breathing quicken. He ran his hands over my breasts, turning and pressing his fingers as if he were a sculptor shaping them. His hands moved down my ribs to my waist and then back up again so that his palms flowed over my breasts.
Then, suddenly, he pulled them away as if he had touched an uncovered electrical wire. He lowered his head.
'It's all right,' I said. Instead of replying, he brought his fingers to the keys again and began to play, only this time his music was loud and hard. A line of sweat broke out along his temple. His breathing quickened. He seemed determined to exhaust himself. Finally he concluded, this time slapping his palms over the keys.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't have had Grandmother ask you here.'
'Why not?'
He turned his head slowly.
'It's a torment, that's why,' he said. 'I'm nearly thirty-one years old, and you are the first woman I've touched. My grandmother and my cousin have kept me in mothballs,' he added bitterly. 'If I hadn't thrown a temper tantrum, Grandmother wouldn't have called you today.'
'That's terrible. You shouldn't be kept prisoner in your own house.'
'Yes, I am a prisoner of sorts, but my prison isn't the house. It's my own thoughts that lock me up!' he cried, bringing his hands to his face. He groaned deeply. I put my hand on his shoulder. He lifted his hands from his face and asked, 'You're not afraid of me? I don't disgust you?'
'Oh no.'
'You feel sorry for me, is that it?' he asked bitterly.
'Yes, somewhat, but I also appreciate your talent,' I added.
He softened his expression and took a deep breath. 'I want to see again,' he said. 'My doctors tell me I'm afraid to see again. You think that's possible?'
'I guess so.'
'Have you ever run away from anything you couldn't face?'
'Oh yes,' I said.
'Will you tell me about it sometime? Will you return?'
'If you'd like me to, yes.'
He smiled. 'I made up a melody for you,' he said. 'Want to hear it?'
'You did? Yes, please.'
He started to play. It was a wonderfully flowing piece that, remarkably, made me think of the bayou, of water and of beautiful birds and flowers.
'It's very beautiful,' I said when he had finished. 'I love it.'
'I call it 'Ruby.' I'll have my teacher write out the notes, and the next time you come I'll give you a copy, if you like.'
'Yes, thank you.'
'I'd like to know more about you . . . especially how you came to be brought up in the Cajun world but ended up living with a well-to-do Creole family in the Garden District.'
'It is a long story.'
'Good,' he said. 'I'd like it to be like Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights . . . A story that goes on and on, just so you would be here on and on.'
I laughed, and he brought his fingers to my face again and again he traced the lines down to my lips, only this time he held his fingers there longer.
'Can I kiss you?' he asked. 'I've never kissed a girl before.'
'Yes,' I said, not quite sure why I was allowing him such intimacies. He leaned toward me and I guided him with my hands to my lips. It was a short kiss, but it quickened his breath. He dropped his hands to my breasts and leaned in to kiss me again, holding his lips to mine longer as his fingers brushed my breasts as lightly as feathers. He tried to push the material away from more of my breasts and was frustrated.
'Louis, we shouldn't . . . ?
It was as if I had slapped him. He not only pulled back but this time rose from the stool.
'No, we shouldn't. You should go now,' he said angrily.
'I didn't mean to . . . ?
'To what?' he cried. 'Make me feel like a fool? Well do. I'm standing here aroused, aren't I?' he asked.
One glance told me it was so.
'Louis.'
'Just tell my grandmother I got tired,' he said. His arms dropped stiffly to his sides and he started away, moving toward the door.
'Louis, wait,' I cried, but he didn't stop. He hurried off. Pity for him flooded through me. I followed to the doorway and gazed down the corridor after him. He seemed to be absorbed by the very darkness in which he dwelt and in moments was gone. I listened for his footsteps, but there was only silence. Curious, I walked farther into the west wing of the house, passing another, smaller sitting room and then going around the corner to stop at the first
