Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 09

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Erica rediscovers her art.
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RisiaSkye
RisiaSkye
92 Followers

I have been wandering my villa like a ghost, reliving the past and narrating my loves to empty rooms. Writing this has seemed like recording the memories of a woman who no longer exists, like a desperate attempt to prove I was ever here at all. The pages of this manuscript have consumed me in recent weeks. I realize that I have been slowly removing myself from my own memories, keeping them at a distance as though they are just stories that don't matter.

Even in my own mind and heart, I am often an observer of my own life, a narrator and performer. I have so often performed the art of loving, given and received the gift of passion for its own sake, wondering frequently whether it is enough, what holds it all together, what makes it my story. Sometimes it seems that my experiences are not a life but a dream, one which has reached its end, leaving me frightened, confused, and alone.

I guess it is fitting that my memories, much like my life, should become so much about those I have enjoyed and learned from and so little about myself. Over the years, I have often struggled with insecurity and discontent; while I have loved my work, the adventures my body has taken me on, I have not always been easy in spirit. I have feared what my life would become with age, when I might no longer be found beautiful and worthy of the passionate desire so often taken for granted. I wonder whether the life I chose is a young person's life, one impossible to sustain. For these last months I have been hiding, fearing my life was already over. The endless hours of near-perfect solitude have given me too much time with my own doubts, too much time to pass judgment on myself, to accuse myself for the failure of past loves, to avoid figuring out what comes next.

The irony of trying to create something permanent to attest to a life of transient moments colored my thinking, encouraged me to doubt every past decision rather than continue to embrace the moment and the unknown future. I accepted Lottie's invitation to visit her in San Francisco months ago, before I started this complicated narration. I have since second-guessed my decision to return to the States many times, driving poor Suzette nearly to distraction by calling upon her to revise, cancel, and reinstate my travel plans on an almost daily basis. Only reading over these pages finally convinced me to go; the bittersweet nostalgia I see here frightens me more than any of my doubts or suspicions about my chosen path. I must seek out others before I disappear into words and memories, before I accept my life as a work completed. This is what I told myself as I settled in for take-off, and what I was still telling myself when I landed in San Francisco only a few weeks ago.

#

Although I haven't spent much time with Lottie in years, I feel a bond to her, one even stronger than the lingering ties I feel to my contracted lovers. When I met her, many years ago, she was still Carlotta, the prima ballerina of a small company in Florence. She was also the wife of my contract at the time, an expatriate American painter making a minor splash in European art circles. I had seen dozens of his evocative paintings of her before I ever saw the woman herself, nude studies of her body in motion, like Degas' dancers if they were unclothed and free. In those paintings, her skin seemed to glow from within, the muscles under the skin corded and taut, but graceful and feminine in an indefinable way. In my favorite of Kenneth's paintings, she dances before a mirror, the auburn evidence of her Sicilian blood flowing to the floor as she sways back from the barre in a fainting pose which looks physically impossible to sustain. One leg and hand remain fixed to barre as the rest of her pours in a backward arc, the muscles stretched in her stomach, her naked and opened sex reflected in the mirror, forming the center of the painting. I was smitten with her in the abstract, the picture of body as art, the gifted wife and muse of a talented artist.

I told myself that I didn't give much thought to the fact that Kenneth was married. Over the years, many of my lovers have had others, in all of the many forms those other relationships can take. I had grown accustomed even then to the fact that many of the wealthy had wives and mistresses, husbands and lovers. I no longer felt that I was an intruder in these relationships. I was, however, still unprepared for the reality of her presence, for her knowledge of me, for the complexity of our relationship to each other.

When I received an invitation to a private recital, I rushed to open it, expecting Kenneth's familiar writing. Inside the expensively embossed folds was a quick note from the lady herself. "Please join us, Erica. Do not be afraid. Here, there is only love." It was signed 'Carlotta Revelle' in thick black script. Because she only used her married name, Revelle, in her private life, the note felt particularly personal, even intimate. Until I saw the word, I hadn't realized that I was afraid, but there it was. I had never been confronted with a contract's spouse, and I didn't know what to do.#

When did this happen? When did the world around me become so constantly steeped in memories? It seems that everything I see or do reminds me of another time, a life experience already enjoyed and filed away for later review. Lottie noticed my bouts of introversion, and tried to draw me out. While I didn't mean to, I resisted her attempts to talk to me about something more than current events and art.

I was afraid she may give up on my less-than-impressive companionship skills, but she surprised me by secretly slipping an envelope onto my bed table while I slept. Intrigued, I opened it to be greeted by the familiar scent of vanilla musk, and my nipples hardened despite my mental distraction. But the mystery of what I found kept me in the present moment, rather than sliding back into the past for another physical memory of previous lovers. Inside, I found an invitation to a private residence, accompanied by a brief note. "Please join us, Lady Erica. Lottie tells me we may be able to help each other." It was signed 'Jeremy Williams' in decisive strokes of a blue fountain pen. I searched my memory, but the only Jeremy Williams I could think of was a concert pianist turned conductor, a man I had never met but knew of only through others.

I dressed hurriedly and headed downstairs to ask Lottie about the invitation and the ignoto Mr. Williams. I found her sitting at the breakfast table, sipping coffee. Her face looked pinched, pain clearly visible on her fine features despite her valiant attempts to smile. For the first time since my arrival, she used her cane for help standing up. I didn't know what to do, whether to help her, or if that would insult her with the suggestion of pity. Torn by indecision, the moment passed and I did nothing, choosing by default to sit at the table and wait for her to return from the kitchen. When she stepped back around the dividing wall and into the sunny morning room, I rose to take the coffee from her, but she waved impatiently at me with the hand holding her cane. I realized she would rather fall than let me take this simple domestic task from her, and sat back down. Sighing as she sat down, she leaned her ornate cane against her chair before pouring for us both. Smiling through lips stretched thin with masked suffering, she spoke. "Some days are easy. Some days are hard. Life continues, and every day is new. That is how I keep hope." Her cultivated voice washed through the small room, the simplicity of her words carrying more weight as they slipped over the walls like a shadow.

#

Kenneth told me that he wanted me to attend the recital, but that Carlotta wanted to speak with me for reasons she wouldn't reveal to him. My relationship with Kenneth was an open secret in their social circles, an unacknowledged but well-known reality. Bringing me to her before witnesses could create chaos, and would certainly create some unflattering rumors about one or all of us. As the "ugly American," Kenneth was already in a perilous social position among the cognoscenti of the art world. The fact that his star was still on the rise only made his position more dangerous. I realized for the first time how much he loved her, however it might look to others, that he would risk his own status, even his career, in this way.

I attended the recital, seeing Carlotta dance for the first time. She led the company in a brief interlude from their most recent production, then took the stage alone to perform a solo death scene, a performance originally choreographed by George Ballanchine for his wife, a prima ballerina who was soon after struck down by polio. Carlotta was graceful, elegant, and heartbreaking. The poetic undertones of the piece's origin added to the drama of the moment. When she finished, there was a hushed silence. The audience, myself included, seemed unnaturally still, afraid even to breathe lest the spell of the moment be broken. Then the cheering began, a swelling ovation that lasted minutes.

When the last "bravo!" had been savored and silenced, an usher approached me. "Miss Erica? You are wanted backstage." He directed me toward the wings, away from the other attendees, who were making their way toward the palazzo for a reception with the company. My hands shook with nerves as I clutched my velvet wrap around me and followed his directions to her dressing room.

I moved my hand to knock on the door, but it was opened before I had the chance. Carlotta was even more stunning in person than on stage or in Kenneth's paintings. She opened the door distracted, her tidy bun unraveling as she worked to remove her stage makeup. I had no idea what to say, but she gracefully took the pressure from me by inviting me in and asking me to sit. She apologized for keeping me waiting, but said she would only be a moment. Even if she hadn't been so warm and charming, I had no desire to argue. She was true to her word and completed her task quickly, turning from her dressing table mirror to face me.

"I know you must wonder why you are here." Her English was clipped and clear, obviously well practiced. "I wish that I could tell you simply. But, it seems nothing is simple right now. I'm asking you to stay with Kenneth longer. I know that your time with him is almost over." I started to speak, to ask her how she knew so much. She interrupted me with an impatient wave of her hand. "You must stay with us, Erica. Please. Kenneth will need you now, more than ever. We need you. We risk losing each other, and I need you to help us find each other again." She looked unbearably sad, her lower lip quavered as though she might cry, but still did not give me a chance to speak, to interrupt her painful rehearsed speech. "Tonight was my last performance. I can no longer dance."

#

"You helped me once, when I did not know if anyone could. Now I will help you, Erica. Please, meet with Jeremy and Renee. Today is a bad day, tonight I will stay home. But it is probably best that you go alone in any case." She saw my face and spoke words I vividly remembered. "Don't be afraid. Here, there is only love."

#

When Kenneth came to me that night, it was clear that Carlotta had told him everything. Tears stained his face when I opened the door to him. There was nothing that to say, no words were sufficient. Tears came to my eyes also, as I mourned for them both, for the loss of the dance that brought them to each other. He tried to speak, but could not. His eyes blazed with fury borne of heartbreak as he stepped toward me. I did all that I knew to do; I offered myself to him.

He collected me to him, crushing my much smaller body to his large frame, bruising our mouths with kisses as his tongue explored my mouth. I was afraid for him, almost afraid of him, but my body responded to his desire, his heat. I felt myself becoming wet as his hand released my body only to attack my clothes, pulling them from me roughly and without ceremony. It was very unlike the gentle touch I was accustomed to from him, but although the shock of the abrupt change surprised me, it only excited me more. I fumbled for him in return, but he brushed my hands aside as he tore his own clothes away, discarding them almost as quickly as he had disposed of mine. I stood before him naked and unashamed, and he growled as he pulled and lifted me to him.

The moment came suddenly, the door still hanging open as we desperately attacked each other. His need spurred me on, and I responded with my own hunger, wrapping my legs around his waist as he mauled my breast with his free hand, pinching the nipple, making me squirm with increasing desire. I clutched his back, one hand at the back of his neck as he entered me, his cock burning with its own heat, lighting my whole body on fire. He held me by the waist and the back of the neck as he thrust into me.

We never made it past the doorway. He kicked the door shut and braced my back against it as he pounded into my body, trying to burn out the fear which had overtaken his life and drove his sudden, intense desire. I knew that I would be sore later, but I felt fully alive; my body trembled as his crushing thrusts drove him into me. The friction of our bodies coming together in unchecked lust pushed me over the edge, the high cliff of ecstatic release. I cried out as I came, my spasming body pulling him with me into the vortex of orgasm. He held me to his chest as his seed flooded me. As the moment passed, he rocked me gently in his arms. I was still impaled on his softening cock as I laid my head on his shoulder. I felt his tears on my back as he whispered his torment. "What will we do? Oh Erica, what will we do now?"

#

I arrived at the given address, a restored Victorian on expensive Nob Hill, at seven o'clock. The tall, elegant, gently silvered man who opened the door smiled warmly. "Lady Erica. It is so wonderful that you're here. Please, come in." He offered his hand. "I'm Jeremy Williams, welcome to my home." He wound my hand through his proffered arm as I entered, guiding me slowly into the great room beyond the foyer. Every surface was planed and gleaming wood; high ceilings, carefully laid floor, bookshelves and walls shone with rich warmth, illuminating rather than stifling the stunning paintings all around. As I savored the interior, trying to drink in the beauty of this palatial room, I noticed that many of the paintings were Kenneth's, and featured Lottie. Jeremy gently touched my hand with his free one, "I knew you would like it. Lottie's told me we share many loves." He did not elaborate on his ambiguous statement; instead he led me to one of the couches before the empty fireplace, releasing me with a promise to return with wine, so we could relax and become acquainted.

When he returned, he passed me a glass of Valpolicella, its rich burgundy color and smooth fullness fit the grandeur of the room. I was impressed by his uncommonly polished manners and exquisite taste. As I savored the first sip I tried to arrange my mind to ask hundreds of unanswered questions. My attention was quickly drawn, however, to a lovely young woman who silently slipped into the room with us. Her coppery skin glowed with the same warmth as everything else in the room as she offered her hand. Before either of us could speak, Jeremy volunteered: "Renee Ste. Michele, Lady Erica." I think that we all smiled in combined nervousness and greeting, but my eyes locked on hers as their emerald depths glowed. I felt a stirring from the past, a reminder of my lovely Etienne. Unaccountably embarrassed by the moment, I dropped my eyes as she took her hand from mine, gliding in close to Jeremy, on the couch across from me. She was the first to speak.

"I need your help, Lady Erica."

"Please, just Erica." I smiled my encouragement, enchanted by her youthful and easy beauty, her lilting voice, and the unvoiced promise I saw in her eyes.

"Alright." She nearly whispered. "Erica." Jeremy's eyes moved from her to me and back again, drinking us both in with the gaze of both an artist and a lover. "I have studied my whole life, practiced to perform. And now, I freeze at even the thought of an audience. I cannot play before a full room, much less a symphony hall. It seems I can only play here, it is only here that I feel safe." I looked back and forth between them, confused by this turn.

"I am not sure that I am the one to help you. I have no art, no lessons to impart. What can I bring to you that might help you with this?"

Jeremy interrupted. "But you do have art. Everyone has an art. Sometimes it takes one person's art to unlock another's. Please forgive me if I am too familiar, but Lottie has told us how you helped her, and Kenneth. Before Kenneth's death, he told us about you also, how you helped him through her illness, the surgeries and heartbreak. And how you helped them to find each other again." More echoes of memory, reminders of another time. "Please, you will hear us play. Tonight, be our guest. There's no pressure on you, no demands. We want nothing more than what I know you have. You do not have to answer right now."

They moved, standing in unison, as choreographed and graceful as dancers. Renee offered her hand to me as I rose. "I will play for you. For you, it will be alright. I am certain."

Listening to our footsteps as we made our way down the long hall, I began to understand the special appeal of this house. The high ceilings and long halls created great acoustics, echo chambers which would amplify and carry every sound. We moved together to the practice room, another opulent and cavernous space. I was finally forced to let go of Renee's hand, which I didn't realize I was still holding. We settled in and they began to play, Jeremy accompanying Renee's cello on the piano.

After only moments of warming up and tuning to each other, they launched into Schumann's "Fantasiucke for Violoncello and Piano," a haunting piece dominated by the rich sounds of the cello. I was already captivated by the difficult favorite; seeing it brought to life by one so young made the experience somehow more unexpected. Renee's rich cello filled the room at the opening moments, as she closed her eyes and relaxed into the music. Jeremy's cascading notes were tinkling silver charms on a locked anklet, her grand, decisive notes echoing like hoofbeats on cobblestone. Her hands caressed the instrument in the lowering light, sunset descending. The cello, its shape the silhouette of a woman, vibrated under her touch. Her skilled and graceful hands produced notes which strained the capacities of even such a fine instrument. I was reminded again of Etienne, her skillful manipulations of my body, the openness and easy acceptance of her touch. The memory fit the moment perfectly, combining with the beauty of the music into a single fantasy of erotic surprise and violated expectations. I flushed with desires both remembered and new.

Abruptly, her cello became the hunted, Jeremy's piano the pursuer taking up the chase with urgency, his quick hands moving frantically over the keys, deft fingers practiced and sure like those of my long ago professor. His whole body worked over the keys, wringing music from them in the same way that Cristoforo's frenzied bursts breathed life into stone. Their music blended together, drew each other out, bounced from the walls and returned again richer, seeming to wake the walls to make the room became brighter and more alive with possibilities. The room glowed and I smelled a wisp of cedar. My senses were overwhelmed. I felt as much as heard the crescendo approaching, and it took my body with it. As Renee and Jeremy chased each other, they captured me between them in their passionate musical embrace . The climax came, and I felt the warmth spread through my body, my hips clenching, nipples erect and straining against my silk blouse.

RisiaSkye
RisiaSkye
92 Followers
12