The 1st Deadly Sin

6

He propped himself on his left elbow, let his right palm slide lightly down that silky back.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about this woman, Celia Montfort.”

Soft laughter.

“What do you want to know about ‘this woman, Celia Montfort’?”

“Who is she? What is she?”

“I thought you knew all about her.”

“I know she is beautiful and passionate. But so mysterious and withdrawn. She’s so locked up within herself.”

“Yes, she is, luv. Very deep, is our Celia.”

“When she goes away, unexpectedly, where does she go?”

“Oh…places.”

“To other men?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes to other women.”

“Oh.”

“Are you shocked, darling?”

“Not really. I guess I suspected it. But she comes back so weary. Sometimes she’s been hurt. Does she want to be? I mean, does she deliberately seek it?”

“I thought you knew. You saw those bandages on her wrists. I saw you staring at them. She tried to slash her veins.”

“My God.”

“She tried it before and will probably try it again. Pills or driving too fast or a razor.”

“Oh sweetheart, why does she do it?”

“Why? She really doesn’t know. Except life has no value for her. No real value. She said that once.”

He kissed those soft lips and with his fingertips touched the closed eyes gently. The limpid body moved to him, pressed sweetly; he smelled again that precious flesh, skin as thin, as smooth as watered silk.

“I thought I made her happy.”

“Oh you did, Dan. As much as any man can. But it’s not enough for her. She’s seen everything, done everything, and still nothing has meaning for her. She’s run through a dozen religions and faiths, tried alcohol and all kinds of drugs, done things with men and women and children you wouldn’t believe. She’s burned out now. Isn’t it obvious? Celia Montfort. Poor twit.”

“I love her.”

“Do you? I think it’s too late for her, Dan. She’s-she’s beyond love. All she wants now is release.”

“Release from what?”

“From living, I suppose. Since she’s trying so hard to kill herself. Perhaps her problem is that she’s too intelligent. She’s painted and written poetry. She was very good but couldn’t endure the thought of being just ‘very good.’ If she didn’t have the talent of a genius, she couldn’t settle for second-best. Always, she wants the best, the most, the final. I think her problem is that she wants to be sure. Of something, anything. She wants final answers. I think that’s why she was attracted to you, darling. She felt you were searching for the same thing.”

“You’re so old for your age.”

“Am I? I’m ancient. I was born ancient.”

They laughed gently, together, and moved together, holding each other. Then kissing, kissing, with love but without passion, wet lips clinging. Blank stroked webbed hair and with a fingertip traced convolution of delicate ear, slender throat, thrust of rib beneath satin skin.

Finally they drew apart, lay on their backs, side by side, inside hands clasped loosely.

“What about Valenter?”

“What about him?”

“What is his role in your home?”

“His role? He’s a servant, a houseman.”

“He seems so-so sinister.”

Mocking: “Do you think he’s sleeping with brother or sister? Or both?”

“I don’t know. It’s a strange house.”

“It may be a strange house, but I assure you Valenter is only a servant. It’s your imagination, Dan.”

“I suppose so. That room upstairs. Are there peepholes where other people can watch? Or is the place wired to pick up conversation?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“I suppose so. Perhaps I was believing what I wanted to believe. But why that room?”

“Why did I take you there? Because it’s at the top of the house. No one ever goes there. It’s private, and I knew we wouldn’t be interrupted. It’s shabby, I know, but it was fun, wasn’t it? Didn’t you think it was fun? Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. Because I read so much into it that doesn’t exist. Perhaps.”

“Like what?”

“Well, this woman-”

“I know, ‘this Celia Montfort.’”

“Yes. Well, I thought this Celia Montfort might be manipulating me, using me.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. But I feel she wants something from me. She’s waiting for something. From me. Is she?”

“I don’t know, Dan. I just don’t know. She is a very complex woman. I don’t know too much about women; most of my experience has been with men, as you very well know. But I don’t think Celia Montfort knows exactly what she wants. I think she senses it and is fumbling toward it, making all kinds of false starts and wrong turnings. She’s always having accidents. Slipping, upsetting things. Knocking things over, falling and breaking this or that. But she’s moving toward something. Do you have that feeling?”

“Yes. Oh yes. Are you rested now?”

“Yes, darling, I’m rested.”

“Can we make love again?”

“Please. Slowly.”

“Tony, Tony, I love you.”

“Oh pooh,” Tony Montfort said.