Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  The crowd is beautiful. People dance in bikinis and skimpy club wear, some are dancing in the pool with their clothes on, pretty long-legged girls, skin covered in metallic body art and little else, handing out cocktails and food. The inebriated swarm buzzes in and out of white cabanas around the pool.

  Aurora follows a text message trail to a white cabana on the left hand side of the pool, rented together with bottle service by a few work colleagues of hers.

  “We don’t need to stay long,” she giggles. “Just get your fill of champagne and vodka in here. They have the good stuff and drinks are way expensive at this place.”

  It doesn’t take much to convince me. I know Aurora won’t have any trouble getting more drinks, but I never know anyone at these events and I can’t imagine paying for bottle service with the marquis’ credit card.

  By the time we leave the cabana, Aurora is deeply engaged with a hunk chosen at random, possibly Spanish or Italian, tall-dark-handsome, and I’m fiddling around with my phone.

  Despite the humid air, an electrical shiver travels down my spine like a drop of frozen water trickling down my body. All that vodka and champagne in the cabana is giving me the shivers, I steady myself against a dancing pole.

  Where are you?

  The text surprises me as I wasn’t expecting any messages at this time of night and it is from a number I don’t immediately recognize. My heart misses a beat then resumes arrhythmic in my chest.

  Paceville, I type and insert a wink.

  Come to the house.

  Come to the house now? It’s one AM.

  I rush to consult Aurora, but fully engrossed by tall-dark-handsome, she dismisses me with, “Yes, go, of course, see you later,” she says.

  I doubt she hears a word I’m saying.

  “Aurora, I’m leaving, I’m getting a cab,” I repeat.

  “All right,” she says moving closer to tall-dark-handsome.

  Typical Aurora in new-guy-mode, I might as well tell her I’m leaving with a confirmed axe-murderer, she’ll be totally engrossed by new-guy for a few days, till she, soon enough, will leave him out cold and the quest for next-new-guy resumes.

  Remembering the emphasis the marquis had put on having the option to call on me at any time, day or night, and considering that Aurora has checked out for the night, I hurry out of the venue. Realizing as I debate the taxi fare with the driver that I’m grinning like a simpleton, I have a deep conviction that there’s nobody I’d rather be hanging out with than the gorgeous marquis.

  On way, I text Andras.

  He texts me back a smiley face.

  I almost yelp for joy.

  Chapter 8

  The First Time is a Possession

  1

  Asking the taxi driver to drop me off at Greeks’ Gate since I can find my way to the palazzo quite well from there, I text I’m almost there and make my way to the house through the somber alleyways.

  Looming in the darkness under a host of otherworldly statues, the gothic palazzo stands out from the neighboring buildings even more by night than it did by day. The ugliness of the gargoyle-shaped rainwater spouts amplified in the shadows, the whole façade aglow at the end of the shadowy alley.

  Approaching the front door, I find it ajar, the cherub on the doorknob grinning wide, the frigid air inside spilling out, dispersing into the warm night. Pushing the heavy door further, I step into the dimly lit hallway, closing it behind me.

  “Andras,” I call, emboldened by alcohol and knowledge of the absence of menacing Rosina.

  My voice echoes around the cavernous hallway, bouncing off the high vaulted ceilings, and then fades into dead silence.

  The faint etchings on the walls dance in the shadows, an elaborate procession of turbaned Turkish soldiers mingled with unicorn-riding creatures, crawling up the walls, giving me an unexplainable déjà-vu sensation. I follow the lighting down the cold entryway.

  “Andras, I’m here,” I call out again, checking my phone and finding it dead.

  Proceeding to the stairway, I call his name up the spiraling marble stairs. Catching a faint sound upstairs I run up, the thumping of my footsteps resounding around the house.

  “In here,” Andras’ voice is muffled behind a double door that I open into a candlelit room entirely paneled in dark wood, the furniture in the chamber hulking dark blocks in the shadows.

  Making out a huge four poster bed, heart tightening in my chest, I gasp for breath as a scarlet flush blooms on my cheeks upon realizing that it’s past one and I’m in the marquis’ bedroom.

  “Walk through, in here,” his voice is curt, shaking me out of my flustered state. “Don’t bump into anything.”

  I feel my way into the room.

  “Close those doors behind you,” his voice booms from deep within.

  Feeling my way along the wood paneling to the back of the bedroom towards the sound of his voice, I fumble to a narrow pointed archway and through a short vaulted corridor.

  “It’s so cold in here,” I say, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Stop there,” he commands imperious, ignoring my complaints.

  Freezing in my spot, shaking in my flimsy red dress, my whole body swaying on my stilettos, I feel like I’m standing in an igloo.

  “What a sight for sore eyes,” he says, his voice softened letting out a sigh. “Worth every penny that dress you bought.”

  Wondering how he can even see me in the pitch dark, “Can’t we turn some lights on?” I ask.

  “Oh no!” he says. “My head is about to explode. No lights, not when I’m in this state. I can see just fine.”

  “What state?” I say giggling, shivering in the cold pitch-blackness, confounded by the ridiculous situation. “Have you become a polar bear?”

  The marquis laughs, his laughter resounding around the room, giving artificial warmth to the freezing place.

  “Silly girl,” he says, “in Paceville. Have you been out drinking? I hear it in your voice.”

  “Just a little,” I say remembering his reproach in Trastevere.

  “After I expressly asked you not to,” he scolds.

  “My voice sounds strange because I’m shivering,” I say indignant and wishing to change the subject. “No wonder you have a headache, it’s freezing in here.”

  “That’s how it needs to be,” he says, his tone definitive, “and no lights. Just reach for my robe and help me out of here.”

  Stepping inside the room, I steady myself against the cold wall that feels like a glass pane against the palm of my hand. Upon closer inspection, eyes getting slightly accustomed to the dark, I realize that the wall is damp marble. Squinting, I make out the silhouette of the marquis’ head and broad shoulders, seemingly submerged in a large rectangular reservoir.

  “Take a few steps to your right,” he demands, “and pass me my robe.”

  Hearing a soft rattling sound rather than the splashing of water as he moves, I realize that he isn’t immersed in water.

  “I was sitting in ice,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing to do when one has a headache. “I’m molting. My skin burns and crawls, then it molts. Ice helps.”

  Assuming that he’s using metaphors to describe his ailment, I make no comment but hand him the large silk sheet I presume is his robe. Although the room is pitch black, I turn my back to him as he climbs out of his bath.

  “Thanks dear girl,” he says cocooning his body from head to toe in the silk robe. “I have no intention of making you feel uncomfortable but I don’t feel well and have no idea where Rosina got to.”

  “I saw her,” I eagerly divulge with malicious intent. “She’s at a prayer meeting in Gozo.”

  “Ha,” he says. “Makes sense, the lady loves to pray. Good thing I have you to count on. Now help me out of here.”

  Without warning the marquis wraps his arms around my shoulders and leans his body against my back. Surprised by how gelid he feels, I squirm and giggle.

 
“I’m sorry,” he says holding on to me, his voice breaking and sounding unbearably sad. “I know this is strange, to say the least, but I need your help, my legs are failing me.”

  His muscular chest and torso press against my back, but although he’s very tall and broad in stature, I’m shocked by how light and cold he feels. The whole situation is unbelievably absurd. I stifle the onset of laughter.

  “It’s fine,” I say softly. “I’ll help you.”

  “I really need to lie down,” he says his voice dimming, his grip on me loosening.

  Feeling him go limp against me, I surge with urgency and grabbing his forearms haul him through the corridor. The man feels as light as a feather. Making my way around the giant four-poster, I step backward toward the edge of the mattress and heave him off my back and onto the bed.

  “Don’t leave me,” he whispers, his hand clasping mine.

  “I won’t, of course not,” I say, but alarmed by his cold skin and apparent malaise, “I think you need a doctor, do you want me to call one?”

  “No, no dear girl,” he says breathing laboriously. “Blow out the candles and lie next to me, you’re so warm and beautiful, just what I need. Just hold my hand and make sure I keep breathing.”

  Extinguishing the sole source of light in the room, two small tongues of fire emanating from a candlestick at the head of the bed, I slip off my stilettos and climb on the pillowed bed next to Andras.

  Feeling my body congealing in the cold, I pat around the bed frantic for cover and pull over me what feels like a soft fur blanket.

  Andras’ labored breathing is the only sound in the room. Reaching for his hand under the cover, his hand squeezes mine and I hear him sigh.

  Snuggled beneath the warm fur, I move closer to him and lie by his side in the dark as he sleeps. Nestling closer to his body, our hearts beat in unison and I can’t make out whose breathing I’m hearing any more. The room smells like fresh rain in a forest, and lying so close to him, I feel warmth surging inside me.

  Moving my face closer to his, my nose and lips brushing against his cheek, I focus on the dwindling rhythm of his breaths, mentally counting his faint heartbeats. Now fully sober, I wonder how serious his condition is and what he expects me to do if he stops breathing.

  Realizing the gravity of the situation, I move my ear over his face. Unable to make out anything in the dark, I lightly feel for his facial features with my fingertips, his nose and mouth, mysteriously cold and motionless. The headline screams in my mind, ‘An infatuated woman from Gozo, wearing a slutty red dress, was found in the bed of the wealthy late marquis.’ Zia Marie would die from shame.

  Unable to discern any breathing at all, and vaguely remembering the basic course of CPR training I had taken as an elective during my first year of college, I desperately clamp my lips over his and breathe into his mouth.

  His raw male taste hits me like a drug. A soft moan escapes my lips. I feel his mouth turn into a small smile, his adorable dimple forming on his cheek, his tongue penetrates my mouth exploring mine, his arms moving around me pulling me on top of him, his body warming underneath me.

  ‘You sure made a quick recovery mister,’ I’m about to say, but I’m interrupted.

  A sound similar to the howling of the wind fills the room. Then I hear a soft hissing noise, a rustle rather than a voice.

  “Andras,” I vaguely discern.

  I freeze and pulling away from him, “Did you hear that?” I whisper frantically.

  “Hear what?” he says as I strain my ears in the dark. “Never mind, this house is old and full of strange sounds. You’re safe with me. Now, where were we?”

  “That voice,” I insist. “I heard a creepy voice calling your name.”

  “There’s no voice, silly girl,” says Andras, his voice reassuring, dismissing the very notion of all weird noises.

  The room is in fact dead silent but straining my eyes in the dark, I perceive a faint glow moving in the shadows.

  “There,” I say terrified, pointing in the dark.

  “That’s Cat, silly girl,” says Andras laughing.

  Relieved, I feel my body relax against his.

  “Your cat’s name is Cat?” I say embarrassed.

  Ignoring my question, he pulls my head towards him and kisses my mouth, his hand exploring my back, slowly unzipping my dress.

  Andras’ hands move up my spine, caressing my head and the back of my neck. A delicious warm current travels through me. He feels my cheeks and lips and chin with his fingertips, and gently bites my lower lip.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he whispers.

  Lost in his heavenly embrace, tingling under his touch, “Yes,” I murmur urgently.

  “You have to be sure,” he insists.

  The man and his controlling streak. “I’m so sure,” I say.

  “Basic emotions have never been my strong suit,” he stresses bringing back that night in Trastevere, reminding me of Half-naked-fawn-eyes and her dismissal from the palazzo, and of the opulent smell of Half-naked-fawn-eyes two in the backseat of the car in Rome.

  Fully aware of what he means, “I want you now,” I insist, consumed by a savage desire I’ve never known before, my own voice surprising me. “I have no intention of ensnarling you Mr. Marquis. I can handle an ephemeral dalliance,” I say with a nervous giggle.

  “It’s a new ballgame,” he whispers, his voice husky. “Things will never be the same.”

  “You’re that good huh?” I whisper, fully cognizant that I’m probably jeopardizing my job and not caring one bit.

  Andras laughs and flips me over onto the mattress, pinning me down by my arms. His naked body feels warm and strong against mine. The muscles on his chest and torso ripple against my skin, a drastic change from his situation in the bathroom. I’m probably finally adapting to the freezing temperature in the house, a severe drop from that outside.

  Lost in his divine smell, I move my lips down his neck, tasting his salty skin, my fingers moving down his toned body. I feel him harden against me and feel myself getting wet and insane with longing.

  Andras puts his mouth on my breasts, gently sucking my nipples turning them into hard mounds. A groan escapes my lips as I spread my legs accommodating his body. Feeling him rub against me, I open like a pulsating orchid as he savagely kisses my mouth and thrusts inside me.

  Lying with him feels strangely familiar, like I’ve known him forever, like I belong right here with him regardless of the basic emotions he insists he’s missing.

  He puts his hands around my waist and sliding them along my hips and around my back, cups my backside and pushes me against him.

  “You’re new to this,” he whispers in my ear.

  Contemplating the few groping sessions in the backs of cars with very forgettable people, I annihilate the distasteful memories as he bites at my ear lobe and down my neck.

  Threatened by the thought of all the sexually sophisticated, half-naked-fawn-eyed women at his disposal, “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  “Don’t be, silly girl,” he whispers, as he penetrates and pulsates inside me.

  Feeling the need to relish every moment and every inch of him, I wrap my arms around him huddling as close to his body as I can, my breasts squeezed against his chest.

  “This feels so good,” I moan against his neck as my insides melt with bursting pleasure.

  His taste is on my mouth, his smell all over me, our bodies interwoven. I wish I could see his handsome face, his beautiful celestial eyes, his dimpled cheek and perfect mouth, but the room is too dark.

  Hearing Andras moan with pleasure as our bodies move in sync makes me burn inside. The gorgeous marquis is moaning for me. A delicious feeling ignites the pit of my stomach, detonating an intense rush of exhilaration throughout my body, a rocketing, overwhelming explosion.

  Head swimming in the mental image of his cerulean eyes freckled with green, my climax feels like a free fall into space. Clinging to him as he surges inside me, I sigh
and collapse in his arms, sinking in the sublime sensation.

  2

  Awakened by the brassy clanking of church bells from St. Paul’s cathedral, lying naked in Andras’ arms, our limbs entwined like vines, my head on his chest, I feel him stir and groan. The room is still pitch dark, but I assume it’s morning.

  “Stop, stop,” he yells, his voice is guttural and pained. “Someone stop that infernal ruckus.”

  He moves away from me and buries his head in a pillow.

  “Good morning,” I say tentatively. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” he moans. “Sorry to startle you dear girl, my head is about to explode with that unrelenting clanking.”

  “It’s Sunday,” stating the obvious, hoping to lighten the mood. “Morning church bells.”

  “That bloody monsignor,” he rants. “I swear he does it on purpose. I practically paid for the steeple renovation last year. We had an agreement that he would stop the incessant ringing of the bells, and he did stop for a while. This year I avoided him when he came knocking at my door for more money and since then the ringing has been constant.”

  The pitch darkness is getting on my nerves so I ask softly, “Would you like me to draw the curtains?”

  “No, my dear,” he whimpers. “Absolutely not! I’m so nauseous and my migraine is back. I couldn’t handle the light.”

  Reaching over in the dark, I caress the back of his head, my fingers massaging his scalp under his soft hair and down his neck. He sighs, and feeling the tension in his muscles relax under my touch, I slowly stroke up and down his back. Moving over him, I place my hands on his lower back and press gently.

  “Mm,” he moans as I make circles with my palms up and down his back, “that feels so good.”

  Applying pressure with my thumbs, I rub up and down both sides of his spine and gently pinching his skin between thumb and finger, I roll his skin down his back.

  “I wonder if Rosina has any herbs in the kitchen,” I say. “My Zia Marie uses an old infusion of medicinal herbs that works wonders for migraines.”