The Great and Calamitous Tale of Johan Thoms. Ian Thornton

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      “Every one in the quarter knows the Napoleon House. Best bourbon sours this side of the Mississippi, and the other side, too, I’d hazard a guess. I’ve climbed that crooked old staircase myself on a couple of occasions, to untold treasures above,” Herb said, with a weary bullishness.

      “And are there really vampires there?” Johan attempted to rerail the conversation in front of the lady. Lorelei squirmed in her seat.

      “There’s every sort of vampire and weird creature of the night in the Easy. Odd critters from seaboard to west head to N’awlins for their crazy antics. It’s why I left, sir. They’ll get you in the end,” Herb said. “You should take your friend up on the offer. There ain’t nowhere like it.”

      “And the black magic?”

      “As I said, those weirdos get up to everythin’. Voodoo shit is just the start of things. Snakes and skulls make ’em live forever. But make ’em look like they eaten’ nothing but bones for a year a’ Sundays.”

      “I prefer the Garden District,” interjected the beauty to Herb’s right. “Those mansions are haunted, for sure.” Her features lit up, and the reflection of a candle danced in her black eyes. Herb took this distraction as his chance to excuse himself and headed toward a darkened arch. James followed him, slowly.

      Cartwright and Srna were discussing the rights and wrongs of duels and satisfaction, and Johan was left face-to-face once again with Lorelei.

      “So, we meet again,” was Johan’s opening gambit. At least it was in English and the words were in the right order.

      “A pleasure.” Lorelei advanced her metaphorical pawn forward one space.

      “May I excuse myself for last night? I don’t know what came over me,” Johan said, but with enough confidence so that she might think he was not a complete moron. So far so good.

      “That’s all right. It happens,” she answered in vermouth tones with a tilt of the head which implied that it was not the first time she had had such an effect on man or boy, but it also suggested that she quite enjoyed it.

      They had the next twenty minutes all to themselves.

      Soon the American boys were meandering back to the table, stopping to ogle young ladies and engage them in a confused dialogue. Lorelei leaned forward and, with her left hand under the table, grabbed Johan’s crotch.

      An awkward pause followed. Lorelei grinned.

      “What is that perfume?” was all that the youth could manage.

      “It is called Chance.” With her right hand, she twisted his shirt collar and top buttons a half turn, and with her black eyes she glared deep into his dilated pupils.

      “And YES, Johan Thoms. You have one.”

      She bit her bottom lip, just to the left, and slowly blinked.

      Johan was reduced to rubble. Luckily, his groin also felt like a chunk of masonry.

      Herb yelled for more drinks and asked the new guests if they would care to join him. Johan pondered, for the sake of his performance, whether he should further imbibe. He wanted to file this in his memory for later perusal.

      “Yes, please, actually. I’ll take a bourbon sour, Herb. Thank you,” said Johan.

      Bill yelled to a passing waiter, “Make that two, please.” He glanced to the right to see Lorelei removing her hand.

      Perfect, Bill thought, and he winked at his pal.

      Generous to a fault, Srna demanded more champagne, and then he continued his tête-à-tête with Bill on Serbian expansionist policy.

      Meanwhile, there was a more important agenda on a different Eastern Front. To Cartwright’s right, Lorelei was twitching in her seat. She rubbed Johan’s bare shin with her warm foot.

      Later, Johan only recalled noting his own gratitude toward Srna for allowing the obvious frisson to flourish.

      The next thing he knew, he was alone with Lorelei. He was kissing her, up against giant wrought-iron gates leading to a darkened courtyard. Darkened, but for the softest of yellow lights coming from two or three windows on different floors.

      Fade-out.

      The next thing he recalled, they were in an elevator, black trestle closing behind them.

      Fade-out.

      A knock on the door and two glasses of champagne, with a strawberry in each flute, entered on a solid silver platter, followed by the night porter, all beady eyes and a center parting. The room was luxury.

      Fade-out.

      A relaxed, naked Lorelei facing him on her back on the bed, head nearest to him, as he staggered off to urinate. She smiled at him as he left the room. He recalled that he had remembered to raise the toilet seat before he’d peed.

      (His father had drilled it into him to put the seat back down afterward, in case the female in question were married. For if she were and the seat were left raised, then there would be one malicious, vengeance-seeking husband hiding in the closet for his next visit, clutching a saber—precisely the one thing one would not want to meet in a state of undress and/or arousal.)

      In the bathroom, his erection had posed a problem. He did not want to miss the bowl and piss all over her floor, though it was more likely to hit the back of the wall six feet up right now.

      He considered doing a handstand and giggled to himself.

      In his dorm he had perfected the art of knowing exactly where to stand with a full-blown one (adjacent to the gray-cracking porcelain sink). As he started to urinate and turgidity decreased, he would slowly inch forward, shuffling, in order to maintain bull’s-eye into the center of the bowl. Now, he would have to replicate this skill in a bathroom of untried dimensions.

      “Bang on!” he whispered.

      Not a drop even touched the porcelain as he smiled at the splashing: he had been a real success in the bathroom. But he could not recall much about what had happened in the bedroom.

      These were his main recollections of his first evening with Lorelei Ribeiro. Johan Thoms was still very much a boy.

      * * *

      The following three days, Lorelei’s last in Sarajevo, were spent in the confines of her suite. Lorelei and Johan ventured into the old town for just one dinner, into an unseasonably chilly evening.

      Their venue that night became their restaurant of choice whenever Lorelei would return to this, Johan’s city. Taberne Parioli—named after the hamlet in Italy where the owner had met and fallen in love with his wife in the winter of ’89—was, it seemed, a place for young chaps looking to impress their belles. It had only six tables. Three of these adorned the ivy-covered balcony, from which the patrons were able to acknowledge some of their fellow burgers of the old town and ignore the rest down a long unwelcoming Balkan nose. The owners loved their cuisine and never looked down any sort of nose at anyone. Johan recalled fondly the owner’s wife, her generosity, her love of providing for her extended family of satisfied guests, СКАЧАТЬ