The Golden Room

'I never knew that.'

'Did you know your Aunt Minna is writing a book of her own?' said Karen. 'She even discussed it with me. It's to be called Poets, Prophets and Gods.''

Bruce shook his head in wonder. 'Minna's brother, my father… I always thought he was the big brain in the family. I think I can say now that Aunt Minna is at least equal to him.'

As they left the library, Karen suggested that they skip the Art Gallery. 'Not my strong area,' she said. 'I only know the reproduction of Bernini's Apollo and Daphne. I don't know the paintings at all. Want to go to Minna's favourite retreat -the Gold Room?'

'You mean the one with the small pure gold piano and the gold cuspidors?' said Bruce. 'I've already seen it. I can't imagine anything gaudier.'

Karen laughed. 'Well, start imagining,' she said, leading him past the Gold Room. 'Have you seen the Copper Room?'

'No, but I'd like to.'

Karen led him into the Copper Room. The walls were panelled in copper and hammered brass. The furniture was made of Arabian brass. In the centre was a mahogany table with a table top made of Italian marble. All around the chamber were cages of yellow canaries singing in full voice.

They went on to the Rose Room, with its rococo pink wall hangings and its scattering of rounded easy chairs and divans upholstered in pale-pink silk damask.

Next, they came to the Grand Ballroom, dominated by a massive chandelier of cut-glass drops, shedding light on a hardwood floor made of rare woods in mosaic patterns.

'There's more?' asked Bruce with amazement, as they resumed walking.

'Here's the Chinese Room,' said Karen.

Bruce studied the Oriental hangings and draperies. In the middle of the chamber he saw a teak table holding an oversized brass beaker filled with packages wrapped in red tissue. 'What's this?' he inquired.

Karen started to explain that it was used by the girls, then caught herself. 'Those packages are Chinese firecrackers. When diners come in here for champagne, your Aunt Minna sets a few of them off. If they make more noise than the pulling of a champagne cork, Minna gives the diner a – a playful kiss on the cheek.'

'That's an unusual game,' said Bruce.

They went on to the Moorish Room. It was furnished with deep African couches and the fountain sprayed a musky, intoxicating perfume. 'Your Aunt Minna likes to open boxes of live butterflies.'

Involuntarily, Bruce was shaking his head. He pointed to folding doors leading to another chamber. 'What's that?' he asked.

'To be perfectly frank, I don't know,' said Karen. 'I've never been inside it. Shall we have a look?'

'Why not?'

Karen opened the doors and showed Bruce inside. 'Heavens,' she gasped. 'The entire floor is mirrored.'

'Astonishing.'

'I've heard of a Mirror Room,' said Karen. 'This must be it.'

She walked past Bruce inside the chamber, going gingerly over the mirrored floor, and stopped, fascinated by the mirrors beneath her feet.

Bruce was looking at Karen. His eyes went downwards to the hem of her skirt and the tops of her shoes.

'Karen,' he called out. 'I can see what you're wearing underneath your skirt.'

'What do you mean?'

'You're… you're wearing a lace-trimmed chemise beneath your corset.' He gulped. 'It separates but covers you between your legs.'

'My God!' Karen exclaimed. She came off the mirrored floor as fast as if she'd been walking barefooted on burning coals. At the door, she brought her hand to her mouth. 'What can a floor like that be doing in your aunts' home?'

'Or for that matter, what's a restaurant doing here?'

Bruce took Karen by the arm as they walked away. He was lost in thought.

'You know, Karen, I'm not sure this is Aunt Minna's and Aunt Aida's home,' Bruce finally said. 'It's more like a house.'

'A house?' Karen repeated. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean,' said Bruce, 'once in Louisville I was taken to a house. It was not as classy or large as this one, but almost as luxurious. It was a house of ill fame, Karen. This resembles it. You know, a house is not always a home.'

'Bruce! Do you know what you're saying?'

'I'm not really sure,' Bruce said.

'Well, don't say it, please don't say it!'

At nine o'clock that evening in the Everleigh Club, the Armbrusters, father and son, the latter uneasy in his woollen brown suit and bow tie, had finished their supper.

Harold Armbruster felt relaxed, expansive, as he continued to ply Alan with champagne.

Armbruster had advised his son to eat lightly and drink heavily to overcome his nervousness. They'd both dined on roast chicken, and now Armbruster sat back to enjoy a cigar and watch Alan steadily sipping the champagne.

'Quite a place, this Everleigh Club,' Armbruster admitted.

'Yes.'

'No one ever told me a whorehouse could look anything like this. I bet the girls are just as beautiful.'

Alan made one last effort at resistance. 'Father, I don't have to do this. I'll know what to do with Cathleen. Let's just go home now.'

Armbruster shook his head vigorously. 'It's now or never. If I let it be never, you'll be in real trouble next week when it matters. I'm going to see you through this, Alan. You won't be able to count the times you'll thank me later.'

'If you insist,' Alan mumbled.

'I've never insisted on anything more.' Armbruster waved his hand at Edmund, who was immediately attentive. Armbruster said to him, 'We're through eating. I'll wait down here and have another few drinks until my son is ready to leave. Will you see that he's taken upstairs for some entertainment?'

'Certainly, sir.' Edmund beckoned the nearest hostess – it was Karen. 'I'll have our hostess escort him upstairs.' When Karen reached his side, Edmund leaned over and whispered to her, 'Take the boy up to Margo's room. You know which one. Margo will be expecting him.'

Karen extended her hand to Alan, who rose reluctantly. He cast one wretched glance at his father, and then he trailed Karen out of the restaurant.

As they walked slowly to the staircase, Karen said, 'You look like you're going to the guillotine. Is it your first time?'

'First,' Alan answered in a quavering voice.

'It may be an ordeal,' said Karen, 'but it can be fun once you're relaxed. I don't think you'll be sorry. Margo is very nice.'

'I… I hope you're right.'

They reached the top of the staircase, and Karen guided him past the numerous doors.

'Margo, Margo,' murmured Karen to herself, 'she's in eight or nine. I'm sure it's nine.'

She opened the door partially and peeked in. 'She must be in the bathroom. In fact, I can hear the water running. All right, Alan, you just go in alone. Take off all your clothes and sit on the bed. Soon as she comes out, she'll tell you what to do.'

'Okay,' Alan swallowed.

Karen shut the door tightly, and left for the downstairs, praying it went well for the poor kid.

And that Bruce would never find out about this.

In the boudoir, Alan stood helplessly, surveying the room and seeing nothing but the brass bed, with its thick mattress covered by a white cashmere blanket.

As the sounds from the bathroom ceased, he realized that he could not just stand there fully clothed. With numbed fingers he began to shed his clothes and drop them in a heap, first his jacket, then his bow tie, then his shirt, next the shoes and socks, and finally his trousers. He was left standing in his sleeveless, one-piece union suit with its button fly partly fastened.

Embarrassed to wait naked, he moved towards the bed, and was about to slip under the blanket, when he heard the knob of the bathroom door turn.

Heart going like a triphammer, he turned towards the bathroom as its door opened and a small, attractive girl, lost in the dim light, appeared. She was loosely clad in a pure white peignoir and he could make out her legs, and then her lovely figure, even the dark patch between her legs. Momentarily breathless, his gaze went up to her breasts, fully evident beneath the thin garment, and then his gaze went up to her face.