The Jet Set
Page 7
“So you want to be an actress.”
“I didn’t say that. I’d like to get into the production end of the film industry. Perhaps to be a production secretary for a time. Most people seem to think movies are made by actors. Actually, their end of it is just a fraction.”
“I see.” They held silence for a time, each comfortable in the other’s presence without need for conversation. Larry said finally, “What’s happened to your ball and chain? I thought Miss Alsace didn’t like to let you out of sight.”
“She’s taking a nap. At least that’s her story. She’s about sorry that she accepted the Cham’s invitation. He keeps hanging around her, until she’s on edge. She wouldn’t have come except she’s always wanted to see the running of the bulls at Pamplona, and you can’t get hotel reservations for love or money.”
“So,” Larry chuckled, “money doesn’t buy everything.”
“It evidently doesn’t buy li’l ol’ Loretta from South Carolina, when the guy involved has a skin as dark as mahogany,” Dorry said.
• CHAPTER FIVE •
THE CHAM, through some magical alchemy probably spelled m-o-n-e-y, had arranged for two rooms with two balconies overlooking the Calle de la Estafeta along which the bulls ran from their corrals to the Plaza de Toros in the famous encierros. Wooden fences had been erected along the route so that side streets were cut off, giving the bulls and the steers which accompanied them no alternative way.
The festival proper had started the day before at about noon when a rocket was fired from the Town Hall. Since then the drinking and dancing in the streets to the riau-riau music of pipes and drums had continued, there being no halt for sleep, nor would there be for the next week. The Sanfermines continue night and day without cease.
The Cham had his two strategically located rooms set up with a bar and tables of refreshments, and even at seven in the morning his guest had managed to acquire the seemingly continual alcoholic haze which characterized them. Most stood out on the balconies awaiting the coming of the bulls, though others remained handier to the bar. Three or four had acquired botas, the local wineskins, full of the clareté which with anis is the tipple of the Pamplona feria. They were attempting to drink from the wineskins in the Spanish fashion, shooting a stream of the clareté into the backs of their mouths without touching the lips of the leather bottle. Few seemed to have the knack.
A German, whom Larry vaguely remembered being introduced as Baron something or other, was explaining what was to come. He had attended before. It was not, he explained, as dangerous as all that, although each year various of the penas were gored and even sometimes killed. The difficulty was that they were usually drunk and failed to take the minimum precautions necessary to avoid the careening animals.
Sándor Petöfe giggled. “Just the same, my friend, I will remain up here, eh?”
The German shrugged. “So long as the bulls run along with the steers in a group, there is little danger. However, if one becomes separated, ah, that is another thing. These are, after all, the bos taurus ibericus, the Spanish fighting bull, bred for a thousand years to fight. In herd, they are quite docile; alone, they are deadly.”
The Hungarian laughed again. “Which is why I shall remain up here. Which is why we shall all remain up here. As the Americans say, let us face it. We are not heroes like the youngsters down there, eh?”
Big Bill Daly, drink in hand, grunted. “Speak for yourself, Sándor. I’ve seen this whole deal in newsreels. It’s like Helmut says. It’s not particularly dangerous if you take minimum precautions.”
The big Irish-American, Larry decided, had probably never sobered up from the party of the night before. He was red of eye, slurring in speech, and had the sneer in his voice that it bore when he was well smashed.
Sándor Petöfe blinked rapidly. It was obvious he didn’t like the tone of the other’s voice. Big Bill pulled few punches when it came to the sexual deviate, and the Hungarian was seldom in position to retaliate.
He said now, snappishly, “However, Big Bill, I do not see you down there in the streets, eh?”
Clark Talmadge laughed. “Show him up, Daly. That sport jacket of yours is louder than a fighting cape. You can use that.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Larry growled. “No bull is a joke. A terrified one is a ton of trouble.”
Down below, the first runners, coming along the street slowly, looking often over their shoulders, began to appear. Most of them wore the red berets and red sashes affected by the riau-riau dancers, most of them carried their botas of wine, or a rolled up newspaper with which to strike the bull over the face as a distraction. A rocket exploded on the edge of town, signaling that the bulls and steers had been released from their corrals and were on their way.
The numbers of men and boys on the street below began to increase. Most of them were running toward the Plaza de Toros, the fighting arena, but some stood in doorways. Some stood next to the heavy wooden fence, about five feet in height, ready to vault over it, if necessary.
From the distance could be heard the thudding of hooves, the shouts of the excited runners. The Cham’s party crowded out onto the balconies, most of them still drink in hand. One of the women squealed her excitement.
Dorry Malloy stood next to Larry Land. She shook her head. “I’ve been reading some of the statistics on this thing. It’s been going on for centuries. It averages one death a year. The things people will do in the name of entertainment.”
Larry said, “Yeah.” Far up the streets the crowd was now considerably heavier, and the first bull, running hard, could be seen. No, it was a steer. One of the several steers sent to accompany the fighting bulls and to keep them as docile as possible.
The men and boys ran desperately before the thundering animals. Sometimes one would fall, then desperately cover his head with his hands. Usually the wild-eyed beasts would charge on past, or over. Sometimes one would hesitate long enough to give the fallen figure a toss.
Some of the penas vaulted the fence, some pressed themselves into doorways, or flat against the wall, trusting that the frantic animals would dash on by.
“Good Jesus! There goes Bill Daly,” Marcella shrilled.
Somebody dropped a glass which shattered on the concrete floor of the balcony.
Big Bill, his sport coat in hand, was reeling up the street in the direction of the onrushing animals.
Dorry Malloy’s lips went white. “He’ll be killed.”
“The ass!” Sándor Petöfe said, his voice woman-high.
“Somebody do something,” somebody demanded, doing nothing.
The street immediately in front of the animals was fairly clear now, the runners either being further ahead or hiding behind fence or in doorway. Big Bill had the center to himself. He posed, in an attempt to imitate a torero, his coat extended, cape fashion.
By the sheerest good luck, the lead steer swerved to avoid him and the others pounded by, one scraping the writer with his side sufficiently to send him reeling, but not enough to throw him from his feet. They were by. Big Bill, grinning widely, waved his hand up to the group assembled on the balconies. He shouted something that didn’t come through the tumult.
It was then that the last bull, detached from the others to charge an earlier tormentor, hit him. The bull, for the first time successful in getting his horn into something substantial, hit, tossed, and threw the big man up against the stone wall of the building which housed the Cham’s two rented rooms.
Someone screamed. The bull had stopped, was turning back to gore.
Larry Land, unthinking, was ripping out of his jacket. He tossed it aside, swung a leg over the iron banister of the balcony. He could hear Marcella Loraine shrilling something at him, something that didn’t come through. For a moment he could feel someone else grasp his arm and attempt to hold him. Then he dropped.
The bull had made one tentative lunge at the fallen American, was now coming in for the kill, favoring his right horn, needle-pointed.
He could hear the shouts of the penas, and could vaguely make out running shapes, coming in. One of the braver grabbed the bull’s tail and hung on, bracing his feet as best he could against the cobblestones of the street.
The animal was bashing Larry against the wooden fence now, trying to dislodge him, trying to get his horns back into play. Several runners were banging with their rolled-up newspapers to distract the animal and yelling instructions to Larry. For a moment the bull paused, as though taking a breather and an opportunity to figure the situation out.
Larry let go and rolled desperately for the fence, the bull immediately after him. A dozen hands extended under the heavy wood to pull him through. He was under. The wooden fence splintered from the raging horns — splintered but held.
The bull took off down the street to find his disappearing companions.
Larry got to his feet in a half-daze. One of those who had helped pull him beneath the fence was pressing a leather bota into his hands. Others were clapping him on the back. Some were laughing, bordering on hysteria. All had been exposed to the bulls themselves, but none had so distinguished himself as the Americano. More botas were pressed on him. Larry took a long swallow. The aftermath was hitting him now, and his left knee was trembling almost uncontrollably.
He climbed over the fence and made his way toward where the American writer was coming to his feet. Big Bill’s clothes were well ripped, and he had a gash along the ribs of his left side, but he didn’t seem to be seriously injured. His face was gray and he was cold sober.
Larry said, “How badly did he get you?”
Big Bill looked at him and shook his head. He said, slowly, “Remember to remind me sometime that I owe you a life. Let’s go get a drink, Larry.”
Larry said, “Second the motion.”
• • •
He was the hero of the party that evening, the center of attraction, the toast. And before long, he got fed up with it. Somehow, he couldn’t get with them. There seemed a phoniness even in their congratulations. At least, so it was with most of them. He had an uncomfortable inner feeling that the majority thought him a damn fool to have stuck his neck out for the sake of the drunken writer. And he had the further feeling that there were few among them who would risk their own rather worthless lives for the sake of any other, including relatives or mates.
Dorry was an exception. She hadn’t milled around him and Big Bill the way the others had immediately after the action. However, she made a point at the first opportunity when he was free from the others of coming up and looking straight into his eyes. “I want to apologize for some of the things I thought about you before, Lawrence Land.”
He attempted to laugh off her seriousness. “I can’t accept until I know what they were,” he said.
“It doesn’t make any difference now,” she told him.
Clark Talmadge took that moment to come up. “Dear boy,” he lisped, “you were magnificent. But magnificent. I was right behind you, you know. Just about to jump down from the balcony myself. But before I could get out of my jacket, it was all over.”
Dorry looked at him. “I’ll bet,” she said.
The movie hero was indignant. “See here, Dorry. Miss Alsace is a friend as well as a colleague. What do you think she would say if I reported you impertinent?”
“If I know Loretta,” Dorry Malloy said, “she’d probably spit in your eye. She likes her men to be men.”
“Why … why …”
“Oh, shut up,” Dorry said. She turned and went off, as more of the group came swarming up to bask in the reflected glory of their hero of the evening. Larry was laughing inwardly as he looked after her. He wondered how long the girl was going to be able to stand this atmosphere before she chucked it, movie industry or no movie industry.
Now that he thought of it, Loretta Alsace was the only one of the group who hadn’t made over him, and in a way he was surprised. He had got the impression that the highly sexed movie queen had been more than usually pleased with that fantastic three-way affair the night of Big Bill’s party. However, she had made no moves to suggest she wanted to repeat the performance. Which was more than all right with Larry Land.
• • •
Loretta Alsace was by way of being a refugee tonight.
When she had first met Muley Khalid, she admitted to a certain pleasurable reaction to being such an obvious object of attraction. After all, he was often mentioned in the gossip press and the society columns as the most eligible young man on earth. What’s more, she had a sneaking suspicion that with a bit of encouragement he would actually marry her, which, of course, would make her a princess or a ranee, or whatever it was you became when you married a Cham.
On top of everything else, they said he was the richest man in the world. However, they also said it about that big oil man, and some raja or other down in India, and various of the American billionaires. Besides, it didn’t particularly matter to Loretta Alsace. One of her earlier husbands, a producer, had left her a large interest in one of the studios and a film process that just about everyone was currently using. She had all the money she could possibly use, and had it so tied up in investments that she couldn’t lose it if she tried.
No, her first reactions to the courtship of the Cham hadn’t lasted long. In fact, before the hour was out, she had begun to crawl at the very thought of him thinking of her in terms of a bedmate. The unmitigated gall of the man. She would a dozen times sooner take a quick roll in the hay with some French, Italian or even Spanish grip on the set. A dozen times.
And the more obvious she tried to make it to the other, the more impossible it seemed for him to comprehend. He was the Cham. He was young and had been told a thousand times, had read a thousand times, about his supposed classic features, his beautiful masculine charm. He had never been refused anything in his life. Ha! It just didn’t seem to get through to him that she wasn’t interested.
She’d been insane to take this trip to Pamplona. What in the world had ever got into her? It had been obvious from the beginning that Muley Khalid had inaugurated the whole thing solely to have her in close proximity. Well, she’d had it. As of the morning she was going to plead a headache, or something, and return to Torremolinos. She could take a limousine down to Madrid and take a plane from there to Malaga.
Alone, now, she began to undress.
Undressing, with Loretta Alsace, was a ritual. It always had been since the days she had been simple Laurie Kosciusko of Monongah, West Virginia, and had won her first beauty contest. Miss Smiles she had become, winner of a national contest which involved her being featured in newspaper and magazine ads throughout the country. Miss Smiles had been her title, but she could hardly forget that the judges were not looking at her mouth when she paraded before them. Even at seventeen, Laurie Kosciusko had been amply blest with nature’s gifts to women, to lure men. And already she had learned to dispense them.
Miss Smiles had never bothered to return to Monongah, West Virginia, nor ever to communicate with the relatives she had left to conquer the world of glamour. One of her prizes had included a bit part in a West Coast film and following her short career as a model she made her way there.
Perhaps the new Loretta Alsace — she couldn’t even remember what individual flack had dreamed up her new name, although she vaguely recalled sleeping with him by way of payment — wasn’t aware of the fact that her career upward in filmland was so stereotyped as to be laughable. So stereotyped that had some scenarist done her life story it would have been rejec
ted as cliché.
For Loretta had entered her career with single-minded purposiveness. Luck had given her the opportunity to escape the poverty-stricken background of West Virginia, and she wasn’t going to miss her chance through lack of trying.
The game of musical beds had never seen a more able practitioner. Loretta Alsace rolled from one embrace to another with all the verve of a whirling dervish in a revolving door. No advantage proved so small to gain but that Loretta Alsace wasn’t willing to give her all for it. From extras and bit players to directors and producers, Loretta was lavish. Nor did she limit herself to the more routine methods of pursuing Eros. Filmland is a never-never land when it comes to inventiveness in bed, and Loretta would stand or lie or kneel, for that matter, for anything.
Suffice it to say, it had paid off over the years. Miss Smiles had at long last become Miss Sex Symbol. The very top of the heap.
And now, as she undressed, the thin line of worry was there between her eyes as she peered carefully into the enormous mirror. Her eyes, were there the slightest of wrinkles at their corners? Her neck, was it beginning to show age? Pray God, were her internationally famed breasts beginning to drop even infinitesimally? Her belly, neither boyishly flat nor overly rounded, had it begun to lose perfection, must she resort more strenuously to diet? Her hips, and the shrine between them, were they still rightfully the most highly desired goal of half the male population of the world?
Pray heaven, how long would it last? How long could it last? How long could you expect to remain the most desirable woman in the world? The most desirable woman in the world. Try rolling that over your tongues, all you jealous bitches.
But how long could it last?
For Loretta Alsace, nee Laurie Kosciusko, was forty-three years of age.
Completely nude now, she crossed to the large double bed and stretched herself out, without bothering to turn down the spread. It wasn’t so much the heat of the Spanish July evening, although there was that, too.