The Story of X: An Erotic Tale (6 page)

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. I do not deserve your gratitude.”

“Sorry? Selfishness?”

The breeze drops. The family at the table behind us has gone. The silence extends.
He speaks. “X, I saved you for
myself
. I rescued you because the idea of anything happening to you makes me ill. As you
must realize, you are the one I wanted all along.”

Now I have to ask.

“But you said Jessica—”

“It was a lie, to save you from me.”

His eyes are dark with anger, or sadness, or something else.

“I don’t understand. Marc?”

He sighs, and turns away, as if talking to himself. Contemplating the distant blue
Sorrentine coast.

“There is danger for you in this, Alexandra. And yet I find myself advancing, nonetheless
. . .”

Slowly, he turns back, and stares me straight in the eyes.

“I cannot help it. There is something in you, not just your beauty, something
in
you. I recognized it when you walked in the palazzo. Your bravery, your fearlessness.
That bright intelligence. I was drawn to it, irresistibly. Like a kind of gravity.”
He hesitates, then says, “What is that line in Dante? At the end of the
Comedy
. Like the love that moves the sun and other stars? Yes.
L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle
.”

He falls silent. I am silenced. What do I say? That I felt the
same
? Something very similar?

To stifle my words I drink some of the wine, the Moscato Rosa. It is sublime; intensely
rich and yet delicately roseate. Sweetness within sweetness. This feels like the most
important moment of my life.

“I love Dante, too,” I say, slightly faltering. “One of the reasons I came here is
to learn Italian, so I can read it in the original.”

His eyes flicker over mine.

“Favorite passage?”

“In the
Commedia
?” I consider, then answer. “I think the passage in the ��Paradiso.’ When the souls
are rising to God—”

He finishes my words for me, not hiding a delighted smile: “Like snowflakes ascending!
Yes! It is my favorite passage, too.” Our eyes meet again. He speaks the verse in
liquid Italian. “
In sù vid’ io così l’etera addorno, farsi e fioccar di vapor triunfanti
. . .”

Silence returns. Marc sips at his wine.

Then he sets down the glass. His red lips are now moist with the sweet Moscato Rosa.
He gazes into my eyes. His hand reaches across the table and covers mine. He leans
nearer. His touch is electrocuting; every other part of me wants to be touching every
part of him. The world pivots around us.

“Marc . . .” I say. I am pinioned and choiceless. I want no more delay. Our mouths
are inches apart. The world is irrelevant, the universe is nothing, all there is is
this moment and this table in this sunny outdoor restaurant with me and Marc Roscarrick
as he tilts his handsome face to sink his wet sweet lips onto my waiting mouth.

“I can’t,” he says. “I cannot kiss you. It is too dangerous.
For you
.” His sigh is tense with grief. “I want you, X, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything
or anyone as much.” A slow and horrible pause. “But it is impossible.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“S
TILL CAN’T FIGURE
out
why
.”

“So we haven’t gotten very far.”

“Weird. Really weird. He buys you lunch and says he
adores
you and tells you that you are the most beautiful woman since Helen of Troy, if not
slightly prettier . . . and then he says, ‘Oh but I can’t because of some dark, terrible,
brooding mystery . . .’ And then he escorts you home and that’s
it
?”

“He’s offered me a car and driver. So I can go see Naples without getting . . . into
trouble.”

Jessica nods.

I persist.

“Why would he do that, Jess? Why . . . ?”

“Let me think. I need nicotine to help me think.”

She grabs a cigarette and lights it, exhaling blue smoke over the crust of her pizza
margherita. Then she says, “Maybe he really is a very important
Camorrista
? And he doesn’t want his terrible secret revealed? He does look a bit of a dangerous
bastard.” She chuckles. “Or maybe it’s something
else
. Perhaps he just has
herpes
.”

Is that a sourness creeping into her voice? She is my best friend; I don’t want her
to be jealous or upset at what I’ve told her. So far her reaction has been good humored,
cynical, and laced with amusing sarcasm, typical Jessica, which is perfect. She is
what I want to keep me stable. Otherwise I might just lose it.

“Then again”—she blows a smoke ring—“it could be something to do with his wife. Her
death.”

We have been discussing
him
all night, in this little pizzeria down by the port. Jessica is indulging me with
these conversations—and I am grateful. But then, she got to choose the venue.

The pizzeria is open to the sultry night air. We are outside, but I can see inside,
where big men with slightly malign haircuts drink shots of rough grappa at the bar.
They knock it back in one swaggering toss, then turn around, as if expecting applause.
Some of them have scars on their arms—burns and cut marks.

Jessica likes these seedy places; she thinks they are soulful, and true, and authentic.
Sometimes I agree; sometimes I don’t. Right now I don’t care too much. I am not at
all far from bewildered, and I am in the vicinity of Very Unhappy. I am still rattled
by the assault in the Spanish Quarters, yet that terror has been eclipsed by the clamor
of confusion in my heart.

Marc Roscarrick feels the same as me, and yet he cannot allow himself to be with me?

Yet he also offers me a car—and a driver. Giuseppe. Why would he do that if he never
wants
this
to go any further?

I gaze across the napkin-littered table at Jessica.

“Am I being stupid, Jess? Do you think I should just forget him?”

She gazes right back at me.

“Yes.”

I am bitterly disappointed; I also know she is right.

“However . . . .” Jess adds, stubbing out her cigarette with relish. Her words are
smoke in the warm evening air. “I know you won’t.”

“Sorry?”

“You can’t forget about him, can you, hon? It’s already gone too far, hasn’t it?”

Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. Jessica’s expression is accepting and clever.
Sometimes I wonder if she sees deeper into me than I can see myself.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. You’re falling in
love
with him, X. I’ve never seen you like this before, all doomy and mooning . . . Catherine-and-Heathcliffy.”

“But—”

“This isn’t Deck-Shoe Mathematician, is it? This is the Real Thing. You’re practically
crying a river ’cause of some
lunch
. I mean, think about it.”

Her hands cross the table and she squeezes my hand; it reminds me of the way he touched
me at lunch. “Listen, you wanted an adventure, you wanted to take a few risks, you
came to Italy to find something new and exciting and, well, this is it. No? He might
break your heart, but you might break his.”

“But what if he is involved in . . .
something
?”

“So if he is, deal with it. This kind of stuff comes with the territory. When in Rome,
sleep with Romans.”

“Is that a saying?”

“No.” She laughs, lowly. “But it’s true. Besides, I’ll say one thing for the Mob:
they keep all the bloody tourists away. Naples is the last real Italian city, the
last city not overrun with fat foreigners taking photos.”

“If he is. I . . . I can’t . . . you know.”

Helpless. This is helpless. And useless. Marc Roscarrick has made me boring. What
can I do?

I glance at the bar again. Half the men in here are probably
Camorristi
. Of course they look like plain dockers and longshoremen, burly and tattooed. But
they probably spend their days scamming profits, altering dockets, smuggling contraband,
and sending presents to the wives of customs officers. Maybe they get a little violent
in a back alley by the Capua gate every so often, beating up on some rival.

Yes, I am sure they do.

And I am also sure that Marc is
not
like these men. He is funny and sharp and dignified and
intelligent,
and he has that lofty graciousness—or is that just his expensive English education
and his rarefied European breeding? Maybe it is
all
fake; maybe he is just another dancer at the masked ball of Neapolitan life.

And then there is the way he struck my attacker. I cannot ignore that. The serious
punch, the sudden explosion of expert violence—as though he were producing a deadly
weapon that he knew exactly how to use.

The blood on his knuckles as he drove. The dark skin, the white teeth, the predatory
animal. The way the junkies cowered when they saw him.

“Hello?”

Jessica is waving a hand in front of my face. As if I have gone blind.

“Sorry.”

“Let me guess, you were thinking of lottery numbers? The price of polenta?”

“He doesn’t want to see me, Jess, so it’s all pointless.”

“Yeah?”

“He made it clear, he might . . . have feelings . . . but we can’t be together.”

“Pah.” Jessica waves away my plaintive words. She glances up at the waiter, asks for
the check. “I don’t believe it, babe. He clearly
does
want to see you, there is just some problem. But sexual desire at this level has
its own logic. When it happens, a real love attack, then nothing can stop it—trust
me.” She smiles in the dusk. “He will be back.”

I so want this to be true. I am scared that it is true. I need it to be true. I want
to fly home at once; retreat from danger and hurt.

Jessica pays the bill and we rise, ignoring the attentive eyes of the burly drinkers,
and walk along the Naples waterfront to Santa Lucia. The moon above Capri is pale
and loitering; she is a white-faced northern widow in dark southern veils. Mantillas.
Suddenly everything seems very sad. The chattering Italians gathered in groups and
strolling in families no longer enliven me. It is stupid. I want to cry. What is happening
to me? These feelings are entirely overblown and unjustified, and yet they are very
real. I am wounded, I am an idiot, I am hurt, I am self-pitying. I am staring at Marc
Roscarrick.

Marcus Roscarrick.

He is standing there, in the moonlight and the lamplight, by the door to my apartment.
He is leaning against his car, his silver-blue Mercedes, quite alone. He is in jeans
and a serene dark shirt. He is gazing down the boulevard at the slice of starlit sea;
he seems oblivious, tall, solitary, shadowy, very pensive. The dark evening light
sculpts his cheekboned face. He looks younger and sadder than ever before. Yet more
masculine.

“See,” says Jessica. “Told you.”

Alerted by Jessica’s voice, Marc turns, and he stares at me. My mouth is open but
unspeaking. I feel like I have been captured in a spotlight on stage, and the whole
darkened audience of the city is watching the drama. Everything else yields to silence.

“I’m just going to a bar . . .” Jessica says, and she smiles at me with a significant
expression. Then she slips away, into the city—leaving me and him. The only two people
in Campania. It’s just me and him and the constellation of Orion, which glistens over
Sorrento and Capri.

I can tell by his dark, sad, broken half-smile that something has changed, something
irrevocable has changed between us; the breach has been made.

He moves toward me. But I am already running toward him.