Autumn

by Vina Jackson

  Lauralynn’s face was a mask of concentration and I too was almost out of breath trying to keep up with Elena.

  Finally she began to slow and eventually stopped and bowed to a cacophony closer to baying than wild applause but apparently meant in the same way, greeting our overture in effusive manner.

  The lights dimmed again and the voiceover began setting the scene, telling the story that I now knew so well it felt as though the voice was speaking inside my own head rather than over a microphone. Then it was Alissa’s turn to take the stage. She appeared in spotlight standing completely still and almost reptilian in her ankle-length green gown and as Lauralynn and I launched into a piece inspired by the climactic crescendo of ‘The Rite of Spring’, she began to move, as sinuous and sensual as a charmed cobra swaying under the hypnotic spell of a snake charmer. The longer I watched her the more I wondered if she was performing under a spell, which extended its reach over all of us here tonight.

  Across from me, Lauralynn’s lips were opening and closing infinitesimally as though she were mouthing the text to herself. I felt, perhaps for the first time in my life, disengaged from the music that I was playing, as though my arms and hands had temporarily divorced from my mind and spirit, enabling my body to continue playing while my eyes remained fixed on the action on stage.

  Alissa was totally uninhibited as ever but she had lost her usual large dose of self-absorption and for the first time, her performance seemed genuine, unrehearsed. Antony had now joined her and was either delivering the most convincing performance of his lifetime or had been so drawn into the spell of the cursed violin that he had lost his hold on reality and was being blindly led along by the musical score, the text and Alissa’s cues. He was playing the part to perfection and only someone sitting as near to him as I was could have noticed that his eyes were glazed and he had taken the key romantic scene of the first half far beyond the actual script, and added the flourish of a passionate embrace and smouldering kiss.

  His hand then strayed to Alissa’s breast and he pulled down one side of her dress, bent his head to her chest and began to suck her nipple. She groaned and leaned into his touch, baring her throat and tipping back her hair so that it fell behind her, grazing her arse.

  Waves of heat seemed to rise from the crowd. I knew that it was impossible for me to pick out such fine details in the darkness from my position on the brightly lit stage but I had the sense that across the packed theatre, nipples were hardening, those patrons who were tied were straining against their leashes, those in cages were snapping more furiously than before against the bars, cocks were hardening, cunts becoming wetter, and through it all my bow hand continued to rise and fall against the strings, both provoking and being provoked by the tide of arousal that was rising like a wave and threatening to overwhelm us all.

  The audience remained none the wiser but I knew that a large chunk of dialogue had been entirely dropped and replaced by Antony’s continued public fondling of Alissa. Had he gone mad? He did not even seem to be aware that anybody else was in the room. Not even me. He was captivated by every line of her as if he was seeing a naked woman’s body for the first time. His fingers trailed over her skin ever so delicately, assuming the role of Adam in the garden of Creation stroking the first rose’s petals. Each touch so slow, so deliberate, orchestrating the rise of not just Alissa’s desire but the desire of all those present, including me. He moved behind her, unzipped her dress at the back and peeled it just three quarters of the way down her body to reveal her torso, hips, and the top of her pubis, just before the onset of her slit.

  She was bare. Alissa had shaved for the occasion. She had been so proud of her bush that I could only imagine that her grooming had been under Aurelia’s instruction. The change was evidently a shock to Antony, whose gaze immediately fell to her smooth mound and where his eyes travelled, his fingers followed, trailing down between her nipples to her groin. His hand disappeared behind her back and then reappeared cupped between her legs. An expression of bliss passed across Alissa’s face as he found her clitoris and began to rub. His head was nestled into her shoulder and his face was a picture of both relaxation and concentration as his fingertips continued to play between her folds.

  It was the first time that I had ever seen them together like this, as a voyeur, without being involved. My emotions swam twin streams of jealousy and arousal and through it all I continued to play on until Alissa came. They had continued to instinctively move forward, perhaps by magnetic pull towards the audience, and when she orgasmed and inevitably gushed, her spray of juices showered the lifted faces of those positioned closest to the foot of the stage. The leashed leopard opened his mouth wide and snapped at the droplets that rained down towards him until the curtains closed, signalling the end of the opening half of the show and the beginning of the intermission.

  Lauralynn, like the rest of the musicians, was scheduled to break but she continued to play as though welded to her cello. I lowered my violin. My arm ached as though I had been moving my bow over the strings like a madwoman and yet I could not remember a single note that I had played, having left the Stravinsky composition way behind me, trailing in my musical wake.

  Aurelia came bursting between the curtains at the back of the stage. Her hair was loose and messy, as though she had just woken up and her cheeks were flushed. Her tattoos flashed and rippled and I immediately glanced at the ink that I always found so captivating, the dragon’s tongue that decorated her mons. It was moving maniacally across her slit as though performing cunnilingus.

  ‘Summer, Summer,’ she cried breathlessly, looking from one side of the stage to the other as if her eyes had not yet adjusted to the relative darkness and she could not make me out sitting in the corner.

  ‘Yes,’ I called. She moved towards me where I was still seated on my chair, placed a hand on each of my shoulders and leaned forwards so that her breasts swung towards my face and then she bent down and kissed my mouth. Her lips were soft and her movements urgent. Our tongues danced together, slick with saliva. She drew away. The sound of Lauralynn’s cello continued to cut through the theatre, audible above the increasingly frantic sounds emanating from beyond the curtain. I recognised strains of Schubert.

  ‘That was beautiful,’ she said, ‘Absolutely beautiful. Perfect.’

  ‘I just don’t know what I did,’ I replied.

  ‘Look,’ she said, lifting up part of the heavy velvet that separated us from the auditorium so that I could see out.

  The crowd had converged upon one another. Everywhere I looked there was a tangled pile of painted arms and legs. The leopard had broken free from his leash and was driving his cock into his mistress the owl whose feathers were now in disarray and her face morphed from passive boredom to pleasure. A group of black and white zebra were painted so similarly I could not make out whose limbs belonged to whom as they joined and writhed together. The cages had been opened and whoever or whatever had been restrained behind bars had now been let loose. It was like a scene from a Roman frieze come to life, an orgiastic festival of the senses gone wild.

  ‘You did this,’ Aurelia whispered. ‘The spell of your music, your own form of magic.’

  In truth, I did not really believe her. The audience had seemed on the verge of a riot from the outset. I had little or nothing to do with it. This was the aura of Aurelia, and whatever was behind her organisation, the Network.

  I turned away from the curtain and glanced back towards Antony and Alissa. They had stopped their lovemaking and were staring at each other and the space around them as though they had both just woken and were not sure whether they were still experiencing a dream or were now back in reality.

  Aurelia followed my gaze, and reached towards me, wrapping her hand around my wrist and giving me a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Go to them,’ she said, ‘and be kind, they were as caught up in the passion of your playing as the rest.’ Then she turn
ed, slipped under the curtain and disappeared into the throng.

  ‘Summer?’ It was Antony. He was now nude, his trousers and jacket flung to the corner of the stage. He looked beautiful lying there, his long, lean limbs relaxed against the wooden dais, a picture of repose. He was still sporting a beard, though he had trimmed it neatly for the occasion. I knelt down and kissed him. His mouth was wet and tasted of Alissa’s pussy; sweet. I turned to her and lifted her chin with my fingers and we pressed our lips together.

  ‘Summer …’ she said.

  They both sounded dazed.

  I nestled into the space between them, resting on my knees, and placed a hand playfully around each of their throats. They groaned in unison.

  Hands travelled over my thighs, belly, breasts. My eyes were closed and I wasn’t sure which set of fingers belonged to Alissa and which to Antony. They squeezed my nipples gently, delved between the folds of my labia, ran their tongues over my lips, higher and lower.

  I opened my eyes in surprise when the bell chimed to signal the end of the interval. I had presumed that we would not be continuing with the second half. But, the curtains raised on cue, indicating that the show would go on. Instead of lighting on Alissa and Antony sharing a passionate kiss as per the script, the spotlight shone on the three of us coupling together on the floor. Alissa and Antony were indeed sharing a passionate kiss, however, she was also grinding her cunt against my face as Antony straddled me and drove his cock into my pussy.

  We received a standing ovation, and we were only halfway through the play.

  As if they knew where I had spent the night, Aurelia’s limousine and its blank-faced and grey-suited chauffeur, arrived at the agreed time the next morning at Antony’s Isle of Dogs building to pick me up and take me to the airport.

  Regardless of the sweet excesses of the previous night and our final performance of the play, I had agreed to work for Aurelia’s Network for a period of three months and I took a certain pride in being professional at all times and was determined to fulfil my commitments. In addition they had made an outrageously generous offer to my agent for my fee, and she had enthusiastically recommended the gig to me, despite the unusual circumstances and veil of secrecy surrounding it.

  Antony was sleeping soundly as I tiptoed out of the bedroom. I didn’t wish to alert him to my departure and forthcoming absence.

  We made a detour via my Clapham flat where I picked up the luggage I had prepared a few days earlier. Clothes for a hot climate, I had been warned.

  Heathrow’s Terminal 4 was a buzz of activity. On arrival, the driver had handed me a buff envelope with my travel details. I pulled the itinerary page out. Las Vegas. I was already checked in and being flown first class.

  The destination surprised me. I had never been there before and it was a tawdry city that had never attracted me in the slightest. The only gambles I had ever risked were with my life and emotions and I’d never been desperate or deluded enough to gamble for money.

  I wheeled my suitcase to the drop-in area.

  10

  The Desert Shimmers

  Slot machines, one-arm bandits and harsh lighting dominated the arrival concourse as I disembarked from the aircraft. I felt drained. It wasn’t just the jet-lag but a deep sense of emptiness following the events of the past few days and the epiphany of the final night’s performance of the play and its attendant sweet intoxication.

  I was ahead of the queue at immigration and soon found myself in the baggage area, seeking out the right luggage carousel in the cavernous hall. My attention kept on being drawn to the on/off pattern of gaudy colours click clacking in repetitive patterns on the many gambling machines dotted across the walls and pillars. The accompanying mechanical chatter it created was profoundly irritating, random, unmelodic, nagging at my senses as if I was hung­over. Fortunately, my suitcase arrived in the first batch of luggage to tumble down the chute, highlighted by its first class colour tag. I was holding my violin case close to my chest, as I had out of habit for most of the flight, and looked around for a trolley.

  ‘You won’t be needing one,’ a voice said.

  I looked round.

  In the few years since I had seen her last, she had barely aged. Her long hair still tumbled down halfway to the small of her back, albeit now speckled with grey and the crumpled velvet material of her flowing crimson dress clung to her strong hips as she sashayed towards me with elegance.

  It was Madame Denoux, the hostess of the New Orleans club where I had first witnessed the hypnotic spectacle of Luba, the Russian dancer and where Dominik had encouraged me to go on stage and shed so many of my inhibitions and shamelessly exhibit myself.

  In truth, it was no surprise to see her waiting for me here.

  It seemed as if my whole life was now being lived in the shadow of the Network and not much of a revelation to learn that the shadowy club she had run was, it appeared, part of Aurelia’s tentacular organisation. In a way, it proved reassuring. I could think of worse people, entities, to manipulate me like a puppet. And with a tightening in my throat, actually remembered that I had experienced much worse in the way of manipulation along the road to here. Victor. The Kentish Town horror I had so meekly accepted or brought upon myself. And other instances I would now rather forget.

  Standing next to her, towering high above her head, stood yet another square-shouldered, uniformed driver, black this time but clad in the customary grey outfit. He took a step towards the carousel and picked up my case as if it was empty or feather light. I knew it wasn’t. In my haste to pack and ignorant of what I would be doing during these three months, I had stuffed it with so many clothes that, when weighed at London Heathrow, it had perilously skirted even the first class luggage weight limit.

  ‘Welcome,’ Madame Denoux said, with just the faint trace of a French accent in her voice.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Madame,’ I replied.

  ‘Call me Giselle,’ she said.

  She turned on her heels, and I followed her and the truck-sized driver to the sliding automatic doors that led to the road.

  A blanket of dry heat assaulted me as we stepped outside. I stopped. Caught my breath.

  Madame Denoux looked at me, with a gentle smile. ‘The desert air. Rather dry. But you’ll grow accustomed to it,’ she said.

  The limo was air-conditioned and the immediate contrast made me sneeze.

  We drove off.

  Dusk was falling over the neon canyons of Las Vegas, an oasis of light shining like an unearthly beacon in the darkness of the surrounding sands. It was my first time here but it felt familiar from countless movies, documentaries, pictures in magazines. Cocooned in the deep silence of the car, everything felt unreal, a travelogue of clichéd images unfolding like a tapestry behind the darkened windows of the sleek limousine we were travelling in.

  We glided onto the Strip, glittering hotels, attractions, bizarre and fancy architectures flashing by, crowds of tourists in shades of khaki, chinos, floral dresses, most juggling with plastic cups.

  ‘It’s for their coins, their tokens,’ Madame Denoux indicated, following the questioning direction of my gaze.

  Halfway down the Strip, a wall of solid light facing us ahead, the car took a swift right turn and made its way down narrower avenues and streets, passing parades of smaller, less lavish hotels and buildings, and the artificial daylight began to dim.

  I blinked as we crossed a final city block and were swallowed by the darkness of the desert. It had taken just a second to move from the excesses of civilisation and into total night. My eyes adjusted. The rutted skyline of stunted peaks, mesas and hills towered over the inky horizon. The road began to bend.

  Madame Denoux noticed how tired I was.

  ‘Sleep, my dear. It’s a long journey still. Just relax.’

  As I dozed off I reflected with relief that Las Vegas had not been o
ur final destination. For the first time in ages, my sleep was devoid of dreams, a long – or so it felt – waltz into nothingness.

  I awoke later to a deep feeling of peace, curled up alone on the leather back seat of the car, the only sound reaching me the purring of the air conditioning. I blinked. Outside the tinted windows, the sun was rising over a nearby hill, white and pale against the predominantly muted red background of our surroundings.

  For a brief moment, I felt as if I was in the midst of a western movie, and the cavalry and John Wayne were about to cavalcade past me, hoofs trampling the dirt and stirring up clouds of dust in their wake.

  I stirred reluctantly, feeling the deep embrace of sleep holding me back.

  ‘Ah, sleeping beauty wakes,’ Madame Denoux said as she opened the car’s door and a rush of heat reached me. ‘I hope you don’t mind we left you there. It felt wrong to disturb you.’

  I mumbled something indistinct. My throat was dry.

  Beating my words to the draw, she handed over a bottle of water. It was blissfully cold to the touch.

  I gulped with undisguised greed.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked her, as I peered out and the brightness of the rising day began to affirm itself against my waking eyelids.

  ‘We’re very close to Monument Valley,’ she said.