Anew: Book One: Awakened (28 page)

I quickly see that the theme is
the same for all--the death of youth embodied by men and women across two
centuries yet united in the overwhelming sense of needless tragedy and loss.

Nearby is an oil painting of men
wading through water toward a beach where bombs are exploding. The stark
heroism of their action, moving toward rather than away from deadly danger, is
striking in its power.

Something about how the men
stand in relation to one another makes it clear that they aren’t motivated in
that moment by thoughts of country or flag. Instead, they are supporting one
another at the most basic human level, a true band of brothers united by
courage and sacrifice. The same is also true in a holographic work that shows
soldiers on patrol in a narrow street, taking fire from adjacent buildings yet
continuing nonetheless to advance.

In none of the works do I get
any sense of the so-called glory of war, no hint of triumphalism. There is only
courageous honesty and a certain forlorn pride in the sacrifices made for
ideals that, however elusive they may be, are still the best hope of humanity.

Thinking of Ian, of what he has
confronted, my throat tightens. I turn away toward the other side of the
gallery.

At once, the mood changes. A
voluptuous Renoir nude hangs beside a Gauguin depiction of Tahitian women
bathing. Nearby is a vibrant, provocative portrait of a nude woman by Francoise
Nielly.

As I walk along slowly, I come
upon a medieval triptych depicting scenes from the Garden of Eden, a Caravaggio
portrait of a young woman clutching a sprig of jasmine that I recall has been
used as a symbol for eroticism, and a series of preliminary sketches for
Botticelli’s exquisite “Birth of Venus.” I cannot begin to imagine what the
sketches alone are worth.

I’m impressed that Ian is a
discerning, if eclectic collector. Despite the myriad styles, the pieces all
work together, expressing the effort of artists over the centuries to
illuminate the beauty and complexity of the human condition.

I can’t help but notice that
there is also a frankly sensual aspect to the works. A nude by the contemporary
artist Yasmin DeNiro makes me blush, so obvious is the woman’s arousal as she
lies stretched out on a chaise longue, one arm extended invitingly to the lover
we can imagine standing just beyond the edge of the canvas. Or perhaps it is
the viewer she is beckoning to; it’s impossible to tell.

I’ve just turned away from her
when my eye falls on what appears to be an abstract sculpture hanging on a
nearby wall. I approach it, tilting my head this way and that, convinced that
it reminds me of something yet unable to decide what it--

What….? No, that can’t be right.
I can’t be looking at a life-size and very detailed representation of the
female genitalia displayed between spread thighs.

Apparently, I can be. The highly
polished metal--bronze, I think--of the thighs and the plumb outer labia
contrasts vividly with the bright copper inner labia, almost frond-like in
their rippled folds. Between them the exposed clit and vulva are exactingly
rendered, the clit even more highly polished than the rest, clearly engorged
while below it the vulva gleams wetly.

The overall effect is so precise
as to leave no doubt that the work was cast from a living model.

Who was she, the woman who lay
on a table, her legs spread and raised, holding herself immobile despite being
teased to obvious arousal. How did she respond as warm, liquid wax was poured
over her sex, hardening into a mold for molten metal? How long did she remain
encased like that until the wax was pulled away?

Did she come when it was or
perhaps just afterward? At her hands? Or the artist’s?

A wave of heat makes the muscles
in my groin clench even as I remind myself that I have awakened in a world
steeped in sensuality, whether for the indulgence of the wealthy and
privileged, or as a means of diverting and controlling everyone else. The works
in the gallery can hardly be considered extreme in a culture where even the
opera is X-rated.

Yet they still have a capacity
to shock me.

On a pedestal nearby is the nude
torso of a woman rendered in great detail. The smooth stone is a sharp contrast
to the deceptively softer texture of the natural jute ropes that tightly bind
her breasts into engorged cones before extending across her hips to her crotch
where they are drawn tightly along her inner labia, her clit protruding between
them.

Looking at the ropes, I can’t
help but squirm. They would certainly be uncomfortable but the sense of
pressure
there
, of being bound--

I glance away quickly only to
confront a collage that dominates the opposite wall. It is comprised of a vast
array of ominous looking implements--leather flails in a variety of colors and
textures, wooden paddles, cuffs both metal and leather, whips of various
lengths, steel clamps attached to chains, and--my blush deepens--riding crops
are all arranged in a circular pattern within a large wooden wheel. The wheel
of fortune, perhaps? Abruptly, my remark in the Rolls prompted by the allure of
Ian’s riding boots comes back to haunt me.

I’m staring at the collage,
struggling to come to terms with what it contains--and the implications of
it--when the sound of a throat being cleared freezes me in place. I only just
manage to turn my head before I instantly wish for the floor to open and
swallow me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ian

Amelia isn’t in the apartment. I
confirm that within minutes of arriving. I can contact security and have them
locate her but before I do, I notice that the doors to the gallery are ajar.

Crap
.

With hindsight, I should have
kept the gallery off the list of areas she can access. Now that she’s there I
don’t know whether to be apprehensive or intrigued.

I slip through the doors and
spot her almost at once. Her head is tilted to one side, lips softly parted and
her eyes-- Her eyes are wide and dark, filled, I assume, with shock. She looks
so damn beautiful in a way I can hardly fathom. An innocent in a world that
left innocence behind long ago.

My feelings for her threaten to
overwhelm me. She fills me with raw lust that’s equaled only by the driving
need to cherish and protect her. I want to possess her completely and at the
same time crush anything that could cause her the slightest harm.

Without some way to reconcile
such contradictory urges, I’m knocked off balance and left struggling to cope
with a situation unlike any I’ve ever encountered before.

Before I can get mired in the
emotions that provokes, I clear my throat. Softly, not wanting to startle her,
I say, “The collage is by Iago Reyes. It’s one of a series he created in the
years just before he entered a Buddhist monastery.”

She stiffens at the sound of my
voice and shoots me a quick glance before looking anywhere but at me.

“He became a monk?” Her voice is
a little high. She’s blushing fiercely.

“An acolyte, for awhile. He’s
back in the world and working again.”

I swear that I can smell the
soft, alluring scent of her skin even across the distance separating us. That
isn’t possible but sense memories of her threaten to overwhelm me--the warm,
silken smoothness of her thighs parting for my hands, the elegant arch of her
back, her breathy moans as she starts to come--

My skin prickles as though a
storm is building, charging the air with electricity.

Instead of heeding the warning,
I ask, “What do you think of the piece?”

She tries to shrug but doesn’t
quite pull it off. “It’s very provocative.”

“Because of what it consists
of?” I assume that’s what she means but as always with Amelia, I’m in for a
surprise.

She stares at the collage, studying
it carefully. “Partly but he’s reduced everything to shape and color, stripped
of function. And he’s arranged it all like the seeds in a sunflower, spirals
within spirals, using the harmony of nature to create unexpected beauty.”

I wait, impressed that she’s
able to see past the superficial so readily and at the same time knowing that I
shouldn’t be. From that first night when she challenged me by quoting
Clauswitz, I’ve had no doubts about her intelligence or her perceptiveness.

As she continues studying the
collage, I let my eyes roam over her. She stands with the poise of a dancer,
her body perfectly straight yet fluid, as though ready in an instant to spring
into motion. As much as I resent Sergei, I can understand why she wants, even
needs, the instruction he can provide.

The thought rankles but it also
reminds me of her interest in martial arts which, predictably enough, makes me
think of training her and
presto
--

What was that Amelia said about
me being predictable? My cock sure as hell is. I ignore what’s going on in my
jeans and force myself to focus on assuring her that she’s safe.

Still staring at the collage,
she asks, “Is Reyes asking us to question our assumptions about these objects?
To see them in a different context?”

That she is even open to such a
possibility stirs me more than I want to admit.

Carefully, I say, “Much of
Reyes’ work is about questioning the idea that pain is always ugly and only
pleasure can be beautiful. He thinks the truth is more complex and he wants us
to make our own decisions about that.”

She turns her head suddenly and
meets my gaze. “Is that why you acquired the piece? Because it suggests that
sensuality isn’t simplistic?”

I acquired the piece because the
first time I saw it, in a gallery in Milan, it cracked the darkness inside me
just enough to admit a tiny ray of light where before there had been none. And
because the artist turned out to be a sharp, witty guy about my own age who was
himself no stranger to wrestling with demons.

But I’m not ready to tell her
that. I’m especially not ready to mention that over arak seeped from copper
stills heated with twisted vine wood, aged in clay amphorae, and poured from a
bottle as darkly blue as the sky in the moments before the last light fades,
Reyes and his wife gave me a glimpse of possibilities that I dismissed at the
time but haven’t been able to stop thinking about ever since Amelia came into
my life.

Rather than answer her directly,
I say, “Reyes’ work is an excellent investment. After he withdrew to the monastery,
the value of his pieces went through the roof.”

For an instant, she looks
disappointed, leaving me to wonder if she knows I am not being entirely--or
even mostly--honest.

Doubling down, I add, “This
collection is as much about making money as anything else.”

“Is it?” She raises a brow and
gestures toward the far end of the gallery where a trio of statues is
displayed. “What about those?”

Oh, yeah, those. I accepted them
on loan as a favor to the artist, who will benefit from the visibility that an
exhibition at Pinnacle House confers but they won’t be staying.

The three statues are life-size
as well as remarkably lifelike. Each depicts the same tall, slim young woman.
Her hair is honey blonde, her eyes a cool shade of gray, her skin as pale and
smooth as porcelain. In all three renditions, she is almost entirely nude.

In stark contrast to her pale
skin, red ropes bind her slender arms behind her and constrict her full
breasts. On her long, lithe legs, she wears red thigh-top stockings and ballet
stiletto boots that arch the foot and force the toes on point. A red leather
collar is fastened snugly around her neck.

In each of the poses, she is
further bound with red rope in positions that render her helpless and fully
expose her sex--bent at the barre in a plié, suspended in a grand jeté, and
standing on one leg, the other stretched straight up alongside her.

Yet despite all this, she gazes
at the viewer serenely. Her beautiful features are composed, her hair neatly
arranged in a coil at the back of her head, her body enduring the demands
placed upon it without apparent strain or effort. From the first time I saw
her, I’ve thought that she looks like a ballerina in bondage.

“Who is she?” Amelia asks. She
turns, meeting my eyes. “Do you know?”

“The artist, Karla Larson. The
statues are self-portraits.”

I wait as she processes this,
glancing back at the trio. “She’s very daring, isn’t she?”

Yet another Amelia surprise. No
expression of shock or disgust. Just going right to the heart of exactly how
Karla is even though she’s never met the woman. What she lacks in experience,
she more than makes up for with an understanding of human nature that I have to
conclude must be innately her own even if I don’t understand how that’s
possible.

“She’s certainly forthright
about some of the darker aspects of sensuality,” I say.

Amelia hesitates. I can see that
something is bothering her after all. Finally, she asks, “Are you…friends?”

She’s
jealous
? A little
flicker of satisfaction darts through me but it’s swamped by bewilderment. I
have to remember that while she has knowledge, she has no memories to compare
to what has happened between us. No way of knowing how rare it is. Maybe that’s
just as well, all things considered.

“She’s the wife of a friend.” I
hesitate a moment before I add, “Iago Reyes.”

“Ahhh.” The frown is gone.
Amelia looks intrigued. “Is she the reason he went into the monastery or is she
why he came out?”

I can’t help but chuckle. Poor
Iago, he’s strapped himself to a hell of a ride. But then if he wanted a
vanilla life, he wouldn’t have married Karla.

“Both, I think. They’re a good
match.”

“He doesn’t mind--?” She glances
again at the provocative statues.