Christine and I spend three months in Italy. My little wife is not an intrepid traveler. She succumbs easily to changes in diet, sleeps fitfully, and will not suffer even a moment out of my sight.
However, Italy is a beautiful, romantic country, and it is a delight to open Christine's mind to it. In spite of her discomfort, she loves our wedding trip. She tells me so, and it shows. She adores the Venetian canals, particularly in the moonlight. She might have stayed in Venice forever, except for the Venetians' penchant for mask-wearing. I quite enjoy it; people roaming everywhere after dark, wearing masks and getting into mischief, but oddly, they seem to frighten Christine.
Museums abound in Italy, and Christine is enchanted by them. She is childlike in her excitement, catching my hand and pulling me from room to room, unable to decide which is her favorite. I purchase copies of her favorite works in each museum; she limits herself strictly to two selections from each.
She is overcome with emotion as our carriage approaches Rome. We go to the Sistine Chapel daily. Christine gazes at the ceiling for hours, and her God rains grace down on her. My blessing is watching Christine; she is my prayer. In an audience, Christine receives a Papal blessing. She is transported by this; she believes it to be a good omen.
Always, there is the opera. In each city, we attend every production we can. The music carries us, joins us; the music is ours alone. There is no describing what happens between us when we enter the music.
She continues to shy from my touch unless I approach her with song, but once she warms to me, she is passionate, even wanton in my hands. I wonder how long she will continue to insist that I force pleasure on her. I know she wants me as a woman wants a man, but she is free neither to express it to me nor to admit it to herself. I don't know how to help her. As for me, Christine has become a drug. I recall the first morning of our marriage; I wanted to take her again, but stopped myself, ashamed of what she might think of her husband. That man is gone forever. It is as if the satisfaction itself feeds my hunger. I must have her morning and night, and the mere sight of her inflames me. I draw her into darkened alleys, take her in carriages, theater boxes, even public gardens. She is horrified, of course, until our dance is begun. Then, I think there is a bit of the drug about it for her, too.
We end our trip abruptly in Florence. One day, Christine awakens homesick and depressed, and will not be comforted. "I want to go home!" she mourns, and home we go, directly.
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I have monitored Christine's periods of indisposition, and I suspect her condition before she does. This does not surprise me; in fact, I rely on her naiveté to bring my plan to a successful conclusion. A few years ago, abortions were easily obtained throughout Europe. However, as I make my inquiries, I learn that of late, they've been outlawed virtually everywhere. A slight bump in my road; nothing more. I must find a sympathetic, discreet midwife who understands the importance of not upsetting Christine with things she can't understand.
Before we were married, I longed for children. I dreamt of flawless, pudgy babies basking in Christine's love. But now, I know that I won't willingly share her love with anyone, even someone we make together. I thought I was obsessed with Christine during the years I watched her, sang to her, unseen and unnamed. No; if that was obsession, what is this? I thrive on her attention. How can I allow her to parse it between me and a child? I would wither and die, as would any untended garden. I have waited too long to have her to myself; I refuse to pass another lonely day. I've already borne enough loneliness for several lifetimes. Now that I possess her completely, I will not permit even a fleeting thought of anything but me to penetrate her mind.
No matter what I must do, Christine will bear no children.
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Christine putters about the lair, humming.
"You're happy to be home," I remark.
"Yes," she replies softly.
"Shall Erik take his little wife on another holiday next year, or does she never wish to stray from home again?"
She considers for a moment. "I enjoyed it very much, once I was accustomed to it, so long as you're with me. I like traveling with you; you know so much about everything…my teacher," she murmurs, eyes downcast.
"When you speak to me thus, I think of many things I would teach you," I confess, as desire flares again.
"Oh, no!" she cries, "I never meant–" she despairs, lost for words. I must stifle the urge to laugh at my still-blushing bride; she would not understand my amusement, and I would never wish to hurt her.
"Come, my blameless Angel, of course not." I embrace her gently. "Do you really suppose your Erik knows so little of his Christine?" I feel her begin to relax in my arms. "And even if you intended to be provocative, there is no need for embarrassment between us, is there?" She shudders from my breath in her ear. My hand makes its way under her dressing gown. "Is there, Christine?"
"No," she sighs, but still I can sense that she is troubled by what I may think of her. I must show her how she pleases me in everything she does. How long before she can believe in my endless devotion?
I guide her back several steps and ease her down on the table.
"Not here…"
"Of course here, Darling; why not? There is no one here but you and I," I remind her. I guide her legs around me and ease inside her slowly. Sometimes when I am driven to take her suddenly, she squeals if she is not yet ready.
"But…it's the kitchen," she complains.
"Indeed? And you do realize that it would be perfectly acceptable if I should require you to parade about all day in your corset and hose?
"Erik, you wouldn't shame me that way!"
"No shame, Christine. Hush now; let Erik finish."