When the waiter came round again I pointed her out and asked him if he knew her. When he said no I suggested that he invite her to come over and join me. I watched her face as he delivered the message. It gave me quite a thrill to see her smile and look my way with a nod of recognition. I expected her to get up immediately and come over, but instead she remained seated and smiled again, more discreetly this time, whereupon she turned her head away and appeared to gaze out the window dreamily. I allowed a few moments to intervene and then, seeing that she had no intention of making a move, I rose and walked over to her table. She greeted me cordially enough, quite as if I were a friend indeed, but I noticed that she was a little flustered, almost embarrassed. I wasn’t sure whether she wanted me to sit down or not. but I sat down nevertheless and, after ordering drinks, quickly engaged her in conversation. Her voice was even more thrilling than her smile; it was well—pitched, rather low, and throaty. It was the voice of a woman who is glad to be alive, who indulges herself, who is careless and indigent, and who will do anything to preserve the modicum of freedom which she possesses. It was the voice of a giver, of a spender; its appeal went to the diaphragm rather than the heart.
I was surprised, I must confess, when she hastened to explain to me that I had made a faux pas in coming over to her table. “I thought you had understood,” she said, “that I would join you outside. That’s what I was trying to tell you telegraphically.” She intimated that she did not want to be known here as a professional. I apologized for the blunder and offered to withdraw, which she accepted as a delicate gesture to be ignored by a squeeze of the hand and a gracious smile.
“What are all these things?” she said, quickly changing the subject by pretending to be interested in the packages which I had placed on the table.
“Just books and records,” I said, implying that they would hardly interest her.
“Are they French authors?” she asked, suddenly injecting a note of genuine enthusiasm, it seemed to me.
“Yes,” I replied, “but they are rather dull, I fear. Proust, Céline, Elie Faure . . . You’d prefer Maurice Dekobra, no?”
“Let me see them, please. I want to see what kind of French books an American reads.”
I opened the package and handed her the Elie Faure. It was The Dance over Fire and Water. She riffled the pages, smiling, making little exclamations as she read here and there. Then she deliberately put the book down, closed it, and put her hand over it as if to keep it closed. “Enough, let us talk about something more interesting.” After a moment’s silence, she added: “Celui-là, est-il vraiment français?”
“Un vrai de vrai,” I replied, with a broad grin.
She seemed puzzled. “It’s excellent French,” she went on, as if to herself, “and yet it’s not French either . . . Comment dirais-je?”
I was about to say that I understood perfectly when she threw herself back against the cushion, took hold of my hand and, with a roguish smile which was meant to reinforce her candor, said: “Look, I am a thoroughly lazy creature. I haven’t the patience to read books. It’s too much for my feeble brain.”
“There are lots of other things to do in life,” I answered, returning her smile. So saying, I placed my hand on her leg and squeezed it warmly. In an instant her hand covered mine, removed it to the soft, fleshy part. Then, almost as quickly, she drew my hand away with an—“Assez, nous ne sommes pas seuls ici.”
We sipped our drinks and relaxed. I was in no hurry to rush her off. For one thing, I was too enchanted by her speech, which was distinctive and which told me that she was not a Parisian. It was a pure French she spoke, and for a foreigner like myself a joy to listen to. She pronounced every word distinctly, using almost no slang, no colloquialisms. The words came out of her mouth fully formed and with a retarded tempo, as if she had rolled them on her palate before surrendering them to the void wherein the sound and the meaning are so swiftly transformed. Her laziness, which was voluptuous, feathered the words with a soft down; they came floating to my ears like balls of fluff. Her body was heavy, earth-laden, but the sounds which issued from her throat were like the clear notes of a bell.
She was made for it, as the saying goes, but she did not impress me as an out-and-out whore. That she would go with me, and take money for it, I knew—but that doesn’t make a woman a whore.
She put a hand on me and, like a trained seal, my pecker rose jubilantly to her delicate caress.
“Contain yourself,” she murmured, “it’s bad to get excited too quickly.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said I, beckoning the waiter.
“Yes,” she said, “let’s go somewhere where we can talk at leisure.”
The less talking the better, I thought to myself, as I gathered my things and escorted her to the street. A wonderful piece of ass, I reflected, watching her sail through the revolving door. I already saw her dangling on the end of my cock, a fresh, hefty piece of meat waiting to be cured and trimmed.
As we were crossing the boulevard she remarked how pleased she was to have found someone like me. She knew no one in Paris, she was lonesome. Perhaps I would take her around, show her the city? It would be amusing to be guided about the city, the capital of one’s own country, by a stranger. Had I ever been to Amboise or Blois or Tours? Maybe we could take a trip together some day. “Ça vous plairait?”
We tripped along, chatting thus, until we came to a hotel which she seemed to know. “It’s clean and cozy here,” she said. “And if it’s a little chilly, we will warm each other in bed.” She squeezed my arm affectionately.
The room was as cozy as a nest. I waited a moment for soap and towels, tipped the maid, and locked the door. She had taken off her hat and fur piece, and stood waiting to embrace me at the window. What a warm, plantular piece of flesh! I thought she would burst into seed under my touch. In a few moments we started to undress. I sat down on the edge of the bed to unlace my shoes. She was standing beside me, pulling off her things. When I looked up she had nothing on but her stockings. She stood there, waiting for me to examine her more attentively. I got up and put my arms around her again, running my hands leisurely over the billowy folds of flesh. She pulled out of the embrace and, holding me at arm’s length inquired coyly if I were not somewhat deceived.
“Deceived?” I echoed. “How do you mean?”
“Am I not too fat?” she said, dropping her eyes and resting them on her navel.
“Too fat? Why, you’re marvelous. You’re like a Renoir.”
At this she blushed. “A Renoir?” she repeated, almost as if she had never heard the name. “No, you’re joking.”
“Oh, never mind. Come here, let me stroke that pussy of yours.”
“Wait, I will first make my toilette.” As she moved towards the bidet she said: “You get into bed. Make it nice and toasty, yes?”
I undressed quickly, washed my cock out of politeness, and dove between the sheets. The bidet was right beside the bed. When she