Other Colors Ch. 13-14

My face tensed, "I didn't say that."

"No," he touched his jaw roughly, "but you agree."

I didn't nod. But I didn't fight him either. I remembered Dalí's unsettling erotic send-up of the sculpture—Venus de Milo with Drawers—and naughty, little Lynch; penciling his name onto the buttocks of the Venus of Praxiteles. 'Was that not art?'

I drew my mouth to one side. He was right in a way. Her body lacked arms, so her nakedness lacked context. And it made her, I guess, a little more and a little less than human. A symbol of sex. A sexual object...

"...objectified," I turned the word over on my tongue.

"Mais oui," he raised his glass. "And what I wouldn't give to make an object out of you, Miss Foster."

"By breaking off my arms?" I smirked simply to hide my nerves.

He drank, swallowed, and shook his head, "By binding them."

I felt my lips twitch, and the hairs on my neck and forearms stood on end. Otherwise, I think I kept my panic from showing too plainly on the surface. Inside it was shredding me to pieces.

"Does that arouse you? The thought of a man tying your wrists together?" he cocked his head, "Or are you just frightened?"

The latter. I think... I think his tone chilled me almost as much as the words themselves. He sounded so blasé, so matter-of-fact. I'm not quite sure how, but with one single question, he made me feel more cornered, more preyed upon by him than I had only a few minutes prior, with his hand about halfway up my dress.

"...both," I breathed, almost inaudible.

He nodded, "I'm glad. I'm glad that it frightens you. Because if you let a strange man tie your hands, Penny, what's to stop him from taking it further?" He sipped, and set his aside. "What's to stop him from putting a blindfold over those lovely green eyes of yours? Or a gag between those pretty, pink lips?"

This, my toes curled rigidly inside Marie's lace heels, this would be an ideal time to run, Penny. But I didn't budge. Perhaps my legs were temporarily paralyzed. Perhaps not.

"Nothing," very slowly, I shook my head, "...I couldn't stop him."

"You could," he snapped, "But you wouldn't. Not yet. We haven't found that line, Miss Foster," he stared coolly, and rubbed his jaw. "Now suppose he undressed you. Imagine it. You lie there. Bound, blind, silenced. Naked. Vulnerable. He lashes another rope around you. Across your chest. Just tight enough to make you swell."

I swallowed, barely breathing, as he reached over and laid my hand supine upon the tabletop, tracing a pale, blue vein into my wrist.

"Compression—the right amount, in the just the right places," he pushed, "opens up the capillary sphincters. Beds flood. Sensations amplify." With his other hand, he followed the three creases of my palm in a soft and tortuous zigzag. "Just his breath," he leaned closer, "would feel like an open flame against your skin."

Falò delle vanità. Auto-da-fé. A chill, cold enough to burn, moved very slowly up my arm, igniting and cauterizing each nerve it crossed. My eyes, my tongue, my breasts... Saint Lucy, Philomela, and Saint Agatha.

It should have bothered me more. A lot more. I should have been indignant. Aghast. Scandalized. But I wasn't. I was entranced. With him, the boundaries of what was proper were blurred from the very start. Now they seemed to have vanished outright, swept away like lines drawn in the sand. He curled my fingers in to form a fist, and released me. My palm kept tingling well afterward.

"Next train leaves in eleven minutes," he glanced sharply to his wristwatch. "You'll just make it if you leave now."

I don't know. I really don't. In a quarter hour, he'd given me about a thousand fresh reasons to run. But none of them removed me from him.

I thought of Eve, and Pandora, the Fitcher's bird, and the bride of Bluebeard. And Psyche... always Psyche. Each tragic girl, entrusted with the key to her own undoing—and all she ever had to do was do nothing. But hey, that's not a girl's nature, now is it? All acted, even though it spelled disaster. And here was I, the funhouse reflection of that unfortunate sisterhood. To save myself, all I had to do was do anything. And I didn't. I sat there before him. Passive. Silent. Submissive...

The waiter arrived with the first course. He laid out our dishes, refilled the flutes, and went away without a word. This time, at least, I think he could sense that he'd interrupted something. The air around us was thick with it. When he went, it faded some—but not entirely.

"Ever had one of these, Penny?" he lifted his fork, and impaled a strange, wrinkled mushroom on the plate.

That's...a morel? I shook my head, trying hard to look as comfortable as he did with our sudden non sequitur from fetishes to fungi.

"Taste," he handed me the fork.

I squinted a moment, unsold. It looked like charred brain coral. Or just plain, old brain. But the smell seduced me, and I took a bite. Wow... I rolled the gills over on my tongue, swallowed, and almost reflexively reached for another.

"You like it."

I nodded. He grinned.

"This type...they'll only grow in scorched earth. We used to go hunting for them," he pushed one to the center of his plate. "After the harvest, a few farmers set their brush on fire. And they'd pop up all along the Volga the next spring."

I stopped chewing mid-bite. So...he did grow up in Russia. But his father—he was the Bishop of Bayonne?

I lowered my fork slowly, studying him while he sliced into the cap. 'A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.' I craved clarity. But it seemed to me each modicum of his history that I dug up only served to further obscure him. Each answer, inevitably, raised about a dozen new questions. Not the least of which, for me, was what the hell we were really doing there together—why he still insisted on wasting his time with me.

I sighed. Now or never.

"I..." my voice was dry, and fragile "I really do need to know, Dmitri. Right now. Or I walk." With a Sisyphean effort, I raised my eyes to face him. "Why did you ask me here tonight?"

He, too, lowered his fork, "The truth?"

My gaze fell down again. The truth was, I was bluffing. He had his claws in me. My limbs were leaden. I may as well have been chained to my chair. Andromeda on the Rocks. Rubens, Titian, Delacroix, Doré—I wondered how many men had painted their tiny shackles on the poor girl's wrists.

"So long as you trust me," he spoke coolly, almost contemptuously, "my motives really shouldn't matter to you."

Had I been holding my champagne glass, it might've been crushed back to silica dust. He didn't even look at me. He didn't need to. Because however fiery my scowl might've been, I was still sitting there. He had me. He knew it. And I had hardly a card left to play.

"What should matter," he went on, unbidden, and his tone unchanged, "is the offer I'm about to make—and whether there's any part of you I can tempt with it."

"...Alright," I was taken aback. Was he really just testing me? To see if I'd leave? I struggled to maintain my glare, "and...just what is that, Mr. Caine?"

"Deus ex machina," he folded his hands, and leaned forward. "I can take you away from everything, Penny. And it can start tonight."

"Um," I sank deeper into my seat, "come again?"

"I want you," his voice was dark and deliberate, "to stay with me at Lacoste for a while."

What? My mouth fell open.

"You won't worry about your food, your bills, your bed," he tilted his head, and dropped his eyes to my bare shoulder, "or any other thing that might trouble you. Your only decisions will be what to paint, and which books to read." He took up his knife and fork, slicing smoothly into a morel, "everything else is spoken for."

I felt a few cold beads of sweat gather near my temples.

"You want me," I repeated him, wondering if a second time around the proposal might sound any less ludicrous, "to come and live with you."

He nodded solemnly, "I do."

"Are you..." I squinted, dropping my voice to a whisper, "are you asking me to your mistress?"

He smirked, apparently amused. If he's teasing me again, my nails sank into the table linen, I'll die. I'll kill him first. But then I'll die.

"Play the ingénue all you like, Miss Foster. I think you have more than an inkling of what my intentions are with you. But this—" his smirk ebbed, "this isn't about sex. And I've no interest in purchasing you. All you'd consent to is to stay at Lacoste, and let me handle all your affairs for a while. No strings attached," for a moment, the irony flickered in his eyes again, "at least, not until you request them."

I wore my skepticism like an ugly perfume—so thick and aromatic, it was almost visible.

"You'd like me to move in with you," I tipped my head at him, straining hard to see inside his brain, "and you really expect me to believe it's not about sex?"

"It will sound strange to you, but not even sex," his voice fell to a grave and dulcet growl, "is really about sex for me, Penny. What I want is to control you. What you eat, and when. The way you dress and speak. When you come. And when you go..." he trailed off, giving me a slow, painful once-over; my skin began to burn beneath his gaze. "Consent tonight, and I'll be making your decisions for you. But I will never force you outright into anything. Understood?"

No. No. He can't, cannot, could not possibly be serious about this. I crossed my legs tensely beneath the table.

And yet, for the first time of the night, he was wrong about something. That last part—he said it would sound strange to me. It didn't. Not really. It scared me, certainly—the austerity when he spoke, and the dreadful way he looked at me. But still, I could sort of see how it was...sexy.

One at the other's mercy. To surrender oneself... I remembered Rodin's Eternal Spring. There was a kind of romance to it—a perverse, and twisted one perhaps; but a romance nonetheless. I gazed back at him. I wondered.

No. No. Knock it off. And get you shit together, Penny. I shook my head. It's not a game. And it's not a book. Or a movie. Or some dirty story you heard from Marie.

It was funny. I could almost hear the whole thing in my head—Marie recounting to me her kinky weekend escapade with the handsome and wealthy art collector. I would try to empathize. I might even offer her a little half-hearted affirmation at the end. At least, if she went looking for it.

'Well, maybe sometimes it's like, therapeutic to feel powerless or whatever. Doesn't mean you're weak. It doesn't mean you can't be a feminist anymore...' I could hear myself scraping around for the right words, and not believing a single thing I said.

But that wasn't what was happening here. And this wasn't some erotic daydream I'd stolen secondhand from my roommate. It was a man—a real one—who through some absurd comedy of errors had come to think that I, Penny Foster, should to play leading lady in this dark, blue theatre of his mind.

"No," again, I shook my head "I don't understand. But..." I wrapped my fist tightly around the flute's stem, "I think I'd like to."

He nodded as I drank. I watched him, half-obscured, through the clear base of my glass.

"During the day," he topped us off, and set down the bottle, "you'd rarely see me. I keep long hours. I travel often. Jules would be around for anything you might need. You'd have your own quarters. Studio space. The library, gardens. The whole estate at your disposal. But you wouldn't leave," he stopped, "without my permission, Penny."

I blinked, believing I must have misheard him. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us broke the stare. The Rackham illustrations, rapid as butterfly wings, fluttered about in my head. I saw the lovely, limpid eyes of Briar Rose, Belle, Clarissa, and Emily St. Aubert—some five hundred years of lonely damsels, locked away in their lonely towers.

"So...you really don't want a mistress," I drew a clear circle, like a cuff, in the condensation around the rim of my flute. "You want a prisoner."

He smirked, "I prefer 'artist-in-residence'. But let me make it completely clear," he set his hands splayed on the tabletop, "you're free to go at any time. There are no locks on the doors. You walk out the front gate, and go on your merry way. Doing so," he curled his fingers to a fist, "will only terminate our agreement."

"...Just like that?"

"Just like that," he echoed coolly. "Nothing messy. No love lost. Each of us move on."

Move on. I almost laughed. I wondered whether he knew how manipulative it truly sounded—to literally hold me hostage, ransoming my only chance to be with him. Yes. Yes, of course he knows. My skin prickled, and I crossed my legs a little tighter.

"Alright," my breath was shallow, "Alright. And hypothetically—suppose I stayed," I dropped my eyes, and pretended to inspect the mortar between roughhewn flagstones on the floor, "For how long?"

"As long it takes," he raised his glass, "for you to finish your three paintings. A few weeks. A few months. A year, maybe. It's up to you," he tapped the flute with one finger. "I'll set you up in the glasshouse. It's warm. Plenty of light. Breakfast is at seven, dinner at nine. You won't be disturbed while working. And if you leave Lacoste only when I allow it," he drank, "you'll stay for as long as you like."

As long as I like... Suddenly, I saw a montage of all the inexplicable women's provisions I'd discovered in his guestroom the morning after he bailed me out of Saint-Michel. So that's why then...

"You've done this before," I bit down on my bottom lip until it stung, "haven't you?"

"I have. It sounds trite," he recalled my words for Miss de Milo, "but I'm a busy man. Divorced. Away half the year in the Territories. No time or patience to date. Strippers and whores do nothing for me. And as I'm sure you've realized, Penny—I have complicated tastes. This," his eyes flashed, "This is what works for me. And I'll understand if you want no part of it."

I trembled visibly in front of him. How many? I wondered how many poor girls over the years he'd let fall for him, and then let fall apart. Three? Ten? One thousand and one? I thought of Scheherezade, distracting her king from dusk to dawn just to keep her head from rolling. And you're no Scheherezade. Just another notch on his chopping block...

But then, when it all boils down, I crossed my arms to stop the trembling, does it even matter? A little blue demon descended, and perched herself on my shoulder; sinking her tiny talons into my scar.

I mean, you're not in love the guy, right? Right? He's good-looking, sure, that's a perk. Probably he'll fuck your brains out once in a while. Might be good for you, for a change. But just listen to what he's giving you, girl—a chance to paint. All day. Without a care in the world. All this time, isn't that just what you said you wanted? He's footing your bills. You won't even have to work. And that doesn't quite make you a whore, now does it? No. No, of course not. After all, he says whores do nothing for him...

"It's tempting," I cut the cold voice off; flushing so warm that my skin might have blistered, "But I've been in debt to you before, Dmitri. You took...more than standard interest." I tried to raise my eyes to him, and failed, "And you know, when I left school, I never imagined things would be easy. They shouldn't. Or—why do it?" I knitted my brow, "does that make any sense?"

"Mais bien sûr," he nodded stiffly, "the starving artist? Coldwater tenement. A moldering garret in the Latin Quarter. Rats. Bread crusts. Tuberculosis. Selling your blood for paint brushes. That's the dream, isn't it?"

I glared, "You're mocking me."

"Only your methods," he brushed his jaw roughly. "You told me once that you thought the greatness of artists was proportional to their suffering. I think you're right," his lips were tight, "But Michelangelo was one of the wealthiest men in Italy. Do you imagine he didn't find time to suffer?"

"...You're no Medici, Signore," I murmured, still cross.

"And you," he raised a brow, slicing smoothly into the last morel, "are no Lavinia Fontana. Not yet. But I'm rich. And you're talented. So please," he slid one half onto my plate, "trust me when I tell you, Penny—it isn't worth it. You don't need to freeze. You don't need to starve. And letting me fulfill your basic animal needs won't make your work any less impressive." He leaned nearer, "Come live with me. I'm sure you'll find far better ways to suffer."

I kept glowering, but blushed, "You know I hate it when you do that."

"I do," he smirked, taking the last half for himself. "You flush when you're embarrassed. You walk on your toes when you're nervous. And when you're frustrated," he took a bite, and tapped his nose with the knife, "your nostrils flare."

"They do not," I covered my nose with both hands.

"They do," he swallowed. "We all have our little idiosyncrasies. I'm told my eyes dilate, and I quit blinking," he leveled the full weight of his gaze on me; cold, and blue, and impossibly piercing, "whenever I see something I want."

He stared, silent, and I shriveled a little lower into my chair.

"I can't quit my job," I breathed shakily, turning away. "Madame's old. She needs me."

"You're also an awful liar, Penny. You can never seem to look me in the eyes," he waved one hand through my line of sight, and brought me back to him. "Madame d'Aulnoir was getting along fine before you. She'll get along well after. But I understand your hesitation." He drew his jaw to one side, "Keep the job. I'll have her cut back your hours. Eight to noon. Three days a week. My driver will drop you off, and pick you up."

"How..?" I stuttered, "How will you?"

"The west parlor flooded last spring. I've been meaning to have it refurnished," he folded his hands, "I think an old lady's rubbish will suit it nicely, no?"

Ah. You'll buy her off. I frowned uncomfortably. 'Money answereth all things.'

"Anything else holding you back, Miss Foster?" he raised his wrist, "Tell me. Or else, there's another train leaving in nine minutes."

Christ. I felt my heart thumping in my throat; drawn up by its strings like a pail from a well. This is really happening, isn't it? I blinked, and blinked again. No. Wake up, idiot. I resisted an urge to slap my cheek, or hold my hand over the orange, flickering flame until it burned me back to reality. Wake up.

"You might still make it if you run," he needled me, knowing full well that neither my shoes nor my crippling attraction to him would allow anything of the sort.

"I just—I don't get it. I don't," I dropped my elbows on the table, and rubbed my temples in exasperation. "You've had me once. It can't be the thrill of the chase anymore." I quit rubbing, "Why me? When you could have anyone? I'm not special. And I'm not—"

"You are special," he bared his teeth at me, "Very. You may not realize it yet—but you're a natural. I noticed it the first time we spoke. And I'd be a fool to let you out of my sight, Penny."

A natural? I knitted my brow.

"What are you really getting out of this, Dmitri?"

He was silent a little longer than usual before answering. Made to guess, I'd say he was deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. And to this day, I couldn't really say for certain if he did or not.

"At the very least," he touched his crisp, white napkin to his lips, "peace of mind. I want you out of that neighborhood. Out of Saint-Michel. The sooner the better."