think that was the intent of his look upon me. “You have misquoted, though, my dear,” he went on, “for what she actually said, and I recall that she wore a blue sari threaded with silver upon that occasion, was that in netting words with the thoughts that they occasion we incur thereafter great frustration in trying to unravel all and finally are left with such a mess of potage as were best left alone. She did, however, mention spaghetti,” he conceded with a grin.
“Then we should learn nothing. Surely did your Mama not add something else?” I asked, for I then forever felt he was keeping something from me like a tease who proffers a wrapped parcel but will not let one take hold of it and dances all about holding it above one's head.
“Words are the furnishings of the caves where devils dwell,” my aunt said. So I felt as much frustration as I ever had and was put out and showed it by my sulky look. Excusing myself, I went up to my room, where Papa in due course followed. I sat upon my bed and looked forlorn, for such was ever my posture when I wanted him to talk and comfort me.
“What was intended was that one learns in silence, Laura.”
“What then is there to learn?”
“When you know that then you will have no further need of words.”
“Even so, you could tell me,” I replied, then laughed for I realised that I had fallen into my own trap, and my laughter being echoed by his own, I again felt contentment and listened to the twittering of the baby swallows in their nest beneath the eaves, for such sounds are condiments to the feast of life, as is the tinkling of a spoon to a cup, the far calling of children at play and the water-rustlings of the small waves on a beach where the beach would try to grip the sea yet fails.
When my paternal grandmother was receiving her benedictions, as she called them-as in turn I learned to do-there was frequently the sound of small bells, which, it was said, came from Tibet. Not always wishing to know whose penis she might receive, for then her meditations could continue the more contained and unblemished, her maid would hang strings of these bells around my grandmother's bed so that whoever brushed through them would cause them to tinkle. She, being upon all fours and well presented with her ample bottom offered, would keep her eyes closed and her face cupped in her palms, which she had scented beforehand. Oil was applied delicately around and within the rim of her rose, her orifice, with such a thin glass rod as later I had been supplied and which I used to the same end when I knew that I was to be exercised. Experiencing no more than I the first shock of entry of the swollen knob, she would receive it with but a sigh as if the outgoing of her breath were brought about by the invasion.
Indeed, I recall vividly the hush-rushing of my own breath upon the moments of my first trials when I fell into Perdition. This sensation, however, dwindled with further exercising, I knowing naught save pleasure in my pumpings. The male was the giver, the female the receiver, as my grandmother in her own time then ordained. Hands placed but lightly on her hips, her stallion was constrained to work himself therein, thereout, ever with grace, not grunting nor uttering lewd sounds but conducting himself majestically until sperm cascaded deep within, was there received and held. Were the male (perhaps being young and lacking caution) to utter utterances of lust-were he to do so-then upon withdrawing, his penis would be strapped to his belly by means of a leather “scold,” or sheath, being thus contained and constrained for a week or more so that on his desiring to urinate it needed to be released temporarily by an older female servant, this shaming and yet training the offender.
So my aunt told me, and my astonishment at such intelligence was great, for I had until then held males to the arbiters of all.
“Why should that be so?” my aunt replied, “for the female-although of necessity strapped and put to pleasure in her younger years-will in time show herself fit and willing and is thereafter no less than the male in stature. Master or mistress-what does it matter?”
It occurs to me now that I had at least proven mistress of the occasion when, severing from my husband, I had commanded the moment, made brazen my intent, and so packeted and parcelled up the very air within the house that each was contained within its several compartments. Such thoughts are random, however, and bring me not to the point that I may wish to reach, which is bereft of designation, label, or description, flows not like water nor holds still as wood or stone, yet contains all, as the air contains the birds and space the stars. When I am still, there is movement; when I am moving, stillness is apprehended, understood, made present in my being.
My uncle, upon my appearance below, gives every visual sign of one who has despaired of waiting, would proffer fretfulness like washing breeze-blown on a line did I not sweep past him, making clear my presence on the hotel steps.
A conveyance of some grandeur awaits-a family type of carriage with ample room for six. There is, he opines, more comfort in such than one of shorter underbelly upon a journey of such measure. There are motives therein, I suspect, but I am not of a mood to question them. The maid's gentle, questing touch has stirred my loins. I signal my approval by wriggling my bottom as I enter and face forward to the horses. Clerks, tardy upon their business, halt and stare. My bonnet of blue velvet is approved, the angles of my nose, lips, chin are seen, may yet be dreamed upon by those who scribble later at their toil. They will thrust at their wives tonight, remembering my face. Their mouths will be open and wild dreams will rage. I shall have none of it, may yet see my performance with the maid, who came as a pleasant comma to the morn. Yet there will be a dryness about it, I believe. Rather would I sit in my white dress that I wore for my Confirmation, my ankles seen and approved, a cushion at my back against the bole of a tree, a book unread upon my knees, my garters tight, the gusset of my drawers moulding my sensuality unseen, purring its silent pleasure of desire.
When it was tickled first, a cock at my bottom…
“Shall there be company at the races, uncle?”
“There will be friends, no doubt-distant friends and new. None close. Would you have some close?”
“I have no feeling for matter. Is there not a dullness in racing? Have the horses not already won?”
“Were that to be so, my pet, and I knowing of their names, I would be a millionaire.”
He is obtuse upon such matters. I am among foreigners, must learn new tongues, parse my sentences as they and conjugate the ordinary.
“My drawers are too tight. Pray turn your back that I may remove them.”
“My dear, yes. They must not incommode you. May I see your knees first?”
“Are we within the house or without the house? Is there to be lewdness? Is this your manner of conducting things? My calves are slender, my thighs swell. Turn your back. Mama would have none of it; Papa would forbid you his Clubs and put your name about. The card tables would no longer receive you. Are you not a member of the Athenaeum? You should act ever as a gentlemen. Turn your back.”
He is crestfallen, though his crest rises-I observe- with the rustling of my gown. I am come upon a newness to myself. The high windows of the carriage permit no observation from beyond save if we pass a horse bus. I shall be covered by then, my legs pristine and shielded from all gaze. I descend my drawers slowly, raising my bottom from the seat. There is pleasure in doing so. The act of furtiveness becomes the moment. In this moment they are puddled in my hands, drawn off my ankles, and my gown restored. His eyes, drawn back to mine by soft command, gaze in humility.
“Of what fine cotton they are made!”
“There is not a stain upon them. Hold them if you wish.”
“I would kiss them, Laura.”
“That, too, is permitted.”
His nostrils quiver. He inhales. His face bears an unease of puffiness.
“A delicate scent, my dear. How delicate!”
“It is beyond description. Place them over your crotch. I do not wish to see your uprising. Mama would admonish me severely for such.”
“Your Papa would bring his strap to you?” His look has fervency. My drawers are tentpoled by his rampant stand.
“I know naught of a strap. Why think you of a strap? There is perversity in such thoughts that ill becomes you. Girls are birched, I believe, for I have heard of their wailings. Their hips weave, their bottoms beg for succour, there are cries for assistance, are there not?”
I have matched his lewdness with remonstrance. He knows of what and whom I speak-the factory wench who, not so poor of spirit, brought him to the Justice of the Peace. I pray for her spirit that it shall never weaken, yet hypocrite now in my own wild intent do bid him loose his trousers.
