Body and Soul (12 page)

‘Magdi, I’m indebted to you for many things but taking me to the Wadi el Natrun yesterday has to stand out as one of the great experiences of my life. Possibly the greatest. Something very deep and abiding and at the same time mystical happened to me while I was sitting on that sand dune, giving myself up to the emptiness of the desert. My life, past and present, came together before my very eyes. So I loved and lost Garfield? It never really mattered in the big picture of life. It was never meant to be, it just took me a long time to understand that.’

Magdi looked across the room into one of the tall slender gilt-framed mirrors. There he had an excellent view of Garfield and Dante, the back of the other man. He could well understand Eden’s attraction to her former lover. He was handsome, smooth, intelligent and very sexy. He was also evil.

Magdi turned his attention back to Eden. ‘Garfield has made a profession out of sex and love. He is a taker, but you always knew that. Just try and remember all the good times you gave each other and forget you ever loved him.’

‘Good advice,’ she told him and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

Fortunately an old friend of Magdi’s entered Feshawi’s then and on seeing him and Eden joined them. A very amusing man, he had Eden and Magdi laughing with his gossiping and story telling. Eden soon forgot that Garfield was across the room from them. Then quite suddenly he was standing next to her, seeking her hand so he could lower his head to press a kiss upon it.

Garfield the consummate gigolo had not been taken aback on seeing Eden. His immediate reaction was that she looked marvellous, ten years hardly showed on her. He was surprised that the chemistry between them was still there. He wanted her, in bed, in his life, suddenly missed all that they’d had together. Charm oozed from every pore in his body. He went into gigolo overdrive.

‘How marvellous you look,’ he told her, still holding the hand he had kissed.

‘I often wondered how it would be and where, when next we were to meet,’ she told him, fighting back the dizzying joy of being next to him again. ‘You remember Magdi?’

The two men shook hands and Magdi introduced Garfield to his friend.

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked Eden.

‘I’m not. I’m flying to Rome and then on to London this afternoon,’ she told him. Then wrenched her hand from his and stood up.

Magdi immediately took the hint and rose from his chair. He called for the bill and excused himself to his friend for leaving so abruptly.

They were in the street but still in front of Feshawi’s when Garfield accosted Eden again. Magdi was talking to a shopkeeper he knew who was passing by as the two of them had come out of the cafe.

‘I want to see you! Don’t tell me that the chemistry between us has vanished because I don’t believe it. I would like to whisk you away right now and remind you of how great we were together. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like that, that you don’t feel the same way?’

Eden was overwhelmed by the charisma of the man: his physical beauty, the scent of his body, the shock of dirty blond hair streaked with white from the sun, the chiselled face. She looked into his eyes. They instantly dispelled her attraction to him. She could see the evil in them, the selfishness, the hunger. She imagined his thoughts about her whirring through his brain: how he would get her into bed and fuck her into oblivion, move in on her because she was grateful for the erotic life they had together, because she still loved him and was helpless to walk away, how he could manipulate her to grant him his every wish no matter how demeaning it might be for her. She had after all done so once before. She sensed the power of his ability to manipulate under the smooth pretence of being humble. How had she not seen all that before? That he was a pretender
par excellence
.

She removed his arm from hers, looked up into his face and told him, ‘Of course I would like that. I do feel the same way. Garfield, there’s no need for you to whisk me away to remind me of what we had together. It was the best. But I paid too dearly for it. Too much ever to let us happen again: not for love, not for a
fuck. What after all was my attraction to you? A chance to play with the devil? To be loved and fuck my brains out with a decadent, disloyal bastard? To become a masochist because I was too spoiled and innocent to understand that you loved me sadistically, if not towards my body then my mind? To have you resent me for my successes and because I loved you for what you were? And last but not least to have you once again run away from me because there was nothing more for you to get out of me?

‘Oh, yes, I always knew what you were but I allowed my passion for you to blind me. I was accustomed to good people, real people with genuine feelings who knew how to love. How was I to recognise or understand those who are not? I loved you once. Now go find another victim.’

Eden tried to walk away but Garfield grabbed her by the arm. She was carrying a lizard handbag which she swung and hit him across the face. He was so stunned he released her and she quite calmly walked away.

Chapter 12

Eden adored Italy, especially Tuscany. There had been such happy times there with her mother and father, a Florentine count having proved to have been one of Leila’s longest and best affairs. It was Alberto Chimini who had given Eden her cello, a Stradivarius dating from the 1670s. The cello had been cut down in length but not in width a hundred years before. It was more like a Montagano cello, quite big and heavy. Eden used, on occasion, to refer to it as her brute. The brute had always been the correct cello for her because she was such a forceful player. It had, however, been suggested that it did not have the response of a freshly preserved instrument. The brute was over bass-orientated with a limited carrying power on the top strings.

Count Chimini had remained one of her most loyal and supportive patrons. He was inordinately proud of what she had achieved and had offered many times to buy her a new cello. To that end he had bought a remarkable Strad called the Surabaya. It had been crafted during Stradivarius’s golden period and was slightly smaller than the brute. The instrument had a fantastic pedigree that was well documented; it also carried with it a romantic story. The Count had bought it for Eden just at the time she decided to give up performing in public. It was such a magnificent gift she felt she could not accept it unless there was an audience who could appreciate the beauty of its sound.

The Count was waiting for her with his car at Rome airport. She was met at the luggage carousel by his friend, Carlo Marcelli, a man of considerable years who had known Eden since she was
a young girl. They greeted each other with a hug, a kiss of the hand on his part. ‘
Cara mia
, he is waiting in the car for you and so happy you’re here.’

The Count lived in great luxury and incredible chic. They drove for half an hour to his villa on the outskirts of Rome, a beautiful family house with magnificent gardens. The staff were dressed in his family’s livery which included white gloves and seemed to be standing around in pairs everywhere.

Eden and the Count were both so excited about her at last accepting the cello that everything else was forgotten. They went to the music room where the cello was kept under a glass case along with the other rare instruments the Count collected. Eden had played the Surabaya many years ago so she knew what a marvellous instrument it was. There were technical disadvantages to an instrument with gut strings but Eden always favoured them because they commanded a greater warmth and individual beauty. She was aware that gut does not respond quickly to the bow, that it is supple and beyond a certain degree will not resist pressure. She knew that with this instrument she would have to limit her power even more than when playing the brute which also had gut strings.

The moment she took the Surabaya in her hands she fell in love with it. She sat down and played it. All she could say to Alberto Chimini after hearing the sound was, ‘Alberto, are you certain you want to give me the Surabaya? It is one of the really great instruments of the world.’

‘I always meant it to be played by the finest cellist. It was bought for you, remember. Your mother was alive then and she said, “Alberto, I will always love you for doing this for Eden. It means that you recognise her along with the greatest musicians or I know you would never give her such an important instrument.” So the Surabaya was bought and put away for the day you would come and claim it. Too bad my dear Leila is not with us to hear you play this glorious Strad.’

Once again the Count turned out to be a most generous benefactor. Eden stayed with him for several days and they had an orgy of magnificent music. The more she played the Surabaya, the
more in love with it she fell. It offered an exquisite palate of musical colours. The Count’s love and knowledge of music prompted Eden to discuss her planned concert at Epidaurus. They went over the programme and he offered several excellent suggestions.

Eden knew that her mother had been the real true love of his life; that he was doing this in her memory as much as because he believed Eden to be one of greatest cellists the world had ever known. He had never asked her why she had stopped playing in public and he never asked her now why she was making a comeback, he was too much of a gentleman for that. What he did sense was that she would never retire from the stage again unless she was forced to. He would be there in Epidaurus.

They kissed goodbye at the airport and there were tears of joy in their eyes at the emotion that surged through them, the love of great music.

Eden and her two cellos were settled comfortably in first-class seats to London. She was drinking a glass of champagne and settling down at last from her state of excitement over her visit to Alberto and having accepted the Surabaya.

It was only after the second glass that she thought of how well she had always been received in Italy. The men there had found her beautiful and sexy and had no qualms about showing it. Even on this trip when she had been in town with the Count for brief visits she was aware of the admiring glances she received from men and women alike. Alberto, noticing too, had remarked, ‘You can still draw the men and I have no doubt you will do the same for your audience.’

Eden smiled, remembering her younger days, her concerts in Rome and Milan, Naples and Florence, and the many Italian lovers she’d had: brief encounters, exciting romantic sex. Those had been the days of mini-skirts and promiscuity. Her long and shapely legs in sheer black or white stockings acted like a magnet to the dark and sexy Italian musicians, including two famous tenors who competed for a night with her.

At the outset of this odyssey Eden had wanted to go to the places where she had been a success as a woman as well as a
cellist. She had had no intention of trying to recapture the loves of her life so she had not looked up any of the men who had played that role. Memory can do wonders for one’s ego and more than that it can remind one of what was real and what one imagined to be real. She was delighted to have been right about returning to places of those days where she had flirted and toyed with men and sex. This journey had reached into her soul and brought back what had been there all the time, the same sensuous person who adored sex in its many and varied ways, the brilliant cellist and composer loved and adored by her public and who the critics constantly admired and were confused by.

It had always been a burden for Eden to bear, making her a fish out of water so to speak, that she was a slim beauty who all her life looked more like a well-groomed Hollywood star or a rebellious deb rather than a stuffy, serious musician. She could thank her mother for that and other lessons learned from Leila: that she must always satisfy her female yearnings, play the woman’s role as well as the artist’s, be a complete human being, a whole soul. When still a teenager Eden knew she had the reputation of being a sexy beauty and her personal life was gossiped about: the many men, the affairs, her flirtatious way of getting everything she wanted, the fool she made of herself later by loving Garfield so.

What she had not realised was that that was who she was, and if her genius caused people to talk about her, well, so what? It had never bothered her when she was young, only when she had been with Garfield and after he’d left her, as she became an older woman. Sitting on the plane, her two cellos by her side, Eden Sidd raised her glass and silently made a toast: Goodbye to the old age syndrome which nearly killed me off for good.

In London she was met by Max. He was astonished and delighted to see her walk through the doors of the customs hall with a porter pushing a luggage wagon carrying two cello cases. Immediately he knew she had at last accepted the Surabaya. Another titbit to feed the press about the Eden Sidd comeback.

When she had spoken to Max from the Count’s villa, she had raved that the Surabaya was a glorious instrument to play but had said nothing about accepting it as a gift. She did, however, the
moment he took her in hand at the airport tell him, ‘Wait until you hear the golden rounded sound the Surabaya gives off.’

He added, ‘And we must remember there is that unique Eden Sidd sound too. I can hardly wait to hear you play Schubert’s Trout on the Surabaya. The bow – what bow did he give you?’

‘Two, my dear Max, can you credit it? A Dodd and a Palormo. They are both absolutely marvellous. His generosity always overwhelms me.’

Max and Eden had dinner at the Ivy. A luscious very expensive dinner: lobster soufflé to begin with then veal in a cream and mushroom sauce, miniature vegetables, and a dark rich chocolate dessert with double cream oozing from it. They drank champagne all through the meal. It was after all a celebration in honour of the new Stradivarius. After dinner, Max had his chauffeur drive them to Eden’s house.

Immediately on seeing the village she had the sensation of having been away years rather than months. So much had happened to her in such a short time. There was the old fire raging in her once more to live life to the fullest. The house was aglow with lamplight, it looked inviting and she was pleased to be home. As they approached the entrance to her house she had the distinct impression that she was not returning as the same person who had left. Those last ten years in the house seemed like a dream she had sleepwalked through. It was disconcerting.

‘It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. Rachel will have gone home and taken the dogs with her. She knew I was returning but not at what time.’

Max took her keys and opened the door. On entering the house a sense of uneasiness came over Eden. She actually felt lightheaded. She was happy to be there but everything seemed strange, as if she were seeing her things and the rooms for the first time. She tried to remember other times in the kitchen, the drawing room, the music room, but as soon as she pictured them they drifted away from her. Memories of her years in the house simply did not exist, or if they did the Eden of today could not identify with them.

Once she and the cellos were settled in, she made tea. That was
even more odd because she knew where everything was yet it seemed as if she were making tea in that kitchen for the first time.

Max asked, ‘Are you all right? You seem to be somewhere else.’

‘I’m fine, fine. Just overtired, ready for bed,’ she told him, a small white lie. Eden could not explain to Max that she no longer felt like the same woman who had lived here for ten years. It was too bizarre. He would never understand.

She had always been proud of herself for not being highly strung, of being well grounded and able to take things in their stride. This sensation she was having now quite threw her. It was not like her at all. Normally she would have asked Max if he wanted to stay the night but she truly needed to be alone so apologised for not asking him and sent him on his way.

All the way back to London Max thought about Eden. How much he still loved her. He marvelled that it was as strong a love as it had ever been. He had found it difficult when in Alexandria to accept that she was entering a new phase in her life and he would remain as he had always been her constant friend and nothing more. There was a change in her. Instinct told him she was at last ready to settle her private life with marriage if the right man came along. It hurt him to concede that he was not even in the running. And what of Laurent? And Magdi? Garfield? She had loved them all at some time or another and surely Laurent was still there for the picking. Magdi, Max knew, would never work, he was too much of a libertine, would never stay faithful. She still loved Garfield but was she self-destructive enough to settle for him? Max doubted that. Then for one brief moment hope for himself soared like a bird on wing. But that had happened so many times in the twenty years he had known her he swiftly put it out of his mind. The fact of the matter was that if he and Eden had not had sex together by now, it was never going to happen.

His brief moment vanished and he concentrated on the concert at Epidaurus, even took notes of things that had to be done immediately. He had secured the amphitheatre, booked Laurent, the Boston Symphony miraculously were free for when he wanted them, they were negotiating fees and contracts were being drawn
up. He had worked miracles because orchestras, concert halls and conductors were usually booked solid for two years in advance. The enthusiasm and co-operation he was receiving for Eden’s comeback was astonishing. But then he had always known how disappointed the music world had been when she suddenly retired.

Laurent, on returning from Alexandria, went directly into a heavy work program. Concerts, marvellous music and great artists filled his life but every day his thoughts turned to Eden. If it wasn’t her artistry on the cello then it was his nights in her bed he brought back to mind. He tried to put her out of his mind but that was impossible. The sex had been incredibly thrilling and he wanted more of her in that way, but in other ways as well. He wanted her to love him at least as much as he loved her. He was determined not to let her slip away from him once more.

From Max, he learned where she was, what she was doing. Every day he wanted to call her but instinct told him to hold back. Instead he had sent her flowers in Alexandria, and while conducting in New York he bought her an unusual Tiffany watch and sent it to her in Rome. Finally the day after she returned to her house in England he could bear it no longer and called her there.

‘There’s no use pretending otherwise, I found you as marvellous as ever in Alexandria. I have to know how it was for you?’

‘Equally as marvellous, Laurent.’

She paused and he gave a sigh, not so much of relief as of contentment. He closed his eyes and embraced the memory of those nights.

‘Laurent?’

‘I’m still here. You sound so sexy. It excites me to hear how you feel about sex with me. I always did get a sexual buzz when I heard a certain tone in your voice. I’ve caught that tone as you tossed it to me just now. The sexual flirt voice, I used to call it. The orgasm voice, the come voice. I wish I could reach out and touch you right now, lick your breasts, suck on your nipples, drink from your cunt, caress your bottom, make you come, give you all the erotic pleasure I can possibly muster. But you know that, don’t you?’