The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

by Linda Alvarez

  This time, it was definitely going to be “us”. Max still wasn’t going to climb beneath the queening chair. But he was going to feed me peeled grapes and tell me dirty stories and kiss me and suck my tits when I came. When he got too horny, he was going to jerk his dick, but he wasn’t going to let himself come until after everyone else had gone home. Then he was going to fuck me in every orifice I wanted. No matter how many times I’d already climaxed that evening, he was going to pleasure me enough to be sure I came at least one more time – with him.

  Goldberg Variations

  Lisabet Sarai

  Harvey and Al stood in the chill drizzle beside the muddy grave.

  “Damned inconsiderate of Richard, dropping dead without any warning,” Al commented.

  “I’m sure that he didn’t do it deliberately. Certainly he would much rather have attended one of our funerals than vice versa,” observed Harvey.

  “No doubt. He only cared about himself.”

  “Well, to be fair, he put a lot of effort into the trio.”

  “Right. His trio, he used to call it.”

  “Whatever. It’s been our bread and butter for twenty-two years, so don’t knock it.”

  “Sure, but what are we going to do now? There’s no work for a violin/viola duo.”

  Harvey sighed. “Obviously, we’ve got to find another cello. I’ll put an ad in the Times next week. It shouldn’t be too difficult; there must be hundreds of starving musicians in New York.”

  “Yeah, but can they play Bach? We don’t want someone whose repertoire is restricted to ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Endless Love’.”

  Harvey had a pounding headache, and the rain was beginning to drip down underneath the collar of his topcoat. His brother’s negative attitude was all too familiar. “We’ll just have to see, Al. We’ve got a full schedule for the next few months. We’ll make do with what we can get.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the chauffeur, waiting under an umbrella beside the hired limo. “Let’s go. Everybody’s probably back at the house by now.”

  The two-storey Brooklyn row house was packed with a boisterous, hungry crowd of relatives and friends. Harvey offered some obligatory greetings and accepted routine condolences. Finally, he managed to escape upstairs to the study.

  It had been their father’s space, first, and then, since he had been the trio’s business manager, Richard’s. The walls were decorated with autographed pictures, their father shaking hands with Yehudi Menuhin and Pablo Casals. Then there were posters from some of their tours (“The Goldberg Trio, Live at Pittsburgh Symphony Hall”) and replica covers from their four recordings (The Goldberg Trio Plays Classical Favourites).

  Dad would have been proud, mused Harvey. Wouldn’t he? It was hard to know.

  On the bookshelf stood a picture of the three of them with Dad. It had been taken at Coney Island, not long after Al’s mother died. Everyone was trying valiantly to appear happy.

  The three boys didn’t look much alike, but that was hardly surprising. Dad had divorced both Richard’s and Harvey’s mothers. Al’s mother, sweet, red-headed Emma, had been taken by cancer.

  When Dad died of a heart attack only a few years afterwards, he left the row house to his three teenaged sons. The half-brothers had made it their home ever since.

  Harvey realized Aunt Nelda was calling him. His father’s sister was frail but the years hadn’t diminished the piercing quality of her voice.

  “Harvey? Where are you? Some of the guests are leaving, and Al seems to have disappeared. Harvey?”

  Before he left the sanctuary of the office, he grabbed two aspirin from the bottle Richard kept in the desk. He chewed them without water, relishing the bitterness. Noticing Richard’s planning calendar in the drawer, he flipped through the pages to October. God, their next appearance was two weeks from tomorrow. A reception at the Mayor’s mansion, yet!

  Harvey swallowed his panic and headed downstairs. Somehow it would work out. Things always worked out, one way or another.

  Al was hiding out in the tool shed at back of the lot, smoking a joint. I’m some hip cat, he thought sourly, forty-nine years old and still getting high. When his rust-coloured hair had begun to thin, he had shaved it all off. Now he had the look of a bald scarecrow, long-limbed, skinny and awkward. Only when he tucked his violin under his chin and began to play did he achieve some kind of grace. Those were his happiest times, in fact, when he could lose himself in the music, in harmony for once with his brothers.

  The rest of his life seemed empty and hollow, eaten away by envy, fouled with the nasty taste of decayed dreams. Richard had been the lucky one, the good-looking one, the one who had a solo career before the time of the trio. Richard had even had a lover, Al remembered, a pretty Barnard girl who used to come over and listen to him practise. Sherrie, Al dimly recalled.

  What had happened to Sherrie? She had drifted away, it seemed, like all their hopes, leaving them marooned in this house full of ghosts, wandering through life as lonely and embittered as ghosts themselves.

  The pot was making him maudlin. He dug a hole in the dirt floor with his toe and buried the roach. Now Richard was gone, a real ghost, leaving him and Harv behind. Al wasn’t sure whether he still envied Richard or not.

  Harvey’s ad attracted a raft of responses. There was the jazz cellist who wanted to “broaden his horizons”, the spinster who had been teaching cello for forty years out of her home in Queens, the high-school kid who bragged about being “first cello” in the school orchestra. Harvey sighed as he reviewed the alternatives.

  After all, the Goldberg Trio had a reputation. The Times’ Art and Culture columnist had speculated in Richard’s obituary on the future of “one of the city’s most persistent musical institutions”. Harvey had fumed briefly, then shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to waste his energy on some catty member of the press.

  The latest response, though, was intriguing. It had a formality of tone that reminded him of an Edith Wharton novel.

  Dear Mr Goldberg,

  I am writing in response to your advertisement of October 9 in the New York Times, seeking an experienced cellist to join your chamber music ensemble.

  I would be honoured if you would consider engaging me for this position. Currently I am employed on the faculty of the Berklee College of Music in Boston. However, I have become quite frustrated with teaching, and had been seriously considering a return to performing even before I saw your advertisement.

  I have attached a copy of my CV. If you are interested in auditioning me, would it be possible for you to come to Boston? I have a very heavy schedule during the next week, but after that I can disengage myself more easily. On a longer-term basis, I have no objection whatsoever to relocating to New York.

  Thank you for your consideration.

  Yours sincerely,

  Deidre Rasinovsky-Corbatta

  Ms Rasinovky-Corbatta’s résumé was impressive. Training at the St Petersburg State Conservatory and the Conservatorio de Santa Cecilia in Rome, six years as a soloist with the Moscow Philharmonic and three touring on her own, then a Masters from Julliard and four years at Berklee, arguably the best music school in the country.

  Harvey read her missive one more time. How had she known how to address him? Presumably she had heard about Richard’s demise and made a calculated guess. It sounded as though she was sharp, as well as qualified.

  How would she interact with the two remaining Goldberg brothers, though? Harvey understood that the trio’s success over the years had been based on a delicate balance of personalities as much as on a shared dedication to music. Wouldn’t bringing in a stranger, and a woman at that, upset the balance?

  There was no help for it, though. Richard was gone, and anyone they found to replace him would be a stranger. Harvey hated making phone calls, but he swallowed his nervousness and dialled Ms Rasinovsky-Corbatta’s number. With a gig in less than two weeks, he couldn’t afford to indulge his fears.

  The
Amtrak train chugged through the wilds of Connecticut. Al stared gloomily out the window at the yellowing vegetation, drooping damp under an overcast sky. Harvey sat snoring in the next seat, his round face slack and relaxed and his mouth open. His glasses had slipped down his nose. Gently, Al reached over and returned them to their proper place.

  Al had a sense of foreboding about meeting this cellist. Sure, she had fabulous credentials, but he just couldn’t imagine having a woman join their trio. Women were trouble, irrational and demanding. Women made men behave irrationally.

  Of course, Richard had been demanding, too, a real prima donna at times, but he and Harvey had known how to handle Richard. After all, they had years of practice.

  Maybe he and Harvey should simply give up and dissolve the trio. With Brooklyn continuing to gentrify, they could sell the house for a tidy sum and start over.

  Start over doing what, though? Al visualized himself on stage, in the spotlight, soaring through one of the solos from L’Estro Armonico. He knew it would never happen, though. He was too old, too tired, spoiled from playing too long with the same group. Too lazy to try, you mean, a mocking voice whispered in his head. You could have been great, but you’ve never been willing to make the effort.

  Al shook his head. Why did all his musings these days degenerate into depression? He manoeuvred his way past Harvey’s knees, careful not to wake his slumbering sibling, and headed towards the café car. It was past three, surely not too early for a cocktail.

  They got out of the taxi in Back Bay at ten to five. Their appointment was for five thirty.

  “Ms Rasinovksy-Corbatta is in Practice Room 5 on the second floor,” the receptionist volunteered. “You can go on up, if you’d like.”

  Harvey and Al bundled their instruments up the stairs to a long hallway that smelled of dust and rosin. Room 5 was at the end. The door was ajar. Light and music spilled through the opening.

  Harvey grabbed Al, who was about to push the door wide. “Wait,” he whispered urgently. “Listen.”

  The melody swirled around them like smoke, mysterious and difficult to apprehend, shifting form and mood in each moment. Harvey recognized Bach’s masterful D minor Partita, rendered with a purity and restraint that made Harvey ache. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to invade him, to overwhelm him. The notes soared heavenwards, until he felt breathless in the thin atmosphere, then sank into low, throaty tones that vibrated deep in his gut.

  He knew the piece well – could remember Richard performing it, to enthusiastic crowds – but now it seemed as though he had never truly heard it before. The playing was formal and precise yet somehow the control only heightened the emotional intensity. Pensive, questing, triumphant then subdued, the music ebbed and flowed in the darkened corridor.

  “She’s good,” Al whispered.

  “Shh!” Harvey felt momentary rage at his brother’s interruption, then the emotion washed away in the tides of Bach’s creation. She was more than good. She was great, clearly a far more talented musician than any of the Goldberg brothers. Even Richard.

  Why in the world would she want to be part of their group? What could they offer to induce her to join them? Harvey fretted briefly. Then the music raised him up again and carried him along, until the last mournful note trailed away into silence and set him free.

  The two of them stood motionless for a long moment, looking at each other. Harvey gave a gentle knock.

  “Come on in.” The voice was low and well tempered, with the faintest trace of an accent. Harvey led the way into the practice room.

  “Ms Rasinovsky . . .” he began. He was unable to continue.

  He didn’t know what he had expected, but the woman facing him with the cello cradled between her thighs was a shock.

  Her red-shading-to-magenta hair made a spiky halo around her head. Her plump lips were painted to match. Wedgewood-blue eyes blazed in her long, pale face. One ear was pierced by half a dozen silver hoops and every finger of the hand that clasped the bow was decorated with a silver ring.

  She wore a tight black jersey that zipped at the neck. The zipper was pulled down low enough that Harvey could see the tiny rose tattooed on creamy skin of her throat and the shadowy chasm between her full breasts. Her matching skirt was slit up the front. Harvey was grateful that she was wearing opaque tights.

  When she smiled, put down her bow and stood to greet them, Harvey noticed her pointy-toed, high-heeled, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West boots.

  No, there was no way this woman could have created that music! He swallowed hard, and tried again. “Ms Rasinovsky,” he croaked. “I’m Harvey Goldberg, and this is my brother, Albert.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for coming all the way to Boston.”

  Al’s eyes gleamed. He stepped forward and took the slender hand the cellist offered. “The pleasure is ours, Ms Rasinovsky. I haven’t heard that piece played so well for many years.”

  The woman laughed, deep in her chest. “You flatter me. And please, call me Deidre.”

  “Al is telling the truth – Deidre. Your performance was astonishing. Not only was it technically perfect, it was very moving.”

  “I appreciate the praise all the more, coming from a musician of your reputation, Mr Goldberg – I mean, Harvey.”

  She made his name sound like music. Harvey suddenly felt as though somebody had turned on a sunlamp. His wool suit was unbearably hot. His necktie was strangling him. He burned with embarrassment as he imagined how she must see him: a dumpy middle-aged man, balding and a bit dishevelled, blushing like a girl. He needed to take control of this interview, but somehow he couldn’t organize his thoughts enough to utter a coherent sentence.

  To his surprise, Al stepped into the breach. “I can see why you’d want to get back on the stage, Deidre. Your talent is wasted on students. What I don’t understand is why you’re interested in joining us. Because, honestly, we’re not of your calibre.”

  There was that laugh again, vibrating through Harvey’s body like a low G drawn from her bow.

  “I’ve had a solo career, Albert. It is a lonely life. The spotlight isolates you from your fellow musicians. I am familiar with the fleeting fulfilment of applause and the acid of my colleagues’ envy. I don’t want that. I want to belong to a community of music, a collaboration where our creation is greater than what any of us could achieve on our own. A musical family, if you will. And I sense, from listening to your recordings, that you could be offering what I am missing. That sense of belonging.”

  “Do you have a husband?” asked Harvey, struggling to gain a foothold in the conversation. “Children?”

  “I was married once, briefly. It rapidly became clear to both of us that despite the intense sexual attraction we shared, no man could compete with music for my affections.”

  Harvey blushed again. How could they possibly contemplate performing with this post-punk siren, when simply talking to her turned him back into an awkward, tongue-tied teenager?

  Al, on the other hand, seemed to radiate poise. “After hearing your Bach, Deidre, I hardly think we need to give you an audition. However, it seems like we should try playing together. To test out the chemistry, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course. Why not now? I see you’ve brought your instruments. How about K563? One of my students has been working on it, so I have the music here.”

  She extricated two scores from a pile on the table beside her, and handed one to Al. “I only have two copies, though. Do you and Harvey mind sharing?”

  “I think we can manage,” Al reassured her. He adjusted the music stand so that he and his brother could both read the page.

  Deidre settled back on to her stool and embraced her cello. Her long pale fingers caressed the flowing curves of the body, then danced lightly up the frets. Her gestures were so sensual that Harvey found himself becoming aroused.

  This was unbearable. He fought an urge to stand and run out the door, back to Brooklyn, back to the dreary but fam
iliar confines of his normal life. There was something dreamlike about this encounter, or perhaps nightmarish. He needed to escape, but this exotic, disturbing woman rooted him to the spot.

  Al had busied himself tuning his violin and rosining his bow. Harvey tried to hide his nervousness by doing the same.

  “Shall we try the Allegro first movement?” Deidre asked. “Or would you rather tackle one of the minuets?”

  “The Allegro’s fine.” Al positioned the violin under his chin. “Ready?”

  Harvey and Deidre prepared themselves. Al nodded the signal, and they launched into the piece.

  The attack was perfect. Mozart’s sprightly melody filled the room, light as summer, free as running water. Harvey felt it flowing effortlessly from his instrument, entwining with the voices of the others. Laughter rose in his chest, bubbling and threatening to spill over. First one instrument and then another danced away from the ensemble, gambolling up and down the scales before rejoining the harmony. It was as wonderfully careless and playful as the composer had intended.

  He glanced over at Deidre. Her painted lips were parted, her eyes sparkling. Al wore a smile for the first time in weeks. Harvey felt as if he were levitating six inches above the floor. He forgot to be embarrassed or self-conscious.

  He knew that they still had a lot of work to do, reviewing the schedule, rehearsing, figuring out the money part. The most serious obstacle, though, seemed to have evaporated. It was clear that Deidre could become part of the trio. In fact, it felt as though she already was.

  It had been Al’s idea to move Deidre into Richard’s room. They were spending six hours a day practising together, why waste time having her travel back and forth to a hotel? Of course, there were considerations of economy as well. Plus, Al admitted to himself, he enjoyed the thought of the glamorous cellist inhabiting Richard’s space, sleeping in his bed. If Richard were haunting the place, he’d be eating his heart out. After three days, though, Al was beginning to wonder whether he’d made a mistake. Rehearsals were going well for the most part, but when they weren’t playing, he was finding it difficult to concentrate.