“Alex,” said Chantal, curtsying again. “Charmed.” She took my hand in both of hers. Her skin was hot and soft and moist. She had large hazel eyes and a jawline that had been tucked tight. Her makeup was thick, almost chalky, but couldn’t conceal the wrinkles. And there was pain in the eyes- she’d been a knockout once, and was still getting used to thinking of herself in the past tense.
“Pleased to meet you, Chantal.”
She squeezed my hand and released it. Her husband looked me over and said, “You’ve got a photogenic face, Doctor. Ever act?”
“No.”
“I only ask because it seems everyone in L.A. has acted at one time or another.” To his wife: “A good-looking boy, honey.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Your type, wouldn’t you say?”
Chantal gave a cold smile.
Gordon told me: “She has a thing for men with curly hair.” Running one hand over his own straight coiffure, he lifted it and revealed a bare scalp. “The way mine used to be. Right, honey?”
He put the hairpiece down and patted it into place. “So, did Larry tell you about our little collection?”
“Only in general terms.”
He nodded. “You know what they say about the acquisition of art being an art itself? Now, that’s pure bunkum, but it
I knew my line: “I’d love to see it.”
The next half hour was spent on a tour of the black room.
Every genre of pornography was represented, in astounding quantity and variety, catalogued and labeled with Smithsonian precision. Gordon Fontaine jounced along, guiding with fervor, using a hand-held remote-control module to switch lights on and off, lock and unlock cabinets. His wife hung back, insinuating herself between Larry and me, smiling a lot.
“Observe.” Gordon rolled open a print drawer and untied several portfolios of erotic lithographs, recognizable without reading the signatures: Dali, Beardsley, Grosz, Picasso.
We moved on to an alarm-equipped glass case housing an old English manuscript handwritten on parchment and illuminated with copulating peasants and cavorting farm animals.
“Pre-Guttenberg,” said Gordon. “Chaucerian apocrypha. Chaucer was a highly sexual writer. They never teach you that in high school.”
Other drawers were filled with erotic sketches from Renaissance Italy, and Japanese art- watercolors of kimonoed courtesans entwined with stoic, top-knotted men lugging exaggerated sexual equipment.
“Overcompensation,” said Chantal. She nudged my arm.
We were shown displays of fertility talismans, erotic woodblocks, marital aids, antique lingerie. After a while my eyes began to blur.
“Those were used by Brenda Allen’s girls,” said Gordon, pointing to a set of yellowed silk undergarments. “And those red ones are from the bordello in New Orleans where Scott Joplin played piano.” He stroked the glass. “If only they could talk, eh?”
“We have edible ones, too,” said Chantal. “Over there, in a refrigerated case.”
We swept past still more sexual devices, collections of obscene party gags and novelties, raunchy record albums, and what Gordon proclaimed to be “the world’s finest collection of dildoes. Six hundred and fifty-three pieces, gentlemen, from all over the world. Every medium imaginable, from monkeypod wood to scrimshawed ivory.”
A hand brushed my rear. I did a quarter turn, saw Chantal smile.
“Our
Oversized, gilt-edged treatises bound in leather; hard-and soft-cover contemporary books; thousands of magazines, some of them still shrink-wrapped and sealed, with covers that left nothing to the imagination- grandly tumescent men, semen-bathed, wide-eyed women. Titles like
The Fontaines seemed to know many of the models personally and discussed them with near- parental concern. (“That’s Johnny Strong- he retired a couple of years ago and is selling securities up in Tiburon.” “Look, Gordie, there’s Laurie Ruth Sloan, the Milk Queen herself.” To me: “She married money. Her husband’s a real fascist and won’t let her express herself anymore.”)
I tried to look sympathetic.
“Onward,” said Gordon, “to the
A click of the remote module caused one of the book-cases to slide back. Behind it was a matte-black door that swung open at Gordon’s prod. Inside was a large vault/screening room. Two walls were lined with racks of film reels in metal canisters and videocassettes. Three rows of black leather easy chairs, three chairs per row. Mounted on the rear wall was a gleaming array of projection equipment.
“These are the cleanest prints you’ll ever see,” said Gordon. “Every important explicit film ever made, all converted to videotape duplicate. We’re also trying really hard to preserve the originals. Our restorer is top-notch- twenty years at one of the studio archives, another ten at the American Film Institute. And our curator is a well-known film critic who must remain unnamed”- he cleared his throat-“due to lack of spine.”
“Impressive,” I said.
“We hope,” said Chantal, “to donate it to a major university. One day.”
“What she means by ‘one day,’ ” said Gordon, “is after I’m gone.”
“Oh, hush, Gordie. I’m going first.”
“No way, hon. You’re not leaving me alone with my memories and my hand.” He waved a fleshy palm.
“Oh, go on, Gordie. You’ll do just fine for yourself.”
Gordon patted her hand. The two of them exchanged affectionate glances.
Larry looked at his watch.
“Of course,” said Gordon. “I’m retired- I’ve forgotten about time pressure. You wanted to see Shawna’s loop.”
“Shawna who?” I asked.
“Shawna Blue. That’s the name Pretty Sharon used on the loop.”
“We always called her Pretty Sharon,” said Chantal, “because she was such a lovely thing, virtually flawless. Shawna Blue was her
“Do you find that surprising?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “To destroy oneself- how awful.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Not well at all. I believe we just met her once- am I right, Gordie?”
“Just once.”
“How many films did she make?”
“Same answer,” said Gordon. “Just one, and it wasn’t a commercial endeavor. It was supposed to be for educational purposes.”
The way he said
He frowned. “We put up the money based on its being educational. The actual production was handled by that first-class cockroach P. P. Kruse.”
“Peepee,” said Chantal. “How apropos.”
“He claimed it was part of his research,” said Gordon. “Told us that one of his students had agreed to act in an erotic film as part of her course work.”
