Wilde West by Walter Satterthwait Page B

up to the mountains, talk to the wildflowers.”
    Oscar smiled. “How very fortunate for the wildflowers. They’re certain to find Mr. Ruddick’s conversation stimulating.”
    Henry nodded again, his black face, as always, expressionless. “Yes suh.”
    â€œThank you, Henry. I’ll see you at twelve-thirty then, before the matinee.”
    â€œYes suh, Mistuh Oscar.”
    As Henry left the room, Oscar stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He stood, untied the silk belt at his waist, slipped off the robe, lay the robe across the chair, unbuttoned his pajama top, stripped it off, lay that over the robe. He untied the string of his pajama bottoms, awkwardly stepped out of them, lay them over the rest, and then naked he padded over to the full-length oval mirror.
    Frowning in disapproval, he looked down the length of his pale reflected body. Doughy flesh, podgy breasts, slack saddles of meat slung over broad hips, white stomach sagging over the presumptuous thatch of black hair and that limp comedy trio dangling below, Freddy Phallus and the Testicle Twins.
    Ah well.
    What we have here is not precisely the classical ideal. Not precisely Adonis.
    Narcissus, yes, perhaps; but a Narcissus working under enormous handicaps.
    Good shoulders, though. And rather shapely legs.
    It was possible, of course, that she liked shoulders and legs; that she favored them.
    It was possible, of course, that she did not.
    A new regimen, perhaps. Brisk walks in the morning.
    Perhaps a change of diet. Something Spartan. Watercress and champagne. An occasional stalk of celery.
    For a few weeks. For a few days, anyway. To see how it went.
    He turned sideways, sucked in his belly. Better. With a little imagination, and perhaps a little myopia, he might pass for a prizefighter. One of those dim pugilists who pounded each other to bare-knuckled oblivion amid cigar smoke and shouted wagers in the London clubs.
    He put his fists up in approved pugilistic fashion, moved them in determined circles.
    He frowned again.
    Charming. Here we have a poet, a playwright, an Aesthete, the heir apparent to Ruskin, to Pater, who at his very best resembles a modern-day gladiator, soft and seedy and sad.
    He lowered his hands, turned to face the mirror, permitted his stomach to slide back to its natural position. Then, stepping lightly forward with his left foot, swinging his long right arm in a graceful sweep, he presented himself an elaborate formal bow.
    He looked up into the mirror and broadly smiled. “Madam,” he intoned, “we who are about to die salute you.”

    No butler this time; she opened the door herself. The elegant tumble of red hair shimmering about her oval face like an aura, she wore a green satin dress that was, technically, an extremely proper affair: gravely long-sleeved, severely buttoned up the bodice to a trim, prim collar. But from waist to arch of throat the fabric embraced her flesh as though she had grown into it, completing the process only moments before; and proudly, mockingly, it revealed all the magnificence it pretended to conceal. Her red lips smiled faintly, her violet eyes glittered. “Oscar,” she said. “Come in.” By daylight the color of those eyes was even more extraordinary.
    He stepped into the hallway and she closed the door behind him.
    â€œI gave the servants the day off,” she said, smiling still.
    â€œAh,” said Oscar.
    He thought suddenly, Ah ? What a brilliant rejoinder.
    He could smell her fragrance again, the musk, the forbidden spices, the pale white flowers that bloomed only in the light of the full moon; and perhaps it was this that had made his head suddenly drain itself of thought, become as taut and buoyant as a soap bubble. Soon it would pop off his neck and go sailing up to bounce lightly against those dreary nailhead moldings along the ceiling.
    â€œCome along,” she said. Lightly she touched his arm: beneath her fingers, fire