CHAPTER 5
Through the lace curtains I watched the lights going on in an apartment across the street. Syd's room was large and not too badly furnished—the English have a knack for finding decent and inexpensive lodgings. It was growing dark—and late.
Turning to reach for my watch, my hand fell across Syd's flat rump. Stroking the smooth skin, I felt fine. For this last sheet-exercise with Sydney I'd been as eager as a schoolboy, gone at her with passion which had startled me. Even if I kept thinking of the time—wanted to see Henri at his gallery before I left. But feeling sexually pooped, I knew —for sure—I only wanted to see Hank about my paintings—strictly business.
The room was comfortably quiet except for Syd weeping softly. Stroking her hips I thought of all the truly beautiful girls I'd slept with; the models, my second wife—Amy—with a better figure than any stage beauty—yet none of them had turned me on like scrawny Syd. Rolling her over, kissing her face—salty and messy with tears—I felt her trembling under me as she put her arms around my neck. Kissing again, her tongue trying to part my lips, I reached for my watch on the table. It was six-forty-five p.m. I started to get up but she clung to me. I sat Syd on my lap. She cried harder. Patting her lean belly, I told her, “Stop it, honey. I don't like to see you crying.”
“Clay, I can't help it. Does this have to be the end?”
“All things end—sooner or later,” I said, smartly.
“In a lousy three hours you'll be out of my life forever; I won't have it! I bloody well won't!”
“Aw Syd, we've had a great time, why spoil it?”
“This has been more than a 'great time' for me —Clay, you know that. I don't want it 'spoiled' by being over! I'm not being some sticky virgin gushing over her first man... it's been far more—for both of us.”
“Syd, what good is this kind of talk? No matter what you mean to me—I still have to go back to the States. I'm only marking time here.”
“Clay, go wherever you wish, but take me! Clay dear, please, marry me or don't marry me, but take me with you! Look, I was a bit windy... about being on a holiday as a college graduation present. I really did graduate—a London business school, and when my first position folded—I took all my savings and came here. But...”
Bending down to rub my nose against her breasts, I mumbled, “Syd, really, I have to make a plane... soon.”
“Do hear me out, Clayton. You want to shake Nice, fine. I'm a good secretary, can always find work, support us both. Don't you see, darling, you'll be able to paint and I'll work; in London, the States, or in Australia. I was telling you the truth about my land, Clay, I swear it. I own five thousand acres. Australia is a place of opportunity and frontiers. Once we save enough to build a house on the land, then we have a go at raising sheep, drilling for oil, farming...”
For a moment with my face still pressed against her childish breast, I seriously considered it. It would be something to never look at a paint brush or canvas again, starting all over in a new field... like... whatever you did on five thousand wild acres.
Placing both her hands on my fat face, she pulled my head up to her eye level. “Clay, oh you're not even listening!”
“Sure I was. We'd have a goal in life—work and save for the house. Once that's built, we tackle the land, working together. Maybe we'll hit it rich and maybe we won't, but we'll be together all the time... be happy. Isn't that what you were trying to tell me?”
“Yes, yes... oh yes!” It came out like a sex-moan. “Clay, don't you want that?”
“Oh, I do. It's a great little dream... and like all dreams, turns to crap when you wake up.”
Syd opened her eyes wide. “What a blooming nasty thing to say! We can try it... Can't we, Clay?”
I shook my head. “Honey, it wouldn't work. Face it, I don't know which end of a shovel is shove. Be different if I had a little money to vaseline our way, but—starting on a shoe string only ends with being tied in knots—if you'll pardon the lousy simile.”
“I'll sell my scooter, bring enough for my passage to America. I heard English secretaries are in great demand there. I'll...”
I closed her jabbering mouth with a soft kiss. “Syd, Syd, I'm not getting through—I'd be no damn good for you. I've been a bum all my life, plus now... I'm washed-out, jaded... feel old.
“Old? You were a bloody jack-hammer just now. A lovely pile driver tearing me apart with pleasure!”
Glancing at my watch again as I kissed her, I gently slapped her behind—dropped her on the bed. “Hon, I hate sounding like a soap opera, but I am all wrong for you. Maybe we're a big deal in bed, now, but I... Hell, in time you'll want kids, a home, a... I really don't know what I want. That's the most honest statement I've ever made. Syd dear, I've known too many women, was a bastard to them all... I'm trying not to hurt you because I do care for you and...”
“Only care,' Clay?”
“Yeah, care, I've never been able to love.” Standing, I went to the wash basin in the corner of her room, cleaned up. I dressed as she sat on the bed, watching me—plain face all full of grief. She jumped off the bed. “I'll dress, go with you.”
“I... I have a few things to do, business matters. I'll be rushing around.”
“I'll call for you at your place, drive you to the airport.”
“Syd, never get my easel and things on your scooter.”
“Don't you want me to see you again, Clay?”
Something about the pathetic tone of her voice, the beaten way she stood there, aroused a kind of desire within me. “Now stop the dramatics, hon, of course I do. You be at the airport at nine-fifteen, or I'll beat you. Syd, believe me, if I thought we could make it, I wouldn't hesitate. If anything works out for me in the States, I'll get in touch with you.”
“Where can I write you, in New York City?”
“See hon, that's exactly how rootless I am—what I've been trying to say to you. I don't know—now —where I'll be tomorrow. Look, you'll still be in Nice for at least another week, moment I have any kind of address, I'll wire you. Now let me get on my horse, so we'll have a few minutes at the airport tonight.”
Walking me to the door for a final hard kiss, I held her tightly and whispered, “Syd, you don't know how good you've been for me. So damn good.”
“Lightning struck whenever you touched me, Clay,” she said, starting to cry again.
On that cliche I patted her behind and went out. The family who owned the pension were eating supper and they all nodded happily at me as I passed the kitchen, opened the front door.
I was hungry myself, but had to see Henri before he closed. I stopped at a bakery for bread sticks. The dumpy woman behind the counter glanced at me, then held up a copy of
I finally shoved the paper in my back pocket, aware of a mounting eagerness within me at the thought of seeing Henri. I kept telling myself it had to be part of my excitement at leaving—and wasn't certain I believed that.
Hank Dupri was about the most sophisticated person I'd ever known, and God knows I'd seen enough clowns trying for that title. Physically he was short and slim for his sixty years, with a sharp, handsome face, waxed moustache, and a monks ring of perfectly white and deliciously soft hair on his tanned bald head. His clothes were always in modest taste, immaculate, and his entire appearance added up to a man wise enough to never take the world seriously. Hank had a vast knowledge of art, was a highly respected critic—all over the Continent. I
