“Thee has grown an obscenity like the bull’s at this very moment.”
“That is true. Undeniable. A verity, verily. And this obscenity is for thee to do with as thee wishes.”
“And will thee do with my obscenity what the cow did with thy obscenity?” she asked demurely.
“If thee wishes it."
“Si. I do.”
“Very well, then.” I got out of the sleeping-sack and then crawled back in headfirst. Her hips writhed and her obscenity quivered in anticipation of my mouth. It was moist, her obscenity, and sweet-smelling, and the core was spicy to the taste. This heart of her obscenity—-how it swelled beneath my lips, how it stiffened to my tongue. And beneath it the petals opened-like a flower to a sucking bee.
I sipped deeply at this sweet well and was rewarded by her mouth eagerly devouring my obscenity. The sleeping-bag tilted, and we rolled back and forth with it as our mouths clung to each other’s obscenities. And then, together, we were fed by each other’s ecstasy in a long drawn-out moment of sweet release.
“Thou art an accomplished obscenity eater,” she of the cropped hair said when it was over.
“And thee,” I replied. “Where did thee learn to drain an obscenity so well?”
“It was wonderful,” she granted. “But it is even better when thee joins thy obscenity to my obscenity and we obscenity and obscenity and obscenity.”
“You’re fucking-ay-right it is!” I agreed.
And after a brief rest, we were once again doing that which provided us so much pleasure. This time, feeling as if my very spine were about to rip loose from my body, her name was torn from my lips as I released the last of my passion. “Barbara! Barbara! Barbara!” I shouted. And when it was over and we Were quiet again, I tried to put my gratitude to her into words. “Thank you, Barbara,” I said.
“You're welcome," she replied. And then, after a brief pause: “You called me that before, too," she remarked. “Is it an old love, or something like that?”
“What?”
“Barbara. That’s what you called me when we were making love. Is that your wife’s name?”
“I’m not married.”
“That's what all you Americans say. But I don’t believe you. Anyway, I don’t care if you are. You go right ahead and call me Barbara if it pleases you. I don’t care what you call me when you make love to me like that."
“Wait a minute!” I was slow on the uptake, but realization was beginning to dawn. “Isn’t your name Barbara?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you Barbara Thomas?”
“No.”
“And you’re not an American?"
“No. I am Spanish."
“Come on. You're putting me on, aren’t you? Whoever heard of a Spanish redhead?"
“Not all Spanish girls are brunettes."
“And you’re not Barbara Thomas?” I snapped my fingers. “That's why you couldn’t speak English! Right?”
“Si. I speak only Spanish.”
“And you’re not Raoul Mendes’ girl?”
“No. Oh, I begin to see. You mistook me for his American redhead.”
“You were pointed out to me,” I remembered.
“She was standing right behind me.”
“That explains it. You must have moved in front of her just as this fellow was pointing her out.”
“Si. It is—what do they call it‘?-—a case of mistaken identity. I am sorry if you were misled. I hope you have not been too disappointed.”
The slight edge to her voice made me remember my sleeping-bag manners. “I’m not disappointed at all,” I assured her. “It’s just that I have to see this Barbara Thomas about something. Please don’t misunderstand me. This has all been very enjoyable.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “But I don’t even know your name.” I exclaimed.
“Pilar.” She of the cropped hair dimpled prettily as the name escaped her lips.
“Pilar. That is a very pretty name. A very pretty name for a very pretty girl.” I stroked her naked breast. “In a life filled with more than my share of mistakes,” I told her, “this is the nicest mistake I ever made.”
“You are not the only one who has made a mistake, Signor Victor!" The voice was modulated and masculine and Italian. I knew that voice. And I knew the face peering into the haystack over the top of the ladder. “Yes, we both made a mistake!” I even recognized the gun trained on the sleeping bag.
“Don’t you ever knock?” I asked.
“A thousand pardons, Signor Victor. I have really been most patient. I have been listening to your and your infernal obscenities until they are coming out of my ears. And it has been frustrating, too. Were it not that I have strong voyeur tendencies, I would have interrupted long ago.”
“Who is he?” Pilar wanted to know. “What does he want?”
“Pilar, allow me to present Signor Luigi Tortorizzi. As to what he wants, I believe he wants to kill me."
“To kill you?” Pilar’s eyes widened.
“That is correct.” Luigi confirmed my estimate. “You have become most troublesome, Signor Victor. And now it will be my pleasure to end your life.”
“Ahh! Go obscenity thyself!” I told him.
CHAPTER NINE
“WAIT A minute!” Pilar was agitated. “If you are going to shoot Señor Victor, will you allow me to get out of the sleeping-bag first? No offense, Sefñor. But my father fought against Mussolini’s blackshirts in the Civil War, and he has told me that the Italians are not such very good shots. So, if you don’t mind, Señor--”
“How fleeting is true love,” I sighed. “Didn’t I take on that bull for you, Pilar‘? And now you won’t even do a little favor like dying in my arms.”
“I am afraid the signorina does not have a choice in the matter,” Luigi interjected. “I really cannot afford to leave any witnesses behind.”
“You mean you’re going to kill me, too?” Pilar objected.
“See, we really are star-crossed lovers,” I told her. “We are destined to die in each other’s arms. Don’t you find that romantic?”
“Only an American would think it romantic. In Spain we are much more practical where death is concerned. A Spaniard would rather sleep on a mattress than in a casket, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Better bed than dead, eh? Well, I’ll buy that. Still, considering our relationship, it’s downright unneighborly of you not to want to die with me. Why, in India the wife throws herself on her husband’s funeral pyre just so that she can be with him in death”
“Señor Victor, I am not your wife,” Pilar reminded me.
“But you were all set to risk your life fighting in a bull-ring tomorrow. So why not with me?“
“What bull!" she exclaimed.
“The one you were going to fight.” I purposely misunderstood.
“Not El Toro! What are you saying. What bull!” She spelled it out for me.
“The flesh is weak,” Luigi observed. Evidently our little discussion had interested him enough to keep him from rushing things.
I decided to keep talking, hoping I could stall him some more. “What’s with you, Luigi?" I asked. “First in Paris and now here. This is getting monotonous. Every time I get a girl‘s clothes off, you pop up and threaten to shoot me. It’s damn traumatic, I tell you. It could really inhibit me, maybe even give me a complex for life!”
“My apologies, Signor. But since your life is all but concluded, it need worry you no longer.” His thumb flicked off the safety on the revolver.
“Hey, Luigi,” I said quickly. “Answer me one question before you kill me, will you?”
“What is it?”
“Where's your playmate? I was kind of getting used to him. I’d kind of like to say good-bye.”
“Do you mean Vito?”