My hand on something solid: the tile bottom of the pool. I push off with my palms, shoot upward to the silvery surface, through.
I float for a moment, breathing heavily, take in the people, hear the tropical music. I dive again, but all I see is the water, the sides and bottom of the pool, green tiles meticulously grouted, smooth to the touch, sloping upward from the deep bottom. Then I hang on at the pool’s gutter. An athletic woman asks me if I’m all right, is something wrong, asks if I need help.
When Collette finally returns in the late afternoon, she explains she’s had a long meeting on new options, hasn’t seen Taylor. She says she had some of her own business to attend to; she passes Taylor’s presence off as nothing. As a matter of fact, she is exuberant—she smiles broadly, there is a glow to her that wasn’t there at midday. It annoys me. I wonder if she’s lying.
“I have a gift for you,” she says, combing out her hair. “But you have to take a shower.”
“I’ve been to the pool,” I answer.
She puts the wide comb down, stares at me energetically. “Take a shower,” she says, turning me to the bath, pushing at my bottom. “And stay in there for at least fifteen minutes. Take some good drugs.”
“Collette…”
“Just do as I say. Please, Rawley?’
When I leave the bath, dressed only in a terry-cloth robe I haven’t tied, I find there are three attractive women in the cabin with Collette—dark-haired, Middle Eastern women with olive skin and rich brown eyes. One is as tall as Collette, the other two have their hair in pigtails, like twins. I am embarrassed for a moment, do up my robe. They are all looking at me with suppressed, sexual laughter.
Which leaves me awkwardly grinning. The cabin lights are dimmed and I detect a new scent, the scent of myrrh; I haven’t smelled myrrh since Hong Kong. Someone’s hung gauzy curtains by the recliner, and I realize I can see through the caftans the three women are wearing, they are virtually transparent.
“These are three of my friends from service,” Collette says softly. “I did the best I could.”
I start to speak, but Collette interrupts me. “Right”—she smiles—“and that’s good, Rawley. Your friend asks me strange questions, but my friends see me through. There isn’t anything they wouldn’t do for me.”
“Look, uh, who, uh…” I say a little breathlessly. The three women are flawless, stand with a deerlike sway watching me. Thank God, I think, I took some stimulants, not a time to feel sleepy. One of the women with pigtails crooks her mouth in a languid smile, reaches out and touches, strokes my arm under the terry cloth. “They’re your harem, Rawley,” Collette giggles, close to me, moving behind and rubbing my neck. “Mmmm. Your skin is dry. It’s this ship air, Rawley. Delia, bring some oil.” Her hands around my waist, Collette unties the firm knot of my robe, then begins to bring it down from my shoulders. The twins each kneel on one knee to guide the sleeves down my arms. “Sit the master down,” Collette says as the tall woman brings a cruet of oil, passes the vial unstoppered beneath my nose, then takes my hand. The smell is sweet and musky, slightly like that of bananas, it makes my head swim. One of the twins brings a long, ornate ivory pipe. Collette walks toward the door.
This moment, my mind entirely clear: one of the twins lights three candles, then draws her hands along my body, her hair brushing against my thighs. “So strong,” she says. “You look so strong, Rawley.” The new silk sheet beneath me is cool and the air a cool ache upon my genitals
I watch as the woman stands at the foot of the recliner, slowly pulls off her caftan, the candle shadows moving behind her. The sight of her nakedness pierces me: she is a smallish woman, but her breasts are large, their curves not the curves of a pitcher, but of a dome; she has a cleavage even when they are naked. Her nipples darken as they come erect, her curves and hollows lapped by candlelight. I feel a sweet shock as the two other women kneel astride me, the light playing over them, and begin to rub the sweet oil on my chest and stomach, their breasts swaying as they work, their hair spilling over me. My body is aswarm with breasts, with moving lips and hands.
I open my eyes and Collette’s face is near mine, her eyes slightly glazed and full of candlelight, she’s come back.
“Because I love you,” she says. “Because I love you, Rawley. And because we’re here. I wanted to show you what it can be like to be here.”
“Hungry?” Collette says later. “The girls left some food. Couscous. Lamb. But I made a special menu while waiting this afternoon, something just for you. You can ask for it any time.”
Collette hands me a pad of gold ship’s stationery; this is what she’s printed:
COLLETTE’S MENU
Dutch Pecks// Hot Buttered Kisses//
Salade//Fresh Green Kisses
Entree//Hot Passionate Kisses Francais
Vegetable Kisses//
Dessert//Whipped Cream Kisses//Chocolate Kisses//
Honey Kisses//
Kisses Espresso//
“And you can ask for anything,” I tell her, “anything you want.”
“It’s close by,” she whispers, touching my hand. “Love me, Rawley.”
Massimo’s “if one can trust such a woman” in my mind, I kiss her and tell her that I do.
Still later, after the women have gone, Collette calls me into the kitchen/bar of the cabin, she’s among the clutter at the service range.
She is looking at two trays of cannelloni. “I didn’t punch these up for dinner. Did you? I did a trace, there weren’t any entries showing. These came through on the dinner program. Did you punch them up?”
“No,” I say, my ears slightly burning. I have been mentally swimming in the self-indulgent way of a man who’s fallen in love; I’ve forgotten what I did this afternoon.
“I thought I canceled the coq au vin we were supposed to have, since Delia… I know I did.”
“Well,” I say, tentatively touching the sauce with my index finger, then touching the tip of my tongue. “The cannelloni looks good.”
She slaps at my hand. “Are you going to eat this?’ she asks. “Where did it come from? Somebody’s messing with the program, somebody who knows how to cover his tracks. I wouldn’t eat this food.”
“What do you mean, somebody?” I ask, reaching to pick up one of the cannelloni with my fingers. Collette grabs my wrist, squeezes hard.
“Rawley. Taylor—or who knows? That friend of yours died, Rawley.”
I look at Collette in puzzlement for an instant, but I’m shamed utterly. And to make it worse, the sauce is terrific.
“I’ll just take a bite,” I mutter, taking her hand from my wrist and reaching for a fork. Collette turns away, angry with me. With my back to her back I take a sizable bite. Absolutely delicious. “Incredible,” I say. “This cannelloni is incredible.” I keep eating.
After a minute Collette asks me quietly how I feel.
“Great,” I tell her. “I told you this was still an adventure. Try some pasta.”