translation
Pease Press, London, 1877
T he dentist had her address. James had only to produce the smallest lie, about wishing to return a found glove, for Mr. Limpet to give “a gentleman such as yourself, sir” the lady’s street and house number. Thus, that next morning, James stepped down onto Havers Square Road, the quiet, tree-lined street on which Nicole Villars Wild lived.
In front of him stood a row of tall, posh town-houses that overlooked, across the street, a rolling, grassy park. Along the sidewalk, a high iron fence protected Coco Wild’s particular property, the barrier’s black spear-point pickets overrun with wild roses. A man approaching along the sidewalk had to push their riot of flowers and shoots out of the way or else walk along the curb. Other than these wayward roses, Mrs. Wild’s rather prime piece of London real estate was neat and well kept. Fifty yards beyond the iron gate, the townhouse ascended into three high stories of white brick inset with tall, arching windows. A very proper façade, right down to the black-lacquered front door with its polished brass mail slot. The whole was nestled into manicured lawns with stands of ivy banked and climbing against the house, a single pear tree to the side. Very respectable.
And vaguely disappointing. As James closed the front gate behind him, he admitted to himself that he had not traveled to the dentist’s and back across London this morning because he dreamed of Coco Wild’s being respectable, but rather on the titillating possibility that she was not. Alas, reality disputed fond hope, though, stone by stone, brick by brick.
A uniformed maid answered the door, but almost immediately another voice rang distinct. “ Chi é l´ ?” asked the invisible Mrs. Wild from the dark recesses behind the maid. Who is it ? she asked inItalian that sounded both offhand and natural.
“James,” he said, “James Stoker,” as he tried to see around the servant to the woman who went with the voice.
Out of the dimness behind the maid’s shoulder, Coco Wild materialized, looking fresh and perfect. The morning sun caught the dark crown of her head; it gave her hair, tied up loosely, a high luster—thick, silky-looking hair as shiny as glass.
“Why, Mr. Stoker—” Surprise registered on her face, followed by a degree of reluctant delight. “And here you are again. Heedless of my advice.”
James smiled. “Yes. We neither one paid much attention to the other’s advice last night: I came to be sure that the hansom got you home safely.”
“As you can see, it did.”
He waited. When she offered nothing further, he said, “That’s wonderful. May I come in? You could tell me how the trip went.”
She laughed and shook her head. Which could have meant, No, he could not come in. Or she was perhaps shaking her head at the foolishness of his standing at her doorstep on so little pretext. She said finally, “You’re hopeless.”
He grinned. “Actually, I’m full of hope. May I come in?”
“I can’t think why I should entertain an uninvited visitor who—”
“Because you like me.”
Their eyes held till her smile admitted ruefully that she did. She said something more to the maid, who then stepped forward and took his hat. Coco pressed herself back to let the maid pass. ( Coco, Coco, Coco . James took possession of the name,turning it over and over in his mind like a dissolving sweet in his mouth.) “Come in then, Mr.—that is, Dr. Stoker.”
The sun shone briefly down the length of her—down beige-white satin that fit snugly from her neck to her wrists, down her ribs, to pull tight across her abdomen before it belled into skirts. He could see the faint rise and fall of her belly, her rib cage. Then she turned to lead the way, and the view became that of heavy satin tied up in back into loose bundles that shimmered beneath a lot of limp, tea-colored lace—less bustle than mounds of fabric, tucked and layered into drapes and tiers. He
Pease Press, London, 1877
T he dentist had her address. James had only to produce the smallest lie, about wishing to return a found glove, for Mr. Limpet to give “a gentleman such as yourself, sir” the lady’s street and house number. Thus, that next morning, James stepped down onto Havers Square Road, the quiet, tree-lined street on which Nicole Villars Wild lived.
In front of him stood a row of tall, posh town-houses that overlooked, across the street, a rolling, grassy park. Along the sidewalk, a high iron fence protected Coco Wild’s particular property, the barrier’s black spear-point pickets overrun with wild roses. A man approaching along the sidewalk had to push their riot of flowers and shoots out of the way or else walk along the curb. Other than these wayward roses, Mrs. Wild’s rather prime piece of London real estate was neat and well kept. Fifty yards beyond the iron gate, the townhouse ascended into three high stories of white brick inset with tall, arching windows. A very proper façade, right down to the black-lacquered front door with its polished brass mail slot. The whole was nestled into manicured lawns with stands of ivy banked and climbing against the house, a single pear tree to the side. Very respectable.
And vaguely disappointing. As James closed the front gate behind him, he admitted to himself that he had not traveled to the dentist’s and back across London this morning because he dreamed of Coco Wild’s being respectable, but rather on the titillating possibility that she was not. Alas, reality disputed fond hope, though, stone by stone, brick by brick.
A uniformed maid answered the door, but almost immediately another voice rang distinct. “ Chi é l´ ?” asked the invisible Mrs. Wild from the dark recesses behind the maid. Who is it ? she asked inItalian that sounded both offhand and natural.
“James,” he said, “James Stoker,” as he tried to see around the servant to the woman who went with the voice.
Out of the dimness behind the maid’s shoulder, Coco Wild materialized, looking fresh and perfect. The morning sun caught the dark crown of her head; it gave her hair, tied up loosely, a high luster—thick, silky-looking hair as shiny as glass.
“Why, Mr. Stoker—” Surprise registered on her face, followed by a degree of reluctant delight. “And here you are again. Heedless of my advice.”
James smiled. “Yes. We neither one paid much attention to the other’s advice last night: I came to be sure that the hansom got you home safely.”
“As you can see, it did.”
He waited. When she offered nothing further, he said, “That’s wonderful. May I come in? You could tell me how the trip went.”
She laughed and shook her head. Which could have meant, No, he could not come in. Or she was perhaps shaking her head at the foolishness of his standing at her doorstep on so little pretext. She said finally, “You’re hopeless.”
He grinned. “Actually, I’m full of hope. May I come in?”
“I can’t think why I should entertain an uninvited visitor who—”
“Because you like me.”
Their eyes held till her smile admitted ruefully that she did. She said something more to the maid, who then stepped forward and took his hat. Coco pressed herself back to let the maid pass. ( Coco, Coco, Coco . James took possession of the name,turning it over and over in his mind like a dissolving sweet in his mouth.) “Come in then, Mr.—that is, Dr. Stoker.”
The sun shone briefly down the length of her—down beige-white satin that fit snugly from her neck to her wrists, down her ribs, to pull tight across her abdomen before it belled into skirts. He could see the faint rise and fall of her belly, her rib cage. Then she turned to lead the way, and the view became that of heavy satin tied up in back into loose bundles that shimmered beneath a lot of limp, tea-colored lace—less bustle than mounds of fabric, tucked and layered into drapes and tiers. He
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