The Villa Golitsyn

by Piers Paul Read

  The place Priss had chosen for a picnic was about quarter of a mile further up the valley. They walked there – Simon carrying the hamper, and the others the bottles of wine. Despite the altitude and the time of year, it was warm. Following Priss they clambered over rocks and trees by the river bank, passed through a narrow gorge and eventually reached a small plateau of soft dry grass. There was shade from the pine trees which surrounded it, and a view to the other side of the valley. They were isolated in the wilderness of the mountains: there was no sign of the hand of man.

  Priss opened the hamper and laid out the food while Charlie put bottles of white wine and mineral water to cool in the stream. The others lay back, resting after the climb, breathing in the pure air and eyeing the pâté en croute and cold chicken laid out on a white tablecloth. When it was all spread before them, Priss told them to start, and with a minimum of polite reticence, they fell on the food and drink.

  For a time there was silence: each concentrated on satisfying his appetite. In place of the white wine, which was not yet cold, they opened a couple of bottles of red Bergerac wine and when these quickly emptied, two more. The white wine was opened for the apple tart, melon and grapes. After that they drank coffee from a Thermos. Priss had thought of everything. Nothing had been overlooked.

  Simon, now that his stomach was full, was reminded of his other appetites, and he studied Priss as she cleared up the picnic. He wondered if she would show the same methodical efficiency when she made love: that she would, with him, he did not now doubt, for every now and then, as she scraped scraps of bread and melon rind from the plates into a supermarket bag, she glanced at him with an intent and apprehensive expression, and when she had more or less cleared everything away, she came to him and said in a low but normal voice: ‘How about a walk?’

  ‘Yes.’ He got to his feet.

  She turned to the others. ‘We’re going on up the mountain,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come?’

  Charlie blushed. ‘I think I’ll sit this one out,’ he said.

  ‘What about you, Will?’ she said, turning to her husband, who lay on the grass with his eyes closed, apparently incapacitated by the wine. He opened one eye, then closed it, but said nothing.

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘I don’t think I could,’ she said. ‘I feel a bit woozy.’

  ‘We ought to leave at about four, or half-past,’ said Priss, ‘so if you wander off, make sure to be back here by then.’

  They set off. Priss led the way on, over the boulders which flanked the mountain stream. Simon clambered after her, his eyes searching for footholds, and for roots or rocks which he might grip with his hands. He did not find it easy to keep up with Priss. She was sure-footed and fit, and perhaps had drunk less wine than he had; but her very health only made her more desirable. There was something tomboyish about her in her jeans and shirt, but that did not diminish her attractiveness either. The thought that she might remove the shirt and jeans with the same method and efficiency as she showed in climbing the mountain made Simon tremble, and he was only afraid that the climb would take so much of his energy that when the time came he would acquit himself badly.

  He saw, however, that she had stopped and was standing on a flat rock in the sunlight, watching him climb up behind her with a look of amused mockery on her face.

  ‘Hard work, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, stopping and panting just beneath her. ‘I’m not in condition. It’s what comes from working in an office.’

  ‘We can have a rest,’ she said, springing from the rock onto the bank. She disappeared from Simon’s view and he tried to follow her, but for a time could not see how to climb onto the rock. He clambered towards the side of the river where the torrent, in spring, had gouged out the earth from the bank; and he squeezed past the roots from the tree above. When he got onto the small plateau further up, a grassy patch like that where they had eaten their picnic, he saw Priss lying on the far side, her head resting against a bank of moss at the base of a pine tree. He crossed to her, still panting. She smiled up at him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to give you a heart attack.’ Again the slight mockery, her mouth turned down – a mannerism she must have learned from Willy.

  ‘I’m out of condition, that’s all.’ He lay down beside her and stared at the sky.

  ‘I’d like to live in the forest,’ said Priss. ‘Animals are so free, so uncomplicated.’

  Simon had recovered his wind. He propped his body on his elbow and brought his face closer to hers. ‘If we want to,’ he said, ‘we can be uncomplicated too.’

  She blinked as she refocused her eyes on his. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

  He brought his lips down to touch hers, and she lifted her arms to embrace him. He too then clutched her body and kept his mouth pressed to hers in a long, languorous kiss. He drew back to breathe. Her eyes were shut – clenched shut – but he had no time to study her expression, for as if from a nervous spasm her hand came up from his shoulder to the back of his head and entwining the fingers in his hair brought his face back to hers.

  They kissed again. Half oblivious from emotion, half anxious about technique, Simon moved his left hand to her throat. She clutched him tighter. He went further. Nothing stopped the designs of his left hand. Indeed the way in which she clung to him encouraged its predatory progress down her body until suddenly her heavy, amorous breathing cracked into a cry of alarm, and her tight grip reversed itself with such strength and intensity that her whole body jack-knifed and sprang back from his own onto the grass.

  There for a moment she lay shaking and sobbing like the victim of a crude assault. Then she sat up again, and with her clothes still in disarray, wept on Simon’s shoulder. He said nothing. He sat, one arm propping up his body which now supported hers; the other – the right – was timidly placed on her shoulders as if ashamed of what the left had done.

  In time the sobbing subsided. She sniffed, wiped her nose on her wrist, and in a matter-of-fact manner rearranged her clothes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last.

  Simon said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.

  Her eyes were on the buttons of her blouse. ‘It’s …’ she began; then she looked up, shook her head, and said: ‘I don’t know how to explain.’

  ‘You needn’t say anything,’ said Simon.

  ‘No, you see I thought I could go through with it. I wanted to because it’s so unfair to you.’ She stopped.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ said Simon, not quite meaning what he said because he still felt the ache of his frustrated passion.

  ‘I just couldn’t,’ she said, shaking her head and looking down at her feet.

  ‘I had hoped that … that you liked me,’ said Simon.

  ‘Oh, but I do, I do.’ She turned and looked at him, her eyes still holding tears. ‘I do like you, more than anyone except …’ Her voice tailed off. ‘Except Will.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Simon. ‘It’s just that I thought you wanted to. I would never otherwise …’

  ‘I did,’ she said quietly. ‘I did want to, and I want Will to have her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Helen. I thought that if we went off together, they might go off together, except that Will’s so drunk.’

  Simon looked nonplussed, and seeing the baffled expression on his face, Priss went on: ‘She could have a baby, you see, and I know that if he had a son he would stop drinking.’

  Suddenly Simon thought he saw into the scheme in this woman’s mind. ‘So my role,’ he said sourly, ‘was to make Willy jealous enough to father a child by Helen?’

  She looked up, alarmed by his tone of voice. ‘Oh no, I do love you,’ she said, clutching his hand. And then she added, in a quiet confidential whisper: ‘I’ve never said that I loved anyone other than Will’, as if that accolade was worth more than any amount of copulation.

  ‘I never
meant to take you from Willy,’ said Simon.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know. But I’ve only ever slept with him and just now I couldn’t … I couldn’t bring myself to do it with you. It felt wonderful at first but then … terrible.’ She shuddered and was silent for a moment. ‘But it’s an awful way to behave, I know. You have every right to be angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry.’

  ‘You’re very good,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Simon, ‘but I’m old enough to know how these things happen.’

  She smiled and stood up. ‘We’d better get back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They went to the stream, where she bathed her face in the cold water.

  ‘Do you think that Willy fancies Helen?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Yes. Don’t you?’

  ‘There’s a big difference in age.’

  ‘That’s what he likes – her youth. He never really fancied women, you see – wide thighs, big busts and that sort of thing. You’re all a bit like that, aren’t you?’

  ‘Suppressed queers,’ said Simon.

  She smiled. ‘That must be it.’

  ‘Except Charlie.’

  ‘Except Charlie.’

  ‘And does Helen fancy Willy, do you think?’

  ‘She seems to like him.’

  ‘Yes, but holding hands is one thing. Going to bed with him is another.’

  ‘I think she would,’ said Priss – the creasing of her brow revealing how much she had thought about this before. ‘At that age what one wants more than anything else is to be counted as a grown-up – to escape the stigma of being a child.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘She’d sleep with you or Charlie or Will just to be accepted as one of us. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And have a child?’

  Priss frowned again. ‘It would only take nine months out of her life. I’d look after it after that.’

  ‘And what would happen to Helen?’

  ‘She could go home.’ She gave Simon a hard look, as if defying him to say that he disapproved of her scheme. ‘She wouldn’t want the child, would she?’ she asked. ‘Not at seventeen?’

  ‘No. I dare say she wouldn’t.’

  They set off over the rocks by the side of the stream. Again Priss drew ahead, leaping from stone to stone while Simon, with wobbly knees, clambered, slithered, sat and dropped down the mountain, using both his hands and feet. Every now and then Priss would wait for him to catch up with her, but as soon as he had done so she would smile and move on.

  The sun had moved down in the sky behind the tops of the mountains when they got back to the site of the picnic, so although it was only four the light was dim and at first there seemed to be no one there. Then they saw Helen and Charlie standing in the stream, both with their jeans tucked up to their knees.

  ‘There you are,’ said Charlie, avoiding both their eyes. ‘I was beginning to think you might be lost.’

  ‘It’s only four,’ said Priss. ‘I said we’d be back by four.’

  ‘What have you been doing here?’ Simon asked, looking at the barrier of rock built across the stream.

  ‘We wanted to make a pool and swim,’ said Helen, ‘but it still isn’t really deep enough.’

  ‘And we’ve missed the moment,’ said Charlie, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘It’s too cold now anyway.’

  ‘Where’s Will?’ asked Priss.

  ‘I don’t know. He went off soon after you.’

  ‘Where?’

  Charlie still did not look into her eyes. ‘I don’t know. In that direction.’ He waved towards the woods. ‘I thought he might have met up with you.’

  Priss bit her lower lip. Simon glanced at her anxiously, but if she saw his look she paid no attention. ‘He must have gone back to the car,’ she said.

  They gathered up the empty wine bottles and the picnic basket, and set off back down the stream to the track which ran along the valley. Above them they could see the shafts of pink sunlight which shone from one side to illuminate the peaks on the other. They were all now tired, and the effects of the wine had worn off to leave them with heavy limbs and dizzy heads. They spoke little: only Simon, at one point, drew close to Priss and said: ‘He can’t have seen us, can he?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He would never have made it over those rocks.’

  He was not at the car. They packed the bottles and hamper into the boot and then looked towards the darkening pine forest all around them.

  ‘I hope to God he hasn’t passed out somewhere up there,’ said Priss.

  Charlie shouted for him but there was no reply.

  ‘Perhaps he’s in the chapel,’ said Helen.

  ‘Has he got the key?’ asked Priss.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘We left it with him.’

  Simon volunteered to go and see. He walked to the gates and when he reached the door of the chapel saw that it was ajar. He pushed it further open. The interior was almost dark. There was a pool of light around four or five votary candles which burned by the altar, but it took Simon a few minutes to accustom his eyes to the gloom. He blinked, crossed to the aisle and there saw Willy – his tall figure still and silent as a statue in front of the painting of Judas.

  ‘Willy,’ he said, ‘it’s time to go.’

  His voice echoed in the empty church but Willy made no reply. Neither by word nor gesture did he acknowledge that Simon was there, so Simon walked towards him and saw, as he came closer, the marks of two rivulets of tears which had run from his eyes over the flaky skin of his cheeks.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked without thinking – and when Willy still did not reply, the thought came to Simon with an accompanying sour unease that Willy had indeed followed them up the valley, had witnessed what had transpired, and was now, in contemplating Judas, thinking of the friend who had betrayed him. ‘Willy, I’m sorry …’ he stuttered. ‘I didn’t mean, that’s to say …’ His apology petered out.

  Will did not appear to be listening. He no longer wept but his eyes remained on the fresco. Then he sighed and said, quite quietly: ‘There’s nothing to be done.’

  Still thinking that Willy was referring to his attempt to seduce his wife, Simon said: ‘That’s very decent of you, Willy.’

  Now Willy turned and looked at him. ‘Decent? What’s decent about it?’

  ‘Well, not holding it against Priss or …’

  ‘She’s blameless,’ he said. ‘Women always are. They follow where we lead. You can never blame them.’

  ‘Then it’s decent of you not to hold anything against me.’

  ‘You? What has it got to do with you?’ He looked surprised – almost annoyed – as if a servant had presumed too great a familiarity.

  Simon turned towards the dark interior of the church for fear that his confusion might show itself on his face. ‘You looked upset,’ he said, ‘and I thought it might be because Priss and I went off for a walk together.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Simon. I didn’t want to climb that bloody mountain.’

  ‘Then what has upset you?’

  ‘Thoughts, just thoughts.’

  ‘Of the past?’ Simon had recovered his composure: he looked at Willy with an alert curiosity.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That act you mentioned earlier – the sin against conventional morality?’

  ‘That act, yes.’

  ‘Was it also an act of betrayal?’

  ‘Betrayal? Yes, in a way.’

  ‘One can always confess a sin,’ said Simon in a quiet, coaxing tone of voice.

  Willy laughed, then coughed, and the sounds were again amplified in the hollow church. ‘No, dear boy,’ he said. ‘I can’t confess because I can’t repent, and I can’t repent because I’m not sorry. That is what leads to despair. To feel acute remorse yet know that one would do what one did all over again.’ He glanced at Judas for the last time, and then walked down the aisle towards the back of the chapel.

  ‘But what was
it?’ Simon asked, coming after him. ‘What did you do that you would do again?’

  Willy stopped by the fresco of the Last Judgement, and for a moment Simon thought that he was about to answer the question; but if he had heard it, he ignored it and instead he pointed to the depiction of Christ sitting at the right hand of the Father. ‘Do you think he is up there, Simon, waiting to judge us for what we have done here?’

  ‘No,’ said Simon. ‘It’s a myth, a fable.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Willy, ‘because we’ll look such fools if you’re wrong, going down there’ – he pointed to the picture of Hell – ‘for all eternity.’

  FOUR

  Like Willy, Simon had formed a picture in his mind of Charlie’s American girlfriend, Carmen Baker, envisaging a lithe, blonde Californian nymphet with a boy’s buttocks squeezed into skintight jeans. The girl whom Charlie brought back from the airport the next day was so different from this image that had Charlie not been standing behind her, Simon would not have believed it was the same person. She was short, plump and dark with a large bosom and wide thighs – the bosom squashed by a tight black tee shirt, the thighs shrouded by a padded, patchwork skirt.

  ‘Hi,’ she said as Charlie presented her to his friends just as they were sitting down to lunch at the Villa Golitsyn.

  ‘How nice to see you,’ said Priss, coming around the table to greet the new arrival and guiding her to the empty chair next to Simon.

  ‘Charlie has told us so much about you,’ said Simon as she sat down.

  ‘And me about you,’ she said.

  The leather-faced Aisha offered Carmen a dish of stuffed peppers.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Carmen, ‘I don’t know if I could eat a thing.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s something like four in the morning for me.’

  ‘Did you come straight from America?’ asked Priss.

  ‘Straight from LA to Paris, and then on from Paris to Nice,’ said Carmen. She spoke and smiled in a deliberate, almost exaggerated, way – as if on stage. She had bright brown eyes but a bad complexion, and the skin on her upper lip was as smooth as the surface of an egg, as if the hair was regularly removed by a cosmetician.