Her mouth fluttered, her eyes watered, and her cheeks sagged. “Yes, but I never thought you’d face danger; did you? It is really scary there, very dangerous for a Jewish American reporter. It makes me think of Daniel Pearl.”
“Yes, true, but that changed things,” he replied thoughtfully. “The paper protects us. We have better security, and our dateline bureaus provide reliable agents who handle the contacts for interviews. Actually, I worry the most about the high-profile female journalists who are a red flag to many Muslims. They cover their hair, but can’t cover their faces while on TV. I’m not high profile, so I’ll be okay. I hate to leave you, but I’ll be okay, I’m sure. Let’s concentrate on July and family.”
A few hours later, Sarah and Teresa were picnicking on the grass in a section of the Borghese Gardens behind the Villa Giulia. How will I manage in Rome alone? What if something happens to Simon? How would I live?
The driver brought Jennifer and Armando from the airport in Palma and the caretaker couple escorted them to the front entrance of the simple house with plastered walls painted in strong colors—turquoise, yellow, and blue—set off by sheer curtains. The furniture was painted white, carefree. The bright colors and freshness enhanced the views of the sea through thick-ledged windows. They settled into a casual routine with the caretakers discreetly providing meals and cleaning. He spent his days writing in a journal and sketching cottages, gardens, stone walls, and his new wife. She read except for when they shared a fresh meal or walked or swam, an ideal honeymoon with no distractions.
They strode up a rocky pathway on the wild and windy northwest coast of Majorca and turned to view the crystal-clear turquoise water below. Long ago, a Pierleoni ancestor bought the fisherman’s stone cottage surrounded by hectares of steep land above Formentor Beach. They sold off most of the land in the early twentieth century, and in 1929, it became the site for the first exclusive resort for wealthy Europeans. When in the mood they dined at the resort; on some days they hung out at nearby villages, havens for artists and seekers of silence. After climbing up the last steep stair, they entered their porch, shaded by luscious grapevines heavy with clumps of red grapes, the perfect place to gaze out at the mirrored sea. The original thick-walled core built by a local mason a few hundred years ago was cool and inviting. Large add-on porches captured strong Mediterranean breezes that were almost constant except in summer. The gardens were filled with pink azaleas and purple daisies amid low rock walls. Beyond the rock walls, a large orchard of orange and lemon trees gave way to tall pines and beyond that, craggy black basalt mountains.
“Beautiful lady. What will be your pleasure before lunch? Wine, grappa, gin and tonic? Or how about fruit juice?”
“Thank you, Armando,” she said sneaking a peek at the black shiny hair above his navel. She admired his tanned muscular legs, the perfect proportions of his body, and slipped two fingers up his calf to the inner side of his knee. “How about fruit juice with a splash of gin?”
“No reason not to, my love,” he said as he touched the firm underside of a perfect small breast very visible in the deep V-cut of a white bikini top. Boldly she ran her fingers higher up his inner thigh, but drew them back quickly when a caretaker arrived with plates.
Armando came out with the drinks. “Only two more weeks. I want to stay here forever, but my sister is coming after we leave. I thought we might be bored at times since I had no idea what it would be like to be here with my wife. I’m having a wonderful time.” Peaceful, even though passionate sex riles me up. “I’ve been sketching you to paint you when we go back to Castel Vetulonia.”
Jennifer listened while savoring fresh peach juice laced with gin and lime. What will it be like to live with his parents? “You were so wise to give us ample time alone. I’m very comfortable with you, which I needed before joining your family. Here we can do anything we want, we don’t have to tamp the fire. Back in Rome and Tuscany, it will be different.”
Before leaving for their honeymoon, they’d inspected the three rooms that would be waiting for them on the second floor near Matilda and Pietro’s quarters. It would be very private, but she wondered about emotional freedom since his parents would be there as they grew and changed in their marriage. Now that they were intimate, she was discovering the deep pools of chaos that lurked in Armando’s soul; she was shocked how much she wanted to understand him. She rarely asked direct questions because he went on guard and kept her at a distance by making sexual innuendoes when she got too close. He seemed to be in another world a lot.
Earlier that day when she took a long swim, diving deeper than ever before, she was seized by the desire to know all of him. The gin now slipped her focus slightly outside the solid world; she felt like she was a light beam penetrating his inner lattices. She wanted to shatter him into geometrical shapes, to examine all his facets and angles. Being with him on Majorca was an unexpected love potion that enchanted her while they spoke, ate, and made love. His perfect proportions and the marvelous color of his skin, eyes, and hair surely came directly from higher dimensional realms, like Michelangelo’s marble statues of male bodies. He smelled delicious, like a god from a mythic age.
He deftly evaded her razor-sharp mind that could analyze him better than he knew himself—the thing most men fear about women. Going deeper, she was careful yet persistent since he didn’t object as long as she didn’t push too far too fast. She didn’t know she was trying to penetrate her own shadow through him. Looking into his murky eyes, she licked the rim of her drink with a taut tongue and said thoughtfully, “If I’m going to find my true feminine essence as your lover, I need to understand you. What are you thinking right now?”
He’d been tapping his fingers on the edge of his chair staring brazenly at her soft inner thigh, a cue that it was safe to ask. “Ah, but,” he replied in a smooth voice, Italian accent more pronounced than usual because he knew she loved it, “that is an impossible question because I don’t know myself, probably never will. There is no hurry. Anyway, I penetrate you when I fuck you, the joy of being a man. You engulf me. You were born for this, and from your body will come our child.” He stroked her deliciously accessible small belly above the tiny string bikini. As he diverted her focus with sexual innuendoes, he knew it annoyed her, but too much talk annoyed him, annoyed him a lot. Who was going to be victorious?
“So, you believe that strongly about the nature of being male or female? As you know, these days many people would not agree with you,” she said flatly, staring at him with a firm expression.
“That may be so, and that is fine for them, but that is not who we are or ever will be. We are together because I’m a man and you are a woman. To be frank—though I hate being pinned down as you’ve noticed—if I didn’t clearly understand my gender, I’d be crazy. I’ve had a hard enough time trying to figure out who I am, but at least I know that I’m a man. What are you really trying to say?” He was annoyed.
Jennifer only knew she wanted him to reveal himself more but he wouldn’t. Her opportunities would be less frequent after their honeymoon. “What if I don’t get pregnant? What if all you get is a relationship with me? Then would you reveal your mind?” Armando didn’t know she was on birth control.
“What do you mean, reveal my mind?” he said visualizing her perfect long legs wrapped around his waist while fucking her, getting hard from the visual.
“I want to know what you think about in order to understand who you are. Perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps I can know just by being with you and seeing what you paint, but I sense there is a special being in you, a person nobody knows. I can see that you’re not ready, so I’ll wait. I’m so grateful for this time alone. Please promise you will bring me back here every year?”
“Of course we will, one of the benefits of being a Pierleoni. My parents get closer when they come here, my cousins say the same, as does my sister. As for you, I will find out more about you when I paint you.” He looked up and was surprised to encounter a camera lens. She’d c
aught him in a mood she hadn’t seen before; he felt invaded.
“Sorry. I’m your wife and we only have a little more time alone together. I worry about how it will be when we’re back in the family.”
Armando felt potent sexual energy flowing in his loins. He said in a concerned, warm voice, “You must trust me, trust us. I’m going to find you in many different ways as your resistance melts away. I’m going to paint you over and over again, and I am going to fuck you until you surrender. You’ll find me through artistry and intimacy too.”
After lunch they retired to their chamber with salty sea breezes wafting through shocking pink fabric that accentuated the flesh-colored plaster walls. The only decoration was a painting by Armando of a fat nude with a chartreuse drape over her pubis in the style of Matisse. Sheltered within a white mosquito-net bower, he made love to her so intensely she nearly shattered. He made her feel drunk by repeatedly touching every part of her body. Then he fell into a sound sleep while she lay beside him feeling hot energy warm her pelvis. She slipped out through the French doors to the terrace to stare at the sea until he awoke. For now, she had nothing more to say. But he was not going to escape her desire to get inside his skin.
Armando lay in deep sleep with his consciousness spinning in his pineal gland, the cave of all minds. He was in neck-deep water next to a rock ledge with his feet crabbing soft, pebbly sand. Right beyond the sand ledge, the sea floor plunged down into midnight-blue water where Jennifer was deep diving while he guarded her. She plunged down using flippers to propel deeper and deeper, bubbles swirling behind her body. It seemed an incredibly long time before she surfaced. The first time she went deep, he was frightened, but could still see the bubbles and the white flash of her body down through the aqua sea in the deep blue water. His dream was of a long time ago watching a mermaid dive into the sea.
Will she come back to me, swim to me and pull herself up on the rock to sun her fish body? Like a rare male Siren, I sing my evocative song to draw her near. Her hair is thick, curly, and rusty red, her breasts full, her back sinuous, yet her lower body is fish. How will I enter her? Sunning on the slippery rock, she glances at me sideways, cool water running out of her hair tickling her nipples. A large emerald on her left hand captures the rays of the sun, a green flash deep in my eye sockets. Looking into her eyes for the last time, I rise out of my body flying above the rocks and the sea. Captured on the rock within her fish body, she reaches for me with a desperate look as if she will die when I ascend beyond the rocks and the sea. As I fly away up to the sky, she is the tiny dark figure on the rock by the sea far away in the distance.
5
Jesus and Mary Magdalene
Jennifer and Armando had been excited yet apprehensive to return to their new home in the castle. They paused, holding hands, in the cavernous upper hall with elegant dark oak carved doors at each end—one to the parent’s quarters, the other to their suite. The heavy door creaked shut and they passed through a small anteroom into an intimate parlor dominated by a tall red-granite fireplace. Jennifer stopped right there. Crystalline sparkles in the granite glistened in the morning light streaming through tall French doors warming the floors. Looking all around, she exclaimed breathlessly, “Armando, this is lovely. I had no idea we would be treated to such luxury. Matilda even re-covered some of the furniture; so thoughtful of her!”
Armando surveyed the transformed rooms he’d so long ago shared with Giaconda while growing up. Her commodious bedroom with painted beams laced with faded flowers on leafy vines was now their bedroom. His old room off to the right side of the parlor was Jennifer’s studio with a large inviting worktable and a balcony facing east to capture the morning sun. Someday it might be a nursery for their children.
After a few weeks of settling in, Matilda invited her daughter-in-law to a private lunch, insisting she must feel free to decline if she was busy or not in the mood. Jennifer was delighted since she was alone much of each day. They enjoyed caprese salad with asparagus and cold tarragon chicken slices served with a fruity white wine. Matilda said in a happy lilting voice, “I hope you love your suite? Ours is almost the same except our bedroom is larger. Would you like to see ours? Anytime. Our suites have the only original doors in the castle. Does the bathroom please you? I couldn’t resist using those wonderful Portuguese tiles, but do you like them? I had so much fun doing over the suite for the two of you. It made me feel like a bride again!”
“I love our suite,” Jennifer replied sincerely. “I enjoy every moment there with Armando, yet I’m also very happy being alone during the day. I really like having my studio there; I love the morning light after Armando goes to his studio. At the end of the workday, we have sherry while reading and chatting in our parlor before dinner. My work is going well, I take marvelous walks, enjoy reading, and I love joining you and Pietro for breakfast and dinner. This is a whole new life for me. I’m adjusting very easily.”
“Lovely to hear, since this is a whole new way of life for you, a life that works if one is self-reliant, which I see you are. You have to be because Armando is obsessed when he works.” Peering out through her pretty moonlike face, Matilda studied Jennifer’s dark intense eyes. Armando’s chosen one intrigued her. He seemed to treasure his time with her, yet Matilda suspected he’d rather be in his studio even more. “I hope Armando is not working too much? He’s facing such a challenge with the major show coming up in Florence this winter. He has attracted the notice of the most important curators . . . they say he is as talented as any Renaissance painter. Such attention brings intense pressure to perform with new paintings. When he read that article, did it make him tense?”
“I suppose so. To me, it felt rather odd because nobody has praised that painting style for so many years. I’ve noticed he’s the most relaxed when he has accomplished enough work each day,” Jennifer commented circumspectly. “Actually, I can’t relax myself without accomplishing a certain amount every day, so I understand.”
“My dear, you can tell me; we can be frank. Do you think he minds the visitors that join us for dinner? He enjoyed guests in the evening before you married, but maybe not so much now? After all, you’ve just returned from your honeymoon.”
“How thoughtful of you to be concerned. I think he enjoys the distraction of dinner guests after working hard all day. We get in touch during our late afternoon walks, and we can always dine alone if we want to. Everything is perfect. The guests are charming, and they are stimulating for me after being alone all day. Living this way is warm, creative, and social. And I don’t have to cook, which is a real plus for me!”
“I’m so happy to hear that, and I have to admit I don’t like to cook either. I love the fresh, healthy cuisine our cook creates from our gardens. Your parents must visit soon. They are utterly charming and your father intrigues Pietro. Please tell them again we’d love to have them.”
“I would love for my parents to come, Simon and Sarah too.”
“I ask them to come whenever I can. I adore Sarah, always have, and of course I love to see that sweet baby.”
When Jennifer got back to their parlor, Armando called. He wanted her to come to his studio because he’d just finished a painting. This reassured her because they had not been very connected for a few days—sexually in particular. He was struggling with a challenging painting, couldn’t sleep, and last night he’d moved to the daybed in the parlor to toss and turn. She went up to the tower immediately, kissed him warmly, and waited for him to draw away the cover. Will this painting help me understand why he draws away from me?
Propped up on a low trunk, the large canvas was higher than Armando, who stared dramatically at his wife. “Are you ready?” She nodded. He pulled away the cloth with a snap to reveal a painting totally different from the three-tiered scenes with the everyday world sandwiched between lower and upper realms, the format he was now being recognized for. The six-foot-tall, four-foot-wide painting portrayed a tall and intense man with large sensitive hands reaching d
own for a sensual woman in a blue robe with voluminous red hair, groveling at his feet. Her right hand reached beseechingly for him as he indicated with his hands and concerned expression that she should rise. But something rooted her to the ground. Her face barely visible from the side expressed the desire to obey yet some great force was pushing her down. Behind them, the grooved and indented cliff rocks outlined faces watching them.
Jennifer’s gut lurched; she gripped her belly. He didn’t notice it because her expression—wonder—got his attention. “His face is so loving, his presence so powerful. I assume this is Jesus and Mary Magdalene?” He nodded. “He seems to entreat her to rise, yet she grovels at his feet. Why?”
“I don’t know why. I’ve been seeing this scene day and night since we came back from Majorca, the reason I’ve been so distant from you. I had to paint them, but they upset me terribly as they materialized. I don’t understand it, not at all. Unlike my recent work, this is the only thing I can paint right now. Last week I fought my muse to avoid starting it. The dealer wants another triptych, but nothing else would come so I stewed. I was afraid of losing my ability to paint; that’d be worse than anything. I am nothing if I can’t paint. People are waiting for my new work at the Florence show, so I gave in, but I felt insane. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. My only distraction has been my time with you and our dinner guests, which helps me forget my studio for a while. I’m obsessed and I don’t know why. Do you have any idea?”
She looked at the painting again. The Magdalene reminded her of how she felt when they were in Majorca, especially when she tried to reach into his mind. He’d been pulling away from her a little more each day, the distance making her anxious. This painting may be of us! “Do you feel like Jesus is you and Mary is me?”
Revelations of the Aquarian Age Page 5