March 12, 1938

Manuel stood near a green metal stanchion in the failing light. The March wind whipped along the pier, carrying scraps of paper past. A political poster pinwheeled along the dock, the face unrecognizable. 

Men scurried, and used hand gestures to signal to each other over the scream as the great liner vented steam. The tourist class companionway was deployed, and a few hardy passengers stood at the railing wrapped in overcoats and waved at someone ashore. Eight stories below the cargo doors of the Ile de France were open, and longshoremen and pursers were beginning to bring the baggage of the great vessel ashore. 

Above, at the first class companionway, a bedraggled knot of reporters burst into action, setting off a few flashbulbs as some notable passenger crossed the gangplank, the canvas tunnel offering little protection to the fur-shrouded celebrity. Manuel strained his eyes with faint curiosity and decided perhaps it was Marlene Dietrich.

The passengers aboard the vessel exited in knots to brave the Cold air that whipped from the North Sea down the Channel to chill Cherbourg. Manuel watched as the tourist class passengers found the ones who had come to meet them, and descended into the heated French Lines Terminal.

A woman in a smart red suit attracted his attention. She was tall, and the shoulders in her jacket accentuated her height. A plain woolen overcoat with a fur collar was gathered about her shoulders, and she carried a squat black Coach bag, and a round case. Her shoes were red and open-toed with high heels. If she was cold she didn't show it. She turned smartly at the end of the companionway without seeing him, and walked into the warmth of the terminal. 

Manuel pulled a folded scrap of English-language newspaper from his coat, and scrutinized it. The worn newsprint featured a photo of the woman with the caption "Laura Roth, Authoress," with some social musings below it. He carefully confirmed his recognition of the American woman, and followed her into the terminal. 

Inside, he had to move fast. Laura had covered half the distance across the concourse of the terminal. He moved to intercept her as she neared the cab line outside. Coming alongside he jostled her, and said in English "Excuse me."

"Watch your step" shot back the tall American woman.

Manuel nodded. "It's cold for this time of year."

She nodded absently, "It was a hell of a lot colder in New York." 

"Have you been abroad long?" he asked, emphasizing the words.

"Oh…Christ." She suddenly drew up and turned on him, attracting a glance from several other pedestrians. "Yes. What am I supposed to say?"

"Just get in a Goddamned cab," hissed Manuel.

She walked to the cab line, and got into a dilapidated Citroen. He squeezed into the same car, and gave the driver the address of a nearby restaurant.

She gave a low throaty laugh when he had closed the door. "Sorry… I take it you're the contact?"

He shook his head negatively and said nothing.

She laughed again "You better be the contact, or you're in big trouble. I don't usually share a cab with a strange man."

Manuel gave a low growl. "Be quiet. It's not safe to talk here."

Laura Roth shrugged, and pulled out a tarnished silver cigarette case. He palmed a lighter and lit the cigarette for her. 

"Can you tell me where we're going?"

"A restaurant."

"That's a shame, I ate on the boat."

Manuel was suddenly acutely conscious of sharing the small space with her. He was leaning forward on the seat, as if ready at any moment to leap from the car. She was slouched back in the corner, her hat over one corner of her face, a few strands of hair escaping on the other side. Her knee brushed his. 

He knew something about her. Thirty four, American, married and divorced twice. The first marriage in 1920 had been to some schoolboy from an Ivy League College who nobody had ever heard of again. They divorced in 1923, when she began seeing print regularly. Her second husband had been the Journalist Paul Becker. Everybody had heard of him. New York Times correspondent before he went freelance, he'd won a Pulitzer Prize a few years ago. 

Manuel had been working as a junior reporter for Barcelona’s La Batalla, in 1935 and remembered meeting Becker. It was after the Anarchist uprising in Asturia. The foreign and domestic press was in Oviedo covering the Court-Martial trial and sentencing of two men who had taken part in the rising, Vasquez and Arguelles. He'd had dinner with Becker and a couple of reporters from Le Monde. A very respectable and sober bunch. They ate in the restaurant of a second class hotel, the ubiquitous local fare of stewed turnips and pork. He hadn't thought much of Becker at first. He was a slight man with a finely shaped face and short black hair, with the painful upper class good looks that come from a ivy-leauge background. 

Supposedly Becker had known Laura Roth's first husband, had an affair with her that led to her first divorce. He never talked about his wife, and Manuel had been only vaguely aware he was married. They had talked politics, and made pronouncements about the universality of learning, education, and brotherhood. Becker had a way of making things like that seem less than idiotic. He talked a lot about American President Franklin Roosevelt's "brain trust," and had an optimism that seemed to rise above the ugly spectacle of a firing squad execution. Everybody knew Vasquez and Arguelles were being sacrificed to satisfy the Falangist Right, but somehow Becker seemed was able to rise above the pettiness, and see a Europe inexorably moving towards peace and prosperity. He wove a spell that entranced Manuel and left him with the impression he'd met a great and noble man.

In the cramped rear seat of the cab, Manuel was in the presence of a woman who had enthralled the man who could weave such a spell. It was common gossip that she had broken with him, not the other way around. They were supposedly still friends and could sometimes be seen together in Paris. There was something of raw sexuality about Laura Roth that Manuel could not put his finger on. Her movements were languid, but not particularly seductive. Her voice was low and cool. 

But even her words to a casual stranger had conveyed a certain sense of intimacy. He sensed she was the sort of woman with whom you could be intimate within a few moments, but love for years without ever really knowing.

The cab drew up at a bistro, and Manuel gave the driver a crisp five-franc note, then opened the door, holding it for Laura. She walked inside without looking at him, past some waiters who were struggling to fold up a little chalkboard which was threatening to blow down the street. A few drops of moisture beaded on his cheek - freezing rain or snow.

The bistro was warm and at least intimate if not cheery. There was no entertainment, though Radio Paris played over a tinny box near the door to the kitchen. Maurice Chevalier carried distantly through the place. Probably the radio was a concession to those who wanted to hear the latest election news rather than any serious attempt at entertainment.

The garcon approached and outlined the special. Cod with a sauce made from sparkling Cremant de Loire. 

Manuel nodded. "fine, we'll take the cod…"

Laura took out another cigarette and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm in the habit of ordering for myself, unless I'm on a date. Is this a date?"

Manuel's eyes flashed. "This is serious business."

'Then let me pick my own eats, huh buster? I had plenty of fish growing up, I'm not especially crazy about it."

"I can call him back…" sighed Manuel.

"Nope. I'll nibble on the fromage."

The sommelier was approaching. Manuel raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to order the wine?"

Laura Roth gave him an enchanting smile. "No that's a man's job." He was completely uncertain whether she was mocking him or not. Her toe brushing along the side of his calf under the table did not make things any clearer.

He rummaged a cigarette from a crumpled pack of Gauloises, and blew a cloud of blue smoke towards the brass table lamp. The wine was ordered and arrived with due ritual. Manuel took a long and indelicate swig.

"What have you got for me?"

"I thought you were never gonna ask me that," smiled Laura.

Manuel leaned back in his chair. "We have to be careful. There are spies everywhere. Very real spies. This may not matter to you - they are unlikely to act against you in France, at least at the moment, presuming Monsieur Blum carries the polls tonight, and France has a Left government. But I have to return to Spain. And there are other connections that can be traced."

"Well, it's funny that you mention going to Spain, because I've got a mind to go there myself."

Manuel gave a low polite laugh. "It's not a particularly good place for a holiday right now. I'm afraid we're having a little Civil War." 

"Laugh all you want, but I've got a mind to go to Spain. That's the price for my help."

"I'm very serious. Spain is no place for a woman right now. Even the Loyalist areas, there is great danger all the time."

"Tell me about it. What's it like in Barcelona right now?"

"Negrin moved the Loyalist UGT government there in October. But it isn't really a Republican Government anymore. It's a Socialist Government. Since the POUM leaders were arrested, a lot of Loyalists like me are afraid to go back into the country."

"Hold it, Johnny…UGT? POUM? - run it by me again real slow."

Manuel sighed and blew another cloud of smoke. "In 1936, the Popular Front won the Elections, and formed a coalition, just like the one Blum is leading here in France. The UGT is the big trade union that more or less formed the center of the Popular Front. The Popular Front was Socialist, but very moderate, because it had a lot of different groups in it. Not at all Communist, and only mildly pro-Soviet. Things went along pretty well for six months, but the Communists weren't real happy, and neither were the Falangists."

"Falangists?" 

"The Insurgents. They line up under General Franco now. They're like Hitlers Nazis and Mussolini's Fascists. Black shirts. They teamed up with the Carlists - that's the monarchists who want to restore King Alfonso, and have a military monarchy, like the Kaiser's Germany before the war."

"Okay, Falangists and Carlists have black hats, UGT and Socialists wear white hats. Or at least red hats…"

"More or less. Why is it Americans want to see all politics in terms of cowboy movies."

"Because we see all sex in terms of detective movies. But go on…"

"Alright…two years ago, in the middle of 1936, General Franco tried a military coup. That's why his side is called the Insurgents - they invaded the country from Morocco, to try and overthrow the Popular Front. Our side is the Loyalist side, meaning loyal to the elected government. Franco was going to take over the country, but the problem is that the Insurgents aren't that popular. So he found himself in the middle of a war with the government. In the normal course of things, he would have been brought down and arrested or killed."

Laura nodded. "I know that joke. The Germans and Italians have been pouring tanks and planes and men into Spain to support Franco and the Insurgents."

"Exactly. And the British and Americans and French have been strictly neutral and haven't helped a bit. The French sent some obsolete airplanes to the Loyalists early on. But this is where the problem is. Two years ago, the war was being fought by a Loyalist coalition - mostly the same groups that made up the Popular Front. The Anarchists were very big influences in the beginning - there are more of them than anybody else. But the POUM was important too - that's the anti-Stalinists Marxists. I worked for La Batalla, the POUM paper in Barcelona in `36, so I'm considered to be one of them. The problem is that the Loyalists are losing the war. 

In May, there was a falling out between the Anarchists and the POUM on one side and Negrin's Communists on the other. There was fighting over it in Barcelona. The result is that Negrin is in charge of Barcelona, and most of what's left of the Loyalist cause. Negrin is a powerful man because he's able to get help from the one side that will give it - Soviet Russia. But that means becoming a puppet of Stalin, and as soon as Russian tanks started showing up, Russian secret police started showing up too. That's when I got the hell out. About half the leaders of the POUM are arrested awaiting trial in Barcelona."

"Helluva way to run a country."

"Well…it wasn't my idea. I'm trying to do what I can. We'll see the same problem in France if Blum isn't careful tomorrow. Maybe we need your President Roosevelt."

Laura gave him a genuinely warm smile. "I didn't mean it that way. Anyway, he isn't my President Roosevelt."

"I once heard your ex-husband talk about him," said Manuel with calculation.

"Really. I'm not surprised. He was a big Roosevelt fan. I was never very warm on politics myself."

"Does it bother you for me to mention him."

"Who, the President or my ex-husband?"

"Your ex-husband. Paul Becker."

"No. After all, he's the reason I need to go to Spain."

"Why?"

"Paul enlisted in the International Brigade last year. He did it under an assumed name, on a Dutch Passport."

Manuel gave a low whistle. "I had no idea."

"That’s not the whole deal though. He’s dissapeared. Captured at Teruel."

"Where...under who?"

"I don’t know a whole lot. A friend of his, Herbert Matthews, saw him fighting along the Ebro River in August."

"I know Matthews. He’s a New York Times correspondent. That must have been during the fighting around Belchite." 

"Maybe. He said it was ugly. Bodies stacked six deep. But Paul was alive then. He got sent with the American Internationals to relieve Teruel. It’s a city that was attacked, supposedly."

"Yes," said Manuel. "It was in Insurgent territory earlier last year. Then the Loyalist forces took it in December, but they had to abandon it last month. I heard there were about twelve thousand men captured, but no foreigners."

"That’s the story they’ve been telling, but Matthew thought Paul was there. If he was, maybe he was captured."

"There’s been talk of a big prisoner exchange."

Laura nodded negatively. "I’ve seen the lists. Paul isn’t on them. Anyway, as far as I heard the prisoner exchange is dead. I did hear the Insurgents weren’t going to execute everybody they captured at Teruel. That’s mighty big of them."

"They do a lot of executing. And the paseos."

"What the hell is a paseo."

"It’s what you’d call being ‘taken for a ride.’ Unofficial execution. Anyway, there’s nothing you can accomplish for Paul by going to Spain. What are you going to do, storm General Franco’s command post."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Laura shot him a seductive smile. "I have resources. I heard that the local girls turn out to save their sweethearts by sleeping with the military heads. I’m not above that. There’s even literary precedent. Shakespeare and all."

"That’s not a universal custom. General Quiepo de Llano who commands Andalusia has a weakness for women. Maybe you’ve heard his radio broadcasts. Sort of like your President Roosevelt’s ‘fireside chats.’ He talks very amiably about the war, taunts the ‘reds’ about their sexual prowess, and details the sexual exploits and rapes of his Moorish soldiers. His police commander is Colonel Diaz Criado. He’s an alcoholic and a sadist. There are a few others like him of course. "Don Bruno" in Cordoba. Captain Rojas in Granada. Word has it that the local girls turn out to sleep with them or their assistants, and spring their boyfriends. But that’s in the cities. Prisoners from a campaign are going to be directly held by the Insurgent Army. The field commanders aren’t as corrupt and idiotic as the garrison commanders, no matter what you may have heard."

"I expect you’re right. Nevertheless, I’m going to go to Spain, and I’m going to spring Paul if his stupid arse is still alive, which I expect it is. And you’re going to help me."

Manuel sighed. "Why should I help you?"

"Because I can get you seven hundred carbine rifles, and about ninety machine guns. But the catch is, it’s on my terms."

"I have funds to pay for the weapons. But I can’t get you into Spain."

"Look bub. Somebody’s gonna have to go into Spain to get those weapons in. It might as well be me."

"Has anyone ever told you that you talk more like a gangster’s gun moll than a writer?"

"Several people. You know for a Spaniard your grasp of English isn’t so bad. You don’t even have much of an accent."

"That’s because I’m about as American as you are. Which is to say half. I was raised in Williamsburg, in Brooklyn."

"Really. Whyzzat?"

"My father was Spanish. He was a journalist, just like me, and had to flee the country after the 1909 Anarchist uprisings. He had friends in New York, and settled there. My mother was an Irish Catholic from Brooklyn. She died of the influenza in October of 1918. I went to New York public school, and got into Cornell. Graduated in spring of ‘31, and went to Barcelona to live with my uncle and be a writer. I’d been filled with Socialist ideas at school, and the first paper that gave me a job was La Batalla. I was pro-Socialist and anti-Stalin, so that suited me just fine. I only got a Spanish citizenship in 1935.

"So when it comes to it, you’re as Spanish as me?"

"Well. I speak that language better."

"Gee thanks. I’ll remember that. And hold it against you."

Manuel narrowed his eyes, and met Laura’s gaze. "What else will you hold against me."

She stared back until he looked down, then laughed. "I’m not that kind of girl."

He didn’t look up. "What kind of girl are you"

Again the low laugh. "You probably wouldn’t want to know."

Manuel flushed, and gave an inward groan of humiliation. He was certain he’d lost any chance at Laura. His suave Spanish charm had failed to avail him in the slightest. Then he felt a slight pressure on the back of his calf, knew it was her toe again.

"What’s the plan from here," she asked, grinding out the butt of her cigarette.

"You know more than I do," said Manuel. "I can deliver the money in Paris. I presume you know who to give it to."

"Yeah. Get me the money. I’ll take care of it."

"Beyond that I don’t know. I don’t think I can get you into Spain."

"You don’t have to . I can handle the travel arrangements myself. All you have to do is get me the proper papers to keep me from being shot. Cripes, I’m a journalist, how hard can it be?"

Manuel smiled. "There is certainly no rush to get to Paris. There will be a huge mess tomorrow anyway. The aftermath of the elections."

"All the more reason to go tonight. If Blum loses there will be a locomotive strike, maybe a general transportation strike."

"We shouldn’t travel together," said Manuel.

"Oh to hell with that. There’s probably only one more train to Paris. You can buy your ticket separately if you want."

"Fine. We might as well share a cab. Don’t blame me if your wake up dead in an alley."

"Unlikely I’d wake up dead, bub. But it’s not time for that yet."

She didn’t talk to him at all in the taxi, and bought her ticket alone. There was the inevitable delay. The incorporation of the old Compagnie du Nord, France's northern railway, into the S.N.C.F. the new Federally operated rail service hadn't improved service much. She seemed lapsed into a distant silence that he dared not penetrate. On board she promptly turned to him and said "let’s get a drink." He weighed secrecy while staring at the curve of her throat, and followed her to the bar. 

"Paris isn’t far enough to take a couchette," she said idly, as they sipped at drinks.

"That’s a shame, you probably need some sleep."

She shook her head. "Sleep is not what I need." 

He nodded, and tried to think of a line to continue the conversation in that direction, failed, and nodded.

They talked idly after that. Mostly he talked and she listened. He told a few anecdotes about his Journalistic career, avoided talking much about Cornell, or about his distinctly lower-class New York origins. 

When she talked about her life at all, it was guarded. She’d known most of the great figures of the previous decade, and had lunch with people like Janet Flanner. She hadn’t been introduced to Marlene Dietrich on the way over, and couldn’t think of anything she’d want to say to her. She told a few rather flat anecdotes about Gertrude Stein and Alice P. Toklas. She hadn’t known Scott Fitzgerald well, and had only seen Zelda once or twice, didn’t care much for Ernest Hemingway. She was breezy without being pretentious. She never mentioned Paul directly again, though she did occasionally obliquely refer to him in telling a story "Paul and I went out to the Crillion."

They knew some of the same restaurants, and few of the same people. She told him journalists were boring, and did not except the present company. 

"I think I should be offended."

She waved a dismissive hand. "I thought you were a spy and a contrabandist now..."

At the Gare du Nord she placed a white gloved hand in his, and led him to a cab. 

Inside she snapped " 40 rue de Saint Quentin" the address of a good smaller hotel near the station, where she’d taken rooms once before. He offered to help carry her luggage up, and she accepted soundlessly. The bellhop was dismissed with instructions to see to it that her luggage from the liner was delivered when it arrived tomorrow. The concierge gave hardly a second glance to him. The elevator boy eyed him slyly but Laura seemed oblivious. 

She swung open the door and entered without looking at him. The room was small and comfortable. The heat had been turned up to full, and a bottle of champagne sat on a table across from a couch. He stepped inside and set down the two items he was carrying. She turned and looked him over.

"Well don’t just stand there. Sit down. Do you drink champagne?"

"Oh....wine, I think. I don’t want to keep you up. I probably should go."

"I don’t think you need to do that. Do you?"
 

He shook his head, confused.

"Look. You want to spend the night. Let’s just get a few rules straight. O.K.?"

He nodded, affirmatively.

"My place. What I say goes. Got that?"

"Yes..."

"Good, open this bottle. There’s a corkscrew beside the ice-bucket."

Laura went to the window and opened it a quarter, cooling the room to an acceptable level. 

"I’m going to go get more comfortable, alright?" 

"Yes...certainly."

"Make yourself at home."

While he waited, he sipped at the champagne. There was little to be said for it, but it was palatable, and he was made briefly aware of the fatigue that lay just beneath the veneer of sexual excitement that had kept him going through the evening. He shook his head...it wouldn’t do to fall asleep at this particular critical juncture. There didn’t seem to be much question that he was going to make Laura Roth.

She returned wearing a greyish-silver satin peignot. It was tied loosely at the waist, and showed a great deal of leg and chest. She took the other glass and slouched on the couch, extending her legs and pointing her toes.

"Rub my feet," she said casually. 

He knelt to comply, sitting his mostly empty glass on a table. Her feet felt good in his hands, and he began to rub them carefully, using his fingertips to tease and stimulate. She relaxed and made no effort to converse. He let his fingertips stray to her ankle, and when she did not object, began stroking her calf, and tracing the seam along the back of her stocking to the back of her kneecap. At that he heard a very slight intake of breath. Her eyes were closed, and the glass dangled mostly empty in her hand. He took it from her and sat it on the floor, then continued, working his fingertips across the back of her knee.

She raised one knee, and extended the other leg, the effect being to part her thighs. His fingertips stroked beneath the silk, and he felt the delicious smoothness of her thigh beneath his fingers. He flushed, probably visibly even with his dark complexion. Below he felt a stirring.

His palm pressed flat against her thigh, exerting slight pressure, to which she responded by parting her legs wider. His fingertips searched upwards. He was no schoolboy, and resisted the urge to seek his goal at once. When his fingers found the curve where her thigh ended, and traced it, fine hair brushing the back of his hand, he risked a glance upwards. Laura’s eyes were closed, and her lower lip was indrawn slightly, as she bit it to repress a moan. 

His fingers brushed the fine hair gently, without touching the flesh. He could see her sex now, lips slightly apart...he lowered his hand, and let one fingertip brush faintly along the irregular ridge.

He felt her fingers curl about his wrist, pull it away, pull herself up, until she was face to face with him. He stared into her eyes, big and dark. They seemed to glow. 

She stood up, and held out her hand. He took it and she raised him to his feet, and led him into the bedroom. Aping the working class he wore no tie. She unbuttoned his shirt, and ran her hands down his chest. Smooth for the most part, something he had been very self conscious about at Cornell, as much for the glances it had attracted from other "boys" as for any actual fear.

"Lie down."

He eased himself down to the hotel bed, which gave a discordant screech of springs. The bleached white sheets were rough beneath his skin.

She stripped unselfconsciously in front of him, and climbed onto the bed. She knelt by his head for a moment, and he thought she would ride him. She stroked his cheek, and swung her leg over him, so that her sex was just above him. He was surprised to the point of being shocked, but there was no doubt in his mind about her purpose. He smelled the slight salty tang of her, and raised his head, placing his lips against hers. Her hair was soft, ticklish, against his clean-shaven face and chin. She spread her knees, so that her body settled, and he lowered his head, more comfortable now, and ran a tentative tongue along the place where her lips parted. 

He felt her fingers in his short hair, pulling, pushing, his head up, forcing his lips harder against her sex. He began to lick her in earnest, at first without much skill or purpose, just savoring in the salt of her body. After a moment he recovered some sense, and began using his tongue more skillfully, sucking her inner lips into his mouth, and running his tongue in long arcs up and down. At one end of his traverse he circled the swelling bulb of her clit, and at the other end let the tip of his tongue flick into the ring of muscles that was the opening to her sex.

He felt her hips began to sway as her body rocked against his mouth. Then her thighs came together, and his head was pressed between them. She was relentless. She rested her full weight against his face, his mouth, his lips, grinding her cunt against his mouth. His skill and delicacy were gone, and he licked and sucked frantically at her, gasping a breath when he could. She drove herself against him with no regard for his abilty to breathe or comfort. He felt trapped, yet her excitement began to carry away his discomfort. He could feel from the swaying rythym of her hips that she was excited. He tasted her liquor on his tongue...she was flowing freely now and her juices smeared his lips, cheeks, as she ground her pelvis against him. Her breathing deepened and she leaned forward, pressing her clit hard against his lip, almost bruising it. He worked her with his tongue, and felt her thighs tighten like a vise, hard against his head. Her fingers dug into his hair, hurting him and pressed his face into her. He felt her convulsions begin, and heard a low set of moans become a long shuddering sob...her thighs tensed and convulsed, and against his lips he could feel her clit pounding as she came. Her thrusts against his face were violent...mingled with her juices he tasted the warm salt of blood as his lip was caught against his teeth.

She held his head there for a few moments, then raised her leg to climb off him, panting on all fours. He raised himself on his elbows as if to rise, and she put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down hard.

She backed away from him until her head was level with his waist, and took him into her mouth. He was already half hard and it was clear that she was in a hurry to get him ready. Her lips felt good on him, and his hips rocked gently as she milked his cock into her mouth, her hand around the base pumping him.

As soon as he was fully hard, she threw a leg over him, and took him into her hand, putting him into her body. He started to thrust upwards, but she squeezed him with her thighs letting him know she would set the pace. He met her rythym, and clasped his hands across the cheeks of her ass.

She rode him, face slightly upturned, and he stared upwards at her body. He was excited to be inside her, excited to be driving his hips and cock up into her, but he had been with enough women not to be lost in the experience. He was excited and he knew it, and dared not let himself be carried away. He found himself assessing her almost clinically. She was shapely, not perfect, but in the dim electric light coming from the parlour room he could tell she was well proportioned. She was older than he was, by nearly ten years. Her breasts had a slight sag inevitable with age, and her belly was more rounded than smooth. No Mae West, but not one of the slight waifs that were fashionable in his prep-school days, before the depression. 

And everything about her was sensual. Curve flowed into curve, rising to her face, jaw slightly clenched as she worked herself towards climax. He felt her body rise and fall on the shaft of his cock, felt the walls of her sex begin to clench, and felt her nails sink into his shoulders. She leaned forward, hair falling across his chest, and he saw her mouth open, and eyes closed. Then he felt the quick shudder as she came, and he let himself concentrate on her fully, on the reality of the situation. The pain of her nails digging deeply into his shoulders excited him further. He came within a few hard thrusts.

Afterwards she rolled on her back, and said nothing. Finding the silence awkward, he lit a cigarette, and offered her one. She declined with a murmur and a nod, and turned away from him.

"Should I go?" he asked.

"No..." she replied. "Stay." She reached for his arm, and placed ir around her, so that his hand rested between her breasts, her hand over his. He pressed his body against hers and she gave a slight response, conforming the curve of her body to his. She was alseep within minutes, or pretending to be. He wanted to get up and urinate, but dared not disturb her. He woke later with the need sharper, and slipped away, returning to her side afterward. She was human, she snored slightly. The room was hot, even with a window open in the parlour, and she had rolled back the sheets. He was accustomed to taking women, but there was no doubt she had taken him. He shrugged. She was a little older than him, and that gave her some right. Anyway, she had excited him more than usual, he had not quite resorted to thinking of baseball, but the sensations...no, the emotions, she produced had him on the edge very quickly.

Her skin was pale next to his. He had a Hispanic cast, though very light compared to many of his countrymen. Since Coco Chanel had made the suntan popular, he attracted very little attention in society, though in school he had been called a "goddammned little nigger spic," by his classmates. Women found him exotic enough to be handsome, and he seldom lacked for lovers.

The thoughts in his head moved in kaliedescope patterns, and he drifted off, to awake to the sound of a woman’s scream.

It was daylight which helped him fix his location better. The scream had a tone of outrage or anger, not of terror, and it was followed by a sob and theatrical crying. Another voice was speaking softly in the parlor. He rolled to his feet and quickly put on his clothes. 

His French wasn’t good enought to follow arguments or fights, but he caught a few phrases. The woman who was in tears had expected to find Laura alone, apparently, and had loud misgivings about "the man" in her bedroom. If the speaker hadn’t been so obviously French, he would have suspected it was a mother, or sister. He caught 

He was undetermined about opening the door when, Laura came through it. She looked tired.

"You’re up. Good. Look, I hate to ask you this, but you should probably go."

"I will...I mean it’s no problem. Is...somebody..."

"Alright? Yes, that’s Jeanne. She’s fine. Or will be."

"I’m sorry, should I not have stayed here?"

Laura nodded negatively. "It’s fine, I wanted you to stay, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s her problem." She went into the bathroom and ran some water, emerged with a washcloth. At the door she gave him a quick kiss. "Call me." Manuel followed her closely into the parlour.

Jeanne was still crying, just a slow flow of tears now. She looked up when he came in and looked quickly away. She was pretty. Short blonde hair, no real bust, and slender arms and legs. She had an ideal figure for the previous decade, and dressed it. He thought she was a little older than him, maybe halfway between he and Laura. Her eyes were red with tears. He slipped into the hall as unobtrusively as possible, and pulled the door shut behind.