by
Elaine Dundy
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Compared with the slim hard-bodied young men his figure was a joke—round, tubby, pillow-paunchy, it had the consistency of foam rubber; rolling around with him was like rolling around with some big beach toy. But he flung himself into it with a devotion that was disarming. A tyrant on his feet, he turned out to be a real woman-worshipper in the sack. And subtle too. And full of tricks. He knew a trick or two, that one. And then it turned out I knew a trick or two I didn’t even know I knew. He could play a whole jazz concert on me. When we were finished we were covered, absolutely covered with each other. And yet I was never surprised at finding myself, six or seven hours later and in my own bed, in real trouble, seized with a shuddery revulsion of shame and disgust. How could I have? All those things. And with that fat old monster? And on top of everything—who was using whom? The original idea had been to enslave him for ever with my womanly wiles but rather the opposite seemed to be happening. For in spite of those sixth- and seventh-hour shudderings at the ghastly unnaturalness of the liaison, in spite of the painfully sharp recollections of my slender, delicate, gloriously young body stretched out alongside his vast old bulk—I am still at a loss to explain it—but in spite of all this—not once was I able to resist him in the flesh.
“Hey—not so fast! I haven’t had a square meal all day. Remember?”
“My dear. Of course. How unfortunate. I told my couple they could have the weekend off so I don’t suppose there’s a thing in the house. Still, if you’d like to forage.”
“No I would not,” I said firmly. “I mean I know English Sundays are hell and all that but there must be some place open for dinner.”
He looked doubtful. “Let’s see ... Air terminals ... Railway stations.”
lol
The English postal service is one of the glories of its nation. You cannot go into a drugstore for some popular brand of toothpaste without being told they’re sorry it’s on order and will only take ten days. You have to face the fact that certain telephone exchanges are ungettable from certain other ones without begging the operator to intercede for you (KNIghtsbridge and MAYfair weren’t on speaking terms when I was there). Laundry or cleaning might take anywhere from three weeks to three years. But mail is delivered regularly, sometimes four times a day. Londoners think nothing of posting their letters in the morning for their friends to read at tea-time. And their families in Manchester can contact them by the same method in the evening.
So there I was, sprinting back for every post. My morning sleep shot to hell. And all in the name of justice.
heh
We went to three night-clubs in quick succession. They were sad and sleazy and awful in a way I’d never quite come across before. It was the sadness mainly. The what-went-wrong look on the waiters’ faces as they stood staring bewilderedly at an empty room most certainly on the brink of bankruptcy. One thing that went wrong was the night-club comic with his hair too long and combed all funny singing “There’s no business like Shoe Business” to “There’s no business like etc.,” and doing impersonations of King Kong falling for a butterfly. Another wrong thing was the young man with a guitar who sang dirty Scottish ballads about goats sleeping with women (Trad.). Another was the girl in tights with a stocking cap pulled down over her eyes and ears who did a totally inexplicable dance with the lights out, mostly writhing on the floor. And lastly, the audience—a sprinkling of debs and their escorts who jeered and hurled pennies on the stage as the acts progressed—they were awfully wrong. It was discouraging. How was I going to get C. D. hooked on this dissolute way of life—let alone how was I myself going to bear it? How was I going to keep him out till dawn every night, exhausted and spent and running downhill until the final—what?—how about a heart attack?—would carry him off? What I had in mind was some divine little boîte that had good jazz and a sensational entertainer; one that was dark, smoky, and unhealthy and served rot-gut strong enough to melt the mind, rip out the lining of the stomach, explode the liver, and curdle the kidneys. Or, if that was too much to ask, at least a place interesting enough to keep him up late. He went to bed much too early. They all did in London. I never saw such people for leaving each other’s houses at the stroke of midnight.
The fourth night-club was a strip-tease joint. I got us out of there even faster. I wasn’t going to have him going around with erotic images other than my own on his mind if I could help it. The fifth—an enormous one—had not only tumblers but ice-skaters and a ventriloquist. We left during the juggling act.
lolll
And out we went. They took us to a small jazz club with a very good quartet and I observed with pleasure that it was not only small and crowded but very hot which meant good pneumonia possibilities. I made a note of its name.
“So am I.” More heavy breathing. “When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good. What airline?” His voice sounded strangled.
“It’s the B. E. A. seven-something-or-other. Wait a sec. Seven-one-five.”
“I’ll meet you at the airport.”
“That’s awfully sweet of you but why bother?”
“Because I’m in a hurry.”
“In a hurry? Why, where are you—”
“My God,” he exploded, “do you understand nothing of lechery? See that you’re on that plane.” And abruptly he hung up.
Well, I thought. Well, well.
To be flung upon a bed—clothes pulled up, clothes pulled down, clothes pulled off every which way—to be the uniquely needed object of a passion so strong that early on it passes you to go soaring endlessly off into an undreamed-of blue infinity. Isn’t that what every woman wants to experience at least once in her life? Not her own fulfilment, not her own orgasm, delicate or lusty, but to be the conducting rod, the spring board from which rises this awe-inspiring fanatical motion. There was no question of my joining him that particular afternoon or even joining in. I must say he presented an interesting if rather alarming sight as I watched him reaching reaching reaching, his hair all mad and awry, his face bright red, veins standing out with strain, his breath fast, his mouth open and aghast. I lay very still, very soft, very open while his heart pounded and his sweat poured over me and finally believed what I had never believed before. That it could kill you. And, lovingly, I wished that he had died like that. I wish he had died that way.
Presently he sat down and gave it to me straight: His high blood pressure. The highly excitable, exciting nature of the life he was leading with me wasn’t good for it. Frankly, it kept his bowels in an uproar, it led to indigestion, it would lead, unless the utmost care was taken, to a recurrence of that awful amoebic dysentery of some five years past. Then: his wretched, wrenched knee-cap (when was that? —oh yes, that day we went to look at the Rolls and he fell out of the car). It was causing him to limp, which was throwing his spine out of line, and this was promoting—any minute now—a slipped disc. How beautifully organic his troubles grew, one out of the other! Executing a stunningly graceful arabesque he managed to connect his hacking morning cough with his split lip (pulling tobacco off it after the cigarette-shooting incident) and banged fingernail (forgotten how). Oh dear—how could one not feel sorry for him? It would be only doing the decent thing to leave him alone for a spell, to turn him out to pasture and let him graze there peacefully awhile before the big push. Passionately, plaintively, pathetically he continued, delving deeper and deeper into the sources of his illnesses, looking so romantically awful that particular day, enfolded in his skin rather like a sick turtle, that even though I was not always attending closely I was relenting; my heart was melting. Then with a jolt I caught something he said. For two weeks now he had felt his hands too unsteady to trust himself shaving—he had given himself some fearful gashes with the razor (a frisson went through me at the great opportunity missed: a slice through the jugular vein and wouldn’t that have done it just!) and had therefore been forced to employ the daily services of Bunty Suffolk’s special barber. So for two whole weeks he’d been throwing away my good money on luxurious kicks for his private pleasure. That was a spine-stiffener.
omg lol
“The nights were drawing in,” he sighed, “another sad winter coming on. Those womb places, it was all new to me. I liked the new womb places you took me to, their darkness and smallness as much as the youth and the excitement and the clutter. I reached for the truth in those places and it seemed I could see a little in the dark sitting in those places and thinking, at last I can see a little in the dark. And then, stronger—but I can see it in the dark! At last I can see it in the dark.” His voice died away.
“What? See what?”
“My end,” he said gently, suffering no longer. “In a dark night-club with sad music and enough to drink. Watching my girl, so beautiful, so graceful, so contemporary—dancing—knowing she’ll come back with me at the end of the evening. One gets tired of the coldness of life, of the darkness of winter, of the jagged edges of everything. That’s an old man’s tale, tired and baffled. What was it I once wanted? I forget. It’s an awful thing to reach the age of fifty-six and still not know who you are.” He lifted himself up and began coughing, turning red. After a while he subsided. “And there you were trying to do me in,” he went on almost cheerfully, “and I just went along with it. You don’t know how it touched me seeing you want that money, need the money that I had once needed and never would again. It is divine justice,” he said more gravely, “fair payment for Pauly’s poor death. My life for poor Pauly’s. Odd, the guilt only began with having you around; feeling your hungry desperate claim. I didn’t want to live. I wanted you to destroy me.”
“Not at all. Simply another use for my money. Protection money so I don’t have to spend the rest of my life worrying about you sticking pins in my image.”
“How did you find out about that?” I asked startled.
He gave me a really terrible look. “What?” he roared. “This is the last straw,” he thundered. “Out, out, OUT!” He had risen large and looming, filling the room with his fury, pointing a chubby finger theatrically towards the drawing-room doors. And I jumped up cringing, little Eva turned out into the storm.
lmao