The Stallion (1996) (5 page)

They were curious, too, about the man she had married: a big, handsome Italian
seventeen years her senior,
a onetime championship race driver—number two in the world in 1963—now an automotive engineer. One of them was
playfully forward enough to ask Cindy if she’d been pregnant when she married him.

“No,” said Cindy. “But I am now.”

“Pretty good is he?” the woman asked.

“Shirley, with his brains, he’s an engineer. With his cock, he’s an artist. Every fuck’s a masterpiece.”

The husband of one of her sorority sisters told Angelo he had been at Sebring when Angelo climbed the wall and was burned. The husbands were interested in his new business. Some of them were with brokerage houses and could use competent industry analysis. He made friendships with these men, which would be useful to him as he built his business. One of them proposed him for membership in the University Club, and he joined and took many of his lunches there.

Cindy bought a Leroy Neiman lithograph. It was called
Sautatuck
and was an honest nude: a girl comfortably reclining with her legs apart, wearing one red stocking and one green. The owner of the gallery who sold it to her came to the apartment to help her hang and light it. She was heavily pregnant and did not want to climb on a ladder to install a spotlight in the track. When Angelo came in, that is where the man was: on the ladder.

“Angelo,” said Cindy, “I want you to meet Dietz von Keyserling—more formally, Dietrich von Keyserling. He sold me the Neiman.”

“I’ll shake hands when you come down,” said Angelo. “It would be something of a challenge to your balance, I’m afraid.”

He examined the lithograph and decided he liked it very much. Although the subject was decidedly immodest, the artist’s technique made it modest. It was erotic only in a restrained and subtle way.

Von Keyserling adjusted the light and came down. He was a tall, slender young man, about Cindy’s age, which was twenty-five, and he was handsome, though Angelo found him a little too … pretty. He was blond. His cheekbones were high and pronounced. His lips were full and a little redder than most men’s. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, a white cotton turtleneck, and crisply pressed gray slacks.

“It is very good to meet you, Mr. Perino,” said von Keyserling. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you drove a Porsche 908 in the Nürburgring in nineteen sixty-eight. I was there. I saw you drive, did I not?”

“You saw me,” said Angelo “It was in the twilight of my years. I managed not to slam a wall and nearly bum myself alive; but that was about all I accomplished that year.”

“He’s modest,” said Cindy. “He’s one of the great drivers, and he was still a driver the others feared in nineteen sixty-eight.”

“They called the 908 the Short-Tail, did they not?”

“You know something about racing,” said Angelo. “The 917 was faster but not handy, not maneuverable like the 908.1 loved that car.”

“You drove a number of marques. Was it your favorite?”

“Well, Porsche … Ferrari.”

“Brandy?” asked Cindy. “At this stage, I’m not having any, but that’s no reason why you two shouldn’t.”

The two men nodded their assent, and Cindy brought a bottle of Courvoisier and two snifters.

Angelo raised his brandy and saluted. “I am happy to have met you, Mr. von Keyserling.”

“Please. In America everyone calls me Dietz. I am Dietrich Josef Maximilian von Keyserling, but I enjoy American informality and like to be called simply Dietz. It is what my mother called me. I am, incidentally, Austrian, not German. From Vienna.”

“Dietz—okay. I’m Angelo.”

“Dietz and I have been talking about a business proposition,” Cindy said to Angelo. “If we can work out terms he might sell me a partnership in his gallery.”

“The terms,” said von Keyserling, “would be that we would work together. She is going to be a young mother, and I would not expect her to devote much time to the business at first. But as the gallery is now a sole proprietorship, I do not feel I can take a holiday. Cindy could cover for me when I need to be away, especially on buying trips in Europe.”

The young man spoke virtually flawless English, which he had obviously learned in England and which so far had been only slightly modified for the States. Occasionally a word or two betrayed him—as, “we would vork togedder.”

“I think both of you must look to lawyers for advice,” said Angelo. “A contract. And I don’t think a partnership is a good idea. You should incorporate the business and own shares.”

“Ah. I looked to you for good adwice.”

“I won’t object, of course,” said Angelo. He smiled. “As if I could.”

“I assure you, Angelo,” said von Keyserling, “I would not enter a business arrangement with your wife without your consent. I am maybe old-fashioned that way.”

First class or no first class, 747 or no 747, the flight to Tokyo was long, boring, and tiring. Now, on top of that, the taxi ride from the airport was going to take an hour and a half and cost maybe a hundred dollars. Japan would never be a tourist trap, Angelo judged. Just a trap.

He was in an evil frame of mind as he sat in the back of the little car and endured the ride. No wonder Chrysler had sent him first class.

That’s what they’d said: first class all the way. He was traveling for Chrysler, which had hired him as a consultant to visit Japanese automobile factories to see if he could discover how the Japanese manufactured automobiles that ran reliably and economically and required almost nothing more than scheduled service.

He had written in an automotive newsletter that the secret was quality control—

The last time I took delivery of an American-manufactured automobile (for charitable reasons, I’ll omit the name), the salesman handed me a small notebook and asked me to keep it in the glove compartment. “Just write down any problems you have,” he
told me, “and bring the car in after a month or so and get all the warranty work done at once.” When I went in after two months, the agency had to keep the car for three days to do the warranty work. The windshield leaked. It still does. The passenger-side door could not be locked and occasionally swung open. Sometimes the starter would not engage and just spun around without turning the engine. Gasoline consumption was outrageously high, the result, it turned out, of a leak from the carburetor. (Need I say what might have happened from gasoline dripping on a hot engine?) The wheels were out of line. The radio failed intermittently—and still does. When I drove through puddles on a rainy day, water dripped from under the dashboard and wet my shoes and socks.

The point is, this car had left Detroit with all these defects. It was not a lemon, particularly. Tens of thousands of car buyers report these and worse problems every year.

An American who buys a Honda takes it back to the dealer after six thousand miles to have the fluids changed and filters replaced. Usually that’s all it needs. Some Americans may think a Honda looks like a four-wheel motor scooter or a road-running power mower, but the car is built to standards of quality control American manufacturers do not match. The automotive industry in this country is losing billions of dollars on warranty repairs and will in time lose customers because its cars leave Detroit defective and not ready to give reliable service.

Chrysler wanted to know how the Japanese did it. Many reports had come back, most of them citing a native work ethic that could not be matched in American plants because the unions would never allow it. Chrysler wondered and sent Angelo Perino to Japan to find out.

When he finally reached his hotel, he quickly shifted to a better frame of mind. Service was complete, efficient, and obsequious. He was ushered to a luxurious suite on the eighteenth floor, from which he had a view of one quarter of the city and Tokyo Bay. The suite included a tiny kitchen,
where he found bottles of Johnnie Walker Black and Beefeater gin, also vermouth and beer. A card by the bottles read—

IT IS OF THE INNKEEPERS PLEASURE THAT ADDITIONAL
LICORICE GOODIES ARE AVAILABLE.

PLEASE TO TINKLE THE ROOM KEEPER.

Vases of chrysanthemums stood in each room, including the little kitchen.

The centerpiece of the bathroom was a sunken marble bath almost as large as a small swimming pool. It was exactly what he wanted. He loved Jacuzzis, and this bath promised strong jets from a strong pump. He downed one drink and carried another into the bathroom with him. The jets were as strong as he’d expected. He lay back in streaming, bubbling water and felt the tension go out of his body.

When he had soaked for ten minutes or so and was about to go to sleep, the bathroom door opened and a smiling little maid stepped in. She brought towels and more soap. She nodded and murmured something, maybe a word of apology, as she leaned across the tub to put the soap in its place. She was exquisite, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen. As she straightened towels on their bars, she laid a lingering and obviously appraising stare on his crotch. She smiled widely, bowed, and backed out of the bathroom.

Angelo shook his head and reached for his glass of Scotch, which by now was streaming condensation. He had been briefed on the protocol of dealing with Japanese businessmen and judged it would be taken as faintly less than courteous if he telephoned anyone on the day of his arrival. He decided he would go out on the Ginza early in the evening, then return to the hotel for dinner. The food in a place like this couldn’t be bad.

“Room service!”

Now what? Had he left the door unlocked, or had the maid done it? He switched off the water pump and reached for a towel. He didn’t have to let this one see him. She sounded more mature.

The bathroom door swung back.

It was Betsy!

“Turn the jets back on, Angelo,” she said. “There’s room in there for two.”

No matter that he shook his head and said no. In a quarter of a minute she was naked and in the water with him. She pressed the switch to set the jets streaming again and turned on the tap to bring in more hot water. Then she crawled up Angelo and kissed him so fervently that she brought blood to both their lips.

“The man I always wanted,” she murmured as she kissed his neck, his ears, and his eyes.

“How the hell—?”

“I read in
Automotive News
you were coming to Tokyo. I’m staying two floors down. I’ve been here a week and have traveled all over Japan. I’ll still be here another week after you leave. But for the next two weeks—”

“I’m going to be very busy.”

“If you’re too busy to come back to this hotel and sleep with me for two glorious weeks of nights, I’ll tell tales out of school. I’ll send back word that I’m here, that
we’re
here, together.”

“Betsy—”

“If you become the first man to turn me down, I’m going to conclude you are queer.”

“I don’t think I have to prove anything about that.”

She lifted his penis in her right hand. “At least I give you an erection. I guess you’re straight. So what’re you going to do, Angelo?”

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He’d only been married a year. He loved Cindy, and they had a baby boy. But Betsy … She was twenty-one years old, and she was perfect. “Well…,” he muttered.

“‘Well, what the shit?’ Is that what you’re thinking? Even on those terms I’ll take you. You know, I’ve spent a goddamned
fortune
to be here with you. Listen, this place has got great room service: Japanese food and American. Let me order for us. I’ve gained a little experience in the past week. You know from sashimi?”

“Raw fish,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“You never had it till you had it with Betsy van Ludwige sitting naked at the table with you.”

“I have a feeling…” He paused and drew a deep breath. “I’m not going to get you pregnant, Betsy. If you’re not on the pill, then—”

“I’m on the pill, damn it. I don’t want to get pregnant again right now, not even by you. Pregnancy is no damned fun, you know? It ruins your figure.”

He ran his hands over her breasts, which were still youthfully firm, even though she’d had a baby. “Didn’t ruin yours,” he murmured.

“Bingo! That’s the first affectionate thing you ever initiated with me. C’mon! Play with my titties. Put your fingers other places.”

“We can’t do it in the water,” he said. “Believe me.”

“We don’t have to do it this instant. Just make me feel good. Then, in a little while … Listen, I’ve got some delicious scandal for you. Guess what? Number One is not Anne’s grandfather!” She stopped to laugh. “He—”

“What are you telling me?”

“She’s his
daughter.
Before my grandmother—Sally—died, she told Anne that she and my great-grandfather had an affair, of which Anne, Princess Alekhine, is the result. Can you imagine that? That horny old bastard!”

“Not so old. He’d only have been in his fifties when Anne was born.”

Betsy shrugged. “Whatever.”

“How do you know this?”

“Anne told me. Number One tried to make her promise not to tell anyone, but she called me as soon as she got back to France. I was still in Amsterdam, tidying up, closing the house, and so on.”

“Does your father know this?”

“He does now. Want to hear a man choke on the telephone? Anne is not his sister. She’s his aunt. She figures she’s senior to him in the family.”

“I don’t imagine Number One sees it that way.”

“No. But Number One is ninety-five years old, and how he sees things isn’t going to count much longer.”

“Be careful, Betsy. He can do a lot of damage in the time he’s got left. If you and Anne have some kind of idea you can wrench anything out of his grasp…”

Betsy laughed. “All I want in my grasp right now is your cock, Angelo.”

Cindy switched off the television set and returned to the couch to sit down beside Dietz von Keyserling. They had just watched the announcement of the resignation of Spiro Agnew as vice president.

“I will never understand American politics,” said Dietz.