Фэлсберг Валд Андрович: другие произведения.

A Song in Two Tongues

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   You take my luggage out of the car. I kiss Hunnie and place her into your right hand. With the travelling bag in the left one, you stand in front of me disarmed, your unbuttoned shirt revealing black curls. I sink my fingers into them and press my sun-bleached mop against your shoulder.
   "Go!" you say.
   "Mm," I whine, "I just dooon't want to leave you for two days..."
   "... for others!" you tease. "See that you don't slip yourself!"
   "One cannot slip on such!" I stiffen my trained ivory legs in the hot pants, as you tease, painted barely halfway down my rear.
   "Not a bit of it! All the swarthy wildlife slips on the pale ones like crazy - French, Spanish, Italian..."
   I close your mouth, greedily inhaling out of it all of the mockery that might follow, then I grab the bag and disappear into my native airport.
   Soon a text message arrives. Laughing I call back at once:
   "But I you even more!"
  

*

   A huge airport. I am met there and brought to the hotel. In the lobby, I greet other participants sitting at the bar, and go to my chamber.
   We're provided cosy double rooms. I have an amazing roommate - a giggly middle-aged Russian. She's not so handy in English and really enjoys an interpretor with a Baltic accent.
  

*

   The introductory session begins at five. I notice him at once. Besides the seminar's greying host - the only male. Dark, curly, silvered temples. His tight shirt clings to sculpted shoulders. The pearly teeth revealed by his smile seem too dazzling to be true.
   My place at the round table is directly opposite him. I take a seat, cross my legs, tug my mini forth and try to settle in at an angle, to avoid staring at him the whole time.
   One by one, we introduce ourselves. He is a Greek. Important, from the international committee. "Love him and indulge him!" the host jokes.
  

*

   Dinner in a restaurant. I come in late. Everyone stares. He - in an elegant suit, the ladies - some still in track pants and sweaters as in the seminar, others dressed up in jeans and t-shirts. I'm no good at that. My cocktail dress, ascetically closed on top, uncovers, as you tease, my stocking-seams from the upright heels up to the very surprise.
   I search for a free spot. One is beside him. The pearly smile seems too sincere to be true. Before I've decided on where to sit, he stands up and pulls back the chair.
   We chat with the ladies all around. I avoid turning to him by chance, but I feel I'm talking for him. I'm very witty.
   He's very witty.
   A text message arrives. I smile and reply.
  

*

   After dinner, everyone goes to their rooms. The Russian and me - to the Old Town.
   We haven't gone far when we meet the host and him. We continue together, the four of us.
   "What is that monument?" I ask the host.
   A light touch on my shoulder:
   "Let me tell you!"
   For a moment I listen earnestly. Then less so. He knows nothing about the monument.
   For the rest of our walk until midnight, I laugh. He keeps on commenting, just commenting - on everything that we see. Nothing he says is true. Just babbling, like you: cleverly and sweetly, without sense and with elegance.
   He opens the door for a lady, extends a hand - not only to me. Just a trifle, but nice.
   The good-night is friendly aloof. The sincere pearly smile is true.
  

*

  
   The next day - practice in the dust of the arena. I wear the stretchy jeans not only for comfort: my legs gain from not improving their shape.
   I know my job. Better than the rag-doll Europeans. He sees this. I want him to see me all the time.
   He sees me very much. All the time.
  

*

  
   Dinner in a restaurant. I come in late. Everybody looks at me. I am in a purple gown split up to the stocking-lace. My marble shoulders are tanned, as you tease, ivory black by the end of summer.
   This time, there are fewer jeans and sweaters: other participants have also changed into women.
   I search for a free spot. The one lies quite opposite the folds of his tuxedo. I pull back the chair. He stands and nods his head. The pearly smile is too true to be merely sincere.
   We chat with the other women. I speak unnecessarily loudly. I hear him well, too.
   We are very witty.
  

*

  
   "May I invite you for a walk to the Old Town?"
   "The only way to find out - to invite!"
  

*

  
   We sit in a cosy café. He talks all the time.
   A piano is playing unobtrusively.
   Suddenly his fingers are playing my sun-bleached palm unobtrusively. Not interrupting the conversation. I laugh and I laugh.
   "May I have a smoke?" he asks for permission, as always.
   "And me?"
   He makes me a roll of his shag incense, too. Generally, I don't smoke. But his smoke is very delicious.
   The sincerely true pearly smile is suddenly very delicious. Shortly interrupting the conversation.
   A text message arrives. I smile. Replying later.
  

*

  
   "Can I show you my room?"
   "Well, I can show you ours - everyone has the same!"
   "Not exactly the same. I changed mine this morning. To a deluxe suite," he looks roguishly straight into my eyes: "Ours."
   "Wasn't fine enough for you?"
   "Expecting guests..."
   "So late?"
   "Exactly."
   "But will we manage to tour your suite before your guests?"
  

*

  
   The boudoir is fit for kings. And a sirtaki is playing: a lovely cliche souvenir for me, knowing little about his motherland, from him, knowing nothing about mine.
   A vase of red roses on the table. Thirteen!
   "For the guests," he explains and lights the candles.
   There is a curtain beside the bed behind the night-table. I pull the string: a shower's glass wall appears.
   "Also for guests?" I tease. "Hang on, just a moment!" I slip behind it and pull the curtain closed.
   Water runs. I write a text message.
  

*

  
   My unprotected back writhes and trembles beneath just barely bearable feathery touches - as if evading, as if begging. He wraps my arms around his neck and plays them like a clarinet. He drinks in my lips, ears, neck, shoulders, the hollow between my clavicles, tears the red curtain down and, like molten lava over sun-bleached tundra volcanoes, erupts over the pink-snow-capped peaks. Then he lifts me up light as cotton and pours me over the blanket heavy as gold.
   Black nylon melts in incandescent lips. Wandering fingers feverishly fold purple waves higher and higher. My souvenir: no barrier underneath, just a bare, enticing, northern rose-miracle in a frame of white fuzz - refreshment for eyes tired of black-velvet-draped cerise.
   With the chiaroscuro of candles, a true pearl dazzle descends into my lap. In an ivory throne between night-black lace, lips dewy and greedy for kisses pour with a foreign-tongue song of passion - sultry and sweetly intoxicating...
  

*

  
   "I'll take a shower," he says.
   "Such a Greek habit after making love?" I tease.
   "After? No, between!" Gently, he rearranges my dress back over my breasts. "Wait a while! Watching what you like meanwhile," he turns on the TV, "but you're not allowed to undress: that is not a women's work!"
   I change channels. A text message arrives. I smile and quietly call back, then switch off the TV and... throw open the curtain!
   Weeping glass. Laughing - dark, muscled, in soapy curls from chest to full stop, handsome in his speechless surprise.
   "?!"
   "Watching what I like!"
  

*

  
   The airport. Crowd. Still blind after scarce minutes of sleep in the seat, my eyes are searching for you...
   There! A purple-bright shirt with black curls between open buttons.
   Red roses. Thirteen again! Together - reminds my upcoming birthday.
   The kiss is long, hot and greedy.
   "How I longed for you!" you whisper.
   "I want you!" I whisper back.
   "I'm available."
   "Where is Hunnie?"
   "With mother."
   "I'll die, by the time she's asleep."
   "Mind you don't fall asleep first!" you tease.
   We drive. I describe. You want to hear everything. How I arrived, how was I greeted, how were the rooms, the seminar, how...
   "Where?" I suddenly don't understand - and suddenly I do. "We're not going home?!"
  

*

  
   The boudoir is fit for kings. With a jacuzzi.
   "Hang on, just a moment!" I slip into bath.
   Water runs. I cast a glance to the mirror and smile at myself: "Before? No, between!"
  

*

  
   Your feathery touches beneath my blouse - just barely bearable. You wrap my arms around your neck and play them like an oboe. You drink in my lips, ears, neck, shoulders, the hollow between my clavicles, open up the curtains over snow-bleached tundra volcanoes with still hot rosy lava capping their peaks...
   A text message arrives. You smile:
   "Ah! Now he - us?"
   I'm no good at teasing now. I relish in quiet.
   "And how did he go on?"
  

*

  
   Deep in a Grecian marble-white valley, an enticingly sweet rose-petal crown resounds with a native-tongue song of love - gentle and mildly reverberating...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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