The house was nothing to be marvelled. I seem to recall the grandest thing about the old Haze household being the unloved grand piano which sat in a shaded and dusty corner of the living area. As Charlotte, God rest her tired soul, gave me a proud tour of the humble abode, Humbert was becoming more and more conscious of disembodied voices of young men in thick rimmed glasses, high waisted trousers, slicked back hair and a guitar over their shoulder, emanating from the adjacent room. I did not know of these young girls musical fancies through choice, but rather through necessity. Oh winged gentleman and gentlewomen of the jury, there was only one way to be certain of a brief encounter with a glowing nymphet in a record shop, and that was to be looking at the right kinds of records. Oh how gloriously it worked! Humbert did his research. Shame on Hum.
"Sorry about that racket." Charlotte smiled through somewhat clenched teeth, hurrying through to the conservatory to almost snap the black vinyl as she snatched it away from the needle. The young man's voice shuddered to nothingness, and I gulped. As conventional and tasteless as her decor may have been, she was evidently not as conventional in the way of music. So then who was?
She turned on her heels like a relaxing bull and exhaled through her nostrils in the same manner. Her plump face had gone all pink. "I can't stand that song. If I hear it one more time I swear I may just-"
"Kill-joy!" A young, angst filled voice echoed through the slightly open glass door directly behind Charlotte, and walking backwards carefully, still talking, she slammed it shut.
"How are you supposed to get a proper impression of the house when you can't even hear yourself think? Shall we move onto the kitchen?"
No Charlotte, the kitchen is your territory my Dear, not mine. The way she used the word "shall" was about as false and forced as her smile when an obnoxious singing began triumphantly and defiantly from the back garden, penetrating the glass which Charlotte had just closed in a desperate attempt to mute the faceless voice which was calling me towards it. Kitchen? No.
"I'm sure the kitchen is lovely, Mrs Haze, but I-"
"Please, call me Charlotte."
I learned my lesson. "Charlotte... you have a garden I see."
Good God forgive me for my taunting of the dead, but her loveable face at that precise moment of enquiry. If I had been able to photograph her face, oh jury what a laugh we may share! The glass conservatory, like a green house of sorts had been carefully sewn onto the side of her white picket fence American Dream house, a conservatory of glass through which I could see the large, green expanses of the garden in full bloom rather perfectly, and she looked at me as if to say, "What garden?"
I was not going to ignore that voice she was trying so hard to erase. I walked forth and into the conservatory, the warm afternoon sunlight hitting my chiselled face and no doubt making Charlotte swoon slightly. I could hear that angelically out of tune voice, yet perfectly happy voice singing a song I knew from my car radio. 'Heartaches' by Harry James. It had been number one in the charts for quite some time now. Queue the Orchestra, my trusty Judge. Conduct my sorrowful drum roll.
Heartaches
Heartaches
My loving you meant only heartaches
Your kiss was such a sacred thing to me
I can't believe it's just a burning memory
Heartaches
Heartaches
What does it matter how my heart breaks?
I should be happy with someone new
But my heart aches for you
I could hear her singing, that unintentional siren, imitating each and every instrument to the best, or worst, of her ability. Either way, Charlotte was silently seething. Her little plan was working nicely. Record player or not, this young mystery girl in the back garden, burning the back of my mind, draining my pen, eating away at my life, she was going to have music even if she had to make it herself. Humbert admired her resourcefulness.
I nodded my head to her well slimmed waist (large belts worked wonders) to roughly where she was hiding the door handle. The one exit from this fish tank of suburbia. "May I?"
"I thought you were a writer, Mr Humbert."
"I am indeed."
"Are you known for your gardening skills."
"Ah, Charlotte!" I remember distinctly putting a hand on her shoulder, because I remember distinctly the face she made. I might as well have been a Hollywood pinup. My magic touches always had a way with the women, and that meant it was one step closer to the daughters. "There is no better muse when it comes to writing than that of a hot breeze. With you for a moment, and then gone forever." This memoir proves it all too well.
Through hidden, yet gritted, teeth she smiled and stepped aside obediently. I thanked her politely and opened the door, and instantly the invisible fingers of Summer were running through my dark brown hair. I inhaled the smell of virgin white lilies with their crisp clean sheets and yellow erections. It was a beautiful day, filled with beautiful new sights and sounds. I walked out onto the freshly mowed lawn, the green grass and decapitated daisies. How wonderful a job her Negro maid had done! I had finally met my match when it came to mowing the lawn.
And then, like those archaeologists stumble upon the legendary tombs of glorified Egyptian Queens, I finally gave that rebellious little singing voice a face, and I could not have envisaged a better face to lay my sinning eyes upon. The sun, like a spotlight upon a stage, shone through the apple trees and bathed this divine and most flawless specimen of a nymphet in a heavenly haze. Dangling a delicate white sock loosely from the end of her raised foot, she lay on her stomach (Oh how I envied the grass beneath that body!) and quite innocently read a magazine, her roaring one girl chorus now a gentle humming. Her exposed bronze back welcomed me to her garden of Eden, the childish curve of her spine and raised shoulder blade. The plump roundness of her young behind and the golden brown locks that fell down over her shoulders, masking her face from me. She began to kick her legs behind her, her heels hitting her bottom like one of those show girls you see in a Vegas Casino, wearing a fanned feather hat and little else, other than sequins and promises. Suddenly, the shield of hair dividing myself and this beautiful little nymphet was swept aside as this thief of my heart swung her head round sharply to spy on the looming stranger in the expensive suit who was gazing at her adoringly. Instead of doing what most nymphets do, which is to grimace and run away, she did the most unforgettable thing. She smiled. She smiled at the awestruck Humbert and showed off her dazzling white teeth and shining silver braces.
Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, I had finally spotted the creature in her natural habitat after hearing her mating call. By now she was being watched by an angry Charlotte, who stormed over with intent and snatched away her magazine like it was something infectious. If it was, it was most certainly infecting me.
"Humbert, this is my daughter, Dolores." She could have sounded a little less... depressed.
"I told you Mother dearest, it's Lolita! I'll never be a star with a name like Dolores." She shook her head in distaste at the sound of her birth name and swiped her magazine back audaciously.
Not wanting a full blown confrontation to begin in front of myself, Charlotte allowed her to read the glossy magazine, as difficult as it was for her to give into her daughters wishes. "Well, at least say hello to Humbert. He might be staying with us here. Our first customer!" Charlotte gave me a hungry kind of look. Money-hungry I hoped.
"Humbert?" She asked, thinking for a moment. "Maybe Dolores isn't so bad after all." A slight giggle, and butterflies came to life inside of me. Oh mock me again you teenage temptress! You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?
"Dolores!"
"Can I call you Hum? That's a swell name for a man of such distinction! I'm good with nicknames."
"I'm sure Mr Humbert does not-"
"You can call me whatever you like, Lo." I smiled, smitten as a pampered kitten. Charlotte had been silenced. Lolita pondered on something again in the forbidden expanses of her young prepubescent mind.
"Lo, huh? I like that!" And then the widest brace-faced grin I had ever seen appeared. "Thanks Hum!"
Pet names already? Lolita, you tease. You completely shameless tease! How powerless I was to your advances.
Charlotte produced a cigarette from her purse and placed it between her thin pink lips before walking away in defeat. She called on me over her shoulder like I was a lapdog, and said something about how I just had to see her new water feature.
Lolita rolled her eyes once again and stuck out her tongue with disgust. "It's a revolting thing. She only got it to impress the neighbours."
"Oh I see." Her American accent, the way she carried herself even when laying down, the fact that from this safe distance I was completely entranced.
"So you might be staying with us?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm most certain that I am."
Something in the way I spoke made my Lo turn her head around slowly, peering at me with one eye, the other silvery blue gem hidden by her luscious locks. Her sun-kissed nose twitched slightly, and she wiggled her toes, and all at once that loose sock which had been holding desperately onto her foot slipped off and landed on the grass silently. "I'd jump back in your flashy car out there and drive off to the next town if I were you, Hum."
"And why is that?"
"My Mother can be a little bit... overbearing." Impressive use of vocabulary. Humbert was pleased! She lifted her soft hand, placed her thumb and index finger on her glistening bottom lip, licked them gently, and then used these fingers to turn the page of her magazine, and all the while I could feel my trouser crotch stiffening. A tempestuous sensation boiling away inside of me, my eyes transfixed, my jaw no doubt on the floor. She shrugged those brown shoulders; smooth and unhidden by the black dress with white polka dots she wore. "Dunno why you'd want to stay here."
"I have my reasons, Lo... I have my reasons."
It was the most humble of beginnings for poor Humbert, and in retrospect my only regret is having not listened to Lo's advice. But how was I to resist such a beautiful nymphet when men such as I who are powerless to their mannerisms and voices and visual splendour? And after all, with a name like Lolita, how was I ever going to be able to say no?
