Both gratitude and too much wine moistened her eyes. “I would like that, yes.”
But the animal lurking within is seldom tethered by good intentions. When he awoke to her attentions and felt emanating from her the alpha/theta syncopation that attends sexual excitation, his response was not solely dictated by a desire to shield her from rejection.
She was exceptionally ripe and easy, all of her nerves close to the surface and desperately sensitive. Because she was young, there was a bit of difficulty keeping her lubricated, but beyond that mechanical nuisance he could hold her in climax without much effort.
Her eyes rolled back again and she pleaded, “No… please… I can’t again! I’ll die if I do again!” But her involuntary contractions rushed closer and closer together, and she was gasping in her fourth orgasm, which he prolonged until her fingernails were clawing frantically at the nap of the rug.
He recalled Hana’s injunction against dimming Hannah’s future experience by comparison, and he had no particular impulse to climax himself, so he brought her back down slowly, stroking and cooling her as the muscles of her buttocks, stomach, and thighs quivered with the fatigue of repeated orgasm, and she lay still on the pile of pillows, half-unconscious and feeling that her flesh was melting.
He washed in frigid meltwater, then went up to the overhanging balcony to sleep.
Some time later, he felt her approach silently. He made space for her and a nest in his arms and lap. As she dipped toward sleep, she said dreamily, “Nicholai?”
“Please don’t call me by my first name,” he murmured.
She was silent for a time. “Mr. Hel? Don’t be scared by this, because it’s just a passing thing. But at this moment, I am in love with you.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“Do you know what I wish?”
He did not answer.
“I wish it were morning and I could go out and pick you a bunch of flowers… those Eyes of Autumn we saw.”
He chuckled and folded her in. “Good night, Miss Stern.”
Etchebar
It was midmorning before Hana heard the splash of a slab of rock into the stream and came from the château to find Hel rearranging the sounding stones, his trouser legs rolled up, and his forearms dripping with water.
“Will I ever get this right, Hana?”
She shook her head. “Only you will ever know, Nikko. Is Hannah safely set up at the lodge?”
“Yes. I think the girls have heated the water by now. Do you feel like taking a bath with me?”
“Certainly.”
They sat opposite one another, their feet in their habitual caress, their eyes closed and their bodies weightless.
“I hope you were kind to her,” Hana murmured sleepily.
“I was.”
“And you? How was it for you?”
“For me?” He opened his eyes. “Madame, do you have anything pressing on your schedule just now?”
“I’ll have to consult my carnet de bal, but it is possible that I can accommodate you.”
Shortly after noon, when he had reason to hope the local PTT would be functioning at least marginally, Hel placed a transatlantic call to the number Diamond had left with him. He had decided to tell the Mother Company that Hannah Stern had decided to return home, leaving the Septembrists unmolested. He assumed Diamond would take personal satisfaction in the thought that he had frightened Nicholai Hel off, but just as praise from such a source would not have pleased him, so scorn could not embarrass him.
It would be more than an hour before the viscous and senile French telephone system could place his call, and he chose to pass the interval inspecting the grounds. He felt lighthearted, well-disposed toward everything, enjoying that generalized euphoria that follows a close call with danger. For a whole constellation of impalpable reasons, he had dreaded getting involved in a business that was trammeled with personalities and passions.
He was wandering through the privet maze on the east lawns when he came across Pierre, who was in his usual vinous fog of contentment. The gardener looked up into the sky and pontificated. “Ah, M’sieur. Soon there will be a storm. The signs all insist on it.”
“Oh?”
“Oh yes, there is no doubt. The little clouds of the morning have been herded against the flank of ahuñe-mendi. The first of the ursoa flew up the valley this afternoon. The sagarra turned its leaves over in the wind. These are sure signs. A storm is inevitable.”
“That’s too bad. We could have used a little rain.”
“True, M’sieur. But look! Here comes M’sieur Le Cagot. How finely he dresses!”
Le Cagot was approaching across the lawn, still wearing the rumpled theatrical evening dress of two nights ago. As he neared, Pierre tottered away, explaining that there were many thousands of things that demanded his immediate attention.
Hel greeted Le Cagot. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Beñat. Where have you been?”
“Bof. I’ve been up in Larrau with the widow, helping her put out the fire in her belly.” Le Cagot was uneasy, his badinage mechanical and flat.
“One day, Beñat, that widow will have you in the trap, and you’ll be… What is it? What’s wrong?”
Le Cagot put his hands on Hel’s shoulders. “I have hard news for you, friend. A terrible thing has happened. That girl with the plump breasts? Your guest?…”
Hel closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. After a silence he said quietly, “Dead?”
“I’m afraid so. A contrabandier heard the shots. By the time he got to your lodge, she was dead. They had shot her… many, many times.”
Hel took a long, slow breath and held it for a moment; then he let it out completely, as he absorbed the first shock and avoided the flash of mind-fogging fury. Keeping his mind empty, he walked back toward the château, while Le Cagot followed, respecting his friend’s armor of silence.
Hel had sat for ten minutes at the threshold of the tatami ’d room, staring out over the garden, while Le Cagot slumped beside him. He refocused his eyes and said in a monotone, “All right. How did they get into the lodge?”
“They didn’t have to. She was found in the meadow below the ravine. Evidently she was picking wildflowers. There was a large bunch found in her hand.”
“Silly twit,” Hel said in a tone that might have been affectionate. “Do we know who shot her?”
“Yes. Early this morning, down in the village of Lescun, two outlanders were seen. Their descriptions are those of the Amérlo from Texas I met here and that little Arab snot.”
“But how did they know where she was? Only our people knew that.”
“There is only one way. Someone must have informed.”
“One of our people?”
“I know. I know!” Le Cagot spoke between his teeth. “I have asked around. Sooner or later, I shall find out who it was. And when I do, by the Prophetic Balls of Joseph in Egypt, I swear that the blade of my makila will puncture his black heart!” Le Cagot was ashamed and furious that one of his own, a mountain Basque, had disgraced the race in this way. “What do you say, Niko? Shall we go get them, the Amérlo and the Arab?”
Hel shook his head. “By now they are on a plane bound for the United States. Their time will come.”