Moonlight

Two

Dinner was long and elaborate. She was sitting opposite her husband, but they barely exchanged a word. She spoke mostly with other people next to them, often feigning interest and encouraging them to say more, so that she wouldn't have to speak.

After dinner, as usual, Tom disappeared in the pool room. That's were deals were cut. The men eventually emerged, with red eyes and itchy noses, after midnight, when the cars came around to take them and their spouses home. That's how the wheels of the nation's economy were greased, in a mixture of chemical stimulation, grandiose claims, and impulsive bargains.

Vincent found Alice.

'May I borrow her for a minute?' he asked the people she was talking to. 'I will bring her back, I promised.'

She excused herself from the company and followed him.

He dragged her upstairs, climbing, almost running up the flight of stairs.

'What if people see us?' she asked, a little worried.

'They're all plastered,' he said with a laugh. 'I saw the ambassador's wife leave the room with the Portuguese man two hours ago when everybody was on their first drink. That's what they'll discuss tomorrow: the Portuguese affair! Oohh...'

It was all very innocent between them, but Alice was not the type to cause a scandal. Not out of regard for Tom, but because she hated gossip: she didn't want to dish it out to smear other people, and she disliked being talked about behind her back. She found it all very vulgar.

They hid in a little room with a little red divan, gilded furniture, and Rococo stuccoes. She lay on the sofa and exhaled in relief. Vincent, sitting next to her, unbuckled her stilettoes and started massage her feet.

Vincent was her confident. It was all very old fashioned, she thought: wasn't it once called a chevalier servant? They would often meet at parties, as they hovered in the same circles, and they would quickly take refuge from the tedious chit chat in each other's company.

Vincent was telling her of a recent trip he had made.

'They took us to this village. The huts were nearly made of mud. No floor to speak of. This couple showed us what they had. I don't know why they thought it would interest us. A few cups, a broken box. I don't know what else. Their child was running around naked, all dirty.'

He kept on massaging her feet. His face was a mixture of contempt and amusement.

'They had nothing between the three of them – the couple and the kid. They seemed happy enough. I wonder why.'

Alice could smell alcohol on his breath. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene: a man, a woman, their little child walking about all dirty. She imagined a little room with bare walls and simple furniture. What else? Everything seemed so foreign to her.

'We felt we had to give them something,' Vincent was saying. 'I had some money. American dollars. They didn't want anything. Can you believe that?'

Poor people: everywhere poor people. How many were there in the World, how much suffering? And, even though she didn't fully understand it, they seemed so ridiculous and absurd – to Tom, to Vincent. Alice seemed overwhelmed by it all. All of a sudden she felt she didn't want to hear anymore; she didn't want to smell his boozy breath anymore.

'We ended up giving a few dollars to the child as a present: that seemed to be acceptable – but, Alice, are you ok?'

The man had noticed the grimace of pain on her face.

'I probably drank too much,' she lied. 'Please talk of something happy. Can you?'

Vincent kept on massaging, pushing his fingers gently onto the sole of her feet, feeling the bones, the muscles, following each curve, feeling the resistance that each part offered.

'Mmh, that's nice,' Alice said.

Vincent started stroking one of her shins. His hand was slowly caressing the skin, applying more pressure. He could feel Alice's muscle tense at the first touch, then gently let him push further in.

'Nice and smooth,' Vince commented.

Alice said nothing, but he felt his tone had slightly changed. It wasn't one of his flippant remarks, but it had a deeper note. She opened her eyes slightly to study him.

Vincent ran his hand up, to her knee, then he slid his hand under the hem of her dress, moving up along the thigh.

'I wonder if you're smooth all over.'

Alice quickly recoiled. She sat back up, taking her feet off his lap. She tried a little smile. Maybe she could dismiss it as a bad joke and be friends again.

Vincent took her hand. He was looking at her with a hard look. She knew he was quite drunk, maybe more than he knew: he probably walked away from the table feeling quite well, and now the full force of the drinks had hit him.

'Come on, I know you and Tom...'

He moved her hand to his crotch: he pressed the hand to squeeze it.

Alice pulled her hand, forcefully. Everything was going wrong. She had never thought of Vincent as anything more than a friend. In fact, she liked to know there was someone like him at these events, someone she could talk to. And now, he was just like everyone else, with his heavy breath and his obsession for money.

They were both standing next to each other. He was looking at her with a leer on his lips and glazed eyes, almost to show her that he was too drunk and that boys will be boys.

He unzipped his pants and took out his penis. It was not fully erect, and he started rubbing it on her dress.

Alice pushed him back, and Vincent fell onto the divan.

'Oh, is that how you want – ?' he giggled. But he didn't finish his sentence.

But she was already walking away, towards the door, without a word.

'Oh, fuck off, Alice!' he yelled.