.”
Kingsley laughed softly. The woman, for it was a woman who’d answered, sounded deliciously annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” Kingsley said, already playing the slave. He remembered this game. Oh, he remembered it well. Remembered more than anything how much he loved to play it.
“Go on. Tell me your name.” She spoke in French.
Her voice sounded impassive, detached, elegant, educated, sinister, and civilized. Yet she hadn’t asked him for his name; she’d ordered him to tell it to her.
His cover of “John Kingsley Edge, poor American writer playing Hemingway in Paris” was almost on the tip of his tongue when his real given name slipped out.
“Kingsley,” he said, dropping his American accent to speak to her in French. “Or King. Or whatever you want to call me.”
“Kingsley,” the woman said. “You sound scared.”
“Out of breath. I ran to the phone. I was in a hurry to talk to you.”
“I’m flattered. You’re nervous.”
“Yes,” he said. Not a lie. He didn’t know why it wasn’t a lie. Women didn’t make him nervous. Men didn’t make him nervous. It took someone facing him with a gun in their hand to make him nervous. Only one person had ever made him nervous without the gun.
“Good,” she said. “Very good.” Her voice was cool and soothing, like a psychologist’s voice made for probing the deepest recesses of the psyche and soul.
“Tell me how you heard of me, Kingsley,” she said.
“A friend,” he said. “His name is Leon.”
“Leon,” she repeated.
“He stayed with you a few months ago for a week. When he came back he told me about you. He’s gone now, but I found your phone number in some papers of his.”
“Leon is your friend and he told you about me…”
“He said you’re beautiful under your veil.”
There was a long pause after that. Had Kingsley gone too far or had his arrow struck his target?
“Many men have tried to find me,” she said. “They never find me.”
“I don’t want to find you,” Kingsley said.
“Tell me who you want to find,” she said.
Kingsley closed his eyes tight and returned to his dream.
“I want to find me,” he said at last.
“Very good,” she said. She sounded pleased with him. Already he was desperate to please her. He remembered this feeling, this need to please. It had lingered in his blood, dormant like a virus and already he felt the first hint of dizziness, the first flush of fever.
“Tell me what you look like,” she said.
“Six feet tall,” he said. “Eighty-two kilo. I’m twenty-four, and I look twenty-four. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Hair needs a cut. It’s wavy, not curly. People tell me I look Greek. I guess I’m darker than your average Frenchman.”
“That’s not what I wanted to know.”
Kingsley smiled. “Women find me very handsome.”
“They do?”
“I’ve had seven beautiful girls seven days in a row,” he said.
“Are you bragging?” she asked.
“Just offering corroborating testimony,” he said, proud of himself for that line.
“Arrogant boy,” she said.
“Sometimes.”
“If we meet, I’ll humble you,” she said.
“I need it.”
“You won’t like it.”
“You don’t know me.”
“You won’t like it,” she said again.
“Maybe not,” Kingsley said. “But I might love it.”
“Ah,” she said and it was a delighted sound like he’d heard women make when he was touching them for the first time and found that spot, that special little spot that wanted, needed, demanded touching. “Ah,” she said again.
“I want to meet you,” he said. “I want you to humble me.”
“You want me to humble you.” She sounded amused by him, like a teacher speaking to a too-eager pupil. “Very well. Tell me the phone number from where you’re calling.”
Kingsley rea
d it off the payphone to her twice.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll call you back.”
“When?” he asked, but she’d already hung up.
He stared at the phone as if it would answer his question for him, but it did nothing but buzz until Kingsley replaced it on the cradle.
“Fucking sadists,” he said to himself. There was no telling when she’d call back. A minute. An hour. A day. He had no choice but to wait and to wait and to wait. Wait like a servant. Wait like a slave. Exasperating. Infuriating. Insulting.
God, he’d missed this.
6
As Kingsley expected, Madame didn’t call him back right away.
Not for one hour.
Not for two hours.
Not for three hours.
Not for four.
She was testing him. He knew it. She was testing him, and he had to pass this test if he were to be allowed to meet her.
Kingsley waited.
He waited and he waited and he waited. Luckily he’d picked the payphone booth next to an alley where few people ventured. He didn’t have to fight anyone for custody of the phone, but that didn’t make the wait any easier. He paced the alley, never walking out of earshot of the ring. He sat down in the phone booth and read the phone book until he almost fell asleep. And he would have fallen asleep if it were three degrees warmer outside. An old man walking his dog gave him increasingly suspicious and disgusted looks all four laps he made of the alley. Even the dog seemed to be judging him. Finally Kingsley leaned out of the phone booth and yelled to them both, “It’s for work, all right!” The old man muttered something about “bizarre young people these days” and took his dog away—briskly.
By late afternoon, he’d been waiting for the phone to ring for six hours. At least it had warmed up enough that he could almost, perhaps, maybe take a quick nap while sitting on the floor of the phone booth with his coat wrapped around his knees. He got settled in and closed his eyes. Just as he was about to drift off, someone knocked on the phone booth door.
Kingsley sprang immediately awake. And when he saw the girl standing outside the door, he leapt to his feet, a smile on his face.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said. “Do you live here?”
She spoke French like a native. He knew he was supposed to play dumb, to act like he only spoke English or stilted French, as part of his cover.
But.
The girl was magnificent. Black hair in a loose bun. Onyx eyes. Skin a deep olive like his, maybe even darker. She had a little beauty mark on her chin and her lips were a dusky hue, full and mischievous as if they wanted to slide into a smile but knew better than to encourage him. All her clothes were chic. Chic brown leather knee boots with a little heel. A brown skirt, a belted brown coat, and a red newsboy cap tilted rakishly over her right eye. She didn’t look very old—maybe eighteen or nineteen—but she carried herself with a sophistication beyond her tender years.
Since she was so very magnificent, he was compelled to respond with his own fluent French. So what if he blew his cover? He’d blow anything for this girl.
“Do I live here?” he asked. “On this street?”
“In the phone booth?”
She smiled and he decided they should have two children. Both girls. Or maybe one boy and one girl. He wasn’t picky.
“No,” he said. “I’m waiting on a call.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll find another phone then.”
“You can use this one,” he said. “It’s not mine. I don’t own it. It’s public. You’re the public.”
“But I’m not public. I’m very private,” she said.
Maybe three children, he thought. The third would be an accident. Unplanned. Likely the result of him ravishing her one time too many while on holiday in Saint Croix. He wondered if she liked being spanked. He would try to find that out before tomorrow morning.
“Then you shouldn’t use my public phone,” he said. “We should find you a private phone. I have one back at my place.”
“If you have a phone, why are you using a phone booth?” she asked. She was looking at him with unabashed appreciation. She might even find him as attractive as he found her.
“It’s for work. I think.”
“If you’re working I should leave you alone then,” she said. “I’ll find another phone on my own.”
“You’re Jewish.”
She furrowed her beautiful brow. “Are Jews not allowed to use phones?” she asked.
“I noticed your necklace,” he said. A gold Star of David pendant danced in the hollow of her throat. “I like it.”
“Are you Jewish?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m just so happy you aren’t Catholic.”
She laughed and her laugh bounced off the sidewalk into the sky and jumped into the nearest passing cloud. Kingsley hoped wherever that cloud went it would rain her laughter onto the world.
“Is it so bad to be Catholic?” she asked.
“I went to Catholic school,” he said by way of answer.
“Is it like I hear it is?” she asked.
“Worse. We can raise our children Jewish. I’ll convert.”
“Are you circumcised?” she asked.
“Not yet, but if you’ll give me a minute, I have my Swiss Army knife on me.”
“You’re awful,” she said, grinning.
“I’m half-American. That’s where my rude behavior comes from.”
“What if I like rude behavior?” she asked.
“God bless America,” Kingsley said.
“Does he?”
“What?”
“Bless America?”
“I don’t know, but Americans say it all the fucking time. There’s another American saying: What’s your phone number?”
“I don’t have a phone,” she said. “That’s why I was looking for one.”
“Then what’s your address? I’ll write you letters. Long letters. Stirring letters. Letters that will break your heart,” he said.
“What if I don’t want my heart broken?”
“Then I’ll write you another letter to put it back together.”
“Sounds dangerous to my cardiovascular health. I don’t know if you should write me.”
“Can I write your beauty mark then?” he said, nodding at the little black dot on her chin. “I have a lot to say to it.”
“Oh, that’s not a beauty mark,” she said.
“What is it then?”
“It’s a tick,” she said.
He laughed so hard he mentally impregnated her a fourth time. C’est la vie. He’d always wanted a big family.
“Then I’ll write letters to your tick.”
“His name is Georges,” she said.
“Does Georges like boys?” Kingsley asked. “Because I want to kiss him.”
She shook her head in that way women did to tell men they were both cute and annoying.
“Would you like to go have coffee with me?” she asked. “There’s a café on the next street.”
“Yes. Yes, I would. I would like that…but not today. I’m, well…” He pointed at the phone booth.
“Working?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be gone tomorrow. I should go now,” she said, glancing at the end of the street, a pretty pout on her face. “It was nice to meet you, Monsieur. Good luck with your work. Georges and I will miss you. Au revoir.”
The girl in the red cap and the brown boots walked away and Kingsley watched her go. At the last second before she disappeared from view, she turned around and waved at him. Then she was gone. She’d been so insanely, indescribably stunning that he could only think that she’d been a test. Madame had hired a teenaged model to charm him and tempt him with coffee at a café and the promise of more.
Madame better fucking call him soon if he gave up the most beautiful girl in the world for this job.
He waited four more hours.
Four.
More.
Hours.
Kingsley was five minutes away from giving up on this assignment, going back to his apartment and taking a long hot bath when the payphone rang.
He’d been sitting on the concrete until his tailbone had gone numb when the shrill sound pierced the cold evening air, and he jumped up so quickly one might have thought someone had shot a gun at him.
Kingsley picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Don’t talk,” came the woman’s voice over the line. “I have no time for mindless chit-chat.”
Kingsley stayed silent.
“Good,” she said. “You can take an order. Here’s another. There’s a hotel in the thirteenth arrondissement. It’s called The Opulent. It isn’t.”
Kingsley smiled.
“Be there in an hour on the hour. Precisely on the hour. Come unarmed and alone or do not come at all. Room four. It will be unlocked. Go in. Shut the door behind you but don’t lock it. Face the window, curtains closed. Wait for me on your knees.”
“What’s the address?” Kingsley asked but she’d hung up again already.
He put the phone on the receiver and leaned back in the booth. The call happened so fast and was so bizarre, he almost didn’t believe it had happened. He repeated what she’d told him. The Opulent. 13th arrondissement. Room 4. Close the door, kneel by the window, facing the window, curtains closed. He looked up the address in the phone book. It would be an easy trek on foot. He’d make it in plenty of time if he left now. He ran his hands through his hair, retied his scarf, and was about to leave the booth when the phone rang again.
He answered it but this time he didn’t speak.
“You learn quickly,” the woman said.
He still didn’t speak.
“Your ability to learn quickly has earned you an answer. Ask me a question. Don’t waste my time or yours on something stupid like what my name is.”
Kingsley opened his mouth and didn’t know what to ask at first and then he knew in an instant. “How do I pass the test?”
“Ah,” she said as she had before. That pleased little “ah” again. He was glad he’d given up the girl in the red cap. He’d needed that “ah.”
“There is a test, isn’t there? When men try to find you,” Kingsley said, “you test them. I heard this. How do I pass the test so I can be with you?”
The Chateau_An Erotic Thriller Page 3
