Finishing touches, p.5
Finishing Touches, page 5
And, for the next hour or so, that’s what we did. We sat in the steam room for as long as we could take it, sweating like pigs. Then we showered and went back in to sweat some more. After a final shower, we climbed up on tables, and a couple of masseuses went to work on us. Mine sat on my back, walked on it, and pounded me up and down. But at the end of it, I felt terrific – light, limber, strong. She knew what she was doing.
Nordhagen handed me a robe. “Silk,” he said. “It’s all you’ll need in the grotto.”
The grotto was beautiful. Instead of putting in an ordinary swimming pool, they had built a vast underground cavern, a real rock-lined pool, complete with cascading waterfall at the far end. Nordhagen and I swam for a while, then dried ourselves off and lounged in our silk robes at the water’s edge on mounds of fluffy pillows. There had been a couple of other men in the steam room, but we had the grotto to ourselves.
If Nordhagen signaled, I didn’t see it, but fresh drinks arrived, delivered by another beautiful young woman, naked but for the string of scarves.
“Don’t leave us, darling,” the little doctor told her. She remained standing there. “Isn’t she gorgeous, Tom?”
“Yes, she certainly is.”
“Eurasian, of course. The most beautiful women in the world are Eurasian. What shall we do with her?”
No answer seemed called for, so I just smiled. Nordhagen rose and whispered to the girl for a few moments.
As for me, I was lost. Never mind London; I was no longer sure I was anywhere on the planet Earth. The Feathers was a secret side of London I’d hardly dreamed I might see.
The girl disappeared, then came back a minute later with two plain bottles. I had no idea what was in them. She set one down and began to splash liquid from the other all over her long, beautiful body.
“She’s doing this for you,” Nordhagen said. His voice was distant, as if coming from some other place, or in a dream.
The girl was close to me, kneeling, and she rubbed the liquid on her skin slowly. Her eyes told me she was enjoying it and that she wanted me to enjoy the sight of it. She was using suntan lotion or baby oil, something like that. I didn’t care.
She took special care slicking down her pubic hair, reaching deep between her legs, and behind. Then the long black mane that flowed from her head. She covered her face, and then rubbed her nipples until they were alert. It all took time, but we had forever. Her performance was truly hypnotic.
When she was finished, she was some strange, erotic, shiny creature whose eyes paralyzed me. Dimly the realization came that I had never been so close to so beautiful a woman at any time in my life.
Now she sat back a step, regarding me. She picked up the other bottle, stood, and poured that liquid on herself. She didn’t rub it into the oiled skin, just sprinkled it generously all over her body. It had a strong, vaguely familiar scent. But I was watching, not thinking.
Finally she put down the second bottle and stood there, as if waiting for me to do something. Hands on hips, she leaned toward me slightly, smiling.
“Touch her,” Nordhagen whispered. I wasn’t looking at him but I could feel the force of his interest now. “Touch her, Tom.” It was a command.
Slowly, I moved forward. My arm reached out to the girl. The long silk sleeve of my robe rustled, charged. When my hand was close enough, the static spark jumped to her – and she was covered with flames. She was burning up in front of me. I jumped back, then reached out to help her, but Nordhagen’s hand held me back. I was terrified, but frozen.
“Look,” he hissed.
From her feet all the way up to the top of her head, the girl seemed to be clothed in blue fire. It sizzled and spat. But she stood there, writhing, arms raised like a dancer. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling through the flames.
It began to get to her. The fire was either burning through the oil or it was heating it up. The pain showed on her face, but she refused to move. Then we could hear tiny cries welling up in her throat, and her face became a mask of agony. She stretched her burning arms back, arched herself, and dove backward into the pool.
I felt the breath rush out of me. She swam in the cool water for a few minutes. I could see her smile. She was pleased with herself, and maybe also with what she saw on my face.
“Would you like her?” Nordhagen asked me.
I felt weak. “You mean – do I want to fuck her?” Part of my brain was trying to tell me to get out of this place.
“No, no, dear boy.” Nordhagen smiled to himself again.
The girl came out of the pool and sat down next to me. She was like a cat, stretching, rubbing against me. The air held the scent of smoke and perfume.
“It’s an interesting question,” Nordhagen said. “What would anyone do if they were given another person. Given, I say. Have you ever considered it? Probably not. After all, the possibility never arises. Well, almost never.”
I found it hard to think, especially with the girl lying there against me. I was already stroking her breasts, teasing her nipples.
“You make it sound like you mean – really – giving someone another person. Like, well, slavery.”
“Yes.”
“To do whatever you want with – keep, throw away.”
“Use, destroy.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Ha ha.”
“Ah, but, you see, I do mean it,” Nordhagen went on, his eyebrows rising. “That is just the question I am asking you, dear boy. Would you like to have her?”
THREE
I found myself in cold, thin daylight when I left the Feathers. The sky was clear, and the sun was visible; distant and washed out, but there. Which was more or less how I felt. I’d seen the night through and bottomed out in the next day – it was probably some kind of first in my life.
I crossed Park Lane and walked through Hyde Park toward Kensington at an unhurried pace, partly because I was plain tired but also because my mind needed time and fresh air to sort itself out. I had a lot to think over – such as, what the hell was the previous night all about?
The Feathers. Reality stopped at the front door of that place – which I guess was the point of it. I’d been in some other world, or so it seemed. But I couldn’t tell yet whether I’d been given a glimpse of rare, high privilege or simply been snowed at an expensive whorehouse. A little of both, maybe.
But why? Roger Nordhagen had covered everything. The last thing I’d paid for was his glass of red wine at the Carlisle. Perhaps he had nothing better to do with his money, but it bothered me when I thought about it. Not that I could afford the kind of treatment available at the Feathers. But as I made my way along the Carriage Road I realized that I’d let another man spend a lot of money on me, and that left me with an uncomfortable feeling.
The Feathers. I guess I’d known such places exist, though I’d never given it much thought. It made sense. People with money had to frolic somewhere, and the Feathers was just one of their playgrounds. It wasn’t even outrageous, just very impressive. By telling me it was run for fewer than a thousand people world-wide, Nordhagen seemed to be suggesting it was more a secret society than a mere private club. I took that to be Nordhagen’s way of inflating his own importance, and I suspected the truth was more down to earth. There are clubs and there are clubs, as he had told me. No doubt about it, the little doctor wanted to impress me, and show me he was not only a swell guy but important as well.
Why? That question came back to me whenever I forgot about the pleasures of the Feathers. He hadn’t come on to me like an old fairy, when he might have, and I had an instinctive feeling that he really wasn’t that way inclined. I had a vague recollection of warning Nordhagen off in that regard when we first met. So perhaps he was exactly what he appeared to be, a lonely, more or less friendless old geezer. Well off, yes, but on his own. For all I knew, it might be a habit of his, picking up strangers and milking them of company and conversation, treating them handsomely in the process. If that were the case, he’d probably tire of me soon enough. Already had, more likely.
Drink is the assembly line of guilt, and once again I was sure I’d finished an evening with Nordhagen badly. I must have struck a pretty inane pose when I grandly pronounced, “You have your freedom, then,” to that girl in the grotto. She looked disappointed, and Nordhagen managed only a sad smile. The girl dove back into the pool and swam away. Okay, it was not a great response to their joke, but they took it so seriously. What did they expect? Did they really think I’d swallow that nonsense about having the girl, actually owning her, to do anything with I wanted? The old man had carried it off rather well at the time, I had to admit, but now, in the chill morning, it all seemed merely silly. But I had failed to play along with their game, and that in itself might cost me further entertainment with Nordhagen.
I wasn’t sure I’d mind. I remembered the strange sound in his voice when the girl caught fire: a manic hiss. And, when I’d glanced at him a few seconds later, the expression on his face: eyes too wide open, the look of someone slightly crazy. I thought I’d had just about enough of him. After the girl left us, our talk slackened, became sporadic and tired, inconsequential. We drank more, but seemed to occupy separate silences in that stunning grotto. Finally I hauled myself up and thanked Nordhagen for a fine time, got my clothes on, and stumbled outside. No talk of seeing each other again soon, or anything like that.
By the time I reached the Albert Memorial I was convinced I had fallen far short of being the amusing guest someone like Nordhagen would want. Maybe I’d even been monumentally blind; maybe he had hoped to be treated to a front-row seat at a wild sexual performance by the Eurasian girl and me. We’d almost gotten down to it, at that, and now it seemed more and more amazing that we hadn’t. I’d declined the offer, but why?
I took a taxi the rest of the way home. I could hear Eileen Fothergill moving around behind the door of her flat when I reached the top of the stairs. I hurried to my own apartment, eager to avoid any encounter at that time of day. The expression on the cab driver’s face had told me more than I cared to know about the way I looked.
Safely inside, I locked the door, stripped my clothes off, and flopped down on the bed. Now that I was lying still, my head began to spin, slowly but inescapably. It would be a long day, and my best hope was that I’d pass through it in a state of unconsciousness. I’d had enough of Roger Nordhagen, nose bobber of Mayfair. Something bothered me about him. I couldn’t say exactly what, but my impression of the man was clouded. Perhaps he was simply too eccentric for me.
*
I didn’t want to think about the Feathers, playpen for the pampered few. I was ready to sink back into my own life.
I came to my senses three or four days later. I’d gone back to my old routine of dining out, seeing a film or a play, visiting new pubs, and otherwise continuing my exploration of London. My hours didn’t change; I was still a night owl at large in the West End. But something was wrong, something at the back of my mind was calling for attention. I was sitting in the bar in Ronnie Scott’s, waiting for Scott Hamilton to return for a second set, when I began to think consciously about it.
I actually did miss the little guy. Maybe miss wasn’t the right word, but I did regret, somewhat, that contact had been broken off between us. He was the only person I knew in London, not counting my spinsterish neighbor. I tried to describe Nordhagen to myself, to remind myself what he was like – for, although only a few days had passed, he was elusive in my mind. He was friendly, generous, jolly. But not really warm. He was intelligent and perceptive, and he didn’t mind telling you things about yourself. But not about himself. That’s it, I realized: I still had a puzzle to solve, and that puzzle was Roger Nordhagen. It wasn’t the little doctor, my chum and colleague, I missed; it was Nordhagen the riddle, the strange, eccentric, hidden individual behind the charming exterior.
Now I wondered if it was the right thing to do, to let it go and forget about it. Could I do that? There had been something empty and incomplete about my wanderings through London since the night at the Feathers. Something was not right, and it seemed to me that I had, after all, been too hasty in writing off my acquaintance with Roger Nordhagen.
There were lots of different ways of looking at it, not least of which was the one that said I owed him, out of simple courtesy, a dinner in return. I had no intention of continuing to enjoy his largesse without paying him back in kind, at least to the extent that I was able to. The element of self-interest in this was clear to me. Nordhagen was still my only entrée to places in London I couldn’t otherwise approach. Being towed around by the little doctor was, I concluded as Scott re-emerged from the back room, preferable to sitting in restaurants and bars alone. Especially since I had already been through a good many of the public places in the West End.
That “private” side of London nightlife still appealed, and it was hard to resist. I’d had only a brief glimpse of it with Nordhagen. There had to be more, much more. It wasn’t just the Feathers – although I wouldn’t turn down a return visit, nor would I necessarily dismiss that beautiful Eurasian girl if she were ever presented to me again – but the thought of missing a great deal of London. The more I considered it, the more it worried me. I was there for a limited period of time, and I wanted to make the most of it. Perhaps Nordhagen was one of those little quirks of fate. Perhaps I’d met him because I was meant to meet him, and he was my key to the city. Surely it would be a mistake to squander that resource – all the more so since I had no other person or thing with which to replace him. It was London, more than Nordhagen, I was after.
I made up my mind to get in touch with the little doctor, although it took me another few days to work myself up to the task. I don’t know why. A strange kind of paralysis came over me as soon as the notion was clear in my mind. I couldn’t pick up the telephone and call him. I wanted to, but every time I reached for the receiver I hesitated, feeling awkward, nervous. I was convinced I’d sound foolish, or opportunistic, or in some other way false.
One day I walked past the Feathers on Park Street, then along Mount Street to the entrance of Millington Lane. I couldn’t tell, but I guessed that Nordhagen’s offices were through the shiny black door at the far end. A massive Daimler was parked in front. A few moments later a middle-aged man came out through the black door, got into the car, and was driven away past me. Whoever he was, he could do with one or two fewer chins, which made me think he had indeed come from Nordhagen’s place. Then it occurred to me that I’d been standing there at the mouth of the lane, loitering like some crazed adolescent. I felt extremely silly, ashamed of myself, and confused. I hurried away and walked until I was sure I’d put at least a mile between myself and Mount Street, and then I went into a quiet pub to chase away all thought with a line of pints.
Later, of course, I did think about it. Nordhagen had put no spell on me, I told myself, but he was an intriguing figure. More to the point, I’d been in London long enough to become a little lonely. That was probably what it all came down to – the accumulating emotional wear and tear of being on my own. I had no desire to call up Owen Flaherty and invite him out for a drink. Nor did I want to expand my acquaintance with Eileen Fothergill any more than was necessary. I could go along to a disco any night of the week and try to pick up a girl, but I hadn’t played that game in a few years, since college, in fact, and I was reluctant to push myself in that direction. I’d always hated the ritual of picking up women, conning them even as they are deciding whether or not to do the same to you – and later, almost always, both of you finding out how uninterested you are in each other.
That left Nordhagen as the prime focus of socializing for me in London. It might not say much for me, but it was nothing to get spooked about, I reasoned. He’s a lonely old man who enjoys company, and that’s what I can offer. In return, he introduces me to what would otherwise be invisible London.
All this dithering, I would come to understand much later, was actually an elaborate defense mechanism that I was trying to employ against myself. It almost worked.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner to thank you for that marvelous time the other night,” I said when I finally got him on the telephone.
“Not at all,” Nordhagen replied. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
“The meal was great. And the visit to the Feathers,” I added quickly. “That’s quite a place.”
“Isn’t it?”
He was friendly enough, but he was letting me make the first move. I suggested we get together for a drink. I had already decided to see how that was received before proffering a dinner invitation.
“Why don’t you come round here,” he responded. “We can have a drink and I can show you my offices and home and all that sort of thing.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”
“We can always adjourn somewhere else later, if that’s what we want to do.”
“Yes, whatever.”
“Good. But not tomorrow, I’m afraid. How about the day after, Friday. Is Friday all right with you?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Come about five, then. Do you know where I am?”
“I have your card.”
“Excellent. See you Friday at five.”
It wasn’t long after I’d hung up the telephone that something came echoing back to me. The words if that’s what we want to do. It was another typical Nordhagen turn of phrase. Innocent, trivial, but lingeringly unpleasant. It’s just the way the man talks, I tried to tell myself. Of course we might just sit around his place and get happily sozzled there, without ever thinking of going out somewhere else, lest we lose the thread of our conversation in the process. But I was learning how you could hear different things in Nordhagen’s simplest remarks. It didn’t really bother me, but I was determined to stay alert for them, not to miss one overtone or veiled suggestion. I didn’t want to come away from another meeting with him feeling stupid or naive, or buffaloed.
