Late at night in the villa caetana and the lights are low, the fire in full blaze. It will be their last night in Appia Antica; it will be their last night in Italy. There is music playing softly, the Kronos Quartet playing Flugufrelsarinn. A short ways down the corridor, the master bedroom door is slightly ajar. Inside, Starling stands in front of the bed and Dr. Lecter looks at her from just inside the room. Neither speaks for a time, until Starling unconsciously licks her lips, before they part, just a bit. Dr. Lecter inhales audibly and comes further into the room and she watches him. Her heart beats wildly.
He comes to stand in front of her at arm's length. She turns out her wrists in a sort of surrender, before she says:
"Undress me."
A quick and calm step forward and Dr. Lecter slides the straps of Starling's silk gown over her shoulders. It pools at her feet, and he looks at her for a beat, before lifting her easily into his arms. She kisses him, and he closes his eyes.
Starling lets him lay her down on the bed, his hand cradling the nook of her knee. He is poised above her and her nipples are instantly peaky beneath his gaze. He kisses her again, and lowers his head after a time to her neck and then her shoulder. Starling lets out a long withheld sigh.
Starling lying supine watches the impartial coffering of the bedroom ceiling, elegant and Aegean. She found herself in a state of hypnagogia, descending into a place between sleep and consciousness. She could feel his hands on her thigh, sliding down to her ankle. She could feel him taking her ankle in his hand and held it gently for a moment, and then warm lips on her foot. He parted her thighs. Starling sucked in a breath, and his hands left her. She waited for a moment until his voice disturbed her daze.
"Look at me," he said.
His voice seemed far away somehow and she closed her eyes. She heard him tisk her quietly. He moved on the bed and she could feel the presence of a man over her.
"Clarice," he whispered, drawing out her name in a hiss.
"Hmm," she said, nerves welling up inside. He was drawing her forth from the fringes of an unconscious undertow. She did not want to return, but did nonetheless. She opened her eyes.
He held himself up over her lengthwise, perfectly still with his maroon eyes boring into hers. Her mouth drew open but no sound came out. The slightest smirk at the corner of his mouth.
"Where exactly did you go, Clarice? Is there somewhere you would rather be? Someone with whom you would rather be? "
She took a breath to steady herself. "You're lack of contractions always indicates your forthcoming flout. Need I participate?"
"Ah," he said sharply with a smirk. "That is indeed the present enigma, Clarice Starling. Need…" he drew closer, "you…" he paused, the tip of his tongue touching the center of his upper lip for a moment before returning to his mouth,"…participate."
Starling realized she was holding her breath and let it out.
"For my purposes," he began, reaching out for her thigh and stroking it, making her shudder, "I do require it. But if you're finding that you are unable to be present for this moment, better the moment never happen at all. Would you rather we stop?"
His voice had the tinge of mocking that she knew well, but had not heard so explicitly since their talks in the dungeon. She remembered that girl, remembered how she wore such a brave face. A brave face and an assortment of hats in her bag. Is that all she was, now? Was she still nothing more than a girl with a few disguises?
No, it was no question. Even then, she was more than that. If she hadn't been, he never would have called her back to him that day. Called her name, his voice metallic from disuse, calling her from down the ghastly corridor. And there she was standing, disgusted and conflicted with semen in her hair. Leave or stay? She knew what she would do. She had changed in some rather distinctive ways since then, but at her core, she knew who she was. The question which dictated so many of her choices, a simple…What happens next? Or as Dumas had put it so well, that basic human philosophy, Perhaps…
"No," she breathed.
"But you are experiencing something akin to surrealism. You and I have been doing this dance for some time, and a part of you is having difficulty marrying the idea and the reality of this moment. It is easier to close your eyes and go into that safe, inside place, is it not? Listen to me, now…you will not go to that place. You will stay here with me. You will look upon my face and know that it is my hands touching you, my eyes devouring the sight of you, my mouth tasting you…I will help."
Starling nodded her head hazily. He backed away for a moment and looked down at her body and she could feel his gaze on her skin, and felt herself flushing. His dark head bent, he did not mask his lust and she shivered beneath him. He looked back up at her.
"I will reiterate. I will require your participation," he said, and grabbed her thigh roughly in a way that was nearly boorish, for him. At once, she felt her body respond to the masculine aggression in the movement and she first gasped, and then squirmed as he watched her, smiling.
"Do you want me to touch you?" he asked. Starling nodded, and Dr. Lecter tilted his head.
"Tell me," he said. Her breath was coming quick, now.
"Touch me," she whispered.
His hand became gentle then and slid down her thigh again until he was cradling her knee. He kept it there, his thumb caressing her. It was maddening.
"Do you want more?" he asked his voice still with a mocking color. It was also husky and dark with longing.
"Yes," she whispered again, her voice small and irritating to her own ears. He sucked in his breath through his teeth and bared them slightly.
"I cannot hear you, Clarice. Speak up."
"Yes," she said with more conviction.
"Yes, what?"
"More," she whimpered.
"Hmmm?"
"MORE!" she cried, and he spread her legs roughly, situating himself between them, now. He placed his hands delicately on her hips, and it felt to her as silk does sliding across her bare skin. So gentle, almost too gentle. She squirmed for a moment beneath him and Dr. Lecter's eyes closed a moment inhaling the air around him, savoring it.
When he opened them again, she lay before him with her thighs open, her arms taught and away from her body. Her hands held the sheets in fists. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly with her breath and her eyes were open wide, looking at him. Waiting for what came next.
He watched her like that for a time, caressing her inner thigh with the back of his hand. He waited until the scent of her arousal was almost overpowering. Then he moved to her side, propping his head up with a hand. Her legs began to join absently, and he took one of her knees and looked at her. He shook his head slowly with a smile, and she spread them open, again.
"Good girl," he purred.
"Oh, my God," she whispered so quietly, he could barely make out what she had said. He only smiled and continued touching her inner thighs, going back and forth between them, his hand passing over her exposed center without touch. She could feel the warmth of his hand each time, and she found herself rising slightly when his hand would come close.
"Do you want me to touch you somewhere specific, Clarice?" he asked. Starling bit her lips and looked away. Dr. Lecter drew her face back with his fingers beneath her chin and she looked at him with eyes both pleading and irate.
"I'll make it easy for you. Do you want me to touch you here?" he asked, caressing her stomach. Starling arched her back and sneered at the same time, a strange contradiction that Dr. Lecter found delightful.
"No? How about here?" he asked, leisurely drawing his hand to her breasts. She hummed, her voice strained.
"You like that?"
She nodded stiffly, her eye-contact faltering.
"Yes, you like that. But it's not what you really want, is it?"
She shook her head.
"No, no. Ah, how about here…" he continued, touching her body here and there until she felt she could bear no more. The frustration, the irritation was delicious and she laughed low and throaty, baring her teeth to the passive coffered ceiling.
"Look at me," he reminded her, and she did. The sight of him, his insistent reminder that it was not someone else nor an entity of her imagination, but him, was sending her over the edge. She was entering an unknown territory of lust. There had been lust before, but this was something else. Her response to lust long ago had often been one of avoidance. Later, it had been one of aggression. She did not feel exactly aggressive now, nor remotely evasive or passive. She felt what she could only determine as utterly female, powerful in her wile and provocation, yet perversely yielding to his masculinity.
"How about here?" he asked then, his fingers sweeping across the very top of her pubic hair.
"Umm-hmm," she nodded.
"Yes? Closer…?"
"Yes," she nodded with a grin, beginning to enjoy the game. His middle and forefinger moving lower then, drawing slow circles around the very top of where her lips met.
"Here?" he asked.
"Umm-hmm," Starling encouraged as she swallowed her lips into her mouth.
"Umm-hmm," he teased, drawing from her an irritable smirk as she looked at him. He smiled in kind and finally cupped her center in the palm of his hand, kept it there and enjoyed the sensational experience of Clarice Starling grinding against his hand.
"You are rather dewy, Clarice," he said at the same time as she moaned.
Two fingers now at the base of her entrance, sweeping slowly up, and then circling around a very swollen clitoris. She exhaled noisily, her strained neck releasing as her head fell back against the pillow. Remembering to look at him, she leaned it to the side. He smiled.
"Here?"
"Yes."
When he stopped she exhaled sharply, but before she could react further, he slid a solitary finger inside of her and the groan that came out was, if anything else, entirely involuntary.
"There? Yes?"
"Umm-hmm."
"Umm-hmm," he teased again, sliding slowly in and out before a second finger joined the first. It was getting harder for her to remember to keep her eyes open, let alone maintain eye-contact.
"I'm sorry, is this distracting?" he asked, and she chuckled lowly, arching her back and neck for a moment. He withdrew his fingers and she looked back at him sharply, in protest. He looked at her and put his fingers in his mouth, his eyes closing again, as he did when savoring anything. He drew them back out and gave her a wink.
"Have you ever tasted yourself, Clarice?" he asked, as his fingers slid back inside of her, and then back out again to circle her clitoris, and then back in again. Starling was panting.
"No," she whispered, absently. "Of course not."
"No, of course not. Hmm. Would you like to?"
She felt her ears growing hot and shook her head.
"No? Ah, but you shouldn't judge something before trying it. That is the very definition of prejudice. Of all things about which to be prejudice, it should not be the fruits of your pleasure."
He withdrew his fingers again and offered them to her. She shook her head, smiling.
"No?"
He sucked them into his own mouth and hummed his approval.
"More for me, then. But sooner or later, I think I will have to insist," he said, continuing to stroke her clitoris and fuck her slowly with his fingers until he sensed a precipice. Little pulses and twitches, breaths hitching, flushing, tensing, trembling. He kept his touch casual and teasing, stretching out the point of a quivering cliff, and then she plunged. He met her crashing descent with deep, almost belligerent fucking with his fingers, and sat up to place his other hand above her pubic bone. His buried fingers met the pressure he placed on her with the other hand, and she was screaming.
Nearly a full minute later he was slowing his movements, until her hips and legs at great tension finally collapsed, exhausted. His movements halted completely, and he only kept pressure there, cupping her as he had at the beginning. Minutes later, and a still glowing Starling squeezed his hand with her thighs softly, here and there. He smoothed her hair, kissed her, and then smiled, devilishly. She watched, hungry and docile at the same time.
He moved lower, moving his lips over her breasts and stomach. He glanced up at her only a moment, before his face disappeared between her thighs. Starling's head arched back and she gasped. He'd grabbed her on either side of her hips. He seemed to want to be enveloped by her aroma and taste. His ministrations, unlike before, were unbridled. Her hands grabbed onto the sheets, as though to anchor herself. Only minutes later, release came again.
She had been making a sound, a kind of 'Umm-hmm, umm-hmm', both times he had brought her to orgasm. Dr. Lecter had smiled into her warm, undulating sex.
Absolutely charming, he thought.
When he finally came up, he buried his face in the nook of her shoulder and kissing, smiling, he murmured, "Umm-hmm."
Starling smiled and covered her smile with the back of her hand. He leaned up, looking at her. He moved her hand aside and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her nose.
"Umm-hmm, Umm-hmm," he continued and she laughed, covering her face again. He was murmuring in Italian as he placed warm, vigorous kisses on her face, shoulders, neck, and breasts.
"La tua fica," kiss, "…è più deliziosa," kiss, "…di una ciliegia al maraschino rosso vivo," lick, One more noisy kiss on the curve of her left breast. "Dio mio."
Starling let her head fall back against the bed and sighed. He sat up and regarded her, playfully.
"Umm-hmm," he mimicked her once more, and she laughed and bit his lower lip, drew him in again and he kissed her deeply until she moaned into his mouth.
Starling fell asleep that night in his arms; the feel of his calm, confidant breath lolled her into a quick, deep sleep. Dr. Lecter let his fingers explore her hair, careful not to disturb her. He hadn't planned for them to go further. He reflected on the fact that she had not only allowed him to intimately explore her body, but had been able to trust him enough to bring her to orgasm…twice. It had never been about trust before, he knew, because always before she had receded into her mind. Any man who had the fortune of stumbling into her sexual prowess had unwittingly become a mere apparatus. He doubted anyone had ever truly given her an orgasm. No, Clarice Starling had been giving herself orgasms, via a warm-blooded appliance when it suited.
Tonight, she had not only submitted to his procedure, but stayed present all the while, giving him the honor and authority to give her an orgasm. Yes, it had been rather productive. It had also been so very infuriatingly toothsome. He thought it was a safe assumption that she had been sufficiently distracted to notice just how trying the exercise had been for him, particularly in the beginning. Yet, in the end, Dr. Lecter's patience had great depths. And, by his judgment, Starling belonged to him. Clarice Starling belonged to him, and it was only a matter of time before he possessed her wholly. Yes, he could be quite patient.
He wanted to savor her descent into his complete sexual tenure. He would be taking the responsibility as seriously as anything he ever had. He smiled to himself, her taste and smell still strong in his mouth and lungs. He wasn't sure he would ever bore of it. In this moment, Dr. Lecter is deeply, deeply pleased. Dazed, even. He has never fallen asleep with a woman in his arms, but he does not fight sleep when he feels it pulling.
Starling woke on her side faced away from the bedroom door. It was still relatively dark in the room, and she thought it must be very early or rather late, depending on the perspective. She sat up and glanced at the window and saw that there was light beyond the curtains, which had been drawn at some point. She felt a chill, realizing she was still nude and her arms and breasts were now exposed to the air, the sheets and rich duvet having pooled around her waist. She looked over her shoulder.
Dr. Lecter lay on his back next to her, his head resting casually in the crook of his elbow. His other lay on his stomach. He was still fully dressed and lying on top of the duvet. He was looking at her and smiling.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," she said, lifting the comforter up to her throat.
"Cold?" he asked, moving his hand from beneath his head to place it on her bare back. She nodded. He offered his arm. "Come."
Flutter.
She descended into his arms and he pulled the comforter over her as well as he could. Starling rested her cheek against his chest and drew her hand up where her fingers curled in front of her face. He was warm and she settled quickly.
"I wish you were under the covers with me. I feel funny having no clothes on while you're dressed on top of the covers."
"So what you would like is if I was unclothed beneath the sheets with you," he suggested, an eyebrow raised.
"Or the other way around, and I am dressed and on top of the covers with you."
"Oh, I don't think clothing you is necessary," he teased, caressing her arm up and down. Starling chortled, or at least she hoped she had; it may have come out more like a giggle, and she shook off the thought. Giggling, to Starling, was a noise she associated with desperation and reeked of intellectual infirmity. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, there had been times she'd heard a woman or young girl giggle as a means to ironically emphasize a kind of female cruelty. Neither of these sentiments were what she wished to construe, although the latter she knew was not a contestant between the two. Had she indicated something undesirable, it had been the former. She cleared her throat, wondering if there was a way to iron out such a behavioral wrinkle and knew there was none. Not with him, he would know. A sigh came next.
"Oh, come now…it isn't so bad, Clarice. Perhaps it's time we approach a climactic topic."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she asked.
"What's that?" Dr. Lecter teased, still caressing her, running his flat palm up and down her back, now.
"To have a conversation about my fear of vulnerability while I'm naked and you're not."
"Well, it does have certain symmetry."
"Umm-hmm."
"Umm-hmmmm."
Starling smiled and looked away.
"Now, then," he began, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "You have been testing the phenomenon yourself, as of late. However, up until now you have only provoked your discomfort on a surface level. You've played around with exposing yourself physically; a good start as well as quite amusing for me, of course. Beyond that, you've required help on my part. Now, if we're going to proceed, I will need to help you again. I will do it without your consent if I must, but I'd prefer you give me your blessing. What do you think?"
Starling hesitated. "What is it…you wish to help me expose?"
"Are you sure?" he asked. His hand had stilled on her back, and it made her nervous.
"No."
"Do you want my help, Clarice?" he asked. It didn't have the rising intonation of a question, but was asked slowly, deliberately, sounding like a serious statement rather than a query.
A beat, and then she plunged.
"Yes."
"Good girl. I know that was difficult for you, in and of itself. A fitting Kyrie."
"Not to be uncouth, but how long is this discussion going to last? I'd like an espresso soon, not to mention brush my teeth."
"Ah, and you can certainly have both if you wish. But no clothing is allowed. And it is rather chilly."
"You are a fiend," she said, matter-of-factly.
"An excellent choice of words. I am, by its common definition, a fiend. And quite conveniently, a fiend is precisely what you need. In no other company can you feel at home with yourself."
"I think your choice of words were intriguing. 'A fitting Kyrie', you said. Not overture or verse, but a Kyrie."
"Why, yes. This is more than a musical performance, hence a Kyrie: the first sung prayer of the Mass ordinary. I consider the following theme to be as sacred as anything can be to me. The purpose of Mass is to unite ourselves with the sacrifice of Christ, and to renew that covenant frequently. An analogous example is the unitive act of sexual intercourse between a husband and wife. Sex consummates a marriage, and that covenant is renewed each time the couple engages in sex.
"In our case, we wish to achieve a unity of the self," he continued, "Your self. We wish to unite the sum of your parts to make a whole, which is something you've come close to doing on your own. There is, however, a facet which remains partially severed, like a limb which has not been cut cleanly. It still dangles, not completely joined or detached, and it is understandably painful for you. This facet is your ability to avow your human capacity for love. You have been unable to reconcile the sacrifices in your past with your present self, which is the result."
"So you're using the devotion to Christ's sacrifice as a paradigm for devotion to my own sacrifices, a study and veneration of which must necessarily lead to my unity."
"Precisely."
"That is appropriately blasphemous, for a fiend."
"Agreed. Shall we proceed?"
Starling spread her fingers out, buying herself a moment to become centered. There was discomfort in her near future, and she gathered her strength for it. "Go ahead," she said, slowly.
"You are in love with me," he stated calmly, and waited.
Starling looked at the tiny hairs on her wrist and was very still.
"Don't look at your hand, look at me."
"I really don't want to."
"Yes. Now…apply yourself. Don't search for courage or might. Those things are present, we both know it. But this is not about your courage or might. This is about your humanity, and that which makes us human is often not about how strong we are, but about how fragile. Fragility does not necessarily equal weakness. It is our very ability to be broken which makes us have the potential for immortality, much as matter is not destroyed but only changed. You have broken, and you have come back together. Not less-than, but quite the opposite. Your fragility is not something to deprecate, but to revere. How are you following me, so far?"
"I'm following."
"Then look at me."
She did.
"You are in love with me, do you deny it?"
"I—I don't know. I don't know if I am or am not."
"Yes you do, stop protecting yourself, from me or yourself. Do you deny that you're in love with me?"
"I don't know! I don't know what love is, anymore…" she trailed off, looking away. He snapped his fingers and she frowned at him.
"Look…at…me," he said firmly.
Something cold ran up Starling's spine, and at the same time, something hot ran down her front and churned in her loins. She pulled away from him and he wouldn't let her. Panic was coming, she felt it now in her chest, the fluttering turning to thrashing.
"I can't do this," she said, pushing away," I can't do it-"
"You can, Clarice. Breath, breath," he said, pulling her down against him and remaining firm as she squirmed in his arms in distress. She was not breathing with him and he placed a hand on her head.
"Shhhh," he said, and her eyes squeezed shut tight. She didn't want him to comfort her, it made her angry for some reason. How dare he propose she was in love with him? Even if it were true, it was insensitive. She realized too that she was naked and it was cold, and her body did not wish to go or stay.
Thrashing.
"No. No, no-"she said through clenched teeth.
"Shhhhh," he said again, smoothing her hair.
"Love, as you define it," he started," has led you to enter many dangerous situations, Clarice. Once, it led you to a bad room. A bad room where there was pain and no allies. Where might it lead next?"
Starling had covered her face, her teeth grazing her open palms.
"To love a fiend, Clarice? To submit in the arms of a monster, Clarice? Are you a fool?"
Starling's eyes flew open and she looked at Dr. Lecter. Fury and betrayal flashed madly in her eyes and Dr. Lecter held her face in his hands. She snapped her head away in revulsion and pushed against him harder.
"Are you?" she growled, her nails digging into his chest, gripping his shirt in livid fingers.
"A fool? Am I a fool to taunt you in such a moment, a fool to taunt a creature as fearsome as me? Perhaps," he said, looking at her with adoration.
"If I am a fool, you are twice the fool for bringing me so close," Starling said, her anger turning to calm fury.
"Quite true. But you haven't answered the question, Clarice. Are you a fool?"
"I am not."
"Agreed."
Starling looked at him without expression, her pending savagery faltering.
"You are not a fool, not by any calculation. But some part of you thinks so. You are afraid that admitting you are in love with me is the same as admitting you are a fool, or worse, weak. But you are not weak. You are a human, and that means that you are aware, responsive to external and internal stimuli; you are resilient and versatile. You can be stony or supple in emotion, textured or polished in guild, autonomous or submissive in poise…and you can be wild or tame in spirit.
"None are more appropriate than the other and none are more valid than the other. They are all indispensible and they are all you. And you are perfect in any mode or state of being you choose. All of these morsels of you were not available before, so effectively manacled were they. But now, they are wandering and free, and it is because of a sacrifice. A sacrifice which happened in what you call a Bad Room. And now it is time to set aside your anger…"he paused to push a strand of her hair from her face and behind her ear,"… and your pain. It is time to regard that sacrifice, and become a united whole."
Starling had finally allowed him to pull her back into his arms, and she rested her face against his shoulder, albeit apprehensively.
"Now…let me try again. You are in love with me, Clarice. Do you deny it?"
Starling looked at him, his eyes intrusive with their hunger and reverence. She took a breath, and let his eyes pierce her. She felt almost as though she grew smaller and she felt her mouth begin to contort.
"No, don't try to manage it," he whispered, "let it have its time."
A shuddering breath and tears came, her face twisted and florid. She screamed into his chest and he rocked her. It was many long minutes before she finished. She felt empty and floating. One of Dr. Lecter's arms moved away from around her for a moment. Then he brought up her face and gently cleaned it with a tissue. After she had lay her head back down, her breath slow and deep, she nodded. Looking back up at him, she was resigned, her smile soft and sad.
"No. I don't deny it."
"Are you afraid I do not love you?" he asked.
She nodded, her hand which still gripped the sheets coming up to her mouth, like a child. He scooped her up and laid her down on her back, hoering over her a moment ad touching her hair, her shoulders, her chin and lips.
"Clarice, I do not make a bond out of love, but a living, rising and crashing thing that joins from separate shores. Yours and mine, and somewhere in the gulf between, there is a new thing-the habits and repercussions of which I do not know. I don't care. But there it is, and I love you without knowing how or where it has taken place. It no longer matters. What I know is that you belong to me, and I to you, like the earth and rain. Where we are entwined is in the root," he said, and it was true. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear:
"If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life."
Their flight did not leave until eight that evening, and before heading to the airport, they stopped at Gran caffe Martini e Rossi for cocktails. Dr. Lecter considered the food there inedible, and that it's only purpose was to offer them a good view. They sat outside, the imposing sight of the colosseum right across the street. It was not a moonless night, but clouds veiled the moon over the building, which was illuminated from within like a great, lit lantern.
They talked about Marcus Aurelias, having passed his equestrian statue on their way. Starling pointed out that when Aurelias had decided to take up the habits of a philosopher, he would sleep on the ground until his mother convinced him to sleep in a bed. She laughed, and wondered how often we simply choose an identity, like imprinting on an appealing product on the page of a catalogue.
Yeah, I'll take the number 8. Now I will wear this and walk like this, and everyone will know to which personality from the universal catalogue I've ascribed.
Cheap, desperate attempts to align with the pack. Having nothing to do with the self, but only that part of us which is animal; afraid and snarling at any who pose a threat to territory and status.
She could see in Dr. Lecter, for all his wisdom and intelligence, that even he had a frightened animal coiled within. His need to prove his intellectual prowess at every turn, his tendency toward snobbery and the compulsion to shop, or perhaps it was some primal manifestation of hunting.
He needed to be seen, and he needed to be seen in a specific way; he needed to be seen as singular. She recalled what he had said to her once about how it would sting if she discovered she were ordinary. And it had stung just hearing him say it. Once again, she knew that some of his insight into her wounds sprung from his own. He had known it himself. Some of our stars are the same. Clarice.
She had laid bare the only fear and innocence she had left…to him. She felt that he was worthy of that. Yet, there was so much left to be unearthed…
Whatever writhed and hissed in the depths of his internal catacombs was ancient and putrid. Clarice Starling could nearly smell it, and patiently anticipated the time when he would reveal it. She was not afraid of him, but she could see that in time, he could be afraid of her. She had a sneaking suspicion that treating others was a far different thing than treating oneself.
It has been said that physicians should not be physicians to themselves.
Starling sips at her drink, her eyes slightly narrowed as she gazes at the colosseum, a building so very full of antiquated suffering. Tourists lapped at it, and Starling thought of flies on shit. Whatever old, festering monuments were erected and locked away in Lecter's mind were not to be sniffed or gnawed at; they were to be observed respectfully, safely…from across a path.
Starling smiled and looked at him. When he cocked his head, she winked.
TRANSLATIONS:
La tua fica, è più deliziosa, di una ciliegia al maraschino rosso vivo. Dio mio: Your pussy is more delicious than a bright red maraschino cherry. My God.
QUOTES:
Dr. Lecter quotes Pablo Neruda