Chapter 7
"Here you are, Monsieur."
I took the snifter from her hand and when I heard the clink of glass, I realized that she'd touched her glass to mine.
"Good luck, Zora."
"Thank you." She went over to a chair and stretched out on it. "Why don't you take the other one, Chris? This one-nearest to me?"
It was about three feet away from hers, and when I'd gotten settled and glanced over at her, I noticed that it had been placed parallel to hers, but downward about a foot. Her shoulders were now settled against a mound of pillows, just exactly and as effectively as Cleopatra might have done it in her day, with her head almost a foot higher than mine. I turned over onto my side to face her and in the dimness I was now looking straight across and seeing the slow rise and fall of her exquisite breasts.
She asked, "Would you like a cigarette?"
"No thanks." I brought up the glass and just before I drank, I smelled the brandy's delicious bouquet, and when I tasted it I found it to be smooth and expensive.
That first sip helped, as though I'd just stepped out of the night into the sunlight. I took another one.
I said, "You never did tell me where you're from, Zora."
"This interests you very much?"
"You have me at a disadvantage. You know I'm from the States. The only thing I know a-bout you is that you're a very beautiful woman."
"Thank you for the compliment." She paused to glance down at the glass she was holding. "To feel at a disadvantage, especially with a woman, must be quite upsetting to a man." She brought her head up to look at me. "And for you, knowing nothing about me, it is unbearable, I can see."
"Well, I won't jump up and down and throw a fit if you don't care to tell me." I dissipated the ripple of anger with another swig of brandy.
She laughed softly, a sound not unlike a silken purr. "I find you wonderfully amusing."
The anger flared up again and before I could control it I said, "Then why don't you just double over and have yourself a big laugh?"
She came off her chair quickly and settled beside me, the snifter clinking softly as she set it on to the table. Then her hand pressed against my shoulder, moving me onto my back.
Those soft and wonderful lips were pressing hotly and wetly onto mine, her tongue digging deep and frantically inside my mouth, while her hand ran lightly along the side of my face, down my chest, all the way down, and then it travelled back the same route again.
It was a wonderful and delightful feeling, being smothered by her while her mouth fed on mine, with her hair falling down on the sides of her face, tickling deliciously and enveloping me with its muskiness.
I still had my glass in my right hand, she'd moved that fast, but my left hand was free. I grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her head, clenched my fingers and jerked her head back.
The pain showed around her mouth and the hurt pushed a cry through clenched teeth, but she didn't fight me.
"You lovely, wonderful bitch," I said. Then I turned her loose.
She dropped her head onto my shoulder, nuzzling softly and gently in close to the side of my neck, with the touch of her lips and her hot breath sending shivers down my back.
She whispered, "I didn't mean that you make me laugh. Like an idiot-or a clown."
"Forget it."
I moved my arm around her but she slid out from under it, standing up again as quickly as she'd moved down beside me.
"Would you like some more brandy?" she asked.
"Please."
She took my-glass, then hers, and moved over to the table. While she was pouring the brandy I watched her, but I didn't really see her because I was thinking about her, trying to make my mind up with a good analysis of her. The feeling of not knowing her at all, the way she reacted-almost erratically, and the surprising things I was learning about her made her that much more intriguing. Quickly and unexpectedly she became aroused, passionate and wanting woman, and in the next instant she changed, backing off, wary as a panther, as though nothing had really happened moments before.
The soft light illuminating her suddenly vanished, and then I realized that the lamp in the apartment had gone out. I had seen or heard no one moving about inside. Now the music began, drifting softly over the terrace.
As though she'd read my thoughts she said, "It's now midnight. The light just went out."
"Did the maid turn it off?"
"It's automatic." She brought my glass to me. "There is no one here but you and me."
After she'd handed me my brandy she returned to her chair again, stretching out on it as before with the pillows supporting her back.
She asked, "May I offer you a cigarette now?"
"No, thank you."
The way she'd asked me and the way I'd answered had sounded as though it could have been a part of any conversation that might have taken place through the centuries: a man alone with a woman who is there entirely for his pleasure. The expensive brandy, the new and modern apartment, with the lights going out and the music coming on at a certain time, the beautiful mistress-all expensive things for some man's enjoyment.
Who was he? Who was the man paying the bills?
Whisping through my thoughts came Zora's soft voice and I realized that she was telling me about the warm wonderful summer nights she remembered as a girl in the tiny village in Greece.
I waited for her to continue but she became silent again, and the only sound remaining on the terrace was the music.
This time I didn't ask her point-blank to tell me about herself. I took advantage of the mood of the music and the darkness and the warmth of the air and the brandy, and I spoke softly and gently to her, probed with considerate questions, and she briefly sketched part of her past.
She'd been orphaned While a child, raised by an aunt and uncle who cared little for her but took her with them as they went to Yugoslavia, then on to Trieste, where they abandoned her. It was difficult finding enough food to eat, but there were a number of couples who befriended her, and eventually, as she grew older, men began to take an interest in her.
One day she met a man who fed her and clothed her, and found a place for her to live. As he'd promised, he brought her out of Trieste, and because he was married he put her up in the apartment in Genoa.
I'd heard and read much about the experiences about the destitute and homeless, but none of it had ever seemed quite as sad as she told it.
I got up and set my glass down on the table, then I sat down on the edge of her lounge chair. She handed me her glass and I put it down on the floor.
Leaning forward I could see that her eyes were closed, with the lashes long and soft on her cheekbones, and she was perfectly motionless as my hands slipped in between her shoulders and the pillows. Without saying a word I tried to make her understand how her story touched me, and just exactly how I felt about her at that moment.
Gently I let my lips brush hers, then my mouth stroke her cheek, the side of her neck, down to her shoulder, into the hollow of her throat, and up again on the other side of her neck. I felt her arms going around me, and I could hear happy sounds in her throat, soft, purry-soft sounds, and I felt her quickened breath on my upper lip as my lips crept up to her mouth and found her lips again.
I kissed her tenderly at first, then I began working my mouth tightly down on hers, savoring all of it, searching deeply within it and drinking the sweetness of it and its heated darkness, and tasting the tangy bite of the brandy that still lingered on her flaming tongue.
In the darkness, we embraced passionately, but unhurriedly, as we relished each delicious movement, lips touching and caressing lightly, petal softly, hands stroking and moving about over clothes, and seams, and buttons, without haste and without hurry, feeling, finding, stroking, caressing, getting to know each other, completely, all of each other, the movements of the hands and fingers quickening and becoming urgent with the increased tempo of our breathing.
And suddenly the wonderful growing painful wanting within me grew large and impatient, and I sent my hand to her stomach and let the fingers pull the bottom of her blouse out of the shorts, felt the hot, smooth, bare skin of her stomach, turned the hand and tried to slip it, fingertip first, under the tightness of her shorts at the waist.
Her arm pressed tightly across her abdomen, stopped me. Then her hand took mine and then gently moved it to her hip.
"No," she whispered, moving away. The fingers of her soft hand came up to caress my cheek. "Not tonight, cherie."
"Why?"
"It's impossible."
"When?"
"I'm not certain." she kissed me gently on the mouth. "You understand everything don't you."
I understood. "He's coming by tonight," I said.
"Perhaps."
"Do I know him?"
She shrugged. "Is that important, my dear?"
I stood up, still trying to catch my breath, my glance unable to leave her. "How about tomorrow?"
"Perhaps. It is possible."
I stepped away and she came to her feet quickly, her arms slipping around my neck. She pressed tightly against me, swiveling and grinding her hips into me as our lips locked and we clung to each other for long, wonderful moments.
"Yes, tomorrow," she said breathlessly. "Come by at the same time as you did tonight. I'll arrange everything. Is that all right, my dear?"
I nodded. It wasn't really all right because it was painful, wanting her so badly at that moment, but this was all for tonight, and I knew it, and there was nothing else for me to do.
"I think it's better if you leave now." She began shoving the tail of her blouse into the waist band of her shorts.
A final, definite act. The end, finis, for now, and no mistaking it.
She tossed her head abruptly, sending the hair away from the side of her face. "I'll show you out."
Following her through the apartment, pausing a moment while she turned on a lamp, and then standing in the doorway, I again realized numbly and disgustedly, the way she'd smothered me and overpowered me, and moved me to do as she wished me to do.
"Until tomorrow night," she whispered. Her lips then framed a silent kiss. "Good night."
She was easing the door shut, I was moving backwards, and the next moment it had clicked shut in my face.
I started down the stairs, moving slowly at first because the blood clogged my groin and thighs, and the dark mists of wanting still swirled behind my eyes. Then, gradually, I began to feel better again, and before long I was coasting down the last few flights of stairs.
Driving back to Santa Margherita, I began to feel the tiredness settling over me, as though I'd been trying to swim upstream for a week. Remembering the hours I'd spent with Zora and trying to recall all the details of it, the entire thing was a bit hazy, as though it had only been a dream. The more I thought about it the more stupid and senseless it seemed, and I became disgusted with myself.
Now that I could think clearly about her. I realized that she'd worked me over the way a cheerleader teases the star quarterback in a shadowed corner of the library. Just so he'd come back again, hoping that the next time with her would be different.
That made me feel like an inexperienced kid, necking and fumbling around with a girl, just for the feeling, and I even considered not going back to her apartment again. I tried to talk myself into forgetting about her, but it was no use.
I had to go back. I had to get to her.
And so I told myself that the next night would be different. She wouldn't put me off again. This I knew. I kept thinking about it, about her, and how it was going to be. Just to convince myself that it would really happen, I suppose.
Even after I'd returned to my hotel and crawled into bed, the lovely image of Zora was still under my eyelids and would not let me sleep. I could see her again, at the cocktail party, looking at George Heatherington, and I wondered about the two of them, wondered whether she'd put him through the same torture. Then I thought about the guy who was keeping her, trying to imagine What he looked like, and all the rest.
Lying there in the darkness I didn't want to think of those two guys anymore because I wanted to think only of Zora, that lovely, exciting bitch, giving herself completely to me. The feeling kept haunting me-that I should stay away from her, that I should forget about her and concentrate on the job I'd been sent over here to do; but I quickly shot down every good reason I could find to stay away from her.
I knew that I'd be back in her apartment the next night. I'd be there. Even if it killed me.
And that's the way things almost turned out.
I didn't know about it at the time. I was too busy fluffing up my pillow and hoping I'd eventually get to sleep.