Other Colors Ch. 11-12

He nodded without looking up, "Cover your ears, Penny. This part is unpleasant."

I did. And I watched in muffled amazement as he scratched a pair of perpendicular lines into the glass, tapped the edges free, and fit a fresh cut window, precisely, back into the frame.

"Wow..." my eyes widened, "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"My Father made stained glass," he set the brace points back against the pane, covering them with fresh putty. "I didn't learn much from him, but I learned this."

Holy hell... I held my breath. Did he? Did he just tell me something about his Dad? I grinned down at the floor, genuinely thrilled. Without interrogation? Or torture? Or sodium pentothal? Under all his inquisitions, I'd probably relinquished to him about half my life story already, but he barely ever said a word to me about his own. Every time it started to come up, it seemed he spun the spotlight back around on me.

"So he was a..." I paused—shit, what's the word?—"...a glazier?"

His lips drew to one side in a wry smile, but eyes stayed cool.

"No. A priest."

Wait, what? I nearly did a double-take.

"But not...not Catholic, though?" my brow wrinkled.

"As Aquinas and Augustine," he made a few final touches to the window. "They made him Bishop of Bayonne before he died."

"But," I watched him stand, and gather up the remaining glass, "How is that possible?"

"Apud Deum, Penny," he dumped the shards roughly into the wastebasket, "omnia possibilia sunt."

Normally, sarcastic scripture made my skin crawl. It was a visceral reflex; instilled in me, I suppose, by all those early years of parochial school. I'd learned the rules well, and whenever I needed to break them, I still did my utmost to keep it straightforward. But somehow here, from his lips, the ironic blasphème seemed so much more apropos than the honest one.

His Father. Was he really a priest? And a bishop? I couldn't begin to guess what any of it meant. But I had the distinct sense he'd shown me something in him that very few people would ever see. I raised my eyes to him, blushing a little, and gasped.

"You're bleeding..."

He'd sliced his palm on one of the shards. A few crimson droplets already speckled the white tiles between us.

"Its nothing."

It didn't look like nothing.

"Let me help," I moved near him, my eyes widening, "Please."

He stiffened. For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to let me touch him. But after a few beats his stare thawed out a little, and I took him by the wrist just as he'd done to me.

I knelt beside the bathtub, and he leaned down over top of me as I ran warm water from the faucet, cleaning out the cut. Before long, his bleeding slowed, and I shut it off. The drain lagged, leaving a reddish streak and a swirl across the porcelain floor of the tub.

"Mort de Marat..." I breathed, still grasping his hand.

"I'm afraid, Penny," with the back of his fingers, he brushed the side of my face, "I'm more akin to his eulogist."

...To who? I turned his hand over to take another look at the gash. It was long, but not awfully deep. I didn't think he'd need stitches.

"Does it hurt?"

"Does it matter?"

He was still standing. And I was still on my knees—buried by the cold, blue katabasis of his gaze. And he watched me closely, sternly, as I leaned my lips in, and kissed his hand. A long-drawn and silent moment passed—the entire time, he didn't break his star—until without a word, he took my head in his hands, and guided me gently against him.

I shut my eyes. A chill traveled slowly down my spine, dissipating with a diffuse tingle between my hips. Through the rough, dark denim of his jeans, I could feel him start to swell against my cheek. I waited.

I wasn't certain of what to do next; of what industry he expected of me. But I believed whole-heartedly that I knew where we were headed. It wasn't something I was especially good at; nor a thing I ever particularly enjoyed. Still I was certain, any moment now, it would have to happen. 'It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds...' But just as I had been so many times already in Dmitri Caine's hands, I was wrong.

It never came. Instead, he just ran his unbloodied hand through my hair, and softly stroked the side of my face. We went on like that for quite some time, and very gradually, I let go—not just of my nerves and anxiety, but of time and space as well. There was nothing else; only him, above, and me, beneath. It was such a strange and tender moment for me. I didn't want it to end. I wanted to remain there, kneeling at his feet, forever if I could. I felt safe. I felt warm. I felt him...

That he was hard was not a thing I could ignore. There was a marble column beneath my cheek. There was heat. There was a scent that sent my senses whirling. I nuzzled a bit closer, and felt him throb. And like an obscene item left in a hotel drawer by some faceless former occupant, I found a thought in my head that had never before belonged to me.

I want it. My lips parted, sighing softly into his jeans. I do. I want his cock in my mouth...

By some sinister, synchronized reflex, my hand ascended angelically to his belt just as my lips opened up a little wider, and I lowered myself, slowly, to the tip of him. But he stayed me—catching my wrist, and gripping my hair. It mortified me beyond words, but a soft, pleading, and involuntary whimper left my lips before he lifted my chin to look at him, and they closed.

"Have dinner with me, Penny."

What? I flushed crimson, my senses suddenly flooding back to me. I shook my head, struggling to stand up, but found myself trapped between him and the rim of the bath. He made no motion to release me. I flushed deeper, embarrassed by my helplessness, and acutely aware of his keeping me there.

"I um, I shouldn't..." I dropped my eyes, glaring again at his boots, "Like I said—Peter's coming by. He's bringing soup."

"Yes," he nodded, "And where is he?"

My blood returned to a simmer.

"Why?" I asked acidly.

He cocked his head, "Why what, Penny?"

"Why dinner?" my words came through clenched teeth. "Why not—why not just take what you really want? I mean..." I steadied myself carefully—I didn't want to let him to see tears in my eyes again, "You obviously know how to get it. Why are you wasting your time with me?"

"Penny," his voice could have frozen me solid, "You have not the slightest idea what I want. And that's not what's happening here."

"What the hell is happening here, Dmitri?"

I should have shoved him in the shins, and stood myself up. I doubt anyone arbitrates all that well on their knees. But I didn't. The whole time, I let him keep me there—right where he wanted me; right where I belonged. He watched me for a while before he spoke, three creases cutting through his brow in triplicate.

"Its not easy to articulate."

I stared forward, blank and pale as white canvas.

"You want to hurt me..."

He stepped back, at last, letting me free, "...I do." He knelt down, offering his hand, and hoisted me gently to my feet, "I also want to keep you from being hurt."

I shook my head, blushing furiously. His eyes repelled mine like a pair of rare-earth magnets.

"I'm...not the girl you think I am, Dmitri."

"No," he took me by the shoulder, and drew me closer. "But you could be. If it was what you wanted, Penny." His voice dropped lower, "Have dinner with me. Tomorrow. And I'll tell you how."

At that moment, I was probably more aware of my own body than I was of my surroundings—I heard blood rushing in my ears; I felt my heartbeat accelerate on a fatal, curvilinear arc. I could feel every hair on my body, pointing like tiny, downy daggers in his direction.

"...Yes."

The word left my mouth without ever having entered through my brain—it was already on my tongue, as if he'd put it there himself. I shivered in his arms; and not at all because I was cold.

I was, quite frankly, terrified. But I think some dark part of me knew this was inevitable. Yes, I'd run from him. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter that I'd run, and it didn't matter that he'd tracked me down. Sooner or later, I would have returned to him. When he made love to me that first time; when he first marked my skin with his hand, he'd set in motion a metamorphosis in me. I couldn't be the person I was before, but I didn't know how to be the person I was becoming. I needed him. I needed him to finish what he'd started.

"Good girl," his hold on me grew tighter.

I blushed again beneath the infantilizing sobriquet, already so familiar to me; and felt his hand wrap around the back of my head, sharply bending my lips toward his. Yes. My eyes fell closed, and my entire body slackened against him. Yes. 'Thus with a kiss—'

A loud pounding at the door ripped me from my trance.

"Pens!" Peter's muffled tenor called out from the stoop, "Hey, Pens! You in there?"

He knocked again.

I sighed loudly into Dmitri's chest, poorly masking my disappointment, then pulled away; bracing myself for a rebuke. None came. But the flash in his eyes bordered on bestial.

"I'll get it, Penny," he squeezed my arm tightly, and released me.

Tabarnak.

"I don't—" my brow wrinkled up in desperation, "I don't think that's a good idea..."

But it was too late. Already, he'd stalked his way to the front door, and threw it open.

"Mr. Mulgrave," he spoke the name like an anathema.

I blushed painfully on Peter's behalf. When he saw Mr. Caine standing there doorway, he nearly lost his hold on two Styrofoam tubs of soup. Even after he recovered, they didn't shake hands.

"...Mr. Caine," Peter returned the chilly salutation, and stood on his toes to get a look at me over Dmitri's undulant shoulder, "I uh...I didn't know you had company."

"I was on my way out, Mr. Mulgrave," his voice remained icy, and he still stood in doorway, blockading Peter's path. "I dropped by to check on Miss Foster. And to discuss her new project."

Peter's face sank, "...new project?"

"Yes," Dmitri turned back to me, "I expect to keep her very busy this time." Finally, he stepped to one side, and let Peter through, "So don't overstay, Mr. Mulgrave. She'll need her rest."

Now my face sank. Is he? Is he really going? Just like that? I felt a violent stirring of frustration in my muscles, like the last, smoky throes of a fire before its extinguished by rain. Peter didn't even acknowledge me, but glared his way into the kitchen; loudly setting out some bowls on the counter. And I watched helplessly as Dmitri gathered up his topcoat and valise.

"...Are you sure you won't stay?" I breathed.

I knew he wouldn't. And I knew it was an awful idea, but I didn't care. I had so many questions still. I wasn't nearly prepared for him to leave. He stood over me, very close.

"You enjoy your soup, Miss Foster," he smirked, and cocked his head. "You look as though you're due for a decent meal."

I winced as he pinched a little skin around my wrist. And then I frowned—his hand was still bleeding a little.

"Well, let me get you some gauze at least..." I started to make for the medicine cabinet, but he stopped me cold.

"Leave it, Penny," he growled, and pulled me back to him. "Tomorrow. Dinner. Be ready at eight—I'll send a car."

I nodded unsteadily, and stood still as a statue while he leaned forward, laying a light kiss at the top of my forehead. The skin still tingled long after his lips left it.

"I'll...understand if you change your mind, Penny. And I won't come after you again," he still hadn't released me. "Just promise me from now on you'll use the door. You could've killed yourself climbing out that window—or climbing in this one, for that matter."

I flushed scarlet, embarrassed beyond words.

"Promise me," he repeated coolly, "say 'I, Penny Foster, promise to use the god damned door.'"

I stifled an awkward giggle. I figured I probably didn't have to do it—it seemed highly unlikely to me that Dmitri would pull any further funny business with Peter so close by. But I gave in anyhow.

"...I, Penny Foster," my cheeks and chest were on fire, "promise to use the goddamn door."

He nodded, his smirk resurfacing, "Good girl."

Once final time, he squeezed my arm, then turned abruptly and left me; pausing just a moment as he passed the kitchen.

"I've left your mug on the counter, Mr. Mulgrave," he contemned; then continued on toward the door, whistling what I realized with another fit of flushing was the melody to 'She Came In through the Bathroom Window', and with rush of cold air, was gone.

...Tomorrow? I trembled. I couldn't decide whether it felt too far away for me, or altogether too soon.

"Alright, Pens," Peter emerged brusquely from the kitchen carrying the mug, and thrust it toward me with a scowl, "The hell is this supposed to mean?"

I squinted. Inside was a role of about five hundred dollars in large bills, and a little note scrawled in Dmitri's fastidious and unmistakable cursive.

'Pour le chauffeur-livreur. Merci beaucoup – D.R.C.'

"I think..." I frowned, "I think its because your truck got towed. I doubt he meant anything by it."

I wasn't convinced, and neither was Peter. Not that I was any specialist in knowing what was going on in Dmitri Caine's head, but I'd hazard that the implicit slight was not only intentional, it was strategic. Either way, my interpretation did nothing to brighten his mood.

"I came by yesterday, you know," he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I know you were here. Why didn't you answer, Pens? Why wouldn't you just pick up the phone when I called? And what the hell was he really doing here? There's no way he wants another painting."

I cocked my head at him, "Why's that, Peter?"

He dropped his eyes, but I kept mine steady.

"I mean—you know, because," he fumbled, "Because you're—you're a..."

"...A nobody?" I offered, perhaps a little sharply—but I knew it was what he wanted to say.

"I wouldn't put it like that..."

"No?" I narrowed my eyes, "How would you put it?"

"I don't know," he mumbled, "I'm sorry, Pens. I really didn't mean any offense. I'm just—I'm really worried about you."

I sighed, and felt my umbrage begin to melt. Well...with good reason, Peter...

"There are flowers in the kitchen, Pens," he took off his glasses, and wiped the lenses nervously at the base of his flannel, "are they yours?"

"Marie's," I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could manage. "Renault sent them over this morning."

He leaned a little closer, attempting to catch a look in my eyes. But I couldn't do it—and he knew I was hiding something. He shook his head, replacing his glasses.

"What happened after I left, Pens? And please," again, he shoved his hands diffidently into his pockets, "don't lie to me."

"...Nothing," I lied to him—I lied right through my teeth, "nothing happened, Peter. I promise."

Part 2 – Blue

Chapter 12

Leda and the Swan. Alpheus and Arethusa. Lovely Psyche, blindfolded in her bridal bed. Poor, cheating Venus, caught naked beneath her husband's net... Sing, Muse.

I dreamt of Grecian deviance—limbs of oil and marble overlapping. I heard Sextus, seducing his rancid Cynthia in song—'And if she plays with me with her shirt off, we shall construct many Iliads. And whatever she does or says, we shall spin long yarns out of nothing...'

"Penny?"

Sing...

"Penny. Reveille,ma chérie."

Madame d'Aulnoir wrapped her knuckles lightly on the brass cash register beside my head. I shot upright, panting and perspiring a little, roused out of my unsettling slumber.

"Oh là là," she leapt back, startled, "un cauchemar, Penny?"

I rubbed my eyes roughly.

"Um," my cheeks reddened, "Sort of... Sorry I fell asleep, Madame."

"C'est rien. We've had hardly a customer all day," she spoke softly, pulling closed the lacy edges of her cardigan. "I'd have let you rest longer, chérie. But it's time to lock up."

Christ. How long was I out? My eyes flashed to the Mora clock along the far wall, and I felt the blood drain from my face.

'Be ready at eight—I'll send a car.'

Dmitri's voice echoed darkly in my head. Too soon... I need more time. I had hardly three hours left—which in reality was more than enough to get back to Marie's; to get myself groomed, and showered, and dressed. Preparing my body for the oncoming evening was simple enough. But readying my brain was another matter entirely.

"Pauvre petit. You are so pale," she stepped closer, checking my forehead for a fever. "Not still sick, j'espère?"

"No, Madame," I breathed. "Just tired... I didn't sleep well last night."

Really, I hadn't slept at all. I opened the register, silently summing the bills.

"That boy who came looking for you," she raised her chin, still examining me through the lower lenses of her bifocals, "Did he keep you awake, chérie?"

Awake? I glanced up, and she winked one of her ancient, moonstone eyes at me. My cheeks heated. Yes, he did. But not like that... I shook my head.

"Quel dommage," she simpered. "He is trèshandsome, no?"

I shivered, "In certain lights, Madame."

"Mmm, mais oui—best in the boudoir, with the lights off altogether, no?" she flashed her pearly, veneered canines at me. "Dark. Osé. Un peu dangereux, no? He is le portrait craché of my third husband. You must tell me how you met such a man, chérie."

I shrugged guardedly.

"He um—he just picked me up one night."

In a way, it was the truth. I just didn't mention that it was off the floor. And out jail. And up three flights of stairs at his château... I imagine the consequent questions would have smothered me.

"Ah!" she groaned, and rolled her eyes, "Votre génération—you do not know how to tell a story. Would you like to hear how I met mari numéro trois, Penny?"

Oh boy. Here we go. I closed up the register.

"West Berlin. It was raining. We rode the last train out the city," she threw her palms out theatrically, laying the scene for me. "Teeth like a jackal on that one. He drank black rum. Wore a black suit, a black moustache—but I believe his shirt he left unbuttoned, like all the young sailors used to do. Oh, I was hopeless, Penny. Nous flirté. I asked coyly how he liked to pass his time. And do you know what he told me?"

I shook my head, and rested my chin patiently on one palm. There was little telling how long her chronicle might last.

"He said he spent his winters selling American rotgut in Uzhorod, and summers smuggling cigarettes from Montenegro into Italy. Un véritable passeur!" she slapped the glass counter, "Can you believe it, Penny?"

"No," I answered honestly, "I can't, Madame."

Either she ignored my orneriness, or else it simply didn't register.

"Oh, I could have turned him in right there to the border police, chérie. But he knew I wouldn't. Ce voleur... He had a drink in my hand, and his hand up my skirt before we ever left the station."

I blushed. The mismatch of her senescence and risqué reminisces never failed to embarrass me. And based on our well-established pattern, I could pretty well guess what the next question would be.

'Have you ever made love on a moving train, Penny?'

I winced, waiting for it—but she didn't ask. Instead, I watched her wander to a display rack near the counter, and tenderly straighten the sleeves of a vintage, black jacket.

"I think I've met every sort of man in my life, Penny. And I loved all the men I married. But him..." she tugged the lapels, "Only him—I never knew for certain if he loved me back, chérie..." her voice trailed off at the end, but she shook her head, recovering from the reverie. "Mais la nuit, oh!" she raised one hand to her forehead, feigning a swoon, "l'homme était un animal, no?"