Goodbye, Janette Page 4

  “By the way,” she asked, “have you heard anything from your friends in Berlin about Wolfgang?”

  “Not a word,” he said.

  “I’m worried about him,” she said. “It’s been more than two months.”

  “I’m sure that he’s all right. If anything had gone wrong, I would have heard. By now he’s probably out of the country.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “Call me as soon as you have the papers in order,” he said.

  “I will,” she said, putting down the telephone.

  The door opened and Janette came into the room. She was waving a paper in her hand. “Maman!” she exclaimed in French. “Look at this drawing of a bird that I made. The professor gave me an A. He said he has never seen a bird like it.”

  She took the paper from the child’s hand. The professor was right. There never was a bird like it. Except maybe in nightmares. It was a cross between a pterodactyl, an eagle and a bat, all in bold vivid frightening colors.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Janette exclaimed.

  Tanya nodded. “Very.” She gave it back to the child. “You’d better put it in a safe place so that you don’t lose it.”

  “I would like to put it in a frame and hang it on the wall over my bed.”

  Tanya forced a smile. “All right.”

  “You were speaking in French on the telephone,” Janette said. “Who were you talking to?”

  Tanya picked the child up. Now was as good a time as any to tell her. “Mama is getting married.”

  Janette’s face broke into a happy smile. “Papa General is coming back?”

  “No,” Tanya said. “We’re going back to Paris to live. I’m marrying Maurice.”

  A startled expression crossed Janette’s face then suddenly she began to cry. “No, Maman, no! I don’t like him. He’s a bad man.”

  “He’s not a bad man,” Tanya said patiently. “He’s very nice. You’ll see. He likes you very much.”

  “He does not!” Janette cried. “He hates me. He always pinches me when you’re not looking and he hurts me.”

  “He doesn’t mean to hurt you,” Tanya explained. “It’s just his way of showing that he likes you.”

  “No, it’s not!” Janette said emphatically. “I can tell from his face that he wants to hurt me, and when I don’t cry out he pinches even harder.” She began to cry again. “I don’t want you to marry him. I want you to marry Papa General.”

  “I’m sorry, Janette,” Tanya said firmly, putting her down. “There are some things you know nothing about. I am going to marry him, and that’s the last word I’ll have on the subject. Now you go up to your room and calm down.”

  Still sobbing, the child went to the door. At the door, she turned back, wiping her nose and face with her forearm. “I don’t care,” she said defiantly. “Even if you marry him, I still won’t like him.”

  They were married three weeks later, and despite the fact that Tanya had bought Janette a new white dress for the wedding, she refused to go to the registrar’s office with them.

  ***

  She stared at herself in the mirror. She still was not used to seeing herself with blond hair. In a strange fashion she almost felt as if she had become someone else. Before she had felt her sexuality as subtle and quiet. Now it was overt and strong, almost as if it had a force of its own—a force she could not control.

  Slowly she brushed her hair, feeling the soft sensuality of each silken strand. She paused, looking in the mirror. Something wasn’t just right. Then she knew. The white silk gown she had chosen for her wedding night was all wrong.

  She turned to the small valise she had packed to take to the hotel. Quickly she went through it. A moment later she had changed gowns. Now when she looked in the mirror she understood the impulse that had made her place the black lace gown in the valise. Now she was different. Now she was someone else. The thought jumped through her mind. Lilith.

  Again she looked at herself. Now she was ready. Suddenly she felt her legs begin to tremble and placed both hands on the sink to steady herself. In the mirror she saw the nipples of her breasts jutting suddenly forward, almost forcing their way through the filmy lace.

  She shook her head violently to clear it. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if he was the first man for her. She closed her eyes for a moment. The knowledge came to her. The monster phallus danced before her closed lids. The ultimate symbol of man’s power. The man himself was nothing. It was Priapus with all the worship he inspired. She felt the wetness flooding into her loins.

  She waited until she felt she could control the trembling of her legs, then turned off the bathroom light and opened the door to the bedroom. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  He was standing, naked, next to the bed, his back toward her. Without moving from the bed, he turned slowly toward her. At first all she saw was his hard glittering eyes and the lips drawn back tightly across his small white teeth; then her eyes fell, drawn inexorably to his phallus. She felt the trembling begin again in her legs, her mouth suddenly dry with the breath catching in her throat.

  Without speaking, he gestured with one hand for her to come to him, the other hand concealed behind his back.

  Silently she moved toward him, feeling as if she might fall with every step she took. At last she was before him, her eyes still cast down. She felt as if she were hypnotized by his manhood.

  Suddenly he moved and with one hand tore the black gown down the front of her body until it lay on the floor around her feet and she was naked in front of him. Still he didn’t speak.

  She felt her wetness running down the inside of her thighs. But there was no way she could move. It was as if his phallus had taken over all the strength in her body. She did not see his other hand come from behind his back. It took a moment for the shock wave of pain to travel from her body to her brain. Then the agony was so intense that a scream involuntarily tore its way from her throat.

  For the first time she saw the cat-o’-nine-tails in his other hand, the small metal tips at the end of each thong gleaming in the light. She looked down at herself. The lash marks were already rising across her breasts, her belly and thighs, and blood was beginning to seep through the skin where the metal had torn into her flesh.

  Before she could speak, his harsh voice tore at her. “Whore of the Boche! Do you think I will be like the others? Slave to your cunt?”

  She could only shake her head. There was no way she could speak. Her voice had gone with shock.

  Again the lash. Again the pain. Then his hand was in her hair, cruelly forcing her to the floor before him. She tried to cover her face with her hands but he forced her head back so that she could look at him. His phallus, fully erect now, hung over her face like a giant snake.

  His voice was harsh and cruel. “You are the slave and he is your master. Look at him and know that you are nothing but his whore.”

  She tried to turn her head away but his hand gripping her by the hair would not let her move. Then the cat fell again. This time across her back. Twice. The pain engulfed her and she screamed, her voice almost raw with hoarseness.

  It was as if her scream of pain triggered him off. His phallus began to leap like an angry cobra as his semen came spurting over her. Angrily he lashed at her again and the pain and the semen seemed to be flowing all together over her body.

  Then it was over and he thrust her violently to the floor. She sprawled, sobbing, at his feet, unable to move. He stood silently for a moment, breathing heavily, looking down at her. Then he prodded her with his foot until she rolled over on her back, her face staring up at him.

  His voice was normal now. “Go to the bathroom, whore, and clean yourself.”

  She didn’t move.

  Again the lash. Her body jumped with the pain. “Do as I say!”

  Slowly she rolled to her hands and knees and began to crawl to the bathroom door. She heard his voice from behind her. “Wait!” She stopped. She saw
his feet walk around her and stop in front of her. She didn’t raise her head.

  “Look at me!” he commanded.

  She looked up. He was holding his penis in one hand. Suddenly the urine gushed forth from him, its hot burning saltiness bringing a new dimension to the raw bleeding pain of her wounds. “No!” she screamed, trying to move away. But the lash fell again and the pain beat her to the ground, sprawling at his feet.

  Then he was finished and he laughed. “Now you can go.”

  Somewhere inside she found the strength to look up at him. Her voice sounded like an animal’s, deep and husky in her throat. “I’ll kill you for this!”

  He laughed again. “No, you won’t,” he said contemptuously. “Because if you do, both you and your child will die. You must think I am a fool. I’m not. All your records are in a safe place, and if anything should happen to me, they will be turned over to the authorities.”

  Slowly he went back to the bed and sat down on it. His voice was relaxed, almost gentle now. “After you clean yourself and this mess, come to bed. I’ll be waiting for you.” Then he stretched out and pulled the sheet over him. “You don’t have to rush. I think I’ll sleep for awhile.”

  She pulled herself to her feet by the doorknob. She leaned against it for a moment then opened the door. It was daylight before she came out and he seemed to be still asleep. She moved quietly to a closet door to get a dress.

  His voice came from behind her. “Come here.”

  She made no move toward him.

  He sat up in the bed, holding the cat in his hand. “I said, come here.”

  Slowly she moved toward him.

  “Lie down and spread your legs.”

  “No.” The cat tore at her. Silently she got into the bed.

  He threw the sheet from him. He was already erect. He poised himself over her and tried to enter her. But she was dry and closed to him. He spit into his hand and rubbed it on himself then with one violent motion thrust himself deep inside her.

  She screamed again in pain as the immenseness of him tore its way through her. He began to move and she continued screaming at the growing intenseness of his mounting passion. It was an agony she never dreamed she could ever feel. Finally, he exploded inside her.

  For a moment, he lay gasping on her breasts, then raising himself on his arms, looked down at her. He was smiling. “Isn’t that what you really wanted? A cock like a horse’s?”

  She stared into his eyes with hatred. Her voice was cold. “I’ve seen horses’ cocks bigger than yours, but I’ve never wanted to fuck them.”

  His hand flashed across her face. She could feel the white finger marks begin to flush with pain. Her voice was still cold. “Are you finished?”

  He nodded.

  “Then get off me,” she said. “I want to wash you out of me.”

  He watched her walk to the bathroom door. “Tanya.”

  She turned to look back at him.

  He seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t understand you. What is it that you want?”

  She took a deep breath. “A man,” she said, then closed the bathroom door behind her.

  ***

  The chauffeur opened the door and Maurice got out first, turning to give her his hand to help her down. She avoided his hand, steadying herself by his wrist, and waited until Janette was beside her before she turned to look at the house. “It’s a big house,” she said.

  “It was a steal,” he said. “The owners wanted to sell quickly.”

  She felt Janette clutching her hand. It was a large gray stone house, more than twenty meters wide, set back behind a wrought-iron fence in a tiny garden facing the street. Behind the giant center grates was a small walk, leading up to the entrance of stained-glass doors protected by a wrought-iron grille into which already had been set the Beauville coat of arms.

  She followed him to the door as the chauffeur began to unload their baggage from the car. The door was opened by a butler in full livery before Maurice had a chance to ring the doorbell.

  “Shall I carry the bride over the threshold?” Maurice asked sarcastically.

  She didn’t bother to answer and went into the house. As was the custom, the household staff was lined up in the reception hall to meet the new mistress. There were six of them, all in household uniform. Henri, the butler, his wife, Marguerite, who was the cook, and four young girls, maids who would take care of the cleaning and other services. René, the chauffeur, was still outside.

  She shook hands with them one by one, acknowledging their curtsies with a slight nod of her head. “Madame la Marquise,” they murmured respectfully.

  Just as the introductions were completed, a young man came from one of the closed doors leading to the hall, carrying some papers in his hand. He stopped when he saw them. “Excuse me,” he said in English. “I didn’t realize you were already here.”

  Tanya didn’t have to hear his accent to know that he was American, she could tell from the cut of his suit. She glanced from him to Maurice.

  “My dear,” Maurice said. “May I present my executive assistant and secretary, Jerry Johnson? Jerry, Madame la Marquise and her daughter, Janette.”

  Awkwardly, the American bowed. “It’s a pleasure, Madame la Marquise.”

  Tanya didn’t offer her hand. “Mr. Johnson.”

  “Would you like to see the house, my dear?” Maurice asked.

  Tanya shook her head. “I’m a bit tired from the journey. I would like to rest and freshen up a bit first.”

  Maurice nodded. “Very well.” He turned to the butler. “Will you take Madame la Marquise to our suite and see to her comfort.” He turned back to Tanya. “I have some papers to go over with Jerry. I’ll join you in a little while.”

  Tanya glanced at the young American. Suddenly many things began to come together in her head. She nodded slowly, no sign of her thoughts showing on her face, then, taking Janette by the hand, began to follow the butler up the stairs.

  ***

  Slowly Tanya got out of the tub and reached for the giant terry bathrobe and wrapped herself in it. She dried herself quickly, then dropping it on the floor, stood in front of the mirror. The welts and cuts of her wedding night had gone from her body but not from her mind. She slipped into a silk robe and went into the bedroom. She pressed the button for the maid and sat down at the dressing table. There was a discreet knock at the door. “Entrez.”

  The maid came in and curtsied. “Madame.”

  Tanya looked at her. She was a young girl with dark curly hair and large brown eyes. “What is your name, child?”

  “Louise, Madame.”

  “Louise, would you bring me some tea, please?”

  “With pleasure, Madame.” The maid curtsied again and left the room.

  Tanya turned back to the mirror. Idly she touched her hair. The trouble with being a blonde was that it needed touching up every few weeks. She hated the ugly look of dark roots, though many women didn’t seem to mind it. Again there was a knock at the door. Thinking it was the maid returning with the tea, she called out, “Entrez.”

  In the mirror she saw the door open. Quickly she pulled the robe closed around her breasts, as Jerry came into the room, a file of papers in his hand. She looked at him questioningly. “Yes?”

  “The marquis would like you to sign these papers,” he said.

  She nodded. “Put them on the table over there and I’ll get to them.”

  He stood there, hesitating.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked.

  “The marquis said it was important that you sign these right away.”

  She rose to her feet and faced him. “Tell the marquis that I will sign nothing until after I have read them.” She held out her hand. “You can leave them with me.”

  Automatically he placed them in her hand and turned toward the door. Her voice stopped him.

  “By the way,” she asked in a casual voice, “how did you happen to meet the marquis?”

  “Several years ago in Engl
and,” he said. “I was attached to GHQ as a liaison officer with the Free French forces. When the war was over and I decided to remain in Europe, the marquis was kind enough to offer me this job.”

  “I see.” She nodded thoughtfully then smiled. “That must have been a very good thing for the both of you.”

  “It was,” he said, feeling more at ease now and smiling. He turned once again, reaching for the doorknob.

  “Jerry.”

  He looked back at her, his hand still on the doorknob. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Her voice was artless. “How long have you and Maurice been lovers?”

  She saw the flush creep up into his face and his normally blue-gray eyes grow green with hatred. Then his lips tightened against his reply and he left the room abruptly, the door almost slamming shut behind him.

  She was seated at the small breakfast table near the window, sipping tea and reading the file when Maurice came into the room. She glanced up at him. “You could knock,” she said casually. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

  His face was flushed and angry. “Jerry told me that you said you wouldn’t sign the papers.”

  “Not until after I’d read them,” she said, her voice still casual. She glanced down at the file in her hand. “Now that I have, I won’t sign them at all.”

  “Everything was supposed to be transferred into the estate after we were married,” he said. “That was what Wolfgang said we were going to do.”

  “That’s what he said,” she agreed pleasantly.

  “Then do it,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You have to,” he said. “I have assumed many financial obligations based on that agreement.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” she said.

  “Even this house was bought on that assumption,” he said.

  “I notice that,” she said. “In your own name personally, but to be paid for out of Wolfgang’s companies with his moneys. I don’t think his intention was to enrich you at his own expense.”

  “Then you intend to keep it all,” he said balefully.

  “Until I hear from Wolfgang to the contrary.”