Free The White Hotel by D. M. Thomas Page B

watched as they twitched a little and the earth and rocks began settling on top of them. Darkness fell very suddenly that evening, and they lay, listening to the silence again after the thunderclap. Cold under the mountain’s shadow, the air was still warm around the white hotel, and they kept the window open. The lake drank the sunlight in one draught, and there was no moon to take its place. They all felt very thirsty, and the young man rang the bell for the maid. The little Japanese girl was startled when she saw three heads on the pillow, and they chuckled at her bewilderment. She brought them a litre bottle of wine and three glasses.
    The full-bodied wine revived them. The experience had been unique, for all of them, and they talked about it happily. Madame Cottin was pleased to see the young lovers showing unharmed affection for each other by their kisses and playful nibbles.
    Far from damaging their love, the experience had strengthened it; or so the young woman believed. Generosity always rewards the giver, and their kindness to the lonely, bereaved woman had drawn them closer to each other. So she felt happy. And her lover was happy because he lay snugly in between them, the tasty meat between two fresh slices of bread. He drank, lit a Turkish cigarette for Madame Cottin and gave it into her hand; lit another for himself, took a draw, exhaled with a sigh of pleasure, turned to give his mistress an affectionate kiss.
    Madame Cottin envied them their firm young bodies, for at thirty-nine she knew she was well past her best. And the church bells, sounding as if they came from the room above, made her gloomier. Probably the most she could hope for, at her time of life, were a few brief adventures like this one; but for the most part, solitude. She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another glass; but the wine stopped pouring when her glass was only half full. “Is this all there is?” she asked, apologetically.
    “It’s all we know about,” said the young woman, in thoughtful tones. “It’s all we can be sure of. Fairly sure.”
    Since they had finished the wine, the young man started fondling Madame Cottin’s plump, rather slack, breasts. Parting her thighs he clambered on to her again. The young woman offered her a nipple, because the wine had gone into milk and her breasts felt full and painful again. She took it into her mouth gratefully. At the same time he began to suck at her own breast, and the circle of pleasure was almost complete. The young man was very excited, very erect, and thrust so hard that Madame Cottin screamed; and, as she screamed, brought her teeth together and bit the young woman’s breast, drawing blood mingled with milk. It was late before Madame Cottin dressed and went back to her room. The hotel was dark, silent.
    The dozing night porter was woken by the night bell. When he opened the door it was Bolotnikov-Leskov and Vogel; they slid in looking tired, unkempt and dirty. They each ordered a pot of coffee, a large brandy and a round of sandwiches to be sent to their rooms, and ordered their usual newspapers for the morning. Bolotnikov-Leskov gave Vogel a curt good night as they parted on the first floor. He did not even like the fellow, but they shared the same general principles in life. Besides, Vogel was a survivor, like himself, and such men are worth a thousand virtuous losers.
    Towards evening of the next day he became restive, and suggested they get out of bed and take a walk up in the mountains. She felt tired, and would rather have taken a short stroll by the lake: perhaps with Madame Cottin. But he had in mind a bigger expedition, just the two of them.
    He rang the bell, summoning the maid to bring tea and to open the curtains. Adjusting to the flood of sunlight, the young woman saw that the little Japanese maid had been crying. She inquired if anything was the matter, and the maid told her of the disastrous landslide that had buried the mourners. She was very