Destiny (39 page)

He parted Jean-Paul's thighs, and began on his legs. Slowly up from the ankle and then down again. The knee, then the still strong muscles of the thighs. Slowly up to the groin once more. Then, at last, between his legs, under his balls, feeling the loose pouchy skin of the scrotum, carefully under and back, tracing the crevice of the buttocks with one delicate forefinger. Then back to the ankles again. Jean-Paul closed his eyes. Jesus, the little bastard knew how to tease.

Jean-Paul's body was pale but flushed red on the face, neck, and arms, where he had been burned by the sun. He was fresh from the shower; his body smelled of the oil, which was scented with jasmine. The boy smelled, faintly, of sweat, and also of something else—of poverty, of cheap food, overcrowded lodgings, oil applied to hair that was not quite clean, Arab buses, dust. Jean-Paul liked the smell. It was part of the ritual, part of the game, part of the reality: servant and master.

The boy was very beautiful. He was half-Arab, with a pale oUve skin

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that now gleamed golden in the thin ribbons of Ught from the half-closed shutters. He could pass for a European, an Italian or a Frenchman from one of the southern regions, like Provence. He had been a student in France—or so he said. Jean-Paul wasn't sure if he believed him. But he spoke good French with scarcely a trace of an Algerian accent, so it might be true. He said he was nineteen years old; he also said he was an orphan, but they all said that, they thought it made people pay more. He worked as an elevator boy in one of the smaller French hotels, moonlighting occasionally by serving drinks in a cafe in the evenings. That was where Jean-Paul had first met him. Three months ago.

Up again from knee to groin, that delicate forefinger tracing, tracing. Jean-Paul could feel himself getting hard at last. He opened his eyes, his consciousness hazed and slowed by the kifhe had smoked, and focused with difficulty on the watch on the bedside table. Nearly four; Jesus, they didn't have long. Edouard and Isobel would be back at five. Not that they were likely to walk into his bedroom, but still . . . The need for secrecy, the need for haste, excited him. He reached down and grabbed the boy's wrist.

"Come on. Come on. Get on with it. . . ."

The boy's black eyes flicked up at his face impassively, with just the slightest suggestion of contempt. He knelt between Jean-Paul's legs, bent his head, and began to lick. Jean-Paul grunted, cupped the boy's head in his hands. He liked that contempt, that resentment; the first time he saw it in the boy's face he knew it reminded him of something, but it was weeks before it came to him what it was. Then, suddenly, he remembered. That night in the war, the night his father died, the night at that bitch Simones-cu's, with Carlotta. She had looked just the way the boy did, and Jean-Paul liked it because it made him feel . . . what did it make him feel? His mind drifted away on the tides of the kif, and then floated back. It made him feel powerful, that was it, because he paid, he bought, and even if they hated him, they sold. That felt good; simple and good. It made him feel big. He felt his penis strain and press to the back of the boy's throat. He almost gagged, and Jean-Paul's hand tightened around the nape of his neck, pulling him down, so he was fully in the boy's mouth.

The first time he'd done it with a boy, he'd been ashamed. He knew it was commonplace here, taken for granted almost. Other men talked openly about it in the club, when they'd had a few drinks. Tighter, sweeter, better than a woman any day —that was what they said. The boys were more skilled, less inhibited than the Arab women, ready to do anything, anything, for money.

Jean-Paul had felt slightly disgusted; also oddly threatened, and beneath it all, excited. It wasn't for him: he was no pansy; he liked women, not

DESTINY • 239

boys with made-up eyes and sly insinuating glances. But still, he liked to hear about it from the others.

Then, the first time—well, he'd been drunk, so drunk he hardly knew what was happening, so it didn't matter. Then, the next time he went with a woman: nothing—nothing that counted. Plenty of excitement, plenty of anxiety, and no hard-on; just a limp cock hanging between his legs. Not a twitch out of it, no matter what she did, and she'd tried everything. So he went back to a boy—one of the best, came highly recommended. He'd been fearing the worst, but no, the boy undressed him, and there it was, standing up proudly, his machinery in full working order once again. The boy had been impressed, and he'd seen plenty. He'd said it was very big, too big, even with oil, even with Vaseline. He'd cried out when Jean-Paul pushed up him. But that was just another trick they had, like being an orphan. It didn't mean anything, not really.

There had been a lot of boys after that, and some women, but he found them less exciting than he used to. Especially the French ones. He'd had a good line going with a number of the wives out here—what man hadn't? They were all bored out of their minds, had nothing else to think about except bed. But after the boys they seemed tiresome: too demanding, wanting love as well as sex; too many ideas about how it should be done, and which position they liked best, and whether they came or not. / don't give a shit, he'd wanted to say. Just shut up and let me get the fuck on with it. But he hadn't, of course. He'd just stopped going back for more. He got it from the boys instead. The boys who did exactly what he said, when he told them. . . .

Mother of God!

He'd never done that before, and it felt good. Very good. No doubt about it, this boy was a find. The best.

"That's enough. Lie down. ..."

He pushed the boy back, and pulled his cock out of his mouth. The boy never said a word. He just moved to the other side of the bed, and lay on his back. He didn't have an erection—but then he hardly ever did. Jean-Paul had stopped worrying about that weeks ago.

''''Imbecile. Turn over. ..."

The kifwas beginning to wear off, and Jean-Paul could feel irritation, incipient anger, somewhere at the edge of his mind. It often took you like that, when the kif was wearing off, but it didn't matter: anger helped.

"Lift your ass."

The boy raised himself a little from the bed. Jean-Paul looked down at his own oiled body, then spat onto his palm for added lubrication.

He held himself poised for a moment, then he thrust hard into the boy's body. The boy cried out, once. Then he bit his lip, and was silent. Jean-

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Paul heaved and thrust, panting now, holding the boy's beautiful narrow pelvis tight between his hands. Heat and rage built in his body, such rage, swirling through the clouds of kif, that it was blinding, fiercer than desire for an instant, so he lost his rhythm, misjudged his pace. Like war, he thought confusedly, like war, like battle, fucking is like that, it's . . .

Then the thought eddied away again out of the grasp of his mind; he looked down at the subservient curve of the boy's back, found his rhythm again, pumped, and came. He slumped across him, breathing heavily, feeling a httle sick. Too much kif. He must lay off the kif. It played tricks on your mind when you least expected it. He'd nearly blown the whole thing then.

The boy waited five minutes. He always waited five minutes. Then he got up, and went into the bathroom. There was the sound of running water. He came out dressed. Jean-Paul had lit a cigarette. He smiled at the boy. "There's a present for you. Over on the chest."

The boy didn't even glance at the folded franc notes. He pouted, and hung his head.

"I don't want presents. I told you."

Jean-Paul sighed. This was a new tack—it had started about two weeks ago.

"What do you want then? You must want something. I'm only trying to show you how grateful I am. I like you—you know that."

He lifted his hand to the boy, but the boy ignored him.

He looked at Jean-Paul sulkily. "I told you." His voice was hardly audible. "I want us to be friends."

"We are friends. Good friends. You know that." Jean-Paul gave a sigh of exasperation.

"No, we're not. You just want me here for this." The boy gestured sullenly at the bed. "We never meet anywhere else. Just here. Just for this."

"Well, where should we meet, for God's sake? What do you want me to do—take you down to the club? An hotel? You know that's impossible."

"You could meet me for a drink sometimes." The boy stuck his hp out obstinately. "That's what friends do. They meet for drinks—in a cafe, or a restaurant. They go out for a meal. We could do that. I can pass—you know I can. You said so. I'm half-French. I studied in France. . . ."

His voice was rising petulantly. Jean-Paul looked anxiously at his watch. It was nearly five.

"All right, all right. We'll do that sometime. We'll meet in a cafe— have a drink. Go to a cinema maybe. Will that make you happy?"

"It might. When?"

"I don't know when." Jean-Paul heaved himself upright and reached for his dressing gown. "Look, we can't argue about it now. I haven't got time.

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I told you. I've got friends here. My brother. His wife. They'll be back soon. Now, be a good boy and run along. ..."

"I won't come again." The boy raised his face, and to Jean-Paul's horror, the black eyes were welling with tears. "Not unless we can be friends. I don't like it."

"All right. All right." Jean-Paul hurriedly crossed the room and picked up the francs from the chest. He pushed them into the boy's top pocket. He could hear a car drawing up on the drive outside. Quickly he added one more note: thirty francs, that ought to do it. In the boy's terms, it was a fortune. The boy didn't move. Jean-Paul gave him an exasperated push.

"Look, go on now. I'll meet you. We'll arrange it next time, I promise. . . ."

"Not next time. Now."

"All right. Very well. I'll meet you tomorrow. The Caf6 de la Paix—^you know it, off the Place de la Revolution. . . ."

Instantly the boy's face lit up. "You will? You promise? What time?"

"About six. I'll meet you at six. I might not be able to stay long." He frowned. "I might have to bring my friends—and if they're there—well, you'll be careful, won't you? Pretend it's a casual meeting—something hke that?" Already he regretted giving in, but it was too late now, the boy's face was alight with excitement.

"Your brother? You mean I'll meet your brother? You will introduce me? I will be very proud—and very careful. I promise you. I don't want you to be ashamed of me. You'll see—I know how to behave. Truly."

He looked so eager that Jean-Paul was quite touched. He gave him an aflFectionate pat on the bottom.

"Very well. Don't let me down now—all right?" He hesitated, then squeezed the boy's arm. "You've been good today, very good."

"I hope so. I want you to have pleasure." He spoke a little stiffly, and again Jean-Paul thought he saw that flash of resentment in the eyes, there and then gone. The boy was proud, that was all. He glanced at the window, and the boy nodded.

"It's all right. I'll go out the back way. Through the kitchen."

Just after five the next day, Edouard and Jean-Paul left the offices of the governor general. They were escorted down long corridors—cooled by fans, for the weather was still very warm—by a senior aide, who was French, and by his aide, an Algerian. Flanked by the two men, they walked down a wide marble staircase and out into the brilliant sunshine. The senior aide stopped, and made a polite half bow.

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"Monsieur le Baron. Monsieur de Chavigny. I hope we have been of assistance to you." He paused, then turned to Edouard. "You are returning to France tomorrow, I think you said, Monsieur de Chavigny?"

"Yes."

"If in the meantime, we can be of any further assistance, I shall be honored—"

"Of course." Edouard cut him off. "Thank you. Thank you both."

He glanced at both men. The Frenchman smiled suavely; the Algerian, a small dark man in heavy hornrimmed spectacles, did not smile. He had not uttered one word during their entire briefing. The two aides turned back toward the offices, and Edouard and Jean-Paul walked slowly down the wide steps to the street.

Jean-Paul paused at a kiosk to buy a pack of Gauloises. They were handed to him by a tiny nut-brown man in a red fez who also sold little packets of sugared almonds and pistachios. And newspapers. Figaro; Le Monde; the Herald-Tribune; The Wall Street Journal; El Moudjahid, the main Algerian daily, which was in French. Edouard glanced at the large photograph on the front page and looked away. He moved to the shade of a palm tree as Jean-Paul counted out his change. A military vehicle passed, filled with French paratroopers. The offices were closing; the wide elegant boulevard was busy with traffic. He looked down it, past the beautiful white shuttered houses to the bay in the distance, and the blue glitter of the sea.

"Come on." Jean-Paul put an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get a drink. I'm parched. It's so bloody hot. I told Isobel we'd wait for her at the Cafe de la Paix. ..."

"Isobel? I thought she was staying up at the villa to rest?"

"Oh, she changed her mind at the last moment. Wanted to look at some shop or other—you know what women are like. She's got the car—we can all drive back together."

"Oh, very well. But I don't want to stay long. I've some calls to make. ..." Edouard shrugged, and allowed himself to be drawn along the street toward the Place de la Revolution. They crossed the square and went into the cafe. It was already beginning to fill up with French businessmen, and Jean-Paul made purposefully for a table in the window. He sat down.

"'T'wopastis." He leaned back in his chair. "We'll see Isobel from here. And it's cooler inside with the fans. . . ."He paused to light his Gauloise, and drew on it deeply, looking appraisingly at his brother. It was a mystery to him how Edouard managed it, he thought. There he was, at the end of a solid day of meetings with French officials, looking exactly the way he had when they set out. His white linen suit was unmarked, and uncrum-

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pled. He wasn't sweating. He didn't look hot. Jean-Paul glanced down at his own suit, which was too tight for him, and damned uncomfortable. There was wine on the sleeve, and it was a mass of sweaty creases. However, he didn't care; he was feeling smug. Maybe now Edouard would see —he didn't know it all.

"Well. SaluC He lifted the glass of pastis, and took a large swallow. "Feehng better are you now, httle brother?"

"Should I?" Edouard regarded him coolly.

"I would have thought so, yes. All right, all right—I know you wouldn't listen to me, but maybe you'll hsten to them. They've got their finger on the pulse. If there was going to be trouble, serious trouble, they'd know about it. And what did they tell you—every single one of them? Exactly the same as I told you. It'll all blow over. It's under control."

"That was what they said, yes."

"And you don't believe them, I suppose? Jesus, Edouard, you can be bloody arrogant, you know. The governor general lays it on the line, no 'ifs' or 'buts,' and you—you don't beheve him."

"I wasn't impressed by the governor general." Edouard paused. "I was interested in that junior aide—"

"What—the Algerian fellow? Never said a word. Looked scared shitless if you ask me."

"That's precisely what I thought was interesting." Edouard's voice was cold. He turned his head and looked around the cafe. Its chentele was almost entirely male, with just a few women—secretaries being bought a drink by their bosses, presumably. The cafe was closed to Algerians; everyone in it was French.

"Oh, I give up." Jean-Paul finished his drink, and called to the waiter for another. "What the hell—let's not argue anymore, Edouard. I'm sick of it. You've had your say, and I'm not going to change my mind. Now— let's forget it. It's your last evening here, for God's sake. Loosen up a bit, can't you? Let's have a good time."

Edouard's face had suddenly cleared. He stood up. "There's Isobel. She's looking for us. Excuse me a moment. . . ." He walked out onto the terrasse, and Jean-Paul saw Isobel spot him, turn, smile, move quickly into his embrace. He sighed, and lit another cigarette. They were very happy, that much was obvious, and he was glad of that. He hadn't felt jealous— why should he? The thing between himself and Isobel had been so long ago, he had difficulty remembering it, and it had been a mistake from the first. And she seemed to suit Edouard, to understand him. He was different with her than with everyone else—gentler, softer, more like the old Edouard. It was clear she knew how to get through to him, and that was a good thing. He'd been beginning to think no one could anymore. Well, she

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was very beautiful, and they'd have a child soon, he imagined, and that ought to make Edouard happy. ... He heaved himself to his feet as they approached the table. Isobel was laughing at something Edouard had just said; she was wearing a white linen suit, and her green eyes sparkled. She reached up now to kiss him on both cheeks.

"Jean-Paul—that car of yours is a monster. And the traffic! I've had to park miles away. And then I got lost. Look—I've brought you both a present. ..."

She handed them two little tissue paper parcels, tied with string and sealed with wax. They slowly unwrapped them, while Isobel watched them eagerly.

"It's sandalwood—sticks of sandalwood. You know, Jean-Paul. Don't they smell heavenly? You put them in a little brazier thing, like a tiny cup, and they smolder—the man said they'll scent the whole room. Oh . . ." She leaned back. "I wanted to get so many things—just because the colors were so lovely. Powdered indigo—that wonderful blue, like lapis. And henna. And spices, of course—cumin and turmeric—oh, and they had saffron, piles of it, freshly dried, and ..."

The two men looked at each other. Edouard sighed. "Darling—have you been in the Algerian quarter?"

Isobel looked vague. "I might have been. I'm not sure where I was. . . ."

"Don't lie. . . ."

"Oh, all right. I nearly was. I didn't go too far, truly. Just to the part in between—the no-man's land." Her eyes shone mischievously. "And then I found the market, and then I came back here. Now, don't look so stem. Say thank you."

"Thank you," they said in chorus. Then Edouard smiled. "Oh, all right, forget it. You're safely here anyway. I might have known we couldn't keep you within bounds. . . ."He gestured to the waiter. "What will you have to drink, my darling?"

"Oh, just some Perrier and ice," Isobel said casually. Edouard looked at her in surprise.

"You're sure? You wouldn't like a glass of wine? An aperitif^"

"No, darling, really. I'm too thirsty. Perrier would be lovely." She hesitated. "And actually—I'm starving. Walking must have made me hungry. Maybe I'll have a sandwich. No, I won't. I'll have a glass of cold milk."

"A glass of Perrier and a glass of cold milk?"

Edouard stared at her. She nodded unconcernedly.

"That's it. Thank you, darling."

The waiter's eyebrows rose as he took the order, but he made no comment. He returned shortly with the two drinks, and Isobel calmly sat and

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sipped the milk, a secretive smile on her beautiful face. Tomorrow, she thought. I shall be able to tell him tomorrow. The second we leave.

Oh, hurry up, tomorrow! She looked around the cafe as Edouard and Jean-Paul talked. She thought it was beautiful. She thought every single person in it, all the graying businessmen, all the young secretaries, were beautiful. The world was beautiful. She glanced up at Edouard as he leaned forward across the table to make some point: the thick black hair, the sharply etched features, the incisiveness with which he always spoke. She wondered if the baby would look like him; she hoped it would—babies with red hair looked horrible. No, she could have a red-haired baby later. But this baby, boy or girl, she wanted this baby to look Uke Edouard, who had made her happy, truly happy, for the first time in her life. Surreptitiously, she sUpped her hands beneath the table and rested them against her stomach. She wished she were not still so flat, wished the baby would grow quickly. She wanted to feel its body, see her stomach swell, have Edouard rest his hand there, over the curve, and feel their baby stir beneath his fingers. Four months: they began to move at four months, that was what the doctor had said. Her face had fallen.

"So long! Another two months!"

He had smiled patiently. "A lot of other things have to happen first. And they're happening now—even though you're unaware of it. At two months, you can see the head of the fetus quite clearly, and the curve of the spine. By three months, the arms are discernible, and the legs, and the features. By four months, Madame de Chavigny, when you'll start to feel it stir—and then maybe give you a hefty kick—the fetus is—"

Oh, not fetus! she had wanted to say. The baby. My baby. Edouard's baby. Our miracle—for that was how it felt, how she hoped it felt for all women. A miracle: new hfe. She looked up, then touched Jean-Paul's arm.

A boy was standing next to the table, looking at Jean-Paul shyly. He was very young, and handsome in a shghtly effeminate way: about eighteen or nineteen, Isobel thought. A southerner, perhaps, with very dark hair and an ohve skin. He was wearing a nylon drip-dry shirt, open at the neck, freshly pressed trousers; he had a leather satchel of books under his arm. A student, perhaps.

''Monsieur le Baron ..." The boy spoke hesitantly, and Jean-Paul looked up. To Isobel's surprise he went beet-red, flushing from the collar of his shirt to the roots of his now receding hair. He stood up and held out his hand with slightly excessive cordiahty.

"Why, Francois! How nice to run into you. How are you? Were you just passing? Maybe you'd Uke a drink . . . Join us, join us."

Edouard looked up in surprise, and the boy eagerly drew forward a

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chair. He put the satchel of books on the floor and sat down. Jean-Paul made vague informal introductions.

"This is Edouard, my brother. Isobel, his wife. Edouard, Isobel, this is Francois. . . . Did I mention him to you? He's a student, working over here for a few months. I've been helping him to find his feet a bit in Algiers."

The boy gave a nervous smile. Jean-Paul gestured to the waiter.

"Francois, what will you have? Just coffee? You're sure? Fine. Nothing for you, Edouard? Another Perrier, Isobel, yes? And I'll have a pas-tis. ..."

The waiter disappeared. There was an awkward silence. Then the boy said, very formally, "I am honored to meet you." He nodded at Isobel. At Edouard. Isobel glanced at her husband, and saw that his face had hardened and his eyes were angry. He looked across the table at Jean-Paul, and Jean-Paul's eyes slid away. He lit another cigarette, and Isobel noticed his hands were shaking slightly. He offered one to the boy, and the boy politely refused. He sat there, looking from face to face expectantly. Isobel leaned forward, feeling sorry for him.

"A student? Where are you studying?"

"At Lyons, Madame." He paused, then added, with a slight swagger. "La philosophe. Et les sciences politiques. "

"Goodness." Isobel cast around in her mind for some comment to make. There didn't seem to be one. She couldn't imagine why Jean-Paul had issued the invitation to join them.

"I read the same subjects. ..." Edouard was now making an effort. He hesitated. "You are enjoying your stay in Algiers?"

"Oh, very much." The boy's eyes went from face to face. He smiled. "I find I am learning a great deal."

"You're late returning to your course," Edouard said pleasantly. "The university term began at the beginning of the month." There was a little silence. The boy's color rose. He lowered his eyes. "Well, yes," he muttered. "I needed to work here just a little longer. To raise the tuition, you know. I had permission—from my professor."

"Fran9ois is a clever boy," Jean-Paul cut in quickly. "In the top five percent of his class, so he tells me." He took a large swallow of pastis, and looked at his watch pointedly. If the hint was directed at the boy, he seemed not to take it. He took another small sip of his coffee. Edouard was tapping the table idly with one finger, which Isobel knew was a sign of irritation. Jean-Paul seemed to have exhausted his conversational overtures. She leaned forward quickly.

"And your work here? Are you enjoying that?"

"It's not bad." The boy shrugged indifferently "I work in one of the

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hotels—the Marine. It overiooks the bay." He paused, and Isobel saw him glance at Jean-Paul slyly. "I work the elevators," he went on more expansively. "The pay's bad, of course, but the tips are good. The French always tip very generously. If they're pleased with you."

Edouard turned his head; he gave the boy a cold stare. Isobel looked around the table in confusion. She could sense some undercurrent of tension which she was at a loss to explain. Jean-Paul was looking flustered and embarrassed; she knew that Edouard was coldly furious. Only the boy seemed quite at ease. He turned now and glanced up at the clock above the bar. Then drained his coflfee.

"It's getting late. I'm on the evening shift tonight."

"Please. Don't let us detain you." Edouard's voice was icy. Isobel stared: it was so unlike him—she couldn't think why he was being so rude.

"Maybe Fran9ois would like some more coffee," she began, and then stopped. The boy was getting to his feet. His color had risen, and Isobel felt very embarrassed for him.

"No. Thank you, Madame." He bowed to each of them in turn. "I must go. I shall be late. I am honored to have met you."

His eyes met those of Jean-Paul for an instant. The boy fumbled in the pocket of his shirt and drew out a couple of crumpled notes. "Please . . ." He tossed them down onto the small saucer on the table. "I must pay for my coffee. Messieurs. Madame."

"Fran9ois—please, there's no need for that. I . . ." Jean-Paul half-rose from his seat, but the boy had gone, weaving his way through the throng of people behind the bar. Jean-Paul shragged and sank back into his chair. He looked very flushed, almost guilty, Isobel thought curiously.

Edouard stood up. "We should go," he said curtly. "I'll fetch the car and bring it around. Where did you leave it, Isobel?"

"In the Rue Pascal. Just around the comer to the right and then first right and—"

"I'll find it. I know it."

Edouard walked out, his face stiff with anger. There was another awkward silence, broken by the laughter from the bar. Isobel frowned.

"I'm sorry, Jean-Paul. What was that all about? Edouard's not usually so rude."

"Oh, God knows. He's been in a foul temper all day. He has these moods. You must be used to them by now. . . ."

"I suppose so." Isobel shrugged. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. I hope your friend wasn't offended, that's all." She stopped, suddenly catching sight of the notes in the saucer. She reached across, and unfolded them. "Oh, look, Jean-Paul. Your friend's made a mistake. You'd better keep this

248 • SALLY BEAUMAN

for him. There's thirty francs here. . . ." She stopped. Jean-Paul's color had suddenly faded; he sat very still.

"His satchel," he said. "His satchel of books. Did he take it?" Isobel bent down. She straightened up with a smile.

"No—he's left that too. What a forgetful young man! Jean-Paul, you'll have to take it with us, and—"

She stopped. Jean-Paul was clasping her wrist. She saw his eyes grow round, bewilderment and disbelief on his face. Then the bomb in the satchel went off.

Edouard was in the car, on the far side of the square, when he heard the explosion. It was deafeningly loud; he felt hot air bum his face; the car veered across the road. In the equally deafening silence that followed, he looked up, and saw the dust, glass, debris, settle in slow motion. Then he was out of the car and running. He ran toward the remains of the cafe as everyone else ran away.