(1961) The Chapman Report (47 page)

Teresa moved to the windows-the soiled mesh drapes were parted-and regarded the rocky beach below. There was a fat woman seated cross-legged on an army blanket slicing a sausage. There was a skin diver adjusting his Martian headgear, with a thin rail of a peroxide blonde assisting him. There were armies of screaming wet children.

Discreetly, Teresa shut the open window, but still the noise came through the glass and thin walls. She moved on to the black hole of a bedroom, crowded with two twin beds without headboards and both halfheartedly made up, and two more rattan chairs and a secondhand peeling brown bureau, “Not bad, eh?” she heard Ed call out. She pirouetted in time to accept her beer, which was in a glass, and to notice that he preferred his own directly from the can. If he was devoted to beer, she decided, she would surprise him with a case of imported German lager. It would make a splendid little “Well,” he said, holding up his can, “here’s to lots of famous pic-“I hope so,” she said, She swallowed a great gulp of beer, and although it was malty, she drank again, and smiled at him. “Why don’t you sit down?” he said, She nodded, then frowned at the frenzied radio. He saw her disapproval. “Bother you? Here, let me lower it.” He turned it down, and now the children’s voices, from below, were louder, He sat heavily on the divan and indicated that she could have the favored overstuffed chair. But, impetuously, she sat on the divan several feet from him. “Its not so comfortable,” he said. “The springs-” “It’s all right.”

“That’s the way it was when Jackie and I moved in. The landlord’s strictly do-nothing.” “Where’s your roommate?” “I kicked him out for now.” Her heart hammered. Had there ever been a greater show of love? He was trying to demonstrate that he had need to be alone with her. “I ain’t letting that bench jockey heckle me,” he went on, “while I’m being painted.”

Somewhat taken aback, she finished the horrid beer. “You like the beach, don’t you, Ed?”

“Sure do. Nothing like doing a workout in the sand every morning to build those leg muscles. And I like the surfing. Besides, it’s the only place where a man can live like a millionaire at these prices.”

“I can understand that. I suppose, in your profession, you must take care of your body.”

“Like a baby,” said Ed solemnly. Then he shook the can, and his Slavic face broke into a grin. ” ‘Course, man’s got to have one vice.” He brought the can to his mouth and drank.

“You mean to tell me that’s your only vice?”

“Depends what you call vice.”

“Well, female companionship-“

“That’s more necessity. If you’ll pardon the expression-a man’s got to have an outlet.”

“Oh, I agree with you,” she said quickly. “It’s a part of normal good health.”

He grinned at some remembrance. ” ‘Course, you wouldn’t think that if you met some of the flipperoos that come around.”

“Women, you mean?”

“It takes all kinds to make a world, and all kinds sort of wash up on the beach.”

The thought struck her: Could Isadora’s Essinine be a puritan at heart? She dismissed it: Aren’t all men?

“I suppose you’re popular,” she said.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said modestly.

“I don’t mind confessing that it was seeing you on the beach, in your natural element, observing your bodily grace, the freedom of your limbs, that first attracted me to you.” She watched him. “You have a perfectly symmetrical body,” she added.

He did not disagree. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “Like I said before, I baby it. I got good development-smooth, no knots, I don’t go for that weight-lifter bit-you know, over development. It’s no good, ties you up. I like to keep it well proportioned.” He spoke of his body as if it were an entity apart from himself.

She was intrigued. She had discovered a subject that interests both of them.

“I think you’re far better looking than most of the motion-picture stars. You look more manly.”

“That doesn’t take much doing,” he said. “Those queers-if you’ll pardon me.”

“I think that’s why I wanted to sketch you first as a Grecian Olympic hero-to contrast your basic virility with the pallid men who surround us today.” The points of her breasts, her legs, ached with desire. “Have you ever seen the classical statue of the discus thrower?” “No.”

“Inspired by your body, I feel I can surpass Myron the Greek. He did the discus thrower. He also did Lais, the courtesan. I’d. like to do you in exactly the same way. In fact, I’d like to start right now.”

“Sure. What do I do?”

“Well, the discus thrower was nude, of course, like all Greek Olympians. I would want you to pose that way.”

He straightened his bulk on the sofa. “With nothing on?”

She tried to assume an unemotional, businesslike tone.

‘Yes, in the classical tradition. If you’ll just disrobe while I get-“

“Hey, wait a minute, lady. You don’t expect me to take off all my clothes in front of a woman?”

“Why not? Do you suffer false modesty? I’m sure you’ve done it a hundred times before-in front of women.”

“But not to be looked at. When I strip down, it’s for different reasons. And then, the dame’s always naked, too.”

“Is that what’s bothering you, Ed? That I’ll be dressed, and you won’t? Very well. I’ll gladly take off my clothes, too.” He was certain that he had not heard her right. “What did you say?”

“You heard me correctly, Ed. If it’ll make you happier, I’ll undress right now.”

His face was all confusion. “Just to paint me?” She heard her heart, and wanted to be buried in his arms forever. Her voice, when she found it, was foreign to her ears. “Of course not, silly boy. I can paint the next time. I want you to do to me what you do to those other girls.”

He sat gaping. She jumped to her feet and stood before him, legs apart, her knees touching his, her hands clasped behind her back so that her breasts were distended. “Ed, don’t you even want to touch me?”

The turn of events anchored him in bewilderment. “Sure, but-“

“But what, Ed? You think I’m too much of a lady to behave like this? Well, I am a lady, but I’m also a woman. From the moment I first saw you on the beach, I fought the feeling inside me. I knew I was becoming enamored of you-foolishly so-but women in love are foolish, and now, all I want is your love.” She stared down at him, too aroused to smile or make light of it. “Touch me, Ed. You might enjoy it.”

He grabbed out at her and roughly yanked her down to his lap. Her hands were in his hair, and her mouth met his, pressing so hard that her teeth hurt. Gasping, they were apart.

“Holy geez,” he said.

“Those others-what do you do with them?”

“Those broads are different-run-of-the-mill snatch-but you-“

“What about me?”

“I should’ve known. I just didn’t figure you-like Jackie, when he brought me your message-ol’ Jackie said, ‘Ed, you should’ve seen her in that swim suit-built like a-‘ And then, he said, ‘I gotta hunch you can maybe make time there-there’s a lotta pepper in that tomato.’ But I told him he was nuts.”

“You see, Ed? Even he could tell how I wanted you.” She placed her face against his. “Aren’t you going to undress me?”

“You bet your life!”

Awkwardly, he fumbled at her dress.

“The zipper’s in back,” she whispered.

He found it, and suddenly he remembered something. “In the bedroom,” he said. “Get in there.”

He pushed her to her feet and stood up. She started for the bedroom, watching him as he strode to the door, locked it, then hurried to the windows and drew the drapes closed.

In the darkened bedroom, she kicked off her pumps and felt the chill of the carpetless floor on her soles. She had released the dress to her waist when he returned, breathing audibly. She wriggled, letting it drop, then stepped out of it. She stood barefooted, very small in her half-slip, naked from the waist up, shoulders drawn back.

“Holy geez,” he said admiringly.

“Should I undress you?”

“No, I’ll do it. You lie down and wait.”

He hastened into the bathroom. She removed slip and pants, threw back the blanket, and stretched herself on the bed. She gazed into the living room, listening to the screams on the beach, the wet feet on the veranda, the humming voice on the radio. The room was close and tepid. And there was some gritty discomfort beneath her. She ran her fingers across the bed sheet: sand.

“You ready?” he called from the bathroom.

“Yes, darling.”

He appeared wearing only an elastic athletic supporter. It accentuated the muscular layers of his stomach and torso. He pulled down the supporter and kicked it away, and faced her fully. The discus thrower, she thought, and then she observed his total nudity for the first time, and for a moment she was nudged by surprise. The surprise was that he was, in one way, no more extraordinary than Geoffrey-in fact, far less so. He advanced toward her, and the surprise was forgotten. The appeal of his towering frame was Godlike. He had come to her, from Olympus, at last.

She held out her arms. “Come to me.”

She tingled in anticipation of the long, excruciating feast of love that would now begin. Every inch of her being waited to be brought to the peak of desire. The bed trembled as he knelt on it, and, as she waited to accept his kisses and caresses, she was suddenly shocked to find him directly atop her, pinning her shoulders, crushing her beneath his terrible weight. And then she cried out, not with pain but with outrage, when she realized that he was making love to her.

She twisted her head aside, protesting this madness. “Ed, not yet, not yet-you haven’t-I’m not-“

Ignoring all but her body, he went on, frenzied. She reached to push him away, but she might as well have tried to move the Empire State building. She closed her eyes and made an effort to understand: He’s treating me like one of those Japanese rubber torsos sailors buy in Kobe-he hasn’t kissed me but once, not even touched my breasts, not my body, not whispered a single endearment.

She opened her eyes. He was performing quite apart from her, like a senseless animal. She felt nothing, no connection with him, beyond the ridiculous pressure, that and the irritating sand on her bottom, that and the stale beery breath above, the panting harmonizing with the yelling children beneath the room. She smelled his sweat, and the smell of kelp and seaweed, and the horrible fish market smell of the public beach. And she hated the lumpy mattress that hurt, and the unoiled springs, and his monstrous weight.

“Ed, listen-will you?-listen-“

She tried to free herself of the tiresome burden, but when she did so, he frightened her by squealing like a pig and exhaling an explosion of breath. And then, after a moment, he disengaged himself and fell on his side.

She sat up the instant that she was free and regarded the fleshy mountain incredulously. He lay biting the air for oxygen, and finally he opened his eyes and met her gaze. He smiled and winked at her. “Holy geez, honey, that was great. You can put your shoes under my bed any day of the week.”

She continued to stare at him, too stunned to articulate a word. This … this orangutan. He had treated love like football practice. Several lunges, and a day’s work done. This was primitive man? My God, she thought, my God, maybe it was like this, really like this, when you clubbed a woman and dragged her to the hole in the hill and employed her as a handy receptacle. God, oh, God, Isadora, Isadora, this is funny.

She remained sitting, immobilized by the wonder of it. Great expectations. Says who? Dickens. She felt as unmoved, as uninvaded, as untouched, in fact, as the moment before she had entered this cheap little hovel. Yet, this had been love, too. Who on earth would know this besides herself? Dr. Chapman, of course. No, not Dr. Chapman. He had no chart of statistics to measure great expectations. Who then would understand? Stendhal, yes, he alone. Inevitably, the line, following his first sex act, came to mind: Quoi, n’est-ce que ca? She stared at the filthy, unkempt cell that was a bedroom, saw the nails in the wall that held no art, and the plasterless portions of the ceiling, and a football in the corner.

She worked her way to the edge of the bed.

“How was it, honey?” he asked.

My God, she thought, he wanted her gratefulness. “Great,” she said.

“Well-any time.”

She dressed quickly, not looking at him.

“Hey, you’re not going already?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I have to.”

“When’s our next date? Remember, you’re painting me.” He laughed with child’s delight

“I’ll let you know.”

She zippered her dress and stepped into her pumps. She picked up her purse and started into the living room.

“Wait a minute,” he called out. “I don’t even know your name.”

She kept going, as fast as she could, through the living room, abandoning the sketch materials, fairly fleeing through the door. On the veranda, a wet child stamped past. She drew aside, then made her way over the slippery surface to the stairs. Descending, she

glanced at her watch. She had come to this place, she recalled, at five thirty-five. Now her watch told her it was five fifty-two. She would be home in plenty of time to greet the first guests.

Although dinner was still a half hour from being served-Mr. Jefferson was on his third round through the living room and patio, delivering highballs from his tray, taking new orders-the Danish ham baked in the bread, sliced in two, centered on the buffet before the floral arrangement, was the major success of the evening.

Already Teresa, on her husband’s arm, had received four compliments.

“Clever of you, dearest,” Geoffrey whispered with pride. Teresa snuggled closer to him. “I love you.” Her top hat was askew. She corrected it and waved her cigar at the clusters of friends. “Isn’t this fun?” she exclaimed gaily. Not in months had she so savored the pleasures of her richly appointed home, the riot of lovely paintings on every burlap wall, her distinguished husband, her intelligent friends, as she did this night.

“Oh, look,” she cried, pointing to the front door that Mr. Jefferson had just opened. “There’s Kathleen! Isn’t she lovely?”

Kathleen Ballard had slipped the mink stole from her shoulders, and Paul took it and handed it to Mr. Jefferson. Kathleen was swathed in clouds of filmy white, full and Grecian and of daring decolletage. After making the garment, she had been embarrassed by it but, in the end, had determined to wear it unafraid. After all, this was the woman she would have wished to have been the day Paul interviewed her, and perhaps it would help him appreciate her subconscious self.