Blood Ties (9 page)

They spent their honeymoon in a rented villa on a
picturesque lake just a few miles from the castle in which she now waited,
rummaging through her warehouse of resentments.

"How pretty?" she had remarked rushing into the
house to prod her curls into place and repair her makeup. When she turned from
the mirror, he was behind her, erect, towering over her. It had then occurred
to her that he had kissed her only once and that was part of the ritual of the
wedding. His lips were cold. Now she lifted her face to his, touching his chin,
which he dutifully lowered for her to find his lips again. She had to place her
arms around him. She was confused. Wasn't she the one that was supposed to be
shy? It was another item of living to which she had given little thought. He
had, after all, been married before, a fact that was merely noted but little
discussed during their courtship. Nor was she curious. Actually, she was
curious about nothing. Even then, in the prelude to their marriage
consummation, she wasn't curious, expecting that she would perform her duty
with obedience and vigor, like her mother.

There was one servant in the house who had prepared their
evening meal and poured their wine, which made her giggly and lightheaded.
Charles had watched her closely throughout the meal, smiling less often than
before, his look more an inspection than simple observation. She was too
lightheaded to feel discomfited.

Helga preceded him upstairs, bathed in a big tub, powdered
and perfumed herself, particularly that part of herself which she knew would be
of special importance. She inspected her naked body in the mirror, the high
plump breasts, the softly contoured belly over which a thin down began its
southward trail between her legs. She imagined, judging from what she had seen
of her mother and uncle, that some new pleasure was to be anticipated, but it
was all vague in her mind.

He was sitting in a corner of the bedroom when she came
into it, sipping a brandy and brooding, his eyes narrowed in
self-contemplation. In the center of the room was the high feather bed to which
her eyes darted, wondering why he had not yet prepared himself for it. Have I
made him angry? she had wondered, the lightness receding. Don't I please him?
She let her eyes find the mirror which caught her shiny brushed hair and the
pink skin glowing beneath the silk nightgown which sheathed her figure. Even
the warm sweet smell of her perfumed skin assured her that she was still the
twirling pink lady. Only the brooding face of her new husband confused the
image.

"What is it, darling?" She had not yet found
anything ominous to suggest his displeasure. He looked into the brandy snifter
and sucked up the remaining liquid, smacking his lips, watching her. She
started to move toward the bed, with a beckoning shake of her head.

"Not yet," he said, his voice cracked, the nerve
in the jaw palpitating again. He had crossed his legs, as if he was merely here
to listen to some supplicant's complaint.

"Take your nightgown off," he said. She was
confused. The voice was sharp, commanding, different in tone than he had ever
used before. She smiled at him, expecting the humor of it to surface, sure it
would dispel the sudden confusion.

"Off," he said. She shrugged. It is a joke, she
decided, determined to go along with it, to please him. She felt the hot blush
begin at her cheeks as she removed the nightgown, secretly pleasured at
exhibiting herself to him.

The room was warm and her feet sunk into a heavy bearskin
that lay on the floor before him.

"Am I beautiful?" she asked, anticipating further
pleasure in the expected response. But he ignored her.

"Lay down," he commanded again.

She looked around her.

"Here?"

"There," he pointed to the rug.

"Really darling," she protested. But there was no
humor in his response. The arrogant curl of his lip had begun again. The music
was fading swiftly. She had stopped twirling. What is this? she wondered,
sinking to the bearskin, watching his narrow eyes. She was on her knees. A tiny
sob flashed in her throat. What is happening?

"On your back and spread your legs," he said, his
voice rising as he watched her, the command implicit. She had no will of her
own now. She would do as she was told. It was not that his commands were cruel,
she had decided. Underneath the patina of authority, she detected a sense of
fear, as if the assumed sense of command carried little conviction. It was, she
found out later, instinctive. Perhaps this is why she obeyed him willingly then,
lying down on the rug, spreading her legs. The room was well lit, the mystery
of herself was no mystery at all. He stared down at her and finally she lay
back and closed her eyes. She hadn't thought about what to expect. Why not
this?

When she heard movements, she opened her eyes again and he
was unbuttoning his trousers, his eyes still glued to the center of her body.
Now she was finding her own sense of curiosity. She felt no sense of terror,
even her initial sense of humiliation was dissipating under the loss of her
modesty. He kicked himself free of his pants and she saw his body. He was still
looking at her but his fingers were moving between his thighs under a tiny
fringe of dark hair. At first she had trouble distinguishing his penis from his
fingers. She had expected something on the order of her uncle's blunt
glistening muscular organ with the pendant sacks hanging beneath it. Not that
she had dwelled on the idea of it, merely considering it as part of her
expectations. She was not completely ignorant of the male anatomy, having seen
young children naked and boys peeing in the street.

What Helga had not expected was its size. Small. No bigger
than his index finger, hence the confusion at first. And under it, two tiny
bags like ancient leather coin sacks. In her mind, she somehow related what she
had been commanded to do with the size of his organ. Now she understood the
terror behind the arrogance; she reached out to touch his thigh. His eyes moved
to hers now, softening. She lifted one arm and he took it, continuing to caress
his organ, distinguished from his fingers by the redness and the tiny spot of
moisture on its tip. She pulled his hand and drew him down over her, reaching
out instinctively for him, finding what nature had created for its sheath and
inserted it.

She had expected some pain. Even her mother's elliptical
warnings had indicated some pain was to be forthcoming. Focusing on searching
for sensations, she felt only a faint friction, a bare hint of pleasure and
slight burning sensation as his organ slipped into her. He was breathing hard
above her, his heartbeat accelerated, moving swiftly, as if by frenetic
activity he would prove his organ capable of its solemn duty of impregnation.
Finally, his movement halted and his body shook with a sudden spasm and a groan
escaped his throat. She felt a wetness between her legs, but little more. It
was not entirely as she had expected.

After it was over, she got into bed, comforted by the
softness. It was a feather bed with overstuffed down pillows and she sunk into
them deeply. She had almost regained her sense of well-being. After all, she
was not hurt. She was still quite whole.

When she awoke, the room was ablaze with electric light and
he was kneeling on the bed searching for something. The comforter had exposed
the sheets and with it the bare lower part of her body. She was drugged with
sleep, but was quickly alert, awaiting what was expected of her.

"What is it, Charles?"

He inspected the sheets that lay under her bare buttocks.

"No blood."

"Blood?"

She followed his eyes downward. Why should there be blood,
she wondered? There were no injuries. The extent of her ignorance was
appalling.

"Were you a virgin?" He looked at her with
curiosity, a look which forever would remind her of Karla. Again she felt
confused.

"A virgin?"

"There is no blood. Did you feel pain?"

"No." Actually, it had been very slight, but she
was saying things which she assumed he wanted to hear, hoping that she would
stumble on the right answers.

She was still not afraid. His questions were merely odd.

"Let's go back to sleep."

She was able to do so quickly, for there was already a haze
of dawning light in the room when she awakened. Hands were moving about her
body, smoothly caressing and the warmth of his large frame enveloped her. It
was a pleasant way to be led into consciousness and she responded to his
caresses by moving her own hands along the ridges of his rib cage. He was a
muscular man and she felt pleasure in this first real exploratory contact with
his body. His actions seemed deliberate, but soothing. He kissed her eyes,
played lightly with his tongue in her ears, her neck, finding her lips'
attention as he sought them, played along them with his tongue, then moving
lower fondled an erect nipple. Like a flower floating on the tranquil tide of a
smooth river, she let him lead her, floating with him, the sluices of herself
opening to the first taste of lust. Then his hand found the heart of her. It
did not linger there. Suddenly his body moved sharply downward, and she paused
in the search for her own sensations as she observed him with curiosity. The
tongue moved swiftly now over her belly downward, nipping. She was feeling the
upward crescendo of an exquisite anticipation and suddenly he was kissing her
thighs, moving upward and downward with what seemed like a time-measured
ever-spiraling energy. If there was any vestige of modesty, it left her then as
her pelvis lurched to meet his lips and she felt the mounting excitement at the
central core of her being. For the first time in her life, she was feeling
outside of her body, yearning for something that could not yet be articulated.

Then there was a brief pause. His body had changed position
suddenly and something was moving slowly inside of her, filling her. The lips of
her sex clasped it, feeling its hardness, sucking it into her. Mindless, she
did not notice any anatomical mystery, despite the fact that his head still
nudged her thighs. Then what seemed the crest of pleasure turned to a searing,
burning pain as the hard thing moved sharply upwards, through her, crashing
into something inside and she screamed in pain. Or was it pleasure, for the
thing was moving in her like a piston now and the pores of her body had opened,
liquifying her. From somewhere inside of her, a voice was pleading for the
thing to stop, but it seemed to have no understanding, no ability to receive
information, no humanity. How could it? It was merely hard cast rubber, a kind
of truncheon.

It was that realization, that first glimpse of the obscene
thing that had violated her, that speared itself into her brain and assured her
everlasting hate. Even in her stupid, teenaged ignorance, her empty-headed
obtuseness, she could clearly see, even then, the full extent of her captivity.
The last musical note had sounded. The little pink lady would never twirl
again.

Charles had actually apologized in his own icy arrogant
manner. Then he simply disappeared into the bathroom and brought her a warm
moist towel, performing the ablutions on her. She didn't care by then. Her
humiliation was complete, although the petals of her outward life closed
quickly around it like an insect-eating plant. So he had opened her up by
force, a thing that his own body could not achieve.

They spent two weeks in this honeymoon idyll. Aside from
the odd nocturnal meanderings where apparently the submission of her body to
his will was an expected consequence of becoming a von Kassel, he was polite,
even solicitous. She still responded to material blandishments and he had
apparently carried with him a treasure trove of gifts—a set of diamond
earrings, a diadem of jewels that had once belonged to his mother and had been
reset in a modern mode. Every day there was a delivery of fresh-cut flowers and
all evening dinners began with caviar and champagne, as if the palate was too
delicate to use without first coating it with these delicacies.

If there was talk, Helga could barely remember it. Only
repetitive themes that spilled out from him as if memorized and periodically
regurgitated, mostly about von Kassels.

"You are a von Kassel now," he had assured her.
But her own family pride prompted a pouting challenge.

"But I was a Hohenzollern first."

"That too," he agreed. "Von Kassels have
also been sprinkled with Romanovs and Hapsburgs." She could not understand
why he rarely smiled, and efforts to play with him seemed blunted by his somber
moods. Papers were delivered early and he usually spent the mornings reading
them, making brief comments to her at lunch about the state of the war. She had
little interest in such matters, preferring instead to concern herself with
their future plans. Since he traveled so much, they would set themselves up
first in his sister's house in Baden-Baden, at least until their family began.
She would want company, and Karla, he assured her, was excellent company. She
detested the idea, but, like the other, buried her protest under layers of
acquiescence.

It amazed her, especially now, how swiftly the old angers
bubbled to the surface. Time had reversed the path of anger from them to
herself. How she detested her earlier being, the vacuous unquestioning dullness
of her eighteen-year-old self. She knew nothing. Nothing! And now, with her
body puffed and swollen with age and abuse, her mind was lean, supple, honed at
last to its full potential, the cells of her brain stuffed with insight,
wisdom, and the knowledge that sparks courage, truth and ... She hesitated.
Revenge was not worthy of the way she perceived herself now. She got up from
the lumpy bed, drawing her old bathrobe around her and moved to the closed
dust-speckled window. With heavy, slightly arthritic fingers, she rubbed a
space in the pane and peered out into the darkness. Stars were glistening above
her. It was all she could see. The music had stopped. Occasionally a muted
sound of a human voice reached her.