Читать книгу Montparnasse - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 19

Chapter 14

Kiki arrived very early in the morning, banging on James Johnson’s door, earning the ire of Mme. Bertrand, the concierge who moments earlier and with obvious misgivings had let her into the courtyard. When Johnson pulled the curtain aside to see who was making this racket, Kiki opened the rabbit-fur coat she was wearing to show that, save for her shoes, she was naked. Mme. Bertrand’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. Johnson saved the day by telling the outraged older lady that Kiki was his model, and that models often traveled in deshabillé to avoid getting tell-tale marks from their straps, elastic or garters.

Mme. Bertrand was doubtful. “Vraiment, Monsieur Johnson?”

Johnson nodded. “Vraiment, Mme. Bertrand.”

Mme. Bertrand shook her head. “La jeunesse…Très étrange.”

Johnson agreed. The youth today did behave in strange manners.

Mme. Bertrand spent a long time bitterly sweeping the courtyard, keeping a wary eye on Johnson’s door. M. Lefebvre stopped by to speak to her, then shook his head in obvious consternation. Johnson knew his mores were under scrutiny and that the forgiveness of these two Catholic worthies would be hard to come by. A bottle of American whiskey might be in order.

Kiki thought the entire thing hilarious, mimed the concierge’s dour expression, and put on her best American accent to mock Johnson’s consternation. Then she took off her coat and, naked save for her red patent leather shoes, began wandering about the apartment.

Johnson suspected the model’s visit was a follow-up, an outburst of her inquisitive nature, and, perhaps, a need for revenge.

The night before, he’d gone to the Rotonde hoping for a quick meal and an early night. He had been chilled and feverish, having had trouble falling asleep.

He’d ordered his dinner with a glass of vin ordinaire and had been reading the day’s Tribune when Kiki pulled up a chair and helped herself to the breadbasket. He smiled, she smiled back. Spontaneity was not his strong suit and like M. Lefebvre, Johnson often found himself bouche bée—speechless—when faced with unfamiliar situations.

Kiki ate one piece of bread, then another. She asked the waiter to bring butter and mustard, and when he did, made a butter-and-mustard sandwich that emptied the basket.

She said, “I’m hungry.” Then she said, “Also, I am very angry.” (All this was in French, of course, since she spoke no English save for the unfortunate phrase, ‘I like American soldats. Do you want to fock?’)

Johnson bought Kiki dinner: deviled eggs, Parma ham, pommes frites. She ate with gusto and informed him that her fiancé, Maurice Mendjizky, had been unfaithful to her and had slept with one of his models. Then she asked, “You have a fiancée?”

Johnson shook his head. “No. I did once, but not anymore.”

“You were in the war, yes?”

Johnson nodded, “Ambulances.”

She looked up. “Verdun?”

He nodded.

She said, “Pauvre chéri,” dabbed at her lips with her napkin and reached for his hands across the table. She leaned forward and asked, “You had a bad time, yes? Like many… So, I know you paint. Everyone here paints. It is an affliction. What do you paint?”

Johnson told her he was working on watercolors, that he occasionally did portraits, and that, in fact, he had done hers from memory.

Kiki shrugged. “Everybody paints me. Sometimes they do my entire body. Maurice, my fiancé, did a portrait. Very ugly. I look like a schoolteacher from Auvergne. Long nose, no chin. He did not like me very much that day, I think. What did you make me look like?”

Johnson smiled, felt sly. “Perhaps you should come and see.“

Kiki nodded, shifted her attention to the growing crowd in the room. Suddenly her mouth opened in a small, round ‘o’ which she covered with one hand. Johnson looked up and saw Maurice Mendjizky headed in their direction. Kiki stood, whispered, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll come by,” then ran off to embrace her lover. Mendjizky lanced Johnson with a dark look and took Kiki by the elbow. They walked away, their arms sliding about each other’s waist. Johnson sat at his table, looked at the empty breadbasket and half-eaten eggs. He noted that he was both taller and broader than Mendjizky, who was thin, almost spindly, and did not look like much of a fighter.

Naked in the apartment, Kiki headed straight for the three portraits of herself, stood by them a moment and made a show of offering her profile. “Not bad. Much better than Maurice, ce con.” She wandered the room like an inquisitive cat, picking items up, inspecting them. “What is that?”

“A table lighter,” Johnson explained. The lighter was in the shape of a small pistol, with the flame coming from the barrel. Kiki aimed it at Johnson, squeezed the trigger, went, “Pan!” She smiled. “C’est mignon! Can I have it?”

Johnson didn’t smoke, but kept the lighter around for friends who did. He shrugged. Kiki went to her coat and put the lighter in a pocket.

Then she entered the bedroom and inspected items there. She dropped to the bed and said, “Come here. Sit by me.”

Johnson did, feeling he was not really there but looking on, a third, voyeuristic party.

In the past few months, Kiki had invaded his fantasies and been the leading actress in his nighttime reveries. Now he looked at her dispassionately and noticed, as her girlfriend had revealed to La Rotonde’s clients, that Kiki indeed had no pubic hair. He decided her breasts did deserve the title of la plus belle poitrine de Paris. She had rather small hands but largish feet. Her ankles were solid, made to anchor her to the earth, and her thighs were thick with muscle. She had a good waist and a deep-set navel. He noted all this without a shiver of lust, as a painter might inspect a bowl of fruit.

She was in a hurry. She helped him undo his belt and pants, removed his shoes, slid the trousers off and let them drop in a heap on the floor. In time, she moaned, groaned, panted, bit her lip, rolled her eyes, and raised her hips to meet his thrusts. She mounted him, bucked and sweated mightily to a pretended orgasm and forced him to come without conviction. She was kind, swearing upon the graves of all her ancestors that she had been pleasured beyond her wildest dreams. She was lying; he knew it, she knew he knew it; it was acceptable to both. She went into the bathroom and, not bothering to close the door, sat on the toilet, then wiped her hairless self with his bath towel. When she saw him looking, she asked, “Do you know Fujita? The little Japanese with the earring and the sandals? When I pose for him, he gets down on all fours and inspects me like a doctor. ‘Very funny. No hair!’ Do you think it’s funny, Mr. James Johnson?”

He said that, no, he didn’t; he actually found her smoothness attractive.

She nodded. “Yes, a lot of men have told me that.” She put on her coat, stroked his jaw with both her hands and gave him a lingering wet kiss. “Now we can be friends.”

She left, waving gaily. Mme. Bertrand, still in the courtyard abusing her broom, turned her back and pretended not to see.