Danny

Danny is clearly going through a bad patch. He has a lot of inherited money, and he has not made a success of his recent business ventures. His family’s fortunes, however, are virtually intact. When he takes Catherine and me out to his favorite club he is immediately surrounded by pretty girls in tight, shiny, technicolor dresses. One of them sits on one knee, and he orders a bottle of scotch, Johnny Walker Blue Label. He needs to do this, to save face, to show that his business failures mean nothing, that he takes it all in stride, that he still has all this power over people. A bottle of Blue Label costs the equivalent of about $1000 US at this establishment.

Momentarily he looks over at Catherine wondering if she is uncomfortable, but she is not. She is entertained, and she tells me afterward that she found herself imagining what it would be like to be one of these girls, the most successful one. They are all whores.

As we drink glass after glass of scotch, Danny becomes looser and louder, his hands making free with the girls’ buttocks, while they giggle and laugh in return. He is obliged to buy them drinks, which cost about $20 each on the official tab, but really they are colored water. They also dance with him, at $20 a dance. That’s how the girls get paid, that’s how the club makes its money. But really it is little more than a brothel. There are about five girls who are attending to the three of us. They get up and dance with each other every few minutes; they are good dancers. Catherine joins them from time to time; they don’t make her pay, and she seems to be the only one enjoying herself.

Finally Danny is far enough gone, glazed over, that we feel we can leave. His driver will take us home. At the car, one of the girls shows up. Danny has told her she has to go home with us, back to the hotel, or whatever we want. Danny is a good customer, she says, and she can’t disappoint him. I look at Catherine, who smiles, rolls her eyes mischievously and slides into the car. The girl follows her in. The car is a new Jag; Danny buys one every year.

I ask the driver to drive us along the Seine after going over the Pont Neuf, instead of going straight back to my apartment. The streets are packed, even though it is after midnight. I am trying to figure out why, but I can’t. The neon signs above the street and above the stores make it as bright as daylight but eerily blue and red and green. Catherine and the girl are curled up with each other, touching and kissing softly, slowly, with interest but without a great deal of passion. The girl’s hand slides between Catherine’s legs and for a long time they kiss and finger each other’s breasts and cunts as the driver picks his way.

Finally we are at the apartment, and get out. Catherine tells me to send the girl home. She is tired; she has had enough, if I don’t mind. Besides, she doesn’t want to get any diseases,she says. I am ragged with the after-effects of too much scotch. The driver takes the girl home. Or back to the club. Danny calls the next day, hale and hearty, asking us how we are doing, saying what a great night we had last night. He has to fly to Zagreb this afternoon but maybe we can get together again tomorrow night when he comes back? He doesn’t ask about the girl.

As I put the phone down, Catherine comes out of the bathroom, fresh from her shower, naked, a white towel stacked up around her hair, which is now dark red. “You’re perfect, you know,” I say, and she comes and sits on my lap, as if something has suddenly come over me.