Piers' Desire

by Marianne Ackerman

  The scene reminded her of Spain, a trip she’d taken with her parents two years earlier. They’d gone to a bullfight, and her father wanted her to turn away for the bloody finale. She’d refused, of course, but the animal’s death wasn’t what she remembered. It was the atmosphere before, the certainty that something awful was about to happen, and everybody knew. A few weeks later, she was told they were getting a divorce. Looking back on the trip, their last as a family, she figured they must have known then. The terrible news had been hanging in the air around them, like death. The time in Spain and what happened after had folded into a single bad memory. Maybe it’s only because everybody here has dark hair, she thought.

  She stood at the side of the hall, looking for a familiar face. Two guys nearby were talking and looking her way, on the verge of striking up a conversation, so she started walking, skirting the edge of the room, looking for Piers. Twenty minutes felt like hours. The band changed. This time the lead singer was a woman with a tambourine. The music was still electronic but the song was in Arabic, a simple refrain repeated over and over. People started clapping in time and chanting. She wondered if she was scared because she was alone and it all seemed so foreign. Or was there good reason to be afraid? The looks she got were somewhere between leers and curiosity; so far nobody had spoken to her.

  Then she saw Mouloud. He seemed to emerge from the tight centre of the crowd, as if he were coming out of a dark pool, eyes straight ahead, looking for someone. For her, she hoped. She shouted his name and waved but he didn’t seem to notice, and veered off. She caught up to him, grabbed his shirt. When he wheeled around and saw her, his face hardly changed, as if he didn’t recognize her.

  “Sorry I’m late. Have you been on yet?” she shouted, leaning close so he could hear. When he shook his head, she said, “Great! The best is always last.” He smiled, but only with his eyes. His lips barely curled at the edges. He reached out and put his arm around her shoulders and she was glad she’d found him. “Who’s that singer?”

  “That’s Assia,” he said, cocking his head to the stage. “Trance music. You have to let yourself go, get into it. Takes time. You want something to drink?”

  She nodded. He pulled her by the hand into the crowd, toward the other side of the room. When they reached the bar he let go and turned to get the barman’s attention. Behind them, the singer’s spot came to an end. The crowd cheered wildly, shouts of bravo, feet stamping. The star dove into her encore.

  Holding two bottles by the neck above his head, Mouloud nodded at Magali to follow, and led her through a side door. The crisp outside air was a relief. They leaned against the wall, sipping cold Cokes. She was about to ask about his music, but another thought popped into her mind, and she said, “Have you seen anything of Piers Le Gris?” A simple question, but Mouloud heard something else. He seemed to wake up, as if his face had come unfrozen.

  The centre of the crowd was a pulsating vortex as Mouloud fought his way to the edge like a swimmer in over his head. He was coming down from the high fast, spent a few minutes at ground zero and kept on sinking. By the time he reached the edge of the crowd, he was sure the only way out was to keep on walking, forget about the Troubadours. Just go back to the city, his room. It wasn’t meant to be. His head was pounding. He couldn’t see straight. The skin on his face was stretched so tight it felt like it was about to crack. He was still swimming and half-blind when Magali came up to him. He didn’t believe she was real until he put his arm around her, felt solid flesh. Then he heard himself babbling on about trance music and they were heading toward the bar. By the time they got outside his head had started to clear. A cold blast of night air, a swig of sweet liquid and he was back to the surface again, and grateful to be back. They were standing under a canopy roof outside the hall, a shelter between a wild night inside and the downpour. She was wearing a white sweater under her jacket, a gold chain around her neck. He slipped his arm around her shoulder. Her hair smelled sweet. She was so beautiful, soft and pure. Suddenly the night was alive again. The urge to run had gone. Of course he would play and sing the songs he’d written for her, because she was there to hear them. “Have you seen anything of Piers Le Gris?” Her question came from nowhere. At first he didn’t understand. She said she’d invited him but he might not show up. He was interested in music.

  Her eyes darted as she spoke, looking for someone through the rain. Piers. “Are you fucking him?”

  “No! Why would you ask a thing like that?”

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Mouloud, don’t be crazy. I said I’m not.” She glared at him, half laughing, half furious. “I know you want to, and you will,” he said calmly.

  She stepped out into the rain as if to run, then suddenly wheeled around and slapped him, hard. Surprised, he reeled back, landing against the wall. The sting of her hand on his cheek acted like an elixir. It made everything clear again and he wanted to take it all back. Who cares?

  “Okay, forget about it,” he said with a shrug, and looked away. But of course she wouldn’t. She kept on talking, telling him how wrong he was, insisting he was wrong. He was always wrong. You promised me, you promised, promised, over and over, like the wail of a siren, you promised. His head was pounding. So he walked off, left her standing under a tin roof with the rain tapping like fingernails. What’s the use, he thought. When he heard her shout his name into the darkness, the real reason for running away caught up with him, causing a choking pain in his chest, then tears.

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE ONLY WAY OUT TO THE STREET was through the concert hall. Magali went back inside and plunged in, keeping her head down, the energy of anger cutting a path through the crowd. As she reached the main doors, prepared to run for the bus, she felt a hand on her arm and turned around. It was Piers Le Gris.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” he said. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No,” she answered weakly. A lie from the depths of confusion, she’d been waiting for ages and struggled to swallow a sob.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, I’m all right.” Determined not to give him an opening for more questions, she wiped her eyes and looked away. “Has Mouloud been on yet?”

  “Not yet. I don’t really — I mean, I don’t care. He’s …”

  She hadn’t meant to babble, yet dreaded running into Mouloud again, especially if he found her with Piers. He’d looked crazy, definitely on something. It might be best to keep out of his way.

  Piers seemed to catch her drift. “Do you want to go? I’ll call for a taxi if you like.”

  She shrugged, thinking how disappointed Mouloud would be when he found out later she hadn’t bothered to stay for his set.

  “Let’s wait,” she said. “That’s what we came for.”

  Piers reached down and took her by the hand. “Come on. We can wait at the bar.”

  It felt strange being led, as if she were a child crossing a busy street and she might step out in front of a car. Eyes darting over the crowd, he seemed to be on the lookout, hardly aware of her at all. They wedged their way into a spot at the bar. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. His face was flushed. When the waiter turned away to get their drinks, she noticed his hand resting on the counter was shaking. She laced her fingers through his. He looked down, then at her. Mouloud had been right all along, he hasn’t come for the concert, she thought. He came here for me. So they would drink a glass of wine or two, listen to music, then go back to rue des Griffons, to his dingy green room that smelled of old newspapers and fake cigarettes, where they’d stayed up most of one night, and she’d heard his strange story. She would ask all of the questions she’d wanted to ask. But first she reached up and slid her hand around his neck, pulled him down and kissed him, no more than a quick brush on the lips, but enough to determine how this night would end.

  By the time Mouloud heard his named ca
lled once, then twice, he had collapsed behind a sheaf of black tarp that served as a curtain. The stage manager pulled him up by the collar and shouted, “Hey kid. That means you. Come on, your band’s up there, waiting.” Thrusting a bottle of water at him, he said, “Let’s go.”

  Mouloud took a long gulp and splashed the rest on his face. Picking up his oud, he staggered toward the stage. The light stung his eyes. Suddenly somebody shoved him and he was staring into the centre of a powerful spotlight. From the dark pit below came weak applause and cheers. His arms hung loose at his sides. He reached for the strings but his hands were a dead weight, impossible to move. Out of the darkness somebody hollered, “Let’s go man.” The room was alive. He spoke the first words, low and deliberate.

  I find no peace, I am not at war,

  I find not peace, I am not at war,

  I have no peace, I am not war.

  I fear and hope and burn and I am ice.

  His hands came unlocked, he found the strings, played the first line, played it again and sang the words exactly as he had taken them from Petrarch. Finally he was alone and lost in the light. His fingers seemed to leave his body. He played only every other line and slapped his hips in between.

  One keeps me jailed who neither locks nor opens,

  Nor keeps me for her own, nor frees the noose;

  Love does not kill, nor does he loose my chains;

  He wants me lifeless but won’t loosen me.

  The pit began to breathe with his rhythm. He could see eyes, faces, bodies swaying, and the clutch of people gathered in front of the stage began to merge into one being. He held his breath, counted back from ten, then began again.

  I see with no eyes, shout without a tongue;

  I yearn to perish, and I beg for help;

  I hate myself and love someone else.

  He sang the verse twice, more melodiously the second time, lifted his hands from the oud into the air above his head and spoke softly, his voice full of anguish and anger.

  I thrive on pain and laugh with all my tears;

  I dislike death as much as I do life:

  Because of you, lady, I am this way.

  Dropping his arms to his sides, he bowed his head, turned and walked offstage. The crowd broke into wild applause and the band picked up his tune.

  The rain stopped. As the taxi headed up rue de la République, Piers told the driver to let them out at the corner of Henri Fabre. He hadn’t said a word since they left the concert. Afraid she would say something silly and regret it immediately, Magali had stayed quiet too. Silence in a small space was intense. The driver had a strange impenetrable accent and kept shouting into his cell phone in a language she didn’t recognize. She was glad when they got out. Piers slipped his arm through hers and led her towards Place St. Didier, chattering on about the driver. Had she noticed the scar running down the side of his cheek and the weird wood carving hanging from his rearview mirror? She began to think the heaviness she’d felt as they rode must have been her imagination.

  Suddenly he stopped in front of a gate on rue du Roi René, the entrance to a popular theatre. In an ironic tone, as if he’d suddenly turned tour guide, he said, “And on your right is the Chapel of Ste. Claire, where Petrarch first saw Laura, in 1327. She was fourteen. I think. Not much older.” He paused, as if expecting a comment. “Did you know that?” She shook her head.

  “Petrarch, the famous Italian poet, who lived in Avignon. Really, you should read the history of this place, my dear. It’s extensive, and important.”

  She wanted to say, I know who Petrarch is, but he didn’t wait for an answer, took her hand and led the way to rue des Griffons.

  At the door, he stopped again and said, “No, no, no, she was older. I must be thinking of Juliet. Definitely, Laura was married with children when Frank clamped eyes on her. Imagine, cruising a married woman in church! That’s the Italians for you.”

  When she laughed he put his finger to her lips, and they tiptoed after that, taking special care to pass the dining room quietly.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AT THE SOUND OF VOICES in the vestibule, Nelly turned off the lamp and stood up quickly. The book fell to the floor. From the hallway came a ripple of Magali’s laughter, and footsteps on the staircase. The sudden darkness left an afterglow, an undulating motion like a floating carpet bed before her eyes. The image made her head swim. She sat down, felt for the book at her feet. Opening it in the dark, she was startled by a waft of scent rising from the pages, the stale smell of old paper, but something else. Burying her face in the fold, she inhaled a waft of sweet, dusty air, a mixture of dried flowers and archaic words, sumptuous, mysterious, monastic, a strange elixir, it made her head light. She turned on the lamp, sat down and resumed reading.

  The kiss is assumed to be an integral part of coition. The best kiss is the one impressed on humid lips combined with the suction of the lips and tongue, which latter particularly provokes the flow of sweet and fresh saliva. It is for the man to bring this about by slightly and softly nibbling his partner’s tongue, when her saliva will flow sweet and exquisite, more pleasant than refined honey, and which will not mix with the saliva of her mouth. This manoeuvre will give the man a trembling sensation, which will run all through his body, and is more intoxicating than wine drunk to excess. A poet has said: In kissing her, I have drunk from her mouth Like a camel that drinks from the redir; Her embrace and the freshness of her mouth Give me a languor that goes to my marrow.

  A vulgar proverb says:

  A moist kiss

  Is better than a hurried coitus.

  Sundry Positions for the Coitus: The ways of doing it to women are numerous and variable. And now is the time to make known to you the different positions which are usual. God, the magnificent, has said: “Women are your field. Go upon your field as you like.”

  Finding Piers in the chaos of Mouloud’s crazy concert, Magali had felt a sudden rush of delicious familiarity, as if they were on a crowded island together. Standing in his room with the door closed, the feeling crystallized: how totally inevitable, this night. Piers Le Gris, telling stories, humming softly, lighting candles. When his back was turned, she slipped out of her t-shirt and bra and stood leaning against the door, hands tucked into her jeans.

  He turned around, and sighed, “You are a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you,” she said, trying not to sound selfconscious.

  “No, no. It’s got nothing to do with me. Or you, either, for that matter. I don’t mean to flatter. You just are beautiful. You will do what beauty does.”

  “What’s that?”

  He was looking at her intensely, it made her squirm.

  “Break hearts, launch ships, that sort of thing. Take off your jeans, please.”

  She laughed, and thinking following orders wasn’t very romantic, strode across the room and sat down in his writing chair.

  “You wouldn’t have a glass of Scotch?”

  “I think you’ve had enough for one night,” he said, in his scolding voice. “Well, I’d like one.”

  He splashed a few tablespoonsful into a cup and handed it to her, put the top back on the bottle and set it on the table next to a pile of books. Then, as if he was getting ready for an ordinary night’s sleep, he took off his clothes, hung up the trousers, tossed the shirt and socks in a pile, and poured himself a glass of water.

  “You’ve cleaned up your room,” she said. “It looks like you’re leaving. Are you?”

  “After tonight, I would say, yes.” He took a sip of water.

  She was surprised to see him wandering around the room naked except for skimpy briefs and totally at ease, as though he was wearing a silk smoking jacket, dangling a cigarillo from his lips. She’d thought he was more of a prude. Watching him, she decided he was faking. There must be a huge gap between the person he showed to the world and the true one
underneath. He was far more complicated than she’d imagined. So perfectly relaxed, he made her feel quite naked. The oddest part was his surprising lack of eagerness. Almost fatalistic, as though he’d already been accused of something and pronounced guilty, waiting for the sentence. The room wasn’t warm, but the candles made it seem so. She could feel goosebumps forming on her arms, yet her cheeks were flushed. She was on edge and yet totally open to the moment. Anything could happen.

  “I want to make love to you,” she said, setting her cup down beside the chair.

  He let slip a nervous laugh. It restored her con fidence, so she went over and put her arms around him. He took her head in his hands, and whispering her name, kissed her, and the amazing nonchalance dissolved. Maybe it was only a pose, she thought. She could feel his whole body tremble as he kissed her forehead, eyes, cheeks, neck, again the lips, slowly and with deliberation, as though staking a claim to different parts of her body. She threw her arms around him, he lifted her up and carried her to the bed, and stopping at the edge, twirled once around. A sudden joyous turn, like falling in love, it made her laugh. He laid her down on the bed, and running his fingers down the bone between her breasts, continued kissing her, nothing like the frantic pace she was used to from guys her own age, nervous preludes to the main thing. His kisses were like sips of great wine, all the nerves belonged to her. He kept his eyes open, watching. Every move was smooth and calm except his gaze, which was a wild fiery look that seemed to flow right through her and made her feel so young and powerless. Pulling back from his embrace, she slid her leg over his torso, made him roll onto his back and then she bent down to kiss him, her hair draped over his face, pinning him down, hips swaying in the air, breasts sliding across his chest until he groaned and reached for the zipper of her jeans.