Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  It’s open, thinks Cecile, and I must see.

  The stairs are narrow but her feet are dainty. She keeps to where the tread is widest, though her sleeve brushes against the cold stone.

  She has reached the second curve in the upward spiral when she hears the rapid movement of feet following where her own have trodden. From below, the face of Lorenzo looks up at her.

  In a moment, his body is pressing hers to the wall, head and shoulders above her, his hand grasping her wrist.

  ‘All good girls are in their beds.’

  He holds her arm at an angle so awkward, she cannot help but cry out.

  Cecile knows she should struggle. Instead, she is limp.

  His eyes are shuttered. What manner of sentience moves inside, she cannot guess. She knows only that his nails dig into her flesh, hard enough that she will later find the scabbing of half-bloomed blood.

  ‘Let me go,’ she says, in a voice so small she can barely hear herself.

  ‘Let you go?’ he answers. ‘You were looking for something... What shall you do, Lady McCaulay, now you have found it?’

  At any moment, someone will come, she thinks, in horror. Someone will come.

  ‘Your head is full of hysterical fantasies, my dear. I’ll give you something to dream of, in your bed, if you wish it.’

  With a twitch of his fingers, he has loosened the ribbon which closes her dressing gown, and pushed it aside, so that there is nothing between his hand and her body but the thin fabric of her nightdress. To Cecile’s surprise, her legs part to the force of his thigh.

  A groan of pleasure escapes his throat.

  ‘Mia amore.’

  His nose is in her hair, his breath in her ear.

  ‘I am a man undone. It’s no sin to desire. Struggle if you wish, but I see your feelings, your passion. Your every look betrays you.’

  He has found her breast, pushing down the flimsy muslin. He leans over her, his tongue, warm, tracing the curve of her skin.

  Half-heartedly, she twists away, but he holds her firm.

  Molten pleasure is welling within, commanding her to open to him.

  A dream-like state overcomes her, and she succumbs willingly.

  She knows not how much time passes.

  When he kisses her, she is compliant, her lips yielding to the pull of his teeth, until the taste of metal fills her mouth.

  The wall is no longer hard against her spine; it almost feels as if it is melting, enveloping them inside its granite embrace, extracting the essence of this moment. Cecile images them as two flowers, pressed between the pages of a book, preserved for eternity in stone.

  Is it a growl she hears, below them on the stair? Someone or something else is close by, and the surprise of it is enough to rouse her, so that she wriggles free, pushing past the dark figure.

  Does she imagine the wretched cry which follows her stumbling feet? Inside her room, she fumbles with the bolt, pushes her spine to the solid wood, giving in to the sob rising in her throat.

  In her dressing mirror, she sees a pale face staring back at her. She dreads almost to look, fearing what she may find in that reflection. Even now, she feels his lips on her skin. She hangs her head in shame, but her body is alive with sensations. Why did she not struggle harder? To what would she have submitted, had not someone interrupted them?

  Her mind skitters away from the answer; yet her body knows.

  Things Left Unsaid

  ‘It’s nothing, I’m sure,’ answers Lucrezia, to Cecile’s impassioned outpouring. ‘My brother is many things, but he’s not a murderer.’

  Cecile cannot bring herself to speak of the locked room upon which she has intruded. However provoking the contents may be, she cannot escape her shame at having behaved underhandedly, stealing the key and entering where she has not been invited. She shall endeavour to forget that she ever crossed its threshold.

  ‘But… the blood!’ implores Cecile.

  ‘My dear one, his horse, perhaps, bit him. He whips it most cruelly, you know. My brother is only happy when tormenting some creature. I live in hope that the beast may yet aim a kick to Lorenzo’s head.’

  Lucrezia has no wish to relate the events of the previous evening, nor her part in them.

  Cecile cannot set aside her agitation so easily, but she allows Lucrezia to distract and entertain her, in her usual way.

  They discuss plays they’ve attended, and books they’ve read, places they’ve seen, and those they long to see.

  How much easier it is to relax, without the constant pressure of a corset about my ribs, thinks Cecile.

  Through the heat of the day, they lie in the shade, in the lightest of their gowns. Lucrezia wears green silk chiffon, the bodice and skirt embroidered with purple foxgloves, the dainty capped sleeve accentuating the slender elegance of her arm. Cecile’s lemon muslin, hand-printed with daisies, is soft against her skin.

  She opens her Jane Eyre, while Lucrezia has a copy of the newly released playscript of Mr. Wilde’s An Ideal Husband. Cecile has seen the performance, at the Criterion Theatre.

  ‘Do you think there is such a thing — as the perfect husband?’ asks Cecile.

  ‘Undoubtedly not!’ replies Lucrezia, ‘Unless we may find a man happy to leave us entirely to our own inclinations.’

  Her expression takes on a sudden seriousness.

  ‘None of us are perfect, Cecile. We’re human, so can we ever be? We’re too full of fear and frailty to avoid wrongdoing. I only wonder if, sooner or later, we pay for what we’ve done…’

  ‘Why so serious, Lucrezia? You’ve committed no sin, I’m sure, that the Almighty would be unable to forgive.’

  The clouds are gathering above, casting a cool shadow over the late afternoon. A sudden chill has passed over the two, and Lucrezia closes her book, standing, and offering Cecile her hand.

  ‘As Mr. Wilde would say, perhaps, none of us should be entirely judged by our past…’

  Abduction

  Nature is remorseless, random, brutal and beautiful; logical and yet unfathomable. If Maud studies the ants and bees and beetle-life, each with its own purity of purpose, will she find clues to a hidden purpose in her own life?

  There is a spiral staircase in the villa, leading down from the bedrooms. Maud finds herself standing, often, at the top, looking down through its curving descent. It makes her think of the theories of Mr. Gaudi. How fascinating it is to ponder the power of the cosmos, the movements of which combine with gravity to generate the spiral motion of water on Earth, from the swirling stir of the greatest oceans to the propensity of her bathwater to funnel down a plughole.

  The same inward, spiralling movements, she knows, are found in the animal and vegetable kingdoms, from the snail’s shell to the falling motion of a winged sycamore seed.

  And what of me? she thinks, stroking the as yet imperceptible swell of her stomach. Am I spiralling in ever smaller circles? Despite all her efforts to forge her own path, is this how it ends, eased into the role of breeding queen?

  * * *

  The village is strung with flickering lanterns, through the trees and down the cobbled alleys, golden-gleaming. The day’s humidity is lifting and, far off, dark clouds are gathering, over the heaving waves. A storm is approaching, but there is time yet.

  Masked and costumed, Maud leads Henry by the hand. She is Columbina to his Pierrot.

  They duck through the crowds, past revellers dancing in the fountain of the market square, trousers rolled up and skirts tucked into bloomers. The residents of Scogliera have painted their bauta masks themselves for the festival of Sant’ Andrea, the patron of all fishermen. They cannot boast the grandeur of their Venice counterparts, but their disguises do well enough, freeing them from their everyday selves, left in their kitchens and their fishing boats. Accordions and violins, playing whirling tunes, beget a frenzy of riotous behaviour. Dresses slip from shoulders, and men’s shirts unbutton.

  Maud is looking for something. She’ll know it when she se
es it, like a beast prowling by night, in search of what it requires to live: flesh, pulsing warm. The savagery of it thrills her. Tonight, the heart of Mademoiselle Noire beats in her chest.

  There is a dark side to every coin, even if it appears to shine brightly. Though her face is hidden, Henry can sense the tension in her body, and the strangeness of her mood. She’s been too long in an abundance of warmth. Now, she yearns for chill breezes. The rising wind threatens to blow the lanterns from their ribbons. One escapes its tether and blows down towards the harbour, heading for the open sea.

  As they reach the far end of the street, the illumination grows dimmer. The carousal of the main square seems suddenly far away. Hazy. Here, there is a charge in the air. On this night, of chaos embraced, little is as it seems.

  A group of five sit at a table on the street, with a flagon of wine and glasses near emptied. Unlike the revellers in the square, these men are taciturn; without laughter. There is an underlying hunger in the hunch of their shoulders, as they swill their wine and wipe their thin lips.

  Henry attempts to steer Maud back, towards the glitter and the music and the dancing, but one of the men calls out, and raises his glass. He is Harlequin, in a half-mask, painted black. His eyes gleam beneath arching brows, and the bump of his devil’s horn.

  ‘Siediti!’ he says, rising from his chair, to allow Maud to sit.

  She converses in fluent Italian, while Henry is obliged to listen, understanding barely one word in ten, but comprehending all. The men laugh at her flirtation and jokes, and all the glasses are refilled.

  Maud loosens the ribbon on her bodice, smiling at Henry as she does so.

  ‘These gentlemen are from Sorrento, and have a carriage, as you see. They’ve asked if I might like to lie down for a little while. Later, they’ll drive us to the villa, and stay, if we wish for company…’

  She kisses his cheek before rising. Henry watches as she walks away from him. He remains at the table, his eyes fast upon her retreating back.

  * * *

  As she steps up to enter, Harlequin places his gloved hand lightly upon her ankle, and she is struck by a distant memory, of another hand upon her, grasping the same place, in the house of her great-aunt, Isabella.

  She looks down at that half-masked face, and sees, now, that it is he. The realization makes her laugh. He may grasp as tightly as he dares, but she will never be his.

  ‘I believe we’ve met before,’ she remarks, ‘Though we’re yet to gain an intimate acquaintance.’

  ‘And shall we rectify that, sweet cousin?’ he replies, in perfect English.

  She has stood upon the brink many times, knowing that a chasm lies before her, yet unable to resist the precipice. No matter that some things are better only dreamt of than lived, and some best avoided altogether.

  As she lays back upon the velvet banquette within the carriage, she has no desire to know what may happen next. There lies the excitement of anticipation, in uncertainty. She wishes to lose herself in the possibilities, while there is still time.

  His hands reach beneath the petticoats of her costume, to lower and discard the frilled pantaloons of her Columbine.

  There are many forms of prison. Some endure physical incarceration. Far more are held captive by their fears. Maud has no desire to conform, or to hide. A rejected suitor may yet prove an adept lover.

  She’s ready to throw herself into the jaws of the wild hunt. Her sex opens to his tongue, and the beauty of her freedom surges through her belly. Her desire spirals outward, upward, fusing with the night.

  She thinks of the other men, waiting their turn at the table, eating her, teeth and tongue. Henry infiltrates her thoughts only fleetingly. This moment is not for him. It is for her, and her blood, burning black.

  * * *

  The light is growing dimmer, and Maud’s head lolls, at last, to one side, sent into slumber by the powder artfully blended with her wine.

  Returning to the table, Harlequin nods to three of his companions. It only takes one to master the reins; the other two find accommodation inside.

  ‘What the deuces do they think they’re doing!’ shouts Henry, as the horses are spurred into a canter, taking the carriage not towards the villa, but onto the clifftop road.

  Harlequin and his man block Henry’s path, the larger of the two placing a robust hand in the centre of Lord McCaulay’s chest.

  ‘Your lovely wife has found her entertainment elsewhere, it seems,’ says Harlequin. ‘We shall return her when she is tired of us… or when we have tired of her, signore.’

  ‘The devil take you!’ answers Henry, bunching his fist to give the fellow a crack upon the nose. He does not see the arm raised against him until it is too late. He is rendered unconscious by that single blow, delivered to the rear of his skull.

  ‘Complimenti, Serpico,’ says Harlequin. ‘You are always to be relied upon.’

  Seduction

  Lucrezia and Cecile dine with Agatha, consuming Magdalena’s crispy calamaretti fritti, in honour of the festival of Sant’ Andrea, and sweet tiramisu. Cecile can hardly believe her memories of the previous evening. Isn’t so much of what occurs in the late hours, by candlelight, an exaggeration of events, the result of her inflamed imagination?

  Lorenzo is absent, taking a plate of cold meats in his room, as Lucrezia explains. Cecile, nodding with feigned neutrality, is inwardly relieved.

  Once Agatha has retired, Lucrezia leads Cecile through to the library.

  ‘While the tiger is away, we little rabbits shall play,’ says Lucrezia, pouring two generous measures from the decanter discreetly refilled by one of the many servants. None would guess that, the very night before, Cecile helped herself from that same crystal bottle.

  She blushes at the remembrance and then shivers, recalling the bloody fingerprints left upon Lorenzo’s glass.

  ‘Come outside, mia cara, and see the beautiful sunset. We shall sit and welcome the twilight as we drink my brother’s expensive brandy.’

  The sun’s warm fingers are retreating, while those of the moon are yet to reach.

  ‘I love this time of evening, so full of promise, before the dark embraces you,’ says Lucrezia, touching her glass to that of Cecile. They sit on one of the middle-terraces, with a view across the water, back to Scogliera. Lucrezia closes her eyes as the burning warmth of the alcohol enters her body.

  ‘You see the lights, dear one? They’re celebrating. It’s the festival of the calamaro, of the squid, thanking the sea for its rich harvest. They begin by carrying the icon of Sant’Andrea to the harbour, and blessing the water, but the rest of the day is spent in feasting, drinking and dancing, until they can barely stand up. If the wind were to change, you’d hear their music.’

  ‘Andrew the fisherman apostle,’ muses Cecile, her head already hazy from alcohol. ‘Have you been to the festival many times before? I mean, wouldn’t you like to be there, enjoying yourself?’

  ‘How sweet you are, my Cecile. I prefer to be here with you. I’ve seen enough drunken carousing to last a lifetime. Besides which, the causeway is covered by the high tide. We couldn’t go even if we wanted to. My brother asked, most particularly, that we did not go. He says that such festivities are for peasants, and that we, as noble ladies…’ At this, she stands to conduct a mock-curtsey, ‘should hold ourselves one step removed.’

  ‘And do you always do as he tells you?’ asks Cecile, allowing herself to be a little mischievous, and taking another sip from her glass.

  Lucrezia’s laugh is one of genuine merriment.

  ‘My darling,’ she cries, giving Cecile a kiss upon the cheek. ‘Come! We shall be disobedient in other ways, and he shall never know.’

  She leads Cecile through the wisteria walk, and down the steps, past daisies and briar roses and wild mint, descending carefully, releasing the scent of thyme as they tread, brushing past hanging honeysuckle. The air tastes of orchid and oleander.

  At last, they emerge through the olive grove, reaching the
place where they’re hidden from view. The sea is close, lapping at the rocks, and there is a slight mist on the water.

  ‘There’s nothing to fear, little dove,’ says Lucrezia. ‘Help me. I’m going to swim.’

  And she turns, indicating the buttons on her dress. Cecile is hesitant, but does as she’s bidden.

  When it’s loosened, Lucrezia withdraws her arms and steps out, to stand in her shift.

  ‘There’s no one to see,’ coaxes Lucrezia.

  She removes her underthings too, and pushes the slip from her shoulders, until she stands bare, arms open to the breeze on her skin.

  There’s hardly any moon, but Cecile can see the swell and curves of Lucrezia’s body; much like her own, yet different.

  ‘You’ll catch cold,’ remonstrates Cecile, ‘Or someone will come!’

  Lucretia places her finger to her lips.

  ‘Just you and I, my Cecile,’ she says, and takes her hand, so that Cecile faces her, nose-to-nose and chin-to-chin.

  ‘Come in with me.’

  The tide is at its highest point, not rushing up to send its spray flying, or receding with great, sucking breaths, but gentle, its sound dark and deep; a lovely, liquid undertone to the night.

  I’m dreaming, thinks Cecile, as she allows Lucrezia to help remove her gown. Once naked, she looks down at her arm, at the pale glimmer of her skin. Without her clothing, she hardly feels like herself. Instead, she’s a creature of the night. Like a snowy owl, she might shake out her wings and fly away, over the water and down the coast, swooping over rooftops and forests and mountains.

  Lucrezia moves to sit on the edge, slips into the water, dives, then emerges, lashes wet, water dripping from her nose.