studying her cards for a full minute, her free hand idly scratching a bite on the back of her neck. Both Preston’s and my eyes are drawn to the thick divot of auburn hair that is revealed by this gesture: we stare at it, fascinated, as Ingrid deliberates whether to call or raise.
After she has gone Preston confesses that he found her unshavenness quite erotic. I am not so sure.
That night we sit in the Club long into the night, as usual the place’s sole customers, with Serge unsmilingly replenishing our drinks as Preston calls for them. Ingrid’s presence, the unwitting erotic charge that she has detonated in our normally tranquil, bibulous afternoons, seems to have unsettled and troubled Preston somewhat, and without any serious prompting on my part he tells me why he has come to Nice. He informs me that the man his mother remarried was a widower, an older man, with four children already in their twenties. When Preston dropped out of college he went to stay with his mother and new stepfather.
He exhales, he eats several olives, his face goes serious and solemn for a moment.
“This man, Michael, had three daughters—and a son, who was already married—and, man, you should have seen those girls.” He grins, a stupid, gormless grin. “I was eighteen years old and I got three beautiful girls sleeping down the corridor from me. What am I supposed to do?”
The answer, unvoiced, seemed to slip into the Club like a draft of air. I felt my spine tauten.
“You mean—?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I didn’t want to speak, so I think through this. I imagine abig silent house, night, long dark corridors, closed doors. Three bored blond tanned stepsisters. Suddenly there’s a tall young man in the house, a virtual stranger, who plays tennis to Davis Cup standard.
“What went wrong?” I manage.
“Oldest one, Janie, got pregnant, didn’t she? Last year.”
“Abortion?”
“Are you kidding? She just married her fiancé real fast.”
“You mean she was engaged when—”
“He doesn’t know a thing. But she told my mother.”
“The, the child was—”
“Haven’t seen him yet.” He turns and calls for Serge. “No one knows for sure, no one suspects …” He grins again. “Let’s hope the kid doesn’t start smoking Merits.” He reflects on his life a moment, and turns his big mild face to me. “That’s why I’m here. Keeping my head down. Not exactly flavor-of-the-month back home.”
The next girl I take to the Club is also a Scandinavian—we have eight in our class—but this time a Swede, called Danni. Danni is very attractive and vivacious, in my opinion, with straight white-blond hair. She’s a tall girl, and she would be perfect but for the fact that she has one slightly withered leg, noticeably thinner than the other, which causes her to limp. She is admirably unself-conscious about her disability.
“Hi,” Preston says. “Are you French?”
Danni hides her incredulity.
“Mais oui, monsieur. Bien sûr.”
Like Ingrid, she finds this presumption highly amusing. Preston soon realizes his mistake and makes light of his disappointment.
Danni wears a small cobalt bikini and even swims in the pool, which is freezing. (Serge says there is something wrong with the heating mechanism but we don’t believe him.)Danni’s fortitude impresses Preston: I can see it in his eyes as he watches her dry herself. He asks her what happened to her leg and she tells him she had polio as a child.
“Shit, you were lucky you don’t need a caliper.”
This breaks the ice and we soon get noisily drunk, much to Serge’s irritation. But there is little he can do, as there is no one else in the Club who might complain. Danni produces some grass and we blatantly smoke a joint. Typically, apart from faint nausea, the drug has not the slightest effect on me, but it affords Serge a chance to be officious, and as he clears away a round of empty glasses he says to Preston,
“Ça va pas, monsieur, non, non, ça va
After she has gone Preston confesses that he found her unshavenness quite erotic. I am not so sure.
That night we sit in the Club long into the night, as usual the place’s sole customers, with Serge unsmilingly replenishing our drinks as Preston calls for them. Ingrid’s presence, the unwitting erotic charge that she has detonated in our normally tranquil, bibulous afternoons, seems to have unsettled and troubled Preston somewhat, and without any serious prompting on my part he tells me why he has come to Nice. He informs me that the man his mother remarried was a widower, an older man, with four children already in their twenties. When Preston dropped out of college he went to stay with his mother and new stepfather.
He exhales, he eats several olives, his face goes serious and solemn for a moment.
“This man, Michael, had three daughters—and a son, who was already married—and, man, you should have seen those girls.” He grins, a stupid, gormless grin. “I was eighteen years old and I got three beautiful girls sleeping down the corridor from me. What am I supposed to do?”
The answer, unvoiced, seemed to slip into the Club like a draft of air. I felt my spine tauten.
“You mean—?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I didn’t want to speak, so I think through this. I imagine abig silent house, night, long dark corridors, closed doors. Three bored blond tanned stepsisters. Suddenly there’s a tall young man in the house, a virtual stranger, who plays tennis to Davis Cup standard.
“What went wrong?” I manage.
“Oldest one, Janie, got pregnant, didn’t she? Last year.”
“Abortion?”
“Are you kidding? She just married her fiancé real fast.”
“You mean she was engaged when—”
“He doesn’t know a thing. But she told my mother.”
“The, the child was—”
“Haven’t seen him yet.” He turns and calls for Serge. “No one knows for sure, no one suspects …” He grins again. “Let’s hope the kid doesn’t start smoking Merits.” He reflects on his life a moment, and turns his big mild face to me. “That’s why I’m here. Keeping my head down. Not exactly flavor-of-the-month back home.”
The next girl I take to the Club is also a Scandinavian—we have eight in our class—but this time a Swede, called Danni. Danni is very attractive and vivacious, in my opinion, with straight white-blond hair. She’s a tall girl, and she would be perfect but for the fact that she has one slightly withered leg, noticeably thinner than the other, which causes her to limp. She is admirably unself-conscious about her disability.
“Hi,” Preston says. “Are you French?”
Danni hides her incredulity.
“Mais oui, monsieur. Bien sûr.”
Like Ingrid, she finds this presumption highly amusing. Preston soon realizes his mistake and makes light of his disappointment.
Danni wears a small cobalt bikini and even swims in the pool, which is freezing. (Serge says there is something wrong with the heating mechanism but we don’t believe him.)Danni’s fortitude impresses Preston: I can see it in his eyes as he watches her dry herself. He asks her what happened to her leg and she tells him she had polio as a child.
“Shit, you were lucky you don’t need a caliper.”
This breaks the ice and we soon get noisily drunk, much to Serge’s irritation. But there is little he can do, as there is no one else in the Club who might complain. Danni produces some grass and we blatantly smoke a joint. Typically, apart from faint nausea, the drug has not the slightest effect on me, but it affords Serge a chance to be officious, and as he clears away a round of empty glasses he says to Preston,
“Ça va pas, monsieur, non, non, ça va
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