The Painted Cage (16 page)

He shook her roughly by the shoulder, her eyes opened immediately. The rum tossed emotions in him. He stared down at her neck; the wide lace yoke of her nightdress was formless in the dark. A dim light showed the line of her cheek and an arm. It had been days since he touched her, since she had let him near her, anger splintered through him. There was only the dark and the rum in his head and the sound of her breath as he gripped her harder, pulling savagely at the buttons of her nightdress until it ripped and he felt the softness of her breasts to incense him further. He remembered the nakedness of O Yumi, stripped of her kimono, pale and thin as a silkworm or a child. And afterwards she had sat, splay-legged upon the floor, testing between her sharp little teeth each of the coins he dropped before her, slowly, one at a time.

Amy was slipping away; the thought drove him wild. The anger and rum and the thought of O Yumi's slight thighs, plucked hairless between as a plaster doll, burst together in his head. He pinned Amy down, kneeling over her, aware of his power as never before, aroused by the force he knew he must use to possess her as he wished. Her limbs were stiff and unsubmissive. He held her arms down so she could not fight. He heard as if detached from himself the sound of his own sudden laughter. The idea was suddenly there in his mind, like
a wet and gleaming stone. He had the power still to anchor her to him, there was no way she could deny him. Whatever she willed, her body would obey him. He would fill her with another child; she would not escape him then.

She was helpless then, beneath such purpose and a rage so devoid of desire. She felt she might suffocate under the hammering of his body that neither saw nor heard her. It seemed that with each stab he tried to reach a place within her he had never entered before. She remembered then, like a faded photograph, those occasions long ago when pleasure had overflowed within her thicker than disease. There was nothing between them but a hard and rhythmic thrust that went on without end. At last he rolled free and lay beside her, part of him still fully clothed, asleep as suddenly as in that moment she awoke.

There was blood upon her lip, her body was bruised and stripped open, her will smashed to fragments. For weeks she had battled each night to escape him,
sometimes
successfully, sometimes not, never willingly
submitting
to him. She knew where he went; night after night he slept beside her, the odour of flesh strong as an animal about him. The strange perfume of the women, musty as old flowers, left him sometimes to torment her. He
stumbled
back stupid and satiated yet never satisfied unless, still smeared with the juices of those women, he could pinion her in a last revenge, like a frail moth on a filthy needle. He would never touch her again, she vowed each time in the dark room. Now the anger beat in her as he slept, his mouth loose, pushed apart upon the pillow. It was as if in that moment she opened her eyes.

She sat up in bed to observe more clearly the strange line she had suddenly crossed. Her neck was sore where he had bitten her, her bones ached. It was as if her life had snapped like a narrow slat bridge and fallen away, leaving her on the edge of a gorge. She remembered again Reggie's strange laughter, hoarse and demented as at a killing in the moment he possessed her. She had wondered what strange fantasy he consummated in his
mind. Fear grew suddenly in her at the vulnerability of her body. What would she do if he had filled her already, unknowingly, with another child? She drew her knees up beneath her chin, as if to fend off the future. Her hands were stiff and cold. The first light illuminated the dull shapes of the furniture. In the oval looking-glass her face was ghostly and unmoving. She lay down in fear and did not sleep.

The morning thickened slowly to the colour of zinc, outlining the frame of a photograph upon a mahogany tallboy. The petals of a plaster rose grew firmer about the chain of the lamp hanging from the ceiling. Reggie still snored in haphazard octaves; a clock ticked. Amy listened to the silence, but it communicated nothing. Perhaps her fears were unfounded, and yet her own body could conspire with fate to turn contemptuously upon her. In an empty moment, in animosity, her body could still, against her will, stir to life another child. She pressed her lips together until they were hard and white.

Clouds moved quickly in dark, swift shadows over the hills. Between them the sun cut down in passages, like ladders from the sky. She was late; he might have gone. She pressed the pony faster. It was the fourth time she had come alone like this, up to the deserted teahouse to meet Guy le Ferrier. It was Reggie's fault she was late. He had returned for tiffin and afterwards stayed on
deliberately.
He watched her all the time. It was as if he knew she waited for him to leave. Then he had come into the bedroom where she had gone, saying she would rest, hoping her disappearance would hasten his departure to the Club. He had shut the door and come towards her purposefully.

‘Going out alone again?' he asked. She had drawn back on the bed, alarmed.

‘I'm meeting Mabel,' she replied. He only guessed, closing in on the truth, whittling away from a likely direction.

‘Cooper-Hewitt told me you were out alone. He saw
you. Who'd you meet? That Ferret? That youth Huckle, always round you like a prancing dog? Who is it? Who?'

‘I'm only meeting Mabel. Ask her. Send a chit right now,' she shouted. Mabel would cover for her. Reggie's eyes could not navigate his anger; a muscle danced on his jaw.

‘God help me, I could kill you.' He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her neck back violently until she cried out. Above her his face was scarlet with fury; his eyes bulged, his voice was hoarse.

‘Who is he? Tell me. I'll kill him too.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' He could do what he liked, she would never tell him.

Suddenly he stood back, his face hard. ‘You'll stay here. You'll not go out. Do you understand?' He adjusted his collar and straightened his sleeve. He turned abruptly and left, shutting the door behind him.

The room was full of echoes. As her agitation subsided something hard and inexpressible took its place. She waited until she heard him calling to a
rikisha
boy and the sound of metal wheels turning the corner, then dying. Shock still made her tremble; her thoughts jangled
stridently
in her head. She must think clearly. Guy le Ferrier waited. She would go.
She
was
going.
Reggie could not treat her like this.

There had been rain, the air was like damp flannel. The ground was soaked and soft under the pony's hooves, a breeze soughed through the bamboo grass. Wind pulled the shadows of clouds quickly across the hills. In the distance she could see the hut under the thick camellia trees. His horse was still there, he was still there and would be waiting with that lazy, enigmatic smile. Nobody followed her, she had made sure.

‘You're so late. I thought you would not come.' He took her hands and drew her to him. ‘What has happened? Why are you crying?' He touched her face lightly.

She shook her head, brushing her cheeks with the palms of her hands; her tears were those of anger. It was as if some terrible, destructive machinery had been wrenched into motion within her. Guy le Ferrier was all
sympathy for her tears, concerned to the right degree, as if he condescended to a child. The breath moved
resentfully
in her; she was in no mood to be diminished.

‘What is it?' said Guy. ‘You can tell me.' He sat her down on an old box, but she shook herself free, surprised at her indignation. She could not think, her mind moved too fast, crowded not with thoughts but with feelings.

His expression irritated her. When she had come in he was lounging, propped against the box, smoking an Egyptian cigarette. The hut smelled of its exotic odour. He had got up immediately to welcome her, slender, handsome, his voice persuasive. But his eyes remained distant, they observed, amused, with superior
knowledge.
The anger palpitated in her. He was a philanderer, indolently strolling his way through life, gathering women where he could, giving nothing of himself, loving no one but himself. He had fabricated a mechanized sincerity. He was free of all attachment and so of any commitment. She hated him suddenly as much as she hated Reggie. They both thought they could command her, Reggie to his use, Guy le Ferrier to his pleasure.

And what exactly his pleasure was, she was not in any way sure. She had met him here three times in an expectation that almost destroyed her. She found it
difficult
to understand the coolness with which he handled their friendship when she was aflame and lost in her mind to prudence or circumspection. It was not in her nature to impose a limit on the forces that propelled her. She arrived each time strung up by apprehension, unsure and yet unwilling to retreat, to deny herself experience. An experience that never happened and left her with the exhaustion of an anticlimax. She was confused. He only played, uncommitted to the disturbance of passion, a man who tasted but never ate. And yet for him she tore herself to shreds, lost sleep and appetite and sanity. And in return she could not arouse even purpose in his face.

Standing before him now she shrugged, brushing her wet cheeks, and gave a laugh. She had the right to her own experiences; they were not the property of others. Whether he wished it or not, philandering through her
deepest emotions, she needed the experience Guy le Ferrier could offer. It no longer mattered what he felt towards her. All she needed was the journey she had embarked upon in herself. She looked at him suddenly with a contempt she thought he deserved. She wanted to dissolve the expression on his face. And besides, there was no other way to destroy within herself Reggie's power over her. She would be the sole owner of herself.

Guy stood before her, his hand still upon her shoulder, his smile full of humorous, mocking inquiry. There was an effeminate grace about his features; he could have been a woman. She turned away from him, putting down her whip, taking off her gloves and hat. Guy watched her, drawing on his cigarette.

‘It is pointless to meet as we have. For what? To talk?' The voice she heard did not seem her own. Guy le Ferrier raised an eyebrow. It was as if she were two people, the actress and the audience, and she could see both views at once. Her fidelity, she thought, had never been the measue of her virtue but only of her limitation. She slipped off the jacket of her riding habit and folded it neatly beside her hat.

‘I do not understand,' he said, his voice soft and censorious in a tone she had not heard before. She looked up then and met his eyes. They held amusement but there was a coolness, as if his defences were undermined. She began slowly to unbutton her blouse. He watched her steadily, drawing on his cigarette, making no move. She almost stopped, her mouth dry, her pulse beating, but willed herself to go on, slipping the blouse off at last, then her skirt, until she stood before him in her petticoats and corset.

‘I told you, I will not harm you. Why are you doing this?' he asked brusquely, taking the cigarette from his lips.

‘Because I wish it.
I
wish
it
. Do you hear?' she whispered with a fierceness that seemed to encompass the whole of her body.

‘I do not make women like you my mistresses,' Guy said. ‘I do not want the consequences of jealous
husbands. I escape the nets of silly women like yourself. Have you no shame?' He asked her coldly. His expression was one she had never seen. She felt a wave of triumph.

‘I am not interested, I do not want you. There are other women for
that
,'
he said. She thought he was going to turn away, but he still stood stiffly before her.

‘Then why did you meet me here? Why did you suggest it?' she asked.

He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘It is pleasant, to know you can make a pretty woman
reckless
,
is that not the word?'

‘Well, I'm not like other women. Do you understand?' she hissed at him, furious now.

‘One woman is all women, all women are one to me,' Guy le Ferrier said softly, blowing smoke into the room.

‘I'm not for dangling at the end of a string once in a while between tiffin and cards.
Do
you
understand
?' she answered, anger sweeping through her.

‘Do you know what you're saying, what you're asking?' he inquired, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out on the floor with his toe.

‘Yes. And there are no consequences. I want nothing from you but what we have together in this wretched, dirty hut.' She was emphatic, impatient suddenly for him to touch her, for she knew he would now, she was sure.

‘And if I refuse?' he asked with a sarcastic smile. She had no answer then, and the hesitation showed in her face like a change of light upon the sea. She bit her lip in irritation. Then, slowly, meeting his eyes she took his hand and placed it upon her breast.

‘Well,' said Guy ‘if you understand, why should I refuse? Certainly, you're different from other women.' He pulled her to him then.

His hands passed over her body, he pushed down the top of her camisole, freeing her breasts. Her mind was full of the thought that the man who touched her was not her husband. Guy fondled her breasts abstractedly, as if reluctant to pass on. It was as if he hesitated.

‘Come,' she said and settled herself upon the floor,
lying back, bold and unafraid. She closed her eyes waiting for the pleasure she remembered to flood her body again.

There was the discomfort of the floor and the smell of the dirty, ragged straw mats; a hard joining pressed into her back. A sparrow flew in through a broken window and fluttered about, its wings beating frantically, its claws like bits of curled pink wire. Beyond the torn paper
shutters
the light was diffused and grey. It seemed strange that she could observe these details in the midst of an act of such wickedness. It was strange too that she could not seem to feel the intensities she had expected. All those terrible, dark and beautiful feelings Reggie had stirred in her so long ago, which she now expected to return to make her escape from him all the more pleasurable, would not be summoned on demand. Her body would not obey her. It was as if guilt stretched a barrier in her. But the emotion that was free, and could not be contained, was the satisfaction of what with each second she was destroying between Reggie and herself. And the
gratification
that gave her was as intense as any she had known.