Glass in hand, she ambled out to the patio to enjoy her cigarette. She admired the ocean view with reservations. “I wish a gull would poop on the walkway. Wait, a gull’s poop is too clean looking. One once shit on my shoulder. A clean, creamy glob. How about a dusty old raggedy Great Dane sinking down and taking a gargantuan smelly brown shit before trotting off?” Sophia mused aloud.
She sipped and smoked, wishing for a romantic partner sitting opposite her. She had vowed celibacy for this week unless Jonathan miraculously materialized. However, she hadn’t sworn off masturbation. With two hours free before her booked massage, she could indulge in a bath and beating around the bush.
Sophia stubbed out her Balkan, went inside and refilled her flute, taking it into the bathroom where she rooted around the impressive collection of bath salts and bath bombs. She sniffed several, opting for woodsy and citrus, because it turned her on the most. The room filled with enticing aromas when she emptied salts and a bomb into the hot running water. “Aah,” she breathed deeply, dropping her robe.
Oh. Music and my rabbit.
She flipped a switch and the living room pulsed with dreamy Stan Getz and Astrud Gilberto Bossa Nova. She lit some of the classy glass encased candles and took them into the bath where she flipped another switch to access the sultry sounds. She checked the enormous oval bathtub and shut off the water, delightedly inhaling the bosky tangerine.
She was ready to do the deed. She was tingling from head to toe in anticipation. Dashing into the bedroom, scrounging around in her disheveled suitcase, she found her waterproof purple rabbit, the ears and rotating beads always guaranteed to provide paroxysms of pleasure. What would she do without Good Vibrations, the coolest sex toy store?
She was galloping to a second climax, screaming, unrestrained, and totally wrapped up in herself. Was that a knock at the door? Her ears were hot and flushed. She leaned back lazily, hoping she was hearing things. There it was again, louder and more insistent. She rose up, streaming aromatic water, glancing fondly at the purple bunny bobbing in the bath. Stepping out of the water, she picked the robe off the floor and hastily wrapped herself up in it, appreciating the feel of it, her senses heightened from the self-love.
The knock again. Louder.
“Coming,” she bellowed, chortling to herself.
She opened the heavy, lacquered white door, her mouth dropping when she gazed at the lovely man lounging in the doorway. Dove-gray lustrous hair hung down past his ears, framing luminescent blue-gray eyes, a sensuous heavy-lipped mouth, and an aquiline nose. His honey-colored skin and beautiful bone structure was so enticing she wanted to reach out and caress his face, following the perfect line from his cheek bone to his jaw.
“Gidday. Cat got your tongue?” His knowing eyes scrutinized her, moving slowly down from her face and stopping midway where her robe gaped open.
“And you are?” she managed to say, hastily pulling her robe closed and tying it tightly.
“Your massage therapist. Sophia Werniczewski? Four o’clock?”
She wanted to wrap him in her arms. Or, rather have him wrap her in his arms. He was tall, broad-shouldered, powerful, and well-muscled. His thin aqua pants and shirt, looking like scrubs, complementing his coloring, had the ubiquitous SL monogram in red on his left shoulder. He looked luscious.
“Oh. I thought I was to go to the spa.”
“Nah. You ordered it on the patio. Every room has a massage table. I’ll just set up, shall I?”
“I didn’t realize. Even better. I was in the bath. I lost track of time.”
“No worries.” He was busily retrieving the table from a closet.
She was dreaming of an impropriety. A deep tissue breast massage. A hand straying casually higher between her legs. A vigorous buttock stroking or spanking. Instead, she got a thorough massage, professional, competent, and theoretically relaxing. She couldn’t let go completely because she was hoping for more. Just one breach of boundaries.
“Thanks so much. Let me get your tip.” She rose unsteadily and donned her robe when he discreetly exited back into the living room area.
“Ta. Toodle-oo.” He smiled.
“Are you an Aussie?”
“Yes. They don’t like us using slang so I mainly stick to the Queen’s English, but…,” he shrugged, “some words slip out.”
“Can you come tomorrow?”
“I’ll check for a time and let you know.” His lazy mellifluous drawl was enticing.
“Thank you.”
“Cheers.”
“Wait.”
He turned, door open, his hand on the knob. A big buck ready to ramble into the dark forest. His gray, bushy eyebrows arched questioningly.
“What’s your name?”
“Noah.” His mellow voice fairly whispered the word.
“Biblical.”
“Popular down under.” And he was gone, leaving a trail of lavender and juniper, which she breathed in wistfully.
Sophia was restless rather than relaxed. She decided a long walk on the beach would dissipate the frustrated longing. Dressing quickly, she dashed out to the shore, barefoot. She wanted to feel that sand between her toes.
She walked and walked, savoring the twilight and then the orange sun sinking from the gradually darkening pink and orange streaked sky into the ocean, taking the color with it and leaving behind a tenebrous, splashing world lit by the stars and a massive full moon, which had been waiting to appear, close enough to touch, slivering the water with silver and illuminating the scrunching sand.
This was happiness. Everyone receded into another galaxy. She was here, content to be alone, present, and brushed by the sea breezes.
Sophia was just about to turn back, anticipating delicious food and drink, when a faint chanting, borne on the gentle winds, drew her towards a large stand of Australian pines, swaying slightly with a hypnotic susurration. She could make out twinkling lights through the tall, piney trees.
She advanced, mesmerized by the sounds, like a magician’s hypnotized subject, moving under another’s will, until she came to a clearing deep within the thicket. A two story house, painted a splashy pink with yellow window frames and lime green trimming, appeared as if she were in a Caribbean fairy tale. The ever louder, thumping music continued to beckon her towards the yellow door. Candle light illuminated the windows, adding to the allure. The glass shimmered. A myriad of voices chanted to the cacophony of sound.
Sophia crept closer, afraid to stay and unable to leave. A tall, imposing black man of indeterminate age, dressed all in filmy white, flung the massive door open as if it were a flimsy curtain and staggered out, holding his throat, horror haunting his eyes.
Burning curiosity driving her, she ran to the yawning door and slid inside. Using two hands, she managed to close it. She stood to the side, in the gloom not illuminated by the countless candles lighting up the bulk of the cavernous room, taking in a raucous, unimaginable scene. Rusty blood, oniony sweat, and ammonia semen assaulted her nostrils. Dozens of whirling white-clad bodies, some in a trance, some swaying, and some falling down assailed her eyes. The blaring rhythmic beats deafened her. She noticed a small group, armed with long, sharp knives, easily slaughtering chickens, their faces splashed with blood, in the center of the room, writhing with bodies. The blood-splattered people were in an ecstatic state. No one noticed her, or cared if they did.
She shuffled further into the inferno, heated up by all these electrified, adrenalized people. She stumbled over two people, lying on a blanket. Her butt hit the ground hard. In an instant, the man towered over her, stroking his tumescent cock.
“Look at my big doggy. Woof, woof. You want some too? She’s enjoyin’ it,” he laughed lasciviously, basking in her sweaty fear, before going back to the woman on the blanket.
Sophia fell over another couple while backing away from the first two. They were too engrossed in their enthusiastic copulating to bother with her. She began to run for the door. Another minute in the frenzied room w
as too much to bear. She jerked the heavy door open with superhuman strength. Then she found herself running until she heard someone shout, “Sophia Werniczewski.” Who the fuck knew her here? She whirled around, her blood running cold with fright, to face Noah.
“What a relief. I couldn’t think who knew me here. That scene scared me out of my wits. My body is still throbbing.” The words were tumbling out fast and furious.
“Shhh. Calm down.” He wrapped her in his arms, whispering into the ear she was savaging. He took her hand away from her ear, holding on to it. “Come on. Let’s go.”
They entered the grove of pines. She was shaking. Fear transmogrified into lust when he took her face in his hands and slowly pried her chattering teeth apart with his tongue. He kissed her like she’d never been kissed before. She crumpled to the ground, carpeted with pine needles, with Noah on top. They were panting with an overriding desire. He entered her quickly and they came together, moaning and sighing into the softly scented Caribbean night, worlds away from the pastel building’s maddening nightmare.
They may have dozed. He shook her shoulder gently, took her hand, and raised her to her feet.
“My horse is around the corner. I don’t think you’re in any condition to walk back.” He lifted her up and carried her to his white and gray speckled stallion.
The horse’s wide, reassuring rump felt solid under her. “You would have a horse. He has the same coloring as you,” she murmured into his shoulder.
He laughed. “They have them at the resort. You can ride.”
They were back in Sandy Lane’s safe arms in no time. He helped her dismount and walked her back from the stables to the main building. “There are a lot of perks to working here.”
“I can imagine.” They kissed wearily. When they parted, she realized he was wearing all white and his trousers were stained with a spray of blood.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, squeezing her hand one last time.
“What were you doing there?” she asked his receding back. He kept on walking without saying a word.
Forty Six
“Zophitchka is so cold. Kalt. She goes away. No address, no phone number, no nothing. Why didn’t she take pity on me? Rudy murdered. It’s horrible,” Ada, dressed in mourning black, bemoaned her fate.
They were sitting in Wolfie’s in a semi-circular booth with a smug Ta in the middle, flanked by Ada and Mathilde, two generals at war with each other, maneuvering for the upper hand and the eventual demise of the opponent.
The table was piled high with food, competing with Ada’s kitchen table. Ta and Ma shared corned beef and pastrami while the daintier Mathilde picked at a tuna salad. Lox and eggs was off to the side as a backup. Pickles, coleslaw, potato salad, and mini pastries surrounded the main dishes. The obligatory teas were there, but in ceramic mugs.
“Don’t complain. She lives here. You see her all the time. My son is so far away up North. I never see him,” Mathilde complained.
“You just saw him,” Ta said.
“But I had to schlepp myself there. An old lady like me. And then he comes back with me for two lousy days,” Mathilde said. “I never see the grandchildren. A shanda.”
“I never see Lili. She’s in school in New York. And now she’s going to Paris,” Ada chimed in, not to be outdone in the grievance department.
“Oy, Paris. When I think of the tortures I suffered there. The ghetto, Drancy, the bullying, the starvation, the threat of extermination, hanging over us like a black cloud. Why would a Jew go there?”
She looks like she’s still starving without the Nazis, Ada thought, leaning past Ta, shooting daggers in Mathilde’s direction.
“Lili’s only half-Jewish. The shegetz knocked Zophitchka up, married her, and then tried to shtup all the women in Miami,” Ada said.
“The half that counts. Her mamma is Jewish. She’s from a Jewish womb,” Mathilde countered.
Ta intervened because these two would vie for the last word for hours, engaging in their own form of Socratic dialogue. “Lili’s going to a different Paris. Not our Europe. But it’s still anti-Semitic,” Ta said, his eyes darkening with an age-old anguish.
“Oh, and they’re not anti-Semitic here?” Mathilde’s shrill vociferousness turned heads. “They took in the Nazis right after the war for their CIA, their bombs, their torture. No questions asked.”
“Schweig, Mathilde. We’ll have the whole restaurant coming over to us. They want to put their two cents in,” Ta said, brushing his fingers against her thin, stingy lips.
“Ma, bristling at the intimate gesture and the Schweig she thought he reserved for her, lashed out, “Nu, Mathilde, you speak so loud like a fishwife. Stop being a yenta,” she spat out.
Garrulous Mathilde’s lacquered blond bouffant gained height when she shored herself up at the insults, squaring her scrawny shoulders and thrusting out her miniscule bosom, as if to fortify herself for mortal combat. A master of the non-sequitur, she said “I’m proud to say I was in the French Resistance.” She lingered on the word, “Resistance”, relishing rolling the “r” with all the French brio she could muster. “I risked my life crossing borders, travelling to Poland and Germany. I found out information. I passed on secrets. I’m an important person. A macher. What did you do?” she asked. All diminutive five feet of her had grown into a towering, arrogant she-wolf, spitting fire.
Ada squared her considerable shoulders and thrust out her massive bosom, ready to engage the enemy. “I saved my skin. I’m alive, aren’t I? I’m a Polish Jew who lived through the Holocaust, married, and had a child. I’m still here. That’s bravery enough.”
Mathilde was preparing for round two, pursing her lips and gaining momentum. Her eyes lit up with a simmering indignation.
Ada held up an incongruously dainty hand. “Schweig,” she thundered, the word brimming with sarcasm. She assumed full operatic mode. “Deine ponchka worked overtime in the war. How many uncircumcised Nazi schlongs were stuffed into your mouth to shut up that voice of yours? You drill holes in my head with your screeching.”
Mathilde, spluttering indignation, said, “And you, kvell over your animal survival, but don’t tell me you didn’t have a taste or two of a Nazi schmekel before it was over.” She started gyrating suggestively in her seat.
Ta, perversely enjoying the show, had been stumm long enough. When corned beef chomping, pastrami chewing, and lox loving patrons stopped eating and started staring at the two warring women, he shut them both up by squeezing a hand to his left and a hand to his right. He squeezed hard. Mathilde whined, looking like a chastised dog, lowering its tail between its legs in abject shame. Ada glared at Ta defiantly, but said no more.
A welcome silence settled on the table momentarily. Mathilde’s flowery perfume and Ada’s spicy cologne, heated up by their combative fervor, mingling uneasily, wafted across the booth. Customers rose up clapping, cheering, and whistling. Encouraging shouts of encore and bravo reverberated around the luncheonette.
Mathilde, forgetting Ta’s admonishment, lost in the warm glow of attention, her favorite aphrodisiac, half-stood and, swiveling from right to left, bestowed acknowledging bows upon her impromptu audience.
Ada, like a Greek statue, remained silent and stony-faced, not stirring an inch. She ignored Ta when he rested an appeasing hand on her heavy shoulder. Once their audience had turned their attention back to the chief task of eating deli, Ada leaned across Ta heavily, making sure to bear down hard on him in retribution for the hand squeeze, and hissed, “Narische yuchna.” Her face contorted with fury.
Ta said, “Girls, you’re not going to enjoy the Holocaust Museum together if you keep fighting. Do I have to go with you to be ein referee?”
“We’ll be like lambs,” Mathilde said sweetly. “You go schmooze with the boys like you planned. We’ll be good.”
Mathilde and Ada observed a civil silence, staring out at Collins Avenue, waiting outside for Ta, who had repaired to the men’s room.
Mathild
e, seeing Ta approaching through the glass front door, turned to Ada, and with uncharacteristic calm, said, “I can’t wait for the museum.” Ada stared.
Forty Seven
Sophia was adjusting nicely to life at Sandy Lane now that she had a lover. The gourmet vegetarian dishes, the impressive wine selection, the walks on the beach, the yoga, the facials and saunas, and the massages quickly became the norm. Rather than balk at the luxury, she began to embrace it and take it for granted. Noah was the piece de resistance.
They were wrapped in each other’s arms, enjoying a post-carnal serenity.
“I love the sneaking around. It’s adding excitement to our tryst,” Sophia said, stroking Noah’s thick silver-gray hair.
“I hate it. I could lose my job if we get caught. And I have a great thing going here. The walls have ears and the windows have eyes.”
“Don’t worry. Sophia, the fixer, will be able to explain everything away, if the need arises.” She smoothed his furrowed brow, planting kisses on his high forehead. “I can’t believe my stay is half over. I’m so glad I met you in the beginning.” She reached for his hard buttocks, caressing them, her eyes closed in sensual appreciation.
“Let’s go back to that clearing. I want to do it there again. It was mind-blowing,” Noah said, rubbing a nipple absently.
“Okay. But first let’s have a drink and a smoke. I know. I know. Not on the patio. We’ll skulk in the sitting room.” Sophia couldn’t ward off his objections to any visibility where they might be spotted together.
“You never told me what you were doing there in that Santeria temple.” Sophia, afraid of the answer, finally got up the nerve to ask, once they were settled with their drinks, champagne for her and a rum and coke for him, and their Sobranies.
“Doing? Nothing.”
“Come on. You were dressed in white like everybody else and you were close enough to the chicken sacrificing to be blood-splattered. Are you involved in voodoo?” She sipped expectantly.
Time's Harlot: The Perils of Attraction, Seduction, and Desire Page 19