Pierre

by Primula Bond

  ‘You’re not going to have a go at me are you, Cavalieri? I’m not up to talking.’

  All the stress melted away. This guy can’t hurt me. He’s still in pain. He has been left with a permanent limp. He can’t run, jump, dance. He can’t hurt me. I won’t let him.

  ‘Can you open your eyes, Pierre?’ I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You left my place without a word. I thought you’d gone to LA. Real gentlemen don’t behave like that. It’s rude.’

  He took a breath, as if to speak. His skin was sheened with sweat. A tremor of fear went through me. What if he checked out of the sterile safety of the clinic too soon? His defences are low. No, how would Nurse Jeannie put it? His immunity is compromised.

  ‘My bad, Rosie. I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.’

  I laid the back of my hand on his forehead. It was clammy, but cool.

  ‘Do as you’re told, as Nurse Jeannie said. We need to talk, but first you need to get better. All that rushing around making plans to escape.’ I whispered into the silence. ‘No wonder you’re ill.’

  Pierre’s head turned heavily towards me, and he opened his eyes.

  ‘Well, you’re here now, Rosie. I’m sorry for being rude. Everything’s so much better when you’re here.’

  I stroked his hair back from his head. I so wanted to tell him that I wouldn’t be here for much longer. But Nurse Jeannie’s instructions were crystal clear.

  Don’t tell Pierre.

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. You go back to sleep.’

  He didn’t argue. That’s how I knew he was still poorly. Why was I worried about taking care of him? I prefer him like this! Quiet, harmless. At my mercy.

  This morning he’s still pale, a little breathless, but at least he’s out of bed. I’ve left him sitting on the breakfast terrace while I embark on this boat cruise with a handful of other guests from the spa. We’ve motored down the coast this morning, past Sorrento and Positano with its pastel buildings tumbling down the cliff and its clean paved alleyways lined with geraniums, and we’ve stopped off at Amalfi with its impressive church and busy harbour.

  Now we’ve crossed the bay to circle round Capri. On the far side of the island we stopped for a swim because by noon the other passengers were all clamouring to cool off. It’s October but the sun is hot when you’re sitting without shelter on deck. The boat has anchored for a while so we can dive into the clear blue sea.

  I must have swum further away than I realised, because I can’t see anything, or anyone.

  There are just miles of empty ocean. Not even the mainland is visible because it’s on the other side of the island. The little white cruiser with its blue and white striped awning and matching cushions, its jolly red cool-boxes full of beer, the other tourists and the thickset, grim-looking captain standing at the huge aluminium wheel, have all vanished.

  I splash round in a circle, shielding my eyes against the sparkling, blinding glare on the water. Diamonds of sunlight flash like interrogators’ torches, blinding me.

  They can’t have sailed away this quickly. I didn’t hear any horn, or calls to get back on board. The other passengers can’t have surfaced, swum back and scrambled up that little metal ladder so soon. They may be fit and tanned, and fiercely competitive in exchanging their tips for out-of-season travel, but, apart from the nimble female crew member skipping about in her huge sunglasses and dazzling white uniform, everyone else on this boat is, how can I put this, a lot older than me.

  If Pierre had been on this trip he’d have noticed I hadn’t returned to the boat and would have alerted the captain. But he’s far away from me, blissfully unaware that if someone doesn’t rescue me soon I’m going to drown.

  The captain didn’t warn us about currents, but I’m being dragged away from where I should be. I’m being pulled right under the cliffs, hemmed in by hostile, ridged arches of white rock. In this cave the water is bitterly cold, and it’s no longer blue but black.

  ‘Hello there! Anyone?’ I call, my voice clanging off the rocks as my heart batters in my chest. ‘Wait for me!’

  I swim to the wall and cling to it, scrambling sideways like a crab, half in and half out of the water. The rock is razor-sharp in places and thin ribbons of blood run down my arms where I’ve grazed them trying to get a hold. The waves are rougher here. No longer serene and inviting, but angry, rearing up and crashing as if trying to push me back into the cave.

  There’s a sudden heavy splash from somewhere. It’s hard to trust your own hearing. My ears are full of water, half blocked by wet hair and the rubber strap of my snorkel. The spray swishes and slaps me in the face. I can’t tell if the splash came from out there in the open water or behind me in the cave, but it sounded like something, or someone, jumping. Or falling.

  Panic is the last thing you should do when you’re in strange waters, way out of your depth, getting cold, getting tired, but the tales of the depraved Emperor Tiberius that Pierre was telling me at breakfast, the gory antics going on in the palace right above my head, crowd in to spook me. A whimper catches in my throat.

  One of the Emperor’s chief delights, other than debauching minors and torturing all those, young or old, male or female, who dared to offend him, was throwing his enemies off these very cliffs.

  * * *

  ‘There’s a theory in Buddhism, did you know? We are two, but not two. Mind and body. All you have to do is join them together.’

  His voice was deep and quiet and took me by surprise this morning, hot breath whispering against the back of my neck as I drank my coffee.

  ‘What mumbo-jumbo are you spouting now?’

  Pierre sat down heavily on the wicker chair beside me. Despite his obvious weakness, the pallor of his skin, I tingled at his closeness.

  Staring out at the cobalt-blue sea side by side, the matching sky cupped over us, I could feel myself softening, like burro left out in the warm Italian sun.

  He rubbed his lips across my hair.

  ‘I haven’t explained myself very well, have I?’

  I picked up my coffee cup. Around the terrace other guests chatted comfortably, mostly couples who had sorted out those initial rows and arguments and confusions decades ago.

  ‘You haven’t explained anything at all.’

  ‘Ask me anything.’

  He was resting his chin on his hand, his black eyes twinkling despite the shadows circling them, but his mouth was set in a serious line.

  ‘OK. Here goes. Why do you have to be such a jerk? Why didn’t you just wait for me to wake up the other morning instead of executing that ridiculous disappearing act? I thought we had turned a significant corner, Pierre. Even friends don’t treat each other like that. I felt humiliated. I thought you regretted it.’

  ‘Je ne regrette rien. Everything about you, about that night, was sensational.’ He closed his eyes a minute as pain rippled across his face. ‘Look, I am a total jerk when it comes to women. When it comes to talking. When it comes to feelings. All that sharing, all that articulation? It scares me.’

  ‘This is me you’re talking to, Pierre. Rosie. Cavalieri. Remember?’

  He nods and smiles wearily, that dimple appearing in his sallow cheek.

  ‘I’m trying to be a better person, Rosie. So if I made you feel cheap I’m sorry.’ He stops. That dimple fades. ‘You with your eyes like Maltesers, and that filthy pouting mouth, and that crazy hair, you’ve made me feel alive again.’

  ‘You’re being almost poetic, P.’ I dipped my tongue into the syrupy black espresso. ‘I like it.’

  Pierre broke a chunk of bread in two, studied it and took a bite.

  ‘And I like it when you call me P. That’s Gustav’s name for me, too.’

  A waiter appeared with more coffee and set out fresh cups, milk and sugar. Pierre put on a pair of shades so I couldn’t see his eyes.

  I looked around me and realised that the terrace had emptied. Breakfast service was over and we were alone. The waiter left and Pierre lifted my hand a
nd kissed the palm. I shivered, let it rest there for a moment under his mouth.

  ‘It was my therapist who said that, by the way. About the mind and body having to work in harmony.’

  I leaned over the balcony as he spoke.

  The sea and the main pool carved into the hillside below us, and the individual private baths dotted around the hotel grounds, bubbling with heat and water pumped straight from the healing springs, were all inviting us to dive in.

  Pierre started to stand up and winced. He leaned down to rub his left knee.

  ‘Your therapist?’

  ‘Yeah. I had my first session this morning. They like to get their hands on us as soon as possible so that we can work on our issues.’ He reached out and brushed a crumb of pastry from the corner of my mouth. He licked it off his finger. ‘And my issue this particular morning is frustration, Cavalieri.’

  My body tightened as his tongue slipped across his lower lip.

  ‘Let’s hope the therapist is nothing like Dr Venska, then.’

  ‘He’s a he. From Jamaica and built like a brick shithouse.’ Pierre chuckled and turned towards the sea. He stretched his finger towards a pointed dot on the horizon. ‘See that island? That’s Capri. Legend has it that the favourite pastime of Emperor Tiberius was torturing and then throwing his enemies off the top of that cliff. It’s about a three-thousand-foot drop, apparently.’

  I followed his gaze across the ruffled surface of the sea where the frothy wakes of ferries and pleasure boats fanned out across the water.

  ‘Better not displease me again, then, Levi. You have been warned.’

  He pulled me towards him. ‘How have I displeased you, Cavalieri?’

  ‘You displeased me by buggering off the other morning.’

  ‘Rosie, I –’

  ‘Just be straight with me, Pierre.’

  ‘And break the habit of a lifetime? Sorry. That was flippant.’ His hands were warm on my bare skin. ‘I will do everything I can to keep you happy on this holiday.’

  ‘So question number one. Am I your servant while I’m here, Levi? Your carer? Or –’

  ‘Or what, Rosie?’

  He waited, the blank lenses of his sunglasses challenging me.

  ‘Or, well, I thought we were, until you ran off the other morning. I thought we were –’

  Pierre nodded while I was speaking, and kept nodding after I’d stumbled into shy silence.

  ‘Lovers?’

  ‘Friends.’

  ‘What we need to do is start again.’ He took my hand, which was curled into a fist, and unfolded the fingers, kissing the tip of each one. ‘I could take you back to my room right now, in fact, and if you’ll let me, I’d like to kiss you, inch by inch, all over that tasty body of yours.’

  ‘What about the servant bit? The carer bit? My role as paid help?’ I clamped my thighs together as he spoke, trying not to wriggle as my body loosened with desire. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Nurse Jeannie gave you the choice, didn’t she? Lover, carer, whatever.’ He pushed my forefinger into his mouth and sucked it. ‘Oh, why do you always have to analyse everything?’

  ‘Because you can’t keep running away when things get serious.’ I snatched my hand away. ‘It’s not fair. I need to know where I stand. I need to know why you said all that stuff to Nurse Jeannie about letting me go.’

  ‘Wow. She really did break a confidence. All right. I’ll try to explain.’ He leaned back against the chair and ran his hands through his black hair, pushing it up into thick tufts. ‘It’s been getting me down, if I’m honest. The relentless pain. Being so lame. I felt useless. A burden. And yes, sorry for myself. I wanted to come here to clear my head, get some strength back, think about the future. About the only thing I’ve been clear about in the last few weeks was you.’

  The waiters were clearing the breakfast things, crockery rattling on trays as they carried them out.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Scheherazade. You. That night on your little boat terrified the shit out of me. The strength of my feelings – I thought they would overwhelm us both. So I did what I always do. Run. But I can’t keep running. I’m lucky getting this second, third, fourth chance with you, Rosie.’ He pushed his chair back and grabbed his stick. ‘So what do you say? Can we go back to where we started?’

  ‘Which is where, exactly?’

  ‘Well, not day one, obviously. Or even day thirty. I’d like to rewind to about four nights ago, if that’s OK with you?’

  He stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘That’s very OK.’ I took it. ‘But I’m going on this boat trip first.’

  ‘Of course. I can’t always have it my own way.’ Pierre waved his stick towards the pointed island of Capri. ‘Perhaps I’ll do some more research into that evil Emperor while you’re gone. I’m fascinated by these little areas he had in his garden called lechery nooks where nubile handmaidens and young men would prostitute themselves to his guests. When they weren’t servicing him he would watch them pleasuring each other.’

  ‘You sound a little envious, Levi.’

  He laughed, a lovely, rich, deep, reverberating laugh.

  A shade shivered through me even as a light went on inside him.

  How could I sit here asking him to be straight, when I was holding back my own secret? Planning my own getaway?

  ‘Too right! His palace on Capri was a den of debauchery. He hosted orgies all summer long. His sex servants were known as spintriae. Imagine that, Rosie. A garden of delights. I can feel a production coming on. Theatre. Preferably film, exaggerated colour tints. A homage to Ken Russell. A fantasy world.’ Pierre gave me a slow, sexy wink. ‘An open-air theatre, planted out with vines and pergolas, bowers and flowers, nooks of venery –’

  ‘Not sure the torture would be such a great spectacle!’

  ‘Ah, no. You’re right. We’d leave any ugliness outside. This would be a kind of Utopia. A magic kingdom. How would you stage the water scenes, though? Tiberius had a particular taste for young flesh. He ordered boys he called minnows to dive underneath him when he was swimming, and got them to nibble his dick.’

  I let out a giggle, and he grinned at me.

  ‘And if anyone didn’t do it right, they’d be violated by his minions, dragged through the streets, and then they were tossed off those distant cliffs.’

  One of the receptionists, a tall bald man, stepped towards us as we approached the lift. ‘The doctor will see Mr Levi now.’

  ‘Thank you, signor.’ Pierre pressed the buttons for the lift. ‘And you, Rosie. You could be the star.’

  ‘The star? In this garden of debauchery you’re going to create?’

  The lift doors opened and I stepped inside to go and get my things for the day out.

  ‘Yeah. The empress. A crown of flowers. Standing at the top of the cliff. Singing some kind of rousing aria as you toss your enemies into the sea below!’

  We laughed, but then he stopped and doubled over. His face was drawn, etched with pain. I stepped back out of the lift and put my arm around him.

  ‘Pierre? I haven’t seen you in this much pain in months.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. It’s a trapped nerve, or maybe a sprain. Being made to walk the gangplank on that boat of yours. I’m going for a massage later.’ Pierre pushed me gently back into the lift. ‘I’ll see to you later, my Latina. When you return from your voyage I’ll be a new man.’

  * * *

  My grasp is slipping from the rock and I slide back into the water. I manage to swim a little way out of the cave, but the waves push me back inside it. As I go under I get my mask back on over my eyes and breathe through the spout. Maybe if I go deeper it will be less rough and I can get some strength from my flippers to push out into the sea or further round the outcrop that’s blocking my vision. There must be some safe place to get ashore around the next corner. There aren’t many beaches as such on the sheer sides of this island. Not even on the mainland. Mainly people seem to sunbathe on rocky
outcrops or shelves jutting out over the waves.

  But if the boat doesn’t come back for me I’ll be unable to splash about in this water for much longer. I’m getting tired.

  I don’t want to be stranded here. I want to get back to the spa. I think of Pierre. If he hasn’t retired to bed he’ll be looking out for us soon.

  I put my head beneath the surface, ready to try again to swim out of the cave, but I’m spun round by the current until I’m being swept backwards into the shadows at the rear of the cave. Out near the mouth of it I see a movement through the smeared glass of my mask. A pair of long, thin white legs are kicking slowly in the water, flippers idly sweeping back and forth, keeping their owner upright. They are female legs, dangling there in the water. Maybe it’s the female crew member from the boat, come to look for me?

  I start to swim towards the figure. The person seems to be waiting, but as I get closer she turns and the legs kick away as if the search is being abandoned. Or am I supposed to be following?

  I burst out of the water and start calling and waving, but I can’t seem to move forward; the water is solid, like a wall. All I can see is the tip of the person’s black snorkel moving through the water, out of the cave, away from me.

  I pause. Behind me the cave narrows into a tunnel leading into the rock. Maybe that’s a way to safety? Or is it even more dangerous?

  I put my head under the water again. The legs have gone.

  And then a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I scream, spluttering and splashing in the water, knocking my knee against the rock as I flail about, trying to get away. The hand is firm, taking me under the arm and pulling me up to the surface. When I get up there, puffing and blowing through the mouthpiece of my snorkel, I see the girl from the boat.

  I can’t see her eyes behind the mask, but her wide mouth is jabbering at me in Italian, gesturing at the cave, running her finger across her throat, then flinging her arm out to sea.

  And there just around the corner, where the cliff jutted out in a lump and blocked my view, and blocked their view of me, is the boat, anchored presumably where it always was, and there also, is a row of irritated tourists, hanging over the rail, shaking their heads at the idiot woman who swam off and got lost.