eight-thirty or nine. He couldn’t pay his morning call any earlier than that. He had plenty of time, too much time.
Their clothes were spread about in closets and bureaus in various rooms and he was able to find shorts and T-shirt and sandals without going into the bedroom where Peter was sleeping. He mustn’t wake Peter. He mustn’t see Peter. Peter might undermine all his resolve. When he had had a light breakfast, it was still too early to go, so he spent some restless time pacing about the downstairs room he had set up as a studio. Partly finished canvases were propped up against the walls, on chairs and, the one he had started day before yesterday, on an easel. He couldn’t look at them. They all looked wrong. His heart was beating erratically and there were odd constrictions in his chest and stomach. The woman who worked for them arrived at eight, and he could wait no longer. He left word for Peter that he had gone to town to get a color he needed and left.
He drove around the back of the town and took the bayside road until he reached the turn that climbed to Gassin. At the first rise, he saw the house and driveway. It had been pointed out to him several times; he had never been there. He came to a stop near a long converted farmhouse under a great cork oak and got out. The stillness peculiar to houses where people are sleeping enveloped him. He moved lightly along a gravel path, wondering if he dared break the stillness by knocking or calling out. A neat old woman emerged from a door and greeted him. “Ah, bonjour, monsieur,” she said, with a smile, in a muted voice. “Monsieur Jeannot left word that you should go right up. He’s waiting for you.”
Charlie stared at her without seeing her. A great, cold emptiness opened up in his stomach. His mind seemed incapable of thought, but the awful knowledge was lodged in it. The old woman had taken him for Peter.
So it was all over. All the years of devotion and contentment smashed. He thought he would thank the old woman and go, but she was looking at him questioningly. He had to be absolutely sure. He collected himself and managed to smile with stiff lips. “Let’s see. Waiting—where—” he said. That was all right. Peter had been here, but he couldn’t have come so often that they had established a routine.
“Right up to the right,” the woman said, indicating the door through which Charlie saw a staircase. “Where I showed you the other morning. The door at the end of the corridor.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He forced himself to move. His mind began to function more normally. It was over, but he would bring the whole structure of their lives crashing down in his own way, on his own terms. He would make Peter wish they had never met. He reached the foot of the stairs. He needed a moment to make sure he was completely in control of himself. He was frightened of what might happen when he saw Jean-Claude. He forced himself to start up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was shaken by a gust of rage. Peter had been here; he had hurried down this hall eager and lusting. Rage drove and freed him. He went quickly to the door and tried it gently. It opened before him. He stepped silently inside. Jean-Claude was lying on a big bed with his back turned, a sheet pulled up over his hips. Charlie’s eye was held by a tube of lubricant on the bedside table. He pushed the door closed with a click.
“Peter,” Jean-Claude muttered thickly, as if he were speaking in his sleep.
“Not exactly.” There was a second’s silence and then Jean-Claude rolled over quickly to face him. He saw the thrust of an erection lift the sheet as he did so. As Jean-Claude’s eyes focused, he struggled up into a sitting position on one hip, propped up on an arm. He was flushed and tousled with sleep. Now? Spring at him and drag him from the bed and beat him into the floor? He saw fear leap up into Jean-Claude’s eyes, an almost ecstatic fear. He would enjoy being beaten.
Their clothes were spread about in closets and bureaus in various rooms and he was able to find shorts and T-shirt and sandals without going into the bedroom where Peter was sleeping. He mustn’t wake Peter. He mustn’t see Peter. Peter might undermine all his resolve. When he had had a light breakfast, it was still too early to go, so he spent some restless time pacing about the downstairs room he had set up as a studio. Partly finished canvases were propped up against the walls, on chairs and, the one he had started day before yesterday, on an easel. He couldn’t look at them. They all looked wrong. His heart was beating erratically and there were odd constrictions in his chest and stomach. The woman who worked for them arrived at eight, and he could wait no longer. He left word for Peter that he had gone to town to get a color he needed and left.
He drove around the back of the town and took the bayside road until he reached the turn that climbed to Gassin. At the first rise, he saw the house and driveway. It had been pointed out to him several times; he had never been there. He came to a stop near a long converted farmhouse under a great cork oak and got out. The stillness peculiar to houses where people are sleeping enveloped him. He moved lightly along a gravel path, wondering if he dared break the stillness by knocking or calling out. A neat old woman emerged from a door and greeted him. “Ah, bonjour, monsieur,” she said, with a smile, in a muted voice. “Monsieur Jeannot left word that you should go right up. He’s waiting for you.”
Charlie stared at her without seeing her. A great, cold emptiness opened up in his stomach. His mind seemed incapable of thought, but the awful knowledge was lodged in it. The old woman had taken him for Peter.
So it was all over. All the years of devotion and contentment smashed. He thought he would thank the old woman and go, but she was looking at him questioningly. He had to be absolutely sure. He collected himself and managed to smile with stiff lips. “Let’s see. Waiting—where—” he said. That was all right. Peter had been here, but he couldn’t have come so often that they had established a routine.
“Right up to the right,” the woman said, indicating the door through which Charlie saw a staircase. “Where I showed you the other morning. The door at the end of the corridor.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He forced himself to move. His mind began to function more normally. It was over, but he would bring the whole structure of their lives crashing down in his own way, on his own terms. He would make Peter wish they had never met. He reached the foot of the stairs. He needed a moment to make sure he was completely in control of himself. He was frightened of what might happen when he saw Jean-Claude. He forced himself to start up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was shaken by a gust of rage. Peter had been here; he had hurried down this hall eager and lusting. Rage drove and freed him. He went quickly to the door and tried it gently. It opened before him. He stepped silently inside. Jean-Claude was lying on a big bed with his back turned, a sheet pulled up over his hips. Charlie’s eye was held by a tube of lubricant on the bedside table. He pushed the door closed with a click.
“Peter,” Jean-Claude muttered thickly, as if he were speaking in his sleep.
“Not exactly.” There was a second’s silence and then Jean-Claude rolled over quickly to face him. He saw the thrust of an erection lift the sheet as he did so. As Jean-Claude’s eyes focused, he struggled up into a sitting position on one hip, propped up on an arm. He was flushed and tousled with sleep. Now? Spring at him and drag him from the bed and beat him into the floor? He saw fear leap up into Jean-Claude’s eyes, an almost ecstatic fear. He would enjoy being beaten.
Similar Books
