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"I just love these little English country towns---so very
picturesque. But how anyone could want to live in them for ever and
ever, I just can't begin to understand. Give me a bit of life---and
people are life, interesting people, vital, creative people. They
carry life with them and infuse it in the people they meet. All
these others are dead, just as this quaint, charming, medieval town
is dead. You can only look at it, beautifully embalmed, like a
corpse in a New York funeral parlor, and think how lovely it is and
how unutterably, unshakably and irredeemably dead. But I remember
when you had other ideas. And if you're not careful, you'll grow
into a stuffed dummy just like this place."
Mrs. Gracie Gortner was talking with all the confidence bred
of great wealth and great reputation as a personality. The
reputation was not unearned. And although few people in the
lunch-time bar in the market town could hardly be expected to agree
with the opinions she was at no pains to hide or keep to her own
very small group, they did at least find her, as a person,
entertaining. It wasn't often you got anyone quite so obviously
fearless and outspoken and colorfully sophisticated as Mrs.
Gortner, twice divorced, once from the great surrealist painter
Simon Earpit, once from that talented writer Pieter Hansohl, and
many times separated from many famous liaisons in addition. She
herself was a well-known patroness of the arts, but not everyone
trusted her judgment, and nowadays she hadn't quite so much money
to give quite so many parties and keep her name in the press. She
could help painters enormously, as she always had done, but she no
longer had the power to make or break them.
Joseph Grant, the art master, smiled self-effacingly at her
tirade. She was incapable of offending him. He'd always adored her,
from the time he'd first met her at Raoul Dufy's studio many years
ago---and she liked him well enough or she wouldn't have broken her
journey from New York to Paris to see him.
"People like you never get older, Gracie," he said. "But
people like me do and we have to take it quietly."
"Anybody who lives in a morgue will grow old with the morgue,"
she said. "You don't really know what's good for you, Joseph. You
only think you do. You don't realize how short life is. You really
have to fill the unforgiving minute unless you're going to sit in
a rocking chair full of regrets for the last ten years."
She glanced at Adam.
"You listen to what I say, young man. Handsome boy like you
shouldn't come under the influence of an old fuddy-duddy like
Joseph. He might be a good teacher of painting, but when it comes
to Life with a capital L, he's as out of his depth as a cocktail in
a sewer. What did you say your name was?"
"Adam Blythe."
"Adam. There's a good name for a man. You can't go right with
a name like that so you'll be all right."
Her eyes lingered on him.
"Well, let's have another, and then we'll take a look at these
paintings of yours."
Adam drank his Scotch. He didn't normally touch it; couldn't
afford it, but she'd insisted. He was quite fascinated by her. She
was no oil painting, he told himself with a grin. But she was very
well preserved and her exuberance and that hint of ever- present
sensuality gave her rather piquant looks a quality of lan that many
younger women would have envied. She was thin, too, which was a
help to a woman of her type, and rather unusual- --quite sinewy.
And she was beautifully dressed in a thoughtless sort of way,
without any jewelry at all. He wondered if she'd like his
paintings. After all, she'd not only studied, but had lived and
loved with some of the most famous artists of the century. Must
make it rather difficult for her to adjust herself to new talents.
Though he had heard tell that she supported a number of artists of
all nationalities, and that the price of their work on the world's
market had risen sharply due to her patronage. But one never knew
how much credence to give to these stories. Such exaggerated tales
grew up around all these celebrated people, particularly if they
gained a reputation for never bothering to contradict anything that
was said about them. Fancy old Grant knowing her like this. He'd
had to look again at the old boy. What sort of wild oats had he
sown in that long-lost youth?
They left the old pub and took a taxi at her insistence for
the half mile to the evening class studio. Studio! A school
classroom with a few easels and other gear in it. There wasn't much
of Adam's work here, really. Most of it was at home in the empty
attic room he used. Sitting in the taxi, he suddenly thought of Eve
and wondered if she was having any luck with the agents. She'd be
interested to hear about this old girl.
Mr. Grant let them into the school and led the way to the art
room.
"So this is what you've come to, Joseph," she said, looking
round at the desks and the meager equipment.
"This is what I've risen to," he said. "Giving the joy of
knowledge to others."
"Nonsense," she said, continuing the feud. "It's still a
truism that you can't teach painting. Anyone interested can pick up
the technique, as far as you can teach him, by himself with a
concentrated effort. What's happened to that individuality of
yours? That's all that counts in this line---and many others."
"Perhaps I should get the next plane to Paris," he said,
grinning. Adam had never seen him so relaxed, nor yet so flippant.
"Perhaps! Perhaps!" She appealed to Adam. "Don't you ever give
up, like this shining example. He should never have left. That's
his story."
"Come on now, Gracie," Joseph Grant said. "I was never really
that good. Where was my individual voice? Some of us are meant to
help along those more talented."
"How many individual voices have you known that found their
special vocal cords from the beginning?" she asked. "Some people
start with them, others find them at thirty, others at fifty, some
much later. When you don't find them is when you give up."
"Don't keep on, you'll depress me."
Grace Gortner glanced at him quickly, saw the smile and smiled
back with warmth.
"Well, where are these paintings?" she asked.
Adam went to a cupboard and slid back the door. He took out
three canvases. He turned them round and stood them up against the
wall. There were surprising for a young painter only because one
didn't expect to find such thoroughly talented and mature work
stuck away in the evening classes of a local institute in the
English provinces. Although in England, of course, that's where it
usually is and where it usually wastes its fragrance on the desert
air.
They were surrealist, which Mrs. Gortner hadn't expected--- as
a matter of fact she hadn't expected very much at all. She had to
put up with approaches like this all the time, but not often from
an old friend like Joe Grant. They were well composed, electrifying
in their choice of object juxtaposition, subtle in their color
blends and containing a mystic hint of other worlds.
Grace Gortner stared at them for a minute or two without
speaking. Mr. Grant smiled quietly to himself. Adam looked at them
with a critical eye, quite forgetting that other people were
looking too.
"Hmmm." Grace Gortner was impressed. She stared a bit longer,
and then she said: "There's a bit of Simon in them. Do you like my
old flame?"
"Yes," Adam admitted reluctantly. "But they're not so gloomy
as his; the colors are more interesting, and half the time he was
only kidding around anyway."
Mrs. Gortner looked slowly round at him with wide, amused
eyes.
"Well, dig that," she said. "The painter speaks."
She laughed delightedly and went closer for a detailed
inspection.
"You're quite right, as it happens," she said. "A gloomier man
never lived. That's why I left him. He used to sit for hours gazing
at a Camembert. He hated Camembert for some reason--- delicious
cheese---and then all of a sudden he'd pound it to a pulp with a
wine bottle. There was a lot of hate in that man. There was
something he felt in himself that he could never quite get to and
that made him mean and moody. Sometimes he produced a fake work out
of spite."
"Why don't you write your memoirs, Grace?" Joseph Grant asked.
"You'd make a fortune." He laughed then at what he'd said. Imagine
her needing a fortune.
"I am," she said. "First draft, eleventh chapter. I've already
got a publisher."
Joseph Grant whistled in admiration.
"You make me feel older and more washed out with every word
you say," he said.
"I'll dedicate it to you," she said. "Or did I promise that to
Ernest Hemingway? I'll dedicate it to you anyway." She smiled
another warm smile and bent down to look at the paintings.
"Well, these are good," she said reluctantly, after a while.
"Are there any more?"
"Not here," Adam said. "I have a whole heap at home."
She gave him a long, steady look. It was a different look from
any she'd given him so far. She said: "Bring them around to my
hotel tonight at seven. We'll have a drink and discuss what's to be
done."
Grace Gortner was one of those celebrities who is immediately
impressed by the potentiality for celebrity in someone else. She
could look at someone one minute and think: that's a good-looking
person---and forget it. Told that that person was so-and-so, the
painter, or so-and-so, the Earl of Whatsit, she would look again
and see them differently, in terms of people that were worth
knowing, making an effort for, etcetera. That was how she'd looked
at Adam after seeing his paintings. Suddenly he was no longer a
handsome young provincial who could live and die in this "hamlet"
as far as she was concerned. Suddenly he was a famous artist in
embryo, another protg, lover, lifelong addition to the legend of
Grace Gortner. Creative people, lords and ladies, how she loved
them!
She and Joseph Grant, who had begged her to stay at his home
but was not surprised at her unabated insistence on complete
independence---"I means I can be generous to my friends from the
heart, without feeling I owe it to them,"---watched Adam leave the
school.
"He has real brilliance," she said. "What does he do apart
from paint?"
"Clerking," he said. "He's one of the world's outsiders.
Intelligent, quite well read, never attempted to get anything
better."
"Good for him," she said. "But he mustn't waste any of his
time on a whippersnapping job like that. I'll have to see what I
can do."
* * *
Adam viewed his appointment at seven with mixed feelings. He
didn't feel too much at ease in big hotels---and this was the only
really big one in the town. And he wasn't quite sure what was
expected of him. There had been something in her look . . .
Anyway, she'd been impressed with his work. There was no doubt
about that.
Walking to the hotel, carrying a dozen of his paintings
awkwardly, he glanced down at himself. Well, he'd made a bit of an
effort. She should consider herself honored. Suit for once: the new
smart Italian blue, no turnups, 17-inch hem, short jacket, small
bow-tie. His mother couldn't and never would understand it all.
These enthusiasms for some things, unconcern about others,
unexpected meetings and so on. This was what made life worth
living: the unexpected boost waiting round the corner.
He went into the hotel. It wasn't so grand, really. Just a
good county hotel with a few people in livery. He asked for Mrs.
Gortner. She'd taken one of the two suites. All the others were
simply rooms, some with private bathrooms, others without.
Adam took the lift up three floors and stepped out into a
short passage with a carpet that curled over his shoe webs. He
followed the directions he'd been given at the desk and walked to
door 22. There was a bright little highly polished knocker in the
shape of a knight of King Arthur's Court. Of course the hotel was
called King Arthur's Court.
He knocked solidly, and after a pause the door opened.
"Hello," she said. "You're dead on time. I like people to be
punctual. Everybody but me, that is."
He followed her into the suite. She was quite an eyeful. She
was dressed in a simple black cocktail dress, with three rows of
diamonds around her bronzed neck. Her stockings were so sheer that
they shone like quartz, and her black crocodile-skin shoes had high
thin heels and were long in the toe and dainty. She had a couple of
Indian bangles around her right wrist that obviously had more
sentimental than material value.
She led the way through the first room into another that
looked almost exactly the same. The motif was rose---various
shades---cool and warm from the middle rose of the carpet to the
deep ruby of the velvet curtains and the deep red of the lamp
shades with their soft yellowish-pink tassels. The only other
colors were pink rosewood and an odd bit of chrome. The effect was
pretty good. Adam had had no idea there was quite such luxury in
the town. From the outside one would have said untidy oak
fireplaces and pebbled windows.
She took his canvases from him without looking at them and
placed them against a rose-colored wall.
"Time for them," she said. "What's yours? Scotch?"
"Champagne," he said, surprising himself. "If you have any."
She stared at him and smiled slowly.
"Sure there's champagne," she said. "I like a man who knows
his own mind."
She produced a champagne bucket, glittering with ice, the
bottle steamed over, enticing. She pulled the cork expertly and
poured them both a large glassful. The champagne was cool and the
bubbles ran up and down in it. Adam looked at it for some seconds
before he raised the glass towards her. He didn't feel nervous at
all. He felt a beginning of power. He felt good, as if he had
finally found the world he belonged in.
She settled herself in a large, modern velvet armchair, far
from the dim wall lights, and indicated another for him opposite
her. It occurred to him that she'd already been knocking it back---
Scotch, probably. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. In the rose
light she looked positively alluring, her silk-clad calves and
ankles seductive.
"Well, well," she said. "Tell me what you think. Tell me about
yourself."
Adam was rather taken aback. What did he think? What was there
to say about himself? But before he could answer, she said: "No, I
can see you're not ready. You can tell me later.
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How often do you
drink champagne? Do you really prefer it to Scotch?"
"It makes me lightheaded," he said. "I automatically associate
it with Paris. Scotch just reminds me of the local pubs and maybe
a London theater bar."
"You don't drink champagne much then?"
"Can't afford it."
"Don't make much money?"
"What do you think---I'm a solicitor's clerk."
"And hate it?"
"Naturally."
"Why not try something else?"
"Gives me a lot of spare time. Doesn't make any demands on my
mind at all. Most other work would, I imagine."
"That's the way," she said. "Let's kill this bottle and have
another."
They drank. He looked at the room; she looked at him.
"Would you like to see the paintings?" he asked after a bit.
"Later," she said. "I don't really need to. You have it all
right."
He flushed with pleasure, felt himself flush and found the
flush didn't go. He looked at the champagne. His glass was a third
full. The bottle was empty.
But why, he suddenly thought, did she ask me round here if
she'd already decided that my paintings were okay? He looked up at
her and she smiled at him and held his eyes. Cleopatra looked at
him, a Queen inviting, summoning. The flush enveloped him like a
flame from the Inferno. He didn't have to think about why, looking
at her. It was all clear and inevitable.
She brought another bucket of champagne and some cocktail
biscuits. He began to feel quite lightheaded. He looked around the
room again. This was riches. He had a quick flush of feeling about
it, a real sense of glamour, as if he belonged in this world as a
rightful owner of it with its champagne, money, comfort, luxury,
promise of the pleasures of the flesh, with way beyond it like
something coming out of the mists fast cars and aeroplanes and blue
seas and yachts and hot sun and long iced brandies by the palms
near the beach. She carried this with her, he realized. He was so
unlike Joseph Grant. Movement meant life for him: new places, new
people, a new blind.
"Have you got a girl friend?" she asked suddenly. The yellow
liquid cascaded from the bottle and splashed and bubbled in his
glass.
"Nobody special," he said. He couldn't admit anchors in the
world around him.
"Well, in that case there'll be nobody to get jealous if we
have a little dance, eh?"
She switched on a radiogram. He wondered if it really went
with the hotel or whether it went with her. After a second, soft
dance music, lush music, began to pervade the room. It was old-
fashioned in a way, but perfect of its type---Glen Miller, in fact.
He stood up and she came into his arms. She was surprisingly light
and graceful, and she glued her hips to his, swivelling them
slightly as they turned, so that she managed to massage his penis
in a manner so subtle and expert that she must have been learning
it since she was fifteen. He had an erection in no time, and there
was no hiding the fact, no need to. She put her hand round the back
of his neck and stroked his hair. He put his cheek against her
hair, thinking: This is working out like a woman's magazine story
except for the sex.
"You're such a handsome boy," she said softly. "You'll have
the world, your own world, at your feet once you get out of this
rut."
"I'm nineteen," he said, "and feel much older."
"Nineteen," she said, smiling into his neck. "Youth, youth,
youth, where is thy fling? Have you had many girls?"
"Had?"
"Been to bed with many?"
"Not many."
He realized suddenly that she was quivering. She moved her
thighs against his loins.
"I can tell you want to go to bed with me," she said.
He didn't know what to say, dropped his hand down on her
moving buttocks.
She slipped her hand down from his back between them, began to
play with his penis, first tickling it through the cloth of his
trousers, then gripping it at various places as though to measure
its dimensions.
"Let's take our clothes off," she said.
A little thrill squirmed through him. This rich, unfamiliar
woman from worlds he'd only dreamed of---what was she saying?
He glanced at the door.
"It's all right," she said. "It's locked---nobody will come
in."
She unbuttoned his flies as they danced, to encourage him. She
took both his hands and placed them on her rump, so that he was
holding one of her buttocks in each hand. They were finely shaped
and sinewy as he'd expected. Her body was very warm against him,
and she raised her face to his as she found his penis in the
opening of his flies and brought it out to stroke it. He gasped at
the cool pressure. He inclined his head and kissed her. She smelled
of some faint jasmine perfume. Her lips gave in like a soft cushion
and her tongue came into his mouth like a little darting eel. She
crushed the length of her body against his and undulated furiously
against him before pulling away.
She pulled off her dress. She wasn't wearing very much
underneath, as though deliberately prepared.
Adam, feeling rather self-conscious with his erection cleaving
the air in front of this stranger, began to take off his clothes.
He watched her undress to the last stitch, everything off, even her
stockings that she quickly rolled off her legs and tossed away. She
had a well-kept body, sagging a little here and there, but well
dieted and highly tanned. It was the tan that gave it a sort of
luster, made it twice as good-looking as it would otherwise have
been. Her breasts were slightly thin and long, with extended
nipples that looked rubbery. As she came towards him, her breasts
swung a little from side to side. The muscles in her thighs rippled
slightly and the bones of her hips just showed through, two tiny
embossments at each side of the tuft of black hair below her navel.
He pulled off his socks and met her. It was very warm in the
room, but their flesh met like a touch of ice-water. They both
began to breathe fast. Adam thought: I dare not think about it, or
it'll amaze me so much I'll just faint away into a dreaming sleep.
She ran her hands searchingly down over his body, pressing all
the hollows, exploring, learning it all. She got his prick between
her thighs as they swayed together to the music, and let it rest,
jiggling lightly against the moist lips between her legs.
Adam ran his hands down her back. He could feel the
reticulated line of her backbone, suddenly blossoming out into
those neat, sinewy buttocks. There was a lot of muscular strength
in her body. He wondered how those strong thighs would grip.
"You beautiful, beautiful boy," she whispered. She kissed him
again, writhing her hips against him. She dug her fingernails into
his shoulders. He gripped her buttocks, pulling her towards him,
rubbing his prick between her strong thighs.
"My god," she said. "I want you now! Put it in---quick!"
She dragged him with her to a divan and fell back, pulling him
over her in an expert manner that made him think, in passing, of a
certain judo throw. Her fingers came down and closed over his
testicles. "Tight balls," she groaned. "I love tight balls." And
then she guided his aching penis at her cunt. She was moaning into
his face, her eyes closed, her hips grinding.
Adam entered her with a rush. He had the thought as he did
that she was old enough to be his mother, but this simply added a
perverse fascination to the whole thing.
His prick rode up her tightly at first, hurting along its
whole, hard flesh---and then more easily. She let out a short howl,
like an animal. He thrust right up into her so that their pelvic
flesh bruised and bumped together.
She strained back under him, arching her loins up at him,
lifting them both up off the divan for seconds at a time. She
moaned incessantly and scratched all around her at the divan until
the coverlet was screwed up in a rag-doll mess under them. She bit
his lips, turned her face convulsively away, came back and bit his
lips again, over and over.
"Put your fingers in my ass," she coughed.
He reached under between the buttocks as he stroked
rhythmically into her juicy quim. He spread them apart, felt the
sweating down, found the puckered ring and thrust a finger in. She
gave another gasp and screwed her behind back at his hand. He moved
his finger around in her asshole. It was soft and fleshy. He felt
his nail catch the flesh and she moaned and jerked and then came
back again offering her rump for further exploration. "Another
finger."
He added a second finger, stretching her further, and she
groaned and writhed anew, pushed her ass at his hand to hold him
captured.
Adam's loins were coiled up like a spring. His penis felt
monstrous, as if it were growing away from him in its own separate
existence, increasing in size all the time like some fairy tale
beanstalk, a fairy tale prick that would grow and grow and would
spear her right through and come out of her mouth and go on
searching around the room and out of the window. It expanded and
contracted, throbbing painfully.
She held him tightly in the strong thighs, clamping them round
his hips, slackening them, clamping them again.
She murmured obscenities in his face. Her own face began to
turn a deep, furious color, her neck strained back, her fingernails
raked great weals across his back and shoulders.
"I'm coming," she rasped. The first time it was almost a
matter of fact statement. And then she began to repeat it at
lessening intervals until the words all ran together in a scream.
She pulled back her thighs, presenting him with a stretched and
widely open cavern of pink at the core of her body. Her legs
squirmed up over his shoulders. She thrust her loins at him with
bruising force. Her mouth opened, tried to close, couldn't, her
eyes glazed, her nostrils flared. She gave a sudden thin unearthly
whine and screwed herself onto his prick and held herself there
while her loins worked up and down. And then she expelled her
breath as if she were a diver suddenly coming to the surface at the
end of her tether. She collapsed under him and went limp, only her
body shaking and quivering like an animal in its death throes.
Adam felt a little apprehensive, even through his own mounting
passion. He was afraid he'd injured her in some way. But after a
few moments of simply lying still, moaning quietly, limply
permitting him to go on sawing into her quim, she seemed to revive.
She looked at him with a long, purring look like a satisfied
cat. She closed her eyes and uttered a cozy exclamation as he dug
into her a little further.
"That was something," she murmured.
She gave another exclamation. She held his panting mouth with
hers.
"Honey," she said, releasing his lips. "Like a damn virginal
fool I've packed my pessary in a trunk that's on the high seas to
Le Havre---and I'm not quite so old that I can afford not to have
it. It's not fair to you, I know. But I'll do my best. Turn over."
Adam allowed himself to be turned over on his back, coming out
of her with a faint plop. His penis reached yearningly up to the
ceiling. He didn't see what difference it made if he screwed her
one way or the other, but he let her move him around.
She leaned over him, stroking the stiff rod, first with one
hand then with both. She brought her mouth down to it and enclosed
the glans in a moist warm pressure. The very thought of what she
was doing as much as the actual feeling gave Adam a sharp kick,
like an injection. She held his prick with one hand, lying on his
loins, while she began to suck his prick steadily, rhythmically. Up
and down and with a twisting motion of her tongue at the point of
each stroke.
He tensed his loins. The sight of the action made it all the
more exciting. She began to suck a little harder, sometimes giving
him a little bite, or scraping his bone of thick flesh with her
teeth. His penis was white under the scraping suck and bright
purple at its tip.
She released his jack with her hand and put both hands under
his ass, holding his buttocks while she rammed her mouth down on
his penis. His prick disappeared right down her. He wondered that
it didn't choke her, but she was clearly a specialist.
Her tongue, with that final swiping lick, was making the glans
vibrate and pulse as if it were a beacon flashing out a code into
the darkness. He stiffened his hips, crossing his legs, pressing
his ankles together. He felt the movement growing in his balls, as
if he wanted to piss but couldn't. He watched her face working over
his abdomen, her lips being pulled out grotesquely, clinging to his
staff, sucking it voraciously. He pushed his loins up at her face,
arching the lower part of his body from hips to toes. His mouth
worked in a sweet agony. His throat was dry. His penis felt like a
huge, top-heavy tree trunk. It was a tree-trunk that was being
felled, growing heavier and heavier until it would suddenly fall
down, down. He gasped. But what would she do when he came? He
couldn't think about it. Because the moment was nearly here. It was
growing, growing. Strangled noises forced their way up from his
lungs through the tortured passage of his gullet. There wasn't far
to go. He was coming, now, now. He writhed his hips furiously. He
seemed to be standing on his head. He saw as in a wild roundabout
her face working, the lips sucking, his penis soaring, his body
straining, the lights, the rose, the red, the pink, a whirl. NOW!
He let out a long, high-pitched cry. He felt the needle-thin stream
of sperm rush from his balls along the tube at a great, unstemmable
rate. She went on sucking furiously as his load shot into her mouth
and his hands sought convulsively for her head and pushed it hard
at his prick . . .
Gradually his penis deflated in her mouth, but she went on
gently nibbling it, sucking every last ounce of his sperm. He gave
a great sigh and flopped back, exhausted. She lay for some time
with her head against his belly, her mouth still at the tip of his
prick, her tongue cleaning the glans. And then finally she
slithered up his body and kissed him on the mouth.
"Come on, sonny," she said. "Let's eat. I have a very special
meal ordered. Just get dressed and I'll ring down for them to bring
it up."
Adam began to dress. He heard her on the internal telephone
asking for the food to be brought up and for the wine to go with
it.
"This," he said to himself softly, "is the life---the only
life for me."
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