The Freeloaders, page 9
Passing the Grimaldi Caves, said to be the home of prehistoric man, and the colorful Mortola Gardens, we reached Vintimille, also called Ventimiglia—depending on which side of the border you’re from. It was a hot little town and while she looked around the fascinating outdoor market, and the many shops, I ate ices and looked at the sand and gravel beach, the remains of a Roman theater. It was too warm to visit the museum, with its relics of an ancient Roman settlement. Finally I settled down to drinking lemonades in a tiny café. After two hours of sitting, Pascale turned up, happy with a new pair of stilt-heeled shoes and a mild blue mohair sweater. I’d bought her a small leather purse, which seemed to delight her, and after a slow lunch we started back. I was carrying her packages. At the Pont St. Louis bridge, where the French customs men stood, they merely glanced at my passport and at Pascale’s legs and shorts, and waved us on. I told Pascale this bridge was built by Napoleon—a bit of history about which she couldn’t care less—as she babbled that we must come back next week.
Passing an isolated rocky beach, she slowed the scooter down and asked if I wanted to take a swim. I said it didn’t matter to me. We could wait until reaching the plage in Nice, if she wanted it that way. Pascale suddenly pressed my fingers deeper into her stomach and asked coyly, “Can we wait, Al?” She turned so her face was practically next to mine.
My ability to attract girls—Doris, Angela, and now Pascale—who took the lead in sex matters, made me squirm—as if I doubted my own manhood. That and the overcoy expression on Pascale’s face were my cold shower. (Although Charley’s punching power was not entirely absent from the back of my fuzzy mind.)
Rubbing Pascale’s cute nose with my big beak, I told her. “Sure we can wait.”
She quickly moved my astonished hands up to cup her trim breasts. “Al, what’s wrong with you?” she asked, her French shrill with anger. “Or me? Am I so undesirable?”
“Pascale, you know damn well you’re a very….”
“Call me a beautiful child and I’ll split your head with a rock! Can’t you feel I’m a woman!”
Her hard little nipples certainly said she was, as did her legs, spread out to balance the idle scooter. I pulled my hands gently away, got off the machine. Then I hugged her, keeping her eager hands at her sides, and gave her a long kiss. Her lips—opening to mine—made me feel anything but calm as I said, “This should answer whether I think of you as a child or not. Remember when you asked if I went in for muscle stuff on the beach, and I told you I didn’t have to? This is the same. I don’t have to make love to you like this. If it comes to that with us, we’ll do it proudly, not sneak into it.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. You are so right.” Pascale sighed. I wondered what the devil she understood. I didn’t believe a word I was saying.
I let go of her and she wheeled the scooter off the road and locked it. We went down to the rocks, where we both dropped our pants. She was wearing a brief bikini and after adjusting something under her sweater, whipped that off and presto!—had her halter on. I hid my money and passport under a rock, tightened my swimming trunks, and dashed into the water after her.
We splashed about, taking it easy, then returned to the rocks and stretched out.—Pascale’s lovely blonde head on my stomach, all her lush hair spread over my chest to get the sun. Stroking her face, I asked, “What’s really with you and Charley? Are you going to marry him?”
“Yes, if he wishes. But he keeps putting it off. I admire
Charley very much. He first made me aware of my youth and beauty. He is big, powerful.”
“And old—for you. So am I.”
She turned, her head nestling into my flabby stomach, and gave me a funny little smile. “That is not so. He is only forty-two; we could have at least twenty good years together. But this business of treating me like a child while he makes love with street women—it drives me crazy. He cannot understand I am no longer a child, that I am ripe for love, that I am not a pet poodle but a woman!”
“Have you set a marriage date?”
“Not even that. At first my Mama was against it; she thought Charley would take me to America. Now, it is one of those things—we are engaged but nothing is definite about marriage.”
“Would you like to go to the States?”
“Oh, for a visit, perhaps. I have no reason to leave Nice. Also my parents are old, they need me. Al, if I merely wanted to … just be married, I could get a husband easily. I have looks and I am also what they call a good catch—someday the restaurant will be all mine; my sister gave up her share when she married. The apartment is also in my name. Of course I have no thought of leaving Charley….”
“Hold it,” I cut in, so interested I said it in English. Then in French I asked, “What apartment is in your name?”
“Charley’s. Of course, as I was telling you, I realize it is … how you say … mine in name only—a convenience. Still, it is legally mine.”
I couldn’t quite picture Charley’s spending five grand—or whatever he’d said the place had cost—and having her name on the deed. Unless he couldn’t use his real name on any legal papers. I suppose it was then this idea first began pecking away in my selfish brain. Pascale moved her hips to a more comfortable spot on the rocks and my eyes ran down the solid thighs, the strong legs … to the pedicured toes, as I asked, “Why isn’t it in his name? Charley bought it, didn’t he?”
“Naturally. Who but an American would have that much money? You see, Al, while it’s not difficult for a foreigner to buy an apartment here, it is very expensive. Also there are many regulations. For example, anybody knowing an apartment is empty can report it to the police, who will move a French family in at the controlled rent. Then the real owner cannot evict them for four years, or even longer if they have a son in the army or are sickly. There are many other such rules which a stranger would not know. Charley and Gil, they do not even see the fairness of such laws. But there has been a shortage of apartments here for as long as I can remember. Anyway, this place Charley now has used to belong to the concierge of the building. I don’t mean belong to him in that they were his rooms, but it was where he lived. He died and I knew Charley wanted an apartment, but if he asked the price would go up millions of francs, plus much … what you call … red tape. Charley had me approach the owner, told me that since we are going to be married I should buy it in my name. We did that, and got a bargain. You asked if I care for Charley—what young girl would not care for a man who gives her a choice apartment with no strings attached? Even though I would not mind such strings.”
“No strings makes a neat package,” I said, mostly to myself, my fingers playing with her hair on my chest. She truly was a beautiful and vivacious child—but a child. An eighteen-year-old beauty is like booze—if you’re not careful it can kill you. Still, the idea of Pascale’s owning the apartment raised all sorts of juicy thoughts.
She suddenly turned over to dry her back, her bosom now nestling in my delighted stomach, her chin resting on my hipbone. “Al, let’s talk about us. I’m dying to read something you’ve written. Have any of your books been translated into French?”
“Gallimard put out a French edition of one of my things a few years ago.”
She sat up, clapped her hands. “Then I must read it! I’ve never talked to a writer before … and to read the book of a man I know … it will be what you call … the big kicks, the greatest! Where can I buy a copy?”
“I doubt if it’s still around, but I’ll try to get you a copy, honey,” I told her, trusting my voice didn’t sound patronizing. The moment we returned to Nice I made the rounds of second-hand book stores, but didn’t luck up on a copy. Finally I cabled Doris; she kept copies of everything I ever wrote. My efficient Doris airmailed a copy which reached me within forty-eight hours. I had an idea the book might turn into a key for me.
The other incident which happened that week was when Gil tried his counterfeit chips at the boule tables on Thursday night. He went in at 8 P.M., when the tables were crowded. Ed, Charley, and I drifted in minutes later—not by arrangement but out of curiosity.
Gil had the fifteen thousand-franc chips he’d made, plus a real one he purchased from the changeur. Gil’s chips worked perfectly, were never questioned. Gil’s only trouble was he simply had no luck. He was betting on 9 and for sixteen straight times, openly defying the law of averages, 9 did not win. At 9:15 P.M. a pale-faced Gil walked out of the casino.
The three of us didn’t follow immediately. Also without any prearranged signal, we each bought a thousand-franc chip and rushed to drop it on 9. Four came up. I left with Ed while Charley lingered, undoubtedly to drop another mil on 9. We were all at Le Sansas minutes later. The waitress said Gil hadn’t come in yet. We strolled over to the cambio where Simone worked. Gil’s long figure was in the shadow of a building, holding up the wall. As we approached he drawled gloomily, “If any of you says that’s the way the ball bounced, I’ll kill the sonofabitch!”
Two hours later, before turning in, I stopped at the casino and watched the game for nearly an hour. It really wasn’t the night for 9.
6
FRIDAY MORNING as I was very busy feeding the pigeons in the Jardin Albert 1st, before starting my morning stint at the typewriter, I saw Gil arrive in the ancient Citröen, with Simone. She was wearing a purple polka-dot tight dress, and had lightened her hair to a kind of faint red which matched the deep tan of her skin. Gil kissed her good-bye, whispered something which made them both giggle, and then he and I watched the heavy roll of her rear as she marched off to work.
As there were several palm trees and a row of bushes between us, I didn’t realize Gil knew I was there until he walked around the sidewalk, directly to where I was sitting. He was barefooted and only wearing old, paint-smeared jeans. His lean and muscled body with the hairless chest made a striking figure. For a second Gil watched as I dumped the last of the bread crumbs on the grass, then he drawled, “Hell of a thing, these ole birds looking so solid and … civilized. Yet, do you know, if one of them becomes ill or gets hurt, the others pounce on the unfortunate creature and literally peck him to death?”
I said I knew. I was amazed Gil felt so cheerful after his bad night at the casino.
“Yes sir, same with chickens. Back on my grandpappy’s farm, you’d see those crazy chickens eating their own eggs. Leastways I think it was theirs.”
I nodded and offered him a cigarette. I was in a good mood. In the morning mail at the hotel had been an airmail letter from my agent telling me he’d sold a short-short of mine for $200. It was a minor sale and it would be at least a month before I saw the $180, but any sale is a bracer. “Tough about last night, Gil. Nine is usually a fairly hot number.”
Gil shrugged, picked up a crumb and tried to get a pigeon to take it from his hand. “That wasn’t one of my brighter ideas. What if I had been very lucky and walked out with a hundred thousand francs? Not knocking it, but two hundred bucks would only prolong my indecision a few months. Al, I got me a new project going—the largest! If it comes off I’ll not only be able to spend this year in Cagnes, but the next five or six.”
We watched a bird trying to decide whether to risk landing on Gil’s hand. I waited for Gil to talk, then because I knew he was expecting me to say it, I asked, “What’s this deal?”
“I’ll be in a position to talk more about it in a couple of days. Matter of fact, Al, you kind of gave me the idea. Dad, this is really the biggest! Al, you once mentioned buying an aqualung. Sell you mine for fifty bucks—half now and the rest when I hand it over to you. With all my extra gadgets, the outfit is easily worth double that.”
“You don’t have to pawn your lung, Gil. I’ll lend you ten bucks.” My mouth was talking too much.
Gil tossed the crumb at the hesitant pigeon, stood up. “No, man. Last night I came to the realization I’d been playing mean—I can’t lose too much but neither can I win big. Man’s luck only rides once or twice in his lifetime and he has to back himself heavy. One win and you’re set for life.”
“You counterfeiting sweepstakes tickets now?”
“I’m serious.”
“Sorry I was in cornville.”
“Al, you give me twenty-five dollars now. I’ll let you have the lung next Wednesday. You won’t be able to use it much before then anyway, the beaches will be jammed all this week end, and Monday and Tuesday. Bastille Day falls on Tuesday and most French make it a four-day week end. Even the banks will be shut Monday. Wednesday I deliver the outfit and you pay the other green two-bits. Okay?”
***I hesitated. Although I wanted the lung, twenty-five dollars was a large hunk of my capital at the moment. The truth is I had no intention of even lending him the ten dollars.
“Al, it’s worth the money. Let me have the twenty-five dollars now and maybe by Wednesday I’ll forget the balance.”
“Gil, why sell it? I know how much you enjoy skin diving and …”
“Listen, by Wednesday I’ll be able to buy myself one of these submarine locomotives—or I won’t even need my fins and face mask.”
“It’s like that?”
“Yeah man, very much like that. This is all the way.”
I didn’t get all his dramatic hints, but there wasn’t any way I could back out of the deal now. “Well … I’ll have to cash a travelers’ check. Let’s walk over to Simone’s.”
“No, no, she’ll start asking questions and this project is completely top secret—the hushest, man. Cash the check at another cambio. And Al, please don’t say a word about my selling the lung, or that I have a deal on, to Ed or Charley.”
“I don’t get it, but okay. Why all the …”
“Al, I’m in a small rush. Please get the money now. I have to pack.”
“Going away?”
“Aha. When the joint is full of tourists, things get on my nerves. I’m going to San Remo or perhaps to Taggia, do some painting for the week end. That’s why I’m waiting until Wednesday to give you the lung—I’ll use it down in Italy.”
“This supersecret project—you painting a masterpiece?”
Gil gave me a nervous smile. “Al, don’t probe. If I could tell you, I would. But you might say it’s going to be a hell of a work of art—in its own way.”
We walked over to an exchange store on Place Messena, but my passport was in my suitcase, up in my room. I didn’t want to cash any of the hundred-dollar bills in my moneybelt, so we went up to the hotel where I cashed three ten-dollar checks at the desk and the resulting thinness of the checkbook jarred my good mood. In fact, after I gave Gil the money and he took off, I had a time forcing myself to the typewriter.
In the afternoon I sunned myself on the beach after a long swim. Charley and Pascale came down and we talked about such important things as the way 9 had refused to turn up for Gil last night. “The trouble with the law of averages,” Charley said, “is that the numbers don’t know about the law. In August they start the trotting races here, another way of dropping a buck. Maybe Gil will do a statue of a horse and enter it in the races.” When I didn’t laugh, Charley went over to the other plage to join the muscle hounds working out on the bars, each instructing the others in the various stunts, as usual.
Pascale was reading my book as she took the sun, and I wondered what Doris would say if she saw her. Doris probably thought I needed the book to show some publisher. Pascale kept looking up from the pages every few minutes to tell me how “exciting” or “wonderful” some incident in the story was, and I had a feeling it was boring the hell out of her.
I returned to my hotel after lunch and there was a letter in the afternoon mail which had been forwarded to the Studio La Victorine via the Hotel Ruhl. A Frenchman, named André, of course, asked that I phone him at once about a “TV package deal.” The letter was entirely in French except for these last three words, and several days old. I phoned and in excited French André said this was indeed a miracle, he was about to leave Nice and had decided I had returned to the States. Could I have supper with him? I said I could and we agreed to meet at one of the more expensive seafood places near the port at eight. André added he had a TV show set for the States, that it was to be shot at Victorine, and since it dealt with USA gangsters, why he was looking for a good old American script writer. He mouthed “gangsters” like an European who just knew there was at least one gang killing on every USA street before high noon … every day.
André turned out to be an energetic and nervous young man with a shaved head and a strong face, reminding me of a younger looking Picasso. He talked a mile a second, with so many gestures he was hardly able to eat. Also, the more I saw of his yellow teeth, the more certain I became that he was about my age. The great big deal turned out to be a speculation job, as I had suspected. André had a beautiful cousin who was married to a cameraman who knew a producer, and if he had a couple of shows in script form André was “absolutely certain” he could sell the series to the producer.
André himself had managed a Paris movie house, had also produced several shows in one of the many little theaters which dot Paris, and in general was a hustler on the fringes of Joinville, the Paris movie center. When I could get a sentence in, I told him I never wrote on spec—which was a lie—and he said he would try to raise some money, and would be in touch with me. Then we were both embarrassed as l’addition came to 5,200 francs and André very obviously just about made the tab.
It was after ten before I reached Le Sansas. Charley wasn’t there and I sat at a table, too full to drink, but ordering a rhum when the waitress came over. Perhaps because it was the start of the long Bastille week end, all the Brigitte Bar-dots were out—delicate frothy icing on nothing. One of the things I admired about Pascale—she was a lot like these young middle-class girls, except that she worked for her good clothes. These kids puzzled me: the fancy hair-do’s and dye jobs, the make-up, the smart dresses and shoes, cost plenty of francs, a large percentage of the average French salary. But they sat around Le Sansas most of the night, doing nothing, going noplace, only talking to the young men.. and trying to make a single cup of coffee last the evening. It seemed an empty way of living. But as Gil would say, I wasn’t knocking it—it was pleasant to be surrounded by so many copies of B.B. Especially those in slacks. Somehow the Nice gals looked more feminine in their tight fitting dungarees than most girls do in dresses. The “coy-asses”—to quote Gil again.
