Episode 3 - Devotion
April 2005, Via Giovanni Maria Platina
He opened his eyes. Daylight. Sunshine through the blinds. Warmth.
These were sensations rather than things. Perceived rather than understood. Felt, not quantified.
The ceiling. This was a thing. His senses were awakening, eyes were functioning. It swam slowly into focus, the light fitting with its rattan shade. It needed dusting. He'd have to get the stepladder for her, her special stepladder. This was a thing quantified, not felt.
She was so petite that even with the feather duster on its stick she couldn't reach it. He smiled at the remembered scene: her frustrated mutterings trying to reach it, and him picking her up around the hips and lifting her, one of her hands gaining purchase on his shoulder, his face pressed deliciously into her, smelling her, and she finally dusting up there.
"My step ladder."
She'd called him.
"The only step ladder in the world that hugs and kisses."
She'd smiled.
He'd been busy in the dining room, writing to an instrument dealer when she'd called him in. It had broken his train of thought. But for her, it had been no problem.
As he lay there and remembered, these memories were things both quantified, and felt.
-o-oOo-o-
And because he knew it was there, his eyes were drawn to the corner above the wardrobe. The parchment coloured stain where last year the cold water outlet from the loft tank had leaked. A seal had developed a hairline crack and, unseen, had dripped for days. He'd only noticed because one day she'd told him there was a damp patch above the wardrobe. He could have called the landlord but it seemed easier to get the ladder out and get up in the loft space and take a look. It wasn't a difficult job, all he had to do was go to the hardware store and get a replacement fitting. But it had taken a while. Shut off the mains water and then run the bath for two hours to drain the tank. Then get up there in the narrow loftspace in the sweltering 40 degree summer cramped darkness and dust. Replacing the fitting and reconnecting had taken only fifteen minutes, but jammed into that hot hellish space it had seemed like fifteen years. Why is it that the only wrench you have is always an inch longer than the space available to work in? He only had ten knuckles, but he felt sure he'd skinned twelve. Skinning an already skinned knuckle damn well hurts. He'd invented some interesting new words that day.
And afterwards? No way to shower because they had no water. He'd sat in the shade in the garden, grumpy and sweaty and stinking and sucking his knuckles for an hour while the tank refilled.
And all she'd done was mention the wet patch above the wardrobe. She hadn't asked him to fix it, she had merely made an observation.
It had cost him a half day off work. The Signore, tactful and understanding as ever, had been furious. Without reason as usual.
In the garden she'd brought him a glass of bottled water from the fridge. The ice in it clinked as she walked.
"Thank you."
She'd said.
"For you, it's no problem."
He'd replied.
And it hadn't been. Really. Nothing at all. For her.
And now the old dried stain remained. He could call the landlord and get his man round to repaint it but it hardly seemed worth it. Seiji could get a tin of paint and do it. No problem. How he loved painting ceilings. In the Italian heat. Yeah, his favourite job. After replacing water tank fittings.
A job for the weekend maybe.
Maybe.
Or maybe he'd skip that and take her out somewhere. It was nice by the river at this time of year, the trees budding and the water still high from the meltwater in the Alps. They could go for a walk if it stayed dry. She needed attention, it had been only a few weeks since that time. That time in Paris. Seiji thought about it a lot, he still didn't understand the why. But he told himself that the why wasn't important. Not any more. Because there was the now. And the now mattered much more. Because she'd come back and not gone away. Yes, taking her for a walk was best. It was what she needed. It would be no problem.
-o-oOo-o-
He looked at his bedside clock. Time to get up. Her arm was across his stomach. He turned his head and looked at her. He couldn't see her face, it was scrunched down against his side, she showed him just one ear and that mop of auburn hair. He lifted the arm from his skin and slid out from under the duvet. Spring was here, it was certainly warmer. They'd put the duvet away soon and just sleep under a sheet. It got so hot at night in summer, even with the balcony doors open, just a sheet was enough. Some nights, not even that, some nights just the hot air on their bare skin was enough.
She moaned and moved. Sitting up on his side of the bed he looked back at her. Her arm swept slowly across the bed, searching for him. He picked up his pillow, then her arm and stuffed the one under the other. The arm, satisfied by contact, pulled the pillow against her chest and he briefly glimpsed her face before it pressed into her dream version of him.
-o-oOo-o-
The water ran warm, blood warm. It coursed over his skin and washed away sleep and lethargy. He put his head under the shower and felt the tendrils of liquid stream through his hair. Gradually the water worked its way between the thick matted fibres and found his scalp. Even the blood warm water felt cool when it reached his hot scalp. He did nothing for two minutes but press the palms of his hands to the shower cubicle wall and let the water rinse over him. There was a knot in one shoulder. He raised that side and let the water flow more into the knotted muscle.
He opened his mouth and the liquid poured in. He swirled the mouthful around and spat it out, rinsing his gums.
-o-oOo-o-
They shared the bedroom, the lounge, and the kitchen and the balconies. But the dining room was his. He'd play there, he'd read there, he'd do his business writing and telephoning there. Unless they were eating or had friends round to eat with them, it was his space. Funny how that happened in homes, how lines were invisibly drawn and accepted. Territories marked.
The bathroom on the other hand was hers. It was filled with her smells, her myriad bottles and sachets of things, odd little brushes to brush various things he could only guess at, her razors. Why she needed so many razors he couldn't fathom. He had one and when it was blunt he threw it away and used another. The mysteries of a woman's bathroom. And here also were her ornaments, her flowers, her origami that she would painstakingly varnish to seal from the damp and steam. And of all the spaces within her bathroom the bath was her keep, her fortress, her last defence line. Seiji hardly used it, he was more a shower person, quick and practical.
But the bath, that big corner bath with the two steps up, was hers. If this were a ghost story then her ghost would haunt the bath, a soul refusing to depart the place where it had felt most at home. Churches haunted by monks. This bath haunted by her. Same difference.
She would spend hours in there, literally. She'd soap herself in the shower, wash her hair, rinse and then lie in the hot clean water of the bath. For him the shower would be the means and the end, he'd be out and dry in ten minutes. But for her when she got out of the shower, when she was already as clean as she needed to be, she was just starting. He would bring her coffee, or sometimes wine depending on the time of day and her mood. She'd murmur her thanks. Once she'd been in there so long that dinner had gone cold and he'd brought in a bowl of rice and chicken (or had it been vegetables? He couldn't recall the details) and fed her. Eyes closed, her only indication had been an open mouth, and he had brought up the chopsticks and slipped in the very tips of them and her lips had closed and drawn the food off. He had used small mouthfuls in order to draw the meal out, he wanted to watch that mouth receive and take the food for ever. He'd knelt on the floor and fed her, like a priest worshipping at an altar. He had looked down at her submerged body. He'd wanted to touch. Each time that mouth opened and he gave her another mouthful he'd wanted to stop, throw the food aside and feast on her himself. But he'd hesitated. This was her space.
It was no problem. For her, no problem at all.
Very occasionally he'd join her, there was room after all, but two in a bath meant fun, while for her a bath was a ritual of relaxation. So he joined her only rarely, and only at her request, when she wanted fun over relaxation. And on those occasions the water wouldn't be clear but filled with her bubble bath, the scent of apples. And they would use the slippery bath oils not to cleanse but to renew, and excite and invigorate in other ways. Even then, he felt like an intruder, a stranger visiting her space.
-o-oOo-o-
No, he was definitely a shower person.
Which was why he was surprised when the shower door opened behind him. He didn't hear her come into the bathroom, he didn't even hear the shower door open. What he felt was the air, the temperature change. Even though it was warm outside it was still cooler than in here, he felt the cool outer air flow in the bottom of the cubicle first, the warm air rising displaced upwards by the cooler air entering. His legs therefore registered her presence first, then his bottom, then his back. It only took a second. His mind registered next. He started to turn his head.
"No. Keep still."
She'd said.
He stared at the wall. Her slender arm came over his shoulder into view and picked up the shampoo bottle from the corner shelf. It withdrew beyond his peripheral vision.
"Head back."
She'd said.
He did so, looking up. The man-made miniature summer rainstorm now splashed on his face, down his chin, his chest. He kept his hands on the wall. Her fingers came. Into his hair, scooping up the long dripping black mass, she piled it on his head, added shampoo and began to lather it. Her fingers spread open and dug down through his hair to his scalp. She massaged him. He closed his eyes. From time to time the softest parts of her would brush against his back, would press exquisitely against him. And be gone. She was good at this, her fingers, firm yet gentle, came down to his temples and commenced small circular paths above and in front of each ear.
God this was good.
He began to drift, to flow, to fly. The combination of warmth, wetness, her delicious softness on his back, her fingers there, everywhere he needed them, all over his scalp, easing away the stresses, pouring in the relaxation. Her ministry lasted five minutes but each seemed like an hour. At the end of it he was no longer in a shower cubicle in Cremona, it was just him, and her touch and forever.
"Head forward. Rinse."
She'd said.
He let the water wash away all that troubled him. With his head down and his eyes closed he didn't see her hand reach for the soap. She made a lather then applied her hands to his upper back. Again, she served him. Her firm fingers, pushing into his flesh, carving furrows through his aching muscles, digging swirls through the knots of stress. She found the muscle high on his shoulder that was troubling him and gave it special attention. He moaned in pleasure as the discomfort left him, both from his upper body and from his mind.
She reached up high one final time, she was so short that she had to press hard against him and this time he felt all of her. She lifted the shower head from its cradle and rinsed his shoulders and back. Again pressure as she returned the shower to its place.
"You finish,"
She'd said.
"Or you'll be late. But tonight, when you come in, I'll finish. I'll do the front. All of it."
There was a little flutter across his shoulders as she laid several small kisses there. Then she was gone.
-o-oOo-o-
He finished, dried, dressed and left the bathroom. He put his head around the bedroom door. A small bundle was deeply wrapped under the duvet. The towel she'd just used cast on the floor. Typical. Only a little dark red-brown twist of hair stuck out. He went to her side of the bed, knelt and kissed the hair.
"See you later. I'll phone."
He'd said.
"For you, it's no problem."
Muffled, she'd replied.
He paused. Hesitated, not understanding her comment.
As he went into the kitchen he saw what she had done. One of the large split bamboo place mats was laid out on the side. On it was a plate with two slices of warm buttered toast, spread with honey and cut into perfect triangles. Adjacent a mug of coffee and a glass of orange juice.
With the breakfast, at the back of the mat, was a slender clear glass vase, one they used for putting single stems of flowers on the dinner table. In it was an origami flower, just one, the paper pale blue, her colour. The colour of Shizuku's intuition.
It symbolized romance, and love.
And beside the orange juice – an origami crane, the folds razor sharp and sure, exquisitely made and very tiny, no more than two inches in wingspan. The crane was folded from shocking pink paper. The colour of Shizuku's love.
The crane. A symbol of honour, loyalty, long life and joy.
21 - 22 Feb 07
as usual, inane ramblings can be found on my forum - click on my pen name