Eighty Days Blue

by Vina Jackson

  I stared at my forearms, noticing the pattern that the rope had left on my skin, slightly sunken hatched markings, white in response to the pressure of the tie, where the circulation had been cut off, and red around the edges. It was an oddly domestic print, reminiscent of a traditional tablecloth in an Italian restaurant.

  Cherry promised me that the marks would be gone in a few hours, which was fortunate as I had another rehearsal that evening. We parted with a promise to get in touch soon and arrange further exploration of the New York fetish scene.

  I played well that day, pleased that I had made some new friends.

  The marks on my arms vanished so quickly that I wished for their return, some kind of reminder of my pleasant afternoon, but instead I was left with nothing but the memory of the experience to mull over. I had been clothed throughout the tying, a workshop requirement, to ensure that the trainee riggers were not so distracted by naked bodies that they couldn’t concentrate on the lesson. Next time, I thought, I’d like to try it naked, so that I could feel the rope all over and not just on my arms.

  ‘Good work tonight,’ Simón called out, as I packed the Bailly away in its case. He was stuck in conversation with Alex, the trombone player.

  We’d been back to the Italian coffee shop a second time and were beginning to fall into an easy sort of friendship. Knowing him better had improved my playing. I began to follow movements so subtle that I doubted he was even aware he was making them, interpreting the music exactly as he did, and I basked in the warmth of his praise as he told me that I was continuing to grow.

  ‘See you Thursday,’ I replied on my way out.

  I didn’t feel completely easy about the situation. The time to drop Dominik’s name casually into conversation so that Simón would know that I wasn’t entirely available had been and gone. He hadn’t made any kind of move on me, but I couldn’t shake the guilty feeling that I was leading him on.

  Too late for that now, as I had just rung the bell at his apartment in a sought-after block on the Upper West Side, a stone’s throw from the Lincoln Center, and was standing on his doorstep holding a steaming pumpkin pie. Marija had baked it for me, despite my protestations, as soon as she found out that I had a ‘date’ with the conductor.

  Simón opened the door and relieved me of the pie. He was wearing a gold waistcoat tonight, with matching gold cufflinks and his pointed snakeskin ankle boots, reminiscent of a gangster from a 1930s film. Fitting, I thought, as he sometimes wielded his baton like a machine gun. I kicked myself for not dressing up more. I’d fretted over what to wear and opted for casual, dressing down in soft black leggings, a long J. Crew cardigan and a pair of low-heeled sandals, so that he wouldn’t think it was a date. I slipped into the bathroom at the first opportunity to add a pair of pearl earrings and matching necklace, which I’d stowed in my handbag in case the evening turned out to be more formal than I expected.

  The other guests were a motley bunch, as most of America was at home with their own families, so Simón had assembled all those he knew who didn’t have anywhere else to go: Al, an architect on secondment from a firm in the Middle East, working on a luxurious new hotel complex on Madison Avenue; Steve, a performance poet visiting from England who had performed just before us at the Union Square concert; Alice and Diane, a couple who ran an art and performance space in Nolita; and Susan, a sharp-eyed woman with a ready laugh who Simón sat me next to over dinner. She was an agent, I discovered, who had a range of solo musicians on her books.

  Simón spent most of the night chatting to Steve, the poet, leaving me free to make small talk with Susan.

  She slipped her card into my hand at the end of the night. ‘Keep in touch,’ she said. ‘Simón speaks very highly of you, and he has excellent taste.’

  I was the last to leave. Simón walked me to the door, maintaining a friendly but professional distance between us.

  ‘Thank you again for the invitation,’ I said politely.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ he replied, inclining his head in a low bow. ‘I’m glad you had a chance to talk to Susan.’

  His eyes were sharp, unblinking.

  ‘She seems very nice.’

  ‘She is. She’s also very good.’

  I returned home to find Baldo and Marija awake and sprawled out over one another on the couch in the living room. They were entirely happy to celebrate a Thanks-giving for two.

  ‘Sooooo,’ said Marija, ‘tell us everything.’

  ‘Your pie went down well.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t the only thing that went down well,’ she sniggered.

  ‘It’s not like that with him. We work together.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Famous last words.’

  I glared at her as I pushed the door open to my bedroom.

  She was probably right, though, I thought, sighing as I sank into bed.

  My corset lay forsaken, hanging limp over my wardrobe rail, its silver catches gleaming in the glare from my bedside light like a row of tiny moons.

  4

  Bourbon Street

  Dominik took it as an omen when a review of a book of essays he had contributed to appeared in an issue of Book Forum magazine alongside an ad for a dozen or so major fellowships at the New York Public Library being offered for research purposes to scholars or writers, endowed by a family trust he had not previously come across. He appeared to tick all the criteria listed on the application form he found online as far as past publications and academic credentials were concerned.

  He’d been considering a particular book idea for some time now, before he’d been distracted by the arrival of Summer in his life, which would have involved substantial research at the London or British Library. The thought immediately occurred to him that an office of his own in the New York Public Library would be a perfect place to have, and a perfect excuse to spend nine months in Manhattan closer to Summer. The lecturing obligations that came with the fellowship were both minimal and manageable, and the stipend generous. Not that the money was any sort of consideration for him, even knowing New York rental costs.

  He applied and was shortlisted by return of post.

  The interviews would take place the week before Christmas.

  Everything was falling into place.

  Summer had informed him about a recent one-night stand she’d had back in New York. He hadn’t been jealous. More so reading between the lines of her amused confession focusing on the guy’s furniture and apartment colour scheme and how she had giggled when she had revealed that the place had not a single book to be seen. It had obviously not been anything serious, just an itch scratched. He couldn’t expect her to remain an unsullied nun in a place like the Big Apple. In fact, he was grateful that she felt secure enough to keep him in the loop about her minor sexual adventures.

  She had also informed him that she was planning to attend a rope-bondage class the following week and sounded rather excited by the prospect. He was looking forward to her account of the event and encouraged her involvement.

  At the same time, Dominik knew he could not afford to have her loose in America too long.

  They had renewed their bond, but it was still tenuous and subject to the whims of distance and coincidence. Dominik wanted to see her again, spend time with her. He was aware she felt the same way and that the relatively innocent one-nighter with a stranger whose name she could apparently no longer even recall was just displacement, a stop gap until they could be together again. All part of the give and take that would be necessary if they were to make their own relationship work.

  He rang her and, for once, managed to get through without tediously having to leave a messages or arrange a particular time down the line for an actual conversation to take place.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Hello, you.’ He could hear the genuine pleasure in her voice. ‘I had a feeling you were about to call.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I felt it in my bones.’

  ‘Only in your bones?�
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  ‘Maybe somewhere else too,’ she added flirtatiously.

  ‘Listen, I’ve arranged to come to New York in three weeks.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘To hold conversations with an institution there about the possibility of taking up a fellowship in New York, which means I could move to the city for a whole nine months. What do you think?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, as she no doubt realised this could possibly prove a major step forward in their adventure.

  ‘Hmm . . . it sounds great.’

  ‘I’ll tell you more when I’m there, but it could be exciting.’

  ‘Yes.’ He could feel Summer drawing back into a shell at the other end of the line.

  Dominik had been about to suggest that if the gig came off, they could actually find a place to live together while he was in town working and researching his future book, but he held back on hearing the hesitation in her voice. Yes, it would be a big step. For both of them. An experiment. For which neither of them might yet be ready.

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just an idea. There’s no reason for me to rush back to London following the interviews. I would have no more lectures until well into the new year. I could stay over and we could go somewhere in America for the holiday period. You always mention how much you enjoy travel and there are so many places in the States you’ve always wanted to try out, no?’

  ‘We have a Christmas Eve concert pencilled in,’ Summer said.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Dominik said. ‘We could fly out the following day. Maybe somewhere warmer?’

  She failed to respond as he had anticipated. ‘Orchestras always get lumbered with crap concerts around the festive season,’ she added. ‘I hate that repertoire, the second-rate music the public somehow expects. To cap it all, it’ll be with a guest conductor who’s being flown in all the way from Vienna. Strauss waltzes, pomp and circumstance and all that. Simón is glad he doesn’t have to be involved.’

  ‘Who’s Simón?’ Dominik asked.

  ‘Our conductor. Our permanent one.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise he was now with the Symphonia. I read an article about him. From South America, no?’

  ‘Yes. He’s doing a great job. Lives the music so intensely.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘I guess so. Probably why I like working with him.’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a pause on the line. Dominik could feel Summer’s impatience building. She hated lengthy telephone conversations.

  ‘So how long have you got free after Christmas Eve?’ he asked.

  He could hear her moving across the narrow bedroom to consult her desk diary.

  ‘Next set of rehearsals don’t begin until 4 January,’ she replied.

  ‘Perfect,’ Dominik said. ‘Keep those days free.’

  He heard her sigh.

  ‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ he indicated, knowing the way she liked him to be firm. He had to be his old self again, and he had every intention of being so.

  They’d spent three whole days in his hotel room in New York, interrupted by a couple of four-hour final orchestra rehearsals prior to the Christmas concert that would close their season. Summer had half feared that, just like at the London Proms, the musicians might be asked to wear funny festive hats, don Santa beards or other humiliating extras to commemorate the occasion, but management here seemed less bothered and the only suggestion pinned to the noteboard was for a possible sprig of holly on lapels or dress straps, and even then it was not compulsory. It was bad enough that the concert’s musical line-up was essentially muzak, pap for mostly suburban concertgoers who only came out when the bright lights of winter shone, no one really serious. Commuters from Long Island and New Jersey to the big city for a pleasing night out after their frantic shopping at Macy’s or FAO Schwarz.

  Their lovemaking took place below framed prints of a younger Ingrid Bergman and Marlene Dietrich, which hung on the wall above the bed. Dominik had not managed at short notice to secure a deluxe room with a king-size bed and the double bed in the room was a touch narrow, so they had to sleep spooned together; certainly not designed for anyone overweight, Summer reckoned.

  She could have invited him to stay at hers, even though she had even less space, but the thought made her nervous, as if the intimacy it might involve was greater than fucking for hours on end until they felt raw.

  She floated through the rehearsals, her mind a total blank, indifferent to the music and playing by rote, eager to get the chore done and return to the comforting warmth of Dominik’s bed.

  The room was on a different floor of the hotel in Washington Square from the last time he had been in town, but the room’s configuration was the same. The pink room, as she remembered it, even if it was more a light shade of purple when the blinds were not drawn, she noticed now. Strange how memory could imperceptibly shift at random through the spectrum of the rainbow and a curious filter of emotions. The room had become a now familiar, gentle cocoon in which she willingly surrendered to Dominik’s arms and soothing words.

  His body was a map she had journeyed through before, with parts unexplored and heartbeats in exquisite disarray. Her senses were alert to the sound of his breath across her skin, the touch of his fingers. It seemed to her – a strident thought that raced through her brain more often than not when they were fucking – that there might actually be two separate Summers involved in this game. The one she knew, who wondered why all this wasn’t enough, why she harboured this compulsion, this need for more while yet another alter-ego, devilish and provocative, treacherously whispered in her ear that surely there was more to life than this.

  The thought never lasted long, however, as she surrendered to his vigorous embrace.

  He was her man. For now. His arms pinned her back on the bed the way she liked men to control her sexually, his cock filled her with an imperious form of roughness, and the sounds he made while inside her were just the right mix of affection and animal lust. It was enough. Summer knew she had to live in the moment. Because those special moments never lasted for ever.

  ‘Tell me, tell me all the things you want to do to me,’ she rasped, as another hard thrust turned the fire inside up a notch and she briefly felt dizzy.

  ‘Oh, so many things, Summer. So many. Bad things, wonderful things, filthy things, dangerous things.’ His words emerged slightly haltingly. The weight of his body pressed against her ribs, restricting her breath.

  Watching her under him, her eyes firmly closed, her skin so soft and pliant, communing with the flow of her lust, Dominik felt a faint wave of generosity course through his mind, overcoming the tyrannical demands of his cock, now buried deep inside Summer’s body. At times like this, he felt he could die happy on the spot, in this hotel room with the night glow of the nearby arch shadowed through the gaps in the drawn blinds.

  He looked up, the sight of her face almost too much for an instant, and Bergman and Dietrich enigmatically smiled down at him.

  He slowed his pace, almost to a halt, and Summer half opened an eye, querying his change of rhythm. He didn’t want to come yet. He wanted this to last for ever, inside her, part of her, feeling the implacable force of her surrender. Of her love?

  His fingers roamed with delicate attention across her warm flesh. Beneath them, the sheets were crumpled and humid with sweat. He withdrew briefly from her and changed his position, adjusting his stance before penetrating her anew. While her hands moved from his shoulders down across his back, her nails gently scraped against his skin in a parody of massage.

  Oh, yes, there were so many things he wanted to do. Not now. One day. With her. He would observe the unease of the initial onset of pain and then the acceptance of the discomfort morphing into pleasure from the metal clamps or clothes pegs he would one day inevitably adorn her dark nipples with. He would gauge the intensity of her breath as his fingers put pressure on her delicate throat and her whole bod
y convulsed wildly under his control. Oh, Dominik, dangerous thoughts, he told himself. He would enjoy breaching her sphincter with toys and then his cock when the time was right, another taboo standing between them still like a landmark . . . Enough, Dominik, enough . . .

  His thoughts raced wildly as he continued his thrusts inside her, sensing her own pleasure rise in unison with his, slowing his progress to match hers as best he could, and then felt Summer slipping a finger into his own anal opening . . . FUCK . . . He came instantly and with such violence he was briefly worried that he could have punctured the condom.

  Her impulsive gesture had certainly taken him by surprise.

  His breathing ragged, he lowered his lips to Summer’s and kissed her affectionately, brushing the salt from her brow as he did.

  Clearly, he still had a lot to learn about Summer Zahova.

  And he would.

  The interview with the trustees of the foundation endowing the Public Library fellowship had gone swimmingly that afternoon and he was now confident the position was his. He relished the prospect of nine whole months with Summer in Manhattan. He looked down at her naked body, stretched across the bed, open, pale, exposed in all its intimacy. So much time, so many things they could now do.

  The formal decision about the fellowship was expected early in January, and if successful, he would be expected to take up the position shortly after Easter.

  He was about to say something to her and noticed she had fallen asleep.

  Dominik welcomed the sudden silence, a chance to think.

  ‘I want to display you,’ Dominik had warned her.

  The Symphonia’s Christmas concert was over, which had not proven too excruciating in its excess of jollity after all, and Summer had been asked by Dominik to pack enough clothes for a week. When she had queried where they would be going, all Dominik had said was that the weather was expected to be mild.

  ‘I don’t think a bathing costume will be needed, though,’ he had added.