Russian Spring by Norman Spinrad Page A

four-block walk on rubbery legs to the Boulevard Montparnasse, a big bustling nightlife avenue not unlike St.-Germain, and into Le Dôme, brightly but warmly lit, somewhat cramped but still congenial, all old wood and brass, but somehow modern and airy too, opening out onto its own sidewalk tables.
    It was noisy in a not unpleasant way, it picked up the energy of the streets without being washed over by it, and once Jerry was seated and inhaling the heady odors of the spicy seafood stew, he found himself perking up a bit. Though by the time he had finished the bouillabaisse, and half a bottle of white wine, and a raspberry mousse in chocolate sauce, and the snifter of Cognac that André
insisted
he must have, he was fading out again.
    “
Now
can I go back to the hotel?” he asked plaintively when they got back to the car.
    André checked his watch, shook his head. “Two more hours, mon ami, and then you will sleep like a rock and wake up naturally on Paris time in the morning, ready for some
real
fun.”
    “I don’t think I can stay awake that long. . . .” Jerry moaned.
    “We go to La Bande Dessinée, that should keep your eyes open if anything can,” André said, and off they drove again, with Jerry beginning to nod out even in the open sports car, so that the trip passed in a timeless blur as if he had been teleported to he knew not where, and then a short wobbly walk through a genteelly sleazy neighborhood full of neon marquees with nude photos and sex shops and loud bars, floating just about out on his feet past a doorman and into . . . and into . . .
    Oh God, a sleazy TJ sex-show bar!
    In the middle of the bar, and lit from above by a rose-colored spotlight, was a round central stage upon which quite a stunning nude redheaded woman and a sleekly muscled black bodybuilder type were screwing away to an electronic version of an ancient burlesque bump-and-grind rhythm on a red velvet couch, she atop and blowing kisses to the patrons. Around three walls of the roughly circular room ran a brass and polished-wood bartop, with stools, mirrors behind, and bartenders in candy-striped shirts and handlebar mustaches. Between the stage and the bar, little café tables were serviced by topless waitresses in stylized French-maid miniskirts. A thick rosy mist, compounded no doubt of tobacco smoke and reddish lighting, seemed to fill the air and soften the edges of everything.
    “Jesus, André, you’ve gotta be kidding,” Jerry said as they took one of the few available empty tables, about halfway back from the stage. “I come all the way to Paris, and you take me to a Tijuana sex show?”
    André laughed. “Things are not always quite what they seem,” he said.
    “Huh?”
    “Observe the customers.”
    Jerry did as André ordered something from a passing waitress. The place was pretty well packed, but not with the horny sleazoids and middle-grade hookers one would have expected. There were as many women as men, but it seemed to be mostly couples, not a pick-up scene. Most of the people, men and women, were rather fashionably dressed in one way or another; younger people rakishly modish to be sure, but quite a few conservatively dressed older couples. There was indeed something peculiar about it.
    “So it’s a lot of trendy people slumming,” Jerry finally said as the waitress returned with snifters of what looked like straight vodka.
    André laughed again. “Drink,” he said, lifting his glass. “Watch,” he said, nodding toward the stage.
    Jerry drank. The clear liquid was at room temperature, it had the kick of vodka with absolutely no sweetness but it tasted like pears. Wow! He could get used to this stuff.
    On the stage, the black man had somehow removed himself while Jerry wasn’t looking, and the redhead lay back on the couch in the big shaft of rosy light stroking her breasts lubriciously, awaiting a new partner—
    —who suddenly seemed to drop into the spotlight from out of nowhere to the