The Story of X: An Erotic Tale

by A. J. Molloy

  I look at him, and he looks at me.

  Kicking off my sandals under the table, I sit back, driving the worries from my mind again and focusing on the moment. Only the moment.

  “Why not, Marc. You choose. Choose for me.”

  He nods, with just a hint of a smile.

  “Okay.”

  I smile in return. I am barefoot in the sun, and now the relaxation is working—it is pervading me like a drug: anesthetizing the pain of the morning. We are surrounded by happy Italian families chattering and eating, where the scents of lemon and good cooking and the glittering sea all waft and refresh.

  “And some wine? If you will permit me?”

  “You officially have my permission. Not least, Marc Roscarrick, because you’re paying.”

  Where did that come from? Maybe danger has emboldened me, made me flirtatious. He laughs anyway.

  “Very good point. Okay, we will have some wines from the Alto Adige—you know it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the far north of Italy, the South Tyrol, where they speak German. One day, maybe . . .” He gazes at me, then shakes his head, as if correcting himself. “The wines are just brilliant, but barely known outside the region. My family has estates there—vineyards and a schloss. That is to say, a castle.”

  “But of course,” I say, half smiling. “Who hasn’t got their own schloss? I used to have a schloss but I got bored. Schlosses are so last year. Now I want a palacio.”

  “Ah. You’re teasing me.”

  “You’re a billionaire. The first billionaire I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m not sure whether to be gratified, X.”

  “What’s it like having that much money, anyway?” I crunch a breadstick. He smiles at my audacity. There is a European flag fluttering over his shoulder, bleached pale blue in the seafront sun.

  “Not having to worry about money is like not having to worry about the weather,” he shrugs. “It is an incalculable advantage; I do know I am very lucky. But I had to work to make a real fortune. And being rich brings its own difficulties.”

  “Such as? Too many private jets? An annoying choice of beautiful women wanting to sleep with you?”

  “No.” His sparkling eyes meet mine. “It makes life more . . . ah . . . complicated. Say you buy a Tuscan villa. Then you have to pay someone to look after the villa—because you aren’t there most of the time. Then you have to pay someone to protect the man who is looking after the villa. Then you have to hire someone to check the man who protects the man who . . . well, it becomes a crashing bore.” He pauses. And chuckles, that languid, infective chuckle. “I’m not looking for sympathy.”

  “You’re not getting it.”

  Our food has arrived. It looks a little odd, and also beautiful: chunks of soft white fish laced with pink “lobster foam,” like a kind of translucent froth of pale rose caviar; and all of it lying on the green island of risotto—rice tinged with basil.

  And then I taste it.

  “Oh my God.”

  “You like it?”

  “It’s . . .” I struggle for the words. “It is delicious. Like nothing I have ever eaten.”

  “Good!”

  His smile is wide and dazzling. I can see the dark vee of his bare chest under his open-neck shirt. Dark hairs, a little gilded by sun maybe. His elegant hands reach for a wine bottle that lies tilted in a silver bucket.

  “And now the Gewürztraminer. Lightly chilled, from Tremen, in the Etsch valley. That is where Gewürztraminer was invented. It matches the slight spiciness of the basil and the angler fish.”

  My only previous experiences of Gewürztraminer have been cheap German wine, or cheaper Californian remakes. I sip, somewhat reluctantly, but Marc is right. Of course; I bet Marc is always right. The wine is delicious. It lacks that icky sweetness I expected; it is rich yet dry, with a ghost of floral perfume. Just perfect, dammit.

  We drink and eat, and the conversation warms, and then it positively flows: I tell Marc funny stories from my days as a student, stories about me and Jessica. They are not that funny, but Marc laughs, and his laughter seems real, and as the lunch proceeds my mind is again suffused with a sense of well-being. The terror of the alleyway seems like it happened to a different person, in a different time.

  The wine is crisp and cool and lovely, and the afternoon stretches sunnily ahead, and I can hear people chattering happily away in Italian all around me, and it is like the best soundtrack ever. I am glad I do not understand the people here, because their talk becomes blissfully meaningless, just a mellifluous burble of foreignness.

  At last Marc sits back. And he tilts his handsome head, looking at me with curiosity.

  “X. You still haven’t asked me about this morning. Are you no longer interested?”

  He’s right. I haven’t asked. Why is this?

  It is partly because I don’t want to ruin the moment, perhaps. But it is also because my mind is helplessly clouded. And it is clouded by thoughts—not of the morning’s events—but of sex. Right now, right this minute, I want to make love with Marc. I want to feel his hands on my skin; his lips on my lips; his hands caressing me, endlessly. I imagine us on a beach, alone and together. The sun above me, Marc above me . . . It feels wholly inappropriate, after what I have just experienced, in the alley; yet it feels wholly natural, too. I want life, and love, even more.

  Moreover, I can see by the way Marc looks at me that maybe he wants me as well. A moment ago I stood and shifted to another chair to keep out of the beating sun, and I saw him staring at my legs, at my bare feet. With pure and devouring lust. Trying not to look but looking. And now he gazes at me.

  The erotic tension between us, the almost-touching-ness, is delicious yet unbearable. Gloriously intolerable. It cannot go on. It must go on. The drought must break, the wet season must return. Yet still the sun beats down.

  He raises a hand.

  “Perhaps we need a little more wine.”

  “Do we?”

  He nods.

  “Something different this time. Something rather special.”

  Glancing along the table, I notice that the dishes and the plates have all been spirited away, without my really being aware. I am not surprised; Marc Roscarrick is surrounded by a halo of things that just happen, appropriately yet invisibly.

  The plates have, in turn, been replaced with a new silver bucket and a fresh bottle of wine. Marc extracts this small, slender half bottle; turning it in his hand, he shows me the label.

  “It is Moscato Rosa, from St. Laurenz, again in the Alto Adige.” Marc pours a couple of inches into a tiny glass, which he then pushes my way.

  The wine looks like liquefied amber mixed with the blood of a saint. The aroma is already divine. He gestures at my glass of rosy gold wine. “We only make a few hundred bottles a year; most years we can’t make it at all. The climatic conditions have to be absolutely perfetto. There are only ten hectares of vineyards in the world that are dedicated to this grape.”

  I pause before I taste. The time has come; before this goes too far, before I drink too much, I really must have the answers.

  “Marc. How did you know where I was in the Quartieri? How did you know I needed rescuing?”

  The breeze ripples the parasol above us. Marc carefully replaces the bottle in the silver bucket, then looks my way.

  “The first time I glimpsed you, Alexandra, in the Gambrinus . . .” He gestures helplessly, like someone confessing a dark secret. “I thought you were the loveliest woman I had ever seen.”

  I stare at him. My mind resists the words, but my heart soars. It soars. It does. I am a fool. But it does. The loveliest woman I had ever seen.

  Me.

  “I am sorry if this sounds glib or facile, X, but it is also the truth. I wanted to come over a
nd talk to you. Immediately.”

  I manage to speak.

  “So?”

  “I restrained myself. Instead, I listened in to your conversation. I am sorry. Then I paid for your drinks. I couldn’t help doing that at least. And then I left, before I did anything more foolish.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  He ignores my question.

  “But then you came to the palazzo. You were audacious. You were not quite the innocent I imagined. You were also funny and smart and . . . Well, it was very difficult to resist again. I am not a man to restrict myself to sentimentality.”

  What is he saying? I am melting in the words. Melting. But I mustn’t. I need to know about Jessica. Why did he tell me he was interested in Jess? Before I can ask, he goes on.

  “After you left the palazzo I asked friends of mine—friends, colleagues, servants—to look out for you. Again, I am sorry. I was interfering in your affairs, without your permission, it is unforgivable. But you seemed . . . a little naïve, maybe too audacious.”

  “You had me followed?”

  “Not exactly. Watched over? Yes. Watched over is better. But then I heard you were exploring the slums, Materdei, Scampia—dangerous, dangerous places—and I asked my people to be more proactive. Yes, in the last couple of days, you were followed.”

  I don’t know what to think about this. Should I be appalled, disgusted, violated? I am not. I feel protected. Marc Roscarrick was protecting me. It is impossible to feel anger. He continues.

  “I was in the Via Toledo when my man Giuseppe called and said you were in deep trouble—he got to you first, but I came as fast as possible.”

  “And saved me. Thank you.”

  He waves away the compliment.

  “It was pure selfishness on my part. I do not deserve your gratitude.”

  “Sorry? Selfishness?”

  The breeze drops. The family at the table behind us has gone. The silence extends. He speaks. “X, I saved you for myself. I rescued you because the idea of anything happening to you makes me ill. As you must realize, you are the one I wanted all along.”

  Now I have to ask.

  “But you said Jessica—”

  “It was a lie, to save you from me.”

  His eyes are dark with anger, or sadness, or something else.

  “I don’t understand. Marc?”

  He sighs, and turns away, as if talking to himself. Contemplating the distant blue Sorrentine coast.

  “There is danger for you in this, Alexandra. And yet I find myself advancing, nonetheless . . .”

  Slowly, he turns back, and stares me straight in the eyes.

  “I cannot help it. There is something in you, not just your beauty, something in you. I recognized it when you walked in the palazzo. Your bravery, your fearlessness. That bright intelligence. I was drawn to it, irresistibly. Like a kind of gravity.” He hesitates, then says, “What is that line in Dante? At the end of the Comedy. Like the love that moves the sun and other stars? Yes. L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.”

  He falls silent. I am silenced. What do I say? That I felt the same? Something very similar?

  To stifle my words I drink some of the wine, the Moscato Rosa. It is sublime; intensely rich and yet delicately roseate. Sweetness within sweetness. This feels like the most important moment of my life.

  “I love Dante, too,” I say, slightly faltering. “One of the reasons I came here is to learn Italian, so I can read it in the original.”

  His eyes flicker over mine.

  “Favorite passage?”

  “In the Commedia?” I consider, then answer. “I think the passage in the ��Paradiso.’ When the souls are rising to God—”

  He finishes my words for me, not hiding a delighted smile: “Like snowflakes ascending! Yes! It is my favorite passage, too.” Our eyes meet again. He speaks the verse in liquid Italian. “In sù vid’ io così l’etera addorno, farsi e fioccar di vapor triunfanti . . .”

  Silence returns. Marc sips at his wine.

  Then he sets down the glass. His red lips are now moist with the sweet Moscato Rosa. He gazes into my eyes. His hand reaches across the table and covers mine. He leans nearer. His touch is electrocuting; every other part of me wants to be touching every part of him. The world pivots around us.

  “Marc . . .” I say. I am pinioned and choiceless. I want no more delay. Our mouths are inches apart. The world is irrelevant, the universe is nothing, all there is is this moment and this table in this sunny outdoor restaurant with me and Marc Roscarrick as he tilts his handsome face to sink his wet sweet lips onto my waiting mouth.

  “I can’t,” he says. “I cannot kiss you. It is too dangerous. For you.” His sigh is tense with grief. “I want you, X, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone as much.” A slow and horrible pause. “But it is impossible.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “STILL CAN’T FIGURE out why.”

  “So we haven’t gotten very far.”

  “Weird. Really weird. He buys you lunch and says he adores you and tells you that you are the most beautiful woman since Helen of Troy, if not slightly prettier . . . and then he says, ‘Oh but I can’t because of some dark, terrible, brooding mystery . . .’ And then he escorts you home and that’s it?”

  “He’s offered me a car and driver. So I can go see Naples without getting . . . into trouble.”

  Jessica nods.

  I persist.

  “Why would he do that, Jess? Why . . . ?”

  “Let me think. I need nicotine to help me think.”

  She grabs a cigarette and lights it, exhaling blue smoke over the crust of her pizza margherita. Then she says, “Maybe he really is a very important Camorrista? And he doesn’t want his terrible secret revealed? He does look a bit of a dangerous bastard.” She chuckles. “Or maybe it’s something else. Perhaps he just has herpes.”

  Is that a sourness creeping into her voice? She is my best friend; I don’t want her to be jealous or upset at what I’ve told her. So far her reaction has been good humored, cynical, and laced with amusing sarcasm, typical Jessica, which is perfect. She is what I want to keep me stable. Otherwise I might just lose it.

  “Then again”—she blows a smoke ring—“it could be something to do with his wife. Her death.”

  We have been discussing him all night, in this little pizzeria down by the port. Jessica is indulging me with these conversations—and I am grateful. But then, she got to choose the venue.

  The pizzeria is open to the sultry night air. We are outside, but I can see inside, where big men with slightly malign haircuts drink shots of rough grappa at the bar. They knock it back in one swaggering toss, then turn around, as if expecting applause. Some of them have scars on their arms—burns and cut marks.

  Jessica likes these seedy places; she thinks they are soulful, and true, and authentic. Sometimes I agree; sometimes I don’t. Right now I don’t care too much. I am not at all far from bewildered, and I am in the vicinity of Very Unhappy. I am still rattled by the assault in the Spanish Quarters, yet that terror has been eclipsed by the clamor of confusion in my heart.

  Marc Roscarrick feels the same as me, and yet he cannot allow himself to be with me?

  Yet he also offers me a car—and a driver. Giuseppe. Why would he do that if he never wants this to go any further?

  I gaze across the napkin-littered table at Jessica.

  “Am I being stupid, Jess? Do you think I should just forget him?”

  She gazes right back at me.

  “Yes.”

  I am bitterly disappointed; I also know she is right.

  “However . . . .” Jess adds, stubbing out her cigarette with relish. Her words are smoke in the warm evening air. “I know you won’t.”

&nb
sp; “Sorry?”

  “You can’t forget about him, can you, hon? It’s already gone too far, hasn’t it?”

  Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. Jessica’s expression is accepting and clever. Sometimes I wonder if she sees deeper into me than I can see myself.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. You’re falling in love with him, X. I’ve never seen you like this before, all doomy and mooning . . . Catherine-and-Heathcliffy.”

  “But—”

  “This isn’t Deck-Shoe Mathematician, is it? This is the Real Thing. You’re practically crying a river ’cause of some lunch. I mean, think about it.”

  Her hands cross the table and she squeezes my hand; it reminds me of the way he touched me at lunch. “Listen, you wanted an adventure, you wanted to take a few risks, you came to Italy to find something new and exciting and, well, this is it. No? He might break your heart, but you might break his.”

  “But what if he is involved in . . . something?”

  “So if he is, deal with it. This kind of stuff comes with the territory. When in Rome, sleep with Romans.”

  “Is that a saying?”

  “No.” She laughs, lowly. “But it’s true. Besides, I’ll say one thing for the Mob: they keep all the bloody tourists away. Naples is the last real Italian city, the last city not overrun with fat foreigners taking photos.”

  “If he is. I . . . I can’t . . . you know.”

  Helpless. This is helpless. And useless. Marc Roscarrick has made me boring. What can I do?

  I glance at the bar again. Half the men in here are probably Camorristi. Of course they look like plain dockers and longshoremen, burly and tattooed. But they probably spend their days scamming profits, altering dockets, smuggling contraband, and sending presents to the wives of customs officers. Maybe they get a little violent in a back alley by the Capua gate every so often, beating up on some rival.

  Yes, I am sure they do.

  And I am also sure that Marc is not like these men. He is funny and sharp and dignified and intelligent, and he has that lofty graciousness—or is that just his expensive English education and his rarefied European breeding? Maybe it is all fake; maybe he is just another dancer at the masked ball of Neapolitan life.