“ ‘Ello.” It was said with a distinct French accent followed by an offer of French champagne and two tulip-shaped glasses.
Marte Price had just finished using a gravity shower that a helpful Marine had erected outside her tent, and she was now drying off as the French reporter LaSalle poked his head farther into her tent. “Anyone ‘ome?”
Startled, not yet having dried herself, Marte stood draped in Army khaki towels. “What do you want?”
“Some company — yes?”
“No. Get out!”
LaSalle gave a shrug worthy of Maurice Chevalier. “But I cannot. The champagne, she is opened — how do you say? Ah yes, opened for business.”
“Well, I’m not,” Marte retorted. The Frenchman was handsome, no question about that, the archetype of the kind that women fell for — tall, lean, very physical in his movements, but with eyes sensitive to the slightest nuance. And he could see that she had seen the outline of his erection as he gazed at her sleek, long thighs before they got lost in towels.
“Very well,” he said accommodatingly. “I will leave the champagne for you and no offense. Okay?”
He reminded her of Hawkeye in the “M*A*S*H” TV show. “Look,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Maybe another time?”
It struck her that LaSalle could give her some general background for her stories — after all, it had been French Indochina till 1954.
LaSalle shrugged, smiling. “ ‘Ow about in ten minutes? The champagne will ‘ave lost some of its bubbles perhaps, but—”
“All right,” she said, “but let’s keep it strictly business.”
LaSalle spread his hands as if asking what other possible motive he could be thinking of. “Certainement. Business, sure. But—” He wagged a finger at her. “No monkey business — I promise. Oui?”
“Oui,” she responded, adopting his friendly tone. As he left, she was still thinking about what she’d thought was his erection, or was it simply the way the crotch of his pants had bunched up? It was something that even as a young girl used to fascinate her — to think that women had the power to make it stand up like that. She toweled herself vigorously, throwing her hair back in abandon and feeling herself getting moist.
When Pierre LaSalle returned, she was much more hospitable, and her khaki uniform, meant to hide any feminine aspects, had failed miserably by making the size of her bust a tantalizing guessing game.
The champagne was poured, the stream of tiny bubbles ascending like chains of golden pearls winking at the brim.
“Cheers,” she said, raising the glass.
‘To peace,” he responded, neither of them meaning it and each knowing the other had said it merely as a social nicety. They liked war — not being in it, but watching it, being close to it, being in less danger than the front-line fighter but close enough to smell it; to be scared and exhilarated by the rumble of the heavy guns, by the threat of it, the way it had of putting everything else into perspective, of showing just how thin the thread of life could be, of how you might as well enjoy yourself wherever and’ whenever you could.
“That was a good piece you did,” LaSalle said, complimenting her.
“Which piece was that?” Had he read any or was this just bullshit too?
“The one about the difficulties of commanding a U.N. force. It’s hard to do, I know. No pretty pictures, and the editor always want to show the viewers, eh? Not tell them. Explanation is much ‘arder.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Marte said appreciatively. She was weighing it up, considering the possibilities. No way was she going to let him in her, even with a condom. He’d have one, of course. With his looks, he probably ordered them by the gross. But even a rubber, which most men hated anyway, wasn’t any guarantee against catching something like AIDS, hepatitis B, syphilis, gonorrhea, or any of a legion of subtropical and tropical sexually transmitted diseases.
“What do you think of Freeman’s demotion?” LaSalle asked.
Marte took another sip. “I think it was a blessing in disguise — for the U.N.”
“Oh? You think this Jorgensen will be much better, then?”
Marte shrugged. She wasn’t going to let the Frenchman slobber all over her either. You could catch stuff that way too. “I think,” she said, “it doesn’t matter a shit whether Jorgensen is here or not. He’ll be Washington’s man, a figurehead — press conferences. Freeman’ll do the actual work, only now he’ll be able to do it without Washington and Hanoi breathing down his neck.” Now Freeman, she thought, was a man you could get laid with and not worry. She didn’t know why, but she intuitively felt he’d be safe. With young Pierre here, however— what was the expression the EMREF boys on the plane had used? “Dipping your wick.” Well, young, or maybe not so young, he had probably dipped his at every stopover between here and Paree.
He was filling up her glass again and saying something now about some sensational photograph he’d heard she’d taken.
“Of what?” she wanted to know, figuring that as she’d been drinking her champagne, he’d been only sipping his. She could read him like a book — didn’t want to get too pissed, then the old wiener would just lie there.
“Some picture of Freeman I heard about — somewhere near the Lang Son road during the—” The Frenchman sneered. “—the so-called ‘friendly fire’ incident.”
“Huh,” she said, affecting puzzlement. “I took some shots of him giving orders — that kind of stuff.”
He lifted the bottle again.
“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll get me drunk.”
“Not at all,” he said, pouring more champagne anyway. “So,” he went on, as if that piece of business was over. “You do all your own developing?”
“No,” she answered just as easily. “I send all my film to Hanoi Kodak. That way anyone who wants to see what I’ve taken can have a peek. You know, sort of supermarket — take what you like.”
Pierre LaSalle laughed. Was it a response to a joke or the truth?
“You want to embarrass Freeman — that it?”
“Oh,” he said with a Gallic shrug. “Don’t be silly. It’s nothing personal. You’re a good journalist. You know ‘ow it is. We get what we can.”
This time she put her hand over the tulip glass.
“Ah,” he said. “You think I’m up to no good. Yes?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly his whole tone, comportment, changed. “I want you, Marte. That is what I want.”
“So why didn’t you say so?”
He moved closer to her. “We French are more subtle than that.”
“So I noticed,” she said, “when you first came in the tent. Looked like you had a bazooka in your pants.”
“Marte!” He sat up, genuinely shocked.
“Well, didn’t you? Or did you just want to dance?”
“No — I mean yes, I was aroused.”
There was a pause as she let her hand trail along his thigh. “So was I,” she said.
“Oh, Marte!” He had his hand under her shirt, exploring, gently squeezing her breasts. “Oh, Marte!”
“You can’t go in me,” she said.
“I have a con—”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll let you lie on me if you like, but no—”
“All right, all right,” he murmured, almost incoherently, unzipping her slacks, pulling them down.
“Mon Dieu!” She was wearing skintight scarlet lace panties. “Mon Dieu!” Still gazing at the panties, he took off her bra.
As they began to move together, his weight between her legs, his elbows propped to keep his weight moving on her there and nowhere else, she could feel him sliding against her with more and more ease. She joined him in the rhythm of it. There was an idiotic smile on LaSalle’s face, as if he was genuinely surprised, enjoying it more than he thought possible.
Soon her hair began to whip from side to side as the excitement in her mounted and he could feel her growing abandonment beneath him. His fingers started to pull down her panties. “No!” she gasped. “No,” pushing his hand away.
“All right, all right,” he said quickly, sensing mat if he tried the same move again, she’d stop. “All right,” he said. “Oh, Marte—”
He heard her whimper, felt himself going and, her back arching suddenly, they climaxed together, now as one, now as two separate beings, each enjoying the fishtail arching of their bodies, each in its own orgasm.
“My God,” he gasped. “That was wonderful. I never believed—” His mouth was too dry to speak. He watched her, eyes closed, her body still moving against him until finally she gasped, utterly exhausted, utterly spent, her eyes closed in a sleep of reverie.