Note: due to the size of this segment it will be placed in 3 postings.
|------------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Neunt cont.)----------------------------|
The suite is set atop the roof of Le Meurice, and comprises the hotels seventh floor. It’s square footage is as large as an upper middle class home in her native desert city. It’s exterior rooftop encircling patio is large enough to accommodate any moderately sized party of twenty or forty in absolute comfort, it’s single bedroom adorned in a manner that Marie Antoinette would find satisfying, a very large common living space central to the suite, extending almost the entire length of the building with open expanses of plate glass providing almost two hundred and forty degrees of view of the city, no expense spared, no European shop left un-examined in the considered effort of the company’s decorators to overwhelm the guest with an impression of being privy to the court of at least one of the Louis’. Architectural touches have been added to embellish reflections of the structural iron and steel of the Eiffel Tower, visible from one side of the room.
The
blonde is seated on the side of the king sized bed in the master suite, wearing only a pair of white lace Agent Provocateur panties. The deep shade of blue of the canopy behind the headboard surrounds her with a background perfect for her outline, a study in light and color. On a table beside the bed are a small shallow bowl of rapidly cooling water, now tinted pink, an open package of suture, a pile of wrappers from sterile gauze three by three bandage pads, several bloody three by threes, a suture needle, a package of surgical tape, a pair of used sterile non-latex surgical gloves, an ashtray with 3 cigarette butts in it, two of which bear lip marks in different shades of red, a partially consumed can of diet cola, and an empty wine glass. Voices can be heard from the adjoining main room in the suite. The
blonde sits staring out one of the rooms magnificent windows. The draperies have been drawn to fill her vision with a view of the city she has loved so very dearly for more than two thirds of her life. It lays spread before her in the early evening glow of a red tinted orb of sun. She sighs and stretches, her breasts rising and holding their shape well, no longer the twenty year old girl who had managed to earn a living combining the income from several jobs, including both security and cam modeling, and she knows too well the inevitable changes time reeks upon women. Her hand gently covers the new bandaging above her hip. She turns and looks through the open French doors into the living space; her lover stands listening as the hotel’s physician talks quietly with the Afrikaans body guard. Occasionally her lover makes some comment or inquiry and the physician replies. The physician turns and begins to walk toward the entry doors to the suite and her lover turns to her. Her beautiful face moves through a series of expressions quickly, and finally she smiles, blows a kiss, and strides towards her. She moves smoothly and easily, even in heels on carpets as thick as those that have been laid in this room. If there were a word for what the
blonde thought beauty was, it would be her lover’s name.
“Ciao cucciola” she moves close to the blonde, puts her hand under the blonde’s chin, smiles, her makeup is perfect, and today she has blue contacts in, which alters her appearance entirely; suddenly she is beautiful in an entirely different way, slightly less warm, more American, urban. “She could go through a room of people who had known her for years, and not a one would recognize her with those in” the
blonde thinks. “Ma mie, I’m tired ma Chérie, and I would love to see the city, but, do you mind if we stay in tonight?” The
brunette leans over and kisses the
blonde on her forehead. “Of course we can stay in, the chef is going to prepare a wonderful meal for all of us, we will eat here on the patio, and then a brief meeting to decide about the rest of the return, and then; I will have you to myself, YES!” and the
brunette launches herself onto the bed laughing as the
blonde rolls over beside her and on top of her and tangles their legs and laughing they kiss, and pause, and stare at each other; and slowly move their mouths together, and the
blonde is happier than she’s been, and the
brunette is warm and responsive and raising her thigh for the blonde. The
blonde laughs and rolls off to the top of the bed, and sitting up leans back against the pillows piled there. “Should I dress or go like this to dinner?”
The dinner has been massively popular with everyone, the chef joining them for after dinner drinks, and some quiet chat about his life and the kitchens here and shopping before the sun rises in the markets of Paris. The
blonde has wandered to the end of the patio and stands looking out over the city; the Eiffel tower has been shut due to fears of terrorist attacks, she remembers standing at the small bar on its top structures as a young girl, holding the rounded bottle of cold sweating Orangina in her hands, the condensation chilling her body as it slid down her forearms. Its exterior remains lighted, and the city glows in the manner of a sparkling sea of stars. Her eyes moisten remembering all the years she had yearned to return here, and now, with everything collapsing around her, she finally was. The hand on her shoulder elicits no startle response; she is so expectant of something that she no longer has a survival instinct in place. “Mia bella.” Her lover’s soft musical voice melts her. She relaxes her neck and lays her head on the hand, it is such a strong hand, so well-shaped, as though belonging to a woman who had worked clay or stone or molded metal into fine figures for years.
The
brunette lays beside her, gentle with her, cautious not to reopen the wound; her hand drifts lazily over the blonde’s stomach, following its curve along the pelvis, across the top of her thigh. The blonde’s head turned towards her, pillowed, and her hair tucked behind, a wave of it rolls like a beachcomber over her left shoulder and down her arm. The blonde’s grey eyes are shadowed but glisten at the brunette; she sighs soft and whispers “I love you so much, so very much.” The hand slides centrally, trailing against the pale white smooth skin of the blonde’s Mons. The blonde’s stomach muscles ripple and she gives up a short gasp.
The light from the bathroom’s partially open door slices across the bed, black here, and muted colors there in its long parallelogram, and more black on that side. A tanned calf extends through the light and slides toward the left, “Yes, ohhhh”, the leg turns with the calf facing upward, tensed, it’s muscle defined and tight, the sinews and ligaments spring to life.
In the dark their hair is indistinguishable, the brown and blonde, and inseparable; shadowed movements and a moan; “Bella, a little more there please.” Then there are the sounds of linen moving, and the shining, glimmering sound of skin moving against it. “God, you are so warm.” “Hold them, yes.” A groan.
Outside, through the open windows, the light of the city shines up, higher, to touch the underside of soft thin clouds, vapor boiling in the cold of the heights, twisting in on itself, and the heat of the earth below lends energy to it, moving, rolling, rising, only to fall again. “Again? Please?” “Yes, again, and again, and again.”
The
blonde wakes and slides quietly from the bed; goes to the bathroom. She’s always needed some light at night, to find her way. She’s never been long in one place, never long enough to count the steps up and down, and remember them in the dark. Never long enough to know that the low table will bruise her shin if she steps just there. Never long enough to remember the height at which the door knob, or light switch, or wine glass on the table are. So, after relieving herself, when she reenters the bedroom, she pushes the door wide, to find her path; the huge bed is empty. She stills, her hand moving to the bandage riding low on her side, just above the hip.
On the patio outside the glass walled rooftop suite, at 3:30 AM, overlooking the slowing city of Paris, the traffic thinning but never stopping, the air traffic paused, the lights having been set down across so much of the city, the Eiffel Tower and the Arch, and the streets still aflame with embers and sparks the three stand together and speak quietly; “You know she is broken. You watched the debriefing of the Czech, you saw how shaken he was by the whole event, by what happened, and what you can plainly see is continuing to happen even here; a city where she should have snapped back into place.” Driver pauses staring cold and practical at the brunette.
“Ag, he’s being straight wit you my china.” The Afrikaans girl, having dressed down after the dinner, and prepping for the work she’s shortly to perform, is dressed in black Driver Incorporated work wear, her
tattoos in rampant display, her hair back and in a single braid, not unlike the blonde’s preferred style, but half the length. Her strong arms flex, and the condition of her musculature suggests body building aimed at long strong flexibility over bulk, or amphetamine stimulation. The Afrikaans girl places her hand on the brunette’s shoulder, and leans in to dominate her view. “Fouk I kene is a kak time to do it. But she’s got to kene the lay of it; how it is now; and how she’s out of all of it.”
The
brunette looks up; at Driver, who is now in obvious discomfort, avoiding her gaze, and then directly in the eyes of the Afrikaans. “All right” she sighs, and looks away; “I’ll explain it to her when we arrive, and send her where she’ll be safe. Call the villa; tell them all to start the move.”
The orchard is behind her, her bare feet feel the sharp points and uneven lumps of the gravel road beneath them. The music is louder and she wants to scream and run until she’s safe in the limbs of the trees again, loving and loved by them. The scent of the peach tree blossoms is everywhere in the moving air, she can see it flowing like smoke, like river water; slow and sweet and thick. She watches the stained glass windows of the church carefully. She cannot make out what moral they carry, and she can see no light from within. The bees are busy at the azalea blossoms, moving in smooth flight from one to another, their movements while on each blossom making the thin branches wave. Each shrub looks alive with the motion. She shudders, but steps forward. One, two, three, four steps; she’s close to the azaleas now and on the thin grass and sandy soil of the church yard. She steps to the side to see more of the front of the church; she doesn’t ever remember seeing what it looks like here. There is a large honey locust tree that shades this part of the churchyard and the entrance. The tree has shed pods that litter the ground, as she walks she steps on them and their sickening sweet odor fills the air.
Two small wooden posts support a tiny roof shingled in slate and tin, over the entry. She takes another step to gain better sight of the entry to the church and is seized by an intense pain in her foot. Looking down she sees that one of the huge thorns shed from the Locust has pierced the skin between her large toe and the one next to it. She squats to pull the thorn out, tugs, it remains in her foot, tugs again, blood now and she wiggles it side to side to extract it. As the thorn is drawn she hears the front entry door to the church thrown wide and it slams against its frame.
© Amanda 2011
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