Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  Kitty laughed in her quick, breathtaking way. “After sleeping alone for two weeks,” she replied with a lighthearted impishness, “I don’t need a fetish to accept you any way at all.”

  Apollo raised one dark brow. “So it’s only because you dislike sleeping alone. Will any man do?” Although he was still teasing, the smallest sensitivity stirred deep inside.

  “Any man,” Kitty retorted playfully “as long as he’s tall, golden-eyed, and has wild, longish hair like a lion’s mane. That sort of man desperately attracts me.”

  “Desperately?” Apollo asked wolfishly. They had entered the large foyer, decorated with Persian porcelains and carpets, and were heading for the divided staircase leading to the living quarters.

  “Absolutely desperately,” Kitty whispered softly. She wondered briefly at the abandon this lovely man provoked in the heart and soul and mind of a genteelly nurtured, reserved young woman who had never, even in marriage, felt this way. She had given up her latent modesty and soul’s silence for him, had given up her marriage vows and husband for him, would willingly follow him to the ends of the earth—and the staggering magnitude of her intemperance awed her. She had always seen herself in practical terms, her soul nourished on the food of reality, not a Stardust; her spirit far removed from exotic dreams of peacock gardens and romance as extravagant as pigeon’s-blood rubies. Yet Apollo had entered her life and in three days had dashed away, without effort or intention, her entire former existence. He had also, with tenderness, joyous spirit, and passion, made her happier than she had ever imagined possible.

  She loved him with the blithe, fragile innocence of childhood, she loved with the full-blooded ardor of womanhood, she loved with the balmy indiscretion of a mistress and the dissolute candor of a whore; she loved him poignantly with the inexplicable love of a woman for the man whose child she bears.

  And he was home safe. It was all she asked.

  A trail of clothes led from the bedroom door to the bed, and the order of events was adjusted to meet the more demanding concerns of passion.

  15

  An idyllic spring and summer passed. The two young, golden-haired lovers adored each other deeply, amorously, pervasively, and the revolution-torn, chaotic outside world disappeared for them.

  Occasionally, as in any Eden, brief moments of strife would appear, but reconciliation was always swift and enchantingly satisfying.

  The blatantly secondary role assigned women in the tribal culture took a certain amount of getting used to. The life of a warrior contributed mightily to the concept, for men only fought or played, they did nothing else, which left all the obligatory tasks of daily living to the female population. Those prosaic duties didn’t affect Kitty, since Apollo’s palace staff was self-sufficient, but she took umbrage at the work burden that befell the women of the aul. The fact that the Moslem religion was nominally supported further weakened the position of females, and Kitty—having acquired a certain independence and self-reliance after years of managing Aladino—was appalled at the submissive attitude of the village women.

  Apollo, raised in Dargo, was sympathetic in theory to Kitty’s accusations of blatant inequality—after all, his mother was one of the more unconventional females he knew—but nevertheless he inherently possessed that pervasive air of masculine authority and certainty particular to the mountain warrior.13

  Needless to say, such diametrically incompatible stances did create an occasional contretemps, but Apollo, with the indulgent good humor of a man head over heels in love, was generally acquiescent and obliging to Kitty.

  One afternoon, while basking in the sun in adjoining wicker chaises on the newly constructed terrace, the subject of women’s roles came up again. Apollo courteously evaded making any overt judgments that might rankle. He was, in any event, pleasantly content and gratified. He and Kitty had just spent an enticing two hours in bed and sensual indulgence always left him amiable.

  “Apollo,” Kitty said, her gold hair hot on her shoulders, “when we get to France, I’d like to go back to school.”

  “Sounds fine,” Apollo murmured agreeably, his eyes only slits against the brilliant light. He was fully aware that modern women acquired university educations. The last twenty years had seen much progress in that field. His mother, in fact, was a well-known historian, and Apollo’s family had always encouraged formal education. A variety of tutors had been trekked up to the mountain retreat in his childhood and, as was the custom in the Kuzan family, he had matriculated at the Sorbonne, spending time in the study of economics. “Any special subject?” he asked cordially, enjoying the sound of Kitty’s voice, inclined to consider himself the luckiest of men to have her beside him, and thinking speculatively that the study of literature or painting, or perhaps philosophy, would be a pleasant diversion for Kitty once they settled in France. After all, those unfailingly dull bridge or tea parties women were obliged to spend so much time at must be boring as hell.

  “Farming,” Kitty declared.

  “Good God!” Apollo sat upright and looked disbelievingly at his plumply pregnant sweetheart lying next to him, her skin flushed and speckled with the sun. “Are you serious?” Apollo was more than willing to indulge his Kitty in any of her wishes, but farming? His own cherished notions about the qualities appropriate to the female sex tended to follow the traditional concepts of beauty, availability, grace, elegance, charm. Not that an educated wife wasn’t an agreeable companion, but … farming? Somehow farming seemed so … masculine.

  Kitty stared squarely back at him and inquired sweetly, too sweetly, “What’s wrong with farming?” She was definitely glaring now, he decided, and when Apollo saw the flinty look appear in those wide green eyes, he graciously reconciled himself to a wife on a tractor. “Farming sounds delightful,” he said with a crooked grin.

  In a flash the basilisk look changed to a twinkle and Kitty laughed happily, enchanted with Apollo’s spontaneous about-face. He pampered her outrageously, and after Peotr’s indifference she adored Apollo’s casual, unrestrained kindness. Responding to the laughing irony in his crooked smile, Kitty teasingly went on in mild, dulcet tones, “After all, someone has to make some money while you’re out spending your time on the polo fields.”

  Apollo, his voice redolent with agreeableness, the droll light of mockery shining from between his narrowed lids, replied, “How nice. My fortune will then be intact to squander on my lady friends.” He ducked just in time to avoid a morocco-bound copy of Colette’s newest novel and, laughing, bounded out of range of the next hurled volume.

  In those summer days Apollo took delight in showing Kitty the beauties of his mountain valley. They picnicked in lush green glades that were carpeted in mountain gentian, snowdrops, enormous tiger lilies. Apollo fished the cool, clear streams while Kitty lazed on the grassy banks. She was awed by glorious rose-and-coral sunsets, flaming like Renaissance embroidery, as they viewed them from rocky ledges rising high above the valley floor. And they loved each other amidst the splendor of a mountain summer like two passionate adolescents allowed their first freedom, intent on exploring every nuance and magnificent subtlety of their love. They both became golden children of the sun; Apollo deeply tanned, his hair pale white by summer’s zenith; Kitty’s skin a fairer glowing peach bronze, her lemon-bright hair less inclined to bleach to the creamy ice of Apollo’s ruffled curls.

  • • •

  Despite the charming idleness of his summer devoted to Kitty, Apollo was still the leader of the coterie of young, hot-blooded warriors in camp, and he would infrequently of an evening join them in their fellowship. Aracq and Khahetian wine flowed, and talk would always turn to the next raid.

  Apollo had remained behind on the last two, and while rationally he accepted his temporary constraint, the reminiscing always brought forth a quickening of desire to mount up and make mischief for the new Bolshevik government on the plains below. He gracefully accepted the inevitable teasing that ensued each time he declined a raid—in the warriors
’ eyes, a woman’s wishes were no reason at all to stay behind—but he found it much more difficult to ignore the drunken comments that had occurred alluding to Kitty’s sojourn with the general. On the two occasions when too much heated aracq had inadvertently brought forth mention of the general and Kitty, the faux pas had been immediately silenced by an abrupt change of subject.

  But one night in August, an intemperate young buck railed at the number of women in the perimeter mountain auls bordering their nation who had been abused by Red swine, and immediately Apollo felt himself the focus of a score of eyes.

  Absolute silence descended on the room. Apollo was a chancy bastard to cross. “I think,” Apollo said, putting fifty generations of ice into his voice, “that the subject has been exhausted.” He fixed the group with the kind of look linked with murderous duels. There was a pause, which prolonged itself to uncomfortable lengths. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Oh, hell.” His lips twitched into a grin. “Since when haven’t women meant trouble? Pass me the damn wine jug.”

  Everyone’s face broke into a relieved smile and four bottles of Khahetian wine appeared simultaneously.

  That evening he was perhaps more sensitive because of the amount of liquor he had consumed, or perhaps the approach of Kitty’s confinement brought the old distracting thoughts into prominence once again. Whatever the reasons, Apollo rode home in a foul temper, black, angry memories of Kitty and the general sharing center stage with a very inebriated sense of affront.

  Kitty should have recognized from his careful walk and gentle dishevelment that Apollo was no longer quite sober when he strolled into the sitting room. She should have noted by the dark scowl and grimly pursed lips that all was not well. But she had been absorbed in a fictionalized account of Lord Monmouth’s life, and while her glance took in Apollo’s surly expression, her mind was still partially occupied by the seventeenth-century tale. “How was your evening?” she asked, flipping through the remainder of the book, gauging the number of pages left to read.

  “It could have been better,” Apollo said in a sullen drawl, walking over to the fireplace and kicking in a loose log. Night temperatures in the mountains could be surprisingly cool even in the summer.

  Kitty glanced up from the small task of marking her page in the story and for the first time noticed Apollo’s brooding, dark look. Sliding her slippered feet over the side of the gray satin sofa, she sat upright and solicitously inquired, “What happened?”

  “Same old thing,” Apollo snapped, laying both rigid fists on the mantel. “Some impetuous young buck had too much to drink and didn’t catch himself in time. He alluded to my ‘dishonored paramour.’ God Almighty,” he said with sudden exasperation, “I can’t very well kill everyone who thinks that.”

  Dishonored? Paramour? Kitty reacted angrily to the first word, feeling she had had no recourse to the general’s attentions save suicide. The word paramour, on the other hand, caused a bit of unease, because no matter how one glossed over their situation, that’s exactly what she was. And the worst of it was … she was Apollo’s paramour by choice. Anger prevailed over the less violent emotion of unease. “What do you mean, dishonored?” she asked heatedly, her eyes almost black in her white face. “It’s your child, after all.”

  “So you say,” Apollo returned with heavy sarcasm, the liquor speaking at the moment. His head between his arms, he continued to look at the fire.

  Kitty sat up stiff-backed, both palms flat on her lap. “What does that mean?”

  “It only means,” he drawled, taut with temper, “I should be allowed my mild skepticism. Good God,” he said, straightening and turning, “I spent only three days with you in my entire life prior to March. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I was never with any other man,” she protested, her small chin tipped up belligerently.

  A little malicious smile crossed Apollo’s face. “Don’t forget the general,” he said rudely.

  Under the surveillance of his mocking and rather malicious gaze, Kitty tossed back hotly, “That was later.”

  “Later?”

  “After I discovered I was pregnant.”

  “So you say,” he repeated with exaggerated courtesy. “Can you prove it?”

  “No! No, I can’t prove it.” Startlingly, she flushed.

  Apollo’s skeptical gaze lingered on that blush; an unnerving, cynical scrutiny, its anger barely concealed. “And yet you expect me to believe implicitly in your curious exclusivity when it comes to my fatherhood. Hell, as far as I know, anyone could be the father—certainly the general has more than a minor claim.”

  Flashing eye met flashing eye.

  “Damn you,” Kitty cried. “Why should I lie?”

  “Why indeed,” Apollo said with silver-tongued sweetness, his flared nostrils indicative of the temper he chose not to unleash. “You’d be a fool if you didn’t. You must admit, the general and I aren’t on a par—”

  “Sometimes,” Kitty retorted tartly, momentarily exasperated with the entire arrogant masculine world, “I can’t see much difference!”

  “Consider, love, that there are minor differences at least,” Apollo murmured dryly. “After all, I’ve had the decency to keep my whips for my horses.” It was clear Apollo was out for trouble.

  Kitty rose, so she wouldn’t be at such a disadvantage, and her voice, diamond hard, took up the challenge. “Granted, you’re from a much more refined culture. No whipping women. Your bodyguards will simply kill me when I begin to bore you.” She continued with contempt, “It’s so much more civilized when one is armed with such well-defined codes of conduct!” Kitty’s eyes were glinting with outrage and her voice rose. “Maybe I should have stayed with the general,” she continued recklessly. “At least there I wasn’t completely certain I’d be killed once my usefulness was over. Maybe I should go back to him,” she finished with a deliberate nonchalance, her stormy eyes wide and bitter.

  Apollo appeared undisturbed by the threat. His golden eyes narrowing, he said in a mocking, deep voice, “You’d never get out of the palace, let alone the valley, without my permission.”

  “Why, you arrogant, overbearing beast!” Kitty cried, her cheeks reddening. “Do you mean to tell me you keep me here against my will?”

  Apollo’s pale eyes studied her impassively. Gazing down at her from his great height, he mildly replied, “I could put a leather collar on you and chain you to my bed and no one within a hundred versts would raise an eyebrow.”

  “You—you—primitive savage,” she choked out, infuriated at the casualness with which he assumed his seignorial rights. “I suppose you make a practice of chaining up women, you damned feudal lord!”

  He looked astonished for a moment. Did she think he needed coercive measures in dealing with a female? “I’ve never had to before,” he said somewhat stiffly, “but your, ah, provocation imbues the notion with a decided charm.” His smile was not pleasant.

  “Don’t you dare threaten me!” Kitty shouted, her temper flaring.

  “Don’t you challenge me,” he warned in an overquiet tone. “You’ll lose.”

  “Go to hell, noble and supreme Prince,” she countered in rage. “Don’t forget I’m a princess born and, although rarely tempted, know how to snap my fingers as well as you. Chains or no chains, if I feel like leaving, I will!”

  A cruel smile curled Apollo’s lips. “As far as going back to the general is concerned, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Impossible?” she asked crossly, her breathing still rapid. “How smug. How can you be sure he wouldn’t take me back?”

  In the ensuing silence, Apollo’s eyes were icy with malice. “Because,” he said in a voice as soft as silk, “I killed him.”

  An appalling stillness hung between them. All the primitive blood lust, all the savage mountain ethos was contained in that simple statement. All the differences that separated their upbringing and views reverberated like violently struck timpani across the small distance.

 
; Kitty was reminded afresh of the incomprehensible warrior’s code of chivalry that guided Apollo’s thinking, of the thin line—with which she could never feel quite comfortable—between justice and murder, and suddenly she felt entirely alien, alone, and insecure. Apollo was her anchor, her entire life, and in the flash of a moment he’d taken on the appearance of a stranger; a cold-blooded, impenitent killer. A ghastly sense of bewilderment and vulnerability closed over her, and Apollo saw it.

  Kitty’s dark, unhappy eyes lifted slowly to his searching gaze and she whispered almost inaudibly, “I don’t really know you, do I?”

  Her pained expression struck him forcibly and he was instantly contrite. Jesus, what a brute he was to bait and harass Kitty. Damn his temper, and damn his black cynicism, and damn the old unwinnable argument. Why take out his misgivings on Kitty? What good did it do? The child within her had grown large by now, and all the misgivings in the world wouldn’t alter that fact. To continue to torment her for his own evil mood was grossly unkind, and now that his temper had peaked, he was more then ready to make amends.

  Running a hand through his hair, he smiled at her gently and said in a different tone, “You know me better than anyone. Forgive me. For my stupid temper, my jealousy, for … all my sins.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “You do that to me. I can’t help it, but I’ll try. Forgive me?” He smiled again, his warm, achingly sweet smile. “None of the old arguments matter, dushka”—and for a moment his voice lost its steadiness—“only that you’re here with me.”