Man Who Was Late (17 page)
Authors: Louis Begley
The water, when he finally reached it, was studded with those enviable brown bodies standing knee-deep and splashing. Farther out, more brown bodies were streaking beach-ward on their surfboards. Others were paddling out in search of the perfect wave. No one was swimming. That was, he realized, because the waves were even bigger than they looked from his window or from the outer edge of the beach. But if he could judge by the color of the water, they broke where the water was already deep. He decided he would chance it; unless his head was torn off by an errant surfer, he would be all right. He swam steadily until he had passed the last surfboards. Then he turned to rest and admire the view of the bay. Seen from the water it was as glorious as he had expected, green until the beach, then white, then green again where the mountains began above, the sky blue with little round clouds. He also noticed that, instead of the waves carrying him back toward land as he had expected, a current was taking him out to the open sea. Niterói lay far to the north. That was not where he was drifting; except for tiny islands farther in the bay there was nothing he knew of between him and South Africa. He remembered being told that a long pipe spews out Copacabana sewage some distance away from the beach; treated sewage that, in any case, is harmless to bathers due to offshore currents. Was this one of those currents, how far was the end of the pipe, did sharks gather at its outlet? He began to swim toward shore, abandoning the crawl in favor of a dogged breaststroke, trying to keep, as he had been taught one must, on a line oblique to the current so as not to fight its full force. Possibly he was
making progress; at any rate, he was no longer being pushed back. Except for the thought of sharks, which he tried to keep out of his consciousness, he began to feel great awe and rejoicing. What if he tired and drowned: Could it happen in a setting that was more paradisal? A small corner of the curtain that hides the unhoped-for life to come was being lifted. He had always liked to leave parties on the crest of the wave, when the dance floor was still crowded, before early morning fatigue decomposed the faces of the hosts. This would be just such an exit. He thought about Pedra Branca, his office in Paris, Madame Duhot, and his apartments. Except for Véronique, his affairs were in perfect order, and even Véronique’s problems, especially if she did not in the end mind remaining with Paul, were bound to be eased by this exotic accident: the messy questions about life with her could remain without an answer. He had once told his father that he felt a tropism toward death. The old lawyer had laughed and replied that he had it in common with all forms of life. Perhaps that was so; at least he acknowledged it gratefully. This would be the ultimate extinction of his family; there would be no more pyrotechnics staged by Ben for an audience of one; his well-cared-for body had but a single task to perform before it was set free. He turned and began a lazy but perfect crawl in the direction of the unknown. That was the way; in a while he would reach the point of no return.
He did not know how much time passed before he began to meet resistance, a force stronger than the one before, when he was swimming for the beach. He understood that he had drifted into another, rapid and colder current that was taking
him this time toward land, probably to the limit of the Copacabana Beach, where a small fort ended its perfect curve. Was this a sign? He would let the current and his own endurance decide. Without breaking the rhythm of the stroke, he aligned his body with the current.
He staggered out of the water just ahead of the rocks, at the very end of the beach. The afternoon had turned pigeon gray. Some boys playing soccer shouted at him. He shook his head and waved his hand at them uncomprehendingly. Then he saw the ball at his feet. He kicked it in their direction. They shouted at him again. Keeping to the edge of the water, where the sand was hardest, he began the long walk back to the hotel. Neither his shirt nor towel were at the place where he thought he had left them. Except for the volleyball players, the beach was very quiet. Ben combed his hair with his fingers, carefully brushed the crust of sand off his ankles and feet, and crossed the street. The man who handed out towels to guests was still in the doorway at the pool. Ben took one, wrapped it around his shoulders, and went into the lobby of the annex. Messages were waiting for him, from van Oppers and Rawlson about dinner arrangements. Ben asked the concierge to call and say that he was detained in town and would not return in time to join them. When he reached his room he saw his letter to Véronique and rejoiced that he had written it: it did not read like much of a love letter but it was fair; as fair as he knew how to make it. He hoped she would not be put off by his candor; he would have to take that risk. Rapidly, he scribbled a note, called the floor waiter, and asked him to put the note and the letter in the mailbox of the Frenchman leaving for Paris, and to return with tea and a double scotch.
Excerpts from a Notaben (undated and unnumbered)
Carvalho wakes me from a sleep like death. I don’t know how long the telephone had been ringing. He says, Come to my place, we are having a party. The dentist I told you about is here.
Is this a dream? I look at my alarm clock: ten-thirty. Morning? Night? The curtains are drawn. Meanwhile Carvalho keeps talking, telling me he is in the company suite, two floors up, they have food, he knows I have not eaten. Now I remember the dentist: a German who settled in Rio soon after the war. Made Carvalho’s front teeth. Knows everybody. In the background people are laughing over the sound of samba. My voice sounds like hell when I answer. I say I have a headache and need a bath. If I feel better, I will be up.
My face is beet red in the bathroom mirror. Reflection of the sun during all that time, I guess, even though I swam with my face in the water. I make the bath hot, because I still feel a chill, and pour in all the oils and gels I can find to fix my skin. Eventually I feel better and very hungry, so why not go to Carvalho’s? One never knows what to wear in Rio: an open shirt and blue jeans or one’s best dark suit. I decide on the former and soon knock on his door.
Large living room, larger than in my suite, with a giant television. Very brightly lit. I see four, maybe five, young women, girls really, young and blond,
some men who must be Americans according to their girths and haircuts (judgment confirmed first by their speech and then by introductions; chemical-engineer types working for Rawlson or Carvalho), an older woman in black with unnatural anthracite hair, and Carvalho himself talking to a man who must be sixty, very sharp in a blue silk outfit. This must be the dentist. I approach and shake hands. Dr. Willi knows all about me. We get onto New York café society, and again he knows everyone. There isn’t a single old biddy whose bridgework he hasn’t fixed. Hauls out a pale lizard wallet to show me the X ray of Mary Lasker’s jaw! I laugh and ask if he is in love with her. Quick as a wink, he tells me he is no Hans Castorp, ha! ha! ha! So nice we both like high literature, not true? Wants to look at my teeth and gums. I almost bite his hand, but not before he observes the inflammation of the lower right quadrant. I don’t know how this gets us on the subject of the war, but as I eat my cold roast beef he tells me he was with the Wehrmacht on the eastern front and was lucky to be taken prisoner by the Americans near Salzburg, after the retreat. Then got to Brazil via Trieste. I inform him of my presence on the same front, in a manner of speaking, and we examine that subject and its effect on the formation of our respective characters dispassionately—as he puts it, like men of the world.
Carvalho has left us. Probably bored by ancient history. I ask Dr. Willi who are the bimbos and the
dame des toilettes
. Even as we converse, my
consciousness of the minuteness of their dresses in relation to their busts, posteriors, and thighs has been growing, unchecked. Ah, he says, they are my little protégées, he says, good German girls from the state of Rio Grande in the south, near Porto Alegre. He goes on to explain that there are whole towns where nothing but the language of the Führer is spoken, so that’s where he finds them, that’s how he is able to introduce them to his special patients and friends.
Scales fall from my eyes. It’s the stars. In my life, sex and dentistry are to be inextricably allied.
There is one I know will be just right for you, the Doctor continues. Allow me.
A gesture and she stands before me, smiling. A picture postcard from Tyrol, curly haired and blue eyed. Her name is Lotte. The old pander is right. I like her. How long is it since I left Paris? I think I will faint if I touch the skin on her arm. The details of her costume sink in: her particular miniskirt is flared—rayon, green leaves and yellow flowers on a background of white; she is wearing a poor little girl’s white sweater, washed many times over and very clean. It buttons down the front. Herr Doktor points to a love seat. Sit down, he says, and get acquainted.
We do as told and right away she curls up so that her knees are pressed against my legs. I watch the blond, almost white, baby down on her thighs, knees, and calves. Before I realize what I am doing, I stroke her thigh. Since in the act I lean over her, she opens
her mouth for me to kiss. It is very wet. She has a large, unhurried tongue. If I come, she will see the stain spread, and I almost want her to; it will be my homage. Instead, although my heart is pounding, I recover enough to break the kiss and try conversation. She laughs at my kitchen Spanish. German works better; the sort of things I want to say about her eyes, lips, etc., can still be managed. It turns out she speaks clearly, in German and in Portuguese. I am now touching her freely. She has maneuvered so that her forearm is on me.
We are interrupted. It’s Carvalho, the Doctor, and Carvalho’s men. They have a tape measure and want to get the dimensions of Lotte’s breasts. I see that the other girls are already topless. It seems to be a competition. They ask if I want to do the measuring. I leave it to the Doctor; he is a scientist. Lotte’s nipples stiffen under his touch. Chairs are pulled up in a semicircle before us. Some of the girls sit down also. We are all drinking
pinga
and crushed lime. It’s deadly. I get Lotte to button her sweater and put my arm around her. How sweet, exclaims the
pipi
-room matron, little lovebirds—like an engaged couple!
A lapse of time, during which I notice nothing because Lotte is kissing me. Her breasts burn holes in my shirt. Then she stops and says it’s terrible, she will never do it, not even with me. I look where she is pointing. One of the girls, now quite undressed, has broken out of the other room, followed by Carvalho, the engineer, and the Doctor. She and
Carvalho are screaming at the
pipi
-room lady. The engineer is complaining in English, so I begin to understand. When the Doctor joined him and Carvalho on the girl, it hurt. She is willing to go back with two, but not three, and that’s what they do.
The pool is lit. Around it, shadows numberless. Emerald waves when Lotte dives in. She is a good swimmer. I think I see the triangle of her hair when she turns. Back and forth, back and forth, there is no reason why she should ever stop. Carvalho’s men are making too much noise. Drunken giggling. Soon, some guest will call the reception to complain, but not yet; no light switch has been turned; the windows look on blindly. The Doctor tells me he takes care of these girls’ mouths. Doesn’t make them pay—couldn’t afford to, anyway. He assures me they are clean: like young cows. A good mouth means good digestion.
Lotte is at the metal ladder. I rush to her side with a tablecloth I have snatched from our table. Don’t want the others staring through verdurous glooms. At once, she enters my mouth.
The Doctor reproves me for having covered her. It’s foolish, he says, running his hand over her shoulder. You are treating her like a debutante. She is here for the guests to share. You leave Rio tomorrow. She will be coming to many parties.
I know that, but something is tugging wildly at my heart. An absurdity. Until the thing is consummated,
where is the difference between a virgin and a whore? I pull Lotte to her feet. While she staggers in her high heels, looking for her bra, her comb—I see that her worn-out pocketbook is broken—the laughing Doctor and I shake hands. Then, cautiously, up the back stairs, I lead Lotte to my room. Private policemen with truncheons watch over the dignity of my part of this hotel. I don’t want to tangle with them.
She likes papaya, and coffee with milk and sweet rolls. She is very clean. The Doctor is right. Her mouth is fresh like a mountain source. I am inside it when the phone rings. A woman’s voice, speaking German too fast for me to understand. I disengage and hand the receiver to Lotte. Long conversation, which makes me think of Paul and his sense of timing. It’s my lady of the
pipi
room. Lotte tells me she is coming up to be paid. She is miffed because Carvalho left the hotel without paying and she has had to go looking for her girls’ customers from floor to floor.
I don my bathrobe and meet her in the living room. She asks for a pittance—hardly worth making this house call—and I ask that she repeat the figure. I understood correctly, so I give her vastly more and say I will be keeping the girl for some days.
My Lotte wants to go to the hairdresser and also home to get her bikinis and heavens knows what else before we set out for Angra. I tell her by all means to
have her hair done and to buy the rest at the beach shop downstairs and offer to come with her if necessary. She seems quite pleased by the idea of shopping.
The plane—like a gracious water bug—waited for them at the old airport named for the aviator Santos Dumont just beyond the Praia do Flamengo. The man checking the passports and the pilot, businesslike in a gray suit, gave Lotte curious looks, and Ben half regretted that she had bought anonymous jeans and a shirt to wear on the plane. Contrary to his feeling the evening before, he would have liked to exhibit her such as he knew she was—in her tart’s skirt and platform shoes. Dressed in white jeans and a white cotton shirt, carrying the white leather duffel bag into which he told her to put the rest of her belongings, she looked like any girl from Ipanema, unless there were dead giveaway signs that a native’s ear or eye would detect independently of dress—her accent? scarlet lipstick and long fingernails to match? And that was not what he wanted. From rooftops, if possible,
urbi et orbi
, he would have liked it proclaimed that he, circumspect and fastidious Ben, was going on holiday with a call girl procured by a Nazi dentist, that he would mount her until they both groaned with exhaustion, and then, lying by her side, he would stroke her fat white rump while she taught him bad little girl’s secret German words for each thing they had done or would soon do.