The Cold Room

Sixteen

Gavin was beside himself with excitement. He’d arrived home to find the best possible news.

It was time.

He was trembling, though the fire was lit in the potbellied stove that he kept in the basement for heating emergencies and seductions. The room was bathed in an orangey glow, the flickering flames dancing in the shadows. A small table was set with white linen and fine bone china. Candles in polished silver holders glistened, their light casting pools of yellow on the table. He’d opened a bottle of Silvio Nardi Brunello, poured it into a flat-bottomed crystal decanter to breathe. There was a box of chocolates on the table, divinely rich truffles he had imported especially for this evening. He had one of his favorite operas playing, Turandot.

Gavin unsnapped the locks on the Plexiglas box. His love lay still. He was overcome for a moment, then gathered himself and lifted her body, setting her gently in the chair closest to the fire. The chair was high-backed; a quick loop of thirty-test line and she was upright. He set her hand on the chocolate, arranged her face in a smile. There, that was better. In the flickering light, the hollows of her cheekbones were like gorges, her mouth appropriately slack. Her eyes, deepest chocolate, like the truffles, watched him wherever he went in the room.

He settled across from her and poured the wine. Raised his glass in a respectful toast, took a sip. He cleared his throat, and began singing an aria from Turandot, softly, under his breath. “Nessun Dorma,” Puccini’s fateful words about a lonely princess, silent in her cold room, waiting for the love of a worthy man. He was that worthy man. He had no ear for the tune, knew he couldn’t do it justice, but he whispered the phrases, and they flowed around her body, soft as a lover’s caress. He hoped she could hear him, wherever she was, hear him making love to her with sweet words.

“…Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio che ti fa mia! Il nome suo nessun saprà e noi dovrem, ahime, morir.”

He dropped to one knee and followed the words in English, whispering still, knowing she’d never fully comprehend in Italian. “On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine.”

He untied her. She leaned on his shoulder in a deathly embrace, her hands dangling down his back, touching him, holding him, and he wept with joy. Scooping her up with both arms, he crossed to the fire. A soft feather mattress with silken sheets was warmed by the flames. He laid her carefully on the bed, arranged her hair to spill over the fluffy pillow. She gazed into his eyes. When he kissed her, and her mouth parted, he nearly lost his mind. So sweet.

He took his time, making love to her gently, not wanting to hurt her. She accepted his embrace, never fighting, always willing. He took her again, and again, and again.

The night passed much too quickly. At the dawn, light creeping in through the cracks under the doors, Gavin extricated himself from between her legs, leaned up to give her a kiss. She wasn’t as stunning in the light.

“It’s time to bathe, my love. Oh, why did you have to leave me so soon?”