Leper Tango (18 page)

“It's been known to happen.”

“I've heard those Mediterranean sluts are breathy little whores, but a little on the petulant side.”

He'd shrugged, smiled knowingly. Poured me another Scotch.

“
Mon cher ami
, I'm from the Midi. If a woman throws a plate at you, you fire two back.”

“And if that doesn't stop her?”

“Then it's a good
aller-retour.
” An
aller-retour
, he explained, was an open-ended cuff across one cheek, quickly followed by a backhand on the other as the recipient regained her balance. A
return ticket
.

Sheba re-appeared with a bottle of
Moet & Chandon
on a silver plateau, two champagne flutes, six lines of coke and an assortment of pharmaceuticals.”

“For you, Franck.
A ton service
.”

She poured out a glass of the bubbly.

“Try some of this. Christophe bought it for me. He's a rep for the Rothschilds. Christophe has done a lot of things for me.”

“I'll bet he has.”

“How long are you staying here, Franck?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“What do you think? That you can just stroll into my house, and fuck me, like a
pute
?”

I pretended to mull that one over for a moment.

“That's right. I'm going to fuck you. But, not like a whore. I'm going to fuck you my way. Now, give me some more of Christophe's champagne.”

I felt better immediately. Whatever we were preparing to do would take a while to play out.

She walked across the room to a window overlooking her terrace, which in turn overlooked the old harbour, and a skew of yachts and catamarans moored for the evening. Behind that, a stretch of the Atlantic ocean
.

She had lit a Dunhill cigarette. She liked Dunhills, because the packs contained miniature retro lithographs of Dusenbergs, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces. The cigarette pack disappeared and, in its place, she held a sheaf of papers.

In her left hand, a gold butane lighter, a yellow-blue flame shooting out of it towards the bottom corner of the paper. For a moment, she allowed the flames to lick up the A4 sheet, then tossed the whole scroll of paper carelessly out the window. We watched the flaming bundle fall downwards, its smoked edges rising upwards.

“That was my last will and testament, Franck. I think I need to revise it.”

“Very wise to review these things periodically. Guess what; you're looking at the meister of the two page will.

Bullet-proof, honey.”

“Are you in receiver mode, Franck?
Tu me reçois cinq
>sur cinq?”

She glanced out the window.

“I once defenestrated a man at this very spot.”

I sat back on the couch, taking it in, sucking on a slim Danneman cigar, listening to every word she
evoked
, for the words that came out of her mouth were entirely disconnected with the message she was conveying.

I drank another glass of Christophe's champagne and smoked a cigarette. This was relatively new turf, so it was fairly important to lay down some ground rules.

Generally, the trick was to never give a woman what she asked for right away. Once you made them beg, they were yours. Which led to another set of problems.

At some point in the conversation, the coke kickstarted me, and for a second, or an hour, who can tell, my mind drifted. When I came out of it, I was staring at the photos of her. Sheba had disappeared again. Her voice from a room down the corridor.

“Franck.”

I waited a few minutes, took my time, then strolled up to her bedroom. What was the rush? I was already inside enemy territory. But, she didn't call again. I give her credit for that. She had rigged up a semi-transparent veil, which hung from the ceiling — like one of those mosquito nets in the African Queen. She was nude, and lay in the bed, beneath that veil, not moving, not saying a word.

I had a strange feeling at the time, as if I were trapped inside one of those old 16 mm movie cameras, and had somehow become part of the celluloid.

I took off my clothes, lifted the veil, climbed onto the bed. I looked into her eyes. The right eye seemed to scrutinize me. There was something lifeless in it, like a fish eye. The left eye was a conductor, a lightning rod, seemed to suck everything into a maelstrom behind the iris.

“So, Franck. Fuck me your way.”

I thought her eyes were agate blue that first evening, but I never really learned the real colour. She had as many sets of lenses as she did shoes. Generally, fucking a woman is a time of day when you can finally look at her objectively, beneath all the dissimulation, and the makeup and the fine sentiments, and you can see her in her bare moment of need, when she comes clean and tries to own you. I could already see that Sheba worked differently. She was a consumer, and I was perishable goods.

We lay there for a while. Then I turned her flat onto her stomach. Pulled her up by the haunches, and stuck my prick into her.

“Franck, hit me Franck, please.”

I was pumping into her, really enjoying it, but the parallel thoughts were there. I was wondering at the time, even as I pumped into her, what do normal human beings do? What the fuck do they do with their time?

Her voice intervened.

“Non, Franck,
je veux que tu m'encules
. C'mon, Franck, stick it right up my ass, just pretend I am really your little Afghan fuck boy. You can do it, Franck.” I pulled my prick out of her. She was on all fours. A female mammal in the receptive period of the sexual cycle. My prick was chafed. Her head turned around to face me.

“Please, Franck. I am begging you. Have mercy, Franck.
Encule-moi
.”

Later, sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up, like I always did. I pulled back the veil hanging over the bed, walked into the other room, lit a cigarette, sat down at a laptop I'd brought with me, started writing a letter. Occasionally, I looked out the window, onto the beach. The Atlantic ocean. Not that long ago, I had been on the other side. Montreal.

I heard a voice, whispering behind me, which I initially mistook for the Atlantic waves lapping onto the shore. Then, it came again.

“
Salaud.”

I turned around. She looked really pissed about something. Her eyes flashing. Brief hallucination that she was twisting in the middle of a windstorm.

“Don't you ever do that to me again.”

“What's the problem?”

“Nobody leaves me in the middle of the night. Nobody.”

I stubbed out my cigarette.

“Too bad. I'm not nobody.”

I returned to my typing. Lit another cigarette. Men have pricks, and they're like heat-seeking missiles, and the detectors pick up the cunt, and the cunt is at the service of a woman, and god knows what they want, but the cunt is the best thing going for them, and masks whatever lies beneath. I might even have been writing some such thing to Hervé, because I was distracted for a moment, or an hour, who knows, and during that time gap, she went into full flight, and caught me real good on the side of the face. Clawing out miniature trenches. I took her roughly by the shoulders and shook her until her head bobbed like a puppet's. Then a voice coming out of me I didn't recognize.

“YOU STOP IT OR YOU'RE GOING RIGHT THROUGH THE FUCKING WALL, HEAR ME!!”

She flopped like a rag doll. Her eyes closed. “Christ, baby, are you okay?”

Her eyes opened. She nodded and I helped her to her feet. THWACK. She delivered a savage direct straight to the nose, breaking it. Then, just like automatic pilot, KERSMACK. I backhanded her hard enough to knock her right in the air, then down to the floor. Everything went quiet for a moment. Just her laying there, and me standing there. A trick le of blood came out of her mouth.

Then, she did something which made me so damned hot, I think I must have gone a little bit crazy, maybe even permanently. She crawled onto the floor. Propped herself up again, like a dog. She was petite, and she just waited there, passive, expectant. Her ass at that point was still unscarred, but I was staring at that CUNT of hers. Like, we're having a low-grade bacterial, syphilitic conversation, just me and that CUNT. And the cunt is saying: “You better just fuck me, Franck. You just BETTER FUCK ME!!!”

III

Say what you like about women's liberation, in my experience the legal profession is still pretty well divided along sex lines. Basically, men only went into practice for the money. Women had other reasons, some of which eventually led them to bail out, or seek the protective awning of a bureaucratic office so they could still feel they were doing something useful. But, once they found their niche with the government, they could make your life miserable enough. So, my first call from Margaret Tillman of the Law Society was not necessarily a sign I was up to be appointed Queen's counsel.

“Mr Robinson.” “This is Robinson.”

“Margaret Tillman. Law Societ y Investigations Branch.”

“Good morning, Canada! What is it, about forty below in the Great White North? How are the Maple Leafs doing?”

“I'm not calling to discuss the weather, Mr Robinson.

Or ice hockey.” “Get to the point, Margaret. Haven't I sent my annual dues?”

“We've received a complaint filed by a certain Mr. Spike Nussbaum. You were counsel for the plaintiff in
Sutherland vs Lloyds
, Mr Robinson?”

“Not on behalf of Mr Nussbaum.” “So, you do know him.”

“The worst kind, Margaret. The unhappy spouse of a client.”

“What does the name Finister Ebrams mean to you?” “Name rings a bell.”

“He was a witness for the defence in the Holly Reichman trial. Mr Ebrams has indicated that you threatened him with criminal proceedings.”

“I strictly deny. Look, Margaret, it is Margaret, isn't it? I don't even practice law anymore.”

“That's not what our investigators have reported.” “I think you have the wrong Franck Robinson.” “Thirty-five writs have been issued in your name in collections matters over the last six months. Defendant counsel was surprised to discover that you were unreachable when they tried to contact you.”

“Well, who the hell is doing that? Get off your butt and do your job, Margaret. Throw the book at him. What year call to the bar are you, anyways, Margaret?”

“Do you have any children, Mr Robinson?” “What's that got to do with it?”

“Are you familiar with the recent deadbeat dad legislation? Let me fill you in, as I understand you've been out of the country. As a defaulting debtor under Montreal Family Court Order dated 14 December 2001, your driver's licence has been revoked and your banking assets frozen. You have also been set down for a disciplinary hearing before the Benchers Committee to be held in two weeks.” “Sorry, booked solid.”

“For the moment, I only require an address for service of process, Mr Robinson. You have a fixed address, Mr Robinson?”

“
Rue Scribe,
number 9, ninth arrondissement. Paris.”

“Isn't that the American Express office, Mr Robinson?”

“A home away from home. What of it?”

“Good day, Mr Robinson. You'll be hearing from us.”

I returned to the beach, spotted her sunning under a parasol. She wore only the bottom of a bathing suit, her back arched, as she gazed out into the half moon bay where we now spent our afternoons.

“You see those three islands, Franck?
Ile de Ré
was for the celebrities.
Ile d 'Oléron
for the regular tourists.

And Fort Bayard the Southwest's version of Alcatraz.

But, you and me, if we stick together, we can have that and a lot more.”

I realized it wasn't enough for me to have her or possess her. I wanted something more and, though I couldn't pin it down, I knew she still had plenty she hadn't given away, and that somehow, I would never get.

We listened to the waves lap onto the shore in silence, me behind her, my arms wrapped around her waist. She reached for a hexagonal container of coconut cream and handed it to me.

“
Tu veux bien, chéri
? If you oil me down, I will tell you a story. I am sure you will like it.”

She lay back, and exposed her tits to the world. Every time I was privy to a close up of a woman's breasts, I did a mental gauge of how long it would be before things deteriorated. Physically, so to speak. In Sheba's case, you knew it couldn't last forever. On the other hand, it didn't seem she could ever be anything but beautiful or dead. Nothing in between.

“There was a girl in my class at the
lycée
. She was demure and modest. A real egghead. But, she had obviously never had a boyfriend. I had been observing her for some time. Initially, I ignored her completely, or I would mock her. Oh, here's
crâne d 'oeuf,
how is
crâne d 'oeuf
doing today? Just that simple comment, I could see it crushed her. Because I was convinced that she found me very attractive and was thoroughly intimidated by me. Then, from one day to the next, I seduced her. We became best of friends. When she told me her sixteenth birthday was upcoming, I immediately insisted that she must come for dinner, my parents will be absent, I said, it'll only be the two of us. During the week preceding her birthday, I would bump into her physically, as if by accident, and I could see it was having an effect on her that she didn't even dare confess to herself. So, on her birthday, when we arrived
chez Maman et Papa
, oh-la-la, if you could have seen the suppressed fear and embarassed desire in her face as we climbed the hill ... like Jesus during the passion or St-Sebastien as the arrows pierced into his torso. I was explaining to her that I wanted to “do her up” like a real lady, that I could see the
unbelievably
sex y woman hiding beneath, well, Franck, I have always been amazed at the hidden vanity of even the homeliest people, it is amazing how easy it is to bring it out. Upon entering, I brought her directly upstairs to the
boudoir
.
Tu t' imagines, Franck
? Can you imagine? I was terribly aroused.”

“By her?”

Sheba brushed her hair, surveying the waves rather than me as she considered the question. “Don't be a fool. No. I saw the possibilities of transforming human beings. Moulding them. But, there was something else.”

A young girl walking along the shoreline before us. The tide turning to low, and the waves lapping lazily onto the shore before receding. Sheba frowned.

“It was an energy entirely contained with me. I had wound myself into a real state. But it wasn't desire. No. Something else ...”

She paused. A jagged, crepuscular streak of crimson now traced a path across her cheekbones.

“No. I felt angry somehow. I wanted to hit her, slap her hard across the face. As punishment. She was a superficial fool to renounce her intelligence for the cheap parlour game I was playing. I detested her for it.”

“But not enough to stop.”

“Of course not. I commanded her to disrobe immediately.”

“In those words.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I was very ... imperious,” she responded, her eyes now limpid, vacuous. She smiled at her tendentious, arcane language. “Besides, Franck, I had no choice. Makeup demands control if it is to be a weapon.”

She fell silent again for several minutes. Then she wound her torso, until her eyes met mine. I looked past her. Three more windsurfers ogling her, commenting.

They appeared to recognize her. They had definitely noticed her.

“Have you ever seen photos of Dachau or Auschwitz, Franck? You would never guess these people had once been lawyers, doctors or bankers.
Pillars of society
.”

The phrase pushed her lip into a curl, as if her taste buds had unexpectedly come across a sliver of lemon rind. “Once the person has surrendered her right to her appearance, you are more than halfway there. Not that the issue was ever in doubt. Once I knew I had her, I became increasingly stern with her. It was so interesting, Franck. As if she were inside one of those medieval torture devices, and I was turning the wheel crank methodically, according to my own rhythms, until I had her whimpering. It was
extraordinaire
. I think it was the first time that I had watched a human being completely surrender her will.”

She fell silent. “That's it?” “That's it.”

“Sorry, that doesn't cut it as an end of story.”

“
Non
? Well, too bad, Franck. The rest isn't worth telling. Besides,” she added coquettishly, “it's privileged information. But trust me. The rest was easy, Franck.”

A strange image appeared in the mind's eye. Her skin a tropical aquarium, and lurking inside, a lime-green reptilian shape, eyes bulging from the head, unblinking, prehistoric, the real driving force of her being, and the rest just a shell. The grains of sand had heated up the beach, making it increasingly difficult to remain seated.

“The next day, once we were together in class again, I chose a reverse role. I treated her abominably. As if I had caught her defiling herself in a sacred place. I whispered things to her, told her she was
dégueulasse
, that she had defiled me. I had orchestrated the whole exercise from A to Z, but I insisted to her it was a sign of dementia. Then I flew into a rage, and started shrieking at her that she was a slut, depraved, a whore.”

“How did she take that?”

“First, you must tell me what you think.”

“I don't think anything. She entered into the bargain freely. It was her problem.” “ The following day, while walking home from school, we spotted the S.A.M.U. ambulances outside the house and a long trickle of blood on the sidewalk outside. She had hurled herself right through the window of her fourth floor study, committed suicide.”

She had been in front of me throughout this conversation, and I could not see her eyes. Now, she pivoted to the side and faced me, examining me in the process of examining her.

“What do you make of it all, Franck?”

“Well, speaking as plaintiff counsel, a dead person isn't worth much, quantum
-
wise. Now, if she'd broken her neck, or suffered brain damage, but survived, different ball game altogether.”

She frowned.

“Franck, I want to know your personal opinion. What you really think.”

“Let me put it this way. You never actually shoved her out the window, right?”

“Of course not.”

“In fact, you weren't even there at the time she jumped.”

“No.”

“Case closed. Motion for dismissal. No triable issue.”

“Franck. You don't believe me, do you? That it really happened.”

“Why wouldn't I? This stuff happens all the time.

Sur vival of the species and all that. Not everybody makes it. Sounds to me like her time was up. Maybe she thought she could fly.”

She mulled that one over for a moment or two, then reached for a hairbrush and began pulling at a tangle in her hair.

“So, what's with all the questions? Police look into the matter?” “Oh, there was an investigation, but nothing much. No, it's just sometimes I think about the expression on her face the last time I saw her. It intrigued me. Like something had crumbled inside her. It really left an impression on me, Franck. Later, I went home, and tried to imitate the expression she had in my mirror. But I couldn't do it. Somehow, it escaped me.”

She shrugged.

“She was naïve. Nothing more.
Une pauvre fille
.”

A few days later, we took a day trip on the Poitiers line in Vienne. She had brought a small picnic basket and was wearing a red and white checkered summer dress to the knees. Outside the train, the land a long, uninterrupted stretch of reclaimed swamp. She had just informed me for the first time that, unlike an earlier version she had served up, her father was still alive.

She wore a slight trace of makeup, and her hair was tied back in a bun, Simone de Beauvoir style. Demure, placid, timid, dutiful.

She reached inside her purse; and pulled out three black and white photos. The first showed a soldier, his face agape, the jaw hanging and his body slack, as he was carried down a stretch of road in front of a military barracks. He was in a state of drunken hilarity.

“He looks a fool. But it is the only picture where I have ever seen him happy.”

The second photo showed three men standing in the midst of a stretch of the Algerian desert. Each of the three were dressed in standard issue khaki
-
coloured uniforms of the paras. The man in the middle had his left foot propped on a box. He stared into the camera. The nose aquiline, and the features dark, Mediterranean, saturnine.

“My father ... no one has met him before you. He lives as a recluse. He was an Indochina veteran. They took him prisoner after the Dien Bien Phu debacle. Later, he was a
para
in A lgeria. He is
lunatique
, my father. Very moody.”

The third photo showed the same man, this time standing in the doorway of a villa, overlooking a rocky, chalk-white promontory on the shore of the Mediterranean somewhere. The man wore broad cotton pants, and what appeared to be a denim shirt. His face young, but now his hair grey and cut crew. Like a crag of an eroding limestone quarry. The shirt was pinned up on the left hand side at the elbow.

“He lost his arm in the war?”

“No. That happened later. In Algeria. He was trying to defuse a bomb.”

The train slowed to a halt in front of a small, yellow building. SNCF Lusignan. We descended, and stood for a moment on the quay. An outdated schedule half torn from the outside wall of the building. A uniformed man, wearing thickly rimmed glasses walked past, ignoring us.

“We have to walk from here. There is no other way.”

The house was perched on the upper rise of a road leading towards the village centre. The rear garden was a graded, mezzanine of tiered plots overlooking a deep ravine. The old man sat in a chair under the shade of a pear tree. He was holding a chamois, which he used to strain blackberries into a large metal vat. The nose thick and the face hidden by a thick
bacchantes
moustache, t wisted upwards at the extremities. When he caught sight of us, he stared for a moment without making any move to rise or extend a greeting.