Everywhere there were tourists, and the city’s famous cats. Navigating in between water taxis, barges, the occasional gondola, until suddenly the shadows fell away, the canal opened up, and the boat picked up speed again out on the open water, looking back over the trailing wake at the famous basilica of Saint Mark’s and the arches of the Doge’s Palace. Then the engine cut and the launch glided to the private dock where the hotel’s greeter stood waiting to help them ashore with their luggage.
They walked under a canvas loggia to the front desk. The receptionist, elegant in morning coat with a soft gray tie, swiftly acknowledged their reservation and politely requested their passports.
“Welcome back, Signor Blackwood,” he said.
“Grazie.”
“Grazie a lei. Prego, the porter will show you to your room.”
“Come along, darling,” Freddie said. “What did I tell you? Beautiful, eh?”
“Beautiful.”
The suite looked out over the lagoon. Cesca stepped onto the balcony. “God, what a view.”
Freddie tipped the porter and followed her onto the balcony. “What do you feel like doing? Are you tired? Hungry?”
They had been driving for several days. Each night in a different hotel. Lyon. Monaco. Last night they had slept in Genoa. Every night they ate well, hungry after a long day of driving, stopping in churches. Every night they made love. In Lyon the manager had to call up and, in an embarrassed voice, ask them to make less noise. They would be in Venice for a week.
“Let’s stay in and order room service,” she said, turning and facing him, her arms around his neck. “Is that all right?”
At dusk they emerged from their room sated, showered. “We can have a drink on the terrace,” Freddie said.
The terrace was crowded. They sat next to another couple, a handsome older man with a dark mustache and an attractive woman. Cesca recognized him but couldn’t place him. She could tell he was used to being stared at. His hands were beautiful, almost feminine. He wore plenty of gold. Gold watch. Gold rings. Gold reading glasses. Even a gold bracelet. Despite this, he still seemed supremely, effortlessly masculine.
The tables were so close together it was impossible not to chat with each other. He did not offer his name, as though to do so would be superfluous. He explained that he was in town for a backgammon tournament. His accent was refined, foreign, but he was not Italian. He recommended a restaurant in the Cannaregio. He said it was where the real Venetians went. It was too far from the city center for tourists. They drove from Genoa? He had always wanted to go. One day. He loved Monte Carlo. He went every year. Backgammon was his game. He had many friends there.
Finally, he stood up to leave. “Come, my dear,” he said. “Or we’ll be late. Enjoy your stay. You are a lovely couple. Ciao. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Freddie, rising in his chair and shaking hands. “Thank you.”
They watched them leave the terrace. Other guests watched them as well. For a moment the terrace was silent.
“Was that?” she asked.
“Yes.” Freddie nodded. “I always loved his movies.”
The days slipped by in a pink haze. In the mornings they sleep in, the sheets rumpled. They feast on each other’s bodies. They could never tire of one another. Every moment was ripe with carnality. He slipped the pillow under her stomach. “There,” he said. “Comfortable?”
He entered her with long strokes, sunlight seeping through the curtains, his strong arms planted on either side of her, pinioning her to the bed. She never wanted it to end. It was more than pleasure.
They played tennis at noon. It was too hot for most of the guests. They were both brown from the sun, their limbs strong. He was surprised by how competitive she was. Every set was a battle, with neither willing to let the other win easily. Sometimes other guests watched them and clapped when a particularly good point was scored. By the end they were breathing hard, sweat glistening on their foreheads and arms. At lunch, they drank Negronis. He had introduced her to them. They sat outside. The waiter brought octopus carpaccio. Filetto di branzino. A bottle of Gavi di Gavi chilling in an ice bucket. They ate like hunters, their insides hollow from the exertion of love and sport. Then they lay by the pool, occasionally diving in to cool off. They were the couple everyone watched. Their beauty invited speculation. People wondered who they were. Rumors abounded. He was an English lord. She was a famous model. They had run away together. They were married to other people. They could barely keep their hands off each other. They moved in a halo. The rest of the world seemed drab next to them, even in Venice. What was known about them was their youth, their faces, and their passion. It was impossible not to envy them.
They only left the island at night. They went to restaurants. Harry’s Bar.
“What about the churches? The Titians? Don’t you want to see them?” he asked.
“No. Too many people. I don’t want to feel like a tourist. I want to feel like I live here.”
“Wouldn’t it be something to live in Venice?”
“Then every day you could walk out of your palazzo and go look at the Titians any time you wanted. In January or October or sometime when the streets aren’t crawling with sunburnt Germans or fat Americans or little Japanese going click-click-click with their cameras. That’s what a real Venetian could do.”
“I wonder if you wouldn’t go a little mad after a while though? All that water.”
“Absolutely. I think that’s the whole point. I think you need to be a little crazy to live here. Exposure to so much beauty can’t be good for one’s mental health.”
“That’s how I feel about you,” he said. “Now I understand why people say they’re crazy for someone.”
“Stop,” she said, pushing him gently. “Don’t get all gushy on me. I thought you English were meant to have stiff upper lips.”
“I’ll show you what’s stiff.” He laughed and reached for her.
For them night couldn’t come fast enough. The rest was diversion, distractions to keep them from devouring each other utterly. They waited all day. Until, after dinner, they were ready to begin again. The bed with its crisp, cool sheets beckoned. Every night they returned to it, like pagans at an altar.
“Have you ever tried it?” she had asked in the restaurant.
“No, we used to joke about it in school. You know. English schoolboys.”
“I had a friend in London who said the Italians were crazy about it.”
“Well, Italians.”
“We should try it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I should get something.”
“Maybe the concierge.”
“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. Let’s go. Pay the bill. Hurry.”
They returned by the hotel’s private launch. When they reached their room, he called down to explain what he needed. That he had a burn on his hand. “Prego,” the concierge replied. “Of course. I’ll send it up right away, signor.” Would he like a doctor?
“No, that’s all right.”
They had a drink while they waited.
“I’ve never done it either,” she said. “I want to do it with you.”
He smiled and said nothing. He felt like a champion. It was a reward.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door. He gave the porter a generous tip. “Grazie,” he said.
“Grazie a lei.”
“Cheeky bastard,” he said after closing the door. “It’s like he knows what we are up to.”
“So what? It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”
“I suppose not.”
She finished her drink. “I’m going to go get ready,” she said.
The room was dark when she came to bed, her strong body warm and pliant. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Go slowly.”
He began as usual, taking his time. There was no rush.
They had all night. All morning. All the time in the world. She writhed on the bed. “Now,” she begged. “Now.”
Slowly he obeyed.
“Let me know if you want me to stop.”
“Ah,” she said. “That hurts.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No. Stay there. Just go slowly. Ow. More slowly. Stop.”
He waited, stroking her back, feeling himself in her. Restraining himself.
“Okay,” she said.
He began again. Slowly, infinitely slowly.
“Better?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Keep going,” she said.
He went deeper, then deeper still.
“Oh God,” she shouted. There were tears in her eyes. She was on the edge of a cliff. Her heart was racing. The line between pleasure and pain had blurred. “Don’t stop.”
Afterward they lay spent in bed. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“A little sore but I loved it,” she replied softly, gently stroking his chest. “It’s like nothing else. I don’t think I could do it all the time, though. It’d be too much.”
He kissed her head as it rested on his shoulder. She was more precious to him than ever now. They had signed a secret pact. They were bound to each other forever.
Venice ended. Once again they were in the car with the top down. The return trip was faster. He needed to get back to the office. They had been away two weeks. It was almost September. They passed Brescia, Milan, Aosta; drove through the foothills of the Alps, Mont Blanc looming massively in the distance, overshadowing everything else. Then Chamonix and down into the rolling vineyards of Burgundy. The first night they spent in Dijon, staggering out of the car at their hotel. They had been driving for nearly nine hours. They had planned a gourmet meal. Booked a table months in advance.
“Do you mind if we just eat in our room?” he asked. “I’m fagged out.”
The next night they reached Paris, where they stayed for one night at the Ritz. “I’m feeling better,” he said. “Let’s go dancing.”
He took her to Castel, on the Left Bank. “My father used to come here,” he said. “He was a good friend of Jean, the founder.”
They met a Frenchman at the bar. He was with a beautiful blond woman. She had pixyish hair and a sleeveless, backless dress that revealed her lean, well-toned arms and shoulders.
“Where are you from?” Cesca asked in English.
“Norway,” she answered. “Oslo. Have you been?”
Cesca shook her head.
The room was full, the music loud. It was after midnight. Freddie leaned over and asked if they could leave, but Cesca was having fun. She wanted to stay. She was charmed by the Frenchman. He was very elegant, older. He wore a thick gold watch on his wrist. His hands were perfectly manicured. They too had just returned to Paris. He had a château near Menton. “You should come,” he said to her. “You would love it.”
“Maybe I will.”
He asked her to dance. She looked over at Freddie, who smiled and said, “Of course.” They moved to the small dance floor. Freddie followed them with his eyes until the Norwegian girl said something, and he turned to look at her. When he looked back to the dance floor, he didn’t see them.
“Is anything the matter?” the girl asked.
“No. Sorry.”
A little while later Cesca and the Frenchman returned to the table. They had been in the bathroom together. She was wiping her nose and laughing.
“Encore? Another round?” asked the Frenchman, signaling to the waitress for a new bottle of champagne.
“That’s awfully good of you but we really have to go,” said Freddie, taking out his billfold from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Nonsense,” said the Frenchman. “Stay. It’s my party.”
“Please, Freddie,” Cesca said. “It’s our last night.”
“Oh, all right.” He smiled, trying to look like he didn’t mind.
It was now two in the morning. They were on their fourth bottle of champagne. Cesca and the Frenchman, whose name was Arnaud, had disappeared again.
“How long have you known Arnaud?” Freddie asked the Norwegian girl. Her name was Beate.
“Not long.”
“Where did you meet?”
“In Nice. On his yacht.”
“Oh? Jolly good.”
“He is a lot of fun.”
“I can tell. Are you staying in Paris long?”
She shrugged her naked shoulders. “I don’t know. It depends on Arnaud.”
Cesca and Arnaud returned again and Freddie said, “Darling, I really think it’s time to go. We have a long day tomorrow and an early start.”
She was trying not to hear him. She wanted him to go away, didn’t understand why he was behaving like this. It made her angry. “Don’t be such a drag, Freddie,” she said, finally.
“I would be happy to drop her at your hotel if Cesca wants to stay,” Arnaud said.
Freddie ignored him. “Come on, Cesca. Time to go.”
For a moment her eyes flashed, and he feared she would refuse. The thought of a public scene appalled him, especially in front of Arnaud.
She huffed and quickly stood up, making the point that she was being inconvenienced. “Fine,” she said, her mouth tense. “Have it your way.”
She turned away from Freddie and coquettishly presented her cheeks to be kissed by Arnaud. “It was lovely meeting you,” she said. “I’m so sorry Freddie’s so boring. Thank you for everything.”
He waved his hand like a lord. “Rien,” he said. “It was my pleasure, chérie. Don’t forget. You are always welcome in Menton.”
In the taxi going back to the hotel, she was sullen, angry as a spoiled child denied a toy.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry that I had to break up the party but it’s ridiculously late.”
“Oh, don’t pretend like you were having such a bad time. I saw you flirting with Beate.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be silly, darling.”
“I am not being silly. I saw you. I didn’t know you liked blondes so much.”
He sighed and said nothing. “Please, darling. Let’s not fight.”
“Why not? Why can’t we fight? What are you scared of?”
“I’m not scared of anything,” he replied in a hushed tone. “I just don’t think it’s something we need to fight about.”
“You’re an uptight, pompous, British asshole.”
They arrived at the hotel, and she strode out of the car, past the night doorman, and through the revolving door before Freddie could pay the driver. When he got to the room, the bathroom door was locked. He knocked gently. “Darling?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Please? Let’s not fight.”
“Fuck you.”
He sighed and sat on the bed. “How much longer will you be?”
“As long as I want.”
“All right, I’m going to go back to the lobby to use the loo there. I’ll be right back.”
There was no answer. When he returned, the room was dark, and she was curled on the bed, her face to the wall.
“Darling?” he asked.
“I’m asleep.”
Wearily he got into bed.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I won’t. Good night, darling. Sleep well.” He rolled over on his side and was asleep within minutes. It was the first night they had not made love.
The telephone rang at eight o’clock with their wake-up call. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour, merci,” he said groggily.
The room was still dark, the late August sunshine barely able to penetrate the heavy curtains. “Darling?” he asked.
She grunted and pulled a pillow over her head.
“We have to catch the noon ferry,” he said. “I’m going to call down for room service.”
“Go ’way. Sleeping,” she muttered.
; He took a shower and quickly shaved. When breakfast arrived, he was waiting in a bathrobe. Still, she had not moved. He signed for the check and poured out a cup of coffee. “Darling,” he said. “Black coffee for you?”
No response.
He placed the cup and saucer on the nightstand and sat down carefully next to her on the lip of the bed. “Darling, we have to begin to wake up. It’s another big push today, I’m afraid. Nine hours.”
She let out a low groan, then said, “I’m dying.”
“No, you aren’t. Just feeling a little under the weather. What you need is some food in your system. I’ve ordered up eggs, bacon, toast. The lot.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He stood up quickly as she threw off the sheet and dashed for the toilet, closing the door behind. The heavy door was so well balanced it didn’t slam.
He gave her a few minutes and then knocked. “Everything all right in there?”
“I’ll be right out.”
She emerged a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, her hair tousled, the sides of her mouth turned down. Streaks of dried mascara ran down her face. He was sitting at the table, the breakfast laid out before him. She sat down and picked up the coffee he had moved there.
“I hope you don’t mind if I started,” he said. “It’s jolly good.”
She sat there and sipped the coffee in silence.
“Have a croissant.”
He handed her the basket, and she took one, tore off a piece, and placed it gingerly in her mouth, little bits of pastry clinging to her lip. Slowly she chewed. Then another bite.
“Oh God,” she said. “What happened?”
“We went to a nightclub.”
“I remember.”
“We met some people. You took rather a shine to the man. Apparently you have big plans to visit him at his château in Menton in the near future. His name was Arnaud.”
“Oh Christ.”
“You kept disappearing to the loo together. No doubt to do cocaine. I really don’t understand what you see in that drug. It always just makes me jittery.”
“What else?”
Girl in the Moonlight Page 13
