by John Okas
“These things belonged to the Countess Anna Mischev,” Besty explains. “She was the toast of Czargrad, back before the revolution. Or so she says. The rabble went hungry outside her door while her dogs ate veal. When they turned the tables on her, she was lucky she just lost her crown, and not her head. She greased the right palms with some jewelry she had hidden and managed to sneak out with her wardrobe trunks. Oh, she’s getting on now, but still a beauty, and every now and then when she needs vodka money she brings me part of her horde to sell. These clothes are something, aren’t they?”
“They are indeed,” says Sarah, “but I’m afraid they’re more like costumes than clothes. I wonder if I could wear even the simplest one and not look foolishly overdressed.”
“They say that all this world is but a stage, Miss Black. The only way to know is to try some on and see how natural you feel.”
Besty helps Sarah in the fitting room getting all the buttons straight on a simple dinner dress, snug fitting black cashmere soft and stretchy from neck to ankles. “Look,” she says, hooking the last eye. “This gown might have been custom made for you.” Sarah looks at herself in the mirror, the fit is perfect around the breasts and buttocks, waist and shoulders. Indeed Countess Anna had her exact measurements. Even the shoes fit like the gloves.
Sarah doesn’t mind admitting it: she’s come a long way from that parasol with the fringe on top, and she looks sensational, naturally classy. It thrills her that she could be such a scoundrel. At the same time thoughts of Corn Dog come cropping up.
Oh dear, Cornie, if only you could see me now! What poses I’d put on for you! She thinks of him and gets gooey inside.
“A penny for your thoughts,” says Besty, peeking into Sarah’s sad faraway smile.
Sarah ices up again. “How much?”
“This gear’s had some mileage,” the shopkeeper admits, “but it still has nobility written all over it. There’s a price difference between ‘used’ and ‘antique’, real quality costs. For that outfit, for anyone else twenty dollars but for you, since you’re a friend of my friend Laudette, fifteen. And I’m willing to lend you my best string of imitation pearls.”
It’s a lot of money for second hand clothes. But even though Sarah knows that everything is negotiable, her new act calls for her to be one not particularly interested in buying things on sale.
When she comes back to the Golden Gate and Laudette sees the serious quality of her boss’s new clothes she says, “Sugar, you sure don’t see threads like these jumping around down at the Top Hat Club.”
“That’s right, Miss Lord, and from what I hear there’s not too many glad rags up at the opera.”
That night the girl from the tabernacle choir overdoes herself as a woman of the world, marblizing wherever possible to contrast with her soft black sheep curves. She sprays her hair with lacquer, leaves no nail unpolished, wets her whistle, puts extra peaches in her cheeks. And my, my, grandma Sarah, what big eyes you have! She underlines her dark orbits and combs out her lashes long enough to give a long distance flutter.
The Cave is the hotel’s dimly lit, well-upholstered lounge. Officially, because at this time it is illegal to buy or sell alcoholic beverages on the Freeway, The Cave doesn’t exist. However in reality, which is as much under as it is above board, the speakeasy boasts of being the best kept secret in Bay City for a quiet drink. Sarah knocks, uses some of her charm on the man at the door, and is received without a password. She sees the place is as comfortable and sedate as the reputation which precedes it. The dim lights deepen the effect of the heavy red carpet and drapes, the oak bar, the padded brown leather benches in the booths, and the pairs of cosy overstuffed arm chairs, two by two, separated by low cocktail tables. A pair in the corner nearest the crackling fire is available. Sarah takes a seat, orders a vodka and vermouth, lights a cigarette and lets her eyes roam around the shady smoky room.
She marks a much older man sitting at the bar drinking alone. With a droopy white mustache and pendulous jowls he looks like a walrus. My, my, grandma, what big lips you’ve got! She puts her glossies together and blows a silent screen siren kiss his way.
It brings the walrus waddling over to introduce himself, Arriving at the same time as the waiter with her drink.
“I’m Solomon Goldman and I would like you to have this drink on me.”
She accepts his offer, introduces herself, and extends one of her own. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Goldman. Please have a seat, won’t you? Apparently the girlfriend I was meeting here has stood me up.”
The walrus tells the waiter. “Put Miss Black’s tab on mine, Edward, and another one on the rocks for me.”
As it turns out, Solomon, an investment banker who had the good sense to take his blue chips out of the market before they fell, comes to The Cave whenever he feels his wife doesn’t understand him. He is a literate man, and miraculously enough, his hobby is collecting and trading in rare books.
“What a coincidence,” says Sarah, genuinely interested, “I had a book collection myself once. I was especially fond of Clement Collier. Nowadays I don’t get much time to read. I’m an artist’s model. But remembering what I do of Collier’s poetry has helped me stand on my own two feet, and pose exposed in front of strangers, the subject of their close examination while they draw me.”
She takes a sip of the vee and vee and gives the walrus a hint of what she means by turning a subtle backslider pose in her seat. She primps up the hair and arches her back a bit so that her soft wooly black breasts come up, the material revealing the faint outline of her nipples. The walrus closes the book on book talk and, thinking her full of the license of free verse, goes directly for the heavenly parts of her body. He puts his hand on her knee and slides it up the fine fuzz, moving for the bait.
Now she switches, puts on the transparent act that sex was not what she had in mind at all. In an ambiguous action, pushes him off, but only to arm’s length. A false stop to offset the false start. After all, she can’t be that easy.
“Mister Goldman, I took it that as a book lover you were a cultured gentleman and had more respect for a young lady in the fine arts than this. Isn’t it your hobby to know what a good book is worth?”
She hopes that the walrus has some reading comprehension in the language of love for sale. She means business before pleasure. If fine wines don’t come cheaply why should beautiful women?
One trick of the trade of courtship that raises the price is to act rare but not unattainable, improper but not common. In this situation Sarah does not think it is either worldly or wise for her to put a price on her figure. She will rely on the gentleman to do this in a way that will preserve the dignity of the transaction. For a good sugar daddy to be worth his salt, he must be oversweet without too much coaching. It shouldn’t take long for what she wants to dawn on him. She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you for the drink, Mister Goldman. You are a dear. Now I must be going, and no doubt you’re wife is waiting.”
The next morning she waits for some demonstration that he knows the appropriate symbols, the keys to the queendom, that will allow him to delve into a widening experience with her. A messenger arrives at eleven with three dozen red roses, a rare, out-of-print edition of Collier’s early poems,—how thoughtful!—and a small package in which Sarah finds a string of genuine pearls. There is a note.
Sorry I misread you last night. May I see you again sometime? I have an original edition of “The Great White Whale” I’d like to show you. I think you might enjoy seeing it. Please reply by this messenger. Sol.
Pay dirt! The walrus has a fine estimation of the arts. Sarah’s pawning eye appraises the pearls as being worth at least several hundred dollars.
She plays sugar with daddy and responds to his note with an invitation to her suite for afternoon tea.
With the tea brewing, the cakes laid out on the table, Laudette takes Gloria out to the park and leaves Sarah to put on something comfortable, Countess Anna Mis
chev’s harem style silk suit, roomy transparent pantaloons and matching lounging robe, worn without unmentionables. Solomon is right on time for tea, and can’t compliment her enough on the eyeful she is. She sits him in her sitting room, pours whisky generously in his tea, enough to turn it into a stiff nightcap, and is quick to let him know she means business if he does. Fresh as strawberries in June, she opens the previously owned peignoir and does a few poses for him, then she drops her pantelets and shows off everything. Solomon is breathless.
She says, “Now that you’ve seen mine, let me see that whale of yours.”
The white goddess is not too proud to get down on her knees and unbutton his trousers, or too ashamed to pucker her thick lips and whistle a muted Red Hot Potato Blues into his big baggy walrus balls. She feels the rise of the old cod against the bridge of her nose, and its head somewhere between the bats of her eyelashes. She runs her tongue up the scales, cups the cap in her mouth and pretends to lap up every salty drop of the big fish’s excitement.
She feels no passion but does have the sense of satisfaction of a job well done. Mister Goldman seems more pleased than her father when, as a young girl she was the featured soloist on The Homecoming March of the Prophet. The following morning more tokens of his esteem arrive, including an envelope with five crispy one hundred dollar bills. The note reads,
Please book me for tea again next Saturday afternoon. I can’t wait to see what happens next. Love, Sol. p.s. I’ve taken the liberty of settling your account with the hotel through next week. If there is anything you need, please let me know.
Artier-Than-Thou
With big Mister Goldman in the bag, paying her rent, and only booking her between three-thirty and five on Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, the free love bird has plenty of time on her wings for moonlighting. The huntress studies her marks. She sizes up society columns to see who’s going where. The cream of the crop is at home in the cultural milieu of the city. The rich have the time and money for the ballet, the opera, the concert hall. Why not a more personal type of performing art?
Once more she plows the harvest back into the field. She goes back to Besty Rosen’s for more of Countess Anna’s treasure chest and, throwing all reservation into the wind, has the pluck to get into the heavier stuff, the leather boots that come up spanking clean with some saddle soap and a shine, dresses of rich, deep, soft smooth velvet, quilted fur capes, and such. She begins to attend these musical events solo, wearing thirty pounds of clothing, playing her preying part coolly as an owl; her eye-brows pencilled high, posing as a beauty and an intellectual, two counts that allow her the eccentricity to attend and have a cigarette during intermission unescorted.
Ooh! What a little moonlighting can do! In the coming weeks she’s approached by men whose monickers are as heavy as her outfits, impressive handles you cannot say without thinking of success, not just around the Bay Area, but around the world. Within the month she has booked several money magnets, Jules Doree, Morgan Chandler, Eli Lilywight, Wilhelm de Stijl and Sir Percival Taod.
In the boardroom they might be tough cookies, but in the bedroom they are old and crumble easily when handled. The girl on the primrose path still thinks that she has room for one more.
On the morning of the shortest day of the year she reads this in the Bay City Times’ social notes.
There will be a gala performance of Giacomo’s ‘La Donna Cantabile’ tomorrow night at Town Hall. It will be attended by one of society’s most eligible bachelors and most notorious playboys, H Thornton Swan Junior. Junior Mister Swan (“Harry”) will acknowledge the gratitude of the Bay City Council for the Performing Arts for his father’s gift of one million dollars. Mister Swan Senior is ill and cannot attend. But the whole Bay Area should be thankful to him for his generous contribution. Soon residents will be enjoying opera in a new opera house, an odeon to rival any house in the country.
Her eyes zero in on the mention of a million dollars. On the Freeway the name of Swan is synonymous with wealth, the energy it takes to fuel the industrial revolution and keep it running smoothly. Barrels of oil, both Golden and Lone Star crude, roll like sugar plums through her head. There is a picture of Junior in the column. He reminds Sarah of Achilles Fleet, about forty and sharp as a dagger; he has a penetrating and dangerous look that attracts her.
It’s getting to be a lot like the Feast of Lights, and about time I relaxed, she thinks. The Lord has helped me thus far, and I must say that Cornie has helped not a bit, and now I think I should see if I can help myself to a boyfriend of some kind, at least one who is old enough to be my father rather than my grandfather.
The holidays are the right time to overdo it. Wearing almost fifty pounds of Countess Anna’s hand-me-downs and her platinum blonde tresses pinned up in a stout pile as if they were waiting to support a crown, Sarah remains in the lounge in the entrance hall smoking cigarettes through the Countess’s former ivory holder. The huntress is early, waiting for the guest of honor to appear. Here he comes, she can see him, to much applause, being escorted by two old biddies, chairlady and co-chairlady of the Arts Council. He’s more handsome and less dangerous looking than his picture, a slim black tie and tails man with a playboy dash, a hint of the Isle of Grammar in his accent, and a lime smell that is as crispy as a million bucks. She believes what the gossip columns say, while his manners and polish are impeccable, he is a lady-killer with moral fiber as loose as unbaled hay.
As he passes, Sarah emerges from the wings, catches his eye and makes sure he sees the unlit cigarette she is holding. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies.” He disengages from his escort. “Please allow me,” he says, stopping briefly to take out his pearl-handle heater and light the mystery woman’s cigarette. The peachy way hollow-cheeked Sarah lifts her veil and sucks on the light gives him a flash of a flame below. He disengages his eyes from hers, gives her figure a once over, quickly and plainly. Swan just as plainly looks around to see if there is some man she’s with. Seeing none, he smiles and bows. Instead of smiling back, Sarah makes sure she is sticky, on her guard, unbowled over. She simply nods and screens herself behind a breath of blue smoke and turns the other cheek, a cool marble profile with the slightly superior smile that sends Swan on his way. His body walks with the biddies, his mouth talks to them, but his mind stays on the mystery woman.
On the Freeway nobility does not run in blood lines, a Madam X with the right style is the same as a real class act. Perhaps she is just some ghostie of the night, but the high style image she casts, that of being no easy pickup, interests Swan immensely. Whatever the reality, he sees in her a beauty that mere money alone can’t buy.
“To tell the truth, Mrs Vandermoot,” he says to the Council chairlady, “up until now my father has been the serious music lover. I’m afraid I’ve been more at home in night clubs. But I can already see some of the merits of coming to one of these performances.”
With the size of his father’s gift, Swan has the license to turn anyone in the Council around. Light and boyish for his age he shows off some of his tango skill to Mrs Vandermoot. He takes the old biddy in his arms and leads her in an impromptu step that sweeps her off her feet. Sending an indirect mating signal to whom it may concern, the mysterious Miss Serious whose cigarette he lit. He hopes the classy beauty will notice his flashy moves.
“Oh, Mister Swan, you’re terrible!” says Mrs Vandermoot, swooning.
Who’s wooing whom? Sarah makes her move. She walks where she would, within the odd couple’s orbit, comes up close behind them and makes sure Swan’s next step will be his last. He swings the stout biddy into her.
Bump! “Oh, I’m sorry.” He says, turning full of apologies for his unintentional clumsiness. But when he sees whom he has knocked into he smiles at his good luck. Having been the one to light her cigarette and now his having to beg her pardon adds up in his mind to an introduction. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of saying ‘I’m sorry’? My friends call me Harry.” He bends forward slightly at the waist.<
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Sarah is familiar with the advantages of putting and keeping men on the defensive. Wising up to the ways of the world, the woman knows how to be extra-sticky. The sweet young thing turns a bitter face to him, like a witch in a confected cottage. She lets him see the cold hard coal in her dark diamond eyes, and draws her thick lips in for a sour cream puss. “Pardon me, sir,” she says, sarcastically. “I believe the overture is about to begin.” And with that, she pushes by him, in, to take her seat.
The music of Giacomo is romantic, and throughout the whole first act, Harry finds that he can hardly keep his mind off the icy snow white beauty queen. Her coldness burns him and consumes him. The appetites he entertains mix with the sweet sorrowful emotions of the opera to give him an exciting new experience: the contemplation of beauty, the development of taste. He thinks about her, white metal hot, white marble cool, self-assured, mouthwateringly elegant. He fantasizes about making love to her on a sumptuous gilded couch, sipping her as if she were a rare wine, nibbling on her as if she were a rich goose’s liver.
He cannot let this one get away. As the curtains draw to a close for intermission he excuses himself from his companions, and, acting like a boy in love, searches through the whole house until he finds her, there, sitting on the aisle in the third row of the mezzanine. He breathes a sigh of relief that he found her and she is still alone. Striking the self-composed pose, the air of the serious music lover, she is examining a libretto through the Countess Anna’s monocle. Surely she looks intimidating and stern, as if she will not be easy. By the way she presents herself, the heaviness of her clothes, the seriousness in her eyes, the old rake guesses her to be at least twenty-four or five when in fact she has not even reached her twentieth birthday. It’s been a while since the playboy felt unsure of himself; he is nervous about rejection, yet the challenge cannot go unmet. A general roostabout, grown accustomed to being fawned over by every woman he meets, now in the middle of his life’s road, Swan is bored, needs something new, maybe do a little fawning himself for a change. He sucks in his gut to build his confidence and goes in for the kill.
