The Story of X: An Erotic Tale by A. J. Molloy

lust. Trying
     not to look but looking. And now he gazes at me.
    The erotic tension between us, the almost-touching-ness, is delicious yet unbearable.
     Gloriously intolerable. It cannot go on. It must go on. The drought must break, the
     wet season must return. Yet still the sun beats down.
    He raises a hand.
    “Perhaps we need a little more wine.”
    “Do we?”
    He nods.
    “Something different this time. Something rather special.”
    Glancing along the table, I notice that the dishes and the plates have all been spirited
     away, without my really being aware. I am not surprised; Marc Roscarrick is surrounded
     by a halo of things that just happen , appropriately yet invisibly.
    The plates have, in turn, been replaced with a new silver bucket and a fresh bottle
     of wine. Marc extracts this small, slender half bottle; turning it in his hand, he
     shows me the label.
    “It is Moscato Rosa, from St. Laurenz, again in the Alto Adige.” Marc pours a couple
     of inches into a tiny glass, which he then pushes my way.
    The wine looks like liquefied amber mixed with the blood of a saint. The aroma is
     already divine. He gestures at my glass of rosy gold wine. “We only make a few hundred
     bottles a year; most years we can’t make it at all. The climatic conditions have to
     be absolutely perfetto . There are only ten hectares of vineyards in the world that are dedicated to this grape.”
    I pause before I taste. The time has come; before this goes too far, before I drink
     too much, I really must have the answers.
    “Marc. How did you know where I was in the Quartieri? How did you know I needed rescuing?”
    The breeze ripples the parasol above us. Marc carefully replaces the bottle in the
     silver bucket, then looks my way.
    “The first time I glimpsed you, Alexandra, in the Gambrinus . . .” He gestures helplessly,
     like someone confessing a dark secret. “I thought you were the loveliest woman I had
     ever seen.”
    I stare at him. My mind resists the words, but my heart soars. It soars. It does.
     I am a fool. But it does. The loveliest woman I had ever seen .
    Me .
    “I am sorry if this sounds glib or facile, X, but it is also the truth. I wanted to
     come over and talk to you. Immediately.”
    I manage to speak.
    “So?”
    “I restrained myself. Instead, I listened in to your conversation. I am sorry. Then
     I paid for your drinks. I couldn’t help doing that at least. And then I left, before
     I did anything more foolish.”
    “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
    He ignores my question.
    “But then you came to the palazzo. You were audacious. You were not quite the innocent
     I imagined. You were also funny and smart and . . . Well, it was very difficult to
     resist again . I am not a man to restrict myself to sentimentality.”
    What is he saying? I am melting in the words. Melting. But I mustn’t. I need to know
     about Jessica. Why did he tell me he was interested in Jess? Before I can ask, he
     goes on.
    “After you left the palazzo I asked friends of mine—friends, colleagues, servants—to
     look out for you. Again, I am sorry. I was interfering in your affairs, without your
     permission, it is unforgivable. But you seemed . . . a little naïve, maybe too audacious.”
    “You had me followed?”
    “Not exactly. Watched over? Yes. Watched over is better. But then I heard you were
     exploring the slums, Materdei, Scampia—dangerous, dangerous places—and I asked my
     people to be more proactive. Yes, in the last couple of days, you were followed.”
    I don’t know what to think about this. Should I be appalled, disgusted, violated?
     I am not. I feel protected . Marc Roscarrick was protecting me . It is impossible to feel anger. He continues.
    “I was in the Via Toledo when my man Giuseppe called and said you were in deep trouble—he
     got to you first, but I came as fast as possible.”
    “And saved me. Thank you.”
    He waves away the compliment.
    “It was pure selfishness on my part.