Visions burned behind her closed eyelids. Visions of her teeth closing and snapping neatly and effortlessly through his column of flesh, the donkey at last catching the carrot of future time, biting him off and swallowing him and retaining him forever. Visions of her mouth clamped to his emasculated form, greedily and endlessly sucking, sucking blood and liquefied bone through the hole where his cock had been, sucking him inside out until every atom of his being had vanished down her throat to fill her bottomless vacuum.
I am the succubus, thief of souls—
She brought him skillfully to climax, gulped down his soul as it spurted into her mouth. His orgasms were never shattering when she took him in this fashion. They were pure and perfect but unlike his waking climaxes, they involved no part of his mind and little of his body, just its specifically sexual apparatus. He had never awakened at such moments and he did not do so now. He moaned in his sleep as he came and the sound vibrated magically in her ears. But the moan was quickly over and he returned to a sleep as deep as he had been in previously.
She uncurled and lay once more on her back, eyes closed now, mind more nearly at peace. She gave herself up to the taste of his seed, of his soul, the taste of him in her mouth and in her throat. At certain times — this was one of them — she even fancied she could taste him in her belly. His cells, his soul, deep within her.
She did this every night. Took him in sleep and j the soul from him. He had never caught her at it and she had never told him of it afterward. It was, she felt, a perfect unspoken bargain. Every night he stole her sleep and every night she retaliated with the theft of his manhood, his essence. His essential soul.
Now she began to feel herself relaxing, felt her body and brain finding the way to let go. It would not be a complete letting go, of course. That much she knew. Bui it would be a descent into a realm where dreams soon thoroughly overcame reality than in her waking hours. She lay still, eyes closed, hands folded on her stomach, and let herself float on the tide.
Fifteen
When the phone rang, Olive answered it. She said, “Just a moment,” and motioned to Linda.
It was Hugh. She listened to him for a few moments. Then she said, “No, don’t be silly. It’s perfectly all right. I understand. No, it’s more important. I think you should stick with it... Are you sure? Well, all right, but feel free to change your mind.”
She cradled the phone. “There goes dinner,” she said.
“The book takes precedence?”
She nodded. “But he’s definitely going to break by nine o’clock and he’ll pick me up then. In the meantime it’s going well, and he wants to stay with it.”
“What if it’s still going well at nine o’clock?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell him. To stay with it as long as he wants, but he insisted he’ll be done by nine one way or the other. And he will, because he told me to wait outside my building for him and he wouldn’t stand me up. Not after postponing it once already.”
“Unless he just gets so absorbed—”
“No, he’ll be there.”
Olive regarded her quizzically. “You don’t seem furious.”
“Why should I be furious?”
“I don’t guess you should, but not all women have your sort of cool and logical mind. You don’t mind playing second fiddle to a book?”
“No. At least I don’t think I do.”
“Hmmmm.”
“What does that mean, Mrs. McIntyre, ma’am?”
“Just ‘hmmmm.’”
“I heard the word well enough. I was curious about the punctuation. Is that ‘hmmmm’ with a question mark or ‘hmmmm’ with an exclamation point?”
“With a period. No. With three dots.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have the feeling you’re waiting for me to pry, Linda, but I’m not entirely certain.”
“Neither am I.”
“Where was he planning to take you to dinner?”
“An Italian place in Lambertville. Not fancy but good home cooking, I think that’s how he described it. He said the name I don’t remember it.”
“That sounds like Gus and Josie’s.”
“I think that might be it.”
“Well, come on, then. You might as well have an Italian dinner bought for you. Clem said not to expect him for dinner, and I was just going to have a sandwich down the block and come back here for a couple of hours. I don’t imagine I’ll miss much business closing early.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t, but I want to. I hope you don’t mind walking. I feel like stretching my legs.”
The restaurant was an unprepossessing place on a side street, tucked between a delicatessen and a laundry and across the street from a funeral parlor. All but four of the twenty tables were empty. There were long fluorescent lights overhead, patterned linoleum underfoot, glass vases of plastic flowers on the tables. The service, provided by one of Gus Pucarelli’s daughters, was eager if unprofessional. The food — they both had linguine with white clam sauce — was excellent.
They shared a bottle of Soave, with Linda drinking the greater portion of it. The conversation flowed easily and comfortably but remained quite impersonal throughout the meal. When the coffee came Linda lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair.
“Prying time,” she said.
“You seem a little unsure with our Mr. Hemingway.”
“Unsure? I guess I am.”
“Unsure of him or unsure of yourself?”
Linda frowned. “That,” she said, “is a very good question. An excellent question.”
“And?”
“You know, right now is an impossible time to come to any conclusions about anything. He’s completely involved with this book. He says it’s the best thing he’s ever written, the first important thing he’s attempted since One If by Land. That was his first book—”
“I know.”
“And so he’s completely wrapped up in it. I’m not objecting to this. I honestly don’t think I resent it. In fact I’m sad. For him, and also I think it’s a way to get to know him — I would think a creative person would live more vividly while he’s creating. More intensely.”
“That would stand to reason.”
“The only thing is that sometimes we’re together and he’s not really there. I can tell that he’s not really listening. He’s hearing some conversation his characters are going to be having in the next chapter.”
“What’s the book about?”
“He doesn’t like to talk about it. So I don’t ask. I asked him the title and he said Two If by Sea, but he was joking. Of course. I don’t think it’s about the war. I don’t know what it’s about.”
“Maybe it’s about you.”
“What a thought. No, I don’t think so. I think it’s about him.”
“Isn’t every book about its author?”
“I mean that it’s a more personal book than he usually writes. He’s as much as said so. That he’s getting into, things more deeply than he ever has before. I think he means he’s giving more of himself.” She put out her cigarette. “I’ll get to read it as soon as he’s through with the first draft. I’m not sure when that will be. I’m very anxious to read it, and at the same time it scares me.”