Torn Shapes of Desire Page 8

  When he first met her parents, they were so polite. Surprisingly charming, these New England doctors, to a man they insulted to her face. No hint in their eyes of the screaming hours over the phone, as Radhika tried, over and over, to reconcile them to her life. Face, what he’d once thought an East Asian concept, was terribly important here. Though Mrs. Annadurai had managed to avoid shaking his hand then.

  She does not hesitate now, and the triumphant glow of her face as he walks down the receiving line twists the bitterness inside him. Even drowning out the beauty of Radhika’s sad and private smile, as he wonders what he could have done, should have done to keep her. Bitterest, is that he suspects he could have done nothing at all to change her mind.

  Charming to the end, they’d even invited him to the wedding.

  You are cordially invited

  to the wedding of

  Radhika Marie Annadurai

  and

  Matthew Aravinden Koneswaran

  Letter

  Almost eleven — you will be up for hours still

  but I will sleep soon.

  Sorry you are away.

  I doubt you’ll get home in time to talk or touch

  which is a shame because I want to fuck you to absolution

  or oblivion.

  Whichever comes first.

  Funny how much you hate sunlight,

  because when I image you it is almost always in terms of light.

  White gold as sunlight touches the fine hairs on your arm...

  realms of light and shadow in a dimly lit room caress the place

  where shoulder meets neck in a delicate hollow begging to be kissed.

  I enjoyed watching TV tonight, but I would have enjoyed

  not watching it with you better.

  We should go to New England and I could push you down into a prickly

  carpet of autumn leaves and pine needles.

  When we finally rose, scent of crushed pine would hang

  heavy in the air and I would not tell you about the mantle of

  fire–leaf fragments in gold hair.

  You are so golden. Blonde is nowhere near enough a word.

  Talking about intensity with an old lover tonight I suddenly

  remembered walking with you once and feeling so helpless as I told

  myself that I should just shut up and go away and make your life a

  little simpler. And then you turned to me and said such things that

  I was convinced that I was a fool sometimes.

  Happy enough to cry. For a change.

  I love the way you’ve been kissing my neck lately. I think sometime

  soon, when I’m very awake and it’s either not late at night or so

  late that I’ve moved past being tired, I would like to spend a very

  long time kissing your sweet body. On and on until you plead

  exhaustion.

  Teach me to make chocolate mousse and we will spend a guilty

  afternoon on pleasure, remembering tiramisu and raspberry

  liqueur in chocolate on pale skins with sweet smiles

  and frighteningly open hearts.

  Tell me again that you love me

  and that this letter is not too much an imposition.

  I have this terrible temptation to turn this into a poem.

  The Devouring Night

  The bride–to–be of Gamilah, twelfth prince of that name, lord of the richest province in all of the country of Ranek, was alone in her tower room. It was her first moment alone in twelve days, and she cherished it, holding it to her like a gift far more precious than the dozen purebred peacocks in the courtyard or the teardrop ruby hanging at her throat.

  Twelve days of feasting; twelve last days of innocence. The ceremony arranged by his parents and her own would be completed, her fate sealed to his. And tonight, oh tonight would be the marriage feast, and the prince, her lord, would claim her as his own.

  Perhaps if she drank enough wine, she could forget that tonight she would become his bride. She could lose herself in wine and music and poetry, at this final feast.

  “Sharmi?” Her servant stepped into the room, not bothering to announce her presence. They had gone beyond formality long ago; Veena was more of an aunt to Sharmi than a servant. Still, they were no longer safely home.

  “‘Princess Sharmila’, Veena. And you must announce yourself.” Sharmila’s tone was gently chiding, with no real force to it. If Veena hadn’t been exhausted by the twelve days of feasting and ritual, she would have been the one making the correction, not Sharmila.

  “My apologies, my princess.” Veena ducked her greying head abashedly. “But it’s almost time.”

  “I’m ready.” Sharmila gathered the final folds of her crimson and gold–shot silk wedding sari in her arm, and stood tall for Veena’s inspection. Her oiled and perfumed hair hung past her hips like a midnight waterfall, and the rich gold of her dowry rested heavy on wrists and ears and neck.

  “You look lovely, princess. You’ll make a perfect bride for... him.” Veena had hesitated before naming the prince, and Sharmila knew that her servant harbored the same doubts about this new lord. He was so old, so stern. Sharmila had heard disturbing rumors about his terrible rages, and strange moods. Yet, as her mother had told her, being wed was a woman’s duty. Even more, marrying for the good of the state was a princess’s duty, and every princess in all of Ranek knew that it was so. So she could do nothing but hope that this alliance would be good for her as well as for her father’s princedom. For now... it was her wedding day.

  She will come back in her body

  She will desire him like sin

  She will desire him like virtue

  The poet’s voice rose and fell, climbing and receding like the tides. The prince sat on the high platform, ensconced in cushions like a great elephant at rest, his head nodding approval at what seemed a perfect wedding poem. But as the poet’s voice continued, Sharmila trembled.

  In some unknown place

  In an unknown room

  She will make love to him in her thoughts...

  The poet was a lean man, a hungry man. Poets were many in Ranek, and competition was fierce for court favor. The Queen in her palace had the best of them, but each of the lesser princes could boast four or five court poets, who lived lives of luxury far beyond that of the common bard. The poets had come from the country and the cities to court her favor, in the hope that she might bear some influence with her lord and win them a post in his court. This one had dressed in sober black, rather than the peacock hues of his comrades, a slim ebony blade in a night of brilliant fireworks. His eyes were locked on hers, and she could not tear her gaze away. She had seen him before, this poet. He was one among many who flattered and praised her, eyes burning. She had taken little notice of him, except to note that he was perhaps somewhat handsomer than most. But she had been surrounded by beauty since birth, and he was nothing. A poet. But now his words grew dangerous. The soft flowers that fell from his lips had turned to jewels, to knives. If he was not very careful, they would cut him.

  She will desire him

  Like a kind of dream...

  When the poet finished reciting the famous words of Gagan, the prince nodded his approval. Sharmila breathed easier, and began to once again pick at her dish of cucumber and yogurt, gathering her courage for the coming night. But then he began again.

  “My prince. I offer a humble poem of my own working. May you smile upon it.”

  With the first lines, terror gripped Sharmila. She carefully pushed away her dish, and turned, to fix her smile upon the prince. He smiled down at her, and so they continued for the length of the poem.

  My love is sweet as jasmine,

  Blooming only at night.

  She climbs garden walls

  Beneath my eyes;

  Opens only to my touch.

  My love is bright as starlight,

  Surrounded by the dark.

  She cannot be smothered<
br />
  By the devouring night;

  My skin burns, fired by her touch.

  When it ended, the poet waited, silent. The prince absent–mindedly threw a gold ring to the man, and then bent to kiss his princess. The poet bowed, and turned away.

  The rest of the evening passed in a golden haze for Sharmila. She felt feverish, and as the sandalwood and jasmine incense mingled in the overheated room, the princess feared she would faint. Dish after dish was paraded before her; cool sherbets and tall yoghurt drinks alternating with curried vegetables and spiced meats. She barely touched them, until the prince could not help but notice.

  “You are not eating, my dear.”

  “The excitement is too much for me, my lord. It has been a long twelve days of feasting.”

  “I, too, long for the day to be over, my love. Come. You must try this at least. I ordered it especially to tempt your appetite.” The prince clapped his hands, and the cook came forward with a small covered dish. The prince removed the golden lid to reveal another dish of spiced meat, unusual only in its size. “It is small, I know, but the beast it comes from does not have a mighty heart. It is said to be most tender, though. Will you not try it?”

  Sharmila tentatively tasted the dish, and as the delicately flavored sauce melted on her tongue, she realized that she was indeed hungry once more. She reached towards the dish, and the cook deftly slipped the contents of the dish onto her plate before vanishing into the kitchen. The prince smiled as he watched her eat voraciously, contenting himself with a glass of crimson wine. When she finished, he said, “May your appetite for that dish be a good omen for our marriage; may all your appetites flourish within it.” Sharmila blushed, then shivered as he leaned forward to kiss her again. Despite his kindness, she felt nothing but revulsion at his touch, and thought with longing of the dark poet, slender as a blade.

  When the last rays of the setting sun cast their dim glow over the room, Am’kele’s priest spoke the final words, sealing them together as husband and wife. Then the prince took Sharmila’s hand in his, and they walked through the garden to her tower, under the light of hanging oil lamps and the rising moon.

  It was hours later when she arose from the bed. She gathered her white gown around her, and crossed to stand by the window. The moon hid behind clouds, but the light of stars caressed her battered body, and her eyes were dark pools as she gazed out upon the garden far below.

  “Looking for your poet, my wife?”

  Sharmila spun around, her gasp betraying her as surely as a murmured assent. The prince lounged among the pillows, a bitter smile lighting his face. “You will not find him in the garden. That dish you found so tasty, that you devoured like the little beast you are? It was his heart. They cut it from him, still beating, and basted it with his blood. Have a care for your poets and courtiers, my wife. I do not take kindly to those who desire the beauty that is mine.”

  “He was only a poet, my lord. We had not betrayed you; I do not even know his name. I will not deny that something in him spoke to me, but I am a princess of Avasthi, and I have my own honor. You cannot know what he or I intended; he did not deserve this death.”

  “Already you leap to his defense!” Gamilah growled. “I heard his poem — I knew his intent! I had to protect what is mine, wife.”

  “You say I am a beauty. I am afraid that if you murder every man who speaks of me, my lord, your hands will be soaked in blood.”

  “If that is what is needed to protect my honor, then so be it. Perhaps they will learn not to speak of you, wife. From tomorrow onward, you are to remain in your rooms. All that you require will be brought to you by your new servants. I have already ordered that your old woman be sent home. I will have no more traitors in my house!” His brawny hands clenched and unclenched at his side, and his face was contorted with fury.

  Sharmila gasped at the cruelty of his restrictions. “You wish me trapped in these rooms; chained to your bed? I had my doubts about this wedding before, though our families gave us little choice in it. They are confirmed. You are the true beast among us.” Her hands were clenched on the window sill, her painted nails cracked and digging into stone.

  “Beast I may be, wife. But I am not so displeased with my father’s choice for my wife. I am your husband still, and you had best accustom yourself to that fact.” He rose then, and began to cross the room towards Sharmila. Then she stepped up into the window, silhouetted by the starlight, and spoke again.

  “I am not used to living caged, my lord. I fear I would not thrive in such a cage, and such beauty as I have should all be ruined. The poet did not deserve his fate, my lord, and I have no wish to spend my remaining days trapped with the monster that ordered his death. Remember me as I am; a somewhat battered bride, but with the taste of the sweetest meal I’ve ever had still upon my tongue.” With that, she stepped out the tower window, and was gone.

  She will come back in her body

  The Raneki believe in reincarnation. When the poets tell the tale of Sharmila Avasthi, they say that she was reborn into her parents’ House, in Avasthi province, generations later, and eventually went to her poet as his bride. They say she always had a love of gardens, and a passion for the night. It was she who ordered the colors of her House changed to black and silver; night and starlight. None can say what the truth of the matter is, but one thing remains the same, even unto the present day. On the night of Sharmila’s leap from the tower, the poets deserted Gamilah province. The bards and minstrels and songsters went with them, and not a one has returned, for memory of him, and her.

  Composition in Cream and Chocolate

  You walk into the small room with its vaulting ceiling. The lights dim automatically as you take your seat in the comfortable green chair. A blond man walks across the darkened stage, and a spotlight hits his face, casting sharp shadows across its pale lines. He smiles at you, the sole patron of this most elegant club tonight.

  “A private show?” he asks. You nod, waiting for him to announce the act. His smile deepens, as he steps back, gesturing grandly at the room around you. “Welcome to Wench Works! Tonight for your entertainment and... pleasure... we have a very special performance. Please sit back, have a drink, and enjoy the show!”

  The spotlight abruptly cuts off, and the man disappears into sudden darkness. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, and even when they do the stage appears black. Music swells in the background, an invisble orchestra playing an unusual theme. It is slow, controlled, and somehow subtly erotic. It leaves you with the impression of massive power, channeled into a thing of great beauty, and trails off tantalizingly, unfinished.

  A golden spotlight hits the bare stage, near the front. It moves slowly backwards, up the center stage, and focuses on a pair of black boots. Ever–so–faintly, you can make out silver tracery on the boots as your eye, and the spotlight, follows them upwards. The spot outlines tight black pants, clinging to clearly–defined muscles in long, lean legs. The pants hide nothing. They caress strong thighs and narrow hips before disappearing under a midnight blue silk shirt.

  The shirt is very thin and slides gently in the breeze from the ceiling fan, turning lazily on this hot night. You are sweating as you follow the light, and a drop of perspiration slides down your collarbone to fall into the crevice between your breasts. You almost regret wearing black tonight, as even a light chiffon dress is too hot in this small room. You take a drink from the glass on the table, tipping your head back as the cool liquid slips down your throat, careful to keep your eyes on the stage.

  The spotlight has paused, as if waiting for you to put down your glass, and as you do so, it starts moving upwards again, and the music returns softly. It thrums a gentle counterpoint as the light plays over a dancer’s body. There is little mass here, but there is power in the shoulders, in the chest, in the arms. The silk shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, and a loose black vest hangs over it, also buttoned. You feel sorry for the man in all of the layers, and feel a desire to relieve his...
discomfort. You restrain yourself though, and your only movement now is your foot tapping in time to the music.

  The light refuses to move above his neck, though it expands down to include his entire body, a sword of midnight and black lit by the golden glow. His hands slowly rise from his sides to the top button of the black vest, which is also traced in silver. He starts to unbutton the vest, oddly caressing each button, sliding his hands up and around, his fingertips circling before he tugs gently at the buttonhole.

  Your nipples are growing hard as you watch him, pressing through the fragile fabric despite the heat of the room. You re–cross your legs, feeling the chiffon damp against your thighs, folds of fabric trapped between your legs. You continue to tap to the music, the motion rubbing one leg against the other in a slow, steady rhythm.

  He does all three buttons that way, slowly teasing. He shrugs out of the vest in one smooth, practiced motion, leaving it to pool behind him on the floor. He reaches to undo the top button of the silk shirt, and freezes as you lift your hand. Evidently, he can see you clearly, even if you can’t see his face. You crook a finger and beckon him towards you. He comes.

  He walks slowly off the stage, disappearing for a moment into unlit darkness. The music begins to increase in tempo, a slight change that perhaps only a musician would catch. Or someone concentrating very, very hard. The room is still black.

  Then the flicker of candlelight coming towards you. A tall, white candle, welcome against the darkness. He walks around the circular room, lighting similar white candles hung in wall sconces. He then brings his to you, and places it on the table near your glass. He stands silent, awaiting your pleasure.

  You can finally see his face, barely lit by candlelight. Pale blue eyes glow out of a pale face to match. Silken blond hair falls forward, obscuring one eye. You reach up to brush the hair aside, coming half way out of your chair. He catches your wrist, smiling, and shakes a silent ‘no’. He releases your hand and you let it fall as you sit back down. You slide down the silk shirt, damp in the heat, pressing your small hand against his skin through the thin fabric.