her wolfish teeth, and Dick was laughing, flirting, or pretending to. Finally a bargain was struck. The woman patted his shoulder in a motherly way, and then barked a few words to an underling. The underling hollered up the stairs, clapping her hands. A rumbling of footsteps, and then Lannie felt his mouth fall open again.
Down the rickety staircase, hand balanced lightly on the banister, moving slowly, eyes lowered, strode a young woman—a girl, not much older than Lannie, though the paint on her face and the looped-up ropes of her hair made her look much older. She wore a loose silk robe, partway open in the front, and with each descending step he glimpsed a black-stockinged leg, ending in a silken high-heeled slipper. His eyes followed her, drinking in her porcelain skin, the rich dark mass of her hair, her downcast eyes. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, the nausea that resulted from a warring sense of propriety, offended by the spectacle of his base desire. Lannie swallowed.
Behind the girl followed an older woman, in a differently patterned robe lined with red ostrich feathers. This woman gazed straight out over the banister, unblinking, sizing up the band of Americans who clustered together under the frank challenge of her gaze. Some of the men muttered, making jokes to cover their embarrassment. The woman was tiny, less than five feet tall even in her high-heeled shoes, and so thin that she looked like she would weigh nothing at all. Lannie was amazed that such a minute creature could render his fellow sailors into squirming boys with only her gaze, shaming them with her raw power.
On the heels of the second woman strode a third, more coquettish, age impossible to determine, obscured as her features were by garish paint and lacquered curls. Her robe was splashily patterned, her giggling laughter high pitched and false. She moved with an artificial waggle that Lannie found distasteful, but he could tell that the woman’s baser charms worked a perverse magic on several other members of the crew. Some hooted, clapping louder with each dipping step she took down the stairs.
In the coquette’s wake strode a statuesque woman, her heaped-up hair a strange pale auburn, possibly the result of chemical intervention, though her features, like those of the woman in charge, seemed placeless, as though she were from everywhere and nowhere. She held her head in a haughty attitude, her nose high, neck sinewy, a rope of pearls—was that possible?—draping over her collarbones and disappearing into the folds of her black silk gown. Lannie’s eyes widened, entranced.
The young girl, the first down the stairs, never lifting her eyes, drifted to a spot along the wall opposite the bar and stood, hands folded, stockinged knee extended. Each woman after her stopped, lining up, some gazing levelly at the band of sailors, others staring into the middle distance, others with their eyes locked on the floor.
For a surreal instant Lannie was reminded of the vivid tableaux vivants mounted by the young women of his acquaintance: Diana the huntress, attended by woodland nymphs, depicted in motionless splendor by proper young ladies swathed in drapery, green vines coiled through their hair. Of course the tableaux were “artistic,” conceived as paintings brought to life. But this row of women, so close to him that Lannie could smell their competing perfumes, was not some abstract paean to female beauty. These women could be talked to. Could be touched. The idea simultaneously thrilled and repelled him.
The Western-dressed madam paced in front of her merchandise, straightening robes, adjusting posture with sharp slaps against a shoulder, a cheek. In response to these brusque ministrations the row of women organized into their most attractive display, and waited.
The madam started at the end of the line, resting a proprietary claw on the last prostitute, a plump woman with a lavish bosom hidden behind the clutched-closed top of
Down the rickety staircase, hand balanced lightly on the banister, moving slowly, eyes lowered, strode a young woman—a girl, not much older than Lannie, though the paint on her face and the looped-up ropes of her hair made her look much older. She wore a loose silk robe, partway open in the front, and with each descending step he glimpsed a black-stockinged leg, ending in a silken high-heeled slipper. His eyes followed her, drinking in her porcelain skin, the rich dark mass of her hair, her downcast eyes. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, the nausea that resulted from a warring sense of propriety, offended by the spectacle of his base desire. Lannie swallowed.
Behind the girl followed an older woman, in a differently patterned robe lined with red ostrich feathers. This woman gazed straight out over the banister, unblinking, sizing up the band of Americans who clustered together under the frank challenge of her gaze. Some of the men muttered, making jokes to cover their embarrassment. The woman was tiny, less than five feet tall even in her high-heeled shoes, and so thin that she looked like she would weigh nothing at all. Lannie was amazed that such a minute creature could render his fellow sailors into squirming boys with only her gaze, shaming them with her raw power.
On the heels of the second woman strode a third, more coquettish, age impossible to determine, obscured as her features were by garish paint and lacquered curls. Her robe was splashily patterned, her giggling laughter high pitched and false. She moved with an artificial waggle that Lannie found distasteful, but he could tell that the woman’s baser charms worked a perverse magic on several other members of the crew. Some hooted, clapping louder with each dipping step she took down the stairs.
In the coquette’s wake strode a statuesque woman, her heaped-up hair a strange pale auburn, possibly the result of chemical intervention, though her features, like those of the woman in charge, seemed placeless, as though she were from everywhere and nowhere. She held her head in a haughty attitude, her nose high, neck sinewy, a rope of pearls—was that possible?—draping over her collarbones and disappearing into the folds of her black silk gown. Lannie’s eyes widened, entranced.
The young girl, the first down the stairs, never lifting her eyes, drifted to a spot along the wall opposite the bar and stood, hands folded, stockinged knee extended. Each woman after her stopped, lining up, some gazing levelly at the band of sailors, others staring into the middle distance, others with their eyes locked on the floor.
For a surreal instant Lannie was reminded of the vivid tableaux vivants mounted by the young women of his acquaintance: Diana the huntress, attended by woodland nymphs, depicted in motionless splendor by proper young ladies swathed in drapery, green vines coiled through their hair. Of course the tableaux were “artistic,” conceived as paintings brought to life. But this row of women, so close to him that Lannie could smell their competing perfumes, was not some abstract paean to female beauty. These women could be talked to. Could be touched. The idea simultaneously thrilled and repelled him.
The Western-dressed madam paced in front of her merchandise, straightening robes, adjusting posture with sharp slaps against a shoulder, a cheek. In response to these brusque ministrations the row of women organized into their most attractive display, and waited.
The madam started at the end of the line, resting a proprietary claw on the last prostitute, a plump woman with a lavish bosom hidden behind the clutched-closed top of
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