Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes Page 4

~

  Andrei’s relationship with Tamara lasted a full year, months longer than any of his previous affairs. I had barely seen either of them since I’d stormed out of Andrei’s apartment like a bad actor. After a few weeks, I visited Andrei twice, but my resentment was too overpowering, and the encounters were forced and awkward. I was physically unable to be around Tamara without feeling nauseous. So I stopped calling them, and I never heard from either of them. Occasionally, I’d spot them downtown, but I always managed to creep away unseen.

  Then one day I found a handwritten invitation in my mailbox. I recognized Andrei’s precise, feminine script. There were no details, save for a time and the name and address of a restaurant. I dreaded some sort of wedding announcement. Or that he’d finally shooed Tamara out of his life like all the others before her. I didn’t know which of the two I feared more.

  Of course, I went. I was lonely, bored, and miserable, and I missed my friend.

  I’d never heard of the restaurant, so I was unprepared. I’d dressed casually, and this turned out to be an intimidatingly swanky establishment. I was sure they weren’t going to let me in. True to my expectations, the maître d’ sneered at me when I stepped through the door, but when I said Andrei’s name, he repeated it almost reverentially and instructed a waiter to escort me to Andrei’s table.

  Andrei’s table turned out to be a private room, lushly decorated with museum-quality reproductions and fresh flowers. I recognized Debussy’s String Quartet – a favourite of Andrei’s – playing at just the right volume. The table was set for two; there was an empty chair waiting for me. Tamara sat in the other chair.

  Tamara asked, “What are you doing here? I mean – Where’s Andrei?”

  I shrugged. “Andrei sent me an invitation. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “But it’s our anniversary. Where–?”

  I knew, then, that Andrei had left her. And indeed he had, but that wasn’t the whole truth. That came later.

  Before either of us could say anything more, the waiter brought in the hors d’oeuvres.

  Tamara said, “But we haven’t ordered anything.”

  We learned that Andrei had arranged our evening’s menu in advance. We ate in silence, but not even that tense awkwardness could mask the heavenly taste of the food.

  We finally spoke to each other when it came time to argue over who would get the cheque, but we were informed that Andrei had already paid for everything, and that not even a gratuity would be accepted from either of us.

  Befuddled, we walked out together. We glanced at each other, and we both laughed at ourselves. Still chuckling, Tamara took my arm, and we walked together through downtown, all the while talking like dear old friends. We didn’t utter a word about Andrei.

  When we parted, she gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, but there was genuine warmth in her smile. Silently, I cursed Andrei for what I believed he was doing to her.

  The next day, I received a couriered letter, requesting my presence at the law office of Laurent Tavernier the following Monday at nine in the morning. Not a little alarmed, I called to know what this was all about. The attorney’s secretary told me: “We can say nothing of this matter until the appointed time.”

  Tamara called me every day. She was worried about Andrei’s disappearance. More than once, she cried over the phone. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I thought Andrei had deserted her. I grunted noncommittal responses and sidestepped any suggestion that we should meet. I refused to follow Andrei’s transparent script, no matter how much it matched my own desires.

  The following Monday, I was startled to see Tamara sitting in the attorney’s waiting room. A few minutes later, we were both ushered into Tavernier’s office, wondering to each other what Andrei had planned for us this time.

  This is what we learned: Andrei was dead, had poisoned himself on the day he’d set us up to meet at the restaurant; Andrei was wealthy, worth millions of dollars, all of which was now ours ... in a joint account, no strings attached. Tavernier needed our signatures to make this official.

  In addition, Andrei bequeathed all of his writings to me, with instructions that I seek to publish them under my own name only and that, with his blessing, I should edit his works as I saw fit.

  There was a letter addressed to both of us; the attorney read it. It was terse.

  I had nothing more to write, it said.

  But that wasn’t true. In death, Andrei was writing the script of my and Tamara’s lives, and we followed every stage direction like fawning understudies.

  ~

  I almost speak, but Tamara shushes me. I can’t decipher her expression.

  She’s sitting on the floor, next to the couch. She looks away from me and into her lap. I hear the rustle of paper.

  I look down and see that she’s holding my manuscript. My novel.

  She starts to read. I cry.

  I cry because I see her mouth form the words that I’ve written, because I hear the tenderness in her voice when she speaks my words.

  She reads a few chapters. She takes her time. She forms the words carefully, imbues their articulation with a slow sensuality.

  Finally, she pauses. She looks at me, and she’s crying, too.

  She says, “I like it.”

  ~

  When I come back from my morning run, Tamara is still asleep. Her feet are sticking out from under the sheets. This is one of my favourite sights: tenderly domestic and deliciously sensual. I fantasize about straying from our scripted lives, about indulging in spontaneous intimacies outside the confines of our rituals, and...

  Fuck Andrei.

  I look at Tamara’s sleeping body and let the sight of her overwhelm me.

  I stoop down and kiss her toes. I slip my tongue between them, slide it around each one. I nibble on them.

  She moans, still asleep, and throws off the sheets.

  The sun hits her skin, from her nipples to just below her luxuriant pubes. The prospect of transgression makes my blood rush, but I rein in my impatience and move with slow but focused intensity.

  Cupping her heels, I raise her legs in the air. Below, I catch a glimpse of her moist vulva, framed by her butt cheeks and by the backs of her thighs. I bend down and breathe on her wetness. She gasps, still asleep.

  I smell her and close my eyes. Her pubes tickle my nose, and I can’t help laughing.

  That wakes her up.

  I fear her reaction to this unscheduled intimacy, but she opens her arms in invitation.

  I let go of her legs and fold myself into her sleepy embrace.

  “You’re sweaty,” she mumbles. I’m still wearing my jogging clothes. “I love your smell.” Have we broken free? Can we write our own lives? Together. Finally, truly, together.

  She disentangles herself and sits up. She hugs me, drowsily rubbing her face against my chest.

  She pulls off my T-shirt, and she runs her tongue from my belly button to my armpit.

  She squeezes my stiff cock through my shorts, and we both laugh.

  She smiles coyly, letting go of me, then runs her hand in circles around my crotch, never quite touching it. She gently bites my nipples.

  She moves as if to squeeze me again, but then she pulls away and slips behind me.

  She hugs me from behind, bites my shoulders hard enough to hurt, sinuously licks my nape. I feel her breasts squish against my back, and I get even harder. Her hands start to slip into my shorts, brushing against my pubes, but, again, she pulls away, laughing.

  I grab for her. I lock her wrists in my hands and push her down on the bed. I bite her nipples – alternating from one to the other – and she gasps and squirms. I pull her up and place her fingers on the elastic waist of my shorts. She pulls down my shorts, takes my dripping cock into her mouth.

  She delicately scratches my chest while her mouth goes up and down the length of my penis. I could come right now.

  But I pull out of her mouth. I stick my thigh between he
r legs and rub her moistness against my skin while I play with her breasts.

  After a while, I turn her around and push her down on the bed. I run my wet, hard cock on her skin, from her butt crack, along her spine, to the side of her neck. Her tongue slips out and licks me.

  Leaving my cock next to her mouth, I reach down and grab her ass. I fondle it, kiss it, bite into it. I dip a finger into her moist cleft, and I tease her anus. She squirms and coos. I plunge deep into her asshole with my wet finger, and she screams in pleasure. I wriggle my finger inside her, slide in and out tenderly. I look at her writhe with delight, and my heart swells up.

  Eventually, she pulls her butt away and flips over.

  She again takes my cock into her mouth. She pushes her crotch up against my mouth, and I slip my tongue inside her vagina. I pull back slightly and gently kiss her labia. I tease her by running my tongue on either side of her clit, never quite touching it.

  Meanwhile, her mouth slides up and down my cock; her fingers play with my balls.

  Then, she lets my cock slip out of her mouth, and works on me with her hands.

  I can barely keep from bursting. I struggle to hold on just a little longer.

  I cover her vagina with my mouth and work on her clit with my tongue. Her breathing changes, and I can tell she’s going to come soon.

  In a sudden, almost violent, move, I pull away. She whimpers.

  I grab her feet and run my teeth against her soles. Her whimpers turn to moans. I spread her legs, my tongue licking her inner thighs. Her moans become sharp cries. I kiss her belly. My hands find her breasts, my fingers squeeze her nipples. My lips find her mouth. My cock finds the wet opening between her legs.

  I plunge deep into her; and she screams, comes, and then whispers the syllables I desperately want to hear, the inevitable name: “Andrei...”

  And then I come inside of her, and the jism spurts out of me in neverending waves. In my mind’s eye, I see the beautiful face of my dead friend.

  She Watches Him Swim

  Veronica lays her handbag on the little white plastic table, kicks off her pink flip-flops, and arranges herself on the sun chair. She catches Harold’s eye; he’s sitting at the edge of the pier looking over his shoulder at her while dipping his feet in the lake. He’s naked. She’s not. She’s wearing a dark grey one-piece bathing suit with green piping. She doesn’t mind being naked in the heat of passion, but otherwise her breasts always get in the way. What’s the big deal with men and nudity?

  There’s no-one to see them out here at the isolated cottage of Harold’s Uncle Davey, as Harold had reminded her a few times – when they were packing; en route, while they drove; and again when they were unpacking – not so subtly hinting that he’d enjoy it if she could try a few days without clothes. She knew she could be too uptight, but she wouldn’t make herself uncomfortable just so Harold could get a kick. Regardless, to make sure he wouldn’t take her subsequent clothed state the wrong way, she’d initiated a hot, enthusiastic bout of sex – doing several things she knew he especially liked – before they’d completely settled in for their holiday.

  This is Harold’s cottage now. Hers, too. His uncle died and left him a surprisingly comfortable inheritance. Not nearly enough to live on for the rest of their lives, but enough to make some substantial changes and improvements. Already, even though Harold won’t receive the bulk of the estate until next year, she’s been making plans with that money. She hasn’t shared these ideas with him. Whenever they talk about plans and the future, it turns into a quarrel. Plans make Harold panic.

  Grinning, Harold waves at her. She yawns when she waves back. In the aftermath of sex she tends to gets drowsy.

  He stands up. The way the early afternoon sun hits his golden curls and his broad, sculpted shoulders makes him look like Apollo, the Greek god of the sun. Then he ruins the moment. Jumping awkwardly into the insanely large private lake, without the slightest hint of poise, Harold is more buffoon than god.

  The glare from the sky gets in her eyes, so she reaches into her handbag. She finds her sunglasses and puts them on.

  She watches Harold swim. It occurs to her that he swims like he lives: randomly, with no style and no plan.

  Planning out her life makes her feel safe, secure. Lack of planning makes her tense and withdrawn.

  Veronica’s career is on the right path. She was recently given a promotion at the marketing firm. In the last five years, she’s received three substantial raises. She worked hard and planned carefully to earn those rewards. She wants to make partner, and she’ll make it happen.

  Harold is the store manager for the main outlet of a local independent CD chain. He makes less than twice minimum wage; there’s no higher to climb on that miniature corporate ladder; and he has no further ambition. He’s been working at that same store for the twelve years they’ve been together. At 22, she’d hadn’t had the foresight to imagine how things would play out, given how different the two of them were. How different they still are. More different than ever, maybe. Harold was just this tall, easy-going, goofy-charming, nice guy who kissed better than anyone. Sure, she’d fallen in love. Sure, she married him.

  Look at him. He’s not even trying to use any technique. Couldn’t he at least attempt a breaststroke? Or a front crawl? Or even a dog paddle? No – he’s just splashing around, barely keeping afloat. He can’t even tread water reliably. Sometimes, he can appear to be such a moron, and she forgets that she loves him.

  The ironic thing is that Harold adores the water; it’s almost mystical the attraction it has for him. But he doesn’t know how to swim properly. Harold’s like that about everything. He’s never managed to learn anything. He loves music, and knows more trivia than anyone should ever care about, but he can’t hold a tune, read sheet music, or play an instrument.

  It’s not about how things work, he says, it’s more important how they live in your imagination. Whatever that means. Sounds like a rationalization for laziness to her.

  And yet, Harold isn’t exactly lazy. He does more than his share of chores with no complaints. He’s dedicated to his dead-end job. He even exercises: goes running every morning before Veronica wakes up, then rouses her with vigorous, sweaty sex. She likes that. Always starting the day off with a bang. Or two, sometimes.

  The nice thing about Harold is that he genuinely likes women. Most men say they do, but they don’t, not really. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em is a motto most guys don’t admit to anymore, but they think it anyway. She notices it in their lack of empathy, their impatience with anything they can’t immediately grasp – like a woman’s point of view. Like a woman’s way of doing things.

  Harold is different. He’s endlessly fascinated by women. He reads mostly female authors – fiction, philosophy, feminism, memoirs, you name it. His favourite singers and musicians include a large number of women – not the teenybopper dance vixens, but real musicians, including jazz players, composers, punks, rockers, and a lot of hard to classify crossgenre iconoclasts – most of whom Veronica had never heard of before. He has a keen eye for picking just the right clothes and jewellery for her – often stuff she would never have thought of trying herself.

  And Harold’s kissing ... not like a prelude to something else, but like the kiss itself is what matters. Like the taste of a woman in his mouth is most delicious taste ever.

  Like the taste of Veronica is the most delicious taste ever.

  Yet, she’s been wondering whether she should call it quits with Harold.

  Really, she should have left years ago. But Harold is affectionate and strong and steadfast. It’s a comfortable life.

  She wants more. Maybe this money will make life a bit better, but Harold himself won’t change. He won’t suddenly start dressing sharply. Start a new career that’ll take him places. Learn something that might enrich both their lives in a substantial fashion. She’d settle for being shocked. Sometimes, she fantasizes that Harold is keeping a dark secret that, once r
evealed, would entirely change the way she thinks of him and their life together.

  When Veronica isn’t nestled in the coziness of their home, she often finds herself embarrassed by her marriage to Harold. She might be alone running errands, or taking a walk with him, or having dinner with friends, or speaking with co-workers, and then it hits her. Shame. Inadequacy. Everyone else their age seems so adult, like Veronica wants to be. But she feels stunted by Harold’s permanent, incurable adolescence.

  In the past two years, she’s had three affairs. Harold doesn’t know. It would devastate him. Well, two of them would. The third one would probably make him excited, and maybe just a little wounded that he wasn’t included. Her yoga instructor, Ingrid.

  The other two, though – it would be cruel to ever tell him. There was Tim, an ambitious and sleek colleague who’d been on loan from the London office. If he hadn’t been married, she’d have seriously considered leaving Harold for him. Then there was Gustave, a burly and completely inappropriate man whom she’d met at the gym; he was too rough with her, and his attitudes about women were pre- Cambrian, but he’d made her come – with her screaming like a porn starlet – harder than anyone ever had. As skillful as Harold was, he’d never made her scream. Still, sex wasn’t everything, and she could barely stand Gustave’s company unless his cock was ramming into her. That one had ended only a few weeks ago.

  What’s all that commotion? Oh.

  Is he...?

  Yes, Harold’s in trouble. His arms are flailing too nervously to do him any good; he’s gulping in more water than he can cough out; and he’s too far from either the pier or the shore.

  Mmm. She hadn’t planned this ... but she’s not entirely inflexible. Harold should be proud: he’s constantly bugging her to be more flexible and spontaneous.

  Veronica stays still. Behind her sunglasses, for all Harold knows, she’s fallen asleep.

  She watches him try to swim to safety. It doesn’t seem likely that he’ll succeed.

  Diptych

  Tableau 1: The View from the Outside