you have never seen ceilings like the Tiepolo ceilings in Alessandro’s palace. To die. It’ll be such fun. You’ll see. By the time we get back all this will be over. We can count on Uncle Laurance to straighten all this out.”
* * *
In Justine’s mind, marriage was the logical sequel to love.
“Didn’t you ever hear of an affair?” asked Bernie, for whom marriage held no allure.
“Isn’t that what we’re having?” asked Justine.
“I was never one to believe that every romance had to end up in marriage,” said Bernie.
“But this isn’t just any old romance, my darling. Can’t you tell? Can’t you feel it? This is incredible, what we have.”
Justine was fastidious about herself, not only in her neatness of grooming, but in the care of her body, which always carried the expensive scents of deodorants, and bath oils, and powder, and perfume. After they had made love several times, Bernie asked Justine not to mute her natural woman’s scents with sprays and atomizers. He told her a woman’s scent was like her fingerprints, hers alone, and it aroused him to know her as she really was.
Bernie rubbed his finger up and down Justine’s rib cage. Too thin, she wished her ribs did not protrude so much, but she was proud of her breasts, not too big, not too small, just right, perfectly formed. She watched Bernie lean down to kiss them. She liked to watch the total absorption of his eyes on her nipples, and the look of desire on his face.
“I’m glad your nipples are pink,” he said. “I like pink nipples better than beige.” As his hand traveled down her body to between her legs, he brushed his face back and forth over her breasts, moaning with pleasure, and then his lips began the slow descent downward to where his moist fingers were preparing for his tongue’s reception.
“Oh, Bernie,” whispered Justine, her hands now in his hair. She had never known there could be such bliss as Bernie Slatkin had brought into her life. She did not know it was possible to love the way she loved him.
“My Aunt Hester asked me if you were pretty,” he said, without lifting his head from his carnal task.
“What did you tell her?” Justine asked.
“I said you were as tall as me.”
“That wasn’t an answer to her question.”
“I said you were refined looking.”
Justine, enthralled with her lover’s lovemaking, replied, “Did you tell her I’m going to marry her nephew?”
5
You could pick out Constantine de Rham from a block away when he walked up or down Madison Avenue. His enormous head with its black beard and hooded eyes had a kind of reptilian magnificence. He was taller by far than most people and walked with such great strides that strollers on the avenue stepped aside as he passed and turned to stare after him at his aristocratic swagger. In fall and spring he wore his topcoat over his shoulders like a cape.
He had that day, in what was for him a rare burst of generosity, given a dollar to a beggar on the street, and, then, not ten minutes later, returning the same way, was offended and irritated that the same beggar held up his hand for more, having already forgotten him, rather than rewarding him with a smile of recognition and gratitude that he felt his previous contribution to the fellow’s welfare deserved.
Augustus Bailey and Constantine de Rham sighted each other from a block away and passed each other without speaking, each aware of the other and each aware that the other was aware of him. An unpleasant feeling stirred within Gus Bailey, as he turned to peer into the window of the Wilton House Bookshop, pretending to concentrate on the display of copies of NestorCalder’s latest novel,
Judas Was a Redhead
, until Constantine de Rham had passed. Sometimes Gus felt prescient, and he felt in that moment of passage that he was sometime going to have to play a scene, as he used to call it in Hollywood, with Constantine de Rham. Concentrating on Nestor Calder’s book, Gus did not
* * *
In Justine’s mind, marriage was the logical sequel to love.
“Didn’t you ever hear of an affair?” asked Bernie, for whom marriage held no allure.
“Isn’t that what we’re having?” asked Justine.
“I was never one to believe that every romance had to end up in marriage,” said Bernie.
“But this isn’t just any old romance, my darling. Can’t you tell? Can’t you feel it? This is incredible, what we have.”
Justine was fastidious about herself, not only in her neatness of grooming, but in the care of her body, which always carried the expensive scents of deodorants, and bath oils, and powder, and perfume. After they had made love several times, Bernie asked Justine not to mute her natural woman’s scents with sprays and atomizers. He told her a woman’s scent was like her fingerprints, hers alone, and it aroused him to know her as she really was.
Bernie rubbed his finger up and down Justine’s rib cage. Too thin, she wished her ribs did not protrude so much, but she was proud of her breasts, not too big, not too small, just right, perfectly formed. She watched Bernie lean down to kiss them. She liked to watch the total absorption of his eyes on her nipples, and the look of desire on his face.
“I’m glad your nipples are pink,” he said. “I like pink nipples better than beige.” As his hand traveled down her body to between her legs, he brushed his face back and forth over her breasts, moaning with pleasure, and then his lips began the slow descent downward to where his moist fingers were preparing for his tongue’s reception.
“Oh, Bernie,” whispered Justine, her hands now in his hair. She had never known there could be such bliss as Bernie Slatkin had brought into her life. She did not know it was possible to love the way she loved him.
“My Aunt Hester asked me if you were pretty,” he said, without lifting his head from his carnal task.
“What did you tell her?” Justine asked.
“I said you were as tall as me.”
“That wasn’t an answer to her question.”
“I said you were refined looking.”
Justine, enthralled with her lover’s lovemaking, replied, “Did you tell her I’m going to marry her nephew?”
5
You could pick out Constantine de Rham from a block away when he walked up or down Madison Avenue. His enormous head with its black beard and hooded eyes had a kind of reptilian magnificence. He was taller by far than most people and walked with such great strides that strollers on the avenue stepped aside as he passed and turned to stare after him at his aristocratic swagger. In fall and spring he wore his topcoat over his shoulders like a cape.
He had that day, in what was for him a rare burst of generosity, given a dollar to a beggar on the street, and, then, not ten minutes later, returning the same way, was offended and irritated that the same beggar held up his hand for more, having already forgotten him, rather than rewarding him with a smile of recognition and gratitude that he felt his previous contribution to the fellow’s welfare deserved.
Augustus Bailey and Constantine de Rham sighted each other from a block away and passed each other without speaking, each aware of the other and each aware that the other was aware of him. An unpleasant feeling stirred within Gus Bailey, as he turned to peer into the window of the Wilton House Bookshop, pretending to concentrate on the display of copies of NestorCalder’s latest novel,
Judas Was a Redhead
, until Constantine de Rham had passed. Sometimes Gus felt prescient, and he felt in that moment of passage that he was sometime going to have to play a scene, as he used to call it in Hollywood, with Constantine de Rham. Concentrating on Nestor Calder’s book, Gus did not
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