Directly in front of me was an open door, through which I could see a spotless white-metal-and-stainless-steel kitchen. To my right was a hallway, which doubtless led to the bedrooms, although it was obvious that Mora must have preferred to sleep in the large bed in the living room.
Her eyes reflected the humor she must have felt, seeing a dumb kid like me catapulted into a setting like that. "Do you like it?"
"Yes," I answered, awestruck. "I like it."
"Good," she said brightly, "then I'll give you the fifty-cent tour."
Mora led me to the back of the house, which had two bedrooms side by side, with balconies overlooking the street. Next down the hall was a large room with bookcases on three walls, all of them full of books and phonograph records. The middle of the room held a work-table, a simple, straight-back chair, and an artist's easel holding a blank canvas.
"Do you paint?"
"I work at it a bit, but I'm not very good." She shrugged.
"Can I see some of your paintings?"
Mora looked at me intently, her thin lips half smiling. "You'll see them later. You'll see everything later."
The bathroom was next. It contained a sunken tub-shower, the first I had ever seen, plus a large makeup area, a toilet, and a bidet. It was the.first bidet I had ever seen, also, but I had heard about them.
"It's a bidet," she said.
"I know, from France."
Mora laughed. "Right, from France."
When she laughed there was something in her face, her eyes, that made me want to laugh, too.
"Let's go in and sit down," she said.
We entered the living room, where she motioned me to the sofa and headed to a small bar next to the fireplace. "What would you like to drink?"
"Uh, I'll have a scotch and water," I said, making it up on the spur of the moment, because scotch and water was then popular in the movies and I wanted to appear sophisticated.
She turned quickly and, still smiling, said in a slow and very distinct manner, "No, you will not. You will not have a scotch and water, or anything else and water, or a martini, or a grasshopper, because those are drinks for men who are queer or who have no taste. You will also not have a beer, because that is a drink for a man who has no class. You will also not drink anything through a straw, ever, because if you do I will break your pretty head."
I didn't know what to say to that, so, following her advice, I shut up. She put some ice cubes into an old-fashion glass and poured something into it. When she came back she handed it to me and sat down close. "This is bourbon. It's Jack Daniels, one of the best. You will drink it only on ice and after a while you will learn to like it."
She stopped smiling and looked at me purposefully. "Daniels is a man's drink and you're a man. From now on this is what you will order, and always ask for it 'on ice,' never 'over the rocks.' "
I didn't want to argue with Mora. I just wanted to get her naked on that big bed and fuck her, so I tasted it. The first sip sent a shiver through me, but the second was smooth and I found the taste very appealing. "It's good," I said.
"See?" she said, as though she had proved the point.
"Would you like a cigarette?" I asked, pulling out my pack of Luckies. She nodded that she would, so I tapped one up and offered it to her, but she shook her head.
"Put it in your mouth and light it for me, then put it in my mouth." I did. "Never light a cigarette for a lady any other way," she said. "It's much more personal when you do it like that, almost like a gift."
We sat in silence for a minute. I looked around the room and Mora looked at me. Finally her voice broke the – stillness. "Would you like to know why you're here?"
I took another sip of the Daniels and nodded, noticing how soft her complexion was, how her features, plain by themselves, when put together in her particular combination gave a face great beauty, beauty and something else, but I didn't know what.
"The minute I saw you, I wanted you." She paused. "Does that shock you?"
"No," I said. "It's happened before."
Mora smiled and the room brightened. "I don't think you understand. I don't mean I want you just to make love with. I mean I want you as a person, all of you.
"I walked onto that platform today and you were the first thing I saw, just for a fraction before I turned to the crowd, but enough to make me spin back quickly to see you again. I saw your eyes, and they seemed to come before me twenty tunes life size, and I saw so much in them, great depth, great sadness, but most of all, I think I saw in you a capacity to give love that has never been realized. And it made me want to help you develop it, because if you have as much potential as I think you might have", she lowered her voice to a whisper, "then I want to be around to receive it, at least for a while."
I wasn't sure I understood. My brain was reeling from her beauty, from the apartment, the whole situation.
"How old are you?" she asked.
The fatal question. I figured that she was going to find out how shitty I was in bed, anyway, so I might as well tell her the truth and give her a chance to throw me out.
No, that wasn't why. It was because I wanted to tell her the truth, everything. She made me feel as nobody ever had, a strange, warm glow pervaded my insides, and it wasn't the bourbon.
"Fifteen," I said.
It didn't seem to shock her. She only smiled, telling me again with her eyes that it was all right.
I explained to her how I happened to be a musician, and then, following an uncontrollable urge toward total catharsis, I spilled my guts.
I told her about school, my parents, my music, my life as a stud hustler, my life on the streets, the women I had known, my inexperience, my apprehensions about myself, everything. I had been storing it up for so long that I couldn't stop. It was for me a soul-shaking emetic, and Mora's face reflected my moods as I spoke, sometimes frowning and glum, sometimes light and happy, but always with a concern that I knew was personal and deep and genuine.
When I finished, it was dark and I was exhausted. In just a few hours this strange, lovely girl knew me better than friends who had known me for years. What was it about her?
Suddenly it occurred to me that she was a friend, this stranger was perhaps the closest friend I had ever had. It seemed that every time I thought about her I surprised myself with an unanticipated conclusion. What I had thought to be a casual piece of ass was now my best friend.
She had sat for hours and listened to me, not interrupting once, though she must have been tempted many times.
Mora had kicked off her shoes and had tucked her feet under her on the sofa. I was working on my fourth Daniels, and, looking at my watch, noticed that it was almost eight o'clock. I felt much better having talked to her, drained and tired, grimy from the dried sweat of a hot day, but better than I had felt in a long time.
She was looking at me with that funny expression again. "Would you like to take a shower and clean up?"
"I'd love it," I said. "I feel pretty raunchy."
"So do I," she said. "It was so warm out today, and that dressing tent was like a pressure cooker."
She took my hand and brought me to the back bedroom. Opening a large, walk-in closet full of clothes, she fished out a couple of hangers and threw them onto the bed. "You can use these so your clothes won't get wrinkled."
I took off my band jacket, expecting her to leave the room. Instead, she pulled off her sweater and, folding it neatly, put it into the drawer of her dresser bureau. Without even looking at me Mora reached back, unhooked her bra, and took it off, putting it carefully into another drawer and chattering about some of the problems that had developed for her at the fashion show during the day. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, hanging it away in the closet before she noticed me staring at her.
Her breasts weren't large, but she certainly wasn't flat-chested, as some of the others had been. They rose out from her gracefully, with small, darkish nipples at the crest.