"Well, the Maestro is bisexual,” Frederica pointed out.
Julie thought of the man, thrusting in and out of Grigori's ass with such aplomb, that look of sheer ecstasy on his face. “I gathered that, yes."
"But he has never truly been able to love another man. It is one of the great frustrations of his life, though he will not admit it to himself."
This surprised her. “But all the emphasis is always placed on his affairs with women. Hasn't he spent most of his energy over the years on Sofia? Winning her time and again?"
"That's just the trouble,” she turned from the dirt road onto a two lane black top lined with grape vineyards. “He was looking for something she could never give. He thought he saw it in that tortured, warring part of her soul, but what he really needs is the balance of the sexes. Someone with enough testosterone to meet him head on."
Julie watched the workers in the fields, meticulously picking the succulent green fruit. They were old women mostly, kerchiefs on their heads, stooped low in the hot sun. Watching them, she was having this crazy notion of the three of them, she Grigori and Giovanni hammering out some sort of relationship. Each meeting the needs of the other two, pairing off and coming together in any number of ways. It seemed absurb. Two men, one woman. Three different birth decades, three languages and cultures. Still, who could argue with how good they'd been in bed together last night? It was the best sex she'd had in her life. Far from being chaotic or impersonal, having three of them had made it feel all the more intimate. And kinky, too. She could watch to her heart's content, and she could join in, too. She could surrender to her every desire, pleasing two cocks for the price of one, or simply lay back and allow herself to be pampered by the men. She felt incredibly special this way, and important. She could sense she was balancing them, making it possible for them to connect. She was so very glad of this. More than anything, she wanted both men happy. And if she could be a part of that, all the better.
It struck her then, as they approached the ancient terra cotta walls of the town, what if she loved them both? Was such a thing possible? Was it allowable in the moral scheme of things? Certainly not in Iowa. Then again she wasn't about to return to Iowa.
Or to Hollywood, either.
This last decision, made at this very moment surprised her. She hadn't realized she was through with all of that, the glitter, and the hype, the phoniness, bowing and scraping and back stabbing. As much as she loved her dreams, she wasn't going to whither away and die in pursuit of them. Yes, it was time to give up the ghost, she thought. Time to start somewhere fresh.
"Frederica,” she asked. “If you were going to America, where would you go?"
"New York,” she said without hesitation. “I would go to New York."
"Yes,” Julie agreed. “That's a splendid idea. I will go there, too."
"Careful,” Frederica teased. “There are lots of cocks there, from what they tell me."
"And lots of pricks, too,” she agreed, playing off the American slang. “But don't worry, I intend to keep my nose clean."
The question was, what would she do about her heart? It needed not only cleaning, but mending. Hope, she decided. That was what she needed. Just as her grandmother used to tell her. Take your deepest wish, tuck it in a box and forget it … and when it is totally forgotten and only then can it come true.
And so she would have to learn to forget Grigori and Giovanni both. In other that one day, against all odds, all reason, she might have them again. Both of them. Forever.
Chapter Six
"I would like the lights down,” said Grigori in English, his accent thicker as yet than he would prefer. “So the actors will not see us."
"Certainly, sir,” bowed his assistant director, thrilled to be working with the man dubbed by Play Review magazine as the most brilliant up and coming playwright and director in decades.
"Thank you,” Grigori took his seat in the middle of the theater, dead center. It was audition time for the New York staging of his play “Seasons of Lust.” Backers were lining up around the block to invest and every actor and would be actor in town was trying out for a part. Everyone was saying the play would steal the thunder next season on Broadway just as it had earlier in London and Moscow.
And to think this new genius had come from nowhere. Just a year ago he'd been an unemployed bear wrestler, fresh off a disastrous attempt at acting with the Great Maestro Giovanni. Swimming away from all he knew, he had found his way stranded at sea. A fishing boat had rescued him and he'd found his way eventually to Greece. It was there, while walking to the ancient Acropolis that he had been struck by the muse. Less supernaturally minded folks might say it was sun poisoning, but when he'd awoken after passing out on the ground, the cold water splashing his cheeks and eyes, he was not the same man. A fire now burned within, a churning energy that could only be relieved by writing. For three days and nights he sat in a dingy Athens motel room, scribbling feverishly in notebook after notebook. It all came alive to him-people, places, scenes, characters born out of that raw fire.
With each page he felt a little more peace, though he could feel it building again if he slowed down for any reason. The first two books were filled with incongruity, bits and pieces that did not fall together. But the third had clear voices, three parts. A female, two males, speaking and addressing the timeless questions of love, and of course the meaning of sex. He knew at once it could be revolutionary, calling into question the age old idea that a relationship must be between two persons only. He also knew that its time had come. Controversial it would be, but not ignored.
His trouble was that he had written his masterpiece in a language spoken only by around ten million people in a world population of several billion. There was simply no way a play in Daskalovian could be produced for a larger audience. At the same time, Grigori knew he could never allow anyone else to translate it for him. Hence his immersal studies in the language.
After six months, he was able to make a translation, to his satisfaction, in English. He was able to speak well enough to represent it. To his surprise, there were producers in England who took immediate interest, largely because of his role on Ambrosiano's last film. He had to put up with some unwanted celebrity from this, but finally, as the initial hoopla faded, Grigori was able to get the right people to listen.
His one and only request was for his name to be changed. This was to keep either Giovanni or Julie from knowing what he was up to. The name he chose was Dmitri Vrastor, the surname being the Dasklovian word for a conqueror or overcomer.
Indeed, what had he not overcome to reach this point? To be able to sit in a fine hall like this and choose actors for his own production. Really, it had seemed as if he had it all, coming to New York like this. But then he had a look at the list of names. The female ones.
Julie had signed up to audition for his play.
He felt an instant tightening in his groin. Did she know who he was? It was doubtful. He allowed no pictures. The name would have meant nothing to her. As far as she was concerned, it was just another audition. He could have her stricken, but that hardly seemed fair. Besides he was curious. What would she look like a year later? He was surprised she'd be here in New York and not in Los Angeles. Had something changed in her life?
Of course he could never give her the part. That would be a conflict of interest. But he could listen to her, view her with his face hidden, just for old time's sake. This was the point he was at when his assistant called out her name. He smiled thinking how he used to call her “Julya” because he could not say Julie. He smiled over many other things, too. Like how she had touched him and brightened his life. And how hollow things were now, even with all his success.