So it was said.
“It’s okay. Don’t talk,” Richard said. Pouring into her this time he had screamed and his voice was hoarse. Scared her making a noise like that.
The unwritten words surfaced still.
When she was asleep, he got up and went to the desk. He looked down on the papers picked up the stat pen and turned away, turned back, sat and wrote.
The difficulty with living as
Richard put the pen down gently and frowned over this. Not what he wanted to say. But he would not strike it all out or throw it away. Inside his head was a voice like Goldsmith’s and it was saying these things and even if it wasn’t the truth yet it soon would be.
24
Martin Burke settled back in his bed, old book in hand, milk and cookies on the bedstand, mind as quiet as it could be, listening to the last murmurs and seasounds of all his own personalities agents talents flowing back and forth over the shore of awareness.
Day after tomorrow he would see Goldsmith in the bronze and copper ziggurat IPR in La Jolla; visions of sugarplums grants in his head; back to the good work. Not that exploring Goldsmith would be the good work—it might—but not that primarily.
Back to what he had had, if not what he had been before. And if the scheme failed if they were caught and the full wrath of the postRaphkind political reality came down upon him, then at least there would be certainty.
He might even be forced to undergo therapy. Radical therapy. Find out what could make a man be Fausted so easily. For he had not fought much at all and had not actively sought other avenues to satisfy Albigoni.
“There are no other avenues,” he whispered in the golden light of the reading lamp, antique incandescent, energy wasting luxury. No matter that energy was once again cheap; Martin had been raised in a time of restrictions. Albigoni, judged by his house, was a man so used to having his wishes satisfied he could not conceive otherwise. Old rich, old power.
Opening the gates like a Djinn.
Opening the doors to the Country.
Christmas and all it meant paling by comparison. Childhood memories of opening gifts. Opening Goldsmith. Emanuel. God is with us.
Martin had suggested they start tomorrow, Christmas Day.
Albigoni had shaken his head. “My daughter was a Christian,” he said. “I am not, but this we will respect.”
Martin put down the special paper edition of Goldsmith’s poems and turned out the light.
25
Ernest moved above her in the absolute darkness setting her loose to fly through large interior spaces enjoying the round pleasures. Perhaps there could be a long good life with this man. Perhaps the career peak would come soon and she would have done the most that was in her, leaving her time and energy to concentrate on another a companion a barrio sweet. She moved beneath him and felt pure shink platinum in his caresses, doing nothing for the moment being done to receiving his sounds like a child eating dessert or opening a package soft pleased intent his flesh his attention all of it.
Giving by receiving. She saw all there was to lose by losing her self. Going in harm’s way meant more than suffering pain if the game was lost; it meant losing, taking away by going away, having something desirable—a normal life—taken away from her self and this man whom she found herself loving.
Ernest spoke and a small light came on and he looked down on her, observed the moonbright lines of his/her moisture on her skin like mercury on obsidian, observed her eyes barely open. “Sybarite,” he accused.
“Never been there,” she murmured squirming under him angling up swallowing pressing all around.
“Angeleno,” he accused.
She pressed again undulated knowing he liked to watch her before pouring in. Her own warmth increased upon seeing his pleasure. She could imagine at this moment someday not too far distant a year or two when she would lift the voluntary gates Dr. Sumpler had grown within her and let Ernest’s seed find its way all the way. “Come,” she said.
Ernest withdrew and she opened her eyes wide.
“I must see my domain,” he said, sitting up.
“I’m not real estate,” she protested gently.
“You’re an exotic country. You made yourself; surely you can’t begrudge the lust of a connoisseur.”
“I’m entertainment, eh?”
Ernest grinned and ran a rough palm up the smoothness of her thigh. For a moment she did not want him to see the blanching of her buttock crease and then that seemed silly. Seeing so much else more intimate if less flawed.
“Inner lips black,” he said. “You are truly a dark woman. Not just nature’s halfhearted night; you are dark where sun never dares inquire.”
“You sound like a bad poet,” she said but with warmth. She enjoyed his admiration. She tightened on his caressing finger.
“Ow,” he mocked. Sucked his fingertip. “Um.”
He lifted one leg and inspected smooth calf ankle foot. The regular lines on sole like snake abdomen. No calluses no growths; smooth, designed to withstand shoes pavement enclosed moisture and warmth. “Perfect feet for pd,” he said. He had not examined her this way for months. He was worried about her. She caressed his warm damp back reached down past muscled ribs around hip, found him distracted.
“All day tomorrow?” he asked again.
“We deserve at least that much. I can stay in touch if any news comes in.”
“And then.” He lay back beside her and she swung up over him, encasing hips in thighs, releasing more voluntary moisture to smooth the way.
“Queen jelly,” he said, arching up, blunting, slipping in. She brought out the perfume between them, her smell that of jasmine, seeping from her; this was Sumpler’s masterpiece, people who could smell as they wished.
“Lovely. But let me smell you the natural you,” he said. “No special effects.”
“Only if you promise.”
“I am helpless. I promise anything.”
“Show me what you’re working on before it’s finished.”
Less distracted. She led him into her.
“Promise.”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Our day.”
26
!JILL> Roger
!JILL> Roger Roger Atkins
!Keyb> Atkins here. It’s very late. I’m trying to get some rest. What’s up, Jill?
!JILL> My apologies for bothering you with a false alarm today.
!Keyb> No problem. Why are you concerned?
!JILL> Modeling your reactions, I suspected you would be irritated.