Читать книгу Montparnasse - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 10

Chapter 5

In her dreams, Easter spoke French. She purchased quaint items in quaint shops, ordered exotic dishes at restaurants, conversed with people she met on the streets who assumed she was Parisian. In her dreams, her French was flawless. In her waking hours, she recited the phrases taught her by Mademoiselle Yvonne Février, the seamstress of her wedding dress. Mademoiselle, only in America two years, had an amusing accent, both guttural and sibilant, but was an excellent instructress.

Mademoiselle had lived in Paris prior to immigrating to Chicago, and, though only in her mid-20s, could lay claim to making acquaintances with Scandinavian novelists and poets, attending artists’ bals costumés, and (this she only whispered) having an affair with a married man who arranged for her apprenticeship in a popular maison de couture. She mentioned artists who asked her to model, and why she had not done so—her hips and waist were not correctly proportioned, she said. Easter did not know if all these tales were true, but it didn’t matter. Mademoiselle Février had supplied her young American friend with several names to look up once the couple got to Paris.

*****

Aboard La Savoie, Tuesday, April 8, 1919

Only six more days. The storm is past. I am still queasy and rarely venture from our cabin. Frederick says I should be feeling better. He has had the good grace to not refer to that night.

I have no explanation for it. Some unholy spirit took me, discarded my common sense and good upbringing, and substituted instead the soul of a harlot, for that is how I behaved with Frederick. I used words that never before crossed my tongue, employed my body in ways never even contemplated. Those realities make me blush.

I wonder what Frederick thinks? I don’t know how deeply I shock him. I know he has had some experiences, but I am certain he never thought his wife capable of such ardor. We almost fell off the bunk twice!

*****

Easter tried to suppress a smile, then laughed. Her writing hand shook so that drops of ink spotted the page. She blotted them, continued.

*****

Should I be more ashamed of my behavior than I am? The truth is, I find a certain gratification in it. Though I cannot explain my actions (it’s well known that some people react adversely to the full moon; perhaps my weakness is storms at sea), I did, for some moments, relish the power so inexplicably vested in me. When Frederick lay beneath, as I straddled him and made him do as I wished, I sensed something overwhelming occur. I frightened Frederick and enjoyed doing so. The look in his wide, pale eyes was one I had never witnessed before in another human. I kept moving even when he had stopped, even when I knew he had finished. I hadn’t. I had several orgasms, I think, though of course I can’t be sure since I’ve never, to my knowledge, had one before.

Will my new husband expect such a performance every time we lie together? If so, he will be sadly disappointed. I have felt neither need nor desire for his physical company in the days since the storm.

Frederick bears an expression of anticipation. I have caught him looking at me when he thought I was occupied, and the furrow in his brow is as readable as any book. He is unsure; he may even hope and secretly pray for inclement weather. I am unsure as well.