17. Bitter morning

Saul lifted himself from bed.

A large, hefty frame, muscular like a rugby player; he had wide toned shoulders and powerful arms; his midsection like marble sculpted under the skin. Saul's naked torso reminded Marge of a rock jutting in the ocean; a stronghold withstanding the fury of the waves thrusting against a sturdy mass.

He stood up by the bed, furled back the bed sheets and straightened his pillow.

His hair, pitch black, was cut short and parted left to right in a perfect line. He only needed to comb it with his hand once to make his hair fall into that perfect division. His green eyes had a comforting niceness to them, big and tucked over his salient cheekbones – another sign of his physical force translated into facial features. Particularly so when he smiled. It was always a kind smile, exuding the tranquility of self‑reassurance. Saul’s chiseled jaw made dimples on the corner of his lips when he did that. When he smiled. And he had a twitch on his nose – a straight‑shaped, not too big and round at the nostrils, Latin nose – which gave him a boyish look. Saul had this candid honesty about him that made people immediately trust him and whom he always – always – greeted with his ready smile.

The truth is, Saul was a very beautiful man. And to his uncommon beauty, he added the particular charm of truly being coy about his looks.

Marge had succumbed to that charm. And she further surrendered herself to him, when – despite all the obvious signs of her interest in him – he was timid to acknowledge her attraction to him. God only knows, there were endless other beautiful and younger women interested in him, even lusting for him, but he appeared distraught and positively unbelieving that Marge should’ve taken an interest in him when they first met. As if he was undeserving of her.

“It’s eight o’clock, sweetie. We better hurry – breakfast is only until 9.30.”

Marge let herself linger in bed, languidly stretching her muscles, which let her tee‑shirt roll up to her breasts, exposing her nudity. Exposing him her nudity.

Saul went into the bathroom and opened the cold water faucet. He splashed some water on his face a couple of times and ran his hand under his chin, feeling the stubble. He took his toothbrush from the glass in the sink, wetted it under the faucet. He turned the water off and opened the cap of toothpaste, squeezing the blue‑and‑red striped white paste the full length of the brush.

All the while, Marge entangled herself in the bed sheets, snuggling in the coziness of the cotton linen and the smooth pillows. Her thoughts carried away in day dreams like lewd clouds in a clear midday summer sky.

Saul closed the cap and put the tube back in the cabinet. Started brushing. His upper front teeth first, in circular movements. From left to right. Then the lower front teeth. From left to right. In circular movements. Opened the faucet. Wetted the brush once more. Closed the faucet. Now his back teeth. Right side first. Then the left. He spat. Opened the faucet. Wetted the brush, washing off the excess foam. His lower back teeth, the top of them. Left side first. Then those on the right.

Marge tossed and played with her skin and the texture of the fabric enveloping her.

His upper back teeth; left to right; circular movements; left side first; open water; wet the brush. Then the right side. Filled glass with water, halfway full. Rinsed the brush; gurgled; washed his mouth. Rinsed the glass. He opened the cabinet and took the dental floss out. He cut a string the length of his palm and looped the ends twice around his index and middle fingers on both hands. Canines; molars; upper front teeth; lower front teeth; back teeth; left side first; then right side. Opened water. Filled glass. Halfway full. Gurgled. Spat. Drank the remaining water in the glass. Put the glass back on the sink; put the dental floss back in the cabinet. Opened the faucet on hot water. Let in run till it was at the right temperature. Closed the faucet. Opened the cabinet and took the shaving cream and the razor blade.

“You not getting ready, dear?”

Marge opened her eyes, her visions flushing away in a dark corner of her mind: “Mh?”

He shook the shaving cream canister and put it to his right hand side on the sink. He turned on the water and let it run again. Cupping his hands, he brought the hot water to his face a couple of times. Turned off the water. Took the canister and shook it. Once, twice. And sprayed some of the bright blue viscous gel in a ball, the size of a hazelnut on his left palm. He began applying it. On his left cheek first. Then moving down to his chin. His right cheek next. And down to the right side of his chin. Open the faucet and washed his hand. Closed it and sprayed some more blue shaving gel onto his palm. The size of a hazelnut. He started rubbing the gel, making it foam, under his nose – the exact width over his lips till it met the foam he had applied on his cheeks. Then proceeded to rub the shaving gel on his neck; starting under his chin towards his throat; then its left side; then its right side.

From the bed, on which she was still laying, half naked, Marge said “I actually think you’re cute when you don’t shave. I think a stubble can be sexy on you…”

He let the cold water run over his razor blade.

“Said something, dear?”

“Yes. I said, you look cute with a stubble, Saul.”

“Well, sweetie, we have to go down for breakfast.”

He began shaving his face. His left cheek, in the sense of the hair growth, down to the chin. Once the foam removed leaving his skin bare, he proceeded to the left cheek.

Foam removed. Opened water and rinsed the blade. Turned water off. Dried his hands on the towel next to the sink. Folded the towel. Put the towel back on the hanger.

Marge jerked herself out of bed and took her tee‑shirt off, which she threw, without looking, onto the chair at the corner of the bedroom. She took a look at her naked body in the mirror. She examined the firmness of her breasts; how they sat on her chest; how they looked from the front and the side. She still heard the rasping of Saul’s razor blade, cutting along the side of his cheeks, in the bathroom next door. She then approached the mirror at the end of the bed by the desk and chair for a close scan of her face: the thin wrinkles around her eyes and the corner of her lips, less full now than when she was younger – when she met him; the texture of her pale skin; the depth of the lines on her brow (she grimaced, forcing those lines to its deepest); and the brightness (or dullness, she briefly wondered) of her brown eyes. She posed for herself.

With his left hand, Saul stretched his neck, making the skin of his throat flat, while tilting his head askew so as to still being able to catch himself in the mirror. With the razor blade in his right hand he resumed shaving.

Upright in full view of the mirror, Marge entwined her fingers at the back of her head, feeling the smooth, heavy brown ropy curls – her pride and joy of all her physical attributes. She caught it high, revealing her neck and making her breasts bob upwards and perkier, and her tummy taut. She tiptoed, her hands still holding the back of her hair, and spun to both sides, seeing her body reflected. High heels make legs slender and longer, she thought.

Open water. Rinse blade. Close water. Shave against the hair growth. His cheeks first. Left side. Then right.

She was almost dancing. A slow dance with her reflection.

“Saul? D’you think my butt has flattened?

“Whaddya say, honey?”

“Oh, nothing – nonsense.”

She came into the bathroom, leaning against the threshold with both arms outstretched. “Are you taking your shower now?” “No, baby, you go right in, I’m still not finished shaving.”

She got into the bathtub and let the water run. “What about a bath? You fancy a bath?”

Saul looked over his shoulder at her, her eyes still looking at his reflection in the mirror. She could see the bulging muscles of his neck.

“Oh, baby. Breakfast! We don’t have time…”

“Yeah ­– I’m just feeling lazy this morning, you know?”

“Well, of course”, Saul said between his teeth; the blade now carefully shaving his chin, “you had some troubled night, didn’t you, honey?”

Caught off‑hand, she blushed, wondering if he’d suspected anything more than she’d told him about the events of that night. Maybe she should tell him exactly what happened. She pondered, searching her mind for the right words, for the right way to put it. But before she could even utter a mouth, Saul turned his face towards the mirror and, continuing shaving, said “It’s probably the heat in the room. That can give you nightmares. I’ll speak with the guy in charge to check the thermostat. That OK, baby? You need your rest, that’s for sure. As soon as we finish breakfast, I’ll have a word with him.”

“You’re such a beautiful man, Saul.”

“Well, anything to keep my baby happy.” And with that he smiled. His frank, kind smile of sheer goodness of heart.

Marge put the shower on. The noise of the water muffled a gentle sigh. She immersed under the pouring shower, lingering.

Last part: the area above the lip. Left side first. And then the right. The blade upwards towards the nostrils. And then, she knew, would come the rinse off, the after-shave balm (the one she bought him, because she insisted he should take better care of himself; he’d never thought of moisturizers for men, and much less for himself).

Marge took the soap and began rubbing it against her skin; bubbles forming in the back of her neck. Moving down her arms from her armpits, in slow motion, gently kneading the surface of her skin. Longer than necessary, she massaged the soap under her breasts, letting the slight foam converge between them and down to her navel. And further down.

Open faucet. Rinse off. Close faucet. After‑shave balm.

Marge felt a surge of modesty and took her eyes off the mirror abandoning, resolute, any prospect of catching any further glimpse of Saul – in the mirror or otherwise - before he had finished. She put the soap down and began shampooing her hair energetically.

“I’m all finished”, Saul said, wiping off the excess balm in a Kleenex.

Marge brushed her legs and the rest of her body, now in a most efficient and through manner of personal ablution. “I don’t suppose you want to join me under the shower, do you?” Saul hesitated, noticing the nakedness of Marge under the running water. “Mh, tempting”, he said finally with a smile. Again his smile. Marge stopped and looked straight at him. “So, why don’t you?” She was half hoping, half unnerved – for a reason she could not really put into words. “No", he replied slowly, "I’ll let you finish. Breakfast!”

“Is that all you have in mind – eat?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Oh, Saul – oh!, never mind!”

“Baby – look. I’d jump you anytime, you know that – …”

“So, why don’t you?”

“What? You mean now?”

“No, Saul – I mean when you’ve made the digestion of your breakfast. Better still, maybe after lunch!”

“Oh, come on, baby!”

“What ‘come on, baby’? You said anytime, didn’t you? Do you want me to beg for sex, is that it?”

Saul paused in his thoughts, dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry. Stupid of me, dear. Really! God, you’re beautiful! Yes, let’s do it! Why the hell not?”

Marge looked at him, frowning. And then, realizing she was being probably unfair on him, gave off a sigh and smiled. “No, honey, you’re right – I guess lack of sleep makes me cranky. I love you. It’s me who’s sorry…”

“Oh, it’s quite alright, honey”, he said with relief. He gave her a nod a wink, “why don’t you dry up and let me take a shower, and I’ll be right with you. OK, pussycat?”

Saul took off his pajamas and, on the way of exchanging places with Marge in the bathtub, gave her a brief kiss. On the shoulder. “Be right with you, baby!”

Marge took a bathrobe from the hook in the door and wrapped herself in it. “OK”, she said with a gentle, but faded, smile.

She sat on the bed, buried in the bathrobe, looked at the sun, shining brightly over the ocean and the beach; an image as in those postcards sold everywhere. Listening to the water fall on the bathtub where Saul was showering made her think of rain.

And, like breath exhaled, she realized the mood was gone.

Signpost: STOP and Re-read

Stop.

After re-reading my posts (the "chapters"), I realised there may be some confusing names; namely Dick and Richard.

So, now Richard is no longer Richard, but Saul. Saul as in Saul before he became Paul in the road for Damascus. Maybe.

Maybe simply it's a name that begins with "S". Because "S" follows "R" in our alphabet. Maybe.

You choose whatever interpretation suits you better.

So, in the next post (chapter 17), Marge's partner is Saul. I've changed chapters 9 and 11 accordingly.

And, for the distracted and lost, here's the couples' line-up:

Marge with Saul;

Dick with Nicole (and with Rosemary) - a love triangle in which the characters bear the same names as in Scott Fitzgerald's "Tender Is The Night"; and

Mr and Mrs Wu.

The 'singles' (for the time being, of course):

The narrator;

Lyubova;

Anna; and

Alfred Schmied.

Oh, and there are a few odd ones out, aren't there? Side characters? Maybe.

End of sign. Road free ahead.

16. The red thread

"Don't answer! Just - don't answer."

Dick coiffed his hair around his temples. Age had abated the strength of his reddish curls, which were now grey and wavy. His hair was also longer now, winding in light loops above his ears and down to his neck. In all, it gave a jaunty appearance to his matured face; a freshness of youth visible under the crust of years. The image of experience blended with vigour time could not wilt.

“I mean, you’re the psychiatrist and all! For crying out loud, Dick, you’re a psychiatrist! How can you not understand?”

He put his glasses down on the kitchen table. Light turtle‑rimmed glasses, carefully picked after extensive scrutiny and painstaking trial so as to render his appearance exactly as he intended: concerned and attentive towards his patients, and moderate – in a conservative way. It was not so much vanity as professional discernment.

“I don’t know. Really – I don’t know. I don’t know how you’d expect me to put up with all of this. And for this long! And you know what else? I really feel sorry for your wife! I mean, it's not that I like her, but, frankly - I really feel sorry for her, you know?”

His cold blue eyes briefly met hers, which made her tone of aggressiveness dwindle to one degree lower. But this was Dick’s power over people: to convey a familiar, almost accessible and confiding nature, to which one felt compelled. Both women and men felt attracted to him. Men eager to share in his calm grandeur fell under his spell of sovereign restraint; women were seduced by his allure of solitary disengagement.

“All the promises you made. To me, to her... To yourself, maybe. Look, Dick, this is all hopeless…” She was buying herself time.

He sat down at the kitchen table, not facing her. She had decorated her kitchen with a Mediterranean flair. Pale pinewood cabinets and cupboards; matching tables and chairs, with hand‑painted Provence motifs. Yellow olive oil and vinegar jars, tucked away in a corner by the stove; a large fruit plate in blue and white arabesques on the table centre; a set of little corked squared bottles with spices and herbs hanging in a black iron basket on the wall; clay pots and animal‑shaped bits and pieces arranged carefully by the window ledge.

They had first met in France.

She learned to like Mediterranean cuisine and he had learned to cook it for her – saltimbocca, cannelloni, bouillabaisse, pasta and meatballs in tomato sauce. Clumsy at first and always thereafter, he put into his cooking all his joy of life. And all his joy of life seemed to consist in one thing only: to please her. The moment they met, she felt immediate attraction. But, to him, it was instant love. The purest, most sublime and absolute love. A love unsurpassed. A love that could never be greater. Only lesser.

“What do all your words mean, if you don’t know what you want, Dick? You just keep me on hold, feeding me words and words and words… I’m not one of your bloody loony patients, you know that? I’m not – I deserve more!” She was at it again. The onslaught of her anger.

She read his face for his reaction. But all she could see was an image of a man unperturbed, aloof in his thoughts.

“Do you even listen, when I talk to you? My God, I feel like such a joke! Oh, please… I must be really stupid!”

His face had a slight red tan that barely concealed the web of wrinkles around his eyes and the corner of his thin lips. These were deeply ingrained marks of the passage of time; a record of pain and joy, of loss and discovery, of passion and disenchantment, of impulse and patience, of anguish and relief, of distress and rescue, of episodes lived and relived. He ground his white teeth behind pursed lips, making his muscles flex on his jutting, but even, jawbones. He frowned and his blue eyes sparked, bringing out a stern expression. This was his way of signalling he was paying full attention, that whatever was being said was something serious to him; something of relevance – even if you didn’t know what exactly.

“Yes, that’s what I am. Stupid! Just plain stupid. Oh God, it was so, so, so, evident. My God – a married man! Why do women keep repeating these stupid, stupid, stupid mistakes? Why do I make’em?

Oh, and don’t you dare answer!”

He stood up and walked around, her eyes following him, probing into his every move for the key to his thoughts. At 6’3” he had a commanding figure; his slender and toned body capable of supporting all his griefs, as well as those of others, in a seemingly effortless way; a physical capacity beyond the powers of common, less attractive men. He made sure he made slow movements – as if every single one of them was meaningful –, so that she could peer into him as intensively as she could – yet finding nothing. Not until she asked him a question; not until she invited him to answer, regardless of the consequences.

“Why don’t you leave your wife, Dick?”

In Cannes they’d met, years back. She was enraptured by his calmness and gentle devotion to her, seduced by his apparent invulnerability to his own frailties and his understanding of hers. She felt protected when he cast his solicitous blue eyes on hers; enthralled by his kindness; tempted to rescue him of all his sorrows in return for the exclusivity of being looked at the way he looked at her.

She felt wonderful.

She felt like his abettor, chosen by a force greater than the two of them. To be by him in good and bad times; able to withstand – with him ­– his past, present and future.

She felt privileged.

She felt like a princess, the keystone sustaining a dome high over envy, jealousy, dismay, misgivings. Over all other women.

She felt like a woman ­– her path to fulfilled womanhood laid clearly before her and through him. She’d only had to reach out and take his hand. If only he’d reach out his hand to her.

She would wait.

“I’m just your mistress. A mistress you fuck when you’re available. A mistress who has to be available for you to fuck whenever you’re available! Can’t you see how this makes me feel, for Christ’s sake? Can’t you?”

He touched his wedding ring, rolling it around his finger. Yes, he was married.

He wouldn’t hide it – he never did. He had a solemn engagement with another woman. He lied. He cheated. He was unfaithful. And not by accident or fortuity or fate or lust or any unavoidable impulse. And desire wasn’t the only reason either. But he never hid any of this. He deceived, yes, but he did not lie.

“I love you, Rosemary.”

What he did was, he only told the truth she wanted to hear.

15. The funniest thing

You open your eyes and see the city. You see the people walking by and you just watch people passing by. The city is a huge glass bowl holding people instead of fish. And sometimes it's as if you just happen to jump out of that bowl and watch the people inside; floating in mid-air, watching all those people inside the bowl.

This is New York.

You can't tell a New Yorker from another. You can't tell anyone's from New York. Everyone's different; everyone speaks differently; not everyone speaks English; not everyone speaks Spanish; not everyone speaks either. Everyone dresses differently, eats differently, walks differently, moves differently, acts differently, reacts differently. It takes a New Yorker to tell the differences and make sense of them all. Because, really, in the bowl, everyone's alike.

And that's not the funny thing.

The funny thing is you can always tell tourists apart. They're the ones looking up. Looking up at the skyline, at the top of the buildings. New Yorkers no longer have the neck muscles to do it. So, they no longer notice New York buildings. Yet, New York buildings made New York.

Alright: Manhattan.

A quarter past midnight and I passed this dingy pizza place next to the Village Vanguard, after walking all the way from Pell St. And there was this couple from the Netherlands ordering slices of pizza and coke. What struck me was that they were still looking up, even though this is the Village. That's how I knew they were tourists, and, because they knew I knew they were tourists, they knew I was not. So, that's how I knew they were from the Netherlands: they told me so. And they'd never tell that if they think I was another tourist.

That's how intricate this island, this glass bowl, can be.

But the funniest thing is, clinically, I should be dead by now, or comatose, at best, with all the stuff I took and the booze I drank. And, instead, I saw myself walking alone the streets of Manhattan, at a quarter past midnight, talking to tourists who think I'm just another New Yorker like everyone else.

Carrying silicone implants inside a wooden box, under my arm.

14. The strangest thing

“Call On Me”, the ringtone, played on her Nokia. She let it ring, in loops, once, twice, three times, before pressing the green button and take the call.

“Marge? Is that you? Hell, what time is it over there? – It’s, er… well, I don’t know what time it is here, but, er, it must be, like, midnight or something. You still in Cannes?”

“Hello, Nic. Yeah, it’s me. Dunno the time either. Just – it’s six hours later here. That’s all I know. It’s daybreak, actually. And, yeah, I’m still in Cannes.”

“Saul?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s gone back to –… He’s still asleep. Yeah, we’re still in France. We’re still in Cannes. Oh, where's my mind? - I already told you that... How’re you?”

“Well, sis, I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I? I mean, you called me, right? Anything the matter? Anything wrong, love?”

“No, no, everything’s fine.”

Marge paused, but Nicole gave no reply, and thus she resumed “… No, really – everything’s fine, don’t worry. I just woke up really early, you see, and Saul’s still asleep and, er, welll… Well, I guess I was just sorta bored and decided to give you a call. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, Nic.”

“No-no-no, love. Not at all! Actually, and this is the strangest thing, I was thinking about you. Isn’t it funny?”

“Oh, really? Yeah, telepathy, I guess”, Marge chuckled, “now we have mobile phones to put our thoughts through. Amazing little things, hey? You still have your Nokia? I bought myself a new one at the airport, go figure. I guess I was dying to try it out and couldn’t wait any longer!”

“Yep, I still have my old Nokia”, Nicole chuckled too.

“So, OK, I called you. To tell you – that I love you, old sister. So, there, I said it. I miss you. Cannes is lovely, but sometimes I miss New York and I miss you. So – what’s so strange?”

“Well, the thing is ­– do you remember Dad’s watch collection?”

“Er – yes. Yes?”

“Well, um – who’s got it? I know, not Mum. Do you have it?”

“OK, this is strange, Nic. You never took any interest in Dad’s collection. In fact, you and watches and paying attention to time… That’s simply not you. That’s so not you.”

“Yeah, OK”, her voice was eager, “but, do you have it or not?”

“Yes, I do. Listen, can we talk about this when we get home? I think Saul’s waking up.”

“No, sure. It’s that it’s, well, strange, you see. I was thinking about it and then you call me up… But, sure, let’s talk about it when you’re back. Sure, everything is OK?

“Sure. You alright, too?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Everything’s fine. Nothing much going on, you know. Everything’s fine.”

“I’m glad. Love ya, big sis!”

“Love ya back, munchkin!”

Nicole clicked off. She looked at her new watch, bought at Schmied’s. Quarter past midnight. It seemed correct. She smiled giving off a deep sigh.

13. All the way to Pluto

I caught a glimpse of the window: rain was beginning to pour outside, hitting the glass in large fat droplets. I wish I’d be outside and bathe in the rain, because, really, I was scalding in the room

Wu was ecstatic: “Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. ENJOY!” His arms wide, looking up, waiting for a blessing from the skies above. Or so it seemed.

Drink had no visible effect on me.

A foghorn blared. A metallic, nasal, female voice in the speakers started a countdown from 20, and I saw the two turbaned priests, making their appearance, entering the room from an invisible door in the shadows. And from the speakers:

“19”

Dahlia placed one large purple silk and chiffon cushion before Wu’s feet, knelt down and began licking the shine of his Alastair shoes. Wu gave her a nod of approbation and patted her head, her straight-combed black hair parted in the middle.

Klipspringer howled frantically. He slurped his wine, stood up and unbuttoned his trousers. Black woollen trousers, unknown brand, black faux snake belt with rather oversized square steel buckle, unknown brand. He climbed up a chair and threw his arms around, as if making ready to take off and fly. He seemed to be shouting something over to Mrs. Wu, but I couldn't make out what - only guttural noises from his throat. His prick, hairy and sinewy, fully erect, was oozing pre‑cum from his dark purple gland. And it was loud, loud, loud in the room. Japanese techno again, played in the loops, like the CD was on auto‑replay. Loud. You could barely hear a thing in the thumping noise.

“18 ”

Mrs. Wu knelt on the cushion and started – voraciously – sucking Wu’s cock. I shouted over to Lyubova, “Jeez, look at’er go! Looks like the old woman don’t like monkey much either, does she, hey? Looks she had nothing to eat all dinner!”

Lyubova paused and stared at me, paused once more, and starting laughing out loud. Hysterical, I thought, but I decided to go hysterical too and laughed like savage. Ha, ha , ha and she ha, ha ha back at me, and me ha, ha ha at her in return, but louder, and she’d make it even louder – like two dogs barking at each other through a fence!

“17”

I swallowed two Elavils. I felt stomach cramps.

She pulled her skirt up and, raising her knees to her chest, took her panties off. “Suck me, Anna. Suck me dry, bitch!” She grabbed the other Russian by her hair and motioned her between her thighs, making her suck her clit and forcing Anna’s tongue inside her.

Monkey blood and pussy juices. Now, here's something for those fancy cocktail bartenders in hip fancy TriBeCa!

“16”

There was this underground cracking noise like the floor was being jacked up. I’m watching Anna and Lyubova. I’m watching Dahlia and Wu and Mrs. Wu. I watch Klipspringer’s wild primate acrobatics with a hard‑on. I watch the raindrops.

I'm lucid.

“15 - All systems check”

Wu grabbed Dahlia’s apron from behind her buttocks to expose her bare behind, while she was still on her fours and licking his shoes. Her tongue: pink. Her pussy, swollen – wet, I’d swear, by God, I’d swear – tucked between her thighs. Shaven, like she’s never had any hair grow in those parts. Cream‑chocolate‑pink: her butthole. Pop, another purple firework. Just above Dahlia’s back, illuminating, for the briefest of moments, her cunt. The wrinkled contours of her swollen labia, the whitish viscous stream of her juices forming a bubble about to drop from her clit.

“14”

The vulva is the external sexual organ of women. When the vulva is opened, and from the top down, one can clearly see the mons veneris, clitoral hood, clitoris, and labia minora. The mons veneris is the pad of fatty tissue that covers the pubic bone below the abdomen but above the labia. The mons is sexually sensitive in some women and protects the pubic bone from the impact of sexual intercourse. The labia majora are the outer lips of the vulva, pads of fatty tissue that wrap around the vulva from the mons to the perineum. These labia are usually covered with pubic hair, and contain numerous sweat and oil glands, and some medical literature has suggested that the scent from these are sexually arousing. This is, of course, true, but you should never give that much credit to medical literature.

The labia minora are the inner lips of the vulva, thin stretches of tissue within the labia majora that fold and protect the vagina, urethra, and clitoris. The appearance of labia minora can vary widely, from tiny lips that hide between the labia majora to large lips that protrude and that you can make dangle with your fingers or the tip of your tongue. Like damp petals on a rose.

Both the inner and outer labia are quite sensitive to touch and pressure. The clitoris has the appearance and size of a pea and sits between the top of the labia minora and the clitoral hood, and is a small body of spongy tissue that is highly sexually sensitive. The clitoris is protected by the prepuce, or clitoral hood, a covering of tissue similar to the labia minora. During sexual excitement, the clitoris may extend and the hood retracts to make the clitoris more accessible.

“13”

“Hey, Lyuba, darling, d’you think if old madame Wu keeps at this pace, Wu here will hold it much longer? Fer chrissake, the man must have is pecker sharp enough by now to pierce right through Mao’s fucking pants – hey?” And Lyubova, her pussy being eaten by Anna, just ha, ha, ha me like she’s insulting me, like she’s calling me names, like this is the supreme form of verbal abuse. “You ha‑ha‑ha me? Hey, HA, HA, HA! You like it? HA, HA, HA!”, I barked back. And I shout over “Hey, I wanna fuck you in the ass!” And then I smile like I just said hello to an old relative I don’t really want to talk to.

“12”

Hot - it almost blinds me.

“Nick, old boy”, Wu calls me, “I need a favour from you. Come on over.” I leave my seat and approach Wu, not sure from which side, not sure if I can come close enough to hear him. He makes a sign for me to stand on his right and slaps Dahlia over the face for her to stand up. I’m disgusted: such a pretty face. But I can’t see her eyes, which makes Wu’s slapping sort of OK, I guess.

I stand next to him and he puts an arm over my shoulder. “Listen –…” and he points his finger to a box, wooden, black-lacquered and bobs his head to the Filipino, like you would “go fetch it” to a dog, “There’s something I’d really appreciate you’d do for me. Mrs. Wu is getting an operation. You know: liposuction. Tummy tuck. Mini face‑lift and chin implant – but that’s just to smoothen up her skin, really; she has lovely features. Lovely. But, hey, everyone’s doing it, so – hell, let her indulge herself, no? No? – Nick old friend? Yeah, you understand; I can count on you. And, also, breast augmentation.” He paused for the Filipino to arrive with the box and open it. “Now, there are the implants we chose. Give me your opinion.”

Dahlia was now behind me, holding me by my waist and, with her right hand, getting down to my crotch, feeling my rod from over my trousers. Tightening her hand around my balls and shaft. Stroking me.

I say “Hell, huh, I don’t know –…”

Wu’s not even looking at me. “Feel them. Come on, Nick, feel them. Tell me what you think. We’re among friends, hey Nick?, we can be honest among friends. Go ahead, tell me what you think. This is beyond C-cup or D-cup or whatever. It goes beyond that. I need your opinion, buddy.” Something in my face must’ve told him I resented him calling me “buddy”.

Dahlia slips a finger, then two, through my fly, and I can feel her cool touch on my balls. My dongle’s getting harder. But only half hard.

“11 - Systems now loading”

“Here, Nick, why don’t you keep the box and lemme know. D’you wanna feel my wife’s breasts and then lemme know?” Mrs. Wu keeps sucking his boner. Deep‑throating. She wiggles her head when her chin reaches the testicles, but her hair doesn’t move one bit. Chinese hairspray, no Elsett fucking stuff – the real thing, with Chinese characters, red cap and a poor photo offset print of a 1970's beauty on the cylinder, and all. The stuff that really sticks to your hair. The stuff that has been around, unchanged, since 1970. Since they invented hairspray in China.

Dahlia is running her hands up and down my shaft. I don’t get it hard. I try to have a look at her eyes, her green eyes, again, but she avoids my look and keeps rubbing my dick. I want to slap her now. “Really, no need”, I say apologetically, but Wu grabs my wrist and takes my hand under his wife's bra. And she groans, I don’t of pleasure or of surprise or of revulsion.” Feel them, Nick, go ahead and feel them and lemme know!” Mrs. Wu then calms down and lets me feel her breast and her hard nipples, still sucking on her husband’s prick. I see her nipples are deep pink.

“10”

One of priests pulls a lever from under the floor and lights fill the room. A flat screen lights up on the wall and there are more levers, and gauges and buttons. There’s a blue bar on the screen moving from left to right and, above it, the word “LOADING”.

I go back to my seat, holding the box with the silicone implants under my arm. I noticed some of them were saline implants. From McGhan.

There are saline and silicone implants. Saline implants are considered to be less dangerous if there's a rupture of the envelope – salty water is absorbed by the body with no complications –, but are harder to the feel. Think like feeling a bag full of water, you get the idea. There are anatomical and round implants, and there are textured and smooth implants. Breast implants can be placed under or above the chest muscle. Under‑the‑muscle implants require longer recovery times, but endure longer and have a more ‘natural’ appearance when they ‘drop’. When they ‘drop’ means the post‑op time till they have their final appearance. It’s normally 9 months to a year. Post‑op means the time after surgery is completed. Textured implants are arguably better at preventing capsular contracture, but there’s no firm evidence of this. Same claims are made of implants placed under the muscle. There are, really, all sorts of implants and techniques, but I don’t feel like thinking about it right now.

“9”

This is what it is: it’s a rocket ship. It’s a Chinese rocket ship. And my mind wanders off, wondering things like whether Wu has painted a Chinese flag or a US flag on the ship’s flaps.

My tongue feels like cork. I swallow some Vicodin. I have some more wine. I have some more of whatever the Filipino is serving me. It has no taste.

There’s a number at the end of the moving blue bar on the computer screen, which is now halfway through its span. It reads 49%. 50%. 51%.

The room shakes and vibrates and rocks back and forth, but there’s no noise except from the ever‑repeating Japanese music and Klipspringer’s growling.

“8 - Levels check”

Suddenly, I remember Anna’s Pomeranian. Suddenly, I remember I forgot to drop by Nat Sherman’s to buy me some cigars. I forgot to take my Winstrol shot, too. I search my pockets for an Ecstasy pill. There was one with a smiley on it.

Can't find it. Shit.

I can’t see the dog; I can see Klipspringer. Wish I'd done coke. But that's so not done anymore.

“7”

I take a deep breath.

“6 - Check now completed”

Japanese trash techno. No more. The music has changed. It’s. It’s German. German trash metal. Loud.

I thought couldn’t possibly get worse: German.

“5”

Gimme Austrian yodels. Gimme all the fascists in lederhosen. Julie Andrews and the hills are alive with the sound of music. Boy, I ask you, wouldn’t that make the title of a horror movie? Think about it – the hills are alive! You get my point?

But not Germans. That’s my point.

“4’”

88% on the computer screen. I wonder if Julie Andrews is fuckable. I down a glass of what looks like peach vodka. I guess so.

Julie Andrews, I mean.

“3”

Above the rain, above the clouds, the moon shines full. There’s no rocket engine, this spacecraft works on mysterious ways. Unless you believe in angels, there’s no way of telling how it works.

Purple flickers and purple fireworks and purple shooting stars from outer space.

We will pass Jupiter and its moon, Io, to gain speed and loop around Saturn’s ring. And gain even more speed. We’re heading for Pluto. So, this is what it is: this is us on a Chinatown launch pad. This is the pre‑ejaculatory take‑off.

“2”

Wu preaches “Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!” He comes. He comes in a convulsive way, his body arching in waves. And no more is heard. Music fades out, lights fade out. Mrs. Wu swallows his load. All of it. She sucks him till his dick is all limp.

Klipspringer crouches, hardly grunting anymore. Anna and Lyubova hold each other in their arms as of they had been in that position all evening.

You can hear the rain.

“1 - Ignition”

It's as if.

It's as if time'd come to a standstill. And so, there it is, this is what it is: it’s a baptism. It all starts now, if you’re willing to believe. You can cry now, if you want. If you still have tears, that is.

“0”

I close my eyes.

12. The Clockmaster sets the time

Nicole studied the shopkeeper’s face. There was something about his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m still a bit dazed…” She was startled at this confession. Back at school, she’d done the same thing. There was this History teacher – a balding old man who’d always instilled in her the most profound mistrust – to whom she’d confess, sometimes without even being asked, her misbehaviours. And she hated herself for it, in particular because, contrary to what happened with her father, whom she loved so devotedly and unconditionally, she could never lie or hide anything from that teacher. But she wasn’t thirteen anymore.

“I – bad day.” She attempted a clumsy smile, trying to charm her way out of the awkward moment.

“I see. Yes, we all have bad days. It happens…” His answer was civil; understanding of her embarrassment, imparting, to her relief, that he’d rather move on and not dwell on matters which were her personal affairs, anyway.

“What about the watch, then? Does the Baume & Mercier interest you? If, not, I may have something else… Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for? Maybe if we’d start from there ­– …”

Yes, please, start from there – start this whole thing all over again!

She wanted to say she’s looking for a watch like the one she left back in the apartment and she couldn’t remember the make or model. “You see, the thing is, I don’t know what I want…”

Before she could correct herself, the shopkeeper retorted “And maybe I can be of help?”

This perplexed her.

It wasn’t so much what he said, but the fact of making a question out if. Then again, maybe no; maybe this was just her imagination. But somehow – somehow she had the feeling of touching something hidden in his words, the shape of a truth unknown to her. Or was she reading too much into his words?

“Of help? Sure, I’d like your help”, she avoided his question. “I really don’t know where to begin. I keep losing stuff and forgetting stuff and, you know, always going from one place to another and, like, not keeping track of things. So, there. I don’t want anything too expensive. I left my watch at my place, you know –… And it’s not, like, I can go back now and fetch it, you see?...”

She stopped, realising the nonsense of her last sentence. A woman, she knew, can make men forgive them for their momentary lack of logic in trivial matters, but she had no intimacy with this shopkeeper to achieve that.

“It’s like your watches here, you know? – none of them tells the same time. It’s like me, my life sometimes gets the better of me. I need a watch – another watch, in case I lose or misplace mine.” This didn’t make much sense either, but she knew she had a point in alluding to the illogic in his shop.

His face became stern once more. “Do you live far, do you?”

She couldn’t understand his question and looked befuddled; an expression in her face that then turned into one of indignation at such an extemporaneous intrusion into her privacy. Undaunted at her expression, the shopkeeper added “I mean, if you can’t go back to your place to fetch your watch…”

Nicole realised she had betrayed herself. His question made sense; it was her lie that didn’t, had he known the truth – which, obviously, he could not have known. Yet, she couldn’t shake off the impression he knew more than his apparently commonplace words conveyed. And he kept staring at her, in the same uncaring way her History teacher did.

He relented from his gaze and sighed deeply as if what he had to say would weigh on him and had to be carried from deep inside him; like a painful confession that had been repeated several times but no-one paid attention, and that made him weary not only from confessing but also from not having someone that would listen.

“You see this big clock behind me? It’s a strange clock, isn’t it? The two dials – the hours that don’t match in neither –… Strange, no? People come in and notice it, and I can see it puzzles them. It has been puzzling them for years. For years, you have no idea. Year in and year out, they come in and look at this clock. But they never ask. It’s an oddity, but they never ask. And I see, you too, you want to know, but you don’t ask.

I’m sorry I don’t have a chair, but, if you don’t mind standing, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you because I see sufferance.

My name is Alfred Schmied and this clock is an experiment, my first attempt at making a unique and very special clock ­– but it's an experiment that never really worked properly, so this is the only and the last Schmied clock you'll probably ever see. The story of it goes back a long time, years back. Back to 1953. I was 19, a young man with lots of dreams laid on straight paths, if you see what I mean. I could’ve chosen to pursue one or the other dream, but no matter what dream I chose, I would always be on a straight path. That’s what happens when you’re 19. And, like everyone else, I chose my path. And, again, like everyone else, I realised later that the dreams I left unfulfilled were more alluring than those I’d accomplished. But I travelled; if a place didn’t please me, I’d move on. And I gave my heart away, too, only to recover it later when I thought it was lost for good. Like everyone else.

But one day I wondered what would happen if I’d be able to stop time. My time. What if, by – by some deal with the devil –, I could bring everything around me to a standstill? Do you see? Imagine the possibilities – every dream you ever had, you’d have a go at. Every love you ever felt you’d chase it. All at once, all in the same time. And it wouldn’t even matter if you’d grow old, everything was available because you had time on your side. And it wouldn’t matter either – do you follow me? – if eventually you’d die. Because you’d never see death coming; all you’d ever feel and perceive would be you being alive; you’d chase one cloud after the other in the sky and never know death; all you’d ever know was life. Timeless life.”

He no longer worried if she’d be following his train of thoughts.

There was a crack under the floor and the walls began to shake. And then stopped. Rain started pouring outside.

“Imagine this: imagine it’s June and it’s the end of spring. Your spring, according to your time. You’d have all the smells and aromas of spring and of early summer, concentrated into one day. And all the flowers would blossom and all the fruits would ripen and the sun would shine and love would come to you in all its manifestations and your dreams would be like one, like an apple you could pick with your hand. All into one minute. One instant.

All the clocks and watches would tell different times; you'd simply choose which time you'd want. Once the time told by one wouldn’t suit you, you’ take another one. All in the same day. And you could forget your watch, and never buy another watch again, because you wouldn’t need to measure time. Not anymore.”

Rain poured heavily now and Nicole felt the shop being lifted into the air. Angels carried it over the skies of New York. And she spun, weightless, in the words of the shopkeeper.

“That’s when I built this clock with double dials. The dial on the right would tell the time as any other watch; but the one on the left would tell the opposite time. I set the exact hour on both and let the clock run. I became the clockmaster from that moment on: all I had to do was subtract the hour told on the left dial from the hour on the right and the result would always be the hour I had initially set. For one day. And for every day after that. But one day – and that’s when, you see, I realised the experiment was flawed – the clock no longer told time. Any time. The fingers on one dial were just the opposite symmetry of the others, with the same day on both.” He rolled the crown setting the day, a large golden knob between the dials, and the same number appeared. “These are the days I lived.”

The shop floated on a cloud where tulips were blooming in splendour, before moving onto another cloud with hyacinths and cornucopias of abundance. Of fruits and flowers in a lush lost garden, where nights are mild and tender.

And the rain fell in torrents like the tears Nicole couldn’t – wouldn’t – shed.

“These are the days of lies and deception and of repeated mistakes.”

11. On a pebbled beach

Steadily, she rose herself from the bed, carefully folding the sheets behind her to prevent even the subtlest of draughts from cooling the cocoon Saul was tucked in and disturbing his sleep. He was on his side and, before she could depart from their bed, she felt compelled to rest, shyly and ever so softly, her hand on his large powerful shoulders. He didn’t make a move and she, feeling comfort in the tranquillity of his deep sleep, let her hand stay there for an instant or two longer. She caressed his shoulders, down to his forearms, over the white cotton sheet, in a slow, almost vestigial, touch. How she loved him! His powerful frame and the placid nature of his character; a placidity only strong men, aware of their strength and thus of the futility of ever displaying it in a violent manner, conveyed such a feeling of harbouring protection, she almost felt guilty from not being in his arms now. And in her beatitude she was certain she’d never be unfaithful, she’d never betray him.

The flow of the sea breeze in the curtains, however, swept her from her place next to the bed and towards the open window where the full moon shone in all its majesty, leaving a trail of pale light on the ocean, like – so was the image that came to her – a bride’s train extending from the shore to the horizon. She smiled, feeling silly at herself for entertaining such thoughts, and glanced over to Saul, still in his sleep. For a second, she wanted to wake him up and tell him of what she’d just thought; to see how he’d react to the prospect of marriage. Like a silly thing, really, of what nothing serious was to be expected, that required no answer, no specific reaction, no commitment from his part.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air and absorbing the ever changing shades of aromas brought in from the sea: the iodine from sun dried kelp on the shore, the blossoming jasmine that crept up the hotel walls, the bed of colourful peonies by the steps of green shale descending onto the beach – all these produced an inebriating smell, swarming her senses till she was too alert of them to go back to bed or stay in the room.

She picked up a tee-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants, put on her beach slippers and left, noiselessly closing the door behind her, pausing for a moment – with her hand still on the door knob and holding her breath so she could hear every minute sound around her – to check if Saul hadn’t noticed her leaving.

The noise of the elevator shook her – it had the loudness of daytime -, and she became suddenly conscious of herself, alone, in the middle of the night as if in the wrong place.

She didn’t count on seeing anyone, having forgotten there would be a bell boy on duty and someone, probably, at the reception desk. She was therefore surprised and caught off balance when she saw the bell boy materialise right in front of her once the elevator doors opened. He was the Latin type and in his early twenties, and carrying luggage of some late night checked in guests, somewhere from a Nordic country, and looking, at first, as surprised as she. But he was quicker to reassert the control over himself than she was over herself. He watched her, looking not at her, but at her female features; something she learned to understand all men do, only the conspicuity of it gaining sophistication with the men’s age and maturity. All this was familiar terrain to her and she was thus able to take alleviation in this; the fact that she had no underwear, whether secret or not – most likely not –, changed nothing in her inaccessibility and, automatically, her invulnerability, to the young man heaving the suitcases. At the end of the hallway, the Nordic guest, a couple, were lagging behind the bell boy. She noticed the woman in the couple. Blonde, blue-eyed, with an athletic body and, like herself, in her thirties. A beautiful face, but, like all blonde women past their thirties – or, with luck, but never later, their forties –, showing the withering signs of age told in sharp wrinkles and the deepening coldness of the sunken blue eyes, each year sinking them further into coldness and away from gaiety. Blonde women age worse than brunettes, she considered with unhidden satisfaction. Blonde women seem to carry their sorrows on their skin, she thought, whereas brunettes bury them in their hearts.

She crossed the lobby and walked through the small garden of peonies, carnations and pansies towards the steps, which swirled lazily through resin-oozing pines, stray lavenders and yellow brooms, leading down to the beach.

She walked on the pebbled shore, taking slow strides, measuring her steps as a way of keeping busy while her mind wandered off, thinking of things back home, of her and Saul, of lost, disperse moments, and of episodes, yet to happen – but were sure to happen –, of bliss, tranquillity and joy. She walked the full length of the beach, wetting her feet in the incoming waves, and these dictated the pace of her thoughts, opening new chapters when they breached. Casually, she picked up a pebble and chucked it, spinning, onto the surface of the dark water. It reminded her of a game she used to play when she was a child, when her parents brought her to the beach on summer holidays and she imagined how it’d be to have children of her own. She spent a while there, chucking pebbles, relishing the idea and revelling on dreams of things pure and simple.

The night was mild, tender to her senses, and the rolling, swelling surf inviting. Finding the beach deserted, she yielded to the temptation and took her clothes off. Carefully, she trodded on the pebbles and made her way into the sea, lead in her bearings by the foam of the waves, glistening white in the moonlight. Gradually, she let herself immerse in the water, dissolving in it, feeling unrestrained in her movements and free. Free. She swam and she floated under the starry sky and she counted the gulls flying above and she tried distractedly to make sense of the shapes of clouds and idly let the water enshroud her bare skin. She was free and time passed quickly.

A figure appeared on the shore, directly in front of where she was. Instinctively, she let her body sink till she felt the sand under her feet, leaving only her head above water, slightly over her chin. It seemed to her, that figure was watching her – had been watching her. She couldn’t determine, at first, whether it was a man or a woman. A small red ember point flashed – a cigarette or a cigar had been lit. The figure moved and she could distinguish trousers etched against the backlight: man’s trousers and a man’s stride.

She suddenly felt conscious of her nakedness, alone in the dark water, and the stupidity of it all. And although she could not be sure of whether the man had in fact seen her, much less if he’d been watching her, she decided to stay put, observing the figure from the distance, which seemed fixed on her position. Yet – there was no movement from him towards her, nor did his behaviour betray any particular intentions towards her. It looked as if, maybe, this man – perhaps an insomniac like her –was intent on simply enjoying the cigar or cigarette he decided to smoke on the beach. And, if indeed he had noticed her (of which she was almost certain), she couldn’t tell, from his body language, if he’d made out there was a woman or, for that matter, a living body, in the water. Her clothes, whether or not he’d notice the bundle she left amidst the pebbles, remained untouched, she was sure. Yet – he too didn’t change position and stayed perfectly aligned with hers, on the shoreline. She felt uneasy but not fear. Not quite. She just wished Saul was there with her. Oh, she loved him and needed him.

Finally, after finishing his smoke, the man moved on and away from the beach, disappearing among the shadows of the garden of the hotel. In good time, as she was beginning to shiver hard from cold and the immobility. Surveying the beach for any other passers-by and finding it deserted again, she came back onshore and rushed for her clothes. She desperately wanted to be back in the hotel room in the warmth of her bed and Saul’s. But she decided to make time in the garden until her skin and her clothes dried up, embarrassed to reveal Saul she’d been swimming naked, alone, in the middle of the night.

She went up, ignoring the guard patrolling the grounds and the bell boy, who merely stole a look at her to identify her as a guest.

Quietly, she opened the door to the room, weighing her hand on the door knob and peering inside, looking for Saul. He was still asleep. She entered on her tiptoes and started undressing in meticulously rehearsed intervals. She hadn’t the time yet to put on the oversized tee-shirt she used as a night chemise and was fully naked when Saul tossed and woke up, staring in utter surprise at her.

He rubbed his eyes and asked “What’s up, sweetie? You up? What are you doing naked?”

She looked keenly into his eyes, before proceeding to tell him. She would tell him everything, everything that happened; her folly, the foolishness of it all, how much she’d needed him. “Oh, nothing, I just had a bad dream, that’ all.” And she left her eyes linger on his.

Saul took her in her arms and, with a smile beckoning a smile from her, rolled her head over onto his chest, letting her body weight fall on him. “There, there, it’s over now. Come here and sleep now, baby.”

And this, although she could never blame him for it – it was not, it could never ever be, his fault –, she knew, in her heart she knew, was Saul’s mistake.

10. The monkey's head

In the back of my mind, I suddenly heard a voice – a female voice – telling me she needed to speak to me urgently, to leave everything and meet her, because she had something she needed to tell me. Now, and, if not now, later, as soon as I finished my business. The voice, though faint, was distinctively real. Stupidly, I checked my mobile phone for messages: nothing. On an instinct, I turned around, half hoping, for a fraction of a second, she’d materialise behind me. Obviously, no‑one – at the exception of Dahila, who remained, unperturbed, at the side of the Filipino, in the shadows, her face visible in flickers in the light cast by the candles.

I tried to disguise my awkwardness, but there was no need: no‑one seemed to have noticed it. Besides, I’d been restless in my chair ever since dinner began on account of the heat. And why should I even feel the slightest embarrassment in the present entourage?

Wu stood up, turned towards Dahlia and made yet another of his theatrical gestures. It worked – Wu did well even without a drum roll –, because a silence installed forthwith, in anticipation; Mrs. Wu did her part, an accomplice to her husband, but looking expectant like the rest of us, as if, even if she’d knew what would follow next, the magnificence of it would still surprise her. “The pièce de résistance!” exclaimed Wu.

Dahlia and the Filipino brought in a large silver tray with gilded handles and laid it on a supporting table at an angle behind me. Whatever was on the tray was covered with a white linen cloth, and Dahlia rolled it back a bit ­– about a third of the tray’s length –, revealing pieces of meat, red and soaked in a gravy that looked more like blood. For once I was happy my palate was dead.

Wu searched his pocket and took out a remote control and pulled a small antenna from it, like those old Panasonic mobile phones. A small green neon‑like light flashed intermittent and left an eerie psychedelic trail when Wu pointed the control around. Music. Incredibly loud music, Japanese trash techno, started blaring from four speakers that descended from the four corners of the ceiling. What was Wu thinking? Wu opened his arms wide, his belly protruding ever more; like a man who’s making space in his stomach for the entire planet.

“Ah, wunderbar!” Wu said in a loud voice over the music, as if introducing a new circus act. Mrs. Wu applauded vigorously. Klipspinger winced. Anna smiled enigmatically as always and clapped her hands. Lyubova took a deep breath, not of fright, but rather of some deep physical pleasure inside. She turned to me and fixed her blue eyes on me; a look of a woman about to kiss you in the mouth, just waiting for you to make the final move and close in on her lips.

To my right, close to my right, Dahlia took a long knife from her black apron and began sharpening it. The shrill of the blade against the sharpener came in tune with the music from the speakers, as if rehearsed beforehand. It was too hot.

I gulped down a full glass of tasteless Pessac-Léognan. The Filipino started popping open bottles of red wine. I recognised the label – another good choice: a 2001 Chambertin. At least, Wu had the good sense of not serving Californian wines and, what’s more, (and this really surprised me; pleasantly, if my taste buds would co-operate) he had the good sense of not serving French wines from the same region at the same meal. Bourgogne red followed Bordeaux white.

A minuscule stream of sweat flowed at the surface of perception under my eyes.

Dahlia was still sharpening her long knife, her sleeves pulled up, showing her bare wrists that only in minute, precise, movements, revealed the contained strength beneath her skin. Long, finishing in perfect oval‑shaped nails, pearl‑cream fingers; articulated in such a beautiful way they conveyed elegance to every move and twist of her hands; like her fingertips had never touched anything harder than the soft clouds of the dreams and longings of a man really, deeply, in love. These fingers, these hands, were now adeptly manoeuvring a blade, sharpening it. And speaking to me in a foreign tongue I struggled to understand.

If anything, the music seemed only to make the room even hotter. Wunderbar.

I could not take my eyes off Dahlia’s fingers' languid sway; it took me a minute to sense the stare of Lyubova and, when I finally met her eyes, she appeared aghast from taking me that long. Intensely, without uttering a word, she kept looking into my eyes, embarrassment creeping up the veins of my neck and flushing my cheeks. “What?”, I silently interrogated her with what seems in hindsight a gauche facial expression. She stared and stared, pulling my senses towards – inwards – her. I frowned in a futile attempt to distract her and reassert myself. Instead, she rolled her tongue out and twisted it sexually in a mock kiss. Trying, barely, to keep my cool, I blew her a kiss back and smiled painfully, but this only made her burst out in a haughty but muffled laughter. Defiantly, Lyubova kept smiling at me, like a woman, swung on sex and enjoying scornfully the ridicule of a sexually inept male partner – me. As if she’d read my mind earlier in Central Park and was now taking her revenge.

Dahlia began carving pieces of raw meat. I tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but all I could make out was her curved black thick eyelashes. Undeterred, I confronted her. I leaned back, on my chair, clumsily, and asked her the most pathetic of questions I could ever ask: “So, I gather you’re Chinese?” This was something Klipspringer might’ve asked, but even he, by now, could probably come up with better pick‑up lines than me.

“No, sir. Korean.” her voice as sharpen to my ears as the blade in her long knife.

“Didn’t you want to speak to me urgently? Tonight? Or as soon as I’d finish here? I thought I heard a woman ­–…” “No, sir.” Biting my teeth, unsuccessful at seeing her eyes, I regained my composure at the table.

The candles started flickering oddly, spurting little purple sparks that twinkled high in the room like little pinkish fireworks. With the help of the Filipino, the dishes began being served. Soaked red dark meat in thin stripes with steamed exotic vegetables, yellow, green and red.

Trumpets came out of the speakers now. What the hell…?

All of a sudden, a dog – a Pomeranian – ran off from under the table, yapping mercilessly. Anna rose from her chair to chase after the dog, but Lyubova took her by the elbow and pulled her back to her seat. The Filipino swiftly and adroitly caught the hysterical little beast, which did little to reassure Anna, who kept calling after her pet. Lyubova put a hand over her lips to silence her and then, with Anna’s face close to her own, removed gently her hand over Anna’s mouth, making sure she’d be silent, and clasped her cheeks. Lyubova gave her long kiss in the mouth to which Anna violently surrendered, offering her lips and tongue, as what can only be described as passion rediscovered after a long winter of disenchantment.

Smouldering hot, like baking my heart in a fire; so hot – hot – breathing was painstaking. I was panting and not as drunk as I wished I’d be. The Chambertin (equally lacking any flavour; not that was any longer important to me) only offered a mild palliative to my unquenchable thirst.

Klipspringer rose, glass in hand, and inconsequentially, but, despite that, formally, stated “Dear Mrs. Wu, let me say that I think that Schmied is simply not up to snuff!” I had no idea who this Schmied was, because Wu, majestic and supercilious, waved for him to sit down, which he did and kept silent hitherto.

“This is special, exquisite. A meal for distinguished guests, like yourselves. I’m proudly associating myself to a very special, unique show, and I want you all to be there. I got this order…”, Wu looked at his wife before proceeding “… from – well, I won’t reveal that. No need, no need. You know, you will understand. Of course, of course. No? Of course! You will understand. I only tell you this – but I needn’t, really, tell you this; you ought to know already, of course. He – he is a very important person. I must pay homage to him. Well, of course. You see my position – so would you, no? Of c‑ourse! And – oh, well –, no better way to do that than by inviting you all over for this – very special, very special – dinner. Thank you – thank you again – for coming over to my place on Pell Street. Now – enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!”

Trumpets and fireworks and little spots dangling before my eyes, playing like fawns in the woods. Naked. And Japanese techno, and the sirens of ambulances and foghorns. And the heat. Oh, boy, the heat!

And there we were, eating raw, blood‑soaked stripes of unknown meat. And the shadows grew deeper and wider; and the fireworks brighter; and the music random and relentless and loud. And I couldn’t still taste or smell whatever, but feeling hot. Hot like burning my soul in a furnace.

Dahlia kept dishing out slices of dark red meat. Anna and Lyubova were kissing, entangling their tongues in furious passion, oblivious of everything else but their kiss – their intermittent but, yet, continuous lesbian kiss – and the touch in their fingertips, like the fresh discovery of someone else’s skin… Their pale cheeks now smeared from the blood of the meat they occasionally forked and brought to their mouths; something that only seemed to entice – to arouse - them (hell, to arouse me!) more. And it was hot, hot, hot, and the room began spinning around its centre. And pop, pop, pop, the Filipino kept uncorking bottles of red – blood red; the image of it almost brought tears to my eyes – Bourgogne wine. Twinkle, twinkle, another purple minuscule firework. Please!

“Mrs. Wu is having an operation. She’s rejuvenating. A miracle, a miracle. My wife, young in body as she’s young at heart. A miracle, a miracle. Justice! A toast!”

We all raised our glasses to Wu’s toast. All the while, Mrs. Wu got up and climbed atop the dining table and spun around herself. In a movement I’m yet still to comprehend – like a magician’s pass – she faced us, the audience, and took her nylons out and lassoed them on Klipspringer’s neck, whose only reaction was to salivate and brutally laugh like an untamed beast from hell, waiting to be predated on.

“Eat and dance. Oh, the flesh, the flesh. The flesh that dances before us. What a show, Lyubova, dear Lyubova. What a show it’ll be, dear Lyubova!”

From the speakers a slow waltz came flowing down, like a sound veil dropped from above. Dahlia kept carving the meat, gradually unrolling the cloth covering the tray; the Filipino opening bottles. All sorts of bottles. Of all shapes, colours and labels. I don’t know what we were drinking anymore. I still couldn’t taste anything but – somehow – it now felt sweet; not so much a taste but an after‑taste; something you remember more than discern. And the music played on, loud and filling the room, which was now like a boat adrift in the waves of sound and burning incense and burning purple candles…

I found myself with no trousers, only my shirt on; my penis half erect, and moving, almost dancing, to the waltzing rhythm, while Wu & wife were in full swing, dancing like it was New Year’s Eve in Hong Kong; while Klipspringer jumped up and down, excited like a capricorn, like he’d lost all senses. Anna and Lyobova – where were they? Drink, drink, drink.

Dahlia rolled down the last piece of cloth to uncover the tray completely.

Streams of angels could’ve passed, flying by, in that room, because time stood still – absolutely still; and it was like plunging into a bottomless well and keeping one's breath for minutes, hours, days. Nothing else mattered; you just waited for those angels to pass flying by, till the very last of them.

And then Dahlia, sharpened knife in hand – its edge glittering pure white, like the first rays of a summer morning sun shooting into a dark room –, revealed the tray to the guests. There were no more stripes of flesh left, everything had been carved out.

A monkey's head.

All it remained in the tray was a severed monkey’s head. Still with fur, black and thick, its eyes closed like testimony of a long painless death that only hurt its chimpanzee soul, and it’s tongue sticking out. Like a final message of dispossession to all who’d witness it.

It was then that I saw Dahlia’s eyes. How could I not? - she was staring at me. Green; green were her eyes. Such a deep green you could almost mistake it for blue. My clothes bothered me ­– I wish I’d be naked there and then, as if on a beach, and bathe on that deep green, green ocean.

“Sir,” she said in her sharp voice and in a smile that promised the tranquillity I longed for, “you’ll maybe hear from her tomorrow. There is no urgency.”

9. French Riviera, three hours and forty minutes before dawn

She woke up from a nightmare; it was too hot in the bedroom and that always made her sleep restless. She couldn’t remember what the dream was about, but she woke up, beads of sweat running down her forehead and flushed cheeks.

She sat upright on the bed - the bed sheets enveloping her still damp from her troubled perspiration - and stared at the window, catching her breath, while Saul lay, asleep, and gently snoring, motionless, beside her. She took in a deep breath of the warm salty air flowing in from the open windows overlooking the sea. The gentle rhythmic beat of the waves pounding against the pebbled shore, the flutter of the glittter-white mesh curtains, rasping in sweet swells on the white wooden framework, lulled her back to sleep. She wiped the sweat from her face, still breathing deep, and swallowed an empty mouthful, her eyes caught in the fluttering curtains. Mellow sounds, as if played by a somewhat clandestine orchestra, playing in the blue shadows of the bedroom, filled the air: Saul’s muffled snoring, the curtains’ rasp, the waves’ thump, an occasional distant shriek of a seagull, her own breath, the secret beating of her heart. She began tuning into these sounds, unconsciously rearranging them into some order, like the beat of a melody or the pace of a song she’d forgotten and was trying to remember. Albeit tired, she could no longer go back to sleep now. Stretching and flexing her muscles in a slow paused way so as not to wake Saul up, she looked at the alarm clock. 2 in the morning. Eight o’clock in the evening in New York.