‘Let me be the judge. How old are you, Oscar?’
‘Thirty-two.’
Not too bad, she told herself. A respectable age, at least, she told herself. ‘And still a bachelor?’ she inquired. ‘How do you manage to keep free-with your good looks?’
Lindblom blushed at the compliment.
Before he could reply, she said, ‘You need not blush. In France, we are used to being frank in all matters. I understood it was the same in Sweden?’
‘Not precisely, Madame Marceau. We Swedes are quite a formal and inhibited people.’
‘What of all the wild reportage I have read about your open sex lives?’
‘Some is true, some is not.’
‘I see. But still, you have managed to escape the girls, Oscar?’
‘I am not exactly a cinema star. Besides, I am devoted to my work.’
‘That I can understand,’ said Denise in a kindly way, to relax him. ‘But your social life-do you keep a girl friend?’
He seemed startled. ‘I am not sure what you mean.’
‘A mistress? Do not be annoyed with my candour or curiosity. It is simply, having come to know you a little more, I am intrigued. You are quite attractive, you know. So I wonder who the lucky young lady is.’
‘There is none,’ he blurted.
‘You mean no single one? Surely, you see women?’
He wriggled uncomfortably before her. ‘I go on dates now and then, but not too often.’
‘How are these Swedish girls of yours? Do they readily let you make love to them?’
His cheeks were crimson. ‘Oh, Madame Marceau-’
She smiled. ‘I am giving you a hard time. But I mean to know. Do you make love to your little friends? Or do you not? You can be perfectly honest with me… you are not undersexed, are you?’
‘Certainly not!’ he said indignantly. And then added, ‘I do not go out with women much because of this long research of ours. Ragnar Hammarlund pays me well, but he is exceedingly demanding. I work day and night-’
‘You have not answered me fully.’
‘Of course, I make love to certain women, when I must, when it is necessary.’
‘How often?’
‘I do not know. I do not think about it. Really, I admit it, I am embarrassed, Madame Marceau-’
‘Nevertheless, how often?’
‘Once a month maybe, sometimes more, when I can get away. These algae strains-’
‘Never mind that. I am truly sorry I have embarrassed you. I did not mean to.’
‘And I did not mean to be impolite to you, either,’ he said hastily.
‘You are a dear young man. You are not impolite at all.’ She smoothed the sofa cushion beside her. ‘Come, sit beside me. I have only been asking these questions because’-she waited while he lowered himself to the sofa, a foot or two from her-‘because,’ she resumed, ‘I am quite enchanted by your person, your intelligence, and-I warned you we French are candid-your physique. I cannot know too much about you. It is unfair to you, but I confess, I cannot control myself in your presence.’ She found another cigarette. ‘Here, light it.’ She offered him her lighter.
He snapped the lighter, and as he offered the long flame, his hand shook. She reached up and took his hand in her cool hand and steadied it. She moved her hand caressingly over his, closed the lighter for him, but did not release his hand, instead kept it in her own on the sofa between them.
She stared at him. ‘I must frighten you, Oscar. Do I?’
‘Not at all,’ he said tremulously.
‘My failing is that I do not know restraint. I am what I am. I confess what I feel.’
‘That is admirable,’ he said, his Adam’s apple as busy as a Geiger counter in the Congo.
‘It is my weakness, and my weakness is affected by you.’ She pulled his hand. ‘Come closer to me.’
Stiffly, he moved closer, until their hips and thighs touched. She did not take her eyes off his face. ‘You are the most handsome man I have known in years, and sweet-do all the girls tell you that?-so sweet, with your devotion to synthetics, with your gorgeous wavy hair and beautiful mouth. I cannot take my eyes off your mouth.’
She leaned against him, cupping his intimidated face in her hands, and bringing her lips to his. His lips were unyielding and withdrawn, but she worked her mouth until his lips parted and softened and began to respond. He did not touch her. His arms were limp at his sides, but now he responded with his mouth. She felt his thin body shuddering with excitement, and she feared what might happen, and withdrew from the kiss.
‘Now, was that so bad?’ she asked.
‘No-no-’
‘Is that the best you can say?’
‘It was wonderful. I am honoured-’
‘Do you like me a little, Oscar? You can be truthful.’
‘Madame Marceau, what can I say? You must know how I feel inside. You-you and your husband-you have been my idols. The thought of even meeting you, of daring to be alone with you-’
‘Do not be so foolish, Oscar. Make such speeches when you speak of historical figures like the Curies. I am not the Curies. I am not entombed in history books. The Nobel Prize has not mummified me-not my heart or flesh or emotions. I am a human being and young, and I am fortunate enough to be with a human being who is also young, a male who electrifies me. I do not want your admiration for my achievements. I want your admiration for my person. Am I attractive to you?’
‘I have dreamt of one like you-’
‘But am I attractive?’
‘Of course you are, Madame-’
‘Of course-who?’
‘Madame-’
‘Is that the best you can find to call me?’
‘But anything else-I could not-’
She considered the tense sallow face and the tic that had come to the corner of his right eye. He was as foolish, as incredible and introverted, as every Stendal hero, but his fear and inhibition whetted her appetite to bring the experiment to a successful conclusion.
‘Oscar,’ she said softly, ‘loosen your tongue and let your heart escape. Do you not see what I am trying to learn from you-what I want to hear-what every woman in the prime of life must know from a man who affects her? Do you care for me as a woman? Just as a woman-a female denuded of records and accomplishments and prizes-a female who is not above you, but your equal or less-who wants your admirations-’
Lindblom’s face was contorted, and the words choked before they came out. ‘I worship you,’ he cried. ‘I worship you above all women!’
Denise felt victory near. ‘If you could, Oscar, if it were possible-would you love me?’
‘I cannot allow myself to think of such a-’
‘Then you would!’ she said triumphantly. She turned, half faced him on the sofa, her manner at once businesslike. ‘Now, we will be sensible about this, while we can be. We are both, the two of us, adult persons of science. At the same time, we admit, we are both human beings. We are people with emotional needs, which require gratification, and that is often as important to us as our work, is it not? Do you grant that to be true?’
‘Oh, yes, yes-’
‘I have tried desperately to tell you-do not be misled by my public reputation, for I have a private life. I am as much a female woman as any. I have passionate needs, and one of them, the most enslaving, is love, physical love of a man who attracts me. I can no longer endure austerity, pretence. I must humble myself before you.’ Impulsively, as she had planned, she reached for his hands and gripped them tightly. ‘Oscar, I need you. Can you understand that? It is a terrifying hunger for a woman, because she must passively wait for fulfilment. For a man, it is so simple. When he has a need, he goes into the street, anywhere, finds someone, and is sated. For a woman, it is unendurable, especially for one in my public position. But today, I can contain myself no longer-because of you. Through these hands of yours, I feel the surge of passion. I am putty. Mould me as you wish.’
She closed her eyes, and wondered
if she was going on too theatrically, like someone in Poetry of the English-Blake to Byron. Perhaps she was talking too much. But then, she decided that she must, for she was playing both roles, both woman and man.
She heard Lindblom’s small distant voice. ‘I would like to-but are you sure-I mean-your husband-’
Denise opened her eyes, about to speak rudely of Claude and to chastise Lindblom for his reticence, but she instinctively knew that either derogation might reduce her partner to impotence. The last word in her thought-impotence-gave her the clue to her reply. She must dissolve Lindblom’s fear and guilt potential, by explaining away Claude and her own behaviour.
She dropped her gaze and turned her head and furrowed her features in secret suffering. ‘My husband-my husband’-she was finding it an affliction that curbed speech-‘he is impotent. I must not speak of this-’
At once, Lindblom sought to comfort her. ‘Do not then, please do not torture yourself.’
She went on, nevertheless. ‘Five years ago-after many excesses-ill-using himself-abandoning me-he was stricken by a grave disease. In recovery, he lost his powers of manhood. I had planned to leave him, but now there was his pitiful need for companionship, and I could not. I knew my fate. I must forego all normal womanhood, become his cloistered nun. I did, and have done, my duty. I sublimated my natural wants in our work-pas facile, believe me-but his bestiality made obedience a cross too heavy-oh, dear Oscar-my life has been cruel, my body starved and withering for love, for love-’
Carried away by her improvised scene, Denise managed to squeeze tears to her eyes.
She saw that Lindblom’s face was all tenderness and empathy, and that his eyes, too, were wet. He stroked her arm. ‘Poor, poor dearest-’ he was saying.
Denise had enough of verbal foreplay. She sniffled and tried to compose herself. ‘Oscar, are we alone here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Does anyone come here?’
‘Only Hammarlund, and he is gone for the day.’
She bent forward and brushed his pale cheek with her lips. ‘Lock the door, my darling,’ she whispered, ‘and draw the blinds. I must go into the bathroom. Be here-wait for me.’
She rose with her handbag and quickly went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
A few minutes later, she emerged, eyes bright. The room was considerably darkened, more intimate, and she saw that the blinds were drawn. Lindblom stood unsteadily beside the sofa, worriedly clasping and unclasping his hands.
She went directly to him, putting her hand on his chest, hearing his wild heart beat, and slid her arms around his waist. ‘Take me, Oscar,’ she whispered. ‘I am in your hands.’
He embraced her hard, almost suffocating her, and kissed the top of her head.
She groaned, and whimpered, ‘Oscar, be kind to me,’ and pulled him down on the sofa. She kissed his eyes, and then his mouth, all the while unbuttoning his shirt, and then she had her hand on his jumping chest, on his ribs, on his bony back.
Her mouth was at his ear, kissing it, filling it with endearments. ‘I am ready, Oscar. I have removed my girdle, and taken precautions. There is nothing beneath my slip but love-’
She felt him shiver.
‘Poor darling,’ she whispered, ‘do you want me to help you off with your clothes-?’
‘No-no-’
He tore himself away, almost falling, and then stood upright. Hastily, he shed his trousers and shorts, and stood overwrought before her in shirt and shoes and nothing else.
‘Ah, how magnificent you are,’ she said in a voice muffled and pride-giving. ‘I am so fortunate. I will cherish this love forever.’
She closed her eyes, and wished Claude could see, and awaited the coupling. Seconds passed, and when he had not come to her, she opened her eyes once more and realized that he was not above her, but kneeling beside the sofa, staring at her.
He tried to speak, and strangled, and his Adam’s apple was everywhere. ‘Madame Marceau, are you sure-?’
Her patience was gone and in its place came indignation. ‘Oscar-it is not fair-you have me hanging here, excited beyond belief. Now-are you or are you not going to-?’
With that, she lifted her slip, and bunched it about her waist, half twisting towards him, showing him her white belly and thighs.
Her voice-she was certain not even the Divine Sarah could have improved upon it-was weak with passion. ‘Oscar, do not deprive me-I will die without you-’
‘Ah, älskling-my darling-my darling-’
At once, he was beside her, suffocating her with kisses, caressing her throat and chest. She squirmed sensuously-the last months had been so barren-and made believe that this was the Claude of long ago, and she held her lover tightly.
‘I am ready,’ she murmured. And then, ‘Are you?’
‘I-I think so-’
His uncertainty alarmed her, and she forgot fantasy and brought herself back to the living task at hand. She understood that, like it or not, she must participate, or there would be no consummation, and the long seduction would be wasted. What to do? She quickened her breath, mouth at his ear and against his face. She gasped and gasped and brought her fingers fluttering, like broken wings across his lank thighs. His arousal was almost instantaneous, and at once-and during this she recollected the Bible euphemism for sexual intercourse-he had ‘gone in unto’ her.
She had thought that consummation would end her role, and that she could wait out the rest with no part in it, but after several seconds she saw, with objective detachment, that still more was demanded of her. If he would have value in her plan, he must have pride of conquest. Anything less would make him ashamed, and consequently useless to her.
The bloating, mis-shapen ecstasy on his face-dangling above her like a grotesque mask on the Eve of Allhallows-was the signal that momentarily it would all be over. As yet, she had hardly been moved by, or in any fashion answered, his erratic rhythm. It would be a feat to pretend what was not there-she needed the stimulation of the damp flesh smell of sex, and what there was, and nothing more, was the soap odours of a scrubbed male body and the reek of camphor from the laboratory-but then she remembered, when there was no natural food, there must be a synthetic. Her arousal would have to be a chemical substitute, produced by the mind and not by nature. Desperation spurred her to action.
Any moment, she knew, and so, hastily, she implored her lethargic body to anticipate him. Once more, she closed her eyes tightly, and made her bound bosom heave, and she moaned and begged him not to torture her and begged him to be done with it or else she would die-wondering all through this if her performance was too theatrical, if he could sort the synthetic from the real-and at once, she knew that she was succeeding. Seeing that the climax of the play was upon them, she froze to his frame, then subsided into tiny helpless cries of pleasure, and clutched his elusive transported being as best she could, and when she was positive-for the expected thunder was merely a squeak-she acted a final heaving spasm of release, timed to match his own, but towering above his own to make her pride small and his pride large, and, mon Dieu, it was done.
He fell beside her, balancing precariously on the sofa to keep from dropping to the floor, and she placed an arm over her eyes-she had seen the pose once in a French film and had always thought it to mean the woman had been satisfied-and they both rested in silence.
At last, she removed her arm from her eyes. Her neck was stiff, and hurt from reclining without a pillow. She realized that he was looking at her, and that his features reflected growing shame-similar to those of a rough farm boy who has just learned that the female he had taken by force was none other than the Queen-and the enormity of his desecration was beginning to overwhelm him.
Denise moved at once to prevent this reaction. She did not want his protestations of guilt, his apologies, his humbleness, and, in the end, his frightened avoidance of her. He must know that he had not pillaged a holy temple.
‘Merci, Oscar,’ she said softly. ‘C�
�est beau. I have never been loved better.’
He blushed-that he could blush even now!-and sighed.
‘It is true,’ she went on. ‘You satisfied me.’
The Adam’s apple skittered up and down, like a simian in a banana tree. ‘I am so glad,’ he was saying. ‘I was not sure.’
‘I am fulfilled, Oscar, and I thank you with all my heart.’ She glanced at her watch and sat up with dismay. ‘So late. It is difficult to leave you, Oscar-I do not know what I shall do-but I must hurry back to the hotel, before my husband returns.’ Her slip was still bunched at her waist, and quickly and chastely she drew it across her knees.
He had watched her. ‘You are beautiful, Denise.’
‘Do not be naughty-or you will tempt me again.’
He pushed himself to a sitting position. ‘If only it were possible-’
She brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘It will be possible,’ she said, and then added, ‘You may as well know, I must see you every day I am here.’
‘I pray for that. When may I see you again?’
‘Tomorrow-tomorrow night in my suite.’
‘But your husband-?’
‘He is spending the evening in Uppsala, addressing the faculty. He will not return until long after midnight. You must come to me early-à huit heures du soir-I want to enjoy you in leisure. It will be heaven, I promise you.’ It will also, she thought, be the decisive turning-point of my marriage.
When she had finished in the bathroom, had dressed, combed, made up her face, she returned to find that the blinds had been opened and that Lindblom, clothed, was regarding her possessively.
She was gratified. She had performed well.
‘I was thinking how lucky I am,’ he said, ‘to have found-something besides algae-’
She went jauntily to him, and gave him a hasty off-to-work, married kiss. ‘It is not you who are lucky, but I. To think that I believed only France was the land of love. How provincial and insular we French become. But I am learning, and you are teaching me. Au revoir, dear Oscar, and thank you. Do not be late tomorrow night. Every moment with you is important to my life.’
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