Helen locks the door, shutting the noise out with a turn of the key. The riot of fragrance and color from the countless bouquets threatens to overcome her. Too heady; too warm, she drops the cape and stands cooler in the filmy Greek gown.
She sits at her dressing table, sniffing the single rosebud and smiling to herself. She removes the pearl headdress, freeing her curls. Closing her eyes, she savors the caress of her tresses as they fall against her neck, back, shoulders. Helen moves to the large, gilt-framed mirror. She shakes out her hair, admiring the wanton look it gives her before deftly twisting it into a chignon and securing it with some golden braid.
She releases the shoulder clips and lets the gown slip to the floor. Turning, she reaches for the peach caftan.
It has just slipped from the hanger when the breath is forced from her lungs by the impact of her body against the dressing room door. Ragged breath in her ear, hands insinuated between her naked body and the door, squeezing her breast, sliding down her belly, seeking her center.
"I—" she gasps, her head yanked back, exposing her throat to nips, sucks, bruising kisses.
She is spun around, pinned against the door by chest and shoulders as the marauding hands retreat, fumbling with trousers. Her legs are hitched up, her howls muffled by his mouth on hers as he impales her, driving her into the door.
"Helen…"
A knock, just outside. The pair freezes, locked together.
"Christine?"
She pries her mouth free, "Yes…"
"Two minutes."
"Thank you…"
An inhuman growl; a door-rattling, knee-trembling finish.
"God…" I feel gloriously wobbly.
Christine pokes at my shoulder. "Handkerchief, sil vous plait." She pushes me away, feigning impatience. "Get off me, you fiend, I have to work."
Another knock.
"Christine?"
"Yes, ready," she calls, slipping the caftan on.
As she pirouettes out the door, she flips the handkerchief back to me. "Until then, Paris."
Life was very, very good.
We had just marked our third anniversary when Christine 'took the bit in her mouth', as the equestrians say. Once again, in my naiveté, I thought things were settled, peaceful, routine—not boring, no, never with a female in the house…cave. But nicely ordered, I would say. I knew what to expect, within reason, on a daily basis, and that is pleasant when middle age has snuck up on one. Christine's career was going better than we could have dreamed. She had invitations to sing abroad, which she always declined because she did not want to leave me. I urged her to go, but she insisted she'd miss me too much. I admit it is difficult for my vanity to argue with that. We had a delightful little family cobbled together from an orphan, a widow and an outcast. I spoiled Christine however I could and doted on her shamefully. I still couldn't believe she was really with me.
I felt no remorse over Meg; why should I? I believed that I was protecting my family, and time had proved me right. I wish I could have spared Christine and Adele the grief, but clearly the greater good had been served. Meg was incidental; it was no trouble to put it behind me.
So I wandered in for supper on one of a string of perfect days as the ladies fluttered down from the new rooms upstairs. Adele kissed and patted my cheek as she breezed by.
"Maman," I was calling her 'Maman' now, as well, "you're not staying to supper? It smells edible."
"Not tonight, dear. I'll see you children tomorrow." 'Children'…I'm fifty three. I shrugged suspiciously. There was a feminine mood afoot.
"I should let you starve, you dreadful man," Christine was smiling. "'It smells edible', indeed."
"So do you," I slithered over, making suggestions. I got a plate and a look for my trouble.
"Eat."
Then I noticed that Christine was blinking. I took a mental inventory of my opium and drained my wineglass.
"Erik…"
"Yes." I tried to sound eager to comply.
"Could you paint the other room? Not ours…"
I was unable to control my unruly eyebrow from shooting skyward. "I could…" I replied warily. "Ah, what would you like?" That sounds better than "WHY?", doesn't it?
"Um…I don't know…maybe bunnies, and clouds, and springtime…something pretty." Erik's personal alarm bells were tinkling. I could not put my finger on it, but it was all so…premeditatedly un-premeditated.
"Something pretty," I repeated.
"Mm."
"Alright. I'll start some sketches after supper," I ended agreeably.
Now, I thought I was being an exemplary husband. I took my instructions without question and agreed to comply directly. Imagine my chagrin—my bafflement--when I spied her sniffling over her noodles.
I set my fork down gingerly as I reviewed the conversation in excruciating detail. No, I was absolutely certain that this had to be a new, previously undiscovered rule I was transgressing, because I had behaved impeccably according to all the rules I knew.
"Chri—"
"Don't you even care WHY I want you to paint cute things on the wall? You're not even the least bit curious!"
I decided to move cautiously and plead male stupidity. "Darling, sometimes when I'm curious, you advise me in no uncertain terms that it's not my business…it's not always so simple to tell the difference between when I am supposed to be curious and when I am not."
"You're impossible!" she dissolved into full fledged sobbing.
Usually pleading stupidity mollifies her…I had never been called 'impossible' before. The mice of panic were scuttling all around my feet. It may not seem like a crisis, but for me, Christine's displeasure…makes me ill very rapidly. I was already sweating and shaky inside; supper had settled like a rock and I had to concentrate to breathe properly. Settle, Erik.
"I've upset you somehow," I observed, calmly and inanely. Impossibly, Christine padded over and curled up in my lap. My heart threatened to leap from my chest. I'm impossible, but I'm supposed to hold her and comfort her. Impossible…comfort her. Help me.
I kept silent and held her. I could not trust myself to speak anyway. I decided I would let her have her cry—it often helps—and by then, perhaps, I would have some hint as to how to get out of this scrape, whatever it was. I tried to will the opium into my hand.
Finally Christine's sniffles subsided. I can normally gauge when it's over by the dampness of my shirt.
"You are curious, aren't you, really?" she asked stuffily, picking at my lapel.
"Of course," please let that be correct, I winced.
She pulled my head down and whispered, "Bunnies for the baby."
All I could hear was the shrieking in my mind. I froze. Some small portion of sanity remained, telling me I'd have more trouble if I didn't manage this properly from this very moment. Her eyes were huge and expectant, her smile flickering, but awaiting mine to truly bloom. I pulled her close so I would not have to look at that face.
"Christine, I'm speechless," I said, which was true.
Fortunately that was all I needed to say.
"You're going to be a wonderful papa, Erik! I suppose you want a boy first? The doctor just confirmed it today. Maman came with me—you don't mind I told her before you? Well, I wasn't sure, I needed someone to ask about things. We went window shopping on the way home. So many beautiful things, Erik, and they're all so tiny! Little shoes for little feet, little bonnets for little heads…I cannot wait to shop! We have to think of names, what names do you like? Would you mind if we called him Gustav, after my Father? What is your Persian friend's name again? He's not even Christian, is he? Wherever will we find godparents? I hope he has your eyes…"
"I'd prefer he had nothing of mine, Christine…" I breathed, adrift.
"Oh, Erik, no," she stroked my cheek and tried to soothe me. "You're worried—don't be. He'll be perfect, I know he will. Everything will be perfect."
Oh.
I only spent one night pacing and vomiting, struggling with my decision. (I must seem like a neurotic mess; really, I'm not. I'm quite sane: calm, rational, except where Christine is concerned.) I had to act quickly if I was going to give Christine an abortifacient, and my nerves couldn't take the upheaval of leaving it unresolved anyway. I saw two corridors ahead: one led to unremitting days of the peaceful life to which I'd become accustomed, and the other to utter chaos: noise, mess, my place usurped, Christine's mind distracted, her career vanquished, and her sweet body, my precious plaything, ruined. No, clearly her unfortunate condition was rendering her insensible. I owed it to her to protect her from this catastrophe.
It took two doses of my gypsy remedy to get the parasite out of her. I didn't want to cause her any undue discomfort, so I started with a very mild dose. She felt a bit out of sorts, but nothing came of it. The second dose was half again as strong and worked wonderfully. When it was all over, I held her and wept real tears—of relief—and vowed to be MUCH more careful in the future.
Maman proved to be an invaluable aid to Christine's healing. She assured her that such unfortunate events were God's way of making sure that things like me did not happen—she did not say that, of course, but that is what she meant. She murmured platitudes about how young Christine was, and how there would be plenty of healthy, beautiful babies. HA. Over my rotting carcass. Christine was encouraged by this, and was back to herself surprisingly quickly; youthful resilience. She approached me with a lusty new determination, assuming that our dedication to the conception project was mutual. I managed to hold her off with the considerate husband trump again while she 'regained her strength'.
I tried to keep track of Christine's womanly details and avoid her when it seemed most likely to be A Bad Time, and actually had good success for awhile. Looking back, I can see now that I should have just tied her up again and had done with it. I was able to exercise some self-control then; no fumbling to get away in time, no being completely at her mercy as she rode me to mutual oblivion. I still have bouts of abject self-hatred when I realize what a weak-willed, cunt-struck moron I was. Am. I did not realize until after the job was done that my precious Christine had evolved into a scheming praying mantis of a woman. Deviously, she worked against me, pressed her obvious advantage and seduced me shamelessly.
"Do you intend to sleep all day, Prima Donna?"
Christine stretched, sat up and scooted over. I joined her and handed her a cup of coffee. She took several sips before turning it over to me.
Insinuating herself under my arm, she yawned, "I don't believe I'll take rehearsal today."
"Oh really?" I do not encourage the missing of rehearsal.
"Mm. I want to stay right here." She looked up at me guilessly even as her little hand slipped into my trousers.
"You are a wicked girl. Get up." At least I tried.
"I have a better idea. You lie down. Oooh, he's awake," she smiled. "May I see?"
"If my diva commands…"
"Yes. I do." She stroked the demon with maddening tenderness.
"Erik, this is such a beautiful thing. I am positive it's the most beautiful thing in the entire world."
"Yes, Madame, given your extensive experience of things…"
"Oh, hush, Don Juan. I'm so glad I like it. I used to worry about that, before I had a good look at it," she confessed.
"I am gratified that you two have become such dear friends, love."
"What shall Christine do, Erik? Can you say?" She slithered down toward my lap. "Shall she kiss it?"
"Mm, please. Kiss it."
"Hm, shall I tie my hair back? You want to watch, don't you?"
"Yes, tie it back."
"If I do, you must promise you won't close your eyes. Promise?"
"Promise. Kiss it."
"Tch tch…so impatient."
Whisper-soft kisses, firm kisses…nibbling kisses. Up…to…there. Whew…down the other side. Her cool palm, gently cupping the twins. More kisses—yeow, a flick of the tongue.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Erik didn't say Christine should lick it."
"Christine should lick it."
"Are you sure? I would hate to—"
"Lick it, dammit."
"Down here?"
"Mm."
"Up here?"
"Mm-hm, there."
"What about right here, like this?"
"Yeayeayeayea, like that." I was lying perfectly still, but I felt as though I was trembling violently inside. Presently I felt that first little tingle at the base of my spine.
"Christine. Suck it."
"You mean, put my lips like so…"
"Mm." Warm, wet…suction. Yesss—AGH! Cold—don't stop! "What!"
"Erik? Do you suppose this is a sin?" You must be joking.
"No, no. Absolutely not." Excellent, back to work. "Ooohhh, Christine, you are such a good girl…" Look at that; is there anything more glorious than watching your woman slowly devour you? All bodily sensation concentrated in those few inches that really mattered. Cannot take much more of this. Is it possible to have one's innards sucked out thus, I wonder?
I growled, drew Christine up and tossed her onto her back. She squealed, surprised at the ferocity of my approach. In one fluid motion, I folded her up, put her legs over my shoulders and ploughed home. "Beast," she groaned, dug her nails in.
I didn't even think about pulling out. I should have; it seemed as if I poured gallons into her. Sometimes it almost hurts, the contractions are so violent and protracted. She stretched her legs out just as I collapsed on her.
"Unh. I'm dead," I admitted finally, rolling away.
"I hope not," she bit my neck.
"I owe you, Woman…give me a moment."
"Take your time; we have all day, remember?"
"Good. I'm old."
"You don't feel old," she laughed.
