Chapter Thirty-Six The Performer #2
Arkady had assembled some wooden trays, covering them in cloth to appear either fancy or just to hide the paint and clay stains.
One of the boards was covered in all types of charcuterie: figs, cheeses, aged meat.
The other had more sweets, soft stone fruit, and fresh heavy cream.
A safe distance from the bed were more candles on the floor, each in its own reused piece of pottery.
On the low stool beside the bed was wine, the last of our wedding gifts, shared between us like an intimate secret.
Arkady was up, draping my day dress over a chair and rummaging for clean glasses and an extra blanket, as it got cold at night by the shore.
I glanced over my shoulder, the wind whistling to me like some message lost far away at sea, tapping against the old glass.
The water looked not as expressive from up here, but the wider picture was so beautiful.
A distance away, you could see the flash of a lighthouse, a bridge connecting one of many little islands we called a city.
If you looked far enough west, the glow of dreams, of mammoths built to the sky out of iron and brick, the man-made towers we built to greet God at his door.
“I promise, they’re clean.” Arkady sat beside me on our picnic mattress.
In his hands, two mismatched jars, one for jam and one for pickles, filled appropriately with wine that cost more than his rent.
“This is nostalgic.” I graciously accepted my jar.
“Oh yes, from a time where you had only one house instead of two?” he joked.
I let out a small laugh. “More like comfort meals.”
He looked at me oddly with a quirked brow. “Your family fed you like a mouse? With all of that money?”
I nodded. “They seem giving . . . kind, even. But they are crueler than you know.” I shrugged. “Though I suppose I am to blame. For a long time, I was angry at everything except them, it seems.”
“Was it because of your sport of choice?”
“No, though it was part of it,” I mumbled, eating one of the sliced pieces of aged meat.
“They cut corners. They call it ‘good business,’ but it’s negligence.
As a child, I didn’t understand. And then I suddenly became an investment.
It felt like a savior when offered as an alternative.
Be useful or starve, my mother would say.
A witch, she is. I suppose that is why I was reluctant to leave dancing behind. ”
“What is there to eat in the French countryside?”
“Cheap meat, good fruit,” I said.
“I would hate to imagine what circumstances would make such frugality necessary.”
“You have too big of a heart,” I said softly. “I wish to share that with you, but my heart no longer believes it to be true. I thought my heart was just large, but instead, I grew into it, and realized that some people only have their own interests in mind.”
“Is that what has caused your affliction?” He leaned back on his palm, tipping his head at me as he ate a peach slice.
“Yes.”
There was a short silence, though it wasn’t bad. It was more contemplative for the both of us.
“Did you ever think you’d be in his situation?” I turned to him. “I’m sure if you expected to marry rich, she would have been a lot more interesting.”
“No,” he answered immediately, “but I couldn’t imagine it any different now.”
“Oh, really.” I smirked. “Am I the best you’ve ever had, Mr. Artisan?”
“You are the only one I’ve ever had.”
I blinked, registering his words in my mind. “Don’t lie to me. I am no fool.”
“You are anything but a fool.” He laughed, lifting a piece of fruit to my lips after dipping it in the wine.
“You’re too experienced. You know too much,” I said as I chewed. “Not that it is bad, I clearly benefit from it.”
Even looking at him now, I couldn’t find a single joke in his expression.
“You’re telling the truth?” I gasped.
“I have a habit of putting people before me,” he tried to be playful, “including other people’s needs before mine.”
“How is that? Why? You’ve never once thought to do it?”
“It makes me feel good. Like I am good.” He swallowed, glancing away. “Petre, is this a good time to be honest with you?”
My gut clutched at his words. “Of course.”
“I have my own affliction, intrusive thoughts,” he admitted, not willing to look at me, “of hurting people.”
I didn’t speak. I was afraid of interrupting, of making him feel cut off all over again.
“During moments of higher emotions, like anger or passion, I worry I will act on those impulses. I avoided most meaningful relationships and penetrative sex altogether,” he explained, his words shaky.
“I am fine using my hands, my mouth, my words—but there is something about opening up to someone in that way, the intimacy, that makes the thoughts stronger. It’s violating.
So I remained a virgin in the traditional sense. ”
“So you weren’t joking when you said you think about hurt—”
“I would never,” he cut me off, finally able to look at me. His free hand squeezing mine. “I’m . . . glad it was you.”
I squeezed his hand as I watched the candles dance in the reflection of his eyes like little sprites celebrating the union.
A small fracture from my voice as I pulled my hand from his, cupping my jar of wine and observing my own reflection.
Then the surface rippled, and the light blurred in my vision.
“Petre.” Arkady’s hand held my face, guiding it toward him so our foreheads touched. “Is something wrong?” His voice shook, as did his touch.
I shook my head, rubbing my cheek into his hand and undoubtedly getting it wet with tears. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“How do I help?”
I shook my head, closing my eyes to banish the tears before staring back.
He released a calming breath, banishing whatever brief anxiety I had caused him. He lifted his cup between us, and so did I. We twisted our arms together as we lifted our cups to our lips.
A shy glance was exchanged, met by closeness and intimate messages through our breathing alone. Then we drank together. The action was silly, meaningless to anyone except us.
Arkady reached over the side of the bed, putting the needle on the phonograph to play La Sylphide from the beginning. There, we watched the stars wink over our candlelit dreams.