Kal

by Judy Nunn

  When Louis Picot invited Carmelina to the Cremorne Gardens, it was a dream come true. Not only was he the wealthy son of the famous Gaston Picot and the new manager of Kalgoorlie’s most glamorous restaurant, Louis could have stepped right off the screen himself. His were Hollywood looks. From the dark, curly locks which framed his face to the passionate eyes and pencil moustache.

  Louis himself had taken great pains to acquire the image he presented. He had always admired his father’s professional Frenchman act and, indeed, Gaston’s advice to him had always been, ‘Be interesting, Louis … be different … stand out in a crowd’. So Louis had adopted the Latin lover image. It was quite the fashion of the day and served him well. There were few enough young men left since the outbreak of war, let alone ones who looked like matinee idols. He regretted the fact that he didn’t have a foreign accent but his parentage and his name were glamorously European and that sufficed.

  Louis and Carmelina met at Smedley’s Haberdashery where, for the past six months, Carmelina had been employed to sell the ladies’ goods—the gloves, ribbons, buttons and threads—and, at the end of the day, to tidy the displays and sweep the floors. It was a happy arrangement. Smedley found having a beautiful young girl about the shop good for business, and Carmelina was delighted to be out of school, which she had always detested, and earning her own living.

  ‘Such a sweet girl,’ Albert Smedley remarked when he noticed how taken Louis Picot appeared to be with his young assistant. ‘Remarkable to think she has only recently celebrated her seventeenth birthday.’

  Louis’s eyes were cold. Was there an element of censure in Smedley’s tone? Impossible—the man could not afford to lose his prize customer. ‘Which makes her even more attractive surely,’ he smiled. ‘The bloom of youth is irresistible, is it not?’

  ‘It most certainly is, Mr Picot.’ Smedley reverted to servility; he had made the gesture after all, that was enough. ‘She is indeed a very beautiful young woman.’ He carefully wrapped the silk cravat Louis had purchased and pretended not to hear him ask Carmelina to dine at Restaurant Picot.

  Carmelina knew that to dine at the restaurant was out of the question—word would inevitably reach her father. ‘I’m afraid I already have a dinner engagement, Mr Picot. Just a family gathering,’ she added hastily in case he should think she had a beau.

  ‘Ah well, no matter.’ Louis checked his image in the mirror behind the counter and slightly adjusted his trilby. It was probably just as well she wasn’t available, he told himself. He hadn’t realised that this luscious-bodied temptress was only seventeen. Of course, that made her all the more desirable, but if the girl’s family was around, it simply wasn’t worth the trouble. ‘Thank you, Albert,’ he said as he accepted the package from Smedley.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Picot.’ Albert Smedley bobbed a sort of curtsy.

  ‘However …’ She was at the door in a flash and all Louis could think of was how beautiful her breasts looked under the white, starched blouse. ‘However,’ she repeated breathlessly, ‘there is a new picture opening at the Cremorne Gardens and I have made an arrangement to go with some friends and … um …’ Her voice petered out as he looked at her with his smouldering eyes. Eyes just like Wallace Reid’s in The Affairs of Anatole, Carmelina thought, her heart pounding with excitement.

  Louis was undone. In an instant, caution was thrown to the wind. The girl was not only beautiful, she was a virgin; he was sure of it. Ripe and ready and panting to explore her own sexuality.

  ‘Then perhaps, if your friends could forgo the pleasure of your company,’ he said, smiling his Latin lover smile, ‘you might allow me the pleasure?’ Her brown eyes, wide as saucers, were staring disbelievingly up at him. ‘Would you accompany me to the Cremorne Gardens, Miss …?’

  ‘Gianni. Yes …’ Carmelina couldn’t believe it was happening. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

  ‘Where do you live? I shall pick you up in my car.’

  ‘No, no, there’s no need, I’ll meet you at the picture theatre.’

  He’d known of course that she would say that. God forbid he should meet her family. ‘Very well. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  A MACK SENNETT film was showing that night but neither of them were really watching. Not even Carmelina, despite the fact that Mabel Normand was one of her favourites. Prior to the interval, all Carmelina could think of was the envious looks her friends cast in her direction. And after the interval, all she could think of was the fact that Louis Picot was holding her right hand in both of his. But he wasn’t really holding it at all. He was making love to it. The fingers of his left hand were interlaced with hers and, as he placed their hands upon his knee, she could feel the warmth of his body. With his right hand, he stroked her wrist, her forearm, the back of her hand. And she felt the caress of his fingertips through her whole body.

  As for Louis, he had not an inkling of the film they were watching. Neither the title, nor the stars, nor the story. He could feel her quivering. Virgins always excited him. Virgins on the brink of discovery, wanting to know, wanting to experience and be taught. And the tuition was such a delicate exercise. One had to be so careful.

  At twenty-six, Louis Picot was a debauched young man. A product of his upbringing, he saw no wrong in his behaviour. He had been taught that one’s activities behind closed doors were immaterial so long as, in society, one behaved like a gentleman.

  Shortly before his seventeenth birthday, Louis had lost his virginity to the madam of a high-class brothel.

  His father had been proud of his reported performance. ‘Madame Clarisse says that you performed like a man, Louis. Bon. Tres bon. It is beholden upon a man to be a good lover.’

  Over the following year, proud of his son’s good looks and sophistication, Gaston took the boy on many an evening foray, gambling, drinking, womanising. He boasted to his friends that Louis was only seventeen and yet already a man of the world.

  ‘Discretion is the key to social success, Louis,’ Gaston advised. ‘One can move in all circles if one is discreet. From the crudest of whorehouses to the most patrician of homes—why to royalty itself—one can make love to harlots one night and the wives of aristocrats the next … so long as one is discreet.’

  Gaston explained all of his business dealings to Louis shortly after the boy turned eighteen, including the string of lucrative brothels in Kalgoorlie. After all, Louis would own them one day. Far from being shocked, Louis was deeply impressed. His father’s business profile was so respectable.

  It was a lesson which Louis took to heart but, as the years progressed, even the worldly Gaston Picot might have been a little shocked had he known the extent of his son’s depravity.

  Louis knew he must move with caution. The girl wanted to be taken, certainly, but despite the quickened pulse he could feel beneath his fingertips and the quivering which he knew was coursing through her entire body, he must feed her fantasy until she was ready. If his sexual advances were too overt she would be frightened off.

  ‘Shall we walk a little?’ he said when the film was over.

  Carmelina nodded, aware of her friends peering over the tops of their deck chairs down the front, whispering and nudging each other. She hoped desperately that they would keep her secret and that word would not reach her father, but she was bursting with pride as she walked out of the Cremorne Gardens on Louis Picot’s arm. She felt like a Hollywood princess and it was worth risking her father’s ire for that. It was worth risking anything for that.

  They walked past the Mount Charlotte Mine. The night was soft and dark, the barest of crescent moons in the sky. He stopped and, without a word, drew her to him. She said nothing, but she felt herself tremble.

  Their bodies were very close and his hands were caressing her hair, and her shoulders, and the small of her back. His mouth was gently kissing the side of her neck. Up towards her ear. Her chin. Her mouth. When their lips finally touched, it was not experience that opened her mouth to his, it was something she had n
ever felt before. An urgency. And her breath came in short gasps as she pressed every inch of her body against his, her mouth now open and hungry.

  Louis was pleased—she was more ready than he’d thought. It appeared he didn’t need to wait at all. ‘Shall we go to my room at the Palace?’ he whispered.

  It was the shock Carmelina needed. The spell was broken. She had been mindless to everything but the touch of his mouth and his hands and the closeness of his body.

  ‘No,’ she said breathlessly. ‘No, I must go home, my father will kill me if I’m late.’

  Louis was fully aware that he could have had her, right then and there on the ground, but he didn’t want it that way. It would be over too quickly and the pleasure would be wasted. Besides, the night was dark and he wanted to see her body; to watch her moan and writhe and beg for more as he played the master.

  ‘I must see you again.’ He tucked her arm caringly into his and they walked back towards the Cremorne Gardens.

  ‘Yes.’ Carmelina was still fighting for control. She had shocked herself. It was passion she’d felt, she knew that. But where had it come from? She’d felt like an animal. Like a bitch on heat. ‘Will you be coming to Smedley’s Haberdashery again soon?’ She must try and sound normal.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ he smiled, ‘how many gloves, cravats and stick pins does one need?’ That sounded too flippant, he decided, it would be wiser to play the young Lothario. This one was worth more than a single experience. This one was very young and very passionate and could be trained. ‘Besides,’ he added gently, ‘I would prefer us to be alone. I don’t care to share you with others.’

  Carmelina was once more in control of herself. Her heart still beat wildly, but now it was for sheer romance. Everything he said was straight out of a Hollywood picture.

  Louis stopped as an idea occurred to him. ‘How would you like to work at Restaurant Picot?’ he asked abruptly. In the stunned silence which followed, he added, ‘It would be a very respectable position. You would greet the guests and help them on and off with their shawls and cloaks and hats.’

  He was struck with the brilliance of his idea. A pretty young girl as cloakroom attendant would be far more effective than the current uniformed bell-hop. But of course that was why his father had recently appointed him manager of Restaurant Picot. ‘Innovative ideas, Louis,’ Gaston had said, ‘that is what what we need. Innovative young ideas. Harry Brearley has become too complacent, too middle-aged. Naturally,’ he’d added, ‘you must not tell him I said that. Let him parade around—as he will wish to of course—but you, my son, will be the driving force behind Restaurant Picot.’

  ‘We will buy a beautiful black evening dress for you,’ Louis went on, genuinely enthusiastic, ‘and you will look like a film star when you greet the guests.’

  ‘Oh.’ Carmelina could barely breathe for excitement.

  ‘I AM GOING to say yes, Papa. Whether you like it or not.’

  Young Salvatore grabbed another hunk of bread and watched his sister do battle. She certainly had guts, he had to give her that. But, as always, she was the one most likely to get around their father’s defences.

  This time, however, Rico would have none of it. ‘It’s Harry Brearley’s place,’ he said. As far as Rico was concerned, that was the end of the matter.

  ‘No, Papa, it’s not!’

  Carmelina had told Louis that Harry Brearley would be the reason her father would object and Louis had come up with all the right answers, many of them bordering on the truth. ‘But your father must tell no one,’ he’d warned.

  ‘That is why Mr Picot has taken over,’ she continued. ‘His father is getting rid of Harry Brearley but no one is supposed to know yet. Not even Harry himself. Mr Picot’s father says that Harry Brearley is finished in Kal.’

  Rico looked at Teresa across the breakfast table. ‘That is something I would like to see,’ he said.

  ‘I can tell you everything that is going on there, Papa.’ Carmelina could see that the idea intrigued her father so she went in for the kill. Defiant, proud, she played the scene just the way one of her Hollywood heroines would have played it.

  ‘It is a very respectable position I am being offered, greeting the guests as they arrive at Restaurant Picot. I will be looked up to and admired.’ Now the emotional plea. ‘Oh Papa, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sweeping up the floor of Smedley’s Haberdashery.’

  It was all that was needed. Of course Rico gave in, as Teresa knew he would. Laughable as she found Carmelina’s performance, she rather envied her daughter’s ability to manipulate. Was it just the moving pictures which had taught her, Teresa wondered, or was it born in her?

  ‘What do you think, Teresa?’ Rico’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Of course she should accept—it’s a very good job.’ Teresa didn’t know why they were bothering to discuss it. ‘And I’m sure it will pay more than Mr Smedley does.’ She began to clear the table. ‘Giovanni has had a letter from Enrico. He is bringing it around to read to us tomorrow.’

  Carmelina rose and started scraping the dishes. She could have kissed her mother. First thing Monday morning, when Louis arrived at the haberdashery, they would tell Mr Smedley, together, that she was leaving. Louis had said that she could start work at Restaurant Picot as soon as possible. ‘Just as soon as we buy you the prettiest black dress in Kal,’ he’d added.

  ‘Will you write to him, Carmelina?’ her mother was saying. ‘Write to him from all of us.’

  Carmelina was confused for a second. Of course, Enrico. ‘Yes, Mamma, I’ll write to him,’ she promised.

  Rico watched his wife carry the pile of dishes to the sink. Teresa was looking tired, he thought. And old. The fire had left her and she looked all of her forty-three years. And yet their lives had never been easier. The children were no trouble or expense. Carmelina donated half her salary to the household and, although Salvatore was still at school, he earned his own pocket money delivering newspapers. As for Rico himself, he received a far better salary as a miner than he ever had as a timbercutter.

  When the vast percentage of miners had joined the army and left to fight the war, the big mines had been desperate. They needed men. Rico had approached the Midas for a job and Giovanni had been only too happy to help, knowing that, with young Enrico off to war, times would be hard for the family.

  Rico loved working once more below ground. He felt reborn, stronger and fitter than ever, and it saddened him to see his beloved Teresa tired and worn when she should have been enjoying these comfortable middle years of their life together. He knew why she was weary, her heart was aching. Daily she pined for Enrico. Every minute of her waking hours she thought of him. And he, her own husband, could only watch, powerless, unable to help her.

  Rico cursed his eldest son. He was a fool. Only fools fought another country’s war. They were all fools. But Enrico was the biggest fool of the lot. Not only was Enrico fighting another country’s war, he believed he was fighting alongside his fellow countrymen, his fellow ‘Aussies’. That was the most foolish notion of the lot. Enrico was not an Aussie, the Australians were not his countrymen and they never would be. The good old Aussies themselves would never allow him to be one of them, couldn’t he see that? Didn’t he hear what they called him? Wog. Dago. Didn’t he see the looks on their faces in the street?

  Of course the people of Kal wouldn’t dare offend Rico Gianni these days. But the feeling was the same. It always would be. And that fool of a son of his couldn’t see it. There he was, fighting alongside his good old Aussie mates, risking his life and breaking his mother’s heart in the process. Well damn him, Rico thought. Damn him, he deserved to get blown to pieces.

  ‘So Giovanni is bringing a letter from Enrico with him tomorrow?’ Thinking about his son put an edge to Rico’s voice.

  Teresa recognised it. Oh please, Rico, she prayed, don’t start again, please. ‘He will bring his piano accordion too,’ she tried to sound cheerful, ‘and we will sing,
all of us, just like the old times.’

  ‘The boy writes to his uncle and not his Mamma and Papa, that’s a good son for you.’

  ‘Giovanni can read, Rico,’ God give me patience, she thought, ‘and we cannot. Besides …’

  ‘Carmelina and Salvatore can.’

  ‘Besides he has written to us just recently. Now it is Giovanni’s turn.’ He looked as if he was about to interrupt again so she raised her voice and continued. ‘And who’s to say there is not a letter in the post to us right now!’

  Leave it, Rico, she begged silently, leave it. She knew he only berated Enrico because he blamed the boy for her unhappiness. But his condemnation didn’t help as, each day, Teresa waited for the news of her son’s death.

  Rico finally shut up. He could see the tension building in her. It was all Enrico’s fault. The fool of a boy. He scowled down at the table.

  Relieved by the silence, Teresa started to wash the dishes. She should be feeling happy, she thought. Giovanni was coming around tomorrow with a letter from Enrico. She pushed aside the horrible thought that, by the time the mail reached Australian shores, many more soldiers would be lying dead on Turkish soil. It was foolish to think like that. She must keep her spirits up. Tomorrow they would sing songs and read aloud Enrico’s letter.

  AT FIRST HARRY had reacted badly to Gaston’s suggestion.

  ‘He wants to make that dandy of a son of his the manager of Restaurant Picot!’ he complained to Maudie the night after Gaston’s telephone call. ‘And he’s actually pretending he’s doing me a favour! “Have a well-earned rest, mon ami,” he says, “you’ve earned it.” What does he take me for, a fool? That boy has been in Kal for two months, “to learn a little of the restaurant trade” I was told, and now he knows it all, and he and his father want to kick me out.’