Heartsong (36 page)

She had noticed the tall dark figure standing at the bar when she returned from her encounter with the foolish young man who insisted that he was the son of the wealthiest tanner in Marseille. But what was that to her? She had probably been with the father a time or two. Besides, the idiot did not leave her a little extra—as was proper—on the top of the bureau, as her regulars did. But she had gotten her revenge. She had made him come by just guiding him into her a little too sensually, a caress here, a pull there. And it was over before she had to break a sweat.

She was tired but she was also afraid of Olivier, who had thrown more than one girl into the street for being less than enthusiastic. He was quite sweet and deferential to his customers but hard on the girls. Some of her coworkers suggested that he did not like women, even on a social level. They all knew he was a queer, that he often went to bed with one of his boys, but so what? Many of the whorehouse owners were that way.

She glanced toward the door and saw Gérard, who was helping a gentleman on with his coat. She saw him slip a franc note into his pocket with one hand as he dusted the man's collar with the other. He was at the door not only to greet and keep order, but also to keep an eye on the girls. One word from him and Marie would be walking the streets.

“Would you like to go with me, monsieur?”

T
he room was much smaller than Charging Elk had imagined. He had assumed, from the size of the parlor, that the bedrooms would be equally spacious. But there was barely room for a single bed, a bureau, a small armoire, and a washstand. And there was no window. The only light came from a small electric lamp with a beaded shade on the bureau. But it did cast a rosy warmth across the red bedspread. Except for the lamp and the bedspread, he thought this room was not much better than the stone room in the ironhouse. At least he had a window there, even if he could only see legs.

Charging Elk had already given the girl six francs, almost a week's rent, which she had handed to someone waiting just outside the door. The quick transaction made him a little wary, but then he heard footsteps walking away, down the dim hallway.

The girl took off her robe and hung it on a peg on the back of the door. She said something about his clothes and motioned toward a skeletal hall tree at the foot of the bed. A white mantle hung from one of the curved branches. Except for a small statue of the holy woman and an unadorned cross on the wall above the bed, it was the only sign of anything personal. Charging Elk wondered if this was her real room.

But he was beginning to understand what was about to happen, and the thought filled him with fear, excitement, and lust. He hadn't been with a woman in this way since the crazy woman out at the
Stronghold over four years ago. And she had been the only woman he had fucked. He felt a flush of shame come over him as he thought that the only two women he had been with had demanded payment of him. But he was now hard as he took off his clothes and hung them on the hall tree. He was as ready as he ever would be.

When he turned around the girl was looking at him, or rather at his cock. She seemed unperturbed as she leaned against the washstand. “Come over here,” she said, as she slipped a wash mitt over her hand and plunged it into the water in the basin.

It took Charging Elk only two steps to cover the distance, but in that space, he had what seemed to be a hundred different emotions, including wonderment and fear. He looked at her hair as she rubbed the mitt with a bar of soap. Again he smelled the lavender and he became almost faint. He leaned farther forward and sniffed the top of her head, breathing deeply as though to keep the fragrance in his nostrils forever, and then he felt the cold, soapy mitt on his cock. At first the touch was like the shock he felt when he used to flop naked in a runoff stream in Paha Sapa. It took his breath away and he almost withdrew himself from the mitt. But then the rubbing and squeezing of the hand inside the mitt, the slickness of the suds, the scent of lavender, excited him so much that he looked at the statue of the holy woman beyond the girl's hair to keep from embarrassing himself. He thought of many things, of the horse he had drawn for Chloe, of his own horse, High Runner, of the venomous snakes in the badlands, to take his mind off what was happening to him. He did not look down, for fear the sight of what she was doing to him would carry him over the precipice.

Finally the girl dried him with a thin towel and told him to lie on the bed. He glanced down at the narrow bed, then sat on the edge. A wave of nausea came over him and he felt dizzy and sick, as though he had drunk too much of the
mni wakan
. But the girl gently pushed him back until he was lying, helplessly, weakly, drunkenly,
on the hard mattress with his head wedged against the wall and his feet hanging over the other end. He watched the girl straddle him, and even in his weakened state, he was momentarily disappointed that she hadn't taken off the shift. He had wanted to see her breasts, perhaps even touch them. But that feeling disappeared into the ether when he felt her stubby hand grasp his cock, holding it upright, as she eased herself down. He felt her thick thighs on either side of his hips and he imagined the whiteness of them, like the thick cream Madeleine used to make sweet things. He was surprised by that thought, but by now his thoughts were jumping around like the green singers after a good rain. He had spent the past four years thinking without consequence and now his mind was running wild, images crowding one on top of another, as he felt the warmth of her sex pocket, slick and powerful, pulling and sucking his cock deeper inside of her.

He looked at her face, and at first she was looking down at him and he saw the depth of her large, brown eyes. It was the first time she had actually looked at him, looked into his own eyes. But soon she closed her eyes and moved her hips, first one way, then another, now fast, now slow, and she began to grunt, a series of grunts, a sound he had not heard before from a woman, and then he raised his hips off the bed and he felt his warm juice go out of him and into her, and she squalled abruptly, holding herself above him, then collapsed heavily on his lap, and he fell back and closed his eyes against the soft glow of the beaded lamp.

M
arie Colet sat at the large table in the kitchen, listening but not really hearing the other young women talk about the men they had been with the night before. It was just past noon and she was still half asleep, as usual.

“Look at my arms. And here—” The girl across the table, Aimée,
stood and lifted her robe.
“Voilà!”
she said, pointing to a bruise on the inside of her perfect thigh, her eyes dark with triumph.

“You should tell Olivier—or Gérard. These so-called gentlemen can't abuse us like this.”

“Humph. That would be like telling a monkey you don't like his fleas. Fat chance.”

“And now I have to go out and buy a new shift because he ruined my only good one. A judge, too. Can you believe it?”

“Pass the butter, Chantai. And do share those croissants. You're fat enough as it is.”

Marie absentmindedly stirred her
café crème
, although it was cold by now. She was more tired than usual and she thought she might be coming down with something. She almost wished it were so, because she had to work tonight. It would hardly be worth it. Sunday nights were the quietest of all, as the good bourgeois took a light meal with their families and prepared for the week ahead. The only men who came in were those who were too shy or wished to hide their identities. And they usually went with one of the boys in the back parlor. Just as well. The way they slunk around made her feel ill at ease.

Marie thought again about the tall dark man in the shabby clothes. She couldn't believe that Gérard had let him in, and even more astonishing, that he had chosen her and that she had gone with him. But it was her duty and the consequences would be grave if she started refusing customers.

She couldn't remember the last time she had been truly afraid of a man, and she hadn't been afraid of this one until he turned from the hall tree, naked and erect. He seemed so big and full of lust. She had hidden her feelings, of course—one had to in this business. But the massive dark body had filled her with apprehension. She could tell he hadn't had much experience with a woman, and perhaps that was what scared her. She hardly ever made a man lie down first,
unless he was so drunk that he needed working on. She could usually coax him up and then she could control him by being on top. But she was afraid of the dark uncertain mass of the man last night. One of the girls, just last year, had been found dead, and the rumor circulated among the others that her last customer had been a huge Levantine. Marie had thought this absurd, since Gerard did not allow them in. But now, she was not sure. The man last night was not a bourgeois.

But he had done something to her that almost none of the other gentlemen had—he had made her come. She smiled sheepishly to herself.

“What is it, Marie?”

“What is what?”

“I recognize that grin. You are holding a secret from us.” Aimée was looking at her like a cat.

“Have you found a patron, Marie?” Laurence was the youngest of the girls, barely older than Marie herself when she had first started.

“Of course not. Don't be absurd, you silly thing.”

As the girls went back to their complaints, Marie tried to figure out what about the dark man had excited her into an orgasm. He had done nothing really, except lie there like a statue with an erection, while she did all the work. She had done it hundreds of times over the past two and a half years and she had never succumbed to her own pleasure. She wouldn't allow herself. In that way, she could feel almost virginal—as though she were performing a duty, just as a scullery maid cleans up the kitchen or the factory girl sews women's dresses or men's shirts. She stirred the cold coffee and watched the thin film of cream swirl, then disappear into the caramel-colored liquid. It could be only one thing: her fear of him. Somehow that fear had at some point turned into an excitement she had not felt before.

But she was quite certain she would not see the man again. Just
as well. What he was doing in here in the first place was a mystery to her. Still, even now, sitting in the bright kitchen, listening to her friends gossip and complain, she could feel a pleasant heat that made her face flush and her arms tingle. And she somehow knew that she had nothing to fear from the tall gentleman—should he ever come to the whorehouse again. Perhaps he would. It was possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

C
harging Elk still didn't know much about love, its complications
, heartaches, and rewards, but he had learned enough to make life almost unbearable and yet worth the waiting. Ever since he had left the Soulases' home it seemed that most of his waking hours had been consumed with desire. And now that the girl in the blue wrapper had satisfied his desire once, he wanted more. Just thinking about her, the way she rode on top of his loins, the scent of lavender in her hair, her small square hands washing him, aroused him to a point of sweet agony. He thought about her constantly, riding the omnibus to and from work, shoveling coal into the flat furnaces, eating his lunch of bread and cheese, soaping himself in the bathhouse—his last thought at night was of her as he lay in bed.