know the lay-out of the house?’
‘Sure, I know the house well. I lived there all last summer. What’s in the box please, Mary?’
Mary opened it, trembling at what she was doing. ‘They’re old coins,’ she was saying. I’ve made a list.’ She displayed the rich tumble of gold with an expression which conveyed both her naïvety and the pleasure of showing off to the boy.
The sight of so much golden money in the rich, very rich, tall girl’s hands inflamed him instantly with sexual desire. He grabbed the box and pulled her into the thick green glade. He pulled her down to the ground and with the box spilling beside them he would have raped her had she not quite yielded after the first gasp, and really, in the end, although she protested in fierce whispers, her eyes all over the green shrubbery lest someone should see, she put up no sort of struggle. ‘That wasn’t no good because you didn’t relax,’ Lauro said, his face, satyr-like, closing in on hers, his eyes gleaming with automatic hypnotism as he had seen it done on the films and television from his tiniest years, and acquired as a habit.
Mary, in a crisis of breath-shortage and an abundance of tears, pulled at her few clothes and managed to articulate, ‘My husband will kill you.’
‘He sooner screw me,’ Lauro said.
‘That, too, I’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘I would hit you on the face if you were not a servant.’
He jumped up; flash and flutter went his eyes closing on her face, and tight went his hands on her bare arms, as if he were directing the film as well as playing the principal part. ‘Next time, you relax,’ Lauro said, smiling through his teeth. ‘For the first time, no good.’
Mary closed her mouth tight and pushed back her hair with a gesture of every-day indifference. He turned and took up the jewel-box whose contents were half-spilled on the earth, and with her help scooped up the lurking gold. He laughed as if the coins were some sort of counters in a party-game, while Mary, still trembling and crying, stood up; she tugged at her clothes and smoothed her hair; she said, ‘Give me that box.’
‘I’ll take it to Hubert,’ he said, and started off in that direction.
Mary caught up with him. ‘Are you sure you’ll find the right place to leave it? It’s not mine, it’s Maggie’s. Hubert mustn’t know.’
He smiled, and turned to put his face close to hers again, smiling. ‘Leave it to me, Mary,’ he said. He clutched the box under his arm as if it were a man’s business, and looked as if he had earned the takings within.
She turned and ran back to the house, not sure how far she was guilty, or what she must do next. She became uncertain whether Lauro could be trusted with those coins. She was perplexed about the relationship in which she stood with Lauro now, and above all she was anxious to take a shower.
Hubert was at that moment counting some coins which he had found in a curious way at six o’clock that afternoon.
Pauline had gone in to Rome in Hubert’s station-wagon, taking with her, wrapped in lengths and strips of sackcloth, a second Louis XIV chair of Maggie’s to be delivered to the address in Via di Santa Maria dell’Anima where the copies were made. Of these transactions Pauline knew nothing, thinking only that the chairs were being examined and repaired, and that the bill for this service would be sent to their mysterious all-pervasive owner, Maggie. Pauline had never seen Maggie; to Pauline she was a hovering name, an absent presence in Hubert’s house and his life.
She delivered the chair, with its penitential sackcloth secured by a winding string round its beautiful legs and tied over its seat and back, ordering the man who carried it up the stairs to take care, great care. She left it with him while she went to find a legitimate parking place for the car. When she returned the man was with a younger man, tall, in blue jeans and a smart shirt; the chair had already been unshrouded
‘Sure, I know the house well. I lived there all last summer. What’s in the box please, Mary?’
Mary opened it, trembling at what she was doing. ‘They’re old coins,’ she was saying. I’ve made a list.’ She displayed the rich tumble of gold with an expression which conveyed both her naïvety and the pleasure of showing off to the boy.
The sight of so much golden money in the rich, very rich, tall girl’s hands inflamed him instantly with sexual desire. He grabbed the box and pulled her into the thick green glade. He pulled her down to the ground and with the box spilling beside them he would have raped her had she not quite yielded after the first gasp, and really, in the end, although she protested in fierce whispers, her eyes all over the green shrubbery lest someone should see, she put up no sort of struggle. ‘That wasn’t no good because you didn’t relax,’ Lauro said, his face, satyr-like, closing in on hers, his eyes gleaming with automatic hypnotism as he had seen it done on the films and television from his tiniest years, and acquired as a habit.
Mary, in a crisis of breath-shortage and an abundance of tears, pulled at her few clothes and managed to articulate, ‘My husband will kill you.’
‘He sooner screw me,’ Lauro said.
‘That, too, I’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘I would hit you on the face if you were not a servant.’
He jumped up; flash and flutter went his eyes closing on her face, and tight went his hands on her bare arms, as if he were directing the film as well as playing the principal part. ‘Next time, you relax,’ Lauro said, smiling through his teeth. ‘For the first time, no good.’
Mary closed her mouth tight and pushed back her hair with a gesture of every-day indifference. He turned and took up the jewel-box whose contents were half-spilled on the earth, and with her help scooped up the lurking gold. He laughed as if the coins were some sort of counters in a party-game, while Mary, still trembling and crying, stood up; she tugged at her clothes and smoothed her hair; she said, ‘Give me that box.’
‘I’ll take it to Hubert,’ he said, and started off in that direction.
Mary caught up with him. ‘Are you sure you’ll find the right place to leave it? It’s not mine, it’s Maggie’s. Hubert mustn’t know.’
He smiled, and turned to put his face close to hers again, smiling. ‘Leave it to me, Mary,’ he said. He clutched the box under his arm as if it were a man’s business, and looked as if he had earned the takings within.
She turned and ran back to the house, not sure how far she was guilty, or what she must do next. She became uncertain whether Lauro could be trusted with those coins. She was perplexed about the relationship in which she stood with Lauro now, and above all she was anxious to take a shower.
Hubert was at that moment counting some coins which he had found in a curious way at six o’clock that afternoon.
Pauline had gone in to Rome in Hubert’s station-wagon, taking with her, wrapped in lengths and strips of sackcloth, a second Louis XIV chair of Maggie’s to be delivered to the address in Via di Santa Maria dell’Anima where the copies were made. Of these transactions Pauline knew nothing, thinking only that the chairs were being examined and repaired, and that the bill for this service would be sent to their mysterious all-pervasive owner, Maggie. Pauline had never seen Maggie; to Pauline she was a hovering name, an absent presence in Hubert’s house and his life.
She delivered the chair, with its penitential sackcloth secured by a winding string round its beautiful legs and tied over its seat and back, ordering the man who carried it up the stairs to take care, great care. She left it with him while she went to find a legitimate parking place for the car. When she returned the man was with a younger man, tall, in blue jeans and a smart shirt; the chair had already been unshrouded
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