Objects of Desire

by Roberta Latow

  Page gave her passport to one of the port authority men and once it was established that the plane was taking off in a matter of minutes, after a drink and something light to eat for the pilots, the officials agreed to forget the formalities and watch the plane, which otherwise would have been crawling with the curious. The pilot, his co-pilot and Page then walked along the port to a café where she bought ouzos and a plate of char-grilled squid.

  Page chose that same table any time she could get it because from there she could look past the moored boats, out across the small well-protected harbour and up at her house with the rest of the town rising up against the skyline.

  The pilots didn’t linger. They had stretched their legs and had a drink to revive them from the long flight from the south of France and were anxious to leave, wanting to make Athens and an overnight stop at Vuliagmeni before dark. They would not allow Page to walk them back to the plane, so it was handshakes all round and she watched them walk back to the plane, wanting to get off as fast as possible.

  They taxied the plane across the water at a greater speed than they had entered the harbour. Loudly roaring engines cut the quiet of the lazy port and drew everyone’s attention as they churned up water and spray, leaving a trail of choppy waves. Noise and speed. Just what the Greeks liked. Macho living. The sight drew crowds along the quay, children running on the stone path along the edge of the rocky island that rose so sharply high out of the sea. Finally the plane had lift-off. A roar of approval from the onlookers and in seconds it was high in the sky and out of sight, swallowed up by twilight.

  Page ordered another ouzo. It felt good to be home, so right just to be having the time to think about Oscar. To indulge herself for the next three weeks with him in the forefront of her mind was her greatest luxury. These were the weeks when she worked on the house with the builders, or read, or swam, or fished, alone with her destiny. She always felt buoyant during these three weeks when she was there for her and Oscar.

  It didn’t take long for the world, Anoushka, Sally, and the past five days to slip from her mind. She kept looking up at her house and each time she glanced at it she was aware of its beauty, how good it always felt to be there. She came other times during the year, whenever her schedule allowed. Would this be the last June pilgrimage she would make? The last vigil she would hold? Only on the last day when he had not arrived or sent word of any kind would that question arise. She never had an answer in advance.

  She leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair, gazing yet again up at the house. It was love she saw there, and home, belonging. She smiled. And then right before her eyes she saw, without warning, a room spring to life with lamplight, the ground-floor hall off the terrace. Next the open arched loggia lights were switched on. Page sat up in her chair. Her bedroom. The shutters were being opened, several windows overlooking the harbour shone in the soft yellow of incandescent light bulbs. Another room, and another. The guest rooms in the wings of the house. Room by room the house became ablaze with light.

  Page was mesmerised to see the house looking so very lived in. Never had she seen it like that. Neither had anyone else. For years parts of it had been continually under construction or redecoration. Only now did she realise what a massive work she had undertaken. How clever she and Oscar had been in designing it. She realised something at that very moment that she had not understood before: the house was complete, it was a home. People sitting at the next table were talking about it. Someone passed her and patted her on the shoulder, saying, ‘Marika has gone mad with your electricity, Page.’

  No, not Marika. Even as a welcome home for Page she would not have opened the house so extensively. One person, not even three as when she, Anoushka and Sally had been living there, had opened all the house. She began to understand: there was to be no vigil this year or any other year. Oscar had made the most important decision of his life. He had come home. He had chosen life with her above the church.

  The realisation of what he had done overwhelmed her. Tears slipped slowly from the corners of her eyes. She had to lower her head and cover her face with her hands. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she willed herself to composure. Page wanted to dash from the table, to run across the cobblestoned port, through the narrow stone streets and up the steep white-washed steps that twisted and turned up to her house. But, limp with emotion, she had no strength to make such a dash, her legs had turned to jelly. Her heart raced and her mouth was dry. She needed to gather her strength and calm herself further before she would be able to walk past the people who had by now wandered down into the port. Another passed her table and commented, ‘Page, it looks as if your ghost has returned to claim his house and wants us all to know it.’

  That brought a smile to her lips. A warmth to her heart. It stopped racing. She answered the butcher, ‘Yes, my ghost has come home. But then he really never left.’

  She regained her legs, left some money on the table and walked slowly, eyes always on the house round the crescent-shaped port, unable to keep a smile from her lips, her heart from singing. She passed the post office and Marika’s house below and was just turning up the narrow street to begin her climb when Marika came rushing out and threw her arms round Page. ‘He’s come home, madam, he’s come home for good! I never thought he would come home for good!’ Tears were streaming down the woman’s face.

  ‘Shush, Marika. Shush, I know. The house is ablaze with him. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Page gave the loyal Marika, who had been with Oscar even before Page had met him, a kiss on the cheek and turned her round and sent her home. One last look at the house, now a place of warmth, the sunshine of their lives, before she took that first step of the climb and it vanished from sight behind other white-washed houses.

  A deep breath for the climb and then she took her first step and then the next and then another. Too slow. She began to race up the steps. Halfway to the house, having to catch her breath, she had to stop and lean against a wall. A neighbour, a very old Hydriot, always dressed in widow’s weeds, stepped out on to her small wooden balcony that leaned practically on top of the wall surrounding her house. In Greek she said, ‘Page, God bless you both. Be happy. I’ll light a candle for you and for your man.’ And with that the woman cut a single white rose, full blown, and tossed it down to Page. The rose had been carefully nurtured by the widow, it was her pride, her joy. A generous act. Page had so many lost loves to live her own for. The flower’s scent was sweet.

  That was all she needed to spur her on. She took the steps now two at a time. She couldn’t get to him fast enough. Every second he was out of her sight was a torture for her now. She called out, ‘Oscar, Oscar!’ as she approached the walls of her house.

  She heard his footsteps before she had any sight of him. She imagined him racing across the terrace and through the gates. His footsteps echoed down the narrow walled-in path as he raced down towards her. It was dark now, a crescent moon had appeared just above and in front of Page. Its bright white light shone down the path, illuminating the steps and the high white walls. The sky was midnight blue, millions of stars peppering it. A bend in the path. He raced round it, and she saw him. He was exactly as she remembered him: youthful and blond-haired, a sensitive, vulnerable, yet virile and exciting face, the incredibly sensuous body. They crashed into each other’s arms.

  Neither could speak for the tears, emotions striking them dumb. They kept wiping each other’s tears from their faces. Finally, arms wrapped round each other, tears speaking where words would not come, they walked together up the remaining steps and through the old wooden doors set in the wall. Together they turned to close them.

  What price love?

  Chapter 18

  Immediately he saw her, Hadon Calder knew that it was Anoushka. The sight of her as she was now brought a smile to his lips. She came out of the boulangerie with a dozen French sticks under one arm and a handsome young man on the other. She was laughing and the Adonis with a body build
er’s physique, dressed in white tee shirt and navy blue sailor’s trousers, fly buttons of white bone, reached over to smooth a lock of hair from her forehead. This sailor, instantly recognisable as a member of crew of Black Orchid by the uniform he was wearing, was clearly besotted, and Hadon was deeply amused.

  It was difficult to equate this happy smiling woman with the one he had rescued on board the QE2. There was nothing dowdy about this Anoushka and she certainly didn’t look as if she needed to be rescued. Trimmed down, hair smartly cut, she was dressed in jeans that could have been custom made for the way they clung to her body to show the sensual, sexy Anoushka he had had and had enjoyed so enormously. She too wore a white tee shirt, her breasts and nipples, their ample size and stunningly good shape discernible under the tight top. A reminder of what a surprise she had been sexually. His eyes rested on her leather belt with a large and attractive antique silver buckle, a handsome chunk of turquoise its centre of attraction. Navaho, he guessed, the Ralph Lauren look, about ten years old.

  He watched her walk down the boulangerie’s two steps to the pavement. Even her walk had changed, the way she moved. For several moments he watched her standing on the pavement talking to the young man. A slip of paper was produced from his pocket. A shopping list, guessed Hadon. Early-morning shopping? They wouldn’t have much luck with that. Only one or two places were open at that hour. Hadon was intrigued by Anoushka’s being there. Even more so when Akito too walked from the boulangerie with three baguettes under his arm and she stopped him for information.

  Hadon was taking a genuine pleasure in the change in Anoushka, some pride too for having, on first meeting her, spotted that she was far more than what she had become. She had surprised him beyond imagining when she had proved that first with her talent for languages and then sexually.

  He never thought to get out of his vintage Mercedes to make contact with her. It didn’t even occur to him to call out her name, though he could have easily since the soft top was down.

  He watched her walk away, and wanted her. She had suddenly become an object of desire, his sexual desire, as she had unexpectedly on board the QE2. Having never given her a second thought from the time she had left his cabin, it was now that he remembered keenly how great she had been sexually. What had happened to her since he’d rescued her? Whatever it was, he liked it. She piqued his interest, something she had not done when he had had his first encounter with her. Akito slipped into the front seat next to Hadon and closed the car door.

  ‘What did she want, Akito?’

  ‘To ask if I knew what time the charcutier opened for business. I told her about Mercier’s the last time we met in the bakery shop.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she lives?’

  ‘Oh, you are being naughty, I can hear it in your voice, Mr Calder.’

  ‘You’re not my keeper, Akito.’

  ‘Oh, no?’

  ‘Well, of my house and a good part of my life, maybe, but not of my soul.’

  ‘Oh, now the soul comes into it!’ Akito’s laugh was mocking. He knew his employer very well.

  ‘Is she local? Renting a house here on the Côte d’Azur, close by?’ asked Hadon.

  Akito found the questions unusual. Hadon Calder rarely showed interest in anyone other than himself unless it was to do with his work. Akito was enjoying this. He rarely had the chance to take a dig at his employer who usually had the drop on Akito and could, in the nicest way, tease him unmercifully.

  ‘Oh, you haven’t heard? You really don’t know? Everyone is talking about them. Everyone wants to meet them.’

  Hadon rose to the bait. ‘Them, Akito?’

  ‘She and two other women.’

  ‘A ménage à trois?’

  ‘No, no. She and two other women are going to sail the Black Orchid across the Atlantic from Nice to an island in the Caribbean.’

  ‘Just three women?’

  ‘That’s what they say.’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s true.’

  ‘It is. That young man, he’s one of the crew on Black Orchid. Didn’t you recognise him?’

  ‘No. If it were true Rab Nesnet would have told me.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Rab for months. You haven’t seen anyone for months. Remember, you told me no visitors until the manuscript is completed.’

  ‘Has it been that long?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Calder.’

  ‘I’ve met that woman before, Akito. I have no doubt that if she were well trained she would be capable of sailing the Atlantic, but I cannot believe she has the desire or the courage to do it. You really do surprise me with this news. Where is she living?’

  ‘On board Black Orchid. She won’t be here for much longer though. They’re taking Black Orchid for a sail round the Greek islands very soon now.’

  ‘You seem to know a great deal about all this.’

  ‘In the mornings when I see her at the boulangerie, she talks to me. She speaks Japanese.’

  ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Very pretty. She speaks like an American but she’s not, and her accent in my language is not the way an American who has learned Japanese would sound. A nice woman.’

  Hadon kept a straight face but smiled to himself. Exciting in bed would be a better description, he thought, delighted with himself for having had her and surprised too that he was wanting her in just that way again.

  The village streets were empty of people at that hour, only the odd shop was open for taking deliveries and serving. Hadon sped through the streets and down on to the coast road where he headed the car for home.

  This was a rocky peninsula of land jutting into the Mediterranean close to the Eden Roc Hotel. A poor boy all his early life, Hadon had understood the importance of owning land, and the security that went with it. When money and success did start rolling his way, he put it into land and houses. For years he had been buying land, parcel by parcel, hectare by hectare, period cottages and farmhouses on the spit of land he could now call his own.

  They were approaching the gates, unimpressive, solid rusted sheet metal. He pulled off the busy road right up to the gates and Akito hopped out of the car and opened them. After closing and securing them with a chain and padlock, he returned to the car and Hadon drove slowly up the quarter-mile drive through a tangled wood of knotted trees indigenous to the Côte d’Azur, heavy undergrowth and many ferns. The wood thinned out and suddenly they emerged from the cool of a shady forest into bright sunlight and a first sight of the spectacular view of the bay, an endless view of open water beyond. Marvellous hanging gardens tripped down from terrace to terrace carved from the cliffs and to a small sand beach sheltered by rocks jutting out from them.

  Hadon drew up to the handsome Côte d’Azur house built in the twenties with all the charm that went with houses of that period in the South of France. He cut the motor and turned to Akito.

  ‘When do they make this crossing of the Atlantic?’

  Akito shook his head. ‘Mr Calder, she works very hard learning to sail that boat. She has not time.’

  ‘You leave that to me. When do they go?’

  ‘Not for a long time.’

  Hadon walked directly through the house to the patio overlooking the sea. From there he had a clear view of Black Orchid riding at anchor almost opposite the house and about a quarter of a mile into the bay, Rab Nesnet liked to anchor in that spot or close to it when Black Orchid was in Cap d’Antibes. How game of Piers to let three ladies have their adventure on his schooner. And how Rab would be hating having to give his boat over to them. The very thought caused a smile to appear on Hadon’s face.

  He and Rab Nesnet had become all-boys-together kind of friends since Rab took on the job of captain of Black Orchid. Hadon really coveted the schooner; he had his own fantasies about sailing it across the Atlantic, or to Australia. He looked at it now, so long and sleek with its three masts and rust-coloured sails. Orchid was a honey when she came in under full sail.

  Coveting, want
ing, that was one thing, but committing yourself to a boat such as Black Orchid was another. An extravagance and a responsibility, a commitment Hadon was not prepared to take on. His houses and gardens were all the commitment he could handle. For all his success and wealth, he was a man who liked to keep his life pared down, simple, uncomplicated, but extremely comfortable. Writing was all the commitment he wanted.

  He was a creature of habit. Up at five in the morning, then an hour’s work. Into the sea for his morning swim, weather permitting. At six o’clock another hour’s work, usually at the beach house. Once a fisherman’s cottage, it was built into the cliffside above the old wooden dock where he kept a speed boat and his sixty-footer, a good sailing vessel but not approaching the class of Black Orchid.

  Rickety wooden stairs with equally rickety handrails criss-crossed the cliffside from the water’s edge to terraces filled with potted trees and flowering shrubs, weatherworn, wooden chaise-longues for sunning, umbrellas for shade. The dining terrace was midway between the top of the cliff and the house. And it was there every morning, weather permitting, that he breakfasted. Always the same breakfast: mango, a pot of hot black coffee, half a dozen croissants still warm from the boulangerie, and peach preserve thick with fruit, a hint of brandy and slivers of almond. Strips of either Parma ham or streaky bacon, three times a week with poached eggs, completed the fare.

  It seemed strange that Anoushka Rivers should have been under his nose all this time. He watched Black Orchid’s speed boat returning from shore to the boat. Writer’s curiosity: how had she come this far and in so short a time? Then his breakfast arrived and he realised he was ravenous and forgot her for food. After his breakfast, he went not to the house but to another cottage a five-minute walk from the main house. This was his primary work place; no telephone or fax, no interruptions, except for a clear view of the sea. He worked there until two o’clock when he broke for lunch, had a siesta and then another swim. If the energy was still there he would work for three more hours, have a light supper and go to bed. No matter how much he would have liked to have a sex scene with Anoushka, his schedule and work came before that. Firmly he put her out of his thoughts for another day.