Текст книги "Forty 2 Days"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Seventeen

The sun is bleeding into the lagoon as we go down the steps and climb into the gondola.  It is a cool evening and his arm comes around me.  I revel in his touch.  I know Cronus is waiting for me in England, but this is my night, my adventure.  He is not allowed here, in this sinking city.

The theater is very old and full of faded charm.  There are no tourists present.  The other patrons who have turned up are mostly elderly and dressed in fine clothes.  They have a kind of grave dignity that reminds me of a time gone by.  Everyone seems to know everyone else and one or two of them even nod gravely to Blake.  It is almost as if it is a private showing.  We take our place in one of the boxes.

‘This theater affords better acoustics than some of the more glamorous ones,’ Blake explains, before the curtain goes up, and the vibrator begins its almost constant throb.  At first, I squirm awkwardly, judging it as an unwelcome distraction that is going to reduce my enjoyment of the experience of being at the opera, but then I begin to look for its rhythm.

It soars with the music.

The opera is sung in Italian, but I have Blake whisper in my ear each scene and even point out the significance of some arias.  The coronation of Poppea charts the opulently atmospheric journey of Poppea, the mistress of the Roman emperor Nero, who in pursuit of her desire to be Empress of Rome forsook love for the power.  As Blake warned, the story is erotic and decadent.  Combined with the vibrator between my legs the experience is indescribable and has me not only incredibly aroused, but also emotionally drained, and perhaps confused too.

During the rapturous love duet when Nero holds Poppea in his arms while she caresses her jeweled crown, and the vibrator has been turned to full, I turn to look at Blake wondering why he has brought me to see an opera where the virtuous are punished or put to death and the greedy and unscrupulous rewarded.  Is it an unsubtle hint to me?  Am I the greedy woman of his world?

As if he has read my mind he says, ‘Glorious music goes beyond human frailties.’

It is true I feel excited and light-headed.  The experience has been profound.  I need to go the toilet and see what I look like. It feels as if I have been altered this evening.  I touch his wrist lightly.  ‘Going to the toilet.  Meet me at the bottom of the stairs.’

He nods and stands.  Between my legs I am throbbing.  I don’t know if he can see the desire in my eyes.  I don’t want to go to dinner.  I just want to go home and have him inside me.

In the faded mirror I meet myself.  My eyes are strange.  I am changing right before my eyes.  I touch the slightly protruding cup on my clitoris and think about taking it out, but in my heart that privilege belongs only to Blake.  He put it in there and he is entitled to take it out when it suits him.

Coming down the curving marble stairs from the toilets, I witness him in conversation with one of the ushers.  A raven-haired girl.  His back is to me and he is speaking to her in Italian.  I see her animated face and a strange unfamiliar fear clutches at my stomach.  Immediately, I grasp the wrought iron and brass banister, unsteady suddenly, my heart knocking painfully against my ribs.  Whatever he has said has made her laugh self-consciously, and, as I watch, her large, dark eyes kindle with fiery interest.

I lay my palm flat on my stomach almost in disbelief.  I am jealous.  I am unreasonably, insanely, uncontrollably jealous of a man whom I cannot even publicly lay claim on.  But the thought of him with anyone else makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Will it always be so from now on?

The most innocent encounters ripe for worry and painful inner speculation while I play blind, deaf and dumb outwardly?  Then he turns, his eyes searching, looking for me, and I step forward, a silent sigh escaping my lips, relieved to be back in the warm, wonderful light of his gaze.  And everything is fine again; the fear slinks away, momentarily.

‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian?’

He grins.  ‘Nope, but I studied Latin in school, so it’s not difficult to figure out how to ask for directions.’

With the dark water lapping at the steps of the Palazzo, I whisper, ‘Blake can we go upstairs first…before we eat.’

He shakes his head with a smile.  ‘Not yet, Principessa.’  He puts his hand into his pocket and the little machine buzzes into life.  But now the suction cup is licking me almost like a tongue.

‘Oh, Blake,’ I gasp.  ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

‘Yes, you can,’ he says.

I swallow hard.  How can I think of food while my pussy is throbbing and a silicon tongue is licking my clit?  The only thought on my mind is release.  I am already very close to climax.

‘What if I have an orgasm at the dinner table?’

‘You won’t.  I’m switching it off while you eat.  Nothing comes between you and food.’

I gape at him.

‘Have I ever told you, Miss Bloom, you’re a sight to behold,’ he says cheekily, and pulls me up the steps.

He goes through the double doors of the salon and I go upstairs to check on Sorab.  Mercifully the vibrator stops as I am walking up the stairs.  Sorab is fast asleep.  Gerry’s door is slightly ajar and light is coming through.  I knock softly.

‘Come in,’ she says.

I enter.  She is in bed reading.  Her kind face is wreathed in a welcoming smile.

‘How was he?’

‘As good as gold.’

‘I’ll keep him tomorrow morning and you can take some time off.  Do some sightseeing.’

‘No need for that, Love.  I was here twenty years ago.  Broke my heart on a glass blower.’

And it occurs to me that it is impossible to tell the nuances of anyone’s history by looking at them or knowing them for a few days.  My mother used to say, ‘You can eat salt with someone for five years and never know them.’

I find Blake in the cavernous, gorgeously painted red dining room.  He is standing by the fireplace looking up at a massive portrait of a haughty man in fine clothes.  He turns at my approach.  The resemblance between him and the man in the portrait is striking.  It is immediately apparent that he is an ancestor.  It is there in the aristocratic arch of his cheek, the set of his jaw.  The same way that I found Victoria in her mother.  These families that do not mix their blood easily carry their genetic footprint clearly in their faces, their bearing.

The humming between my legs begins as I walk towards him.

‘Have your family always owned this house?’

He frowns.  Discussions about his family always distance him.  ‘Yes, we are descended from the Black Venetians.  We branched out into Germany before crossing the Atlantic.’

‘It’s very beautiful.  Do you come here often?’

‘I haven’t been to this house for years,’ he replies, and switches on the licking function.

I squirm.

‘Shall we eat?’

Dinner is served by a dour, mostly silent man in a white jacket called Enzo.  I find it almost impossible to eat.  True to his word Blake has switched off the gadget, but by now I am so aroused I can hardly wait for the meal to be over.  I taste nothing.  When Blake pushes away his coffee cup I spring up.

‘What’s the rush?  You’d only be exchanging the silicon tongue for mine.’

I make a strangled sound and turn pleadingly towards him.  ‘Please, can we go up now?’

‘No, I want to see you completely laid to waste tonight,’ he says, lifting the champagne bottle and filling our glasses. ‘I am going to make you come harder than you have ever done before,’ he promises as the licking and vibrating in my knickers increase in tempo.

I sit down and lift the glass to my lips.  It is a beautiful, hand-blown work of art.  The long slender stem rises into a decorative figure of the lion of St. Mark’s before it meets the delicate flute.

 ‘Mmnnn.’  He takes my wrist in his hands and runs his finger lightly along the inside, up to the crook of my elbow.  The sensation is unbearably sensual.  The desire to straddle him in that vast red room is undeniable.

‘I have never met a woman with skin like yours,’ he purrs.  He looks into my eyes.  ‘Do you have any idea how desirable you look right now?’

I clench my thighs and shake my head.

We go up the curving staircase to our bedroom.  Moonlight is flooding in through the tall windows.  There are long rectangles of light on the floor.

He turns to me and gently takes off my dress.  He throws it behind him and it lands on a squat green and gold brocade chair.  He drops to his haunches, bends forward and kisses the tightly bound mound of my sex.  The gesture is so unexpectedly charged with erotic possibilities that my body screams for him.  He slides my knickers off.

‘Spread your legs.’  I obey instantly.  He removes the gadget and I actually feel my body sag with relief.  He lets his fingers graze the sticky opening.  ‘You are so, so wet,’ he says.

I nod helplessly.  My hands are frustrated fists, waiting for him.

‘What do you want, Principessa?’

‘You.’

He shakes his head gently.  The eyes looking up at me are almost black.  ‘I need more details.  The low-down of what you want.’

‘I need you inside me,’ I mutter.

Again his head moves negatively.  ‘Details, Lana.  Details.’

And in this way he persuades me to describe in minute detail exactly what I want, to use words that would have at any other time made me blush furiously.  That thick prick of yours, your dirty big, cock, deep into my cunt, suck it, fuck me hard…

He gags me.  ‘The walls are thin and may even have ears,’ he whispers.  It jars in my head, but only a little; I am too far gone to search for hidden implications.

His large hands grab my hips and impale me on his dick.

The pillar of solid meat is thrust far into my body.  Instead of moving me up and down the hard length, he pulls me to and fro, making me ride him like a bull.  I grind myself on him.  My body is thrust far forward like one of those cyclists in the tour de France race, so that his mouth has easy access to my breasts.

He latches on and sucks hard and my sweaty thighs slip and slide against his muscular hips, the thick cock inside me acting as my brakes.  It is too intense to last.  In seconds I lose it.  Screaming like a banshee, I come fast and hard. Thank God for the gag.  I have lost it.  Completely.  Even my teeth, fingertips and toes are vibrating.

I rest my lips on his damp forehead.  Sated.  He is still hard as a rock inside me.  My nipples are still pinched between his thumbs and forefingers.  They throb painfully, exquisitely.  Now it is his turn.  And then it will be mine again.  The day will come when all I will have are memories of what we have done together.

I am awakened in the early morning hours.  Must be the unfamiliarity of my surroundings.  It is two o'clock and it seems all of Venice is asleep.  I get out of bed and walk barefoot across the highly polished dark wood floor, towards the windows overlooking the interlocking canals and cobblestone pathways.  Shivering slightly I stand in the cool night listening to the sounds of the murky waters lapping against mossy, old stones.  The sulfuric smell like that of slowly rotting eggs rises from the canals and slips into my consciousness.  Not that that bothers me.  For me being with Blake in this city with its crumbling glory and beautiful stonework is a dream.

And then a thought—clawed and dangerous.  Who or what is Cronus?

I hear a rustling and, turning my head, see Blake, raised on his elbows and watching me.  In the silvery moonlight he is Atlas or Mars or Apollo.  A god.  He gets out of bed, nude, and with the lithe grace of a beautiful animal, prowls over to me.  He bends and kisses me.  I luxuriate in the warmth emanating from the length of his body.  But my thoughts make me kiss him a touch too desperately.

He lifts his head and looks at me. In the moonlight his eyes are dark wells of curiosity.

'What's the matter?' he asks, crouching beside me.

'Nothing,' I lie. 'I think I'm too excited to sleep.'

He sighs and persists, 'What's wrong, Lana?'

‘What did you say to the usher at the theater?’

He sits back on his heels.  ‘What usher?’

‘You know, when I went to the toilet.’

‘Ah… I was asking if there was an ice cream bar nearby.  Why?’

I look down, unable to meet his eyes, unable to help the sadness that creeps into my voice.  ‘I just wondered if you…if you found her attractive.’

‘What?’

I look up at him.

He takes my cold fingers in his large warm hands.  'Shall I tell you a secret?’

I nod.  That will be a first.

‘From the first moment I saw you I wanted you.  Not in the compartmentalized way I wanted the others, the length of leg, the jut of a butt, or the strain of material caused by a well-shaped chest.  When I saw you I had to have all of you as mine.  I would have paid any price that night to buy you.’

'Oh, Blake,' I sigh.  I want him to say he loves me, even if it is just a little, but I won’t push anymore, I might hear something I don’t want to.  It is always cleverer to quit while still ahead.

'Shall I show you just how much I want you?' he asks quietly.

I nod and he stands up.  I stretch my arms out to him as if I am a child, and he picks me up and carries me to the kingly bed.  I sigh deeply with pleasure under him.  For a time there is only the soft rustle of white linen and the occasional gasp.  Then a fierce, rapid rhythm.  Until a shudder like a silver explosion shivers through me, and I am back among glittering stars.  Here I can hide from Cronus.  I hold onto the exciting firmness of his buttocks as he finds his release and spills his seed inside my body.

Dreamily I snuggle deeper into his body and am soon as deeply asleep as everybody else in that stinking, sinking city.

Eighteen

After a trip to the glass blower’s we return the way we came.  By private plane:  without queues, passport control or waiting for baggage.  Blake does not get into the car with us.  He has a business appointment that he must keep.  He tries to convince me to let the nanny go back to the apartment with me, but I refuse.  She is put into a taxi.

 I hold Sorab in my lap and stare out of the window.  I cannot help feeling a little depressed.  While I was away I had temporarily put away the things that Victoria’s mother had said, but now they have all come crowding back.  Their whispers are loud in the quiet apartment.  I feel very alone and frightened.

When Jack calls I immediately invite him to come around.

‘You’ve just come back from holiday.  You must have a thousand things to do.  I won’t disturb you.  I’ll come tomorrow,’ he says.

‘No, not at all.  Do please come today, now if you can.  I’d love to see you again.’

‘Is everything all right, Lana?’

I laugh.  ‘Of course.  I just want to see my son’s godfather again.  Is there anything wrong in that?’

He laughs.  The sound is familiar.  ‘No, but you will tell me if there is, won’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.  Now how long will it take you to get here?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘See you then.’ I terminate the call and feel relief.

‘Mr. Jack Irish at reception for you, Miss Lana,’ Mr. Nair calls thirty minutes later.

‘Brilliant.  Send him up,’ I say, and opening the front door go out to wait by the lift.  The lift opens and there is Jack.  He doesn’t look comfortable.  I can see he is overawed by his surroundings.

‘My, my, Jack,’ I say, ‘is that a new shirt?  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in red.’

He flushes.  ‘Alison picked it out,’ he mumbles, and steps out of the lift.

‘Hey, it looks good.  Really.  Actually, very dashing.’

‘And you’re playing fast and loose with your compliments today.’

‘I am,’ I agree, and go into his arms.  It is so familiar.  So good.  I love Jack.  I truly do.  He is like that first ray of sunshine after a particularly heavy downpour. A delicious uncomplicated invitation to go out and play.  I step away. ‘Come and see the place.’

I push open the door and turn around.  ‘Wow,’ Jack says.  ‘This place must have cost something.’

‘Yeah, wait till you see the view.’ I pull him by the hand towards the balcony.

‘Startling, isn’t it?’

‘Vistas like this must surely induce attacks of megalomania,’ he says softly.  We stand in silence for a minute, and then he turns to me.  ‘Where’s the brat then?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Again?’

I laugh. It is so easy with Jack. ‘Want some real coffee?’

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘Come on then.’

I put on some music and we sit on the sofa with our cappuccinos.

‘Just off the top of your head, what do you know about Cronus?’

‘That’s a strange question.’

I take a sip of the hot liquid.  ‘Just heard it the other day and realized I didn’t know anything about it.‘

‘My Greek mythology is very shaky, but I believe he is the god who ate his own children.  It is also another name for Saturn, or Father Time.’

‘The god who ate his own children?’

‘Yeah, it was to stop a prophecy that his own child would overthrow him.  Something like that, anyway.’

I nod unhappily.  Don’t like the sound of any of it.  After Jack leaves I intend to do my own research.

‘Are you happy, Lana?’

‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself.

His coffee cup freezes on its way to his lips.

I cover my mouth with the tips of my fingers.  I can’t tell him about Cronus so I start making it up.  ‘No, wait.  That came out wrong.  I’m not actively unhappy.’ I clasp my hands under my chin.  ‘But you know how I feel about him.  It’s a kind of torture to be so in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.  I’m the dead wasp floating in his glass of champagne.  I ruin his perfect life.  His perfect plans.’  And yet this too is true.  Blake is not happy.  There is something that is tearing his insides, but he won’t tell me what it is.

Jack puts his coffee cup on the low table.  ‘You poor duck,’ he says with such compassion, I am suddenly filled with morbid self-pity.  I blink back the tears.  Jack puts his hand out.

‘Don’t touch her.’

The violence in the words startles me.  I swing my head around and find Blake standing at the door of the living room. We had not heard him enter.  The thick carpets, the music.

His face is a thundercloud.  I jump up guiltily, my face flaming.  And then I realize I have done nothing wrong.  We have done nothing wrong.  My innocence makes my voice strong.  ‘We were just talking, Blake.  Jack is my brother.’

Blake does not look at me.  ‘He’s not your brother.  He’s in love with you.’

‘Oh! For God’s sake,’ I burst out angrily, and turn to Jack in exasperation for support against such a distorted view of our relationship, and then I freeze.

Jack is looking at me with so much pain in his tortured, artist’s eyes.  Why, Blake is right.  My Jack is in love with me.  Deeply.  Hopelessly.  Perhaps for years.  It seems impossible.  It is me who has been so blind, so stupid.  Both our mothers knew it.

‘Jack?’ I whisper.  I want him to deny it so it can all be as it was before—uncomplicated, beautiful, but he presses his lips into a thin line and starts walking towards the door.  Blankly, I follow his progress past Blake, their shoulders almost brushing but not quite.  He is in the corridor when I find my legs and begin to run after him.  Blake catches me by the arm.

‘Let me pass,’ I hiss.

He looks at me.  Implacable, his eyes glittering.  ‘I don’t share,’ he rasps.

‘Please… He needs me now’

‘Your pity is the last thing he needs.’

‘I wasn’t offering pity.  I was offering friendship.’

‘He doesn’t want your friendship either.  He wants you in his arms, in his bed.  Can you give him that, Lana?’

We stand there staring at each other, the air bristling.  Then he releases my arm and backs away from me.  I drop my head.  As I stand there crushed by my loss, he puts his arms around me and draws me to his body.  ‘I’m sorry, baby.’

I lay my cheek against his hard chest.  Dry-eyed.  When the loss is that big tears don’t come.  I know from the time I lost my mother.  Tears come when you release that person and I refuse to release Jack.  He will fall in love with someone else.  He will forget this love he has for me and then we will be brother and sister again.  I feel Blake’s lips on my hair.

And I begin to cry.  Not for the loss of Jack because I will never lose Jack, but for the loss of Blake, because I know in my heart of hearts I can’t keep him. Because of Cronus; because everything I really love is always being taken away from me.  Blake doesn’t understand why I am crying or clinging or why I am insatiable.  I am drinking the last of the summer wine.  That night I let myself get drunk as a skunk.