Girl in the Moonlight (11 page)

Finally on Tuesday the spare part arrived. Freddie wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. He disassembled the engine, lying its parts in an orderly fashion on a clean sheet in the hotel car park. “The Dutch also don’t make cars,” he said. “It’s like that old line from the Orson Welles film about the Swiss and cuckoo clocks. What have the Dutch done? Edam and tulips. Dreadful country.”

By Wednesday evening they were back in London. For the rest of the spring Freddie refused to drive anywhere near the Low Countries. “If we wanted wet weather and foul food, we could just stay in England,” he said.

Spring melted into summer. Cesca had decided not to return to Amagansett. She would visit Aurelio in July, and then she and Freddie had a big trip planned in August. They were going to drive from Paris through Dijon, Mâcon, and Lyon to Geneva and across the alluvial plains of the Po Valley past Milan to Venice. He told her it would take several weeks. His annual holiday. There are many chefs along the way who would be gravely disappointed if we did not stop by, he said.

Kitty flew to visit her for two weeks before the Venice trip. She had been in Barcelona first, visiting Aurelio. Cesca insisted
that she stay in her flat as she was spending most of her nights at Freddie’s, on Lowndes Square.

“I like him very much,” said Kitty. “Go easy on him.”

She and her daughter were having lunch on Beauchamp Place. The previous evening she had met Freddie for the first time. He took them to a restaurant on the Royal Hospital Road, and insisted she order the pig’s trotters with chicken mousseline, sweetbreads, and morels. It was fabulous. “English food is getting better every year,” he said, “even if it isn’t English food at all.” At the end of the meal the proprietor, who was French, sat with them and had a brandy. He tore up the bill. Freddie had been one of his early investors.

Kitty had many friends in London. A Persian woman who was married to a Cambridge don and was the London editor for a well-known American literary journal. Several art dealers. The director of the Royal Ballet. The second wife of a duke. The head of a large advertising firm who had once been her lover. A Rothschild. Even a member of the Royal Family whom she had met in Mustique. She invited Cesca and Freddie to several events. A gallery opening at the Serpentine. A dinner party at Spencer House.

At the end of her visit, Kitty asked her daughter if she knew the old wives’ tale about Venice. No, Cesca answered. Kitty laughed. “It’s probably nothing. But they say if you go to Venice with someone you aren’t married to you’ll never marry them.”

Then it was July. Cesca had never been happier. The trip to Barcelona was like a homecoming. Aurelio, although too thin to her eye, looked wonderful. He was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Handsomer than Freddie even. As usual, he was dressed in old clothes that hung off his tall frame. His pants were spattered with paint, and he wore a Basque sweater and a thin cotton scarf around his neck. Espadrilles. He had been waiting
at the airport. He ran to her when he saw her and picked her up in his arms with a whoop. He had hired a gypsy band to serenade her as she entered the arrivals hall.

They chatted in Catalan all the way to his apartment. When the cab stopped, people on the street greeted Aurelio. He lived on the top two floors of a house along the narrow corridor of the Barrio Chino, the city’s red-light district. Laundry hung drying between the buildings, blocking out the sun to the street below. There were several women standing around outside his building smoking. “This is where I live,” he said, grabbing her suitcase. “Come on up.”

“Are those?” she asked on the stairs.

“Yes, prostitutes. This street is for the regular ones. A few blocks down you find the transvestites. Sometimes they model for me.”

It was a simple apartment, neat as a Carthusian’s cell. The lower level consisted of a combination bedroom, kitchen, and living room. There was a bed in the corner, with a blue blanket stretched across it. An old sofa. A stove and a small refrigerator. There was no phone or television. In the center was a small square bathtub that doubled as a sink. The toilet was on the landing. By the bed were a few well-thumbed books in Catalan. Unamuno. Saint Augustine. Vasari’s
Lives
. Several photographs. A notebook. She looked inside the cupboards. They were nearly empty. Boxes of pasta. Tins of sardines. Tea. Salt.

“No wonder you look so skinny,” she said.

“You sound just like Mare.” He laughed. “Don’t worry about me. Come. Let me show you my work.”

He led her up a circular metal stair to the top floor of the building. It was a wide-open room bathed in natural light. There were canvases stacked everywhere. It was obvious at once that he had made a breakthrough.

She was both proud and envious. Her own work would never come to this level, she knew, even if she had been working as hard on it as she should have. The final months at school had been a blur. She found herself going to class less and less. One or two of her teachers had tried to talk to her, encourage her to be more focused, but she wasn’t interested in the limitations being forced on her. It became increasingly obvious to her that the whole notion of art school was artificial and absurd. How could one grade creativity? The only purpose was to provide young artists an environment to work for several years and a way for the instructors to earn a living. Art school was an oven, a proving ground. Nothing more. At the end you simply emerged. It distressed her. Aurelio was the one who knew how to do it.

He had many friends. They sat at a café on the Ramblas. Several people came up to them and stayed for a drink. “This is my beautiful sister,” he would introduce her.
“Ella ha vingut aquí a trencar cors.”
She has come over here to break hearts. Everyone laughed.

The first night she took him to dinner. “They serve the best paella in town,” he said. All through dinner, he talked excitedly about his work while she sat and listened. He had always been like that. She marveled at how easily they slipped into their old roles. “I know many people here,” he said, “but I only feel truly comfortable around my family. I am so happy you came.”

Later, after they had consumed several bottles of wine, they returned to his flat. “I am very drunk,” he said. They both laughed hysterically when he nearly tripped over the sofa.

“Sorry there’s so little privacy,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs while you change.”

“No, it’s all right,” she said. Normally she slept naked.

“Suit yourself.”

She watched him as he removed his shirt and trousers. She could see his ribs, the boniness of his hips, the flatness of his belly, the long whiteness of his fingers with paint under the nails. He brushed his teeth in the sink.

“Mind if I take a bath?” she asked.

“Of course not. There are towels in the cupboard.”

She ran the water. It came out hot and in bursts.

“The plumbing’s not much here. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” She slipped out of her clothes and walked past him.

“You sure you don’t want me to go upstairs?”

“No,” she said, settling into the tub. “Can you light me a cigarette? My hands are wet.”

She sat there in the small square tub, her knees almost touching her breasts. There was no room to get her head wet. She would have to be a contortionist. “How do you wash your hair?” she asked.

“With this.” He handed her a small bowl.

She put out her cigarette and dipped the bowl in the water, raising it and pouring the water over her head several times until it was wet. She then lathered her hair and rinsed it again with the soapy water.

“Not exactly the Ritz, is it?” he said.

“It’s all right. Can you hand me a towel?”

She stood up, her body glistening, specks of soapsuds clinging to her stomach and thighs. She toweled off standing up. He looked away.

Stepping out of the tub, she left a trail of wet footprints on the wooden floor and wrapped herself in the towel. “Thanks,” she said. “I really needed that.”

“Of course.”

He watched her as she brushed her hair, still wearing the towel.

“Good night,” she said, walking over to kiss him on the top of his head. Before getting into bed, she removed the towel, letting it drop to the floor, and then slipped under the covers.

For a long time, she lay there listening to his breathing, staring into the darkness. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Maybe more.

“Are you asleep?” she asked.

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“It’s not working.”

“Try counting sheep.”

“That never works.”

“Go to sleep,” he insisted.

He lay there for several minutes and heard her moving about. “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.”

“Why?”

“I’m going out.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No,” she said, standing in the doorway. “Don’t wait up.”

In the morning, he was up before her. He hadn’t heard her come in when she returned shortly before dawn. When she came upstairs to his studio, he was working.

“Morning,” she said. She was wearing one of his shirts.

“More like afternoon.”

She shrugged.

“Have fun?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I met some people. We went to a club.”

“Ah.”

“You disapprove?”

“Of course not.”

“Good,” she said. “Then let’s go out and get some breakfast. I’m starving.”

He took her to one of his favorite cafés, where they had
truites de patates
and sausage and large bowls of
cafe amb llet
. “What should we do today?” she asked.

It had been years since she had visited Barcelona. She remembered the palm trees. The elegance of the city. Its lights burning from the interiors of shops and restaurants. The colonnades. The mild weather. She was surprised by how many tourists there were. He took her all over on his motorcycle. “I feel very daring,” she said. “Like Marlon Brando.”

“I have a favor,” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“I want to paint you.”

“Again? Aren’t you tired of painting me? You’ve been doing it since we were kids.”

“Not at all. You are one of my favorite subjects, but this time will be different.”

“In what way?”

“This time I want to paint you nude. You gave me the idea last night.”

She giggled. “How risqué.”

“No, I think it would be a great painting.”

They started the next day. Aurelio had already built the canvas and prepared the surface. It was to be a large painting. He had her reclining like Manet’s Olympia, her left hand covering her pubis. “You are a nocturnal creature so I will paint it as though it is nighttime,” he told her.

“How appropriate,” she smiled.

A few nights later, they were at a party where Cesca met
Felip. He was a tennis player with muscles like rope, piercing blue eyes. From the moment he entered the room, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

“Who’s that?” she asked Aurelio.

He told her. Felip had just returned from Roland Garros, where he had lost in the semifinal round.

“Introduce me.”

“I don’t know him that well but all right.”

The reaction was chemical, almost explosive. Everyone in the room could feel it. In a few moments, they left the party together. Cesca didn’t return to Aurelio’s apartment for three days.

“I was getting worried about you,” he said when she walked through the door. “Where’s Felip?”

“He had to train. He has another tournament coming up. His coach was furious. I just came back to get my things. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all. Will I see you again?”

She threw her head back and laughed her rich, hoarse laugh. “Silly. Of course you will. Felip has to train every day, so you’ll see plenty of me. In fact, let’s have lunch now. I’m famished.”

“Then can we work on the portrait again? It’s nearly finished. I was afraid you were never coming back and that it would stay that way forever.”

That became their routine for the remainder of her stay in Barcelona. She would spend the night with Felip and the day with Aurelio in Barrio Chino. On the last night they all had dinner together. Uncharacteristically, Aurelio ordered champagne.

“I’m going to miss my two handsome boys,” she said, her hands on both their shoulders.

“We will miss you too,” said Aurelio.

“What about Felip? Will you miss me?”

Felip laughed. “I will miss you. My coach will be happy to
know you have left. He says I have been playing like an old man ever since I met you.”

She went home with Felip that night, and then, in the morning, Aurelio took her to the airport in a taxi.

“Thank you for everything,” she said, kissing him. “When will you be back in the States?”

“I am planning to come for Christmas. I promised Mare.”

“Good. Then I will too. By the way, I love the painting you did of me. I hope you don’t think this sounds incredibly vain, but I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

He smiled. “I think so too.”

He watched as she walked through passport control, aware that his were not the only masculine eyes following her. Several other passengers, airline employees, porters, security personnel followed her movement. It was almost impossible not to. Every one of them imagining for a second what it would be like to possess her. She turned and waved at him, flashing a brilliant smile. He waved back, the smile identical.

“
Adéu,
Lio!” she cried.

“
Adéu,
Cesca!”

“See you at Christmas! I love you!”

“I love you too!”

He took a bus back to the city. On returning to his studio, he stared at the portrait of his sister. He had decided to title it:
Cesca en la llum de la lluna
. Cesca in the moonlight. She was right. It was the best thing he had ever done.

T
HE MOTORBOAT SCUDDED SOUTH ACROSS THE CLOUDED
waters of the great lagoon past wooden pylons driven into the soft mud. In the distance rose the domes and towers of the glittering city. To the left, the island of Murano, famous for its glass. Most people arrive in Venice through the back door, like a secret lover. The glories of Santa Maria della Salute, San Giorgio, the Piazza San Marco lie unseen on the far side. Drawing closer, the boat slowed and entered a maze, down one narrow canal, then another, under arched footbridges, past ancient walls green with algae, crumbling brick walls, black shutters, obscure Palladian churches stained with soot, their Latin inscriptions now all but indecipherable. Glimpses into private enclosures of ancient epicurean luxury. Tall cypress trees.
Caffès
where white-jacketed waiters carried drinks on trays. Boutiques staffed by pretty girls.

Everywhere there were tourists, and the city’s famous cats. Navigating in between water taxis, barges, the occasional gondola, until suddenly the shadows fell away, the canal opened up, and the boat picked up speed again out on the open water, looking
back over the trailing wake at the famous basilica of Saint Mark’s and the arches of the Doge’s Palace. Then the engine cut and the launch glided to the private dock where the hotel’s greeter stood waiting to help them ashore with their luggage.

They walked under a canvas loggia to the front desk. The receptionist, elegant in morning coat with a soft gray tie, swiftly acknowledged their reservation and politely requested their passports.

“Welcome back, Signor Blackwood,” he said.

“Grazie.”

“
Grazie a lei. Prego,
the porter will show you to your room.”

“Come along, darling,” Freddie said. “What did I tell you? Beautiful, eh?”

“Beautiful.”

The suite looked out over the lagoon. Cesca stepped onto the balcony. “God, what a view.”

Freddie tipped the porter and followed her onto the balcony. “What do you feel like doing? Are you tired? Hungry?”

They had been driving for several days. Each night in a different hotel. Lyon. Monaco. Last night they had slept in Genoa. Every night they ate well, hungry after a long day of driving, stopping in churches. Every night they made love. In Lyon the manager had to call up and, in an embarrassed voice, ask them to make less noise. They would be in Venice for a week.

“Let’s stay in and order room service,” she said, turning and facing him, her arms around his neck. “Is that all right?”

At dusk they emerged from their room sated, showered. “We can have a drink on the terrace,” Freddie said.

The terrace was crowded. They sat next to another couple, a handsome older man with a dark mustache and an attractive woman. Cesca recognized him but couldn’t place him. She could tell he was used to being stared at. His hands were beautiful, almost feminine. He wore plenty of gold. Gold watch. Gold
rings. Gold reading glasses. Even a gold bracelet. Despite this, he still seemed supremely, effortlessly masculine.

The tables were so close together it was impossible not to chat with each other. He did not offer his name, as though to do so would be superfluous. He explained that he was in town for a backgammon tournament. His accent was refined, foreign, but he was not Italian. He recommended a restaurant in the Cannaregio. He said it was where the real Venetians went. It was too far from the city center for tourists. They drove from Genoa? He had always wanted to go. One day. He loved Monte Carlo. He went every year. Backgammon was his game. He had many friends there.

Finally, he stood up to leave. “Come, my dear,” he said. “Or we’ll be late. Enjoy your stay. You are a lovely couple.
Ciao
. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Freddie, rising in his chair and shaking hands. “Thank you.”

They watched them leave the terrace. Other guests watched them as well. For a moment the terrace was silent.

“Was that?” she asked.

“Yes.” Freddie nodded. “I always loved his movies.”

The days slipped by in a pink haze. In the mornings they sleep in, the sheets rumpled. They feast on each other’s bodies. They could never tire of one another. Every moment was ripe with carnality. He slipped the pillow under her stomach. “There,” he said. “Comfortable?”

He entered her with long strokes, sunlight seeping through the curtains, his strong arms planted on either side of her, pinioning her to the bed. She never wanted it to end. It was more than pleasure.

They played tennis at noon. It was too hot for most of the guests. They were both brown from the sun, their limbs strong. He was surprised by how competitive she was. Every set was
a battle, with neither willing to let the other win easily. Sometimes other guests watched them and clapped when a particularly good point was scored. By the end they were breathing hard, sweat glistening on their foreheads and arms. At lunch, they drank Negronis. He had introduced her to them. They sat outside. The waiter brought octopus carpaccio.
Filetto di branzino
. A bottle of Gavi di Gavi chilling in an ice bucket. They ate like hunters, their insides hollow from the exertion of love and sport. Then they lay by the pool, occasionally diving in to cool off. They were the couple everyone watched. Their beauty invited speculation. People wondered who they were. Rumors abounded. He was an English lord. She was a famous model. They had run away together. They were married to other people. They could barely keep their hands off each other. They moved in a halo. The rest of the world seemed drab next to them, even in Venice. What was known about them was their youth, their faces, and their passion. It was impossible not to envy them.

They only left the island at night. They went to restaurants. Harry’s Bar.

“What about the churches? The Titians? Don’t you want to see them?” he asked.

“No. Too many people. I don’t want to feel like a tourist. I want to feel like I live here.”

“Wouldn’t it be something to live in Venice?”

“Then every day you could walk out of your palazzo and go look at the Titians any time you wanted. In January or October or sometime when the streets aren’t crawling with sunburnt Germans or fat Americans or little Japanese going click-click-click with their cameras. That’s what a real Venetian could do.”

“I wonder if you wouldn’t go a little mad after a while though? All that water.”

“Absolutely. I think that’s the whole point. I think you need
to be a little crazy to live here. Exposure to so much beauty can’t be good for one’s mental health.”

“That’s how I feel about you,” he said. “Now I understand why people say they’re crazy for someone.”

“Stop,” she said, pushing him gently. “Don’t get all gushy on me. I thought you English were meant to have stiff upper lips.”

“I’ll show you what’s stiff.” He laughed and reached for her.

For them night couldn’t come fast enough. The rest was diversion, distractions to keep them from devouring each other utterly. They waited all day. Until, after dinner, they were ready to begin again. The bed with its crisp, cool sheets beckoned. Every night they returned to it, like pagans at an altar.

“Have you ever tried it?” she had asked in the restaurant.

“No, we used to joke about it in school. You know. English schoolboys.”

“I had a friend in London who said the Italians were crazy about it.”

“Well, Italians.”

“We should try it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I should get something.”

“Maybe the concierge.”

“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”

“Does it matter?”

“No. Let’s go. Pay the bill. Hurry.”

They returned by the hotel’s private launch. When they reached their room, he called down to explain what he needed. That he had a burn on his hand.
“Prego,”
the concierge replied. “Of course. I’ll send it up right away,
signor
.” Would he like a doctor?

“No, that’s all right.”

They had a drink while they waited.

“I’ve never done it either,” she said. “I want to do it with you.”

He smiled and said nothing. He felt like a champion. It was a reward.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door. He gave the porter a generous tip.
“Grazie,”
he said.

“Grazie a lei.”

“Cheeky bastard,” he said after closing the door. “It’s like he knows what we are up to.”

“So what? It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

“I suppose not.”

She finished her drink. “I’m going to go get ready,” she said.

The room was dark when she came to bed, her strong body warm and pliant. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Go slowly.”

He began as usual, taking his time. There was no rush. They had all night. All morning. All the time in the world. She writhed on the bed. “Now,” she begged. “Now.”

Slowly he obeyed.

“Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Ah,” she said. “That hurts.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Stay there. Just go slowly. Ow. More slowly. Stop.”

He waited, stroking her back, feeling himself in her. Restraining himself.

“Okay,” she said.

He began again. Slowly, infinitely slowly.

“Better?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Keep going,” she said.

He went deeper, then deeper still.

“Oh God,” she shouted. There were tears in her eyes. She was on the edge of a cliff. Her heart was racing. The line between pleasure and pain had blurred. “Don’t stop.”

Afterward they lay spent in bed. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“A little sore but I loved it,” she replied softly, gently stroking his chest. “It’s like nothing else. I don’t think I could do it all the time, though. It’d be too much.”

He kissed her head as it rested on his shoulder. She was more precious to him than ever now. They had signed a secret pact. They were bound to each other forever.

Venice ended. Once again they were in the car with the top down. The return trip was faster. He needed to get back to the office. They had been away two weeks. It was almost September. They passed Brescia, Milan, Aosta; drove through the foothills of the Alps, Mont Blanc looming massively in the distance, overshadowing everything else. Then Chamonix and down into the rolling vineyards of Burgundy. The first night they spent in Dijon, staggering out of the car at their hotel. They had been driving for nearly nine hours. They had planned a gourmet meal. Booked a table months in advance.

“Do you mind if we just eat in our room?” he asked. “I’m fagged out.”

The next night they reached Paris, where they stayed for one night at the Ritz. “I’m feeling better,” he said. “Let’s go dancing.”

He took her to Castel, on the Left Bank. “My father used to come here,” he said. “He was a good friend of Jean, the founder.”

They met a Frenchman at the bar. He was with a beautiful blond woman. She had pixyish hair and a sleeveless, backless dress that revealed her lean, well-toned arms and shoulders.

“Where are you from?” Cesca asked in English.

“Norway,” she answered. “Oslo. Have you been?”

Cesca shook her head.

The room was full, the music loud. It was after midnight. Freddie leaned over and asked if they could leave, but Cesca was having fun. She wanted to stay. She was charmed by the Frenchman. He was very elegant, older. He wore a thick gold
watch on his wrist. His hands were perfectly manicured. They too had just returned to Paris. He had a château near Menton. “You should come,” he said to her. “You would love it.”

“Maybe I will.”

He asked her to dance. She looked over at Freddie, who smiled and said, “Of course.” They moved to the small dance floor. Freddie followed them with his eyes until the Norwegian girl said something, and he turned to look at her. When he looked back to the dance floor, he didn’t see them.

“Is anything the matter?” the girl asked.

“No. Sorry.”

A little while later Cesca and the Frenchman returned to the table. They had been in the bathroom together. She was wiping her nose and laughing.

“
Encore?
Another round?” asked the Frenchman, signaling to the waitress for a new bottle of champagne.

“That’s awfully good of you but we really have to go,” said Freddie, taking out his billfold from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Nonsense,” said the Frenchman. “Stay. It’s my party.”

“Please, Freddie,” Cesca said. “It’s our last night.”

“Oh, all right.” He smiled, trying to look like he didn’t mind.

It was now two in the morning. They were on their fourth bottle of champagne. Cesca and the Frenchman, whose name was Arnaud, had disappeared again.

“How long have you known Arnaud?” Freddie asked the Norwegian girl. Her name was Beate.

“Not long.”

“Where did you meet?”

“In Nice. On his yacht.”

“Oh? Jolly good.”

“He is a lot of fun.”

“I can tell. Are you staying in Paris long?”

She shrugged her naked shoulders. “I don’t know. It depends on Arnaud.”

Cesca and Arnaud returned again and Freddie said, “Darling, I really think it’s time to go. We have a long day tomorrow and an early start.”

She was trying not to hear him. She wanted him to go away, didn’t understand why he was behaving like this. It made her angry. “Don’t be such a drag, Freddie,” she said, finally.

“I would be happy to drop her at your hotel if Cesca wants to stay,” Arnaud said.

Freddie ignored him. “Come on, Cesca. Time to go.”

For a moment her eyes flashed, and he feared she would refuse. The thought of a public scene appalled him, especially in front of Arnaud.

She huffed and quickly stood up, making the point that she was being inconvenienced. “Fine,” she said, her mouth tense. “Have it your way.”

She turned away from Freddie and coquettishly presented her cheeks to be kissed by Arnaud. “It was lovely meeting you,” she said. “I’m so sorry Freddie’s so boring. Thank you for everything.”

He waved his hand like a lord.
“Rien,”
he said. “It was my pleasure,
chérie
. Don’t forget. You are always welcome in Menton.”