Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  Lucrezia’s voice is soft as she relates the journey of skin upon skin, and flesh within flesh, and the words take on a rhythm of their own. Cecile keeps her eyes shut tight and, beneath the quilt, her hand creeps low.

  No details are spared in Lucrezia’s telling of the tale. Cecile feels the weight of the words, pushing and pressing upon her, as if the power of them would enter her. She shifts beneath the covers, her fingers between her legs.

  Imagine! She thinks. Just imagine!

  Lucrezia smiles to see her bite her lip, to catch her breath and gasp.

  Later, when sleep comes, Lucrezia’s hand rests upon that of her English friend, Lady Cecile McCaulay.

  Birds and Bees

  Maud has been in the clifftop garden of the villa since late afternoon, bathed in the ruddy golden light of Italian summer. She’s observing the slow buzz of dragonflies, gossamer wings catching the light. On the baked rocks, lizards sun themselves, until the shadow of a bird causes them to dart for cover. It would be too warm for comfort, but that the breeze likes to play in such high places, lifting petals from their blossomed bowers and shivering the leaves, leaving its whisper as it passes.

  Today is one of many days on which she has recorded not only the variety of life crawling in the dust, but upon the trunks of olive and fig trees, and within the curtains of bougainvillea and jasmine.

  As in London, she observes where eggs are laid, and how emerging maggots chew and wriggle. She has sought the ordering principles of trailing ants, as they work together, using their feelers to pass messages as they forage, and their collective strength to claim fallen fruit.

  The hours have passed in note-taking and sketching, doing her best, with water-colour paints, to capture the iridescent shine of blue-backed beetles and the flaunted flare of caterpillars, blazed in yellow, lime and crimson. She has captured every dazzling pattern.

  There are yet a million unexplored places, and unnumbered creatures, their habits unknown to her. How far, she thinks, do they act from instinct, and how far from intelligence, from learning: the termites designing their mound, and the wasps their nest, each with its intricate geometry. Not to mention the bees’ endless obsession with the hexagon.

  Beside her, Henry sketches tiny finches and White Wagtails, remarking on their gleaming plumage and jaunty tail feathers, recording, by means of his own onomatopoeic shorthand, their airborne melodies. Beneath their glorious top notes, are the hums and clicks of Maud’s realm of study.

  She’s reached into the wells of lilies, to pluck out flexing earwigs and bent to look under the shading leaves of succulent aloe plants. So many plants offer shelter, as if their residents had a hand in the almighty design, requesting the necessary corridors and chambers.

  As she stretches out, peering at the veined petals from below, attempting to see the world through those insectile eyes, her body is heavy with sunshine, and the drowsy, contented slumberous stillness that comes from having lain long in the warmth.

  Legs bare, shoes set aside, underthings rolled up and folded — it’s glorious to feel the sun upon her skin, the prickle of the grass against her ankle, her heel, her toes.

  Buzzing insects land upon the fabric of her skirt, attracted by the bright colours of its floral sprig.

  Henry has long since put aside his notepad. He lies, long and lean, next to her, shirt-sleeves pushed up, to reveal his lightly-haired forearm, cast over his face, to shade his eyes. His hand rests, upwards, on his cheek.

  She can smell his perspiration, and her own.

  She’d thought he was asleep, but he shifts, and turns his head. He watches as her fingers unfasten the small buttons of her blouse.

  ‘Here,’ she whispers, lying on her side.

  She takes his hand, draws it inside her blouse, inside the under-chemise, his palm to her full flesh. As their lips and tongues meet, he reaches for her nipple, soft between his fingers, then tight and hard, each squeeze sending the familiar, warm ache to her cunt.

  He raises her skirt, bunching it behind her waist, exposing not only the length of her leg, but the abundant hair between her legs. His hand is warm, running up the back of her thigh, to the delicate skin beneath the curve of her buttock.

  Her cunt is wet with yearning for him, pressed to the bulge of his trousers. Raising her leg, she invites him to free himself, to guide the fatness of his erection into her, and he groans as he pulls her onto his groin. She likes the roughness of the fabric against her nakedness, the scrape of his buttons against her lower belly, the constriction of his clothing, and hers, which must be overcome.

  Henry moves over her, and she opens herself to the weight of his body. He draws down her chemise fully, to expose both her breasts, his mouth finding them, sucking hard, to make her cry out.

  She never asks him to stop.

  Instead, she says, ‘More.’

  He frees himself fully from his trousers, baring his buttocks, in their clench and thrust.

  They writhe, limbs entwined, sweat-mingled, as if she were of his rib and, with relentless intent, wished to fuse again with her Adam.

  She rises to meet him, and the world contracts to mouth and tongue and hips.

  Visions by Night

  What dreams Cecile has!

  Like Jonathan Harker, in the book she has read so many times since Maud gave it to her in Paris, she is a prisoner of the castle, her innocence the meal upon which her captor preys.

  Each night, she wakes, her skin clammy, her heart threatening to break from her chest, recalling visions of a creature dark and threatening: a creature which scales the sheer granite beneath her window, to enter her room.

  No matter that she secures the latch and the shutters in her waking state. When she feels the presence of her demonic visitor, she rises, mesmerized, to welcome him, opening to his embraces.

  Though she may retreat to her bed, recoiling from the hunger in his eyes, there is no escape.

  Hand by hand, he crawls up the coverlet, peeling it back, to expose her, shivering in her nightgown. His nails are long, and fingers slender, about her ankle, and then her shin, upwards, past her knee.

  Each night, these dreams grow more vivid. The beastly hand taking further liberties with her body, finding the fur between her legs, stroking it, until, like a cat relaxing under the caress of its master, her legs fall to either side, revealing her inner self to that creature’s hand.

  She has felt the wicked talon extend, to enter the velvet chamber of her womanly self, as if to draw forth some secret truth. And, all the while, those mocking eyes blaze. She has woken with her own hand upon her sex, her own finger buried in the place no lady should speak of.

  What power does Castillo di Scogliera exert over her in those sleeping hours, that it moves her to so debase herself? From what place in her imagination does this creature emerge, to paw and seduce her body, to thrill and terrify her?

  She hears it breathing.

  And, in those first moments of waking, she remembers whose face it is that looks upon her, who sees beneath her skin. It is the face of one who sleeps within the castle walls.

  * * *

  On one such night, she rises from her bed, lighting the stub of her candle, determined to shake this disturbing spectre, venturing to the kitchen, where jugs of fresh milk sit on the cool pantry shelf, alongside Magdalena’s peach tart.

  Passing through the great hall, the clock chimes the half hour past midnight. The doors to the ballroom are flung wide, revealing the floor of gleaming black marble.

  The room is still, but the echoes of the past are calling to her. As the clouds part, a silver crescent shines through the windows and she sees herself in a dress of billowing purple, dancing across that dark-water surface, spiralling on turbulent waters, on an expanse midnight deep.

  It is then the door at the other end of the room opens and a tall, silver-haired figure enters, his hand clasped firmly about the arm of Vittoria. Cecile does not yet know the name of every maid in this vast dwelling on its granite
island, served by so many silent feet and nimble hands, but Vittoria has the charge of Cecile’s wardrobe. It is she who launders and presses the delicate muslins and silks worn by Lucrezia and Cecile. It is she who heats water for Cecile’s bath, and places a warming pan in the bed. Her dark head, its hair plaited and pinned, is now almost as familiar to Cecile as her own.

  There is a large cabinet at the side of the room, behind which Cecile crouches, blowing out her candle. Though she understands little Italian, it’s obvious that Vittoria is being admonished. The Conte’s voice has a hard edge that has not been previously revealed in Cecile’s presence.

  Vittoria’s sobbing rises, imploring, and someone falls against a table. A vase topples from its placement, smashing upon the marble floor.

  Cecile leans forward to look, hardly caring now if she’s seen. No servant should be disciplined by force, she feels, no matter their misdemeanour. Lorenzo’s behaviour is unpardonable.

  However, the commotion has ceased. In fact, there is no sound at all from the far end of the room. As Cecile looks, she does not see Vittoria prostrate upon the floor, picking up pieces of broken glass, nor Lorenzo towering above her, his hand raised to strike.

  Instead, to Cecile’s astonishment, Vittoria’s face is upturned to her master, and his lowers in a kiss. Moreover, his hands do not rest lightly upon her shoulders or back, or clasp her about the waist. They grasp at the fleshiest part of her, through her skirts, and Vittoria, far from objecting, appears to sanction this liberty, her own hands reaching brazenly to the Conte’s neck, drawing his mouth closer to her own.

  Cecile is unable to look away.

  Whatever argument there has been is clearly mended, and whatever relationship exists between the two, it is far beyond her comprehension.

  As she watches, the Conte drops to his knees and reaches beneath Vittoria’s skirts, drawing down her bloomers.

  These she steps out of and, as Lorenzo takes a seat, he lifts her dress, and bends her over his knee, legs slightly parted, the pale orbs of her buttocks displayed.

  What dissolution is this! More indecent than any Cecile has conjured in her dreams.

  The Conte raises his hand, holding it aloft for a moment, before descending with unforeseen force, delivering a crack upon the waiting cheek.

  Vittoria cries out and Cecile’s conscience insists that she intervene, it being impossible that Vittoria should consent to such humiliation and ill-treatment.

  But, as a further smack reaches its target, and another, Vittoria’s cries no longer speak of pain but of some other need, some desire which Cecile half recognizes.

  Vittoria squirms but makes no attempt to extricate herself. Her voice beseeching, Cecile senses, not for her punishment to end, but for something else to begin.

  The Conte ignores these supplications, continuing the ruthless dispatch of his hand. Vittoria’s bottom has grown pink beneath his fierce ministrations, her voice fainter in its pleading, as if in acceptance of whatever Lorenzo should choose to deliver upon her.

  Cecile is transfixed, her mind telling her that she should depart, that the scene unfolding here is not for her eyes. Her body, meanwhile, refuses to obey her.

  All grows quiet again; the Conte’s hand no longer raised in savagery, but resting between the cheeks he has so harshly assaulted. That hand, moving between the lady’s parted legs, his voice murmuring to her, in measured tones.

  If Cecile were to know the actual words spoken by that gentleman, she would blush indeed.

  Vittoria, meanwhile, has ceased all sign of struggle, and the sounds which emerge from her are the sighs and gentle moans of a woman desiring more, rather than less.

  Lightheaded with all that she has heard, and beheld, Cecile resolves that she must return to her room. For her to remain is unconscionable.

  She is unsteady as she rises from her crouching position, and casts one final glance at the dissolute scene. The Conte is no longer looking at the ample bottom provided for his amusement, but to the opposite end of the ballroom, where the illumination of the moon betrays Cecile’s flushed face.

  To that young lady’s dread dismay, he smiles, and, to her shame, she knows, without the slightest doubt, that he has been aware of her presence long before she stood.

  Shame

  ‘What a sight you are!’ exclaims Lucrezia, taking a bite of her breakfast roll. ‘Have you not slept any winks?’

  Cecile does her best to summon a smile but she’s too weary to appear cheerful.

  ‘Something is bothering you, mia cara.’

  Pouring coffee from the pot, Lucrezia adds cream and sugar.

  Cecile so much wishes to confide, but what should she say, and where should she begin?

  ‘Tell me,’ urges Lucrezia, putting aside her own cup. ‘I am your friend. I will help.’

  Cecile takes a sip of coffee. The sweet warmth is a comfort.

  ‘I woke from a… disturbing dream, and wanted to distract myself, so I came downstairs,’ Cecile begins. ‘And then…’

  ‘I hear you, piccola colomba.’

  ‘I saw something...’

  ‘Ah…’ says Lucrezia, nodding her encouragement, her nail tapping against her tooth.

  ‘Something I shouldn’t have seen…’

  At just that moment, there is a knock upon the door and a tray enters, of steaming eggs and slices of cured ham.

  It is Vittoria who carries the tray, placing it carefully at one end of the table.

  Cecile feels a sudden constriction in her throat.

  As Vittoria glances up, Cecile observes something familiar to her. She is reminded of Maud, as she has seen her sometimes, in the morning, with a look of serene satisfaction about her. As Cecile looks at Vittoria, there is no shame, only slight surprise at being so scrutinized. The shame, rather than being Vittoria’s, is perhaps Cecile’s own.

  ‘Scuzi, signore,’ says the young girl, bobbing her curtsey.

  When Cecile lifts her cup, she finds that her hands are shaking.

  ‘I believe I can guess,’ says Lucrezia, her own eyes upon this fleeting exchange. ‘Say nothing more, mia cara. I know my brother, and his fondness for the young women in his service. Vittoria has not been long with us. She is a novelty to him.’

  Lucrezia spreads jam thickly upon her roll.

  ‘He’s no worse than most men. We women must keep our wits about us. Don’t judge him too harshly, but don’t trust him either.’

  Cecile nods mutely.

  One question preys upon her mind.

  Can I trust myself?

  Surrender

  Henry’s feet are bare on the grass, the dew wet and cool between his toes.

  The summer house, Maud had written, the note delivered on the tray, with his customary glass of whisky, taken before bed.

  The moon is alive. Not hazy or softened by passing clouds but dazzling, bright. Henry follows, through the garden, through the fragrance of ghost-white, smoke-sweet lilies.

  Other feet have trodden here; other hands than his have brushed the half-closed blooms.

  He hears their voices, before reaching the final bend in the path. They are inside, but the doors have been left wide. Maud sits upon the edge of the table, legs parted. A dark head is between them, his hands holding her bunched skirts on either side. Kneeling, he is rousing her to the final movement of her song.

  When her gasps ebb, Raphael rises, lips wet with her pleasure.

  Seeing Henry, he unbuttons his shirt.

  For what does our human soul hunger but beauty? Raphael’s is carved from daily labour, his abdomen hard against Henry’s palm, hard beneath the waistband, hard, down to the silken curls and thickened cock. When Raphael’s trousers drop, Henry’s mouth opens, to consume all that he is himself.

  Maud unfolds a lounge chair and reclines, her eyes half-closed, but watching. Henry looks back at her, at his Mademoiselle Noire. The stage is his tonight.

  Beauty is in every act that shows us how vividly we live. We are born from the substa
nce of this world, and we yield to it when we die. And, between, there is flesh and pleasure.

  Raphael’s mouth meets his own, with kisses ginger-sweet. Kisses rough and hands rougher, pressing Henry to the floor, his hands unfastening Henry’s trousers. Raphael’s weight bearing down. Belly to back.

  Day has surrendered to the liquid of the night.

  Surrender, thinks Henry. I want to surrender.

  His body accepts Raphael’s teeth and tongue, Raphael’s hands, Raphael’s cock. One body, slick with sweat, they slide into one another.

  * * *

  The night is made from stars, as much as from the darkness. They look down from above, their eyes glittering, watching as Maud watches, and someone else too. There is another pair of eyes, unseen. The eyes of one who will report to his master.

  Warnings

  It’s early when Cecile knocks on Agatha’s door, but that lady has been long awake. She finds her sitting at her dressing table, brushing out her soft, silver hair.

  ‘Does Isabella still dye hers that improbable shade of blue?’ asks Agatha, plaiting the length, before coiling it in place.

  ‘Lilac,’ answers Cecile, with a small smile. ‘It suits her, I think.’

  ‘Of course, my dear.’

  Agatha pinches her cheek. ‘What a kind girl you are. Now, come and sit with me, and tell me what’s bothering you.’

  What a relief it is for Cecile to be guided to the sofa, to sink into its soft cushions. Agatha strokes the faded green brocade.

  ‘I remember sitting on this seat, years ago, when Isabella was newly married and I came from London, to visit. We met during our year of coming out, and I’d danced and chatted with Robert, her older brother, at various balls and other events that season. However, it was at Isabella’s wedding that we fell in love. How could we not, in such a place, under the Mediterranean sun?’