“Let me go.”
His body stiffens as he abruptly releases me, and sits upright to turn away and reach for his T-shirt. He looks distant, disinterested, and something more—a dark menacing thought seems to lurk beneath. This change in him scares me more than anything else. He is about to throw me out of his house and I cannot bear his rejection—not today, not after this morning’s news.
“André, wait,” I say, and reach out to touch the tail of the serpent. “I have other fears I have never revealed to anyone.”
He sits motionless with his head bent forward, holding his T-shirt in his lap. His hair covers his face, so I cannot see his reaction to what I am compelled to reveal.
“I am afraid the touch of any man will lead to some kind of cruelty. And there’s another gruesome truth. There is something fierce, ugly, powerfully wild and out of control trapped inside me, and I’m terrified of what will happen if it’s set free.”
“A man is made a man by how he treats a woman and the same holds true for the opposite.” He holds my eyes until I am at the split second before relinquishment and then rises.
“Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me across the house to enter a dimly lit room. It is centered with an imposing bed dressed with sheer fabric and covered with messy sheets. He guides me into the room, sits me down on the bed, and turns on a music player on a side table covered with his sketches. The room fills with the plaintive cries of a woman.
“Do you understand French?”
“A little...”
“Listen carefully; I will return,” he says, and walks out of the room.
I sit on the edge of the bed and listen intently, lost in the words of the tormented soul.
“What do you think?” André asks. He reenters the room with a tray filled with fruit, cheese, and bowls of fragrant soup. “Did you understand the words?” He sits down next to me. “The soup is very hot. Open.” He dips a chunk of French bread into the soup, brushes it against my lips and sets it on my tongue.
I close my eyes and savor the tangy flavor. “Asparagus, it tastes like lemon and asparagus.”
“These come from the vines outside,” he says, placing a large grape in my mouth.
“Could you interpret the song?”
“From what I understand, of my translation, the woman spends all day cleaning her house and organizing closets. When she’s finished, she tears it all apart and starts over again. Her children are naughty, her husband has bad breath, and she yearns to live in a loft, drink wine, and eat oysters all day.”
“I felt you might appreciate her frustration, although your French is not so hot,” he says, with a chuckle. “The woman is stuck in the same routine, the same way of doing things, and although she knows she is not making progress, she continues the activity nonetheless. One day she walks out the door, never to return. In the last line of the song she sings: ’L’indiviual doit être su est premièrement pour peut il être vêtu ou peut être accessoirisé.’ It means the self must first be known and loved before it can be clothed or accessorized.... So, first we must remove your clothes.” He looks into my eyes for a sign to continue.
“Will you trust me?” he asks, breaking the long silence. “If you do not trust, you cannot seek answers from those who wish to help.”
“You have my trust, André.”
“Are you certain? Is this what you want?”
“My intuition tells me it is.”
“You are in good hands. It is your guardian angel,” he says, and dusts his silky hair across my skin, as he gently undresses me.
“Take off your earrings, so you don’t lose them.”
“Yes. They’re fragile, a gift, and said to be charmed.”
“They must have magic; they brought you to me.”
“André, would you please close the curtains.”
“They are closed.”
“I mean all the way. There is light coming from the window.”
“The human body is not meant to be clothed in darkness.” He drapes my clothing on a chest at the foot of the bed. “Why are you pulling the sheets up around you? There is nothing to be ashamed of, your body is divine.”
“I’d like a little more champagne.”
“Here, finish it off...” he says with a knowing smile. He fills my glass and moves to light a candle on a pedestal near the foot of the bed.
Standing before me, in the flickering light of the flame, with eyes intensely focused on mine, he unzips his jeans and slowly draws them down. He holds my gaze for a moment, giving me time to take in his stunning physical beauty. With smooth luminescent skin and silky black hair spilling down to his shoulders, he looks like a gorgeous dark angel.
He lowers himself onto the bed next to me. “Close your eyes and tell me what color comes to mind when I touch you.” He bites my lip softly and makes a sound like he’s bitten into a succulent piece of fruit.
“Yellow.”
His kisses travel down my neck to my chest.
“What color now?”
“Blue to orange.”
He places his hand on the place where my heart beats rapidly. “What do you feel there?”
“Black.”
He sits up and looks at me with a quizzical expression. “Why do you feel black in an instrument of life, the seat of love? The energy emanating from this source should be bright red. The heart is life; it feeds all of the organs of the body. Even your brain is fed by the heart.”
“Mine is black.”
“Why do you feel this way about yourself?”
“I’m unlovable.”
“Any man would want to love you.”
“I mean genuine love, the kind that doesn’t devour.”
“That is fright talking.”
“Most men will make love to anything.”
“Well, not anything...” he says playfully, then moves to adjust the music player until a soft instrumental melody fills the room. “I want to dance with you,” he says, and reaches out his hand.
Beneath his voice I hear the sound of children’s laughter come from outside the window. The giggles of delight bring back memories of my former life, and I cover my face with my hands and begin to weep.
“What is wrong my dear?”
“I had some very bad news today. I’m sorry... I’m not good company. I should probably go, this isn’t—”
“Why do you run away when you feel emotion?”
I dry my eyes with the sheet and try to find words to explain my torment.
André walks to the corner of the room, closes the window, and pulls the curtains tight, shutting out the light and sounds from outside. “Dance with me.”
He draws me up from the bed and leads me in a sensuous sway. Holding me close, he kisses away my tears and soothes me with tender words until my chest stops heaving and I am taken by a narcoleptic fugue.
“Have you ever given yourself without inhibition, with utter truth?” he whispers. “Have you every loved to the degree you lost yourself as you know yourself to be,” he asks, and draws my hair back to slide his lips where the scalp meets the skin of the neck.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Who do you give when you make love, your true self, what I call the Beautiful Freak, or do you give the mask you think they want to see?”
“I’ve been a freak, and I can assure you it’s not beautiful.”
“How do you define beauty?”
“Perfection.”
“There is no such thing, and anyway imperfection is far more intriguing.”
I rock in his arms, moving to the sensuous music, lost to myself, drunk with despair, my shame and sorrow transformed by the liquid gold shimmering through my hardened heart.
“Have you ever given your heart to someone or had it taken away, André?,” I ask and pull back to see his response.
“Again, you pull away from me. I am tired of this game, and it is a game you know, one you play with yourself. Why are you filled with such self-loa
thing?” André says with alarming vehemence.
“I am not filled with self-hatred, and you have no right to judge. I asked if you have ever given your heart or had it taken by someone. You didn’t answer my question. Perhaps it is you who is afraid.”
“The taking of a heart is a violent act, a crime,” he says with dark eyes flashing. “It should never be given or taken. Peace only comes when you open yourself to another without expectation.”
“I yearn for such peace,” I say, and caress his hair while drawing my lips tenderly across his eyelids, seeking to draw him back into the previous spell.
“Peace is the quiet that follows chaos, they abide together, the two, and cannot be separated,” André says, and leans down to blow out the candle. “When you embrace your primal self, you will find your unique serenity.”
“And you... have you found yours?”
“Not yet,” he says and draws me close to peer deeply in my eyes.
“Come with me. I want to play a little game with you,” he says, breaking into a mysterious smile. “It is a test of trust. With sparkling eyes he leads me across the room. “We will both confess our most guarded secrets and desires. The revelations will carry no shame, or discomfort if we choose to play them out with each other.”
“A confessional of sorts?”
“In this confessional, both priest and sinner are one,” he says with a playful laugh, and opens the door to a closet, empty, except for a few articles of clothing hanging loosely from wire hangers. “There is nothing to fear. Darkness cannot harm you. There is purity in darkness. In darkness, anything is possible.” He leads me inside the closet, closes the door, turns off the light and lowers me to the floor.
“The heart, body and soul must unify before you can fully unite with another person,” André tells me in a voice that sounds like a whisper from the netherworld.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
THE BEAST IN THE CAGE
I WATCH A MYRIAD OF MY REFLECTIONS IN THE EYES OF THE MOUNTED animal head trophies, as I move through the entryway.
“Where have you been, Alexandra?”
He moves up behind me, barely touching.
“What are doing up so late, Ramey?”
“I might ask you the same question. St. Agathe closes up tight by ten o’clock, unless you’ve been invited to a private party.”
“I was invited to a private party.”
“Was it good?”
“Beyond words.”
Ramey digs his fingers into my arm and swings me around to face him. He looks dreadful, with hair sticking up in tufts, the corners of his lips caked with dried blood, and his T-shirt stained with perspiration. What is more alarming are the gray hairs mingling in the growth of stubble on his chin—the first sign of anything that has staked a claim on his perfection. A wave of repulsion rides up my spine and spikes a fit of nausea, disgust unfathomable in my former carnation. The god has fallen from his pedestal. This grim satyr looks and smells like nothing more than a filthy drunk.
“I need to talk to you; come back to my room.”
“Take your hands off me. Enough is enough! I don’t welcome the sexual advances of my friend’s husband, or anyone else’s for that matter.”
“You sure rode in on a high horse.”
“I’ve paid a high price for my freedom, unlike you. I have no respect for men who seek the safety of the cage and the thrill of the wild, but don’t have the courage to commit to either.”
“Don’t lecture me, dear.”
“Fuck you, Ramey.”
“I don’t take seconds.”
“Is that so?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?
“Where’s Ruth?”
“She stayed the night in Montreal.”
He digs his fingers deeper into my arm and guides me roughly through the house.
“I said no! Let go of me.”
“Quiet. You’ll wake the children,” he says, then draws me inside the room and engages the bolt lock.
“Sit down.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself, Baby.”
He moves to a hanging chair, upholstered in brocade, with interlocking chains connected to hooks in the ceiling.
“I’ve seen your little warlock’s den, Ramey. What are you, some kind of wizard?”
“I have a fascination with science and magic. Does that frighten you?” he asks, and sits in the chair with legs spread wide.
“You don’t frighten me.”
“Did you fuck André Labat?”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Ramey.”
“Answer the question.”
I’m silent.
He rides his hands up the chain and draws his tongue over cracked lips.
“I’m disappointed; I thought you had higher standards.”
“Why did you row me out to stay in the house on the island?”
“I love a good game. Terror and Titillation is one of my favorites. I also like Pain and Pleasure. They’re goal posts on the same playing field. Rowing you out on the lake and leaving you on the island was like tying you up without tethers. The thought of you alone and frightened got me off—knowing I could set you free... or not.”
“You have a very sick mind.”
“Freedom can only be attained through absolute containment. The body is a vessel for the soul and the soul is the conduit to the spiritual world. When your body is contained, your soul is released. The soul’s escape is a powerful, life-changing event. And when it happens, there is no turning back.”
He stops the motion of the chair.
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand.” He gets up from the chair and crosses to where I stand next to the door.
“You know exactly what I mean, don’t you? You’ve had a taste of it, haven’t you?”
I clasp the palm of my hand against my chest to calm my wildly beating heart.
“It started in the house. And last night, in the hallway, you went there with me, didn’t you?”
“Is this the warlock talking? Or do you worship a darker deity?”
“Yes, it’s happened, Alexandra. That’s why you fell for the pathetic charms of André Labat. But giving yourself to that little worm is like a sailor dipping his cup in the sea when he’s dying of thirst. He’ll never be able to quench what I see in you.”
He stands only inches from me now—so close a bead of sweat drops from his forehead onto my cheek.
“I made love to Ruth the night we left you on the island and pretended she was you.”
“Save your confessions for your satanic priest.”
“But you had to fuck with it and move into my basement.”
“Nothing matters to you, does it, other than satisfying your perverted needs?” I say, and turn to walk out.
“I didn’t give you permission to leave.”
He blocks my movement to the door.
“You stay in my house, eat my food, drive my car, and expect me to babysit your son so you can go out and fulfill your perverted needs?”
“I refuse to defend myself. You invited me to stay in your home. I’m your guest. I will be leaving soon, so you shall be relieved of your burden shortly. And with whom I choose to share my bed is certainly none of your concern. I’m a single woman and free to do whatever I desire. I was once contained, but I had the guts to release myself. You, on the other hand, are completely contained. On your hand you wear the gold band of ownership, proof you’ve been tamed. You are no different than your marked and pierced livestock. You have no claim on freedom. You’re branded, Ramey.”
His eyes terrifies me. They hold the rage of a ruthless killer.
“Listen, Ramey, I’m tired and you’re drunk, and this isn’t the best time to have a discussion. We can talk tomorrow if you like, preferably with your wife present. Now, please move away from the door... I need to check on Sammy.”
Ramey’s perfect teeth glimmer inside his parted lips.
“I want you to
consent to a punishment for your behavior, for being such an ungrateful houseguest. Five lashes would be fair, wouldn’t you agree?”
“This has gone far enough.”
“Have you ever taken a beating?”
“What are you saying?”
“Have you ever taken corporal punishment from a lover?”
“I have no idea—”
He gestures to a four-poster bed swathed in yards of parachute silk and covered with a plush duvet and lace pillows.
“You’re acting crazy, Ramey. I’m leaving.”
“You walk out that door and I’m taking you and your son to the airport tonight.”
“Get out of my way. I’m leaving this room.”
“Go...” he says, motioning to the door. As I turn to leave, he whisks me up into his arms and carries me across the room to throw me roughly onto the bed.
He paces like a prodded beast inside its cage. His eyes glow, transformed to a vivid gold. Or perhaps the change in color is only a reflection of the flames from the studded candles stationed on wood pedestals next to the bedposts.
“Stand up and bend over,” he orders.
“No.”
“There is only one way for it to happen. We’re the same you know; we’re the same kind.”
“I’m nothing like your breed.”
“I haven’t slept since I met you,” he says in a chilling voice. “I wander through a maze of empty houses filled with shadows. When I awake in the darkest hours I want to take you into my arms and lose myself inside you. Some nights I feel I might succumb to the gloom and follow the curse of my legacy.” He observes me with a strange curiosity, as though he is aware I have been plagued by similar dreams.
“We’ve been together since the first moment I took your eyes—the night you walked into the crazy house in the desert on the arm of your asshole husband. You looked like an angel dressed in white, with snow falling outside the windows behind you, and Mozart echoing in the rafters—a fucking angel sent on a mission to destroy me. I’ve waited for you a very long time—it feels like more than a lifetime, and perhaps it is. My quest is only to release you. I’ll give you what you deserve, and more importantly I’m offering what you need to spread your wings and fly.”
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