Текст книги "Forty 2 Days"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Fifteen

By the time I wake up Blake is gone.  I bring Sorab into the bed and lie watching him drink his milk while my brain incessantly replays Blake’s intriguing and confusing words from the night before.

You must believe me when I tell you, you are my sustenance, my oxygen.  In fact, right now, what I feel for you is the only part of me that feels human.

Other than my failed attempt at being a wrecking ball, nothing I can see has changed between us, and yet the coldly furious stranger who could barely stand for me to touch him is suddenly professing an emotion so deep that it makes my toes curl.  And what was the insistence that I promise never to leave him until the 42 days are up all about?  What were the things that I do not understand that he referred to and he obviously did not want to tell me about?  I remember again his intense eyes.  He seemed to be begging for something from me, and yet what was he begging for?  Another thirty-eight days with me?  Why?  Nothing makes sense.

Jack’s words come back.

No man wants a woman for just 42 days.

 When Blake said it would be my choice, did he mean the choice to be his mistress?  And what of Victoria, his patient paragon of spotless virtue?  I have dealt with her and I know without any doubt that she will not allow such a scenario.

I kiss Sorab’s head.  ‘What’s Daddy up to, Sorab?’ I ask, but he only sleepily sucks at his milk bottle.

The day passes lazily without incident.  My movements are slow and languorous.  The pain is beginning to subside.  When I use the toilet there is no burn.  I am excited by the idea of Blake inside my body again.  I recognize that I am in a state of constant arousal.

Laura calls to say that Blake will be home for dinner, but not to prepare any food.  She is ordering in for us.  Chinese.  ‘Anything you particularly want?’

‘Crispy Peking duck,’ I say.

I hear the smile in her voice.  ‘Yes, that’s a particular favorite of mine too, Miss Bloom.’

It is a fine day with only a little wind and at four in the evening I pack a book and take Sorab out in his brand new stroller into the park for some fresh air.  The seat where I had been joined by the exuberant puppy is empty so I head for it.  The sun is deliciously mild, but I do not put the hood of the pram down.  Next summer he will be ready to play in the sun.

I eye him proudly and he blows bubbles and shakes his rattle violently.  I am so incredibly in love with him.  I look around.  There is hardly anyone about and after a little while, I take my book out and begin to read.  No more than ten minutes could have passed with Sorab contentedly playing with the little toys hung up on the hood of his pram when a woman comes up to us.

‘Oh, but he is a daahling,’ she croons.

I look up from my paperback smiling.  ‘Thank you.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Sorab.’

She swings her head suddenly towards me and I am stunned by the flash of alarm in her eyes.  ‘Why did you name your son so?’

I remember myself.  ‘He’s not my son.  I am babysitting for my friend.’

‘Oh,’ she says and straightens so I get to see her properly.  She has medium brown hair, pink cheeks, and blue eyes, and is wearing an understated, but obviously very expensive coat.  Her accent is very upper class, but there is something shrill about her eyes. It makes me itch to stand up and put myself between her and my son.  I stand up and we are facing each other.

‘Why did she give him such a name?’

‘It is after the legend of Rustam and Sorab.’

‘Do you know the story of Rustam and Sorab?’

‘No,’ I lie, immediately.

‘It is the legend of a very great warrior who accidentally kills his own son in the battlefield, because when the boy was born his mother lied.  She told the father he had no son, that she had borne a girl.’

 I stare at the woman trying to control my horror, but by the expression on her face I am not succeeding.  The irony had not hit me before.  What have I unthinkingly done?  Who is this woman?  What is she to Blake, my son, and me?

‘Who are you?’

‘Who I am is not important.  Do not be tempted to stay longer than your allotted time.  You and your son are in grave danger.  It may even already be too late.  Don’t trust anyone.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Beware of Cronus,’ she says, her voice as dry as dust, and begins walking away.

‘Hey, come back,’ I call out, but she increases her speed, and quickly disappears from my sight.  I sit back down because my knees will no longer support me.  I know that woman.  An evening breeze rushes past me.  I force myself up and push the pram as quickly as I can back to the apartment.  Inside, I rush to the computer and Google images for the fourth Earl of Hardwicke and his family.  Up pops a picture of the woman.

I sit back.  The memory of her perfume drifts past me.  The rest is a blur of real fear.  Of course, I recognize her.  The resemblance is small, but noteworthy.  She is Victoria’s mother, but there is something pitiful about her.  She has lost something precious.  True, her shrill eyes betrayed extreme fury, but beneath the rage, she was essentially telling me that she has had to suffer, and intolerably.  But unlike her daughter she was not threatening me, but warning me so I could avoid a similar suffering in my own future.  Beware of Cronus.  Turn back now, Lana.  Before it is too late.

My phone rings.  It is Blake.

‘Hi,’ I mumble.

‘You sound strange.  Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say.

‘I’m coming home early.  Wait for me.’

‘I’m here,’ I say.

By the time Blake gets home I have stopped restlessly pacing the floor and stilled the tremor in my hands, but not the terrible fear in my heart.  I am standing in the middle of the living room lost to some unknown dread, when Blake appears at the doorway.  I turn towards him and suddenly I am filled with a new fear.  Can I even trust him?  I feel confused and frightened of what I do not know.

In a few strides he has covered the ground between us.  ‘What is it?’

I shake my head.  ‘Why are you back so early?’

‘We are going to Venice.’

‘Venice?’ I repeat stupidly.

‘Would you like that?’

‘I can’t.  I have Sorab.’

‘He will come with us.  Laura has arranged five nannies for you to interview tonight.  They come with the highest recommendation from the best nanny agencies in London.  The nanny can help you here too until such time as you no longer need her.’

Why did no one warn me about this?  My hands rise to my temples.  ‘A nanny?’  The word is foreign on my tongue.  The idea intimidating.  Another woman taking care of Sorab.

‘The first lady will arrive at seven and one every half hour after that until you find one that you think is suitable.  I thought we could have an early dinner.  Laura has ordered us Chinese for six o’clock, I believe.’

I nod distractedly and notice the relief that washes over his face and tense shoulders, but I cannot imagine why he is relieved.

‘Can I fix you a drink?’ he asks, and moves to the bar.  I stare at his turned back.  Suddenly I have the distinct impression, he is worried about something.  Something important.  Something about me.  But he doesn’t want to talk about it.  Not yet.  It’s part of those secret things I do not understand.

‘A large brandy,’ I reply.

He pushes a goblet into my hand, kisses me softly on the forehead.  ‘I’ll join you after a shower.  Just relax.  Be back soon.’

‘Why are we going to Venice?’

‘You are going to the opera to experience Venetian music in its original setting.  Pack your black dress,’ he says, his eyes smoldering.

He has planned a Venetian adventure for me.  I drop my eyes to the floor.  I dare not look in his eyes, not yet. I plan to tell him about Victoria’s mother.  Not today, though.  Not until I figure out who Cronus is.  And who I can trust.  Who is friend and who is foe?

The nannies arrive punctually.  When the third woman comes through the door I know she is the one.  She has a pleasant face and laughing, soft eyes.  Her name is Geraldine Dooley.  She is from Ireland.  I put the baby in her arms.

‘All right, lad, what’s the story?’

Sorab babbles back at her.

‘T’be sure,’ she agrees solemnly.

The last two candidates I am able to cancel by calling their mobiles, but the next candidate is already waiting for me in the living room.  I go out to meet her.

‘I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.  I have just found the nanny that is perfect for my son.’

She smiles and pulls on spotlessly white cotton gloves.  ‘You haven’t, my dear.  I have been paid a considerable amount for attending this interview on such short notice.’

A thought occurs to me.  ‘What time were you contacted?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure.  But perhaps 4:30 pm.’

‘Oh.’  That was just after Victoria’s mother approached me in the park.  Can it be a coincidence that I am suddenly being whisked off to Venice?  Her words, ‘trust no one,’ still reverberate in my head.  Perhaps it is naïve of me, but I am unafraid.  I believed him when he asked me to trust him to do what is in my best interest.  And I still do.

With his hands spanning my waist just above the bruises and his eyes never leaving mine, Blake gently lowers me onto his throbbing hardness.  The muscles in his jaw twitch and betray his lack of detachment.  I know he is worried about hurting me, but I am so slick and wet and ready that the first inch slips in easily, filling and opening me beautifully.  It feels so good I drive myself down and suddenly he has pierced me too deeply, stretched the swollen hole too much.  I cry out involuntarily and I feel his hands bodily lift me off the shaft I am impaled on.

‘Jesus, Lana.  Take it easy,’ he bites out.

But now that the first flash of pain is gone I am afire with need.  I want to forget about Cronus and Victoria and all the confusing things I have not yet figured out and I know no better way.  I place my hands on either side of him and slowly push my trembling, clinging sex down until the bruises on my rear touch his thighs.  I stop and move upwards.  This exquisite pain-pleasure is what I have been craving all day.  This time I go down that bit faster.  My soaked sex hovers an instant at the tip of his shaft and then comes down too hard.  I cry out.  He tries to hold me up.

I shake my head and say, ‘No, this is fine.  I can take it.’

He tightens his grip around my waist.

‘No.  No more pain for you,’ he says firmly, and gently rolls me onto my back.  He covers my entire body with daddy-long-legs kisses until I feel as if I am floating.  And when I do come, I feel as if I am a pond on a day when the sunlight is so white it is impossible to look at it.  And someone goes and throws a stone into the pond of my very core, the shimmering ripples spreading out and out and out.

Sixteen

I stand on the prow of the black boat that traverses the Grand Canal to catch the full opulence and majesty of the white domes of the church in the bright sunlight.  Such decoration, such grandeur.  A funereal gondola passes us.  I shiver and touch the blue ribbon that Blake has put in my hair.  Here even decay and death are beautiful.  Rotting houses stand next to glorious palaces.

Blake extends a strong arm down to me at the Piazza San Marco stop.  He is dressed in a black denim shirt rolled up at the sleeves, blue jeans and lumberjack boots, and is head and shoulders taller than most of the locals.  Devilishly sexy dark sunglasses do not allow me to see his eyes.  I look up at him with that same sense of awe that he is with me.  He helps me off the boat and keeps my hand as we walk up to the piazza.

I immediately fall in love with the regiments of arches that surround the impossibly splendid square.  The great flocks of pigeons that roost in the stupendous roofs fly down to interact amiably with the tourists clutching guidebooks and cameras.  They flutter around us and make me smile.

We stop for coffee.  The waiter brings biscotti with our coffee.  Blake pushes his sunglasses over his head, stretches his long legs out in front of him, and closing his eyes turns his face up to the sun.  I dip a biscotti into my cappuccino.  The dunked biscotti reminds me of the tide marks on the stained, crumbling walls.

‘The lagoon is eating the city alive,’ I say.

Blake looks at me.  ‘It submits with pleasure to the tide.  It’s a willing consummation. The way I have been crumbling into you from the first night I laid eyes on you.’

For a moment we are both lost in each other’s gaze.  And then I simply can’t leave it; I whisper, ‘But what happens after the 42 days are up?’

A strange emotion crosses his eyes.  Pain?  Sorrow?  ‘I don’t ever want to lie to you.  The truth is I don’t know.  There are powerful forces at play, predictable only in their ruthless ability to accumulate and re-create the world in their image.  And I am part of that image.’

I frown.  These riddles.  What does he mean?  ‘What forces?’

‘Forces that are unaccountable, unprincipled, and extremely dangerous.  The less you know the safer you will be.  I may never tell you about them.  I take them on willingly for you, but I might lose.  The only way you can help me is to keep your promise.  No matter what you hear, see or whatever anyone tells you, do not forget your promise.’  Then his mouth stretches into a brilliant smile.  And that smile takes my breath away. ‘Will you trust me that even if I lose, I will ensure that you will be taken care of for life?’

Money!  I don’t want his money.  I want to know what he knows.  I want to have him, forever.

I let my gaze drop and he reaches forward and covers my hand with his.  His hand radiates warmth.  I turn my palm upwards and entwine my fingers with his.  I realize that this is a moment of great import.  I look up.  I am looking into the eyes of a man who almost appears to be drowning and I am the straw that he has found to clutch onto.  For the first time I realize that beneath the cold, aloof exterior there is so much, so much more depth.  I smile suddenly.

‘All right,’ I say.  ‘Let’s live as if all we have left are thirty-seven days.  Let’s not waste a second.’

‘That’s my girl,’ he says, and standing up tugs my hand.  ‘Come on,’ he urges.  ‘To know Venice one must wander its narrow bridges and bewildering alleys on foot.’

We leave the winding alleys to stop for lunch in an old ostaira that apparently has been around since the nineteenth century.  Blake and I both order the pasta in squid ink to start, followed by baked swordfish and polenta, which the waiter tells us are the house specialty.  Pasta in squid ink is something I have never tried before, and I enjoy it very much, but the portions are very large and I leave nearly half of my main course behind.

Blake frowns.  ‘Your appetite was better before.  You have lost so much weight.  Why?’

I shrug.  ‘I’m sorry.  The food is delicious, but I really can’t have any more.

‘He looks at me, his fork neatly laid at the four o’clock position on his plate, waiting for an explanation.

I glance down at my hands.  They are clenched tight.  ‘For weeks after what happened to Mum, I couldn’t eat at all.  Every time I thought about food I saw that breakfast table again.  It is almost as if my stomach has shrunk and I can only eat small amounts.’

‘What breakfast table?’

I unclench my hands and flex my fingers.  I haven’t spoken to anyone, not even Billie, about that day when I opened the front door and even the walls were silently screaming for my mother.  I look up.

‘I had an appointment with the doctor that day.  My mother wanted to come, but I said to her, “No, I’ll be fine.”  God, I wish I had never said those words.  If only I’d kept my mouth shut and let her come with me, she might be alive today.’

I shake my head with regret.  ‘I can still see her face.  “Are you sure?” she asked.  Even then I could have said, “All right, come.  You can keep me company.”  But I didn’t.  Instead, I said, “Absolutely.  Stay at home and have a rest.  Hospitals are full of germs.”

‘When I came back, I opened the front door and called to her.  She did not answer so I went into the kitchen, and I knew immediately that something was very wrong when I saw the kitchen table.  It should have been ready for lunch, but it was full of leftovers from our breakfast.  Sliced tomatoes, pita bread, olives, oil.  And…flies.’ I cover my mouth.  ‘Flies were buzzing around the congealed fried eggs.’

The startlingly clear image makes me feel nauseated again and I push the plate of food away from me and take a deep, steadying breath.  I do not tell him that that day too my milk dried up.  Not a drop was left for Sorab.  A kindly woman, two doors away became his wet nurse until the day I left Iran.

I look up into his eyes and they are soft and pained.  In his world of unlimited funds almost everything can be made better with a little application and cunning.  This one cannot.  Even he is helpless in the face of death.

‘She was such an incredibly clean person.  I knew something terrible had happened.  My mother had gone out to the shop opposite to buy some sugar for her coffee and had been run over while crossing the road outside our house.  For many weeks I would wake up having dreamt of flies in my food.  Perhaps it was the shock of how quickly they had taken over my mother’s kitchen, after her relentless efforts of keeping them away.’

My chest seizes up.  A small sob escapes.  Oh no, surely I’m not going to bawl again.  I swallow while the tears run down my cheeks.  I feel the waiter’s eyes on me.  Blake reaches for my hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ I apologize, squeezing his hand.  ‘I know, this too will pass, and all that, but I just can’t seem to get over my loss.’

After lunch we return to the palazzo that belongs to Blake’s family.  Iced with a filigree of white stone and built on three floors it reminds me of a wedding cake.  Inside, it is as beautiful as any palace with glittering mosaic, marble statues of human beings, golden statues of beasts, detailed frescos, decorated ceilings, priceless antiques, bell pulls made of rich gold and red braids, and liveried servants

 Gerry is sitting on the balcony under an umbrella.  Sorab squeals with delight at my appearance.  The afternoon is spent on the balcony with Sorab.  Pleasant.  Rare.  I won’t ever forget it.

That evening I go to the top floor.  A strange place.  Smooth marble steps right in the middle of the huge space lead to an antique clawed bath with gold taps.  I take my dressing gown off and step into the scented water.  Here the servants are light-footed and like ghosts.  Secretive and almost unseen.  I rest my head against the warm marble.

High above my head looming out of the dark of the vaulted roof space is an iron chain from which a glass chandelier of unsurpassed beauty is suspended.  Its many glass arms twist and turn into delicate cristallo cups that hold real candles.  Blake told me that it was once made for the Church of Santa Maria della Pieta, but one of his more flamboyant ancestors acquired it for himself.  He wanted to look up at the work of art as he bathed.  At the hundreds of diamond fruits and crystal teardrops.

I gaze at them with awe.  Each droplet, because of its position on the chandelier and its distance from each candle, has been blown a slightly different shape in order to transmit the same luminescence from every angle as they capture the flickering flames inside their prisms.

Blake appears at the door.  He stands in the enormous shadows cast by the candles.  Silent, full of some wild emotion that makes my cheeks burn.

‘I’ve dreamed of seeing you in this bath under this chandelier,’ he says huskily, and, coming forward into the light, takes the washcloth out of my hands and proceeds to wash my back.

I feel his mouth on the back of my neck; the evening stubble of his unshaved face rasps my skin.  Goose pimples rise on my exposed skin.  Instantly my head arches back exposing my entire throat to him.  He kisses my neck softly, delicately.  His large hands catch my breasts.  Immediately, the desire for him grows in my being.  I want him inside me, but he shakes his head lightly.

‘No, no, I have other plans for you.’  He stands up and brings the towel.  I stand, soapsuds running down my body.  Hoping he will change his mind.  His eyes darken, but he wraps the towel around me carefully and turns me around in his arms.

‘I love you,’ I say.

He stills.  Something indescribably beautiful comes into his eyes.  ‘I know,’ he says gently.  ‘It is what keeps me going.’  But he does not say I love you back.  Instead he helps me into my dressing gown.  ‘Fabiola is waiting outside to do your hair.’

‘Oh.’

Someone outside to do my hair.  I look at him in wonder, at the precision of his plans.  Is there anything he has not thought of?  Fabiola enters with a rosewood box.  In its compartmentalized interior she keeps all her accoutrements.  She is young, keeps her dark eyes lowered for most of her time with me, and does not speak English, but she is nothing short of a hair genius.  She twines blood-red rosebuds into my hair.  It is the kind of hairdo that you see on Oscar night.  I will be sorry to see it come down.

When she is gone I dress in the black gown.  There is only one yellowing bruise that shows through the net on my lower back.  I twist up the scarlet lipstick and apply it to my lips.  I get into my tall shoes and in the mirror a woman looks back, highly colored, wild-eyed, and more than a little wanton, but at the same time, rather beautiful.  I am still looking at my reflection when Blake comes into the room.  My breath catches.  He is dressed in a black tux.  I have never seen him look so vital and handsome.  His hair gleams.  With that aristocratic nose…he looks like he has just stepped out from a painting.

He is carrying two packages in his hands.  He comes and stands behind me.  Inside the looking glass we make a stunning couple.  I don’t make any sudden movements; I don’t want to spoil it for the woman in the parallel universe.  Perhaps she will get her man.  All day long, people have been staring at us.  Now I know why.  He opens the first package and takes out a necklace.  It is stunningly simple.  A band made of rubies with an oval black centerpiece.

‘It’s a black diamond,’ he says.

‘It is beautiful,’ I breathe, raising my eyes to meet his.

‘Something for you to remember Venice by.’  He sets it around my neck.  The red stones encircle my throat like ribbons of fire.  He stands back and looks at me.  There is a glint of possessive pride in his eyes.  And I feel owned.

Then he opens the next box.

I tilt my head forward curiously.  ‘What are they?’ I ask.  I cannot make them out.  On a bed of black material are some colorful gadgets made of plastic or silicon.

His answer is succinct.  ‘Spread your legs.’

My body’s reaction is immediate.  A wave of sexual arousal.  Those things fit into my body.  I obey.  He bends and, lifting the long dress, inserts one of them into me, adjusts it so the cup-like end fits snugly around my clitoris, and pulls my knickers up over it.  It feels strange and smooth inside me.  From his trouser pocket he takes out a small device.  It is no bigger than a remote control car key.  He presses it and the thing inside me starts vibrating.

‘Oooo,’ I giggle.  As he turns the dial the vibrations become more violent until I squeal, ‘Hey.’

He turns it right down.

‘Venetian music in its original setting and the latest vibrator,’ I tease, but I am fascinated with the idea of putting total control of my sensations into his hands.

‘It is the perfect touch,’ he says softly.  ‘Music is passion.  We are going to watch L’Incoranazione di Poppea.  The coronation of Poppea is a Venetian opera of unbearable sensuousness, and the frissons you will experience on the outside will be reflected inside your body.’