by Nancy Carson
After this unexpected finale everybody thanked everybody else and began drifting away. Daisy and John cleared the soiled plates and empty glasses.
‘We can wash them in the morning,’ she said. ‘Right now, I’m going to wash myself. My legs are all sticky and clammy with drying grape juice and my skirts and drawers are soaked. I swear the stuff’s already fermenting on my skin.’
‘I’ll lick it off if that’s the case,’ John replied flippantly.
‘I fear you’d have a swarm of fruit flies in competition.’
‘On second thoughts, let’s both take off our clothes. If your drawers are anything like my trousers they’re ruined. I feel sticky in the most embarrassing places. We can wash with pails of water from the cistern.’
He began undressing. In no time he was standing naked before her, moonlight outlining his sinuous body. ‘Now you … Do you want some help?’
‘If you want to …’ she whispered.
She unfastened her blouse and he gently pulled it away from her, down her arms, then tossed it onto the table on the patio. She unfastened her juice-stained skirt and slipped it, along with her petticoats, down her sticky legs.
While she took off her chemise and her drawers he went to the downpipe and filled two pails with water. When he returned to the patio she was standing naked in the moonlight, shaking out her hair, which she had just unpinned. He lifted one pail and poured it all over her.
She gasped as the shock of the cool water cascaded over her head, her shoulders, her breasts, down her back, over her belly and down her legs. As she stood dripping in a pool of it she felt suddenly indignant that he had surprised her thus.
‘I’ll get you for that,’ she shrieked. At once she grabbed the other pail and emptied the water over him, determined to get her own back. It drenched him and he laughed.
‘Oh, just you wait,’ he said good-humouredly.
He ran to the downpipe and quickly refilled the pails. She was hiding behind a pergola, laughing now. When he returned she made a grab for one of the pails and he allowed her to have it. They threw water over each other simultaneously but this time she squealed with joy. It was turning into a game and besides, she was expecting this last drenching, so it came as no shock to her glowing body. Rather, the cool, clear water was refreshing and she felt it rinsing away the cloying grape juice and debris of broken skins from her legs and her crotch.
‘Let’s fetch some more,’ she suggested, dripping wet.
They refilled the two pails.
‘Let me trickle the water over you,’ he suggested ‘and I can rub you down.’
She stood still while he poured water down her back and rubbed away the grime of the day, gently stroking her taut, smooth skin with the palms of his hands. She turned to face him and he trickled water across her shoulders and watched as it spilled over her. Her breasts glistened tantalisingly in the pale, silvery light of the moon that, with the reflection from the sea, imbued a suffused lambency to the night. Her nipples hardened in response to the water’s chill and he stroked each tenderly before pouring more water over her. He swished it over her gently rounded belly and the soft curve of her hips, and the crystal clear droplets sparkled like diamonds in the silky setting of her dark curls. Gently, but too briefly, his fingers caressed her and she uttered a little sigh of pleasure.
‘I’ll wash your legs,’ he whispered.
Rather than pour water directly, he dipped his hands in the pail and splashed handfuls of water over her thighs, sensuously stroking them with a smooth up and down motion to remove the sugary stickiness. But this sensual intimacy was, not surprisingly, having another effect. As his left hand stroked her thigh and returned inevitably to the soft, warm place between her legs, teasing her again, she saw that he had grown hard for her which, in turn, aroused her the more. While he bent his head and took a nipple between his lips she ran her fingers through his wet hair, pulled his face more firmly into her breast and sighed longingly. This night was no different to any other night with regard to her desire. She wanted him tonight as she wanted him every night. Only the circumstances were different; the starlit sky was a roof, the sickle moon a lamp, perhaps the patio for a bed … What was it about him that made her yearn for him? He only had to touch her and she melted. He only had to look at her with those soulful, liquid eyes that told of his desire and her heart beat as fast as if she had run a mile.
As John raised his head he left a trail of kisses on her wet neck and found her lips, cool, moist, soft and accommodating. He pressed himself to her and she felt him hard, insistent against her belly as rivulets of water trickled through her soft curls and between her legs. Her heart was beating fast … She took him in her right hand, closed her fingers around him and stroked him gently, to and fro. Oh, everybody has reserves of energy … as you will find out very soon. Did Pasquale mean this?
She parted her legs and guided him into her as she stood. His hands cupped her firm buttocks and she let out a little gasp of expectation as she felt him enter and draw her close to him.
Mother, if you could see me, you would not begrudge me my contentment …
They stayed like that for a few minutes, gently moving, teasing the pleasure out of each other with slow, gentle thrusts that intensified each other’s appetite inexorably. The passion grew but the position was limiting. They needed the expanse of a bed to roll about and give full vent to their fervour. If only the patio could be soft and kind to her back she would sink onto it and take him with her.
‘Oh, Gianni, don’t ever stop wanting me.’
‘Nor will I ever,’ he breathed.
At that, he pulled away. As he scooped her up in his arms and carried her bodily up the stone steps to their bedroom, her dripping wet body gleamed tauntingly. He placed her on the bed and they writhed together like otters, the sheet soaking up the water that still lingered on their bodies.
Oh, everybody has reserves of energy …
Chapter 25
Salvatore Vinaccia regularly travelled from his home in Bologna in the north to Sorrento in the south. A prosperous merchant, he dealt in the intricate cameo jewellery and the beautifully crafted furnishings and knick-knacks made of olive wood and decorated in tarsia – inlaid pieces of stained wood – that were peculiar to the Sorrento area. It was the last Tuesday in January 1891 and cold and wet. Desirous of something warming inside him at the end of his working day, he decided to call on his old friend Pasquale Amitrano at his caffè next to the monastery of San Francesco.
The two men greeted each other affably. It had been three months since last they’d met.
‘No wonder the tourists don’t come to Sorrento at this time of year,’ Salvatore said. ‘I swear it’s damper and colder here than in the north. Even without this rain.’
‘You may be right, dear friend. Having never travelled further north than Napoli I wouldn’t know. But damp it certainly is … What will you have? Coffee?’
‘And a stiff measure of grappa to warm me, if you don’t mind.’ Salvatore unbuttoned his overcoat, took off his hat and sat down at a table. He lit a cigarette and waited.
Pasquale delivered his coffee and a glass of grappa and sat at the table with him. ‘Has this visit yielded any treasures yet, Salvatore?’
‘There are always interesting pieces to be had.’ The man from Bologna spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it. ‘But no more nor less than usual. Whatever I acquire, you may be sure there are always plenty of ready customers. How is your wife, Pasquale? Is she here?’
Pasquale shook his head. ‘As you say, Salvatore, we are bereft of tourists now. All is quiet. If I need help I can call on Signora Rispoli. There’s no need for Concetta to venture down from the hills. Besides, she enjoys the extra time she has with Alberto.’
‘Ah, Alberto. How is the boy?’
‘Growing up too quickly, as children do.’
‘Have you had any photographs taken of him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You should.
’ Salvatore sipped his grappa and licked his lips. ‘Photographs are a wonderful record. Wonderful to pore over in years to come … especially on winter nights like these. I regret that I never had my own daughters photographed when they were younger.’
‘How are your daughters? Did you not say that one was about to marry?’
‘The eldest, yes. She married at Christmas … to a fine young man. I am content with the match.’
‘And was she photographed in her bridal dress?’
‘Oh, yes. I must remember to bring a print with me to show you next time. She is a fine-looking girl. They are all fine-looking girls, even though I say so myself. They take after their mother, of course.’
‘Concetta was never photographed when we married,’ Pasquale said regretfully. Then his eyes lit up. ‘But I have had a painting done of her – by an English artist I know. Would you like to see it? I have it here. I’m so proud of it I’m inclined to keep it by me to show everybody.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Let me tell you privately, Salvatore, that not only am I proud of the painting, but I’m proud of my wife’s striking looks as well.’ He smiled as he stood up, and made his way to the back room where he took the painting out of the case he’d made specially to carry it about. When he returned he lit another oil lamp and held it close to the picture for Salvatore to admire it the more. ‘Is she not a beautiful woman, Salvatore?’
‘Indeed so, my friend,’ Salvatore remarked, holding the painting at arms’ length. ‘This work is most impressive. It’s the very image of your wife. The artist has caught her look perfectly. And I love the classical Italian setting … Marvellous … An English artist, you say?’
‘Yes. A very talented English artist, wouldn’t you agree?’
Salvatore looked closely at the signature. ‘John Mallory Gibson,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You say you know him?’
‘I have come to know him well. He rents the house my mother and father used to live in. Him and his wife.’
‘I would like to meet this John Mallory Gibson, Pasquale. Can you arrange it?’
‘I don’t see why not. If you can call here again tomorrow morning at about eleven I will try to make sure he is here to talk to you. You have a proposition to put to him?’
‘Who needs mundane photographs if you can have magnificent paintings like this of your loved ones? My daughters would love to see themselves represented so.’
When Pasquale returned home that evening he called in to see John and arranged for him to visit the caffè next day.
‘I will go with you down to Sorrento,’ Daisy said. ‘I need to buy meat and tea – a whole basketful of stuff. I could meet you at the caffè afterwards and you can help carry everything back up those steep hills.’
At the caffè next morning, Pasquale introduced John to Salvatore. For good measure, Pasquale had also taken the painting of Daisy that he owned and had that available as well to show off to Salvatore.
‘It is so much better to see them by the light of day,’ Salvatore remarked, ‘even though it’s so overcast again. These paintings make me yearn for warmth and sunshine.’
John smiled unsurely.
Salvatore continued. ‘I am profoundly impressed by your work, Signore Gibson, and I have a proposition to make … I am the proud father of six daughters. Their ages range from fourteen to twenty-three. All of them are quite beautiful. I will pay you handsomely if you will paint each of them in this style, with a classical Italian setting.’
‘Do you mean all together in one painting or a separate painting for each daughter?’ John asked, to clarify in his own mind what was required.
‘Oh, a separate painting for each. They would not be satisfied with less once the idea has been planted. How much time would you need for such an undertaking?’
‘It depends on how big you want the paintings. I paint everything in the most minute detail, Signore Vinaccia, as you can see. It all takes time. It can’t be rushed.’
‘Let’s say the same size as this one of my friend Pasquale’s wife, Concetta.’
‘Then I would need at least a week – possibly two – for each.’
‘And how much must I pay?’
John hesitated. He wanted to give the right answer, to be fair to his potential client and to himself. ‘I think that is something I must first discuss with Daisy. She will be here soon if you don’t mind waiting a little longer … Would it be your intention to bring your daughters to Sorrento?’
Salvatore laughed good-naturedly at the idea. ‘They would not be content to stay anywhere less than the Hotel Tramontano. No, much more convenient and much less of an expense if you travelled to Bologna. Of course, I would pay such expenses in addition to your fee.’
‘That would mean my being away from home – from Daisy – for anything between six and twelve weeks.’ The thought did not appeal. The idea of leaving Daisy to her own devices in a foreign land, however kindly the neighbours, did not appeal at all. Unless she could accompany him. ‘I really must talk it over with her before I commit myself.’
‘I understand,’ Salvatore said. ‘I have arranged to see an artisan this morning about some cameos. When I have completed my business with him I will return and you can let me know your decision. Shall we say one hour from now?’
John nodded. ‘All right. One hour.’
Daisy eventually returned and, over a cup of coffee, John explained to her what was involved in the proposition. After considering it, she said, ‘I don’t think it would be possible for me to go with you, Gianni, much as I’d like to. There’s the cow to milk, the chickens to tend to and a thousand other jobs that have to be done. Oh, I shall miss you dearly, my love, but I think you should accept the offer and go alone. It would help your career. Commissions for work, especially by word of mouth, could be very lucrative, and I bet this Signore Vinaccia knows plenty of other wealthy Italians who could commission you. I imagine the Italian wealthy are no different to the British when it comes to paying handsomely for their elegant daughters to be painted. Especially in the manner that you can portray them. It’s vanity after all, isn’t it?’
He sighed. ‘I’m not sure I’m prepared to leave you for so long.’
‘Why?’ She looked into his anxious eyes. ‘I shan’t stop loving you. I’ll survive. I’ll have plenty to occupy me. And we shall write regularly, shan’t we? Take the commission, Gianni, just so long as it’s worth your while. Have you thought how much to charge for six paintings?’
‘I suppose it must at least equal what I would get for six paintings sold by my dealer.’
‘Naturally. So it’s easily worked out …’
John and Salvatore Vinaccia agreed a fee and John at once took half of it in cash, the balance to be paid on completion of the paintings. It had been arranged that he would live in one room at Salvatore’s house and work in another. On the day of his departure, the last Friday in January, John was morose.
‘I am loath to leave you, Daisy.’ He stood hovering at the door of Paradiso clutching his easel, six prepared canvases and all his paints, together with a box containing his clothes.
Daisy smiled, tears filling her eyes, for it touched her to see him leave her so reluctantly. ‘Go!’ she breathed, and bent her head so that he should not see her watery eyes. She put her arms around him and hugged him tenderly. ‘The time will fly.’ She knew it to be a blatant untruth; alone with nobody to hold her in bed, cold through the damp winter nights. ‘In no time you will be back and it will be spring. And this is a golden opportunity for you …’
‘If you’re sure …’
‘Yes, Gianni, I’m sure,’ she said in her calmest, most reassuring voice. ‘I can cope here. If I need help there’s always Concetta.’
He nodded, but he was not convinced. He had not counted on ever being parted from the woman he worshipped. It had always been his biggest fear. ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I shall miss you more than I know and possibly a lot more than I can reasonably tolerate. I’m certain of it. But
if you’re confident …’
‘I told you, I shall be all right. You will too. Just don’t forget to write to me with your address as soon as you arrive in Bologna.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then arrivederci.’
‘Arrivederci, cara mia.’
Absence, it was said, makes the heart grow fonder. Well, thought Daisy, as she watched him disappear down the path to meet Pasquale and his waiting cart, she did not see how she could become any fonder of John than she was already. But if it had that effect, she would not complain.
The following day, Nunzio the postino called. Daisy was leaving the hen coop, having just collected eggs, one of which she intended having for her breakfast, when she saw his squat figure ambling up the path between two newly constructed pergolas already planted with young vines.
‘Buon giorno, signora,’ he hailed, clutching a letter in his hand and already waving it at her. ‘This is addressed to somebody at this house called Maddox.’
‘Maddox?’ she repeated, flushing at being reminded of the name she had endeavoured to hide and tried her best to forget. ‘Ah … Somebody’s evidently got mixed up …’ she said inventing a plausible explanation. ‘It was my name before I married Signore Gibson.’
‘Ah. Your maiden name.’
He handed her the letter. ‘Thank goodness it is for you, signora. I was worried that it might have been wrongly addressed. If it hadn’t been yours, it might have taken me all day to find the right person. I am relieved it’s you. You’ve saved me a lot of walking.’
‘Thank you, Nunzio,’ she said, briefly inspecting the handwriting on the envelope as she took it.
‘It’s from England, eh? Somebody there remembers you.’
‘Yes, it’s from England,’ she said pensively.
Nunzio evidently wanted to chat but she was anxious to open her letter, so she bid him goodbye, turned her back on him and headed inside with her eggs and the envelope. As she walked away she tried to discern who the familiar, spidery, unpractised handwriting belonged to.