Hester's Dream

She noticed him because his mouth, like her older son's, had sharply defined lips, and because during the entire auction he watched her openly, as though she reminded him of someone he knew but couldn't place. During a break he brought over a cup of tea and introduced himself. He had deep-brown eyes set in a thin, pale face, a straight, narrow nose and dark hair. Except for his paleness, he looked Italian; the name Ricardo fit him perfectly. She wasn't surprised when he called her the next day about a painting in a private collection. She wasn't even surprised when they got together and there was no painting. He apologized awkwardly, they drank a glass of wine together and the next day she barely gave him a second thought. He tried to lure her to galleries again and again, which only confirmed her suspicion that he was trying to sell her something, and it was quite easy to say no. But then he sent her tickets for La Bohème at the Met, after she had mentioned to him that she liked opera. She went with her husband and pretended not to notice Ricardo's face in a box to her left.

He called her often to remind her of what she shouldn't miss, the cosmopolitan Manhattanite looking out for the Long Island housewife. When he started hanging around in a car at the corner of her street, Hester got nervous. What confused her was that she caught herself looking him over, his hands, his legs, his face, wondering what he would like to do with her, what he would do with her if they were alone. She had never looked at a man in such a way before.

It was an unbearable New York August, hot and sticky. The house felt empty. The children were away: her sons in Europe, her daughter on a hiking trip. The social luncheons and volunteer work she was involved with didn't fulfill her; her only passion was tennis, even though at this time of year the asphalt courts sizzled like a frying pan and it became hard to find a partner willing to be drenched in sweat after just a few minutes of a game. Then she noticed Ricardo watching her from the street above the tennis courts.

She announced to her husband that she was going to get a job, and he laughed and she laughed with him. He suggested that she take a trip to Italy to visit her sister, who long ago had married there.

•

Rome was loud and filthy, even worse than New York. Her sister had no time for her and Hester was sorry she had come. The third day, Ricardo showed up. She couldn't figure out how he had found her in Rome, but she wasn't about to ask him. The next time she spotted him parked in front of the building she got dressed quickly, went out and sat down beside him. What's one afternoon in a hotel somewhere, meaningless lovemaking with a meaningless young man, perhaps pleasant? He'll get what he wants and the restlessness within her that she doesn't understand will come to an end. He didn't seem surprised. It was almost as if he had been expecting something similar. He didn't even ask where she wanted to go, but expertly zigzagged through the narrow streets until they got onto a road leading to the sea and then drove all the way to Ostia in silence.

They stopped in front of a private villa with a formal garden and polished windows, a gorgeous Roman villa with a private beach. They entered a glass enclosed hall and the surface of the sea glittered like a procuress conspiring with Ricardo. She calmly sat down on a brocaded chair. She cleared her throat and began with her prepared speech about not wanting to be harassed any further, that there was no point. But he stopped her, gruffly ordering her to be quiet.

Ricardo took a few steps to the center of the room. Now that he was closer to her than to the window, she could see his eyes, the yellowish-brown eyes of a wild animal. He wet his lips and announced he would like her to allow him once a year to come to her and give her an orgasm by oral sex--that's exactly how he put it: to give her an orgasm by oral sex. But that wasn't all, he said. He wanted her to send him an invitation to this event written on coated paper. She should expect him while she was seated in a chair with wooden arms and wearing a white dress.

Coated paper, she murmured to herself in amazement. And for whatever reason, it was the image of coated paper that aroused her. Ricardo was either playing a joke on her or he was deranged--there was no other possibility. For a split second she saw herself dead, cold and naked, Ricardo wrapping her into coated paper. But, in fact, she was very much alive. Everything inside of her was moving, as though her insides were a nest of little snakes, smooth wriggling snakes. Ricardo took her hand and was kissing it, and then casually let his tongue graze her palm.

I'm wearing a white dress, was her wild thought, and I'm sitting in a chair with wooden arms. Perhaps the first time it could be without the invitation on coated paper. Her face flushed; she knew he had read her thoughts. His eyes darkened and he somewhat clumsily knelt down beside her, or rather sank down, and seized the hem of her dress and pulled it over his head as if he were a child playing games. She gave a rattling little laugh and the unnatural sound frightened her. She wanted to push him away but he forcefully spread her knees--there was nothing childish in that action--he pressed her thighs against his temples, the silk crackled as the sparks flew, tiny bits of electricity like the touch of a bird's beak. Maybe they weren't sparks but teeth: He was lightly biting her thighs and pinching tiny pieces of flesh until the sheer pleasurable pain shot straight into her stomach and then she felt his tongue move up along her thigh. I have to wash myself, she protested. She was wearing her best white panties from Paris. It wasn't hard to guess why she had put them on; tiny panties that didn't need to come off, they could just be rolled aside. Ricardo's tongue was still moving up her thigh and already she felt she was sitting in a pool of her own juices. Nothing like it had ever happened to her before, she wasn't even aware that she had so many juices inside her. It wasn't disgusting, but she was frightened and she was also afraid she would have an orgasm the second his tongue touched her vagina. Then it happened: It wasn't even a touch but a puff. She gasped and abruptly arched her body toward him, Yes, I want it, right now I want it, but he had already left her vagina and was kissing her just above her pubic hair. She struggled to overcome the urge to grab his face and push it back into her, to force him to release the unbearable tension and let it all be over--let the juices gush out of her like sperm washing away humiliating lust. She would smooth down her dress and walk out with some dignity, more or less.

But then impatience inexplicably turned into a desire to have the moist little animal stay forever stuck to her. Ricardo, as if sensing that the danger had passed, moved back between her thighs and lightly kissed her clitoris. With an incredible thoroughness he started to lick her vagina; he flicked his tongue in and out of it, played in her hairs and explored the bridge separating it from her anus. She wanted him to put his penis inside her, she wanted to exchange this foreign pleasure for the familiar pleasure of surrender. She wanted him to hold her, but Ricardo went on pressing her thighs together and darting his tongue from place to place. His entire being was his tongue, and he slid through the maze of passages and catacombs until he penetrated to the hidden core of molten lava that was aching to erupt. He suddenly froze and left her spread wide open. She didn't know what he was doing--why did he pull his tongue away?--and with an almost savage motion gripped his hair and pushed him toward that hungering orifice. When he didn't touch her, she stretched down her hand to terminate the unbearable urge herself, but he caught her arms and wouldn't let her. She felt faint, as if hot air were building up an intolerable pressure inside of her. Please, she mumbled, but he remained motionless between her legs. Her whole body was tossing about and she wanted it, she wanted him, not only his tongue, but all of him. She felt the tip of his tongue touch her clitoris, lightly, gently, like the tickle of a feather, then wet and slippery. The rapture she had tensely yearned for began, and she alone, hurled from the earth into orbit, was hurtling through space. She wasn't a woman's body anymore, she was a comet. She didn't have just one pitiful slot for mating, but thousands of them, all of her was a sheath made for pleasure, for love, for pain. Fear was gone, desire was gone, the future didn't (continued on page 126) Hester's Dream (continued from page 76) exist--there was only that single orgasmic moment in which she was borne to eternity on the tip of his tongue.

•

Coming back to reality wasn't easy. It was like trying to awaken from a deep sleep; she had no idea how long she had been in this room with billowing curtains. Had it been an hour, a day, a night? She was sitting in the armchair, her legs parted, the tiny white panties from Paris thrown over the armrest. When had he taken them off? She lifted up her head and looked around the room. Ricardo was standing by the window, a neat young man in a pressed shirt. He seemed untouched, almost cool, and was watching tufts of clouds chase across the sky. Shame ran through her like a sword. How could she have succumbed to it, surrendered to him? How could she have let herself be so degraded? He turned from the window and smiled at her. There was nothing triumphant in his gaze.

"We could take a walk on the beach. There are some shorts and T-shirts in the bathroom. You might find something comfortable."

She stayed in the shower a long time and dried herself carefully, avoiding the mirror. Her body wasn't built for these kinds of adventures anymore; the muscles in her arms were sagging, she had endured three pregnancies. Or maybe it wasn't that bad yet? Probably not, if she could attract a young man, and not just attract, but drive him to follow her around the world. Again it occurred to her that Ricardo might not be quite normal and that she might end up a corpse in some canal.

There were enough clothes in the dressing room to fit out a whole team of girls, everything white. The owner of this house is obsessed with innocence, she thought gloomily. Those tend to be the worst. She imagined everything that took place in the room with the billowing curtains had been closely observed by a voyeur, and this did nothing at all for her peace of mind.

They walked out. A flock of seagulls swooped toward them greedily and then, screeching in disappointment, disappeared again behind the trees. They padded through dark, virtually black sand, in which the mica glistened like rhinestones. She sat down and listlessly scooped sand up into her palm, along with the grimy seashells. She cleaned off one shell that had an elongated crack in it and stared at its pinkish lining. It was similar to a human mucous membrane, a woman's mucous membrane. A sheath. All at once she felt completely exhausted. Ricardo, as if sensing it, took her hand and walked to a restaurant where a row of white metal tables sat beneath striped umbrellas. A waiter brought espresso and two glasses filled with a liqueur that tasted almost bitter. She observed her hand in amazement as it held an empty glass. There she was, having a glass of liqueur with a man she barely knew, feeling as hungry and worn out as an alley cat.

The waiter covered a table with a white tablecloth and brought over a vase with a single white rose. Where did he get it? There were no flowers anywhere else. Or tablecloths either. She couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"I don't understand this at all. It's like a movie. A stupid Hollywood romance. Look--" She pointed to the beach, across which two young girls ran, wearing the tiniest bathing suits. They squealed with delight at their own perfection. Their long legs flew by like the stalks of succulent plants. "Why me?"

"I've wanted to be sitting with you here for the longest time." Suddenly, his tone was familiar. It caught her by surprise, but then she realized she had started the conversation.

"Whose house were we in?"

"Mine. I wouldn't invite you to a rented house."

"And if I had gone somewhere other than Rome?" She laughed uneasily.

"I would've bought a house somewhere else. I like hotels, but for some things one's own place is better."

"For what things?" she asked quickly.

"I wanted to seduce you," he replied in a conversational manner, and pushed the breadbasket toward her.

"But why me?" she groaned.

His eyes darkened, as they had when he had seen that she wanted him to touch her. For a minute she was afraid everything might happen all over again, here, on a public beach under a striped umbrella, at a table spread with a white tablecloth. And she'd give in like a lamb.

"Someday I'll tell you. Now let's eat."

He had proved to her that he, the young stud, could have his way with her, an aging mare. That night he would tell his friends about her in a bar, laughing about how blown away she was by it all.

"Hester," she heard his voice and she heard her name. "You have no reason to feel ashamed and no reason to be sad. Believe me." He caught her hand and with a comforting gesture placed it against his face. With a great effort she gained control of herself.

"Can we go?" she said and pushed away her plate. She wanted to be gone, to be home, to take the first plane back to New York, to put on Sibelius and forget Ricardo, completely forget all about him. She didn't wait for him to pay but walked quickly back toward the house, which now struck her as monstrously big. She avoided the main entrance and in a sudden panic ran down the path toward where the car was parked.

"You have your things inside. Your, purse, your shoes," said Ricardo, panting slightly as he caught up with her. "You should clean up."

She ran back into the hall and stopped in front of a mirror on the wall. Could this be her, this bewildered creature in wrinkled shorts?

But his face was hardened with desire and the immense relief she felt brought her down to her knees. She grabbed his sides and pressed her head against him. She clutched him as tightly as a drowning person clutches a log. She awkwardly unzipped his pants and his penis popped out like a jack-in-the-box. It was velvety smooth and fragrant. She licked him like an ice-cream cone, sucked him like a pacifier. He tickled her down inside her throat; she wanted to swallow him, to draw him in, drink him, suck up all that sweetness and giddiness. How many pulls to victory? It won't take much more, the charging horse is almost there, already he is rearing his head so that he can burst through the finish line. She'll force him to surrender to her. Why can't I have you simultaneously in my mouth and in that chasm between my legs? Plug me from both sides and I'll explode like a keg of dynamite.

She forced herself to open her mouth and let him jut out into the open until she felt the flame of his impatience tickle her. I'm a fast learner, she thought in the back of her mind. By some mysterious trick she managed to stand up and slip off her shorts at the same time.

"No," he begged.

"Why not?"

She pulled him down to the ground and pressed herself against him.

"Why not?" she repeated, convinced that she was in charge of the situation, the queen bee, the mother of mothers.

"No," Ricardo called out and flipped over. She didn't know how he did it, but his lips glued themselves to her again. His tongue penetrated her crotch, forceful and commanding. Instead of triumphant victory she was overwhelmed by the sweetness of defeat.

"Why not?" she moaned as the cool tiles chilled her thighs. "Why not?"

He didn't answer.

The whole way back to Rome he remained silent and drove recklessly fast, as though he wanted to get the trip over with. In front of the house, he kissed her hand and said he hoped to see her soon. Once back in the apartment she rushed to the telephone and ordered a ticket back to New York. The next morning she left.

•

The house was quiet, impeccably neat with just a few dishes left over from Steve's breakfast in the sink. Hester unpacked and threw her clothes in the wash, even the white panties from Paris. Her exhaustion manifested itself only in a vague feeling of irritability. She roamed around the garden, snipped off a few dry blossoms, weeded the flower bed and raked it. But the gardener had just been there and nature hadn't yet succeeded in undoing his work. She picked a handful of raspberries and swallowed them one by one. One was moldy and her mouth was suddenly filled with the unpleasant taste; she spit everything out and went back inside.

She climbed into bed between the flawlessly stretched sheets and pressed herself into the mattress. She pressed her body into it, but it didn't help, and she began to cry. She finally cried herself to sleep and woke up only when Steve gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Steve, I'm so happy to be home. The trip was awful. The flight was rough, I thought I'd be sick." She shut her eyes.

But he didn't notice a thing. He brought her robe, they sat down together in the kitchen and he made them tomato-and-cheese sandwiches, covered with mayonnaise, that they chased down with beer. Meanwhile he was telling her how busy work was, and that the kids had called. Alan needed money for a diving trip and Nicole was having problems with her mountain climber. Everything was soothingly familiar and she could calm down, forget about the ecstasy entirely unsuited to her age and position. They went to bed. Steve knew she was tired and held her for a while, then rolled over to his side of the king-size bed, where he breathed evenly in and out, her dear husband on whom she could always depend. The question was, could he depend on her?

•

It took Ricardo three days to get in touch. The joy she felt at the sound of his cloaked voice on the phone almost frightened her. Lazily he asked her how she was, and only after a minute of silence did he suggest they meet.

"When?" she asked.

"Now. I'm right in your area."

She quickly glanced at the mirror on the wall. She had to wash her hair, put on makeup, get dressed.

"Be here in an hour," she told him in a voice she hardly recognized. "Don't drive in front of the house, stay at the bottom of the hill."

She dried her hair and threw herself naked on the bed and masturbated, not for the sake of pleasure but because she wanted to steel herself for Ricardo, to stop the torrent of juices, to become a statue made of stone over which sex had no power. What a waste, she sighed, after her fingers finally drew out a tiny trickle of orgasm.

She dressed and got into the Cadillac that Steve had bought for her birthday and slowly, practically at a crawl, drove to the end of the street. Ricardo was there in a white sports car, she couldn't tell the make. It was a tiny, flattened car that made her feel ridiculous inside her huge bourgeois sedan. She drove to the shopping center, parked the car and marched toward Ricardo. The sun shone right into her face; let him see me, every wrinkle, every year, every wakeful night with the children, all the dull afternoons and lonely evenings. As she was getting into the funny little car, which was uncomfortably narrow, she broke out into a sweat. Could he possibly mean to do it in the car?

"I have to get home soon," she said quickly.

"How soon?"

She hesitated. She had loads of time. Steve wouldn't be back before seven and dinner would take only a half hour to prepare.

"I wanted to take you to my place. I think I have one of the best views in Manhattan. Over the East River."

What do I care about wonderful views? she thought irritably. She was annoyed mainly with herself, because again she could feel the little snakes stirring inside her, deliciously stretching out, ready for the long trip.

"All right, let's go see your view. Afterward I can pick up my husband and go home with him."

He didn't answer and they were silent for the rest of the trip, an eternal half hour of racing along the highway, recklessly overtaking the slower vehicles. As he drove down into a garage and stopped at an automatic barrier, she felt the urge to get out and run away. Why was she heading straight for another dangerous situation? He could murder her just as easily in this elegant building packed with security cameras as in the villa in Ostia. But they were already on their way in the elevator, going straight to a private vestibule on the 38th floor.

They entered a hallway through which they passed to a spacious living room. Then they climbed some steps to another room, and went to yet another room. It was a nonsensical apartment, filled with antiques, a labyrinth in which she felt lost. She didn't believe Ricardo really lived here.

"So where's the view?" she asked. "Let me see the view."

"You'll see it," he replied awkwardly and pushed her through another door, into the bedroom. Finally a bed, she thought, finally something familiar. But he led her to the window and pulled open the blind. The river seemed to rear up aggressively, blindingly beautiful.

"Lean out," he said hoarsely.

A charge of excitement erupted in her, as if all she waited for was a lighted match. She looked down the 40-story abyss. If she jumped, those 40 stories would run through her body and at the bottom the concrete pavement would receive her with a loud splat. Ricardo put his arms around her. You don't have to jump to feel the vertigo of a free-fall, whispered his hands. We'll experience it together. You don't have to die to know fulfillment, you'll know it with me and you'll know it over and over again, soaring to the heavens and falling into hell. His body squeezed against hers like the palms of two hands, thumb to thumb and finger to finger. He was consuming her, fabric swished, she wished she had worn a skirt. Her lowered pants were confining her legs, but what did it matter, she wouldn't run away. Ricardo was holding on to her sides and then she felt him between her legs. The sirens of ambulances and fire trucks down below careened madly beneath them, the surface of the water undulated with the sounds, and he slipped into her. She bent over to let him in deeper, she stuck out her ass, incapable of hiding anything. She wanted him, she wanted to be ripped in two and shattered into a thousand pieces, threaded on his penis. She wanted him to destroy any barriers of shame that might still be left, any traces of chastity, any vestiges of prejudice, any shadows of vanity or trenches of fear.

"When you said once a year, and that I have to send you an invitation on coated paper, I thought you were crazy."

He chuckled with satisfaction. "I had to shock you somehow."

She moved uneasily. "But why with me? Why specifically me?"

"I don't know why it's specifically you. Why did you marry your husband and not another one of the guys who wanted you?"

"But we were suited to each other, we were compatible."

"Is youth everything? Smooth skin and a flat stomach? To me you are beautiful, you bring out the perfect balance of admiration and desire in me, of sex and worship. It might sound weird, but it's true. Among monkeys the oldest female tends to be the most desired one."

She gave an uncertain laugh and he carried her to the bed. After all that frustration she was finally in his arms, a small, ageless female.

•

It was too risky to go to any motel in the area. With a lump in her throat she decided to invite him to her home. She told herself that nothing would happen. She would show him the house, they'd sit a while on the patio and then leave. The patio was walled in with glass but was protected from the eyes of outsiders by a privet hedge. The tea was hot and already Ricardo was kneeling between her legs, doing what he had said he wanted to do once a year and now did every single day, his head hidden under the white skirt while she gasped that he mustn't. But how could he take her seriously when she didn't even have panties on so as not to waste time? She had often sat there imagining that this chair would be the perfect place for sex on the tip of his tongue, the fir trees swaying and the clouds blowing over their heads. There was no wind, but the firs moved anyway in the hot current of air, and the clouds, drenched with sun, formed psychedelic images in the sky. The wicker furniture was straining and she wished that he wouldn't put off her orgasm any longer--she wished the same thing every time and was always grateful that he paid no attention.

•

"Are you really sure you want to hear about my training?" was his response to her question.

Hester nodded and felt her insides freeze.

"When I was 21, on the day of my 21st birthday, I met a woman. I backed out of a party my friends had planned for me and went to a motel with her, getting an education in sex. It was thorough training. It lasted almost four years."

"And then?"

"I got to be too old for her. I lost my air of freshness. After all those nights of fucking it was no wonder," he said bitterly.

Nights of fucking. And all she gives him is a few hours in the afternoon.

"The first few weeks, maybe months, I thought I'd go crazy. It was like losing an arm or a leg, or half of myself," he went on, though she had heard enough. "I ran all over the city looking for her. Then I tried sleeping with other women. Some were beautiful, but even if I made them wear white, wide skirts it didn't work. It's like when you're used to the ocean and then swim in a pool. Or in a puddle. Until I saw you. You remind me of her. You're not like her in appearance, but you move the same way, the same smile, the same mouth. I felt that if I could win you over I would feel whole again. And that's what happened," he concluded dryly.

She felt sad. An aging female monkey initiated a young male into the secrets of sex, which he was now passing on to another aging female monkey. Nothing new under the sun. But she had to put up with it because she didn't want to lose him. That's the problem with relationships: They come as complete packages and we can't just pick out what suits us. Who was this boy actually, with a name straight out of a Mafia movie? Where did he get the money that let him buy villas in Rome and duplex apartments in Manhattan?

"Did you ever work?" she asked.

"I work all the time," he shot back and his muscles tensed.

"I mean were you ever employed? Did you ever work in an office from nine to five, like on Wall Street?"

"I hate Wall Street. For Americans it's normal for a person to make his life's goal making money. Such a vulgar occupation. That the focus of life could be love, a relationship in the most sensual sense, is inconceivable to them."

"You are American, too," she said adamantly. "And what's between us isn't love."

"How do you know? You squirm with pleasure when I lay one finger on you and you neglect your responsibilities so that you can spend as much time as possible with me. How do you know it's not love, and that what goes on between you and your husband is?"

She wanted to cry. It was not possible that she loved Ricardo--if she loved him her world would go to pieces, it would explode into the air and with it her three children and Steve, none of whom ever did anything to hurt her.

•

"You look nice," said Steve when he got home that night. "You seem to be getting younger these days."

"I do what I can," she said with a phony laugh.

"It's criminal the way I neglect you, but it'll be over soon. The kids will be on their own. I'll stop working so hard."

"I always thought you worked hard because you enjoy it, or don't you?"

"Right now I'm enjoying you," he whispered and pressed her close to him. "When was the last time we slept together?" He pulled off her robe and began kissing her breasts. "You smell so good, what if we went into the bedroom?"

Hester lay back on the bed and watched him roll down his socks and shove them into his shoes. Aroused as he was, he didn't forget to fold his trousers along their pleats. Finally he was naked. A robust 60-year-old man, perhaps a bit on the stocky side, with a gray growth of hair on his chest and on his lower belly, below which hung his half-hardened penis. His scrotum sagged and looked shriveled, as though worn out, and she was overwhelmed with pity. She stretched out her arms toward Steve, but he smiled apologetically and moved toward the bathroom, where he let the water run for a long time. The excitement that had begun, ever so slightly, to swell up inside her was insulted and disappeared. Steve slipped in next to her and placed into her hand his organ, which now, after the thorough cleansing, had shrunk and gone limp. He grabbed her breast and squeezed it hard.

"Stroke me," he begged.

She slipped down his stomach and licked the tip of his penis. Then she opened her mouth and let him in. He choked her and, with each wrong move, made her retch. She could feel Steve's excitement coming dangerously to a head. She moved away from his groin and rolled over onto her back. Steve got on top of her and tried to force his penis into her, but he was impatient. He was shoving it into her like some GI in the back of a bar. Irritated, she hissed, but he did not notice. He managed to get it in and puffed away, working at it like a hydraulic piston.

"Ready?" he asked after a few strokes. "Can I?"

"Yes," she whispered, because she felt his semen welling up and knew he couldn't hold it back, no matter how he tried. He cried out and with one spasmodic burst he spurted into her. He then still went on pumping feebly for a few strokes, perhaps as a vague way of apologizing for his haste.

"Did you have it?" he whispered and she kissed him and snuggled up to him, the devoted wife, content with everything. "You got me so excited with that mouth."

Afterward they took a bath together and lingered over dinner, sipping wine and talking, a happily married couple, safe from any calamity.

•

Having asked Ricardo over once, she brazenly continued. She chose Nicole's bedroom because it was furnished all in white, with white curtains, and a fabulous bed with a firm mattress and a door onto the garden. She would wake up at night and be incredulous that she, a respectable lady, an organizer of cultural events and a member of countless charitable organizations, a devoted wife and the mother of three children, was letting a lover, young enough to be her son, in through the garden and spending hours with him in her daughter's bed.

It was a hot summer and their love-making was accompanied by the droning of the air-conditioning, as if there were a giant bug buzzing in the room with them. The sound was regularly punctuated by the ringing of the telephone. The answering machine would record female voices, politely concerned about how she was and where she had disappeared to. She complained about it to Ricardo, who during their next encounter abruptly stuffed wax earplugs into her ears and then wrapped her head in a velvety towel. All at once she was in the dark--she heard nothing, saw nothing. She felt slightly suffocated and it occurred to her what a beautiful death it would be. Her belly was bloated with pleasure, she was like a Thanksgiving turkey, stuffed with the most exquisite delicacies. Her blood was pounding until it rushed to her head. It pounded in time to Ricardo's pumping, yes, now he was in her, he slipped into her vagina but it wasn't enough for him, he broke into her womb and from there permeated her entire being, forcing her to give him everything that up to then had been stashed away, her deepest fears and misgivings, which he wrenched out of her as if he were disemboweling a fish. Then he coiled his way up her spine into her brain, where he set off a thousand fires in the gray matter. Then, with a giant injection, shot the final dose into her heart, which set the rocket off.

At that moment someone pounded on the door. Hester heard it through her earplugs, ran disoriented into the front hall, and through the frosted glass recognized Nicole. The key was on the inside, her daughter couldn't get in, she went on ringing for a while, poking about in the lock, then walked around the house and aimed for her bedroom door. This door was locked, too, with curtains drawn. Ricardo, hastily dressed, stood by the front door, ready to leave the instant Hester let her daughter in the other door.

"What are you doing here?" Hester said and feebly tried to smile.

"I thought I still lived here."

"Sorry, I fell asleep," she apologized. She heard the soft click of the front door; Ricardo was gone, but the bed was still warm, rumpled up and most likely emanating a strange scent. "I was out in the garden and suddenly felt sick. It's probably the heat," she explained hurriedly as she straightened the bed. Nicole watched her sullenly, suspicious and unfriendly.

"I leave for a while and it's already like I don't belong here. What'll happen when I go to college? Will you throw out all my stuff?"

"What happened?" asked Hester, understanding at once that her daughter's mood was not stemming from the disheveled bed. "Was the weather bad?"

Nicole didn't answer and Hester came to the vague realization that over the next few days her daughter would be continuously home, half the time most likely in bed, in that wonderful bed with the hard mattress, which meant there would be no chance for Ricardo and herself. And she would mope about looking despondent and neglected, Nicole, her 18-year-old daughter with her whole life ahead of her, with countless possibilities for romantic adventure, miles of love-making in beds all over the world, while she, who had this one and only final affair, which could end as abruptly as it began, would have to comfort her, prepare favorite meals for her and act as a lightning rod for her despondent mood.

And as if Nicole's return wasn't enough, Steve came home with the news that he was taking off the next week and had already made a reservation at a small hotel on the Florida coast of the Gulf of Mexico, where there would be nothing but an empty beach, seagulls, pelicans and the sun on the horizon.

"You don't seem happy about it at all," said her husband, a bit offended. "We can stay home."

"I'll bet you already have the tickets," she said, smiling, and headed upstairs to call Ricardo from the guest room on the other side of the house.

•

Tampa welcomed them with a white glare, the air above the runway quivering as if it were made up of dozens of separate layers. Everything was humid, sticky and slightly annoying. When they went out the next morning, they were virtually the only ones by the sea. The beach, washed by the night's high tide and littered with scallop and conch shells, gleamed with freshness. White herons stood poised in gardens, delicate and rather unearthly, more like figures of birds, cut out of paper, than actual birds. A formation of pelicans glided above the ocean's rippling surface, sharp eyes scouting for breakfast. Small, modest sandpipers waited along the shore for a wave to stir up the sand, exposing tiny crabs and scallops. It was morning and everyone was hungry.

Nicole expressed doubts as to what they were going to do here for a whole week. After breakfast, she rented a car and drove to St. Petersburg, where she bought a bathing suit and a silk blouse, but the thing that cheered her up was spotting Ricardo by the hotel pool.

"Finally there's a guest who's not 100 years old," she said to her mother.

The sight of Ricardo in his blue-and-white striped swimsuit, sitting under an umbrella and reading the paper, gave Hester such a shock that she dropped the bowl of ice she was holding and the cubes rattled across the concrete. Ricardo kicked one of them into the swimming pool and politely smiled at her. He was pale, as though his skin had never been touched by the sun. And he was thin. Somehow she had never noticed how terribly thin he was.

Thoroughly bewildered, she returned to the front desk for more ice. She could vividly imagine what would happen next. Nicole, thrilled to have found a companion, would bring him over to her parents, and he would join them for breakfast, lunch and dinner and have long discussions with Steve about the stock market. She didn't want it to happen, she didn't want him going out dancing and to bars with Nicole. Am I jealous? She startled herself. Is my world so perverse that I'm worried about having to share my lover with my daughter?

After dinner, Nicole went to her own room and Steve stretched out on the bed, complaining that he had a sunburn. Hester smeared his back with lotion and mixed him a strong whiskey with milk, his favorite bedtime drink. At the last second, she slipped a sleeping pill into the glass, feeling like Lucrezia Borgia. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, where she had changed into something that looked more like a white evening dress than a nightgown, Steve had already let his book drop from his hands. She turned out the light, turned up the air-conditioning and walked out onto the lawn in front of their room. It was early. Their neighbors were still sitting outside, smoking, drinking wine and having a quiet conversation, separated from her by only a low wall. She spotted a lone figure on the beach, wading through the shallow water. That's my darling daughter, waiting for me to be in bed so she can parade herself out here, prey for sharks, except that a shark isn't what she has in mind.

Ricardo stepped out of a shadow and softly called to her. They slipped through the fence into the garden and ran clown to the sea and along the beach, away from the hotel. Were Nicole to turn around, she would see them; it seemed like an eternity before she was out of their sight. They fell into each other's arms. She felt Ricardo trembling all over and his trembling passed on to her--or was it her trembling reverberating from him? They lay down in the sand and held each other close for a long while without moving. She wanted nothing more than to feel his body and his hands, to rest in his embrace. The moon grew bright, it hung in the sky clear and close by, surrounded by stars. The dry leaves of the palm trees rustled benevolently, accompanied by the whirring of cicadas. She pulled her lacy gown up over her head and lay naked on the sand. He was naked, too, trying to slip his body under hers, to keep it from touching the cold sand. Their foreheads pressed together and their arms touched along their whole lengths. Their palms and fingers were entwined, their shoulders, chests, abdomens, thighs, knees, their shins and insteps--all had become one single being breathing with the rhythm of the sea below them, a slow continuous undulation like a ship rocking on the waves, forever buffeted by the salty, sweet, ardent surging.

But then Ricardo gave a start and sat up, staring in the direction of the hotel. She saw Nicole approaching, a slim girl with long hair, the moon shining into her face. She hadn't seen them yet but was drawing nearer every second. Hester froze with horror, unable to move. Ricardo pushed her until she rolled over and tossed something over her head. Then, naked as he was, with his belligerent organ sticking out, he marched toward Nicole. She let out a frightened shriek and ran in panic.

When Hester rushed back to the hotel, she was relieved to see the light on in Nicole's room and her silhouette against the curtain. Steve was asleep, puffing away loudly on his side of the bed, and when she lay down next to him he moaned. The room was icy cold, the air-conditioning rattling softly at full blast. She pulled the sheets about her and felt the sand on her body.

•

The beginning of September was chaotic. Alan and Bill came back from Europe and Nicole was getting ready to go off to college. There were so many things to be taken care of, heaps of sheets to be bought for college beds, piles of sweaters and shirts to be washed. She didn't have a minute of free time. She cooked, baked and fried, listened to stories of travel adventures and began to feel sad about Nicole's departure. Sometimes at breakfast she would gaze with pride at her two sons. They were both so handsome. Alan resembled Steve, a big, strong fellow with dark curly hair who liked to laugh out loud. Bill, fair and lanky, had taken after her, and was a slim young man with a bashful smile. She couldn't imagine them copulating with women, though she knew they did.

She hadn't seen Ricardo since their return from Florida. He didn't dare wait for her in her neighborhood now that Nicole knew him. She finally made it to Manhattan ten days later. Ricardo had explained a bit awkwardly that they couldn't go to the apartment that day, that his father had unexpectedly returned to New York and was staying there. Ricardo's father! If only she could meet him, then Ricardo would stop being a mysterious person without past or future, a paper doll of which she knew only one side. But he obviously had no intention of introducing them and, for the first time, they went to a hotel. For the first time, she had to endure the glances of porters and bellhops who would perhaps smirk over the age difference. The room was sumptuous, but she couldn't stop herself from thinking about the thousands of bodies that had left their imprints on the bed.

"I'd like to know your dreams, your secret fantasies," Ricardo said. He pushed her away when she tried to embrace him. She sensed today was going to be different, and not just because they hadn't been together in a long time.

"I have no more dreams because you have made them a reality," she said. But it wasn't true: Her tame dreams couldn't compare with what he had forced her to experience. And that was it: He had forced her, he had taken the time and hadn't asked her what she wanted, but had forced her to want what he was offering her.

"I want you never to forget me," he said with a faint voice that sounded as though it were losing all its strength. She was startled by how sad he looked. He obviously had not been thinking of their erotic obsessions. She felt embarrassed. Was he worried about something he couldn't reveal to her? She knew nothing of his problems. For the first time, it occurred to her that he might also long to hold the foremost place in her heart, that he might not just want her for an obliging lover.

"Hold me," he asked, suddenly more a child than a lover. When she put her arms around him he cuddled up to her, gently, almost meekly. She held him in her embrace and wished she were his mother, so that she would be linked with him forever as with her two sons. She would never have to fear the moment she would see him for the last time. They spent the rest of the afternoon in each other's arms in silence, comforted only by their harmonious, rhythmic breathing, until Hester had to get up and get dressed to join her husband. In the area just outside Steve's office sat a young woman whom she hadn't seen before, a redhead with a dreamy expression, just the type Steve liked.

"Who's the new girl in your office?" she asked at dinner and Steve furiously poked about in his fish.

"Which one do you mean?"

"You know exactly which one I mean. You always had a thing for redheads."

"Angela? She's not new, you just don't know her."

"Was she the reason you came back from Florida?"

"You're crazy."

Go ahead, admit it, say you're having an affair. I won't fall to pieces, I'll admit that I'm having one, too. But she knew that the time in their marriage when they would have been able to confess such things was long gone. She didn't want to hurt him and he didn't want to hurt her. They respected and liked each other, which was more than could be said for most other couples after 30 years of marriage.

"You look really good today. In fact, it's struck me how really good you've been looking these days. I can't wait to get home," said Steve suddenly, as he gave her knee a squeeze under the table. But by the time they got home he had forgotten all about it. He watched the news on television, took a long shower and was fast asleep before she had managed to take hers. She observed his ruddy face with affection, relaxed in sleep. Steve, her strongest ally and devoted partner. No matter what happened, they would never stop being friends. Sex isn't everything.

•

The children left, and the house was polished down to the last doorknob. There were new satin sheets on Nicole's bed, but Ricardo was nowhere to be found. There was no answer at his telephone number and no answer from the apartment overlooking the river.

She couldn't understand it. Something must have happened, he must be sick, feverishly calling out her name, or he'd got into trouble and was in jail, or in a car accident and in the hospital. Her head swam with terrible ideas.

She walked through the house, stopping to pick up familiar objects and examine them as if she didn't know what they were for, all those vases and candlesticks and crystal bowls. She stared at the paintings on the walls, ran her hands over the furniture, over the excessively decorated, opulent Persian rugs--what was this all for, for what purpose?

Then an envelope arrived, an envelope of the most expensive stationery, a bulging envelope containing a few meager sentences:

Dear Mrs. Mitchell,

I apologize for not having contacted you sooner, but certain unforeseen events prevented me from doing so. The painting I had promised to obtain for you is unfortunately not available. I am terribly sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it, much as I would like to. I hope you are not very upset; after all, the world is full of paintings. I thank you for your patience and would be very happy to meet with you again sometime.

Yours forever sincerely,

Ricardo N.

She reread the lines several times over and after an initial sense of relief at his being alive and well, she grew angry. What are the unforeseen events that he can do nothing about? Why hadn't he come to her, why hadn't he called? How long had he known that the "painting" was not available?

She headed into town, for the apartment with the view of the river. She had never before been in the ostentatious lobby, with its brass light fixtures and plush seats. Ricardo and she had always driven into the underground garage and taken the elevator directly from there. The doorman looked as lifeless as the plants that lined the walls, and with icy courtesy made it clear that in this building no information about tenants was available, until a $20 bill broke through his reserve.

"Which apartment do you have in mind?"

"The rooms were in a row and they all had a view of the river."

The doorman nodded.

"That apartment belongs to a Japanese businessman who's been away with his whole family for about six months now. The cleaning lady goes up, but nobody's been living there."

He hurried off to accept a delivery and she was left standing there feeling miserable and embarrassed. What next? It was clear that Ricardo had been using the apartment secretly--who knows by what trick?--and the doorman had no inkling of it. It occurred to her that the garage was for tenants only and they were sure to remember his peculiar little car there. She walked out of the building and went to the garage entrance. At her ring, an older man in pressed overalls came out and glanced with interest at the bank note she held scrunched in her hand.

"Excuse me for disturbing you, but a young man in a white Lancia parks here. Have you seen him lately?"

"I remember you," he said and looked her over more impertinently. "You came here a couple of afternoons. But I haven't seen him since. I don't even know whose apartment he was subletting. It's not done much here."

"Do you remember his license plate number?"

"What good would that be?"

Ricardo should have pulled in then in his shiny sports car so that he could have seen what he had driven her to, how she was pleading with doormen and garage attendants. Should she hire a private detective? What would she tell him? That she had a young lover and lost him? It happens, dear lady, he would smirk, just as this man in dungarees now smirked. She walked along the street with tears pouring down her cheeks, not knowing if she felt humiliated, heartbroken or just confused.

I'll never see him again! she cried silently. He'll never hold me! And so what, it hadn't actually been love. She had tried to convince him of that herself, that it wasn't love. But sorrow trickled over her like a thick syrup. It seemed to her that the world was full of empty houses, empty hallways, empty beds--and her world would be like that now, probably forever.

She got drunk that afternoon for the first time in her life. When Steve got home she was in bed, pretending she had the flu. She spent half the night throwing up and it was only with difficulty that she persuaded Steve not to call the doctor. She spent the days that followed listening to Italian operas, music that Ricardo had given her. The voices of the tenors bore her away to places where not long ago she had walked with him. Her whole body ached with longing. Occasionally she would draw herself close to Steve, who patted her affectionately and turned down the knob on the stereo when the decibels exceeded a tolerable level. Every ring of the phone made her jump, every white car filled her with renewed anticipation.

•

She parked on the third level of the Lincoln Center garage. Heading for the elevators, she stopped dead in her tracks. Right by a column, three cars away from her Cadillac, stood a white Lancia. The color of the upholstery was right, the scrape on the door was from a collision with a truck near Glen Cove. Ricardo's Lancia, no doubt about it. The ticket behind the windshield indicated it had pulled into the garage at nine A.M.; now it was almost two. He should be getting back from lunch any minute, she thought, but she knew she would wait, even if he didn't show up until after dinner. The underground air was suffocating, the ventilation wasn't strong enough to clean out the exhaust fumes. Before long she had a headache.

At three o'clock a tall young man, taller than Ricardo, got off the elevator and headed toward the Lancia.

"Excuse me," she called.

"Can I do something for you?" he asked, a bit taken aback. "If you're having car trouble I'll send someone down."

"No. I, I know this car. And I know Ricardo."

"Ricky? Yeah, I bought it from him."

"When?"

"It was about a month, maybe five weeks ago. Why?"

"Ricardo was a friend of my son's, they had some kind of a quarrel. My son feels very depressed about it," she said, piecing a story together. "Would you know where he is?"

"Same old story. Ran out of money. Now he's someplace in Italy. He has relatives there. It's a lot easier without cash in Europe than here."

"But I thought he was rich."

"He inherited something, but I guess it was less than he was counting on. He loves to act like a big shot."

Money! How could you leave me because of money? I would have given you everything I had.

The young man was watching Hester carefully.

"Are you all right? Did I say something wrong?"

"It's nothing. I'm glad I can give my son the news. He was worried that something might have happened to him."

He didn't believe a single word she had said. "But you really don't look well. How about if I bought you a drink?"

She was looking at the strong hand that he had placed on the half-opened door of the Lancia. Its skin was smooth and taut, without protruding veins. An attractive hand.

"Come on, I know a nice place close by. Is your car locked?"

She shook her head.

"Then go ahead and lock it," he said, laughing.

She returned to her Cadillac, got in and started the engine. His face appeared at the window.

"I thought we were going to have a drink."

She shook her head again and slowly backed up. It was a narrow slot and she could barely see through her tears, but she made it. The man stood there looking at her. He looked nice, healthy, American. The world is full of paintings, Ricardo had written. But not for me, she sobbed. For me, there was just one.

And then, all at once, she changed gears and pulled in again. The driver of a black Mercedes waiting for the spot blew his horn in annoyance. Hester turned off the ignition, glanced into the rearview mirror and wiped her eyes. What luck that she was dressed the right way, as if she were going to meet Ricardo.

"I see you change your mind quickly," said the young man when she got out.

"I'm just keeping you in suspense," she replied as she locked her door. "It makes it more interesting."

"That sounds like the right approach to life," he agreed, and together they headed for the elevators.

--Translated from the Czech by Veronique Firkusny-Callegari.

He tickled her down inside her throat; she wanted to swallow him, to draw him in, drink him.