Chapter 3

 

There is a sign on a wall in Chateau Duras which says: During the Hundred Years War the entire inhabitants of Duras were pitilessly slaughtered by the English. Slowly, as in the ages of time all things must move, the centuries bestowed both better and worse until eventually, a concorde was signed, a handshake across La Manche, and after the shedding of so much blood during the two great wars, French and English brothers and sisters could only dream of peace. Since the 1960s and 70s the tourists arrived in a benign invasion, and many stayed, falling in love with that lush region of France once ruled by the English crown for 300 years, an era nearly long as the Romans ruled Great Britain.

Duras is one of those little French towns where English seems to be spoken as much as French, especially in the long summer months when, as in Monsègur, their rosy hued faces throng the cobblestones and slender alleys, and mill about the chateau and its museum, and, of course, the obligatory night and day markets. Unlike the unfortunate Duraquois inhabitants of mediaeval times, the locals learned to live with the English, as they had tried to do sometimes during that same Hundred Years War. The middle-class retiree economy was a boon to local artisans hungry for cash, and families looking to sell their old farmhouses, keen to retire themselves to little places with all mod cons and not a lot of upkeep.

In a bar facing the imposing chateau turrets and portcullis, commanding the view behind them across the picturesque Dropt valley, stood Quentin Chevrolet, an apron wrapped around his portly belly. He stood stroking his enormous mustache, which complimented the rest of him, a giant of a man at over six foot five. At the tables lining the pavements in front of his boutique, which sold fine and other wines, some directly from his brother's massive production, bottles of which stood on almost every restaurant in Duras and beyond. He watched as Theodore Sutherland-Smyth pulled up in his scruffy little marine blue fiat 500 and spilled shakily from it. Quentin scratched his scalp beneath his thick black, woolly hair. For a man who lived in a castle and was rich beyond most people's wildest dreams, Teddy did not look it. His face was the same unhealthy, hypertension red that so many of his English cousins sprouted after too many years in the wine and sun, and he dressed as if his appearance was the very last thing on his mind.

'Teddy!' he called. 'It zizz a plear-zure to see you. Yes, yes, come, sit. ‘Ave a beer. ‘Ow are you?' Teddy sat down at the table, on one of those plastic imitation Gatti bistro chairs which served the smoked-fugged, Sartre-esque, prehensile bottomed brigade so well in France.

'Oh, you know, so so as ever. I'm finding it difficult to hold my pee in at night-time, Quentin. What do you think that is all about?'

'Faire un rendezvous chez Dr Hodet, yes, par cas d’un infection,' Quentin said, as he walked over to the bar, reached across it, and took two half litre Leffe beer glasses from behind the counter. Still standing in front of the bar, his chest rose a little with the swagger of a proprieter, as he filled them both till the white froth threatened to spill over the top of the golden brown, viscous liquid below it. He carried them over ostentatiously, all outsize elbows, and set them on the table.

'Oh, I don't want to make a fuss. It'll probably clear up. Too much of this more like,' said Teddy as he lifted the beer to his lips.'

'Mais oui, zere's always zat!'

'Anyway, Lala's having a party. Why don't you bring the booze over, I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.' Quentin looked over his shoulder as Teddy said Lala's name, as if he was expecting his wife to hear and cast her subdued, accusatory eyes over him in silent, mournful, remonstration. Quentin looked over his other shoulder, just to be sure, but there were only a pair of middle-aged English women chatting quietly. One of them gave him an admiring glance, which he returned with a wink, causing the woman to visibly blush.

'Ok, ok, I will, but I won't be able to stay too late,' he said, giving Teddy a wink as well. Quentin thought that winking conveyed enormous appeal, instead of the slightly seedy undertone many of the young women he winked at felt. Teddy knew what he meant by the invitation even if Quentin did not exactly know or care. Bringing him along would make Sèdonoudè a little jealous, anxious as he always was that he was a mere moment from being usurped, cast aside. Teddy briefly considered abandoning such pettiness, but the thought of causing Sèdonoudè some of the fleeting disquiet he had himself suffered that morning soon made him overcome the sense. Plus, Quentin and Sèdonoudè hated each other, largely because of the former’s open racism. Teddy allowed himself a moment of grotesque, schoolboy spite, then felt slightly ashamed of it, then stiffened his resolve to be unkind.

He climbed back into his old fiat and rolled down the steep hill from Duras to the plain below. He took the more scenic road back to Monsègur, the one which passed the women's enclave of Plum Village. The Vietnamese Buddhist nuns were out in the forecourt brushing away leaf detritus, and spread out across the road, cutting back the weeds which, now that the sun had begun to burn, were growing faster every day. He slowed down for them. It would not do to kill a nun, he thought, as he watched their slender forms dressed in brown, simple uniforms, and wearing the wide conical hats familiar to Southeast Asian rice paddy workers. He carried on up an even more obscure road. The one which ran through St Colombe. There was not a soul to be seen. It was as if time itself had abandoned it.

Not long after St Ferme, he passed Monsègur, and saw their chateau looming, fairy tale bright in the golden sun in the distance. Once through the open gates, the gravel of the drive crunched beneath his wheels, and his little white terrier came running from the open kitchen door to greet him. Teddy loved his loyal little 'Monty' more than most anything else. Its white whiskers greying at the ends just about covered its dog smile. He picked it up and gave it a kiss. Then he put/half dropped it down and it sprinted away as soon as its little paws hit the ground. Off, chasing some obscure sent or a rat's tail somewhere among the undergrowth of the vast garden.

Teddy watched it scamper off, taking pleasure from its sense of inane freedom. Then surveyed the gardens of the chateau grounds. The irises were beginning to bloom as the daffodils were fading, and the shrubs and trees smelled and sang with honeyed perfume and glorious colour.

Each plant carefully considered over thirty years by Lala, who knew enough about gardening that when she was still able to, she had written a bi-monthly column on exotic gardening for Gardeners Fancy magazine. She still took pleasure in early mornings looking at the world she had created, and it made Teddy momentarily happy to know there was a part of her which still held the old happiness. The one which went before. He turned to the open kitchen door, which loomed, black and oblong, inviting him into an altogether darker world.

Lala sat in her chair, which was part armchair, part chaise longue, spliff in one hand, television remote control in the other, and the nuclear red glow of a vodka and red bull on the table-top beside her. The bottle of champagne Teddy had left untouched earlier that day still stood there. Lala smiled at him. It was a crooked smile. There was something about her eyes which told him that she still was not quite there. But in the grooves of her cheeks and brow he recognised that warm and vivacious person he had fallen in love with a long time ago. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

'Forgiven me, have you?' Lala said.

'It's only sex. I can see the point of it even if it doesn't really move me anymore,' Teddy said.

'You never know, you might get lucky tonight,' Lala said, lifting her hand up and stroking his buttocks. Teddy flinched. Lala drew her hand around from his backside, her fingertips dipping and rising in the ridges of his army green corduroy trousers until they rested flat against his fly, and the soft unwilling mound of his genitals beneath it. He did not move. 'I always was very good at blowjobs,' she said.

Teddy was sure for a moment he felt something stirring and, encouraged by his body language (he had not drawn away as so often was the case), Lala quickly undid the zip of his fly and darted her hand inside, fondling and massaging his penis. She put her spliff down in the tin ashtray next to her drink and pulled it out. Hanging limp there between her fingers it reminded her of the time he was oh so eager to whip it out at the least excuse, once emptying his pockets out on either side and saying: "Look, Lala, I'm an elephant!" The thought made her smile as she closed her lips around its tip and gently sucked. Teddy closed his eyes, willing the glow of warmth to grow. Grow, grow, he thought. Grow into that stiff, wooden soldier you were once so proud of. Soon though, they both knew it was not going to happen, at least not now. Maybe later, perhaps, once the party was underway, and the sight of enthusiastic fucking filled his mind with pornographic visions, adding visual stimulus to the sensuous. Maybe.

'Never mind, Teddy, let's go and get ready. There's always a few eager early birds and they'll be along sometime soon.’

 

***

 

Lala lay in the bath. She had brought her drink with her. She did not really wash, just lay there in the hot water. Hanging on the wall next to the shower head was a sponge shaped like an erect penis. Lala looked at it and lazily stroked her labia majora. Though she did masturbate on occasion, she always preferred the attention of a lover, much in the same way as she always preferred someone else to roll her spliffs and pour her drinks. If she had retained enough powers of self analysis through her descent into alcoholic oblivion, she may well have realised that the attention was the point. Now she just stroked and, just once, used her middle finger to circle around beneath her clitoral hood, feeling the little hard pea beneath it, briefly enjoying the quiver it sent through her.

From somewhere out in the vast hallway below came the disjointed sound of voices. Though distorted by the height of the ceilings and the thickness of the walls, she could still recognise Teddy's bumbling voice, and the perennially excited, cheerful sound of Sèdonoudè's banter. You are a good man Teddy, she thought.

Clutching the sides of the bath and raising her knees above the murky grey of the still steaming water, Lala hauled herself upwards, suddenly feeling dizzy and vulnerable. Something to do with blood pressure, she thought. She clutched a white cotton towel and wrapped it around her torso, and stood for a minute, waiting for the mild, fuzzy sensation to disappear from between her ears. In the corner of the room were weighing scales which she ignored, but as she walked over to the basin to brush her teeth, she caught sight of herself in the full-length standing mirror, the one with the extravagantly carved wooden frame. Curlicues and cherubim danced around in gold leaf, but the glass was smoky and ancient. Looking into it, she saw her form flesh pink tinged with golden red as the sun set through the top of the bathroom window. Her golden hair thick with grey, the lines in her face smoothed by the light's effect and the gloomy mirror's glow. That is how I see myself, like one of those cherubs, she thought. But she knew that was not how the rest of the world would see her.

Downstairs, the gruff voice of Quentin Chevrolet joined the sound of conversation. Sèdonoudè helped him unload the cases of vodka, gin, and champagne from the back of his delivery van and carry them into the pantry. Quentin had no time for Sèdonoudè. He could not see the point of him. To him, Sèdonoudè was jusque un petite-nègre, someone whose face belonged on a Banania tin, or better still, someone whose execrable French and person was to be completely removed from his country, unlike the acceptably execrable French and personage of his English customers.

‘Fait attention avec la!' he said harshly to Sèdonoudè, and then, more vaguely mumbled, 'Putain de merde!' Though Quentin had not addressed him with this unpleasant term, Sèdonoudè was under no illusions as to what it meant and who it was about. He had only met Quentin on a few occasions before, but each time, the disapproving glower in Quentin's eyes told him all he needed to know about the man. Someone gets used to such looks in the course of their life if they are offered often enough. They feel it.

Teddy diffused the atmosphere by addressing Sèdonoudè in a friendly way.

'So, Don Don, any luck on the gee-gees?'

'Ah, me no haff' luck today Mista Teddy, betta luck nes' time.' Quentin held his tongue. His understanding of English was limited, and on balance, he valued Teddy and Lala's custom and the occasional indiscretion, much more than he despised the Malian interloper.

Soon the boxes were unpacked, and some of the evening's other guests began arriving. There was Linda, of course, standing provocatively between Quentin and Sèdonoudè, each giving the other the evil eye on the sly as they pled their cases for Linda's favours. And apart from some of the Bar du Cabaret regulars, there was 'shaky' Trevor, a young English man raised in France but who had never passed his brevet or bac, nor had much in the way of support from his aging mother who still worked in one of the other bars surrounding Monsègur’s square. He had the bug eyes of a paranoid hysteric, and Lala tolerated him in fellowship of the mentally distressed. The one thing he brought to the party was his willingness to source and spend his time rolling the hashish spliffs of which Lala needed a constant supply. He was not a dealer, a shiftier man named Bertrand who lived above yet another one of the shops in Monsègur's market square did that kind of thing. In general, Trevor was loath to leave his Pink Floyd poster covered bedroom, unless it was to score more hash.

Then there was 'horsey' Sandra and her awful teenaged daughter who, though rich through the lavish affection of their nouveau riche pater familias, had none of the ‘true’ class of the Lalas of this world, and unlike them, saw all things through chinks of a Daily Rail cavern. The whole family were opinionated and, decidedly worse in Lala's own opinion, utterly boring. They were among her social circle - although on the periphery - by dint of simply being there and knowing someone who knew someone, as can be the case in an expat enclave which, for whatever reason, still found assimilation an impossible task. The inevitability of expats finding and gelling to each other through nothing more than force of circumstance was sometimes a cause of resentment by the locals, especially those Quentin types whose livelihoods were unaffected by the need for fast, English cash. In any case, they often hated the folk from the next village in equal measure in a dyed-in-the-wool espirit d’clochard. Lala did not care for the expat game, but, sometimes, social powers are at work which are difficult to resist.

Angel came with his boyfriend. Not to stay long, just enough to spread his charm over Lala and Teddy, quietly ogle what furniture might be of interest to him, and leave after one glass of champagne wondering, even though he was thoroughly anglophile, what it was that made the English so bizarre.

Jeremy Baden-Flogg was last to arrive, leaving his wife to look after their large brood of seven children. Jeremy was only a seasonal visitor, but he had a long familial association with both branches of the Sutherland-Smyths back home. He was a cousin removed in some degree from Lala and had a second home near Duras. A Conservative MP who began a New Conservatives movement within the party, one which had nearly broken ranks with the perennially staid Tories, he was an emerging star on the right of British politics. A high church Anglican with an evangelical bent, he affected an awkwardly idiosyncratic persona, and wore a breastplate of righteousness firmly in place. He had an appeal to those English who loved all things Lord Snooty and, was of that peculiar and repugnant persuasion of person, who demands the-right-to-life for the fetus, but the rope for ne'er do wells. His Achilles heel, the one thing which placed his very public profile always on the cusp of potential ruin, was a predilection for very young men. It was a juggling act so common as to be a cliché, and one, in these more enlightened times when the three great prejudices of race, class, and sex were closer to being steadily overcome, that was hardly necessary.

But Baden, and his open flirtation with the ridiculously named ‘alt right’, the angry little man brigade of the day, and his deep, pathological racism that he could dress in supremely credible sophistry, knew that the melting pot of hatreds he stirred would soon as cause those tasting from it to lynch a gay person as an ethnic minority one. Therefore, his was a secret worth keeping. He was comfortable with hypocrisy. Ever the opportunist, he was on the look out at Lala's, with his inbuilt radar for vulnerability, for the kind of young man he had an unerring ability to seduce.

The party was soon in full flow and drink after drink was downed. Not, though, by all. As the night passed indiscernibly into morning, those wishing to wake with a clear head, or uninterested in sexual gymnastics - Angel, Sandra, and others - took flight. As for the rest, well, it was what they had come for.

When there were only a handful of guests left, some slurring and ready for sleep, some, like Baden, impatient, bored, but interested in seeing if he could finesse a young builder’s labourer named Billy O’Leary out of his underpants, a tacit command, a look in the eyes, made them pair off or follow Lala as she took Quentin and Billy by the hand and led them upstairs.

Lala had had Quentin many, many times, but the freshman Billy, though he was very short, had a strange, electric charisma in a rough, working class way, and was very well proportioned. One could ignore the spitefulness and evil of his looks, - he looked like one of those mugshots of callous serial killers post arrest - Lala thought, one might almost say he was handsome.

Teddy watched from his parker knoll, as he had done so many times before. There was a secret ritual to it all that he understood too well, the signal eyes of what could only be loosely described as courtship but really belonged to savage plains, and savage people, controlled by an urgent biology and psychology. Forces he no longer felt as he had once before. Yes, he understood it, and watched, partly in the hope it might awaken his own sense of lust and redeem his failing libido, and partly out of a perverse curiosity. A pre-arranged tryst such as this never seemed to bother him in the way Sèdonoudè’s surprise had done that morning. He waited until the last of them had gone upstairs, and then a little while longer.

When he did follow, it was on tiptoe, treading carefully upon the creaky steps, until he came to the room with the ajar door. He pressed his eye against the crack like a photographer to his viewer, a furtive laptop watcher, or a peeping tom, his eyes widening lasciviously as he looked at the scene.

Shaky Trevor, whose nervousness about such activity made him such an unappealing participant in it - Lala refused to let him touch her - stood, skinny frame and bulging eyes, masturbating furiously.

Quentin stood naked before Lala, who lay on the bed spreadeagled like Coubert's L'Origine du Monde. He stared at that triangle of promise, hypnotised, as lusty men are, by this most desired prize of his thoughts. Despite the ambivalence he felt, Teddy was impressed by Quentin's build. Though earlier he had called Sèdonoudè a savage, lapsing into the thoughtless, empire clinging language of his upbringing, now, next to the powerful looking Frenchman, Sèdonoudè looked positively aesthetic, his slender limbs smooth as Greek sculpture.

It was Quentin who was savage looking. He had strength. Not the manufactured body-builder kind, but that of the rugby lock. A great gallic beast of a man, like Sebastien Chabal. Lala raised her head and looked at him advancing, her eyes drawn across the muscle, hair, and fat, down towards his member, which, circumcised and swollen, looked like nothing so much as a sledgehammer. Teddy, though he had seen it before, was still impressed that such a thing could exist.

Lala opened her legs and Quentin drove his penis into her. There was no tender caress. This was, as Teddy had noted, pornography. Hardcore. Jeremy, though admiring the physical spectacle, was not into the coarse and brute manhood of a man like Quentin, he preferred the feminine look of young men. The kind who reminded him of his public-school dormitory. The ones who professed undying love while fiddling with each other in the dark. He looked at Sèdonoudè's body as Linda wrapped her arms around him, the milk white of her skin glowing against the black of his. Billy, who was new to this kind of thing, watched with eye popping interest as his own excitement grew.

Teddy though, had seen enough. He watched Lala's breasts momentarily, as they bounced as if she was on a trampoline. Her nipples seemed to stare at him, admonishing, like pink eyestalks staring from milky brown areolae, telling him that if he did not enjoy it, he should go. Teddy had, for some time now, stopped enjoying it. They continued to vigorously nod their assent.

As he turned to go, he watched Jeremy sidling up to Billy. Teddy did not know him. One of the pointless, youthful fodder someone had dragged along with them. Teddy had seen him once or twice in town. The young man’s expression changed quickly when he caught sight of Jeremy's lascivious grin and proximity. Teddy laughed to himself, then took the stairs down to his bedroom on the first floor.