Heartsong (40 page)

Why didn't she leave? He couldn't understand why she wouldn't just leave. But he was more angry with himself for not having the guts to ask her to go with him—home to his flat. And he felt ashamed for not even being able to ask her to go for a walk or to a café. He knew the words to ask her out of that place. He just didn't have the guts to utter them. He had become a coward since he left the Stronghold. It pained him to think that as a youth he had taunted the miners in the Black Hills, stolen from them, sneaked down to Pine Ridge at night to visit his parents even though he knew if the
wasicuns
caught him, they would send him away. He hadn't been afraid of anything in those days. He had lived as he imagined the old-time Oglalas lived, fearing nothing, risking everything for the sake of adventure. Now he was afraid of the smallest obstacle, the smallest pebble in the road.

Charging Elk laced up the brown shoes, stood, and shuffled into his freshly pressed suit coat. He checked his hair in the mirror. He had taken to wearing it in a bob in back, folding it under and tying it with a blue ribbon, much like the one on the cameo. Marie would take the cameo from her dresser and he would tie it around her neck. For some reason, the fact that both of them would be wearing blue ribbons excited them. It still stunned him when he thought of how she would wiggle and whisper beneath him, slapping his flanks with her thighs, until she began the now familiar grunting that led to a loud, startling keen that inflamed his ears and his cock at the same time and he would feel himself rushing into her with an agonizing grinding that left him almost senseless with pain and ecstasy.

B
ecause it was too early yet for his appointment with Marie and because it was a warm evening in early April, the Moon of the Red Grass Appearing, Charging Elk decided to stop at Le Royal for an anisette. He hadn't been there for many moons—since the hot summer
—and he wanted to see the old waiter. Or rather, have the old waiter see him in his suit and bobbed hair.

But a young waiter, with black hair slicked down from a central part and a thin mustache that curled up on the ends in the latest style, served him. The waiter seemed confused by the large, dark man in the fine suit and starched shirt and at first didn't understand what Charging Elk was asking. What did he mean?

Finally Charging Elk was able to say, “Your predecessor, the old waiter, my friend.”

“Ah, you mean Lachaisse. Of course.” The waiter set the anisette before Charging Elk. “But he is long gone.”

“Where?”

“They say he went to live with a sister in Arles or Nîmes. Since last fall.” The waiter tore off a piece of paper with a number on it and left it on the table. “Was he really a friend of yours?”

Charging Elk looked off toward the ships resting in the harbor. In the warmer weather, the smells of offal mixed with the brine were already sharp in his nostrils. He had never known the waiter's name, Lachaisse. “An old friend,” he said, and he felt bad for having stopped coming to Le Royal.

A
t first, Breteuil was shocked more than anything else. Usually he never stood at the bar in Le Salon. He loathed the kind of men who came here. Ironically, they were the same kind of men who made his restaurant the most exclusive in Marseille. But Breteuil, arrogant as he was, considered himself apart from the
haute bourgeoisie
—inferior in his upbringing but superior in his refinement. These were the kind of men who drank too much wine and treated his food as though it were the meanest of peasant fare, meant to plug up that empty hole in their guts so they could swill more wine. Of course, he did have patrons who waited for a month or more to pay
homage to his creativity. These were the ones he toasted as he emerged from the stifling kitchen, only slightly disheveled, and made his round of the tables. He barely acknowledged pigs like the ones that surrounded him now in Le Salon. He usually went through to the back parlor, to the beautiful Miguel, a young Spaniard, who eagerly accepted Breteuil's lavishments of affection. Today, he was waiting for a cutlery salesman from Paris, who insisted on meeting here so he could kill two birds with one stone.

But the tall dark one sitting with the dark-haired whore had intrigued him. Although he was very exotic, there was something familiar about him. Was he an entertainer of some sort? A strongman perhaps? An actor? He was very handsome in a crude, almost fearsome way. Breteuil had seen that face before—the slitted eyes, the high cheekbones, the thin lips that were now curled into a faint smile as the whore talked to him. But what was he doing in here? Breteuil looked around him. Except for a light-skinned redheaded man and the beautiful transvestite with the short blond hair, all the men looked pretty much alike—mustached or bearded, impeccably clothed, young or old, all alike. He even recognized a judge, an officious whippet, who often entertained large parties at the restaurant. And a marquis who had sold his title but still insisted on the appellation.

Breteuil took a sip of his champagne, then turned his back on the room, but he could still see the dark man in the bar mirror s reflection. Why would Olivier let such a strange creature into his establishment? Unless he was famous. Or rich.

He watched the man stand, then assist the whore to her feet. Such manners. And for a slut—not very pretty at that. The man looked even bigger now that he was on his feet. Breteuil turned and watched the two walk toward the back room, the whore in the lead. Such shoulders. Such a slender waist. The man turned slightly to slip between the red velvet drapes. He glanced back toward the bar,
a casual glance, and Breteuil almost gagged on his champagne. He did spill a bit on his lapel but he didn't notice. He was shocked. Something in that backward glance, the eyes that did not seem to really see anything, had jolted Breteuil as though he had been struck with one of his own tenderizing mallets. He stared at the velvet drapes for a moment; then he beckoned to the bartender.

“That big, dark man—do you know him?”

The bartender looked around the room, his mouth open with curiosity.

“He just went back with one of the whores.” Breteuil thought the man looked stupid, but surely he couldn't mistake whom he was talking about. There was, or had been, only one man of that description. “Come on, man.”

The bartender lifted Breteuil's glass and wiped the bar. “You mean the big fellow with the squinty eyes. Don't know him. He comes in here every Saturday night about this time. Goes upstairs with the same girl. Marie. Kind of unusual-looking, eh? A Turkoman maybe. Don't know.”

Breteuil didn't bother to answer. He knew who the man was, had in fact thought of him quite often. What was it—three, four years ago? He remembered the man's handshake, oddly limp for such a powerful hand. He remembered looking him up and down and thinking how dangerous—and desirable—he looked. He was the miserable little fishmonger's helper, the Peau-Rouge who had been in the Buffalo Bill Wild West show and had somehow been left behind. As the memories came back, Breteuil felt almost faint with excitement. The Peau-Rouge had helped the chef load his fish onto the cart. He had accepted a cigar. In an unguarded moment, he had looked right into Breteuil's eyes and made him look away. Breteuil had never looked away before—or since. He knew that he was quite beautiful and that men and women alike looked at him with admiration, often desire. He enjoyed staring their eyes away,
so that they became confused and suddenly shy. He enjoyed his power to humiliate them, especially if they were with their friends. But this Peau-Rouge had looked into his eyes as though he could see the very soul of Armand Breteuil.

Breteuil pushed his champagne glass toward the bartender, who had been watching him. He too was impressed by the pale, slender man's fine looks. “Areyou all right, monsieur?” He poured the glass full, let the bubbles die down, then poured again.

“Of course,” Breteuil snapped, not looking up. “Leave me.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Where was that damn cutlery salesman? He wanted to do business, then get out of there. Already some men were gathered around the piano player, singing a martial song.

Charging Elk. Soulas had pronounced the name so proudly. My new helper. Breteuil remembered with some satisfaction that he had almost stolen Soulas's new helper away that very first morning. And he might have done so, if he had known what to do with him. Charging Elk was so helpless then, so vulnerable. Breteuil was almost certain, given the right circumstances, he would have come with him. Like a lost puppy. Charging Elk. What could such a name mean?

Breteuil was so lost in his memories of that dark morning four years ago that he didn't notice the light touch of a hand on his back. He hooked his spectacles over his ears, glancing at himself in the mirror—he was afraid he had been noticeable in his uncharacteristic behavior—and he saw the plump face of Olivier gazing sideways at him. He had been noticed! Angrily, he said to the mirror, “What do you want, Olivier?”

Olivier stepped back half a step. “Just to say hello, Armand,” he stammered. “To ask after your health, my friend.”

“There is nothing wrong with my health, and it is not a particularly good evening, thank you.”

“But what are you doing out here?” Olivier lifted his hand and swept the room with it. “Normally you do not stop here, I think.”

“Tonight is not normal. I am being stood up by a cutlery salesman who wants to sell me knives and fuck your girls all at once. Can you imagine?” Breteuil meant being stood up.

But Olivier misunderstood. “One can sell and one can fuck—but not at the same time. There is a time and a place for everything, but one must use a little common sense.”

Breteuil turned and glanced down at the pathetic little man in his ruffled shirt and expensive scent, his plastered-down thinning hair and slim mustache low on his lip. He couldn't believe that they had once been lovers. But he had been poor then and Olivier had been infatuated with him. Still was. This thought cheered him up a little, and he said, “And you, Olivier, are you prospering?”

“As you can see, Armand,” Olivier said, turning to survey the room, “my girls are the loveliest in town.” He smiled up at Breteuil, his narrow mustache twitching. “My boys are not so bad either, eh?”

Breteuil suddenly hated Olivier. Although they both liked their boys, Olivier was a common pederast, whereas he, Breteuil, was capable of a purer, higher-minded kind of love, one more consistent with his artistic temperament. He considered the six francs he paid for Miguel more an expression of his largesse than a pimp's fee. He also knew that he had no time to make assignations on his own—he spent six days a week at his restaurant, all day, from buying the fish and meat and vegetables in the morning to cooking until eleven at night. Most nights he got only four or five hours of sleep. Still, it would be nice to have somebody he could spend all day Monday with. Even at that, he jealously guarded his day off from all intruders, preferring to sleep, to walk, to read, to sleep some more. Even though his restaurant was a great success—the cutlery salesman had promised to bring an article from
Le Figaro
in Paris, which had
listed La Petite Nani (named after his grandmother) the best restaurant in all of Provence—Breteuil was not a happy man. Lately he had been yelling at his sous-chef and his waiters, even his busboys. He controlled all aspects of his restaurant, and that is why it was the best. But he would have to slow down, to relax, or he would burst something inside of him. Already, for the past three weeks, he had been troubled by a gnawing in his gut, a burning sensation that made it difficult to even taste his own dishes.

Breteuil sighed, then smiled at Olivier. “I was noticing one of your girls—a bit chunky, dark hair, a blue wrapper, I think—she was with a man just a moment ago. She reminds me of someone.”

Olivier looked back—there were at least twenty to thirty men and six or seven of his girls. He had twelve girls in all, and all of them were working on this Saturday night. Suddenly, his eyes brightened. He enjoyed doing favors for Breteuil. “Ah, you mean Marie. Yes. Not very elegant, but healthy. Some men like them that way.”