Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man. Beggarman, Thief

He peered past her into the corridor to see if she was alone.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “this is a social visit. There’s nobody with me.” She brushed past him and he closed the door. “My,” she said, looking around at the large, handsomely furnished room, “we’re moving up in the world, aren’t we? This beats Brussels by a mile, doesn’t it? Capitalism becomes you, laddy.”

“How’d you find me?” Billy asked, ignoring what she had said about the improvement over Brussels.

“It was easy,” she said. “This time you left a forwarding address.”

“I must remember never to do that again,” he said. “What do you want?” He felt foolish, standing there soaking wet, with the towel precariously draped around him.

“I just wanted to say hello.” She sat down and crossed her legs and smiled up at him. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“What would you do if I said I did mind?”

“I’d smoke.” She laughed and took a cigarette out of her bag but didn’t light it.

“I’ll put some clothes on,” he said. “I’m not used to entertaining strange ladies naked.” He started past her toward the bathroom, where his pants and shirt were hanging.

She dropped the cigarette and reached out and held his arm. “No need,” she said. “I’m not as strange as all that. Besides—the less you’re wearing the better you look.” She took her hand off his arm and reached around and held him, encircling his legs. She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Give me a kiss.”

He pulled against the pressure of her arm, but she held him tight. “What’re you up to now?” he said harshly, although he could feel the familiar stirrings in his groin.

She chuckled. “The same old thing,” she said.

“It wasn’t the same old thing in Spain,” he said, cursing the sudden erection that plainly bulked under the towel.

“I had other things on my mind in Spain,” she said. “And I wasn’t alone then, if you remember. Now I’m alone and on holiday and it’s the same old thing. I think I told you once that orgasms are few and far between on the New Left. That hasn’t changed.” With a swift motion, she reached under the towel and put her hand on his penis. She chuckled again. “I see this hasn’t changed, either.” She caressed him gently, her hand moving with remembered deftness.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, sure that he was finally going to regret what he was saying, “let’s get into bed.”

“That was my general idea,” she said. She stood up and they kissed. “I missed you,” she whispered. “Just lie down while I get these clothes off.”

He went over to the wide bed and lay down, the towel still draped around him, and watched as she pulled the pretty dress over her head. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere and the sight of the lovely small breasts made him ache with pleasure. He closed his eyes. One last time, he thought, what the hell? His mother was probably doing the same thing one floor above. Like mother, like son. A big evening for the family. He heard Monika moving barefooted toward the bed, and the click of a switch as she turned off the light. He threw off the towel. She fell on top of him with a low moan and he put his arms around her.

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Later, in the warm darkness, he was lying on his back, his arm under her neck, as she snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder, one leg thrown across him. He sighed. “The best,” he said, “the very goddamn best. All in favor say, Aye.”

“Aye,” Monika said. “From now on always remember to leave a forwarding address.”

“Aye,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he meant it. He had been through too much with her and the only place he felt safe with her was in bed. “What’s your address now?”

“What do you have to know that for?”

“I might just happen to be passing your hotel,” he said, “and be suddenly overcome with an irresistible urge.”

“I’ll see you here,” she said, “when I happen to be overcome with an irresistible urge. I don’t want to be seen with you. You’ll see me often enough. But only in this room.”

“Dammit.” He wriggled his arm free from under her neck and sat up. “Why do you always have to be the one who calls the signals?”

“Because that’s the way I like to operate,” she said.

“Operate,” he said. “I don’t like that word.”

“Learn to live with it, laddy,” Monika said. She sat up, too, and searched for the pack of cigarettes she had put on the bedside table. She took out a cigarette and lit it, the small flare of the match illuminating her face and eyes.

“I thought you said you were on holiday,” Billy said.

“Holidays end.”

“If you don’t tell me where I can get hold of you, this is the end,” Billy said angrily.

“I’ll see you here,” she said, inhaling smoke, “same time tomorrow.”

“Bitch.”

“I’ve always been amused by your vocabulary.” She got out of bed and began dressing, the glow of her cigarette the only light in the dark room. “By the way, I saw your cousin coming out of a hotel this afternoon. You know, the boy you used to play tennis with.”

“You did?” Billy said. “Who told you he was my cousin?”

“I looked him up in Who’s Who.”

“Funny as usual, aren’t you? What hotel was it?”

Monika hesitated. “Isn’t he staying here with you?”

“No. What hotel? We have to find him.”

“Who’s we?”

“What difference does that make to you?” Billy tried to keep his voice down.

“You never can tell what difference it might make to me. Who’s we?”

“Forget it.”

“Actually,” Monika said, “I don’t remember the name of the hotel.”

“You’re lying.”

She laughed. “Perhaps. Maybe if you’re here, like a good boy, tomorrow evening, I might remember it.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. I’m interested in another member of the family.”

“God,” Billy said, “you know how to make sex complicated.”

“Sex?” she said. “Once upon a time you used to use the word love.”

“Once upon a time,” Billy said grimly.

“Have it your own way, laddy,” Monika said lightly. “For the moment. One last compliment—you’re better in bed than on a tennis court.”

“Thanks.”

“Pour rien, as the French say.” She threw away her cigarette and came over to the bed and bent and kissed his cock, briefly. “Good night, laddy,” she said, “I have to go now.”

As the door closed behind her Billy lay back against the pillows, staring up at the dark ceiling. Another problem. He had to decide whether or not to tell Rudolph that Wesley had been seen coming out of a hotel in Cannes that day, but that he didn’t know the name of the hotel, although he might find out tomorrow. But then he’d have to explain how he had heard it and why he had to wait for tomorrow. And he couldn’t explain anything, without at least mentioning Monika. And then he’d have to explain something, at least, about Monika. He shook his head irritably against the pillow. Rudolph had enough on his mind without having to worry about Monika.

The phone rang. It was Rudolph to tell him that they would all meet at the bar downstairs in a half hour before going to dinner. After he hung up, Billy went in and took another shower. He didn’t want to go to dinner smelling as though he had been in an orgy. He wondered if his mother was upstairs now also taking a shower.

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CHAPTER 11

“No,” Gretchen was saying, “I don’t want any party after the showing. I’m exhausted and all I want to do is fall into bed and sleep for forty-eight hours.” She was in the salon of her small suite with Donnelly and Rudolph. It had been Rudolph’s suggestion that after the evening performance of Restoration Comedy they should celebrate by having a gala supper, inviting the festival judges and some of the representatives of the major distribution companies as well as several of the newspapermen with whom Gretchen and Rudolph had become more or less intimate in the last few days. Gretchen was showing increasing signs of tension as the date approached. A party might help her unwind.