Moonlight

The joke was always the same. Whether he said it or not, it sprang up in Tom's head every time, almost at the same spot. He didn't always remember that he had made the remark to his wife many times before: when he did, he just chuckled to himself, then gave Alice a look.

It was dark, and the woman hoped she could get away with not returning the look: she really didn't want to partake in this sort of humour. But the bore nudged her with his elbow. Like a drunk behind the bar.

Alice found her husband gross. She sighed and turned to him with a little smile that said, 'Yes, darling: very funny.'

Tom knew she didn't find that funny, but having drawn her into his train of thought, felt satisfied.

Every time they had to visit the Durands at their country house, which happened every two or three months, they were forced to drive through the outer city ring. They had to leave behind the shadowy boulevards flanked by rows of identical buildings with limestone façades, that had an air of largess and were occupied by old aristocrats, merchants, and people of means. They both were familiar with those streets: the small boutiques from fashion houses, the embassy buildings, the museums they had visited many times during the school years. Even though the buildings were generally carved in the same austere style, and every corner seemed to resemble each other, they knew that if you take a turn in that direction, you could reach a familiar address. They were well-connected people, embedded in a network of people like them who inhabited large apartments that spanned entire floors and controlled the affairs of the city.

There was a big moon in the sky. They crossed to the other side of the bypass with unease. The austere beauty and the order of the city was replaced by knots of constructions that had emerged in disordered bursts with every new expansion plan. In the evening, the streetlamps cast their lugubrious light onto anonymous figures who moved about, directed to unfamiliar destinations. The buildings, much taller than the ones the couple had left behind, resembled deformed monsters with overgrown limbs. A myriad of windows lit for dinner pierced the darkness, but you couldn't count them. There were so many rows of them that you were simply overwhelmed with a sense of overcrowded spaces where people were crammed, where many smells accumulated, and the noise of a million voices echoed.

Tom often joked about his employees occupying buildings like these. He was the head of the biggest tyre manufacturer in the country. They had almost the full market share throughout Europe. The factory was founded by Tom's grandfather: it had been a small a small experiment to employ some of the rent the family draw from their large estates, but as the World changed from an agricultural to a mechanised one, the car business grew larger and more profitable. They now also produced springs and engine parts for many car manufacturers.

'Eight hours a day,' he would say when he mused over the point. 'Hundreds of people, hundreds of hours. And this is all they ask for.'

Tom found it very funny.

'They want less than five percent of our profit, so they can live like this -- like rats. I keep the rest. Isn't it stupendous?'

That phrase, five percent, had struck her. Whenever she heard of someone wanting money, she thought he must have been on five percent. That explained it all: a bad bargain.

Alice came from a very prominent family, just like Tom. She had no notion of what those eight hours were really worth, but five percent... She imagined those men dirty with soot, and their wives with small frames and a child to the breast and another in the womb. It surely was too horrible.

She didn't know why she was feeling so moved by these thoughts tonight. It was maybe the thought of another dinner with the same people, the same gossip, the same retreat into different rooms after dinner where the men could discuss business and the women could plan more dinners like this one.

Alice wondered about the frictionless existence of their friends, marred by little worries and little tragedies that they seemed to invent to relieve the boredom. They built new and complicated houses, tried their hand at new ventures, committed little peccadillos. But nothing seemed to matter: the excitement that ran through their ranks at every little change was easily and quickly forgotten.

The Durands' mansion came into view at the end of the park. A row of lights hidden in the gras illuminated the gravel road that led to it. The Durands had made money with biscuits.

Tom was in the tyre business: if people wanted to go anywhere, they had to pay him for the pleasure. The Durands had grown rich with people's hunger. Every necessity of life was taxed along the way by people like them, so they could build large Palladian villas in the countryside, so they could entertain friends like Tom and Alice, whom, she was sure, they didn't like.

Tom helped Alice climb the stone steps that led to the entrance. He was worried any sign of distance between him and his wife would turn the gossip machine towards them, and he knew the brutality of its shells.

The large hall was lit by candles and dimmed artificial lights. Their sparkles reflected on the tall antique mirrors speckled with the dull spots of old mercury. A string quartet played in a corner, and the various guests were already huddled in small groups, chatting among them and sipping their drinks. Waiters in dark suits moved about with canapes and glasses on silver trays.

Alice smiled wide as she recognised some people across the room. She waved her hand. Her fingernails were perfectly lacquered in red, and she had a large bracelet with rubies around her thin wrist. She was tall and well-proportioned, with long legs and the grace of a catwalk model. For this occasion, she had chosen a red designer dress, backless and with a low cut that revealed the top of her cleavage. As she moved, it followed her curves and offered hints of what it so expertly covered. Some of the men turned to see the newcomers, and their gaze dwelled on her long enough to know she had achieved her goal.

Tom wore a tuxedo. It was a good cut, expensive at that, but it couldn't hide the fact that he was growing heavier. It wasn't the large paunch, or the thick legs: Tom moved like an older man. His face was also permanently flushed. He looked like a bear, big and dark.

She was fair skinned, and her hair, still unaided by any die, was fine and so blonde that it seemed white.

Even though Alice and Tom were close in age, there was something grotesque in the impression he gave you when he held his wife by the waist, in a gesture that was more predatory than protective.

From the room, you couldn't see the large trees of the park, or the sky brightly lit by a full moon. All you could see was the distorted reflection of the guests on the French windows moving about. The air seemed warm, too warm.

A waiter came to offer them drinks. She took a glass of champagne, which she detested, and he reached for a tumbler of whisky. She gave him a look, but he took the glass and drank it quickly.

'Hold on,' he barked. 'Where's my refill?'

He handed back the empty glass and took a full one.

Alice was soon dragged away from Tom. Some women she vaguely knew wanted so terribly to chat to her.

'It's so good to see you!'

'How was Aspen?'

'Have you lost weight?'

'Oh, my! I don't know how you can stay so fit.'

'And look at these rubies!'

Alice smiled knowing no answer was really required. She scanned the room, trying to hide the fact that her mind was elsewhere.

Vincent returned her smile when she finally spotted him.

*

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.

*

The driver helped Alice carry Tom upstairs. The man was used to it. After all, the same scene was happening at the same time in many mansions around town. But Alice still found it rather embarrassing.

She undressed Tom, struggling with his bulk, often getting whiffs of his various smells.

Alice walked into the bathroom, undressed with tired movements, and walked into the shower. She let the water run on her back, while pressing hard with her palms against the wall, her head hanging low between her shoulders and her hair covering her eyes.

She was thinking about Vincent. Why had she pushed him away? She had often thought to herself that he was quite handsome: tall, with a powerful yet lean body, dark hair, and grey eyes. He was often amusing with his quips and was a good listener.

Alice somehow knew that she had foolishly imagined she could have her cake and eat it too. She had enjoyed the attention, and she had cherished their talks. Somehow, she had painted a picture of Vincent in her mind as an old-fashioned gentleman. But what did that really mean? He was still a man. But she also knew that tonight he had not just torn the picture of him she had painted: he had given her a new one, and it was almost a copy of her husband, Tom.

He was one of them, and he would never be anything different. That's what had shocked her; that's what she had found so appalling.

Then, her thoughts wondered to Tom. She didn't know when she had started to find him irksome, but their relationship had grown cold over the years. Tom had always had a limited talk, Alice had to admit, but she had never noticed how much she needed to talk and be talked to when she was younger. Also, the sex between them had become perfunctory, almost a duty that they both found almost repulsive as they felt obliged to perform.

The water was warm, and she could feel her body relax a little. In the next room, Tom was snoring. At the end of the corridor, their children were asleep. Alice and the driver had made quite a bit of noise, as they had dragged Tom to bed. Alice had heard some crying from the kids' room, but a light behind her had told her that the nanny was up and would put the child back to sleep.

Alice felt alone in the house. Tom didn't need her anymore, and even her own children knew to rely on the staff for anything.

She wondered if Tom had a girl on the side. Even if he had the interest, was he even capable to perform anymore? He was still in his thirties, and something could be said for a young body's ability to bounce back. Yet, the drinks seem to interest him above everything else: cases of expensive whisky were delivered to the house every week, and he was never without a full glass nearby.

The only other regular activity he performed was work. He would go to the office every day, but she knew that his involvement in the business was almost nil. Other people had the reins of the company. Once again, he was no different to the other guests at those parties: they took big swings whenever the fancy took them, regularly go broke, borrow from each other or get bailed out by the Government, then come up again richer than before. There seemed to be no risk.

Tom also had had his ups and downs. He had probably been bankrupts many times before, but the system they were in wouldn't let him. If a strike threatened his interests, police would break it, the law would change. If contracts had become unfavourable, lawyers would expertly circumvent them, sending smaller firms to the ropes, only to let Tom's company profit even more.

Less than five percent...

Yes, Tom probably had another girl on the side. It was a point of honour for those men. He certainly had a steady one. Someone to show his friends from time to time. Someone younger than Alice, someone without the hangups of a wife.

He probably had casual encounters on his business trips, secretaries, assistants, even prostitutes. He often liked to point out the illegal brothels he knew of when they were driving through the city.

Alice stepped out of the shower, not feeling much refreshed, and went to bed.

*

The next day, Alice had dinner alone with the kids. Tom was out with friends, playing squash (if Alice could believe such a story!).

After the table was cleared, she spent some time with the kids, a little boy of one and a girl of four. They were on the floor, playing with some toys. The nanny was sitting on a chair, playing with her phone, enjoying the momentary respite from her duties.

All of a sudden, the boy dropped a little car on his foot. Scared more than hurt, he started crying. Alice picked him up and tried to console him, but rather than calming him down, this seemed to drive him to higher pitches of hysterics.

The nanny walked up to them, picked the boy up, and the little child buried his face in her chest and instantly stopped crying.

Alice was hurt.

Somehow, all the help she had received had dulled her ability to do anything: the nannies, the drivers, the cooks, the maids. She was a useless, almost resented presence in that house. She was at once pampered and overlooked at the same time by her environment.

To her children, she was "mummy." What that meant though, they couldn't say.

To her husband, she was the impressive wife to take to parties, bejewelled and breathtaking. But the seduction was for the others: Tom couldn't touch her; he wouldn't be aroused by her. A prized possession he barely looked at.

Alice looked on, as the nanny resumed the game with the children. The were little cries of pleasure now and then, then great laughs. How much did the woman earn, how much did Tom pay her? Was she too one of those people she was supposed to find pitiful and contemptible?

Alice didn't know. She didn't seem to know many things, these days.

Just then, the door opened. It was Tom. He had come home early. Too early, but it took one look to tell he had drunk more than he could handle. His face was red, and he walked about like a blind man, feeling each step and moving his arms about looking for a surface to rest on, not to fall.

There was a terrible look on his face. He looked around the room and saw Alice.

'You! You fucking -- '

He saw the nanny and the kids, and he barked at them, 'Get out! Now.'

'Kids, why don't we play in your room?'

The woman quickly picked up the boy and swiftly left the room, followed by the girl.

'You fucking whore, what did you do?' he resumed.

Alice didn't know. She didn't know she had done anything to make him this furious, but, even though she felt sure of her innocence, she started trembling: Tom looked crazy with range; he looked dangerous.