Still blinking, and adjusting his pince-nez with one hand, he stopped at the door and peered into the dark entry. At first he thought it was deserted, and that Bella might have left. But suddenly there was a little squeal, she launched herself out of her hiding-place behind the door, her arms were round his neck, and his hat had fallen into the snow.
“For God’s sake,” he said, angry and alarmed, “be careful! Somebody might see us.”
The girl, who was a Cuban, kicked his shin smartly, so that he gave a little cry of pain. Then she snapped her fingers. She looked hard at him and said:
“I don’t care if the president of your college is out there, and your darling damn fool father, too.”
Messy stopped, picked up his hat, brushed the snow from it. His face had flushed. Apparently she was in one of her reckless moods, and he became uneasy.
“Damn you,” he said, “look what you’ve done to my hat! Gent’s best hattings, too.”
“To hell with your hat.”
“You shouldn’t talk about my father like that.”
“To hell with your father.”
“All right—if that’s the way you’re going to talk to me you can do all the talking yourself.”
He began to walk away, lifting his chin, and instantly she caught his arm and clung to him, drawing her small dark face upward toward his.
“Darling!” she said. “Kiss me!”
“No.”
“Oh, but darling, kiss Bella!”
“I will when you’ve apologized.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, are you going to preach again tonight?” She flung her arm away from his with a violent gesture, and stamped one of her galoshes in the light snow.
He stopped where he was and smiled at her, weakly.
“Haven’t you any respect for me?” he said. “Come on, Bella, be a good girl!” He put out his hand, took her arm, and they embraced, quickly, furtively, Messy watching with one detached eye to see if anyone was coming. Then they walked swiftly, laughing, to the end of the alley, crossed the street, and went into the dining room of the Klondyke Hotel, where Bella was staying. They got a table at the edge of the floor, by the gilt railing, ordered oysters and White Rock, and in another minute were dancing. They danced in silence, Messy gazing downward into Bella’s eyes with an extraordinary sleepy catlike sensuousness feeling, with his arms and knees and thighs, every subtle insinuation of her body. Their faces were close together and never moved. Now and then Bella closed her eyes, only to open them a moment later with a more effective look of adoration. Messy could feel that she was deliberately pressing her breasts against him, and this excited him, but also alarmed him a little. He glanced quickly round the room, to see if there was anybody he knew. He saw no familiar faces.
Returning to the table, Messy held the glasses under the tablecloth and poured rye whisky into them from his curved silver flask. They had several drinks, several dances, more drinks, and Bella’s eyes began to be bloodshot. They were half-closed, amorous, her lips were parted, and she leaned forward on the table. Under the table, their knees were interlocked; and once, putting his hand down, he touched the cool skin above her rolled stockings. At once he blinked and smiled.
“Bad boy!” she said, wagging a finger.
“Bad girl! Aren’t you ever going to learn to be modest?”
She blew a long breath of cigarette smoke, and then leaned back in her chair as if to examine him with further perspective. Her dark face was tilted backward, a little theatrically. She looked a little sullen and a little sleepy.
“How long is this going on?” she said. There was something cold and witheringly real in her tone—not the usual lightness. Messy put himself on his guard.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“You do—liar!”
“I don’t … I suppose as long as the show is here and you are here—a month more?”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
“Well, what do you mean?”
She extinguished her cigarette angrily in a saucer. Then she leaned toward him on the table again.
“I can’t stand it,” she said. “I’ve told you before.”
Messy licked his dry lips.
“Don’t be silly, Bella—have we got to go all over that again?”
“Not if I know it, we don’t! I’m sick of your damned pious goodness and preaching. You and your parson popper! You both make me sick.”
“You can’t talk about my father like that.”
“All right, go to hell then.”
“Go to hell yourself.”
“Billy darling!… Come upstairs—come up to my room.”
Messy’s heart was beating with terrifying violence. He tried to keep from blinking, while he stared desirously at the half-drunken and pretty little face, which so frankly implored him.
“How could I do that?” he said. He took a drink of water.
“It’s easy. I’ll go up by the elevator—you follow up the stairs. The door’s unlocked, and you walk in. There’s never anybody there in the hall—if there is, it doesn’t make any difference.… Will you?”
After a pause he said:
“Just this once.”
He remained at the table to pay the bill, and then, with assumed nonchalance, which successfully concealed a tremor, crossed the worn marble lobby and began climbing the red-plush stairs. He could hardly breathe. The image ahead of him was too paralyzing. This wasn’t right. He had wanted to avoid it. He had hoped to keep the relationship on a different sort of plane, somehow—that he and Bella could be just pals. Of course, in a way, he wanted to do this—as he was never tired of telling Fred and Butch, she was a “hot tamale and no mistake.” There were times when she drove him almost crazy, when he couldn’t sleep all night. Once or twice he had almost given in to it—but always at the last minute the thought of his mother and father and sisters had “saved” him.
When he got to the door of Number 218 he paused for a second to get his breath. Too much smoking. Then he opened the door and walked in.
He stood still.
Bella was lying on the bed.
“Do you know what time it is?” he said, looking at his wrist-watch. “It’s almost two o’clock. I’ve got an English examination tomorrow.”
She reached up a hand and turned off the light. In the darkness he could hear her moving.
“Billy—come here.”
“No.”
“Come here, you hypocrite! I’m going to teach you how to kiss.”
Messy could see the light from the street through the window—the rest of the room was in darkness. He groped his way forward, touched the foot of the bed, dropped his hat and coat, and in another second felt Bella’s warm arms around him. She gave a cry, and began kissing his face all over—his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his ears. She ran her hands through his hair, pulling it fiercely.
“My darling!” she kept saying. “Darling! darling! darling!”
Messy was profoundly moved—he had never in his life experienced anything like this. It touched him, there was something pathetic in it, something childlike, but also it was wildly exciting, and he felt himself being swept away. He closed his eyes and surrendered to it, and it seemed to him, as he kissed Bella’s delicious soft throat, that she was going to have a sort of convulsion. She began to rock from side to side, rhythmically, and to moan; she began to nip his cheek with her teeth, with a kind of quick light fierceness; she seemed incapable of lying still. And then suddenly she had reached up and turned on the light, and almost with the same gesture had ripped her blouse off, so that it had fallen down about her hips.
Messy stared at her: he was now sitting on the edge of the bed. She was beautifuclass="underline" she looked at him with such an expression as he had never seen before. He thought her breasts the loveliest things he had ever seen in his life. Then he reached for his pince-nez, and put them on, blinking.