Helen And Desire

by Alexander Trocchi

  I had my doubts if virginity was worth a fig anywhere, more doubts about whether it ought to be, but I refrained from expressing them. I said merely:

  ‘My dear Mr Pamandari, I am deeply grateful for your opinion of me, all the more so because I am not worthy of it. I suspect that any young person would have made your daughter happy. She has been too much alone for too long a time. Of course she is glad to have company, but to be her protector in a foreign country, really, I doubt whether I could undertake such a responsibility.’

  This pretty speech redoubled his trust in me. He actually got up from his chair and kissed my hand.

  ‘Dear Helen,’ he said, ‘it is because you would not lightly undertake such a responsibility that I have faith in you. Oh, you must forgive me! But I have not been blind to your devotion to my daughter since you came to my house. You have been both a mother and a sister to her!’

  And a husband, I said under my breath.

  ‘I would have to think it over,’ I said at length.

  ‘Do so, dear lady! And rest assured that should you decide to accompany her, there will be adequate means at your disposal to make the trip just as enjoyable as you would want it to be. But think it over, by all means, for I am in no hurry to get rid of either of you!’

  Chapter Nine

  We have been here for three weeks. No male has been to see us during all this time. But from the mood of my companion I suspect that our time here is drawing to a close. Every time the servant enters with our bowls of semolina the girl giggles. She is obviously expecting a visit from someone else. She grows more excited daily. She is now a little barrel of soft whitish flesh, tufted voluptuously at its centre.

  For myself, I too have put on weight, but, being taller, the fat which I have put on – it is most evident at my thighs, my belly, and at the front of my body close to my armpits – is not, even from a western point of view, so unbecoming. I can understand a man’s preferring the opaque weight of flesh as it has been cultivated on us. From my point of view, it makes little or no difference. On the contrary, if, in the eyes of the men I shall eventually meet, it increases my desirability, my attraction as a sexual object, then it is all for the good; I welcome my new condition.

  But I am certainly looking forward to the end of this strange imprisonment. I am bored by this girl. She giggles all the time. I suspect she has been bought from a poor family, that in the past she had to work, and that she is more than content to have put that life behind her for the sluggish luxury of the present one.

  Because of the diet, perhaps, I have become lethargic. I have no wish to do anything. When the time comes, I shall be quite content to love and sleep – a torporous round – I think I was born to be one of the lotus-eaters. In the west everybody is busy because his neighbour is. Mountains of industry, seas of commerce come into being, and, once in being, exert their damning influence on the sons and grandsons of those who created them. Art, the aesthetic of the flesh, the cultivation of leisure, are despised, tolerated, perhaps, but basically thought of as not quite respectable. Love in the west thus becomes hysterical, almost epileptic. Everything is computed in terms of time, so much time for this, so much time for that; it must not be ‘wasted.’ Geared for industry, those stupid westerners never pause to analyse the word ‘waste.’ Time is accepted without question as valuable; like money or land or food, it must not be ‘wasted’; at the end of an hour one must have something to show for it. The question for them is: What ‘excuse’ for passing the hour in such and such a way? If one can produce riches at the end of the hour, then the time has not been ‘wasted.’ But if one has merely derived pleasure from living? If one considers living important – in itself ?

  The western God, the Jewish God, was invented to make the hatred of life logical.

  We sailed in the most luxurious suite of the new luxury liner, the Empress of Nepal.

  Mr Pamandari had provided me with a cheque book.

  ‘Write cheques as you require them, my dear,’ he had said with an indulgent smile. ‘Spend liberally and do not try to economise. All I ask is that you look after Nadya’s interests. Keep her out of trouble.’

  He waved to us from the pierhead as the huge liner, on its maiden cruise, was pulled slowly out of the harbour by an army of tugs. When his stout friendly figure disappeared in the distance we went immediately to our suite and began to unpack our luggage.

  We had both been provided with an elaborate trousseau which contained a complete European outfit, costumes, dresses for morning, afternoon, and evening, as well as an indescribable variety of Indian costumes. Two maids accompanied us and did the actual work of the unpacking under our directions. Their names were Sarah and Luna, pretty, delightful creatures with large black eyes and a zest for life. They could hardly contain their excitement about the trip, and when they passed from one room to another in each other’s company we would hear their excited tinkling laughter coming through the open door.

  Nadya sighed with pleasure and threw herself on a chaise longue. ‘Helen,’ she said, ‘do you think Sarah and Luna do what we do? I mean, do servants do that as well?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. I was filing my nails.

  ‘I’m not sure that I like it,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Their doing it.’

  I looked up from my hand.

  ‘Why on earth shouldn’t they?’

  She pouted. ‘Well, they’re only servants after all . . .’

  ‘They’re human.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘But, Helen, you don’t suppose a man would prefer them to us, do you?’

  ‘Some men might. It all depends on the man.’

  She didn’t appear to be very pleased about this. After a moment she said: ‘Well, whenever we go anywhere we’ll leave them at home, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t take your servant everywhere.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad about that, because Helen . . .’ She was looking at me with great seriousness.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When mother was alive, she had a maid called Tajli – it’s a pretty name, isn’t it?—and one day I heard my mother quarrelling with my father. She was saying she couldn’t bear the thought of him with a servant. I didn’t know what she meant at the time.’

  ‘And what did your father say?’

  ‘Papa just laughed. Laughed! How horrible for my mother! And he said that if she liked she could get another maid. And she said: ‘So that you can spend more time with that horrible little Tajli!’ And he said he didn’t see that it mattered whether it was Tajli or someone else, that at least you could control a servant. But my mother said that it was unbearable. I remember her words, ‘Quite unbearable!’ she said. And so Tajli went away.’

  ‘Your mother was a European.’

  ‘I think she was quite right,’ said Nadya with emphasis. ‘Sarah and Luna had better not try to interfere with my men!’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be too busy with their own,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I hope so.’

  There was evidently no doubt in Nadya’s mind as to the object of her trip. She was out to have a man, and the sooner the better. And, as I realised that I would be quite unable to prevent her, I took the opportunity of instructing her in the art of birth control. I had no mind to have her pregnant by the first oaf who happened to conceive a lust for her. While I did not sympathise with her father’s views on virginity, I had every respect for his fears regarding her enslavement by a mountebank. Without me, she would have been the dupe of the first handsome gold-digger who came along. When I considered this, I began to have doubts about the supposed naiveté of Mr Pamandari. It was just possible that he recognised the inutility of starving his daughter any longer, and recognising in me a woman of the world, he had decided that under the circumstances I was the best possible ‘chaperone’ for her. After all, he was old and experienced enough to know that only a poor woman is compromised by a bad reputation. A girl
of Nadya’s beauty and wealth is above being compromised unless she gives all her money away to some scoundrel. And Nadya was unable to do this for the simple reason that only I could write the cheques and only Mr Pamandari could honour them. I was so struck by the wisdom of this scheme that I went straight to the Radio Office and sent the following cable to my benefactor:

  Don’t worry about Nadya. She will return in one piece and without attachments.

  Love, Helen.

  Two hours later I received the following reply:

  Trust you implicitly. Have always respected intelligence.

  Love, Pamandari.

  I felt very happy about this discovery. I had hitherto believed that I would have to keep up a pretence of virtue in front of Nadya’s father. Now it was a relief to know that barring strangleholds there were no fouls in this exciting game. Nadya could ‘wrestle’ to her ‘heart’s’ content; I was on hand to see that she didn’t get her neck broken.

  I decided at once that as soon as we had had dinner (which was served to us in the dining room of our own suite) we would scout out the territory in the ballroom on the first-class deck. When I suggested this to Nadya, she was delighted. It would be the first time that she had been let loose amongst men.

  Thus, a few hours later, immaculately clad in the most expensive of evening dresses, we entered the ballroom. It was already crowded with excited men and women – the usual miscellaneous group one finds on the first-class deck of a luxury liner, some there for pleasure, others for profit, all without exception excited by the prospects which membership of a completely new and cosmopolitan society afloat on the ocean offered them. There would, I supposed, be few virgins at the end of the voyage. With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I steered the beautiful Nadya across to the bar. As we crossed the floor I was conscious of all eyes turning in our direction. This was hardly surprising. A ship is a small world. Our fellow passengers would no doubt be aware that it was we who occupied the so-called ‘Royal Suite’ on board the Empress of Nepal. They would also be aware that we were travelling alone with two maids and otherwise unchaperoned. Add to this the fact that we were without doubt the two best-looking young women aboard and it is not difficult to understand why we attracted attention. The mothers of virgins were jealous of us, the eligible young men were inquisitive about us, and the sharks converged upon us. At least three men of various ages made their way discreetly towards the bar in front of us.

  Before we reached the bar, however, one of the ship’s officers had advanced and presented each of us with a large bouquet of roses, this service doubtless arranged for by the machinations of Mr Pamandari of Bombay. We accepted them casually and continued to the bar, where the crowd made way for us and soon we were seated on two of the high barstools, our pretty high heels just visible below the hems of our dresses.

  The barman bowed. ‘Miss Pamandari, Miss Seferis,’ he said with a smile of greeting.

  I must explain that the passport which Nadya’s father had obtained for me was a Greek one, and my name was now Helen Seferis.

  We took coffee and liqueurs. As Joe, the barman, was filling our glasses, a bronzed young man of about thirty, coming up from Nadya’s side, spoke to us.

  ‘May I introduce myself?’ he said in a pleasant American voice. ‘My name’s Devlin, Harry Devlin. I’m from Boston.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nadya sweetly, ‘where’s that?’

  Mr Devlin appeared to be slightly put out by this innocent question. But he retained his smile, saying, ‘It’s in Massachusetts, you know – I’m from New England.’

  ‘My father knows many Englishmen,’ Nadya said pleasantly.

  ‘Mr Devlin means he’s an American,’ I said helpfully.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Mr Devlin said.

  ‘I am Nadya Pamandari,’ Nadya said. ‘And this is my friend Helen Seferis.’

  ‘Glad to know you, Miss Seferis,’ Mr Devlin said.

  After finishing our drinks we retired to one of the tables in the ballroom with the young man whose modest conversation and handsome figure made a great impression on Nadya. She danced a number of dances with him. Meanwhile, a second young man had joined us. He was an Italian called Mario Ratsonli. He was, if anything, a little younger than Harry Devlin, and very good looking in a Latin way. He seemed to prefer me to Nadya, and, as we danced he had a delicious habit of placing one of his thighs between mine so that through two or three thicknesses of material I could feel the shape of his strong thigh on my mound.

  I did nothing to discourage his obvious advances, nestling close with my belly against his as we danced round the room. Only when he suggested that we should go out on the deck together did I think it necessary temporarily to call a halt.

  ‘Later, Mario,’ I said with a smile. ‘For the moment I would rather dance.’

  He followed me meekly back to the table where Nadya and Harry Devlin were already seated. As we sat down, Nadya said excitedly:

  ‘Harry’s been telling me all about America, Helen! It must be a wonderful place! Perhaps Papa would let us go there after we’ve been to Paris.’

  Devlin was obviously flattered by the unembarrassed attentions of this beautiful young Indian girl. Looking him over, I decided that she could have done worse for her first experiment. He was handsome, generous, obviously not poor as I suspected Mario was; indeed, at that moment I had no doubts about him. Devlin danced with me next and during the dance took none of the liberties which Mario had taken.

  ‘You’re a friend of the family?’ Devlin said in an obvious attempt to place me.

  ‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘Mr Pamandari is a business associate of my father.’ I said this because I thought it would be unwise to have it known that I was Nadya’s watch-dog. Few people know anything about Greece, so I might have been anyone’s daughter.

  The change in his attitude was obvious. He took much more care with his dancing and ushered me to my seat as though I were something of more than ordinary fragility.

  I had already made up my mind to sleep with Mario and decided to take the first opportunity to tell Nadya that she had my approval if she felt like sleeping with Devlin. There were four or five bedrooms attached to our suite and so, with a certain amount of discretion, it would be quite possible to provide opportunities for both men. For this reason, I took Nayda’s arm and led her through into the retiring room. I told her of my plan, warned her again to take the precautions I had outlined to her, and told her that I would leave with Mario after the next dance.

  ‘Wait at least half an hour,’ I said, ‘because we may stroll around the deck for a while. And see that Devlin leaves before dawn.’

  After that we powdered our noses, kissed one another, and returned to the ballroom.

  Mario danced even more sensually than before.

  His hand sometimes strayed from my waist to the naked part of my back, and the touch of his fingers combined with the intertwining movement of our lower bodies lulled me into an apposite sensuality. We were turning slowly near the exit.

  ‘Let’s go on deck for a while,’ I said suddenly.

  He agreed with alacrity and as we went out I had a last glimpse of Nadya and Devlin. They were leaning towards one another over the table, he fingering his champagne glass, and she looking into his eyes, talking like conspirators. I felt a slight pressure at my arm and followed Mario onto the deck.

  For a while we stood looking over the rail, looking down at the streaming beads of efflorescence, glowing like phosphorus, which bounded from the belly of the ship and disappeared along the side into our wake. Mario dropped his cigarette end, which fell in an apparently curving line to the sea.

  I yawned. ‘I’m tired,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ll go back to the dance. It’s so stuffy in there.’

  He followed politely as I made my way towards our suite, and as I put out my hand to say goodnight I wondered what excuse he was going to make to follow me in. He accepted my hand but held it in his own without letting go. ‘Are you n
ot going to invite me in to take a nightcap?’ he said.

  ‘Just for a moment, then,’ I said, ‘because I’m very tired.’

  He followed me in to the sitting room.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ I said. ‘What will you have?’

  ‘You have cognac?’

  I poured two large cognacs and carried one over to him. Then I sat down beside him on the couch. For a few minutes we sat making small talk and then I rose, switched on the radiogram, and returned to my seat. I turned down the lights, leaving only one lamp which cast a pale circular ring on the carpet near our feet.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ I said.

  He got to his feet immediately and took me in his arms. It was a slow foxtrot. We glided silently out of range of the lamp, our bodies pressed close together and moving voluptuously in unison. Once again I felt his thigh insistent between mine and his hand slipped downwards from my waist onto the soft rise of the material at my buttocks. We swayed together, all motion of our feet suspended, until gradually, like the pendulum of a clock which has run down, our oscillations grew slighter until they were negligible, a slightly tremorous fluctuation, the lower part of our bodies set firmly together, and his handsome face hovered above mine in the semidarkness, his dark eyes smiling and his soft lips approaching mine. And then there was only the music, the slow sensual voice of the crooner coming to us across the dark room. ‘It’s better with our clothes off,’ he whispered. I laughed softly in his face and led him into one of the bedrooms.

  We didn’t turn on the light. The music soft now, in the distance. I removed his tie and then stepped back to undress myself. I took off everything except the dark nylon stockings and my high-heeled shoes and then stepped back against his naked body. His sex rode up towards my navel and our thighs mingled with the softness of velvet. We were still dancing when the music stopped. We paused, almost without moving, to wait for it to begin, our bellies rising and falling against one another, quivering at the delicate peeling contact like aspen leaves. I laid my blonde head on his shoulder. His strong hands explored all my skin surfaces tenderly. And then he tilted my face upwards towards him and kissed me, at the same time forcing me back, my torso curved and springy as a longbow, against the bed. Its soft horizontal bulk caught me exactly at the bend of my knees and, off balance, I crumpled giddily backwards, drawing his hot hard body on top of me.