Nicholas Monsarrat
The Nylon Pirates
THE BOOK CLUB
121 CHARING CROSS ROAD LONDON, W. 1
First edition October 1960 Second edition October 1960 Third edition October 1960
© Nicholas Monsarrat 1960
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY EBENEZER BAYLIS AND SON, LTD. THE TRINITY PRESS, WORCESTER, AND LONDON
PART ONE
"Meticulously planned with just YOU in mind"
The girl, who was very beautiful, turned away from the window. The view, of Central Park and the Fifth Avenue sky-line on a crisp winter morning, was exciting, but the height made her dizzy. Hotel suites, even suites as elegant as this one, should never be higher than the third storey; the twentieth was almost at cloud-level, the thirty-fourth was crazy. She drew her silk robe about her, feeling it embrace her warm, still faintly excited, still languorous body; then she crossed the sitting-room, her bare feet brushing against the luxury of the carpet, and picked up the telephone.
"Room service," she said, to the alert voice which presently answered her. Then she put her hand over the mouthpiece, and called out: "Carl!"
A man's voice, deep-chested, throaty with the remembrance of love, came through the open door leading to the bedroom.
"Yes? What is it?"
"I'm ordering something to eat. You should have something. And the others are sure to be hungry. What would you like?"
After a pause, the man's voice said: "I'll leave it to you."
"You always do that," she grumbled. But she was smiling gently; the confluence of love still bound them.
"That's because you always give me what I want.... Did I say thank you, Kathy?"
"You said thank you. And what did I say?"
"You said, 'It was a pleasure.' Was it, my darling?"
"Yes."
She became aware of a voice over the telephone repeating "Room service, room service!" on an increasing note of impatience, and she uncovered the mouthpiece.
"Sorry," she said. Her voice changed to a more incisive tone. "This is thirty-four twenty-one. Send up some sandwiches, please. Enough for five people. Beef. Chicken. Ham on rye. Cheese-and-tomato. And coffee." Her glance travelled to the side-table where the bottles and the glasses were ranged. "And a bottle of Johnnie Walker, six sodas, some ice."
When the order was acknowledged she replaced the telephone, and turned towards the room again. There was a huge mirror on the opposite wall, and she looked at it with the fleeting satisfaction of a beautiful young woman who need make no special effort, either now or later, to continue in loveliness. Her hair was blonde and smooth, still gracefully shaped to her head in spite of its gentle disorder. Her grey eyes were wide; underneath them, the faint shadows, the fatigue of love, showed like tiny brush-strokes—but discreetly, as if complimenting her in an undertone on a task well done.
The man's voice came again from the inner room.
"You are very efficient."
Slightly startled, she turned her head. "How do you mean?"
"The ordering."
"Oh, that.... The cheese-and-tomato is for you."
"To give me strength?"
She smiled at her reflection. "You don't need strength."
After a moment the man's voice said: "You're looking at yourself in the mirror."
She was never surprised, now, at anything he knew or at anything he said. It was enough for her that they had been lovers since she was sixteen years old; that she knew a good deal about him, and that he knew every conceivable thing about her. If he had the edge, in knowledge or in power, it did not matter; it was a part of love—the natural shadow cast by a man. It was the reason why a girl layso, and a man layso. .. . Her daydreaming was interrupted again.
"What do you see in the mirror?" his deep voice asked.
"You know what I see."
"Tell me."
"A girl."
"That I know."
"Tall."
"Medium."
"Medium to you. . . ." She looked at herself with an increased attention, as though it were really important to give him an accurate picture. "Smooth blonde hair. An oval face. Pale at the moment. Mouth rather big. Long neck." She paused, looking down at herself.
"Continue," came his voice.
She shook her head. "You're making me shy again."
"Again?" He sounded surprised.
"You often make me shy. . . . Are you looking in the mirror?"
"Yes. I'm tying my tie."
"What do you see?"
"An old man."
She frowned at her reflection. "Carl, you are not old."
"I don't feel old, at these moments." There was a smile in his voice. "You were kind enough to demonstrate that I am not. But the mirror's against us." Suddenly his voice changed, as if disposing of the subject. "A happy new year, Kathy."
She turned from the mirror, and looked towards the bedroom door. "You've been saying that to me for the last four days."
"That's the way I feel." His voice was coming nearer. "Tell me once again, how old will you be this year?"
She smiled. "Twenty-two."
"I shall be fifty," he said, and came briskly through the doorway.
If Carl Wenstrom was fifty, she thought, then fifty was the exact age for a man to be.... He was very tall, so that she, at five-feet-seven, scarcely came up to his chin; his broad, tough body was of the kind to excite second glances from women or policemen, and to keep bar-strangers in order. Norwegian ancestors had given him his blond colouring; an American father his air of decision and command, an English education his accent and phrasing. When she was sixteen, his ruthless good looks had totally overwhelmed her, just as her innocent loveliness had induced in him a shaking abdication of self-control; six years later, the ruthlessness still softened only for her. She was the sole taming agent of a man who for some reason—for many reasons—regarded the world simply as a target.
Of course, he was not young any more. ... At fifty, the sinews set,, the chin thickened, the waistline lost its flattened trimness; Carl was hard and tough still, but the twenty-eight years that divided them were now (she knew) a challenge to him, instead of an adorable piece of flattery. He was dressed, as always, in dark grey: "Bright colours are for children," he had once said, long ago, when they were watching the whirling skaters on the Rockefeller Plaza rink; but when he had first said it, it had sounded confident and benign, with no trace of wistfulness.
He had been a magic lover in those old days; the magic was still there, undeniably, but there were moments—and this had been one of them—when his potency took on a faint, forgivable air of contrivance, when the physical price for him was, by a few hard-breathing seconds, too high. She knew the strength of his love, in this special realm of achievement; but she felt that between them there ought now to be other measurements of strength, other private tide-marks.
Indeed (and now her sad thoughts multiplied, in the savage headlong capitulation of youth) this particular tide might already have turned; the inevitable ebb could already be in being. They both knew this, but they had not yet confessed it to each other; and in this, manhood's most touchy area, she could not be the first to say:You need not do that. Do this instead.
If she had dared to tell the truth, she did not expect the transports of love any longer, nor welcome them with the same fervour. She would have been just as satisfied (in a whisper to herself) with the role of loving daughter.
Or was this, she wondered, simply post coitum tristem—the let-down after the build-up? If she had given voice to such thoughts, he would only have answered ironically: "Of course you feel that,now." Carl always had all the answers, whether the topic were tender or tough. Of such a man, presently, one hesitated to ask questions; and in the end one stopped altogether.