The Three Sirens (18 page)

Judging from Dr. Hayden’s letter, the customs of the tribe on The Three Sirens promised far more, and Orville saw that it could be useful to his work. Furthermore, although he knew Dr. Hayden only slightly, he knew her son, Marc, quite well, and had found he had much in common with him. To work beside Marc in the field might be pleasant. Yet, now, as he wheeled his Dodge into Welton Street, he knew that he was only daydreaming. To participate in such an adventure was impossible. His mother would not permit it. His sister, Dora, would make scenes. And besides, if he just went off, he would alienate himself from Beverly completely, if he had not alreadv done so. He would have to decline, and tender his thanks to Dr. Hayden this evening, and ask her to give his best regards to Marc and to the new Mrs. Hayden.

With this settled, Orville left his car in the parking lot on Welton, and walked the half-block to Sixteenth Street, where the motion picture theater stood. Entering the lobby of the empty theater, he wondered how long this French film ran and if it would be worth his time. Over one year ago, the C.S.W.A., inspired by editorials in the Denver Post, had created its Censorship Committee, and invited him to serve as its expert. He had served with no remuneration—a community service, he told himself—other than favorable personal publicity in the Post. Generally, he enjoyed the assignment. He was able to see foreign films, and some Hollywood ones, in a raw form that the public would not see. This forbidden knowledge made him an object of interest at parties. Also, he liked to think, he was saving the city from corrupting influences and uplifting its moral tone. He took a certain satisfaction in the statistics: of thirty films examined in the past twelve months, he had been responsible for having four of them banned, fifteen of them sharply expurgated, and six of them moderately edited. His neighbors were the better for his intelligent vigilance.

Inside the cavern of the theater, he found the three committee members waiting in the loges. With a smile, and courteous greetings, he shook hands with each—first with Mrs. Abrams, a small, darting woman who looked like something that had escaped from a broken thermometer; next with Mrs. Brinkerhof, who resembled a basketball player wearing a gray female wig; and finally with Mrs. Van Home, who reminded him always of an entree that was ample, stuffed, jellied, and he was always surprised there was not an apple in her mouth.

Immediately, Mrs. Brinkerhof had signaled the projectionist. The lights dimmed, and the main titles flashed on the screen. Orville sank into his leather seat, lifted his spectacles higher on his nose, and squinted at the main title—
Versailles Productions present Guy de Maupassant’s Monsieur Bel-Ami
.

Orville was well prepared for what would follow. The night before, he had read a synopsis of de Maupassant’s original novel, published in 1885 and set in that period. Also, he had read the press book of the motion picture releasing company, and learned that the film was bringing the old novel up to date and setting it in the year 1960. As for all the rest, the characters—the newspaperman and scoundrel, Georges Duroy; the women he seduced, Madeleine Forestier, Clotilde de Marelle, Basile Walter; the benefactors he betrayed, Charles Forestier, M. Walter—and the plot—the story of Duroy’s climb from impoverished journalist to winner of the Legion of Honor to candidate for the Chamber of Deputies—and the setting—Paris and Cannes—all were unchanged and faithful to the novel.

Orville concentrated on the screen. There was the long shot of the army transport plane from Algeria. Next came the landing at Orly Field. The occupants of the plane, discharged veterans of the French fighting forces in Algeria, emerged into the arms of relatives and friends, with only one remaining alone and unmet. This was the tall, handsome George Duroy, who watched the others and then limped to the waiting bus. The scene dissolved to the Champs-Élysées in midafternoon. There was a trucking shot of Duroy walking, studying a card in his hand, searching for an address. Next, there was a dissolve to the office of La Vie franchise, where the editor, Forestier, heartily welcomed his former brother officer, Duroy. An interminable dialogue scene between the old buddies followed, and Duroy had a job on the newspaper, and suddenly the editor’s wife, Madeleine, appeared, and the editor introduced his wife to his old friend.

Along with Duroy, Orville studied Madeleine. Whoever the actress was, her bust and buttocks were formidable, and her eyes an aphrodisiac. A veteran of French films, Orville knew the time was near, and he reached into his pocket for his notebook and flashlight pen. He was not to be disappointed. Forestier had invited Duroy to his country house near Chartres. When Duroy arrived, he learned his editor was ill from a bronchial ailment and confined to his bed. There was only Madeleine to welcome Duroy. Then came the expected dissolve, and another dissolve, and one more, and suddenly Orville’s pen was busy. Madeleine, wearing brief lace panties and nothing else, lay on the bed of the lodge in the forest, a kilometer from the main house. Her eyes were closed, her full lips parted, her wide breasts bared, and Duroy seen only from the waist up, naked, moved into the scene, and sat beside her. She writhed, murmured in French, and he caressed her, whispered back, and bent closer and closer.

Thereafter, for almost an hour and a half, Orville’s pen scratched across his notebook … the indecency of Madeleine’s undisguised enjoyment of her carnal appointments with Duroy … the disgusting scene between the newspaper’s wealthy proprietor, M. Walter, and his wife Basile, in which his impotency was made a matter of humor … the shocking, cold-blooded seduction of Basile by Duroy in a wagon-lit compartment en route to Cannes … the degenerate shots of the French hussies in bikinis on the Riviera, the angles! the anatomical close-ups! … Duroy’s meeting with Basile Walter’s daughter Suzanne, and their passionate acrobatics in the close, damp confines of a cabana … Duroy’s blackmailing his women to attain power, with no retribution at the fade-out.

The lights had gone on. Orville considered what he had seen. In his own judgment, the entire picture should be banned. However, he did not want to go out on a limb. If the committee liked it, he would not oppose them. He did not want to be made to seem a puritan.

He turned around in his seat. “Well, ladies, what do you think?”

He could see, from their expressions, glazed and faraway, that they had enjoyed it very much. No one replied, and then Mrs. Abrams dared. “It’s a little strong here and there, and I don’t think the hero is a good example of a man to look up to, but—” She hesitated, and then said it. “It—I think it has artistic merit.”

“Yes,” echoed Mrs. Brinkerhof, “artistic merit.”

“It’ll have to have a Tor Adults Only’ restriction,” said Mrs. Van Home.

They had passed their judgment, and Orville knew what was expected of him. After all, he reminded himself, their husbands were important. “I’m glad you feel as I do,” he said briskly. “I think we can insist upon one major cut—the impotency scene, which is ugly and does nothing for the picture—and perhaps five or six lesser cuts. Shall I read them to you?”

The women, suffering group guilt, wanting to expiate this guilt, were eager to hear the cuts. Orville, in the professional monotone that he always assumed on such occasions, read aloud his suggestions. The committee’s agreement was unanimous, and made with relief. Now that it was over with, they seemed gay, romantically enriched, and freed of inner shames.

When Orville bade them farewell, and left the theater, one more sensible compromise behind him, he carried a single riddle with him. The riddle was the ancient worn one, and it was posed in a single word: women. He had a Ph.D. in anthropology. How many years would pass before he could have a Ph.D. in women? When would he, or any man, ever understand them?

Once inside his car, and driving to his private office, he reviewed the film, what had been enjoyable and what had been distasteful, and he recollected the few women he had known, and he thought about his mother and his sister and Beverly. When he had parked in his regular niche in the lot on Arapahoe Street, and walked toward his suite of offices in the building at Arapahoe and Fourteenth, he discerned what in his reflections was disturbing him. He did not want to be Sir James Frazer, after all. He wanted to be Georges Duroy. His mother and Dora would not like it, of course, but that was what he wanted at this moment. Well, they need not worry, his mood would change.

His mood changed the moment that he entered the blue-carpeted reception room of his office suite. He heard his secretary say into the telephone, “One moment, please, he may be coming in.”

He looked at her inquiringly.

She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s your mother, Dr. Pence.”

Without glancing at his watch, he knew that the time must be exactly two o’clock. He glanced. It was exactly two o’clock.

“All right, tell her to hold on a second.” Starting for his office, he realized that he had missed lunch. “Gale,” he called back, “soon as you switch it over to me, send down for some sandwiches. Beef—no gravy. And skimmed milk.”

After closing the door, he removed hat and coat, then settled on the swivel chair behind his large oak desk and picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said and paused so that Gale, knowing he was on, would leave the line. As he heard the click that meant he was alone with his mother, his voice shed its professional dignity. “Hello, Mom,” he said, “how are you?”

It seemed to him that Crystal’s voice was becoming shriller with every new year. “You know how it is with me, nothing ever changes,” she was saying. “The question is, how is my boy?” He winced at the “my boy,” but he never had the courage to remind her that she had christened him with a name. She rambled on. “You sounded tired this morning. Did you work all night?” He tried to acknowledge that he had worked late, but she was not listening, so he desisted and settled back.

“You can sleep like a baby,” she was saying. “I wish I could tell you how I envy the lucky people who put their heads on the pillow and—poof—asleep. I suppose I am cursed. The older you get, the harder it is to sleep. Maybe I have lived too long.” He assured her that she had not lived too long. She had listened to this reply, for she said, “You are sweet when you want to be, always stay that way, my boy. Too many sons grow away, become too big, forget the people who are important to them in the end. Friends fall away.

You can’t trust them. Only a mother—what is in her heart—can be trusted. You always read in the papers where mothers are giving up their lives for their children, jumping into a fire, anything. Ah, my boy, someday you will understand. But what I was saying—all night I couldn’t sleep—the pills are no good—and dreams, I am cursed with dreams—people can’t understand until it happens to them. When they are old and it happens to them they understand. The pills are no good, my boy, everything is different, you can’t trust your own doctor. When I was young, you knew your doctor was like a member of the family. He would not lie any more than you would lie—he would not gouge and take advantage of you, and give you sugar pills and talk about everything being in the mind. In the mind—nonsense! What I feel in the bones is not in the mind. My boy, if only you knew how crippled I am today, my arms are like burning embers, and my feet, the ankles, it is torture …”

She’s off and running, Orville thought, and he would not be called upon for an interjection for at least three minutes. Wedging the telephone receiver between his ear and shoulder, coughing softly from time to time to make her think that he was attentive, but only half-listening to her summation of medical ailments that would have enriched Burton’s
Anatomy of Melancholy
, Orville began to sort his business mail. Setting aside Dr. Maud Hayden’s letter for attention later, he opened the other envelopes one by one, marking some for reply and others for filing and others to be thrown away. The last letter, from his rare-book dealer in Paris, jubilantly announced that a fine copy of the 1750 edition of Freydier’s
A Plea Against the Introduction of Chastity Belts
had been located. Pleased that the quoted price was so reasonable, Orville wrote on the letter, “Reply and instruct to purchase at once.” There remained the stack of magazines. Since Orville preferred to give them his undivided attention, he shoved them to one side until he was free.

For another minute, he allowed his mother to go on, and then he interrupted. “Mom—listen, Mom—look—there’s a long-distance call from Pennsylvania—I’ve got to—yes, Mom, you should go to this new doctor, if that’s what everyone says—yes, absolutely, I’ll take you there, I’ll pick you up at a quarter to three tomorrow—no, I won’t forget—yes, I promise. Okay, Mom, okay. ‘By.”

He hung up, and sat unmoving, surprised, as ever, by his exhaustion at the end of these calls. After a minute, having gained his second wind, he rolled his swivel chair closer to the desk, and began to unwrap the magazines. As part of his study on comparative sexual behavior, Orville subscribed to every pornographic or racy magazine known in the world. Some years before, he had visited the late Dr. Alfred Kinsey’s Institute for Sex Research at Bloomington, Indiana, and had been impressed by its valuable collection of erotica. In the interests of research, he had begun his own collection, and every week since had annotated and filed various articles, stories, and, most important, drawings and photographs.

Orville unfailingly found this portion of his day the most rewarding and enjoyable. Gale had instructions that he was to be undisturbed by phone calls or visitors in the half-hour after he had finished conversation with his mother. In this half-hour, he leafed through his magazines, not yet annotating them, but mainly to get the feeling of what was useful and what was not. On the weekend, he would take them to his apartment and go through them with greater deliberation, and then he would make his notes.

Gently, he took the first glossy magazine from the stack of seven. This was one of his favorites, Female Classics, a handsome seventy-five-cent quarterly published in New York, and a priceless contribution to any study of American sexual mores. Slowly, he turned the pages—here a redhead wearing white slacks, her arms crossed beneath her naked breasts—here a platinum blonde leaning against a doorway, entirely disrobed except for a black patch covering her vaginal area—here a brunette wading in the water to her knees, with her nude back and backside to the camera—here a magnificent gatefold, opening to a full-length beauty posing before a canopy bed, the girl wearing a hip-length purple sweater, unbuttoned to reveal her enormous nipples but secured at the very bottom button to shield her private parts.