The Good Life (25 page)

“You're quite right, of course. It's silly of me to wish he wouldn't. Thank you, dearest one. I'll start learning from you. You must be dying to get out of those woolen slacks.”

“I am. I'm dreaming of jumping into the sea.”

“There's a drawback to being tied up in port. You have to drive to the beach. As soon as Bet's here, we'll start taking the boat out for the day. There's no reason why you shouldn't wear swimming trunks on board. Do you have any with you?”

“You said not to bother with that sort of thing till we were here.”

“Why don't you go over to Madame Vachon after lunch? She's right over there where all the clothes are hanging outside. You can get yourself outfitted for the summer. You won't have to wear anything else from now on except when dinner jackets are called for.”

Emile appeared, dressed like Henri, to help serve lunch. They set up the table near the door away from the gangplank, and it glittered invitingly with silver and crystal.

Lunch was light and delectable — prawns mayonnaise and a risotto full of succulent clams and mussels. The wine Billy had chosen was a marvel. They started a second bottle without pausing to wonder if they would be able to finish it. Perry was adrift in a drunken euphoria. Yachting wasn't going to be a hardship.

“When you have wine like this you can understand why I can't be bothered with most of the stuff you can get in New York,” Billy commented. “It's worth moving to France for. How lovely to share it with somebody who appreciates it.”

They left the table and lingered over coffee in the stern while Perry eyed the passersby who were eyeing them from the quay. They were undoubtedly an outrageous sight — two men lolling on an impressive yacht, being served by a waiter apiece. What had happened to the Depression?

If he were down there looking up, he'd probably be sick with envy. They all probably thought that this was the way he'd been brought up. He wished his pals from the YMCA could see him. His message to the world was, If I can do it, anybody can.

“You probably shouldn't let me go shopping, Billy,” Perry warned. “The way I feel, I'll probably take the whole shop.”

“That's the way I want you to feel. Madame Vachon knows me. Tell her to send us a bill.”

“Okay. I'm off if I don't fall off the gangplank.”

He returned in an hour with a summer wardrobe, mostly in rough canvas — slacks and shorts and a couple of picturesque garments that were sort of a cross between a jacket and a blouse. He found colorful sport shirts, and after a search Madame Vachon was able to produce three pairs of espadrilles that were big enough for him.

When he asked for swimming trunks, she showed him something that looked like a basic jockstrap, only smaller. He couldn't believe anybody would dare wear it in public, but Madame Vachon assured him it was the most popular model on the coast and the only one she sold. He took two, hoping that once on they would provide more cover than was immediately apparent. He ran up a bill of just under forty dollars. That still seemed to him a lot of money to spend in an hour, but he knew Billy would find it reasonable.

When he got back to the boat, Henri told him that the
patron
had gone to his cabin.

Perry took his purchases down to his own cabin and stripped. He hung up the slacks in the roomy closet where all his other clothes had already been arranged, except for the white dinner jacket.

He opened the Vachon package and pulled out a pair of swimming trunks and held them up dubiously. There was a bit more to it than the pouch and straps of a jockstrap, especially over the behind, but not much. He put his feet in and pulled it up over himself, shaking things into place as he got it on.

He stepped over to the mirror and saw pretty much what he expected. He was bound to be arrested. His genitalia were outlined in precise anatomical detail. He pushed things around and managed to create a less clearly defined, almost featureless bundle, but there was still unquestionably a lot of it. He couldn't consider this a cause for regret, but the police might. He was going to have to let Billy decide. May be if he wore it around the boat a bit, he might become less self-conscious.

He took a towel out of his “head” in case he saw that he was attracting too much attention and climbed back up to the deck. Henri smiled and bowed in greeting without his eyes popping out of his head. He ordered a light pastis from Emile, who served him without losing his composure. May be Madame Vachon was right. May be everybody ran around practically naked here.

He carried his drink forward along the uncovered deck and came to an area that was obviously intended for sunbathing. Mattresses were laid out in a row on the roof of the cabin, and there was a tall stack of brightly patterned beach towels. Bringing a towel from his cabin was evidently a breach of yachting etiquette. He sat on a mattress and sipped his drink and felt the sun biting into him at last. He always tanned quickly. By tomorrow he should have lost his winter pallor.

He had scarcely drained his glass when he was joined by a new young man dressed like the others in white shirt and black pants. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, commanding Perry's attention with his eyes. “I'm Sylvain. Would you care for another drink?”

“I don't think so. What time is it?”

“Five o'clock. I've just come on duty.”

“Right.” He had a soft, slurred accent like the others but was bigger than they, taller, more muscular, more imposing physically. He was very handsome. Perry held out the glass to him. “You can take it if you like.” He indicated the towel beside him. “Would you put that back in my cabin? I took it without thinking.”

“Certainly, sir.” He took the glass, their fingers touching as the boy perhaps intended. His eyes were bold. Perry detected a hint of arrogance in his manner, a barely contained insolence. Sylvain was a guy to be wary of.

Perry's crotch was finally attracting some attention. He saw the boy's eyes lingering on it. Sylvain looked up with a faint knowing smile. “The sun is burning here. You must be careful at first,” he said.

“Thanks. I think it's all right this late in the afternoon. I'll call you if I want anything.”

“Please do. I'm new. Please tell me if there's anything I fail to do properly, Mist' Langham.” He gave Perry another lingering look that made a mockery of his deference before taking the towel away.

Perry lay back on the mattress resisting the impulse to ask Billy to get rid of the new boy. What for? He just didn't like his manner. Taking him to bed, where Sylvain was obviously quite willing to be, might make him more likable, but Perry had no desire to do so. Perry'd warn Billy that he looked like a troublemaker and keep an eye on him. If Billy wanted him to help run the boat, he must expect him to want to make it run smoothly.

He lay in the sun for an hour until his skin became sensitive to the touch. He should have the basis for a real tan in the morning. Lots of oils and creams tonight according to Laszlo's instructions. He returned to the covered afterdeck just as Billy was emerging from the living room with a handful of mail.

“How's that for timing, Billy?” He glanced at Sylvain, who was standing by to serve drinks. “Come back here where I can ask a private question.”

They walked back to the top of the gangplank. Billy was waiting expectantly.

Perry turned and faced him. “Look what Madame Vachon sold me as beachwear.”

Billy chuckled appreciatively. “I doubt if the designer knows much about a well-developed American male. That'll give the Europeans something to think about.”

“Seriously, Billy. Can I wear it?”

“It wouldn't've been allowed in my day. Good heavens, the things we had to wear only a few years ago. Not only those hideous droopy drawers, but
tops
. These days nobody pays any attention to nakedness.”

“It's really all right? You won't mind Bet seeing me like this?”

“She's fortunate to have such a spectacular anatomy lesson. You don't leave anything to doubt.”

“Okay, if you say so. Madame Vachon should know.”

“As I say, Americans can be special. We should count our blessings. Are you ready to join me for a drink.”

“Give me a minute to get out of this chastity belt. I've been sweating in the sun. I'll take a quick shower and be right with you. Scotch for me, Billy.” He took a step closer. “I'm not crazy about your Sylvain. Let me know what you think.”

He returned wearing Vachon creations — rough rust-colored canvas pants, an approximation of a jacket in the same color, and a cotton sport shirt. He had managed to push his feet into blue espadrilles. Madame Vachon had promised that they would stretch.

“I don't know what I look like, but I've never been more comfortable,” Perry said. He pulled off the jacket. “She says I'll be glad to have it at night, but I don't need it now. Is this the way everybody dresses down here?”

“Except for the grand parties. I think her things have enormous chic. I can tell from the way you wear them that you think so too.”

“Okay. I confess. I think I'm absolutely stunning.” He took a swallow of the drink that was waiting for him. “Did you have a chance to talk to the new boy?”

“For a minute, when he was serving drinks. He's extraordinarily attractive, but I think I know what you mean. He's a bit pushy and pleased with himself. I think it's because he hasn't had much experience serving people and doesn't quite know what's expected of him. He'll settle down. Let me be responsible for him.”

Perry looked away with a little frown. He thought he was incapable of jealousy, as Billy had proved himself to be, but in this case it was more a matter of defending his territory. Could his status as a full and equal partner be challenged by a cabin boy? It seemed unlikely.

“I don't think there's anything anybody has to be responsible for,” he said dismissively. “His manner might grate on the others. I thought you could say a word if he starts lording it over them.”

“You're quite right to notice these things. There's nothing more tiresome than rivalries in the cramped quarters of a boat. I'll keep an eye on him.”

“That won't be a hardship,” Perry said with easy laughter. His moment of wary resentment had passed. “He's certainly pleasant to look at, but they're all good-looking guys. I'm sure you see to that.”

Billy laughed with him. “You know me. I do my best, but Sylvain is a bit of a star. I'm sure he already has his eye on you.”

“If he has, he's going to have to try much harder. I'm turning into a contented cow. I don't think even Timmy could get me in much of a sweat at the moment.”

Sylvain moved decoratively to and fro serving them drinks. A deckhand appeared and rolled back the awning, allowing them to look up at the darkening sky. The sailor was wearing a black jersey with BELLE ÉPOQUE stitched in white across his chest.

Perry realized that the sun was setting somewhere behind the surrounding hills. A string of lights flashed on around the harbor, and at the same time the deck was bathed with soft light. Light appeared on the masts. Jazz throbbed from the cafes dotting the quay.

The sudden dark set them adrift in a softly luminous sea. In the distance the lights of Saint-Maxime twinkled from across the bay. Voices hailed Billy out of the night, and footsteps clambered up the gangplank.

Billy sprang up and went to meet them. Two men stepped out onto the deck, bubbling with laughter. They all embraced each other in a flurry of greetings. They were attractive, youngish (in their thirties, Perry guessed), unmistakably British, unmistakably upper-class, dressed with slapdash informality. Billy introduced them as Michael and Jeremy, including surnames that Perry didn't catch. They looked him over with cheerfully speculative eyes.

“I say, I hope you're going to stay. You look like the right sort,” Jeremy said. He had a quirky mouth that looked as if he were having a good joke on himself.

“Come in. Sit down. Have a drink,” Billy said, herding them toward chairs. Sylvain hovered, waiting for their orders. They all sat.

“It's high time, Billy,” Jeremy said. “The season can begin now. Did you get our note?”

“I read it just an hour ago. Bet's coming. We'll be available for invitations as soon as she gets here. You remember her.”

“Of course,” Jeremy agreed. “A perfect brat. I adored her. Then you'll be three? Shall we say dinner on Friday?”

“Lovely. Tell the boy what you want to drink.”

They did so. Michael watched Sylvain's retreating back. “A dish. You're outdoing yourself this season, Billy. What finally happened to Jean-Marie?”

“The less said about that the better.”

“Poor Billy. You do lead a fraught life. Have you seen Marlene?”

“Is she here?”

“Yes indeed. Right along there on a dear little boat.” Michael pointed in the direction where Perry thought he'd seen people on a couple of the boats. “She's with one of those French cinema stars with only one name — Raimu or Fernandel or one of those.”

“It must be Gabin, although he has two names.”

“It's immaterial. He doesn't utter. She came out to the house the other night and charmed every single bird out of our trees. We ran into her yesterday, and she as good as cut us dead. I've given up thinking of her as a human being. She's a kraut. You don't expect krauts to act like human beings. I do hope we don't have to shoot her if there's a war. But still—” Michael appeared to contemplate the possibility with a certain amount of relish and made them all laugh.

They drank and chatted, and Perry, looking up at the stars that were beginning to appear and hearing the faint slap of water against the hull, felt touched by magic. It didn't seem possible that life could be like this for long, but the two visitors seemed to take it for granted. They had a house here and had lived together in it for a number of years, another self-declared male couple.