Curse of the amber, p.19
Curse of the Amber, page 19
I floated adrift in this unseemly place, meandering through old pathways that weaved and disappeared into unfamiliar streets, the shops and offices a mirage settled permanently over my memory, hazy as a distant dream imperfectly recalled. The harder I tried to orient myself, the more lost I became. The city’s layout was dizzying, and as we reached a central plaza, I was paralyzed with confusion. In whichever direction I turned, there was something there that should not be. The city felt wrong. I felt wrong.
We walked at a slow, steady pace toward the Coliseum, the ultimate farce. I felt the leering faces of the gladiators as they preyed on eager passersby burn on my cheeks. In our own house we were mocked, reduced to sly references and bawdy jokes.
Azi’s reticence offered little solace. She kept a curious silence, her exhaustion growing visible with every passing hour. We lunched on the Tiber’s bank, at Azi’s suggestion. The river itself had changed little, and it quietened my anxious heart, which was no doubt her intention. Our makeshift meal consumed, Azi set about capturing a flock of ducks on the opposite shore on paper but broke off shortly after beginning.
“What’s wrong?” I inquired, eager to solve her difficulties.
“I can’t concentrate,” she answered simply, secreting away her supplies in frustration.
“Is it the show?” Her art had always been for her own sake; anxiety about the change in circumstances was understandable.
“Partly,” she said, dangling her legs over the bank, daring to create small ripples in the afternoon stillness with her delicate fingers.
When I inquired after the other part, she turned away from me. I placed my hand under her chin so she might face me. As this morning, she was on the verge of tears, with no discernible cause.
“Azi?”
“Please, Quintus. Just leave it alone.”
She pulled her cheek reluctantly from my palm and stared into the watery depths of the Tiber. Her scrutiny of the water’s surface intensified, and she leaned farther over, retreated back again, and took up her brushes. She spent an eternity mixing her pigments, her eyes dancing back and forth as she produced a range of blues, greens, grays, yellows, whites, and even purples. Those surprised me, until she applied them on the small square canvas she’d packed with her. The scene she replicated did, in fact, contain hints of purple in the shadows cast by the stone pine providing us shade. She captured the sunlight flitting on the water’s surface, darting toward the shadow then away from it again. The finished product was brilliant and ephemeral. She was pleased. I was awestruck.
“This is good for the show, right?” she asked finally, slipping it carefully into a case that allowed it space to dry undisturbed.
“It’s lovely,” I said sadly. Her ears pricked at the melancholy of my tone. I cleared my throat at her inquisitive glance. “I sold the one you gave me.”
“You want this one?”
“It would remind me of this day. Of this moment.”
She hesitated but acquiesced in the end. “It’s yours,” she said, rising to her feet and yawning.
“Are you well?” I asked.
“Tired.”
“We can rest, if you wish.”
“No, I’ll be all right. I can only stay a few days anyway.”
I didn’t like the shadow that passed over her face when she said that. She was determined to push through, feeling the shortness of time.
“Please,” I insisted, “I won’t impose on you more than I’ve already done.”
“It’s been no trouble,” she said, the pain in her voice stifling. I furrowed my brow. Was her intention to leave me here, and this her goodbye? I shuttered out the thought, and instinctively reached for her. Her initial response was cold, but I persisted, put on anxious alert by her forced aloofness. As we turned the corner to a thoroughfare leading to our lodgings, her restraint wavered, and I felt the reassuring weight of her hips fall more relaxed into the curve of my arm.
She fell quickly asleep upon our return. I sat at the small, wrought-iron table appointing our slim terrace, overlooking the alleyway below. I retrieved the map of the modern city from my pocket, unfolding it carefully. If I let my mind be pulled to those things that were recognizable, the cacophony of the ages that had passed me by fell away. From the markers that remained, I might judge the distance to my home from its proximal relationships. My fingers traced the lines down defunct streets and nonexistent avenues, until they found their destination. They pressed on the area south of us, undeveloped save for the ruins that moldered there. It was possible that what I sought might still be hidden in the rubble. I circled my goal with the nub of a nearby pencil and returned the map to my pocket.
Within, Azi slept restfully. I would lose the daylight soon, and with it my hope that this sojourn had not been made entirely in error. I kissed Azi’s forehead and slipped quietly out of the room.
Wending my way through the streets, I avoided the fluorescent lure of bars and discos as I remembered masques, bacchanals, and the honor of a culture turned vulgar. I was not under any illusions of the lack of these elements in my native society—being my parents’ son ensured my education in more worldly habits—but still, the aspiration to valor, to civility, and the optimistic pride of the citizenry had turned cynical, lax, decadent. The baser strain of sentiment dominated, and it disgusted me.
I came close to my destination, and the present fell away as I came upon the shells of my neighbor’s houses, a once neat line now laid low, the foundation stones exposed to the crisp night air. Streetlamps winked on as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the stones in a pale, unseemly glow shrouded in ancient shadows. The frail, ghostly light set my hair on end. The dull thrumming of neighbors at their daily activities echoed in my head, wispy shadows drifted by in predictable patterns as they wound their way through the day. Voices resounded dimly through the open spaces between as they prepared food, swept doorways, exchanged gossip. The sight of my mother standing tired in the doorway arrested my steps. The wrinkles about her eyes and mouth were set deeper than I remembered. She looked right at me, saw me.
“Mammam,” I called, my breath puffing white, quickly dissipating clouds into the night like the phantoms that surrounded me. I called again, but she only smiled sadly, and hung her head, deaf to me. When she ambled inside, I followed, leaning my hand against the invisible door frame, losing my balance as the impression failed to support my solid weight. My mother was not there. I blinked, and the night’s spell crashed over me as a glass ceiling shatters. I stood alone in the wreckage, the right wall humbled, coming no higher than my knee. I reached for the third stone up from the ground, unremarkable except for its lack of supporting mortar. My eyes gleamed in the moonlight as my fingers pulled at the false face and felt the familiar grain of the plain wooden box where my mother kept her wedding ring, not bearing to part with it, but prepared to do so if circumstances absolutely required it. That it was still there, slumbering peacefully, contented my racing heart. In my absence, the empire I had defended provided for them. It was no small comfort. I took the ring and left the box, offering a silent prayer for my parents and our neighbors.
“Thank you, Mammam,” I whispered as I left the space. A cold wind kissed my cheek, and my eyes stung with tears.
My feet took note of every stone and curve of the road, my ears committed to memory the song of the larks overhead, and my lungs drunk deep of the air, for I knew I would not come here again. The path behind me closed forever, for that way lay phantoms. I carried my love of my parents in my breast as my feet carried me to my future. To Azi. The fountain of Neptune and his maidens across the street beckoned me with its twinkling melody as the water rushed and bubbled over its slick surface. I sat on the marbled edge, rinsing ages of disuse out from between the gemstones, admiring its returned brilliance as I heard the clatter of someone running down the emptied cobblestone street. I stood, concealing the ring as the runner came into view.
“Azi?”
“Where the fuck have you been?” she panted. She proceeded to harangue me in a frenzied pitch. She gesticulated wildly, shouting too quickly for me to catch every word. She had panicked at the thought of me alone in this haunted city. She’d thought I’d gone for good, without a word of parting. She was furious and heartbroken. My own heart pounded all the louder. We’d shared the same fear. This had been the pall cast over her all day. Waking up to an empty room had confirmed her deepest dread.
I was a fool. I had complied with her request for time from the first, but now I saw. After all we had shared, she did not know, because I had not shown her, that my heart and soul were bound to her.
My silent, curious smile angered her further, and she railed at me, her passion squelched only by the interruption of a fierce kiss. Her rage muted, coiling into silence and wracking her with sobs against my chest. Her tear-streaked face dared a piercing stare into mine.
“I’ve got nothing left,” she pleaded. “I can’t lose you too.” I lifted her off her feet, cradling her in my arms. It was time our claims on each other were declared in skin and sweat.
20
ASENATH
No man ever made love to me before. I had known men in their drunken, post-adolescent frenzies, or the rushed rutting of a man who feared every moment, chancing to be where he should not, complaining of stolen minutes as they ticked away.
Quintus lived only for me. Every touch was sacred, every new intimacy precious, drawing us deeper into each other. The night hours stretched decadently before us, until there was nothing left of me that did not bear a trace of him—the weight of his chest on mine, crushing me with untold fervor, his ragged breath collected on my shoulder, his hands in my hair as I pressed into him, close enough to feel his heaving abdomen brush against mine, his soft, inquisitive tongue that explored and savored, the fingers that grazed every curve as they gave up their secrets at his gentle, insistent beckoning. Our bodies sang until my legs quaked, my fingers were numb, my mind hazy. Our cries of passion mingled with the coolness of the morning, until I could bear no more.
I quivered as the cold air of the dawn licked across my back. I inched closer to Quintus, breathing in the sweet fragrance of his exhausted limbs as he warmed me. The Bacchus stirred, his large hand tugging on my hip.
“Again?” I moaned weekly.
A wicked, raspy laugh bubbled low in his throat. “Again, and again, and again…”
I squirmed in protest as he climbed farther on top of me, but his thumb crossed roughly over my nipple, and I was at his mercy. He bit into my shoulder, sending a shock rippling through me as he attempted to turn me on my back.
“I want to see you,” he growled, sliding his tongue across my skin.
“Nn-ngnh—you do the work.” I sighed. Our fingers folded together as he preyed upon me, my muscles heavy and languid as we collided. His lust grew almost too powerful, leaving me breathless when he sat up, sending a stark breeze between us as he swung my leg around and pivoted me. He clawed at my thighs, lifting me onto his lap. I dug my nails into the nape of his neck as I screamed at our rapid reunion. His moans at the height of his pleasure crashed over me in a tumultuous wave, and we drifted slowly down to the lush satin pillows. A tremor took hold of me from the tips of my hair down to my toes, and I prayed he would let me eat before he ravished me further.
I settled my cheek on his broad, fine chest, my temples throbbing in time with his racing heart. It grew calm, and my lids drew heavily closed until I sensed its pace hasten again.
“You know what I think?” he asked, wrapping my hair around his finger.
“You can think?” I moaned. His abdomen trembled with mirth beneath me.
“I think I was meant for that bog.” I raised my head and saw tears in his ferociously blue eyes. “If not for that, how could I be here with you?” He grazed my cheek with his thumb. “Te amo. I love you, Asenath.”
Blissful tears spilled down my face. I had not heard those words since I was a child. I reciprocated, my voice scarcely a whisper on my lips.
He reached for his long-forgotten pants and withdrew an enormous pearl set in gold. Nestled against its side was a flowering burst of rubies. He opened my palm and laid it there.
“This was my mother’s,” he said. “I would see it on my wife.”
My breath stopped, and I swooned head-first into those twin gemstone pools that were his eyes.
“I will be devoted entirely to you, my body and my blood pledged to your protection, and to lavishing you with every happiness in this life.” When I did not speak, for lack of words, he kissed my hands, and turned his suppliant eyes to mine. “Will you grant me the honor of being your husband?”
I picked up the ring from my left palm and slipped it on my finger. It fit beautifully. “Ego autem. I will.”
Our engagement was met with jubilation upon our return. The last days of the year passed quickly in small preparations, for all those I would have witness our union lived in the same house. Classes wound down, and I breezed through student finals. Time for wine and a movie came easily and regularly when we were not in pursuit of the Elder Gods. Ravi came shopping with me, gifting me my dress and enough gold jewelry to weight me to the floor. I chose a sleek, striking gown that would have made Cleopatra green with envy. We had nothing to wait for, so in less than a month’s time we stood before a judge in the most lavish hotel I’d ever been to, nestled in the Catskill Mountains. Quintus was devastatingly gorgeous in his suit, his hair neatly trimmed and glossy. Having no attachment to the surname on his passport, he took mine, and became Mr. Hayes. The historic resort was set aglow in the romantic twinkle of white Christmas lights bedecking the entire estate. We celebrated with champagne and an expensive, unforgettably extravagant meal, Quintus’s gift to me from his success with my painting. Felix bestowed on us sweet, joyous music on the inn’s piano, and our celebrations lasted deep into the evening.
We woke as man and wife for the first time to a thin blanket of fresh white powder, giving the hotel a dreamlike appearance of Christmases long gone. When I was not set upon by the tiger that was my bridegroom, I painted, and by week’s end, I had the difficult task of choosing which would join the proud works that would represent me in my first art show. As it was, my studio was filled with enough for two more. I hadn’t meant to hoard them, but my circle of friends was limited, and I could not fathom discarding them. Now they would settle Quintus and me nicely for a while and support his formal education.
All the paintings I had chosen to include were weeks, if not years, old, yet when the time came, I still didn’t feel ready. The gallery did a great job of displaying them and organizing the swanky silent auction that would hopefully clear out some studio space and get me the cash I needed for what I was planning—if I could only bring myself to do it. But I couldn’t live in my parents’ shadow forever. With Quintus, I didn’t have to.
He was so proud, even of the ruddiest little paintings.
“What about this one?” he pleaded.
“No,” I insisted, smiling into my glass of Bourdeaux. “You’re not allowed to bid. It’s against the rules. Please don’t pout like that in public, where I can’t do anything about it.”
“I was the one who discovered you, and I only have a single painting.”
“What single painting? There are twice as many at home still. We decided on these together.” Moving closer, I spoke low in his ear. “Your favorites are safe at home.”
He grunted.
“Quintus. They were just sitting around before. Now people will enjoy them.”
More grunts. He slid his hand across my back again, stretching his fingers out to cover as much of my daringly bare dress as he could.
“Please stop that. Are you my husband or my chaperone?”
“It’s too open; I told you. I can almost see your ass.”
“You cannot.”
“I must be dreaming of it, then.”
“Must be. It’s fine, Quintus. Perfectly acceptable, and I look good in it.”
He kissed the back of my neck and removed his hand. “Yes, you do. And just like your best paintings, you’re all mine.”
It really was hard not to spoil it—that the painting he had sold had only been a practice piece—what I’d always considered a crude prototype for the same subject that had taken me much longer to paint. The details were more nuanced, the color and strokes more sophisticated. It had all been painted from memories of Hani’s. It was the piece I was most proud of. I’d kept it hidden well. I wanted him to see it on a permanent hanging—the question was where. Neither of the rooms we alternately occupied were fit for a married couple. And the house was more than I needed. One way or the other, the sphinxes would have to go. Quintus hadn’t chosen that—neither had some hypothetical buyer—though in this town, you never knew.
I still hadn’t made up my mind, when Felix stalked up behind me with Dean and Ravi in tow.
“Princesa, you are now my richest friend!” He laughed, kissing my cheeks.
“Am I?” I asked, shifting my weight from one leg to the other and sipping my drink in an effort to look casual.
“Have you not been looking at the sheets?” Dean asked.
“No. I’ve been afraid to.”
“You’ve sold almost everything,” Ravi answered. “And people are still walking around.”
“Hey, where’s that maharajah I saw you with at Halloween?” I asked, looking over my best friend’s shoulder to see that yes, in fact, people were actively bidding on all the things I’d kept stacked in corners for so long.
“Amir? I’m sorry love, I couldn’t convince him to come. He is a complete Neanderthal when it comes to art. I’ll have to train him.”
“Ohh-kay,” I said, laughing.
“How can you train a man to appreciate art?” Felix interjected. “It must take root and blossom in a man’s soul!”
“Well said, Felix. Salud,” I replied, raising my almost-empty glass. Felix evened it out with wine from his own glass. It didn’t matter that I was drinking red and he had white.
