Chapter 5
Her apartment consisted of three small rooms, the kitchen, the bedroom, and a living room. There was a bathroom, too, and it was smaller than most stall showers. It had the basic plumbing, but the bath tub was one of those short, sit-down jobs.
When I came out of the bathroom, I found Pat in one corner of the living room, going through some record albums.
"Say," I asked, "did they build the bathroom to fit the tub, or did they put in the tub because it fit the bathroom?"
She laughed. "I don't know. I never thought about it." After she'd stacked some records on the record player she said, "This is my pride and joy."
It was an expensive hi-fi and as the arm swung over and dropped onto the music, the music came out in rich, full tones, with a splendid range. If she'd turned up the volume, it would have collapsed the walls.
She added, "I brought it with me all the way from the States, and guarded it with my life. I don't know what I'd do without it." She brought up her glass and drained the last quarter of it. "How about a refill?"
"All right." She waited while I finished mine. Taking my empty glass she said, "Sit down, Chris. I'll be right back."
The record player was in one corner of the room and in another corner was a stack of magazines, topped by a pile of books. The only furniture in sight was one black, straight-backed chair and a chaise lounge covered with a satiny material. The color? It had to be a titty-pink.
I eyed it suspiciously for several moments and then I sat down on it, near the end with the back rest. When Pat returned with our drinks she said, "It's not much of an apartment, I'll admit, but it's the only one I could find that my rental allowance would cover."
She handed me my glass and then kicked off her shoes. "Now if I had the allowance of a consul or a vice consul I could have a fairly decent place." She sat down beside me and tucked one leg under her. She used her left hand and arm to prop herself upright.
"You don't look comfortable," I said.
"I'm all right."
"I've got an idea. Low bridge."
She ducked her head as I swung my right leg over the top of her, and then swiveled my butt backwards until my shoulders were resting up against the back rest. "Now you can stretch out between my legs and lean up against me. Come on."
"All right." She got up and turned out the bridge lamp burning near the phonograph, and then she came back and settled down the way I'd suggested, with her shoulders resting against my chest and her head in the hollow of my shoulder.
"Am I too heavy for you?" she asked.
"Not at all."
The only light in the apartment now was the tiny glow coming from the phonograph. It was very dark at first, but then as my eyes became accustomed to it there was more than enough light for lying there, sipping Scotch and soda, and listening to the music.
Neither one of us spoke a word and the only sound in the room, other than the music, was when we'd bring up our glasses and take a sip, and the ice cubes tinkled in the glass. It was a pleasant sound, going very well with the good Scotch smell when I brought up the glass, mixed with the wonderfully clean scent of her hair and the soft aroma of her perfume.
When I finished my drink I set the empty glass quietly onto the floor because I'd noticed that for some time now she'd stopped sipping at hers. She was holding the half-empty glass with both hands in her lap, still and motionless, and I thought she'd fallen asleep.
Then she stirred slightly and a moment later I felt the quick series of little jolts shaking her Shoulders. When she put her head forward, I knew she'd started to cry.
She sat up quickly then, swung her legs off the chaise, and perched on the edge of it with her back toward me.
"Hey, come on," I said quietly. I swung my leg over the top of her again and slid close to her, putting my hands on her shoulders. She made a slight movement, as though she were trying to shake me off.
"Don't cry," I said. "It'll turn out all right." I didn't know what in the hell was wrong but you can never guess when a woman with too much to drink gets a crying jag. You always start out by saying, "It'll turn out all right."
"I doubt it," she finally said.
"Sure it will. You just wait and see."
"Stop talking to me as though I were a teenager drunk the first time!"
I gave up. "All right, Pat."
"Go fix yourself another drink!"
"Thanks. How about you?"
She sniffled and shook her head.
I went out into the kitchen and after I'd found the switch I turned on the light. I took my time building my drink so she'd have plenty of time to pull herself together. The last record suddenly ended and in the stillness I heard a door being closed.
I walked my drink back into the living room, found her gone, and saw the bathroom door was closed.
I turned on the bridge lamp and went through the records scattered around the floor. I picked out about a half-dozen nice easy ballads and some piano solos. After tinkering with the dials I finally got the arm to swing over and get into the groove. Now when she came out of the bathroom I'd check to see if she was all right, and then I was leaving.
I sat down on the chaise and about five minutes later she came out of the bathroom. I didn't know what she'd done in there, but you couldn't have guessed that she'd been crying previously.
Quietly she went over and picked her glass off the floor. After a healthy swallow she put it back down again. "Want to dance, Chris?"
"Sure."
She didn't dance too well but she danced very close with her head pressed against my chest. After a few moments she said, "I guess apologies are in order."
"Forget it."
"No," she said, "I want to apologize and I will. You may think it was the liquor, but it wasn't."
"Of course it wasn't."
"It was the music." Her arm tightened around me, holding herself firmly against me. "I've played it often when I was here alone and lonely, and I guess it made me feel that way again tonight."
After a quick pause she continued, "I've been so homesick and miserable since I've been over here. Chris, you don't know how bad it's been. This stupid little apartment, and nothing to do, and no place to go."
When she stopped talking I was certain she'd begun crying again, but when I glanced down I saw that her eyes were closed, with no sign of tears.
I said, "Things will be a lot better after you've adjusted."
"I've been adjusted to it a long time now. Resigned to it would be a better way to put it. That day when I went down and applied for a job overseas, it seemed about the most romantic and exciting thing that could happen to me. A new and strange foreign country, nothing but cocktail parties and formal affairs, the streets literally jammed with counts and princes, international playboys, the jet set, and beautiful villas to live in."
She sighed deeply before she continued, "I've been to Rome once since I've been here, to visit a girl I'd met in Washington. The two of us later spent two days in Naples. I've had four dates with Italian men, but they're different than I'd imagined. Every man at the consulate is married, except the vice consul you met last night, and he doesn't appeal to me. The rest of the time I've spent right here in this apartment, reading, playing records, and trying to fight off the loneliness that's gnawing at my insides."
I wanted to leave before she began crying again, but I was afraid that if I suggested it, she might start off again.
Suddenly she asked, "Shall we sit down a-gain-the way we were before?"
"Why not?"
After we'd gotten settled, with the lights and our drinks close at hand the way it had been earlier, Pat said, "Maybe I really cried because it was so nice, and I was so happy, and I was remembering how unhappy I'd be again after tonight."
"Don't think about the future. Live only for the present and enjoy yourself."
"That's what I made up my mind to do-while I was washing my face," she said happily.
"Good."
She shifted around until she was on her side, and then the fingers of her right hand slid under my ear and around to the back of my neck and she pulled my head downward, fitting her mouth against mine. The touch of her hand was pleasant, and I kissed her very gently and carefully because her lips were a bit too tight and the mouth not completely relaxed.
Then she asked, "Will you stay with me tonight-I mean, will you sleep with me?"
Would you believe I was too surprised to answer her immediately?
She whispered, "Please, Chris, I want you to-very much."
I couldn't refuse and take a chance on her starting to cry again. Neither did I have to agree because she shifted onto her back again, as before, with her head resting on my shoulder.
She said, "You'd probably rather not because I'm not very experienced at that sort of thing."
I put my hand on her shoulder, letting my fingers lightly stroke the spot under her ear, down the side of her neck, and finally I slid my hand down the inside of the front of her dress.
"I've only done it once before," she said. "While I was in high school. It wasn't much fun, and I didn't like it. I hated it more than I liked it. But thinking about it since, I think the second time would be wonderful."
My fingertips were now in the warm tight cleft between her breasts but the brassiere was giving me a problem.
Suddenly she sat upright and her hands went to the back of her dress.
"There," she said. Then she settled down again.
She'd unhooked the brassiere in the back and now there was plenty of room in the dark, hot little pockets for my hand. I let it roam and play around, slowly and gently at first, because I could feel her suck in her breath each time I touched a spot I hadn't touched before.
She was lying perfectly still, except for a hand that had begun to stroke my leg erratically. I kept my hand stroking erratically, the fingers straight, letting the flatness of my palm barely touch and massage the front of one breast, then the other, and before long I could feel the nipples begin to swell and harden and come out, looking for the party.
Pat began to squirm and talk at the same time. "Many nights I've been lying right here, all alone, with a drink I didn't want, the music playing, thinking and imagining and wishing for a time like this."
Her breasts had firmed up hard now, swollen and surging hotly against my palms. I massaged them each in turn, gently, and then I pinched and mauled the nipples with my thumb and forefinger, and each in turn, too. The rougher I became, the more she squirmed and the faster she talked.
"Maybe that's a dirty thing for a-girl to be thinking about-about that. You hear of boys thinking about those things with girls, but with a girl you seldom hear it-but I have thought, have thought about it a lot-and even though that first time was-thinking about it now it seems wonderful-so very wonderful I could barely stand it-got hot and hungry thinking about it-craving it-be gentle with me-but do it to me-won't you-do it-you, you-Chris-I want you!"
She flipped over on her side, so quickly and unexpectedly, my hand almost got trapped in her brassiere, but I jerked it out in time. And now she wanted to kiss me, her mouth searching eagerly for mine, and when she found it I felt her feverish lips and the tip of her tongue that was a restless flame. Stretched out on top of me, her body throbbed harder and more roughly against me with each moment.
Suddenly she whipped her mouth off mine, jumped to her feet, and began pulling off her clothes. "Hurry. Please!"
She started before I did, but I hurried and we finished up in a dead heat. The force of her impact, slamming herself against me, made me grab her and hold tightly to her and then we sank down on the chaise again, my hands and fingers slowly caressing and touching all of her in the dimness.
She asked, "Is it all right here?"
"Of course."
"Have you ever done it on one of these things?"
"Never."
"Then let's do it here."
"Right here."
"Hurry."
"Yes."
"Even though we've got all night?"
"All night," I assured her.
"Isn't it wonderful?"
"Yes."
"Do you think I'll do all right?"
"Pine. But you talk a lot," I said.
"You talk to me. Tell me what to do and tell me nice things."
I made up my mind she was going to forget all about that other first time and that she'd remember this time because it would be so much better than anything she'd ever imagined when she'd been here alone in the darkness.
I moved slowly and easily, carefully, and gently, always being careful to go much slower than she wanted me to, and before long she was calling me dirty little names, cursing me for making her wait and suffer and telling me how she was going out of her mind and that she couldn't stand another second of the torture.
When the time came for the fulfillment of everything she'd begged for, she loosened a violent shriek that sent the blood scalding through my veins, she momentarily became limp and motionless but just as quickly recovered, now a violent fantastic little savage. Her hunger was a cavernous seething thing that tormented us both in a beautifully cruel and unlimited oblivion through which we crashed and smashed to finally crumple exhausted and spent into the warm pulsing void of finality.
After she'd put on a robe and I'd dressed, she was so worn out and sleepy I was afraid she'd topple over any second. I asked her to call me a cab and in between wonderfully relaxed yawns she managed to get it done.
I kissed her gently good night and told her I'd probably see her at the consulate one of these days. She smiled and nodded drowsily, and I went out the door.
Chapter Six.
When I returned to the hotel and asked for my key, the clerk also handed me a note that had been left in my box. I unfolded the slip of paper and saw that they'd gotten me a reservation at the Hotel Continental in Santa Margherita.
I flopped wearily into bed, but it seemed only a second later that the phone was ringing. When finally I found my ear and pressed the phone against it, the clerk advised that it was nine-twenty and that my car was waiting downstairs.
I thanked him and went back to sleep.
I came downstairs at noon, had a good lunch, and then got into the Fiat and drove out to Santa Margherita. After I'd located the hotel and checked in, I took a stroll along the promenade that was next to the sea. It was now almost three o'clock in the afternoon and there were many out walking.
Blondes, brunettes, redheads, in-between shades, they were all there, beautifully suntanned, with tiny waists and firm round fannies and tremendous busts, and they were wearing shorts, short-shorts, Matador pants or Capris, short and skin-tight, with scraps of blouses or tight sweaters. Apparently the manufacture and sale of brassieres had been discontinued some time ago.
I could feel my heart pounding and my knees trembling, and I decided to sit down quickly somewhere and gradually get adjusted to my new surroundings. There was a sidewalk cafe nearby and I slid into a chair.
After I'd ordered a pot of tea I leaned back and watched the action. For a couple of hundred lire I was watching the greatest show on earth.
It was while I was squeezing lemon into my tea that I heard the low, throaty voice to my right.
"I say, you're not really English, are you?"
The voice belonged to a young woman and the accent was unmistakably British. I pulled my head around until I saw her, and she didn't appear to be a Limey.
She was young, about nineteen, and dark, wearing a green sweater and silvery matadors. Her coffee-colored hair was parted on the left side, and except for a few soft waves it fell straight down to her shoulders. Her eyes were very dark and large and very beautiful, her lips full and sensuous. Her figure-she was really stacked!
She had artistic hands, slender fingers and long strong nails that were painted a dark red. A heavy silver bracelet dangled from her left forearm. And the nipples of both breasts were trying to dig their way out through the green sweater front. She also had a pot of tea on the table in front of her, I finally noticed.
I said, "You're not British either."
She smiled and shook her head. "I'm from Milan."
"Then why the accent?"
"I went to school in London."
"How's everything these days in Piccadilly?"
She shrugged. "I haven't been there for years."
After that one thing led to another, and before long I'd put my teapot next to her little teapot, and moved over to her table.
I found out that her name was Angelina and that she was studying law at the university, but presently was on a week's vacation. She emphasized, "Because I have to have some sun and I have to have a man."
"Just like that," I said. "When you need a man you go out and get one."
"Yes. Any healthy girl needs sex. Just the way she needs food, or wine, or a good night's sleep." Her hand snaked over and squeezed my thigh. "And I think you're my man."
"Where do we go-your place or mine?"
She laughed, and finally answered, "Not now, it's impossible."
"If you're going to argue about it, forget it."
Her hand patted my thigh and then moved away again. "I like you. You're all right. How about tomorrow for our sex, Cristoforo?"
"Think you can stand it-waiting that long?"
"One more day, I think so." She shoved her chair back and stood up, her movements as smooth and graceful as a tiger's. "I'd rather have it with you now. But I can't. I have an appointment. I'm invited to a party on a boat this evening. With school chums, and a professor of mine."
"What about the professor?" I kidded. "Haven't you considered him? He gives you what you need, you give him something he'd enjoy, and you also wind up with good marks as a bonus."
"Once with him was enough," she said wearily. "Until tomorrow then. Ten o'clock in the morning right here."
I settled back in my chair and watched her cross the street and continue along the sidewalk, and as long as she was in sight I noticed that every man passing her had to stop and take a long second look. Probably because she was so young and healthy.
I poured the rest of the tea into my cup and then I took my time finishing it. I thought a-bout driving to Portofino but at the last moment I decided to take a walk around town first, the way the tourists were doing.
I'd been strolling for about twenty minutes when I passed a shop that specialized in leather goods. I almost collided with Zora who was coming out.
We didn't touch, but I felt as though an elbow had been rammed into the pit of my stomach. Now that I was seeing her again she seemed even more beautiful than the night of the cocktail party.
She was wearing a rich, virgin white sheath dress with her arms bare to the shoulders, and golden sandals. One hand held a small white leather purse. Her hair looked like honey in the sun, making her sunglasses appear even darker. I couldn't see her eyes, but I noticed the corners of her mouth came up a bit as she recognized me.
"Signor Chris," she said, extending her hand.
I took it in mine and held it for a moment because it was cool and soft, and I liked the way it quickened my pulse. "How are you, Zora?"
"I'm fine. How do you like being a tourist?"
"It has nice moments," I said. "This happens to be one of them."
Gently she pulled her hand away. "Somehow I never expected to see you again." We moved over to the side of the entrance as two older women wanted to go inside.
"Neither did I," I said. "Especially the way you left the party the other night without even saying goodbye."
"I didn't realize you were the host." She'd put a little frost on that.
"Neither was I aware that you'd not been invited."
For a brief second I saw those wonderful lips tightened, but then she relaxed with a smile. "There are some things about you I failed to notice the other night."
"You should get to know me better, Zora. You might really be surprised what I'd come up with."
She glanced away and shook her head. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Impossible to know me better-or to be surprised?"
"I'm sorry." Her glance swung back to me. "I must be going now. I have more shopping to do."
"I'd like to see you again, Zora. Could we have dinner some night? Perhaps tonight?"
"No, tonight I have an appointment, a very important one. Goodbye, Signor Chris." She offered her hand but I didn't touch it.
I said, "You can always tell George you decided to have dinner with me. He'd understand."
Her hand stayed up for a few seconds; finally she lowered it to her side. "Yes, I suppose I could do that."
"Certainly."
"Would you mind if we made it, about eleven, and not for dinner? I do have an appointment-with someone-earlier in the evening, but I will be home at about ten-thirty."
"Eleven will be fine."
"Do you want my address?"
Those words sounded innocent enough, but the question was loaded. The sunglasses were fixed on me, like two shotgun muzzles. I had to come up with the right answer.
"I can always get it down at the port." I didn't know what I meant by that but apparently she bought it.
"I'll save you the trouble," she said.
She told me she lived on Via Caffaro, and the number of the building, and the apartment number. "Be sure to be there no later than eleven, because the downstairs doors are locked at that time."
"I'll remember that."
"Ciao," she said softly, then walked away and disappeared around the corner of the building.
She was gone, completely out of sight, but for some reason the warm air around me continued to crackle with electricity. I could feel it and I could almost smell the danger but I couldn't really analyze it.
Then I decided it was because of the way I'd reacted to her physically, and I let it go at that.
I wandered around town some more and then I returned to the hotel and slept until seven-thirty. Then I got up, cleaned up, and had only one martini because the bartender used too much vermouth, and I had dinner in the hotel dining room.
By the time I'd driven into Genoa, found Via Caffaro, and a place to park, it was a little after ten-thirty.
The shops were all shuttered now and the street was deserted, except for a young woman and a small child who were walking down the opposite side from me. I paid little attention to them until the little girl began to chatter excitedly. The next moment I saw the mother pull the girl's panties down, and then the child squatted down and urinated in the gutter.
Now I understood why the warm air smelled so badly in the narrow streets of Genoa.
The heavy wooden doors to Zora's apartment house were still standing ajar. When I stepped inside, I found myself in a corridor that was dimly lighted by a tiny bulb burning over a Madonna. I saw the elevator directly ahead of me, but when I came up to it, I realized that you needed a key to get the door open.
Zora hadn't told me about that, although she'd told me she lived in the penthouse apartment. I tipped my head back and saw the stairs heading into the wild blue yonder. There must have been at least a hundred.
Actually, there were one hundred and eight, because I counted each one as I plodded upward. Now as I reached the end of the line I leaned up against the wall for a couple of minutes and tried to catch my breath. Then I punched the doorbell.
That gave me more time because no one came to answer the door. I rang a second time.
This time I heard soft footsteps and the door suddenly swung open.
"Come in, Chris," Zora said warmly.
"Thanks." I stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind me.
"I just remembered you had to walk up those stairs. I'm very sorry, Chris."
"That's quite all right." I'd muttered many uncomplimentary things on my way up, but they were all forgotten now.
Her blonde hair was beautifully alive and vibrant, as though she'd spent all day brushing it. She was wearing a white blouse with short sleeves that seemed to find a lot of pleasure in restraining those tremendous breasts. Her slim waist tapered into classic hips that were snuggled in a pair of yellow shorts. Her legs were long and beautiful, with slim ankles, and she was barefoot.
We were in a small hallway, the floor being entirely of light blue polished marble; and against one wall stood a large and antique dull-brown vase that could have been dug up in Pompeii. Glancing to my right through an open doorway, I looked directly into her bedroom. The bed was king-sized, and it was on a platform, raised about a foot above the level of the floor.
Zora was saying, "Shall we go out on the terrace? It's much cooler out there."
"By all means."
I followed her through the living room and everywhere I looked I saw modern and expensive furnishings, with the unmistakable touch of an interior decorator. The place had class and it whispered of wealth.
We went up three small wooden steps, and then we were out on the terrace. It was illuminated dimly by the light coming out the open doorway from the single lamp burning in the apartment. But in the dimness I could see the three luxurious lounge chairs with pillows, and a low round glass table. On it was a bottle, two brandy snifters, a pack of Chesterfields, a gold lighter, and an ashtray.
"Genoa-as seen through the yes of a bird." Zora's hand waved towards the edge of the terrace.
The building was two stories higher than those around it, making the view unobstructed. Looking straight ahead, I could see a thousand lights, haphazardly twinkling in the night, although here and there the lights formed a straight line as though the streets had been put there to restore some semblance of order.
"So that's Genoa," I said.
Zora moved closer to me, then pointed with her right hand. "Over there, to the right of the lighted church steeple, you can see the Mediterranean. And directly head of us, about where you see the Stock Cognac neon, is the Borse-the Stock Exchange-at the edge of Piazza Ferrari."
"The piazza with the fountain in the center?"
"The big one. Are you oriented now?"
With her standing so close to me, I could smell the soft and subtle muskiness that was both her and her perfume, and it came rolling in like fog, and it webbed around me and clogged my throat.
I found that my hands and arms were going out to her, taking her and bringing her softness and warmth toward me. She was as light as a shadow, but still as real and as hot as a flame that burned the front of me.
The moment my lips found hers I felt the breath going out of her; and her mouth was searing and wanting, and clinging to mine. Then her tongue darted through my teeth, flicked and probed and jabbed and searched, and I felt the hair standing up at the back of my head, the skin had tightened across my shoulders, and something like a million and a half volts crackled up and down my spine.
Just as quickly as she'd come into me, she pulled herself away again and slipped out of my embrace. Her face was as sweet as that of an angel, but through the screen of her eyelashes her eyes glittered like those of a tiger. One that you have been tracking and it had doubled back and it is now waiting in ambush for you.
In that moment I wanted her more than I'd ever thought possible, but I was afraid that if I put out a hand again and touched her she'd claw my face to shreds. Unconsciously I found myself moving away from the edge of the terrace, and then I recognized the same feeling I'd had that afternoon at the leather shop. I knew then if I wanted to play with her I'd have to watch out for my life.
She was saying now, "I hope you won't insist on going out tonight."
I shook my head. "Not if you don't want to."
"It's such a warm night. Why don't we just stay here? I thought you might like some brandy. Or would you prefer something else?" She moved over to the table.
"Brandy's fine."
Watching her work the cork from the bottle and spill a little liquid into each glass, I realized that I'd been parroting practically everything she'd said. It disturbed me, this feeling of being in her power and at a disadvantage, but the tightness was in my chest, and my arms and legs felt as though they were weighted down by some heavy invisible web, slowing me down, numbing my thoughts, and there was nothing I could do to break free from the spell which she had somehow woven around me.
And then in the back of my mind, I was seeing her again as I'd seen her the first time at the cocktail party, and at the same time I could feel touching me, all of me touching her, and the wave of savage heat spilled over me, my clothes felt too light, my mouth was dry and my tongue clogged up my throat.