“YOU LOOK TERRIFIC.” TOM was staring at Susan in consternation. Sure, she was pretty, very pretty, but now, with the hair, the makeup, the dress, the jewels, she was more than pretty. “Like a movie star.” Diamonds and emeralds were winkling in her hair, her ears, a huge pendant hung down where the dress had somehow created cleavage. There were bracelets on both wrists, both ankles, studded with gems. The dress was green to match the emeralds, tiny, not much bigger that a one piece bathing suit. Nothing but flawless skin beneath, most likely.
“Not so bad yourself.” Tom was wearing a formal evening suit, with tails, not just a tux. He was dressed like a concert pianist. A tux was just a tux, but this suit fit him perfectly, flattering his figure.
“Thanks. They spent forever adjusting the stupid thing.” He shrugged, “Still feels tight in the shoulders.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Unless I move too fast.” He lifted his arms. “It’s tight. I’m not going to be able to play the piano in this.”
“Undo the buttons while you’re playing. No one will notice. Remember, you don’t sit on the tails. You drape them over the back of the bench.”
“Okay. You going to be able to play the flute in that thing? You can lift up your arms and it won’t fall off?”
“It’s got straps.” Susan took his finger and let it trace over the tiny, flesh colored thread. “Corinda made them add the straps, just in case. How was your afternoon? Boring?”
“It was okay. I went for a swim, hung out by the pool.”
“You didn’t pick up much tan.” She gave him a little smile, taunting him.
“I had Andy on top of me most of the time.”
“I know, I was watching, most of time.”
“You were?”
“Yep, through the window.”
“Damn! I guess he’s a man of his word. Except I never saw ...”
“It never happened.”
“Oh. Well you’ll have to make up for it tonight.”
“Did anyone tell you about the rooms?”
“Andy did. You know, I thought we were going to be together. That it would be like the rehearsal.”
“Scared?”
“Sort of.”
“We have to get past this part first.”
“Come on!” It was Corinda, running up the hallway. “We’re waiting for you.” She grabbed them by the arm, practically pushed them through the doorway into the ballroom.
Everyone was in formal dress, the men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns or cocktail dresses, depending on their age or daring. Most of the men were middle aged at the least, but sporting the bronzed faces and well toned bodies of the very wealthy. The women ranged in age, some like the men battling the years, others much younger. Mistresses, trophy wives. The older ones looked like Corinda. The younger ones… Susan blushed at the thought. Every man wants to be with you. Every woman wants to be you. Eighty eyes, a hundred, were probing her, stripping her, not that the dress left much to the imagination. How many of them knew she was providing more entertainment than just the flute? How many others might suspect? No way to tell. It was going to be cat and mouse all evening.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the first of our entertainers for the evening, Tom and Susan.”
Tom and Susan? Not Susan and Tom? I’m the one playing the fucking flute. Jesus, where is it? On the piano bench. Tom, that’s a fucking Hanes flute! Don’t sit down on the fucking thing! She snatched it away from Tom’s butt and hissed, “Tune!”
“What?”
“I’ve got to tune this thing!”
“Oh, right.” Tom plunked out an A. “I thought this was supposed to be background music.” No one was talking. Everyone was staring at them. No. At Susan. “Not too fast. Play pretty. Be seductive.”
“This music is not seductive. Bright, cheery.” Cheerleader music. How far had she gone beyond that, so quickly? Out of darkness, into light. Something she had repeated in church, every Sunday, without ever giving it a second thought. Now she was headed in the opposite direction.
She had seen an old movie once, not the whole thing, just a snippet, a man in some sort of tropical garb, not the loincloth kind, not like Tarzan, but like the white hunters. There was a little tropical house, and a dock, and a little rowboat tied up on perfectly calm water. A young couple had gone into the boat, rowed out into the lake, and the man had started to shout at them. “Turn back! Turn back!”
But they hadn’t paid attention. They were kissing, letting the boat drift. Until it was too late. Until the current was too strong and they were swept over the waterfall at the other side.
Had she already drifted too far? She could throw down the flute, run from the room, find a phone, call her parents, maybe even the police. But what then? What had she already done today, with Tom, with Vicky? What had she done in this room, with Amos and Andy? What had she done to Tom, bringing him here, corrupting him? Not that he had needed too much encouragement. She was a slut, a whore, a pimp even. A natural, that’s what Corinda had called her. Go with the flow. Even if she sensed the whirlpool waiting ahead.
“Susie!” Tom hissed. She realized he had played the introduction, perhaps a couple times.
“Sorry.”
She pressed her lips to the silver flute and it began to glow. Not too fast. She couldn’t play too fast. Her fingers were melting into the flute. It was moving them, kissing her lips, sucking out her breath. Everything was standing still. There was nothing but the flute, the image in her mind of what the sound should be, the matching of that image with her breath, the two so meshed she could not tell what was real and what was imagined. Was Tom with her? She couldn’t even hear him. She was alone in her own world, one with the flute, one with the music. Somewhere she sensed the piano, how beautifully he was playing, each chord framed, the continuo flowing with unexpected passion. How beautiful they sounded together, floating, soaring. In a rush, it was over. Applause, more than polite. It was a standing ovation. Of course it was standing, It was cocktail party. There were a few chairs on the side of the room, a few little tables, but no one was at them yet. People started to talk again, and they moved on to the slow movement.
They were just about to start the closing allegro when Corinda interrupted them. “That was very nice. Very nice. Please, ladies and gentlemen, another round of applause for Tom and Susan.” With that little accent, she sounded like Lawrence Welk,
“That’s it?” Susan looked as if she were ready to cry.
“Later,” Corinda whispered. “We’ll bring you back later. And now, please welcome our featured performer, Miss Samantha Brown!”
More applause, and a stunningly beautiful colored girl came in to the room, trailed by Amos and Andy. Andy was carrying a big bass fiddle. Amos sat down at the piano. The two played a few notes of introduction, and the girl began to sing.
“Wow,” Tom said. It wasn’t just the voice, deep and rich, it was the way she moved, sensuous and sultry, the perfection of her figure, almost as busty as Clara, but perfectly firm breasts, hips swelling to match them.
“Shit,” Susan muttered. She was being upstaged. “You think she’s, like …”
“Like us?”
“Yeah, like us.”
“We won’t get any customers.”
“Clients.” Susan didn’t argue with the rest of what he had said. “Shit.”
“You know, those two are really good.” The next piece was a bit faster. Amos had his fingers flying around the keyboard. The crowd was clapping, cheering. Then the girl made a bow, ran off. The two men started to play low key, soft jazz. Conversation music.
“Come on,” Corinda took them by their arms, “mingle.”
Mingle? Everyone in the room was ten years older than them, perhaps twenty. Susan looked around the room. No familiar faces. Just really scary ones. Hard faces, the faces of people who were used to fame, used to wealth, used to power. People like Corinda who did as they pleased with the little people like Tom or Susan. These were people from Washington, from New York. Rich, powerful, sophisticated. The kind of person she wanted to be some day. But now she was scared to death by them. Fuck me, just fuck me. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t make me talk to you.
“Ah, Miss Broward. How nice to see you.” It was Claude. The man from the restaurant. In a room full of rich, powerful men in tuxedos, he stood out. His suit was more old fashioned, his bearing more aristocratic. In a room full of wannabes, he was the real deal.
“Dr. Bernard.” The name came back to her, thankfully. “I’m so glad you made it to the party.”
“Myself also. It is only the thought of you that has encouraged me over the past week.”
He means it! He means it! Susan began to feel her self esteem blossoming again. “How nice of you to say so. This is Tom. My ...” She paused, searching for a word. “My good friend, Tom. Tom this is Dr. Claude Bernard.” What was it Corinda had told her? “The Count of St. Ausaine.”
“Ah, we French gave up our titles long ago. Along with our heads. How charming.” Claude was giving the boy an appraising look. Susan gave a little nod, and he smiled. “Ah, Tom, you are here for the pleasure of the ladies?”
Tom shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“How fascinating. I do look forward to seeing you both, later in the evening.”
“So what brings you to our little state?” Susan asked. What makes you so fucking important?
“Ah, business I fear, spiced with too little pleasure. I have come to negotiate on certain patents. Do you understand what a patent is?”
“My father is a chemist,” Susan said. “He has a few. Well, the company does. But his name is on them.”
Her father? Tom mused. The big beer drinking aging jock? A research chemist?
“Well, there are thousands of patents, millions of patents. The problem is, when something is ready to be invented, it may happen in several places, independently, at more or less the same time. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Newton and Leibnitz,” Tom offered.
“Yes, an excellent example. Poincaré and Einstein.”
“Poincaré? Never heard of him,” Susan said.
“Ah, my point exactly. Everyone has heard of Einstein, hailed him as a genius, as if his work sprang out of nowhere. But such is not the case. All of his ideas are echoed in the works of others. There are so many examples. Typically it is up to the patent officials to sort things out, to make a determination, even if not always a fair one. But in this case, the European authorities and the American ones cannot agree. There could be prolonged litigation, product opportunities squandered.”
“Millions of dollars at stake,” Susan offered.
“Ah, billions perhaps.” Claude said it in an offhand way, as if a billion dollars here or there was nothing to speak of. “We are, fortunately, quite close to an agreement.”
“But not quite there yet,” Tom offered.
“Unfortunately, a few tiresome details remain. It has been quite tedious. Really, only the prospect of this occasion, of the opportunity to know you more intimately, has inspired me to stay the course.”
“Well,” Susan said, “I hope that I don’t disappoint you.”
Claude reached down to pick up the necklace that was nestled between her breasts. “Even these diamonds, these emeralds, these gleaming jewels, needed to be shaped, be polished by an expert hand. Tell me Tom, what are you planning to do with your life?”
“I want to be mathematician, perhaps a poet.”
“Really? What a unique combination.”
“He’s really good at both,” Susan put in.
“Really. And where are you going to school?”
“Columbia. Next year. We’re still in high school.”
“Really. I must say Corinda is bold in her tastes. And you my dear? What are you good at? What are you doing with your life?”
“I’m not sure.” Susan was blushing. “Maybe I’ll get married and have babies.” Hadn’t Vicky gone down the cataract, though the whirlpool, and washed up on the other side?
“But here you are.”
“Yes, here I am.”
“How interesting. How delightful. I must say that I am already pleased that I have stayed the course to be here. It would be such a waste for you to marry so young, to embrace domestic life. Peut être, vous voudrais accompagner moi a Paris, deviner ma protégée, ma belle soumise?” Come with me to Paris, become my student my lovely, what?
“Soumise?” she echoed.
“Ma belle petite esclave.”
That was enough to make her flush. “You know, Tom is quite fluent in French. Eight hundred on the listening comprehension, right Tom?”
“Yep.”
“How interesting.”
“We’re both taking the advanced placement course. Two years. It’s been wonderful.”
“Really. And what are you favorites?”
“La Chartreuse de Parme,” Susan offered.
“Ah yes. An early novel by Stendhal, but a magnificent one. Young lovers in a tumult of passion. I can see how it would appeal to you. And you Tom?”
“Memoirs d’Hadrian. Actually, it wasn’t in the course, but we have a bookstore with some French novels. I found it there.”
“Ah, what an interesting choice. Hadrian, so philosophical, so stoic, yet lost in his love for Antinous. What drew you to it?”
Tom gulped. Well, who else was he going to tell his guilty secret? “There’s a drawing. By a French artist.”
“Paul Avril.”
“Yes.”
“How interesting. You know, there are statues of both Hadrian and his lover in the Uffizi. In Florence,” Claude added, seeing the blank look on both their faces. “The great collection of the Medicis. The faces, the bodies in Avril’s drawing are based on those statues, so it would seem.”
“What about the fan lady?” Tom blurted out.
“Ah, I fear that would be merely an invention of the artist. As I recall, all of Avril’s ladies are a bit chubby for our contemporary taste.”
Amos and Andy had departed. The piano was sitting unattended.
“Are you two supposed to play again? You were quite lovely before. A pity you were stopped so abruptly.”
“I don’t know,” Susan said. “It’s our first party. We’re not quite sure what is going on. It’s a bit confusing.”
“Ah, perhaps Corinda has been somewhat lacking in her instructions. An interesting woman, but attention to detail is not her forte.” Claude led them over to the piano. “Ah, a Bechstein. I would have expected as much. The tone is a bit dry, is it not? Personally, I prefer the Bosendorfer.”
“You own one?”
“Ah yes. Even though we in France no longer carry the titles of nobility, we still retain something of our lands and houses. I grew up in a château as grand as this one, with an immense piano in the main room.”
“That must have been fabulous.”
“Yes. Indeed. Have you ever played one?”
“A Bosendorfer? No.”
“Well, if you are in New York, Victor Borge has an enormous one in his apartment. When are you arriving at your college?”
“In the fall.”
“Well, the next time I am visiting I will introduce you. I’m sure he would be delighted to make your acquaintance. Tell me Tom, budding mathematician and poet, have you considered adding composition to your talents?”
Tom shook his head. “Susan is the song writer.”
“Susan? Really? Would you care to share one of your songs?”
“Not here, not now.”
“Very well then. And you Tom?”
“I don’t know what I would write, even if I could.”
“Why is that?”
“I like classical music. But not modern music.”
“Oh, I see. Well fashions change. Perhaps later your muse will be attracted. Who is your favorite composer?”
“Beethoven.”
“Ah excellent choice. And what are you working on these days.”
“The Pathétique.” Tom said it almost apologetically, recalling Dr. G’s reaction.
Sure enough, Claude made a little grimace, almost a smirk, but then recovered his manners. “Appropriate for your age. Would you care to play for us?”
“Oh.” Most of the crowd had wandered off to the next room where the buffet was set up. Still within hearing distance though. “I would need the music.” And I’m hungry. He’d had a long swim, one quick fuck and one really long one. A busy day. His stomach was growling. There were still some of the little canapés left on a tray nearby and he grabbed a handful.
“A word of advice,” Claude said. “Be mindful of what you eat early in the evening. You may be tasting it later on.”
He said it so casually, with such a straight face, that it took Susan a moment to realize what he meant. She had been sipping a glass of the white wine, but she was sputtering now.
“Any self respecting piano bench should have the Beethoven sonatas in it. Yes, here they are.” Claude pulled out two thick yellow volumes, the Schirmer edition, the same ones Tom had at home.
“Please.” Claude motioned Tom to the piano. The gesture was a command. Susan rolled her eyes. Corinda came into the room. “Susan, Tom ...” she trailed off.
“Tom is going to play for us,” Claude said. “We won’t be long.” He gave a charming little smile, maybe not so charming. The tiger, baring its teeth.
“They need time to eat, before….. I’ll bring you out plates.”
“Nothing too spicy,” Claude said. “No asparagus.” He took one the succulent stalks, wrapped in prosciutto, and dipped it in the hollandaise sauce. “No caviar.”
Corinda gave a little shrug and went off to find some food. Susan gulped down the rest of her wine. More, she wanted more. But she wasn’t going to be able just lie there and get fucked. She was going to need her wits, dealing with the clients on her own, one on one. She was already feeling a little dizzy. Food, she needed food.
“Please,” Claude repeated, gesturing at the piano. Corinda had returned with two plates of food. Please. She mouthed it silently. Whatever Claude wants, Claude gets. Please. Susan echoed. She actually came over and whispered in his ear. “Tom, this is really important.”
All right, he would play the stupid sonata, just to get them all off his back. Rattle through it? No, that wasn’t going to cut it. Worse than not playing it at all. He was going to have to play it well, really well, better than he had ever played it before. He played the first chord, frowned. To much on the top note. Again. That was better. A third time, and it sounded perfect. Keep that, remember that. Each chord, perfectly struck. Each note perfectly defined. Not too fast.
He wanted to concentrate on each note, make it perfect, but somehow he was thinking about the afternoon, lying by the pool, Andy’s flesh on top of him, Andy’s flesh within him, and each stroke sending him almost over the edge. He had never imagined he could feel like that, not just a sudden rush of pleasure, but that same feeling, forever it seemed, spewing and spewing, coming and coming. His fingers were flying on their own, part of his mind was sending them dancing over the keyboard. He didn’t dare think about what he was doing now. Just let it happen on its own. The room was filled with beauty, beauty that he was creating, somehow, beauty he had never realized he was capable of. The last three triumphant chords, too triumphant perhaps, not pathetic enough. There was a round of applause from the next room.
“Wow.” That, from Susan, was enough to make it worth it.
“That was quite good,” Claude said. “Have you considered a career as a concert artist?”
“Not really. If I were composing, maybe. But why do something interpretive rather than creative? You know? Besides, my hands are too small.” He held them up. “These are the hands of a runner.”
“Or a football player,” Claude said.
“My father played football,” Susan blurted out, with her mouth full. “For Michigan.” She grabbed another glass of wine to wash the food down so she could talk. “Then he went to Ohio State for his doctorate.”
“Oh, how did that work out?” Tom asked.
“My mother said it was terrible. She was a cheerleader, in college.”
Claude was looking puzzled. “But you need big hands for football,” Susan said. “Don’t you?”
“Ah,” Claude said, “I believe you call the game soccer here.”
“Oh.”
“Have you ventured into the second volume?” Claude was pointed to the other yellow book.
“The Appassionata.”
“Ah yes, of course. Not the final sonatas, then?” Tom shook his head. “At some point, when you are ready, you will discover those gems. You will master them.”
Was it a prediction. A command? A request? Hard to say.
“They are at the pinnacle of human achievement,” Claude went on. “Here, let me give you a foretaste. A short one.” Corinda had come into the room, along with several other people. She looked impatient, conflicted, nervous. Claude ignored her agitation, replacing Tom at the piano, and began to play. No need for music, eyes almost closed, fingers caressing the keyboard.
“That’s Beethoven?” Susan whispered. Tom nudged her to shut up. He had never imagined that a piano could sound like that, that music could sound like that. So delicate, so serene, dancing, flowing, a taste of heaven, pouring out like nectar, filling the air with perfume. Two minutes, three, and it was over.
“Sonata number thirty. The first movement. The second has a completely different character, almost like one of Liszt’s Hungarian rhapsodies.”
Claude started to play, but Corinda interrupted him. “Please, Susan and Tom need to resume their entertainment duties.”
“You want us to play another flute sonata?” Susan was truly puzzled. Why kick Claude off the piano, piss him off, for that? It wasn’t as if he played badly. Quite the opposite, better than Tom, better than her father, better than anyone she had ever heard on a recording.
“No.” Corinda gave a wicked little smile and Susan realized what was happening, why those men were there. She felt the food she had just gobbled down surging up sourly. Four of them. A middle aged black man, hair turning gray, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a tux that left his belly bulging out beneath the cummerbund. Three deeply tanned, skinny guys who looked they spent most of their time on the beach of a golf course or tennis court. Four of them. Wasn’t it supposed to be one on one?
“Susan, I’d like to introduce you to Reverend Mason.” Corinda motioned the black man forward.
“Reverend, how nice to meet you.” Jesus, she was going to puke on his shoes, even before she started the blow job. “Are you a friend of Dr. King?” It just came out, her memory of that daydream was so vivid.
“Martin?” The man’s voice was deep, sonorous, the kind of voice that made you trust him, believe in him. “Why yes, of course. Martin and I have marched together, been beaten together, arrested together. Two years ago I was in jail.” He chuckled. “Now I’m in Congress.”
“Oh. Which is worse?” Susan had run for student council, her first year in high school She still remembered how insufferably boring it had been.
“Congress.” The reverend sighed. “I’m only in the first year of what very well may be a life sentence. It’s occasions like this that give me some solace.” He smiled at Susan.
“I’m honored.” She said it almost without irony, even though he was regarding her with the same anticipation he had shown for the caviar pie.
“Susan!” Corinda was whispering in Susan’s ear. “Room ten, down the hall on the right. Make it fast!” She literally pushed the two out of the ballroom. “Tom, I’d like you to meet the three amigos.”
“Huey, Dewey and Louie,” one of them said. It didn’t seem to matter which as which.
“Room twelve,” Corinda whispered. “Try not to take too long.”
“Come on Tom.” The first one to speak, Huey perhaps, put his arm around Tom’s shoulder. “It’ll be fun. Won’t it, guys?”
* * * * *
That's it? Fucking room ten? Make it fast? That’s all the instructions I get? Pretend you know what you’re doing, bitch. “This way.” Susan led the reverend down the hall. “In here.” It was a small room. A double size bed, a leather couch, another odd piece of furniture, almost like an ottoman, but bigger. Something you could lean over, Susan realized, just the right height for that. One wall was mirrored. On the other, there was railing with hangers for their clothes. She immediately kicked off the heels that were beginning to torment her, lifted off the dress and hung it up. No underwear, of course. She realized how chilly the room was. It was giving her goose bumps.
“That’s a very pretty dress.”
Oh God, did he want to fuck me in it? Shit, shit, off to a bad start already. “Do you want me to put it back on?” Shit, what if it gets dirty? How am I supposed to clean up the dress in between guys? It was a complication she had never considered, that Vicky had never mentioned. Of course, no clue from Corinda. Just fucking room ten. And make it quick. How the fuck was she supposed to do that?
“No, no.” It came out as a deep purr. “What’s underneath is even more lovely.”
“Why thank you for saying so.” She could see herself in the mirror, wearing the necklace still, the gold chain around her waist the dress had hidden, the diamond ear rings, the bracelets on her wrists and ankles, studded with gems. Exotic, she looked exotic, like a harem girl.
“I’d love to get out this damn monkey suit, but I’m not sure I could ever get back into it. All those little studs,” The reverend sighed, staring at his thick fingers.
“Those are the hands of a football player.” Susan blurted it out, from her previous conversation.
The reverend looked puzzled, then smiled. “Starting center, South Central State, all conference my senior year.”
“My father played football. For Michigan.”
“Michigan? That’s big time. What did he play?”
“Something on the line, I think.” She was starting to tell him about Ohio State, but bit her tongue. If she started that, she was going to tell him everything, pour out her soul, and that wasn’t what she was here for. She was here to give him an hour of pure pleasure, maybe half an hour.
The reverend had managed to shed the jacket and cummerbund, hanging them carefully up next to Susan’s dress. He was struggling with one of the cuffs.
“Let me help you.” Susan went to him, and he held out his arm, but instead she knelt down to untie a shoe. “First things first.” One shoe untied, then the other. He stepped out of them and she took them over to place them neatly under the hangars.
He held out the cuff again, but instead she undid the pants, slid them down to his ankles. He picked up each foot, and she took the pants over and hung them next to the jacket. He was wearing clunky boxer shorts. She debated, and decide to work on the bow tie next. Thankfully, it was a fake one, a little clasp at the back released it. She had no idea how she would have redone it if it were real. She put it into a pocket in the jacket.
This time when he held out his wrist, she worked on the stud, freeing it, then the one on the other wrist. She put them into an ashtray on the bed stand. Then the studs along the front of the shirt, six on them, added to the ash tray. The shirt was open, ready to take off, but he was waiting for her, waiting for her to come back. She slipped off the shirt. He was wearing a tank style undershirt beneath.
“That’s enough.” He stopped her as she started to lift it up. “I’ll keep the rest on, if you don’t mind. Not so pretty, these days, especially with all these mirrors.”
Mirrors where she could admire herself as she knelt down before him again, as she reached inside the boxers to find his erection, as she wrapped her lips around it. How many times had she done this? Not that many, but enough. But she had never seen what it was like as that dark flesh vanished within her mouth. How much of it could she make disappear? Suddenly she remembered her daydream about Dr. King. At least the reverend had his pants off. And his shoes.
“Damn girl, you really know what you’re doing! Little girl like you, who would have thought it?”
