The Sun Place

by Ray Connolly

  “Barias got into trouble because he wanted more than his share. If we stay cool, keep our noses clean, give no cause for suspicion, and do the job, we’re okay. Another six months of this and you’ll be able to retire to Sausalito and live like a queen.”

  Matt didn’t answer. When Willem began his macho, baiting stuff he knew it was time to stop arguing. Besides, Willem was right. There was no good reason to pull out now, when things were going so well, just because the new chief of the village looked like a difficult son-of-a-bitch.

  At last he said, “I get nervous when I think about what happened to Pagett.”

  “Accident,” said Willem, gazing at the marina where boats were being filled with picnic cases.

  “Do you really believe that?” asked Matt.

  Willem shrugged indifferently. “What else can I believe?” he said. “We didn’t kill him, did we?”

  Eighteen

  Normally Cassandra would have left the picnic for another day, but the early start, coupled with the intimidation of tans around the pool, left her, at eleven-thirty, not knowing quite what to do with herself. Surely, she reasoned, a picnic would be as good a way of getting to know the other guests as any other. And so, changing into a Calvin Klein wrap dress, under which she wore her briefest bikini, she assembled her sun creams, camera, and tissues for the day and went down to join the rest of the picnickers.

  “You’re only just in time,” smiled a large beefy man with a paunch, “Psi Upsilon” written across his T-shirt. About forty-five, he was accompanied by a short, wide-hipped woman with heavy breasts that hung unsupported inside a Club Village T-shirt. Like nearly everyone else, he was carrying an expensive camera.

  “I only just arrived,” Cassandra said.

  “Our last day,” Psi Upsilon replied. “Best vacation we ever had. Right, Myrna?” He turned, grinning, to his wife.

  “The very best.” Myrna nodded enthusiastically. “Are you from England?”

  “Yes,” Cassandra nodded.

  “You’ve heard about Club Village picnics in England then, too, have you?” said Psi Upsilon, and suddenly both he and Myrna began to guffaw.

  “I’m sorry …?”

  Psi Upsilon shook his head, smiling. “I’m sorry,” he said, “just a joke. I’m Andy … this is Myrna.”

  “I’m Cassandra.”

  “My … Cassandra … that’s a pretty name. Isn’t that a pretty name, Andy?” Myrna enthused. “Don’t people have pretty names at Club Village? You know what we had here last week? There was a Pandora, and there was an Imogen. Aren’t they pretty names, now?”

  Cassandra smiled and extricated herself from Myrna’s flattery.

  Suddenly a large CV in a pair of minuscule shorts and a baseball cap began to shout instructions. “Okay, everybody, for those who haven’t been on a picnic before, this is what happens. We all walk down to the marina, where you will find a whole bunch of boats to take us on our mystery picnic. Everything has been arranged by Lucien and there are enough boats and drinks and eats for everyone. The journey will take about forty-five minutes in the out-boards, and we’ll be back at about four. So if any of you want to change your minds, now is the time. Any questions?”

  There were no questions, and with that the whole company, about fifty people, set off along a short cart track toward the marina. Already Cassandra was beginning to feel less like a stranger as first one person and then another commented on not having seen her before.

  “Hi … I’m Chuck.” A rotund fellow of around fifty offered his hand. He had pale blue eyes, and a moustache that drooped like a tired geranium.

  “This is the first picnic I’ve been on,” he confided quietly, apparently afraid he might be overheard.

  “Me too,” Cassandra replied slowly and thoughtfully. There seemed to be something almost furtive about this picnic. What could make her feel that way? It was really all quite puzzling, but, since it was such a beautiful day and everybody else was in high spirits, she allowed the small questions in her mind to evaporate.

  As they started toward the marina, she glanced around at the other picnickers. Surprisingly there were no children. The party included two teenage girls, Jenny and Cathy from Washington; a French couple from Limoges who owned a couple of boutiques; a young dentist from New York called John-John, and his girlfriend, Mary, who looked like a model but was actually a speech therapist. There was an extremely tanned young Mexican called Miguel, and a boy of twenty-three, who was already a hit with Cathy and Jenny.

  The site chosen for the picnic was a small island, hardly more than a heap of sand with some bush and pine and palm trees, about ten miles west of Elixir. It was so small that it reminded Cassandra of the cartoonist’s idea of a castaway’s island. By the time the boat in which she was traveling reached it, the rest of the party were wading through limpid waves up the dazzling white sand to the shelter of the pines.

  “They say no Club Village holiday in Elixir is complete without taking part in one of the picnics,” said Mournful Chuck as, holding his Nikon aloft, he splashed down into the sea and headed for shore. Wondering whether she ought to have left the experience for the last week of her vacation, Cassandra followed.

  The games began even before lunch. While the sous-chef unloaded refrigerated hampers from one of the boats, and half a dozen CVs began to erect small trestle tables in the shade of the palm trees, Hector, a large CV, dressed grotesquely in only a loincloth, began to organize them into groups of twenty.

  Cassandra found herself in a group with Psi Upsilon, Myrna, Jenny, and Cathy, some young investment bankers, dentists, and their wives or companions. A couple of girl CVs she had come to recognize as Lydia and Barbara passed around large glasses filled with Planter’s Punch. Cassandra sipped hers. It was 90 percent rum, she realized as she watched the others knock theirs back as quickly as possible.

  “Okay … is everybody ready?” Hector with the loincloth was striding around among the groups. “I want you to arrange yourselves guy, gal, guy, gal … know what I mean?”

  There was a general shuffling across the hot sand as the groups arranged themselves. Cassandra stayed where she was. The rotund Chuck and Psi Upsilon sat on either side of her.

  “Now we’re gonna play a game called finger in the hole, okay?”

  Everybody giggled.

  “Now … you each have a finger, right?” Hector held up his right middle finger. “And you each have a hole …” There was more snickering. “No, not that hole … this hole,” Hector shouted, and proceeded to make a ring with his thumb and the first finger of his left hand. “Now I want you all to put your hole down on the sand … come on, everyone.” Obediently the groups put their left hands on the ground. “Now when I shout out ‘Finger in your own hole,’ you have to put your finger into the hole of your left hand. But when I shout out ‘Finger in someone else’s hole,’ you have to find the hole of one of your neighbors. Understand?” And he demonstrated by putting his finger cozily into the small circle made by one of the dentists’ wives. She laughed with mock embarrassment. “The only trouble is that, as in life, there will not be enough holes to go around, because I only have a finger, and no hole. Understand? It’s a game of elimination, and as you are eliminated you have to pay a penalty.” He paused for effect. “And the penalty I’ve chosen for today is that as you are eliminated you have to take off your clothes. Okay?”

  There was a loud yell of agreement from several men. Some of the women giggled. More drinks were passed around, and then it was time to start the game.

  At last Cassandra realized why children were not taken on Elixir picnics, and why so much alcohol was consumed. She wished desperately that she had stayed in the village, but it was too late to run away. The best she could do was try to brazen it out and just watch the others.

  “Okay …” Hector was standing in the middle of the circle. “Finger in … wait for it … finger in your own hole.” With screams and shouts, the participants carried out the instruction. “Now
finger in … someone else’s hole.” In a sudden flurry of excitement everyone looked desperately around for a vacant hole. A young man of about twenty was left without a partner.

  “Okay, Donald, you’re out first. Come on, you know the rules,” Hector shouted. Donald looked awkward. Alongside him, his girl friend, a pretty, plump girl with chestnut hair wearing a full-length beach robe, began to giggle nervously. Someone else began to sing “The Stripper.” “Come on, Donald …” Hector repeated, grinning.

  Donald began to take off his shorts, slowly at first and then with a rush, until, naked, he lay down just outside the circle, where he helped himself to another drink.

  Cassandra averted her eyes, the chestnut-haired girl friend kissed Donald, and there was a hearty round of applause.

  “Now,” shouted Hector, “who will be the next lucky person?” He grinned around at the girls. Cassandra looked to both sides of her. She was going to have to be pretty quick not to be eliminated. She could already feel the attentions of Chuck and Psi Upsilon on her. “Finger in … your own hole.” Again there was confusion, and then a relieved giggle. “Finger in … your own hole.” This time several people dived onto their neighbors, only to laugh again as they realized the mistake they had made. And just then, as they were dragging themselves back to sitting positions, came the next order: “Finger in someone else’s hole.” That was it. With people still off balance, pandemonium set in. Two or three desperate people looked around for vacant holes. Throwing themselves across the sand in exaggerated desperation, they clambered over bodies. Again, inevitably, someone was left out.

  This time it was Cathy. She was wearing a bikini. Casually she threw the top half into the circle, and then wriggled sensually out of the bottom half, turning slowly around to give everyone a good look. Then, picking up her drink, she went to join the unfortunate Donald, who was now trying to rub suntan cream across the white cheeks of his bottom. Taking the tube from him, she squirted some onto the palm of her hand and then began delicately to massage it into his skin, leaning over him and sliding her fingers tantalizingly between his thighs. The girl with the chestnut hair watched without saying anything. Then the game began again, moving quickly. Only two people refused to take their clothes off—Mary, the beautiful speech therapist, and Cassandra. At first she felt like a spoilsport, and wondered whether she would be ostracized during the rest of the vacation. But no one seemed upset. Everyone else was too busy with himself to care much about her.

  “Don’t worry if you’re shy at first, Sandra,” said Myrna, who was now quite naked, drunk, saggy, and stretch-marked. “I was really embarrassed the first time, but by the end of the second week you’ll feel more at home.”

  Cassandra smiled. “How often do they hold picnics?” she asked, deliberately keeping her eyes away from Myrna’s body.

  “Just twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Most people here are into their second week. The first picnic took a lot longer to get going, if you know what I mean.”

  The naked picnickers were now tucking into a huge lunch of poulet en gelée, cold lobster in scallop shells, iced leek soup, tuna, lots of fruit, and lots of wine. Watching them eating there, naked on the beach, Cassandra felt rather overclothed and, since it was now burning hot, she waded out into the sea and swam. The water was surprisingly cold, and she quickly hurried back to the beach, where she pulled on her sundress and discreetly took off her bikini.

  By the time lunch was finished more and more couples were pairing off to sneak away into the bush together or lie alongside each other at the edge of the beach, necking as the surf broke over them.

  Suddenly Hector announced another game. “Okay … you all know what the next game is … it’s the fruit game. Can I have twelve ladies …” he looked around. “Come on … Cathy … Sue … yes … what about you?” he pointed at Cassandra. She shook her head. He carried on until half a dozen women had climbed to their feet and were wandering a little drunkenly into the center of the group. Eventually he had his twelve.

  “And now I want twelve guys … okay?” In moments fifteen or twenty men had joined him. “Okay … maybe we’ll have a few more …” he said, and called for more girls. “Now I want all the guys to lie in the sand on your backs, with your legs open and your knees up. Right? Then we’re gonna put some fruit on your stomachs … and you, ladies, you have to eat the fruit off the men’s tummies without using your hands to help. Okay?” The girls nodded and giggled. Clearly, they had played the game before.

  “For God’s sake …” Cassandra murmured.

  The men lay down in a circle, and Hector, with the help of a couple of CVs and two or three of the guests, began ladling out ice-cold fruit cocktail onto their bare stomachs. Even before the women got near, some of the men began to grow excited.

  “Okay, you guys, what’s your hurry?” called Hector. Some of the onlookers cheered. The sense of sexual expectation had taken over, and the atmosphere was tense. Cassandra began to feel uncharacteristically excited, and she found herself digging her fingernails into her hands as she watched the women, all naked, begin to crawl on their hands and knees toward the men.

  Psi Upsilon was not a player, but his wife, Myrna, was, and had been paired with a handsome youth across whose body slices of oranges, grapes, and apples had been placed. Even as Myrna leaned over him to lick at the juice dribbling across his skin, the youth began to grow excited.

  Suddenly Pentaxes and Nikons were grabbed as amateur photographers began burrowing themselves into the ground all around the couples, pointing zoom lenses at hanging breasts and fruit-covered male stomachs. As the cameras clicked and silence fell over the watchers, the women began to withdraw their interest from the fruit in favor of other things. Allowing long, loose hair to hang like curtains below their faces, they slowly went down on partners chosen at random.

  Then gradually, as the cloud of eroticism passed among the onlookers, people began to fall on their neighbors, and the aroma of sexuality mingled with the wine and rum. All across the beach, men and women were making love, thrusting, entwining bodies in couples and threesomes and foursomes until quickly a whole area of the beach looked as though it were made up of dozens of adults indulging in some frenzied game of Twister.

  Cassandra tiptoed quietly away. She had never once taken her camera from its case. She could hardly believe what she had seen. She approached the sea, where a number of people had congregated by the water’s edge, refugees from the orgy.

  “Welcome to Club Village,” whispered Mary, the speech therapist from New York.

  Cassandra remembered that she had seen Mary’s boyfriend just a few minutes earlier, lying drunk in the sand while Cathy worked on him with her mouth.

  She could see the speech therapist crying quietly. On days like this there were certain to be a lot of casualties, Cassandra thought. She wondered how she could explain all this in prose suitable for family reading.

  Nineteen

  Hamlet Yablans considered his porridge-white face in the small mirror propped on the flimsy dressing table in his bleak, sunless room. His expression was empty, almost vacant. He observed the black eyebrow crescents, which rose over his eyes in perpetual surprise, and then delicately added a touch of mascara. His face was moon-shaped, yet lugubrious, and his hair was dull, dyed black and brushed straight back from his forehead. He rubbed a dusting of white powder into his cheeks, and then, taking a lipstick from a makeup case, he very carefully accentuated the line of his thin lips until they were bright red and mean.

  He was naked to the waist. His body was small and muscular and slightly bent. His waist was slim, but half an inch of slack flesh below his armpits at the extremity of his ribs reminded Hamlet that he was not a young man. He was sitting in a pair of black tights and wearing black moccasins. Satisfied that his face was as doleful as he could make it, he stood up and took one of several black silk blouses from a plastic hanging wardrobe.

  Outside he could hear people splashing in the pool as a game of water
polo reached its climax. Moving to his window, he gazed sorrowfully at the fun. He checked the cheap digital watch on his wrist. It was ten past four, almost time for his afternoon’s siesta to end. As always, he had spent the two hours’ break lying on his bed and reading. It was the only private time he had. He was working his way slowly through the Russian classics. But he was a slow reader, and he had already been involved with War and Peace for six months.

  A last look in the mirror assured him that he looked totally miserable, and, picking up a bucket, he opened his door and stepped out into the sunny village to begin his evening’s clowning.

  As the resident clown at Elixir, Hamlet’s job was to provide continuous diversion. In the Mediterranean villages this could usually be achieved by banal slapstick, in which the clowns made sure that they ended every day by covering themselves in custard pie, or carelessly dropping a dozen dinner plates after they had performed tricks of balance with them. But the American zone was different.

  Dick Pagett had recruited Hamlet after the antics of the village’s first clown, a traditional Yugoslav buffoon, had met with stony silence. He had found Hamlet doing mime in a dinner theater in Tampa, and been struck by the man’s anarchic sense of humor, and the challenge with which he approached his audience. The supper crowd had been confused by his act, but they had not ignored him. No one could ignore Hamlet. He had a way of confronting people with their own prejudices. In Paris there had been a bemused reaction to his recruitment to the village, but although the occasional bourgeois French complaint had found its way to the Bourse, the reports from the American guests had been nearly all good. Hamlet was weird and he was ugly. But he was never dull.

  It was not difficult for Hamlet to assume the role of the mourning Prince of Denmark. He was now fifty, and his life had been all failure. Sadness and black humor had overcome him during two years in Korea, and he had never quite got started after that. He had been a singer, a dancer, a bit player in TV shows, and had hung around off-Broadway for the best part of twenty years. But it had been twenty years of loneliness until his metamorphosis, when someone asked him to step in as Hamlet in a summer-stock company in the Catskills.