Tidal Wave (5 page)

“For business reasons, I lived in London for several years, spent time in New York, Zurich, Brussels, and Milan, traveled to the Middle East, China, Japan, and Australia, and visited Caracas and Buenos Aires, as circumstances required.” She refrained from mentioning Alexandria and the
other more exotic places she and Anthony had shared for pleasure.

“Why are you making this crossing?”

“Because I’m changing my life and I’m …” She hesitated and then asked, “Does any of this matter?”

“No, not in the least. We have time to learn all about each other. What does matter is that I’m here in your cabin and you and I are going to make this voyage together across all that —” He waved his arm, and they both looked out through the oversized portholes off the bow to the open ocean that lay before them.

“You seem very sure. Do you always do this — jump into a woman’s life and court her with flowers, chocolates, and champagne?”

“Only on ships when the atmosphere is bursting with romance, intrigue, isolation, and the unknown, and a woman like you makes an appearance.”

They were silent for a minute, looking into each other’s eyes. Then he said, “I want to seduce you physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Does that frighten you?”

“No,” she said, with the most tantalizing smile and sparkling eyes. “Not if you do it well and can accomplish it.”

He chuckled and said, “It might be a question of who is seducing whom.”

She smiled and said, “Yes, it might, mightn’t it?”

The soup bowls empty, they put them aside. Arabella replaced the tureen in the center of the table with a large silver dish with a balloon-shaped cover. She opened the cover using the two small handles at the top. The lid slid down to reveal a large crystal bowl filled with caviar, the best black Beluga. It was set in a circle of crushed ice and lemon halves, covered in fine cheesecloth. She uncovered another dish filled with paper-thin pancakes, and another small silver bowl filled with thick white sour cream.

“I know it’s extravagant!” said Arabella. “But that’s how I felt when I ordered lunch. Now I’m doubly glad I did because I have a guest. I do hope that you like Russian caviar.”

“One of my weaknesses,” said Nicholas. “What a wonderful lunch and a wonderful hostess.”

Embarrassed, she went a little pink and said, “May I make the first blini for you the way I make them for myself?”

“Yes, please.”

Arabella then assembled the classic Russian specialty that the ancient Slavs used to eat to reassure themselves in the dead of winter that the sun would one day return. First she picked up one of the hot pancakes with the tips of her fingers and smoothed it out flat on a plate. Then with a silver spoon she spread a thick layer of sour cream over it. With the crystal spoon, she scooped up a huge portion of black caviar, which she put in the center of the pancake, then she reached for one of the lemons and squeezed it over the caviar.

“I think I should tell you,” Arabella said, “that I don’t roll them as one should. I never like blinis that are all pancake and a touch of the black eggs, only when they are all caviar and a touch of pancake!” She handed him the plate.

Nicholas watched her make one for herself and laughed when she filled the crystal spoon with caviar from her plate and tore off a corner of the pancake. She slid the spoon into her mouth and rolled her eyes in an expression of delight as she slid the now-empty spoon out again, quickly popping in the piece of pancake and sour cream after it.

She amused him with a hand gesture as if rubbing her tummy in a circle and said, “Oh, Nicholas, this is sublime!”

He agreed with her. It was divine. She made them each another as he opened a second bottle of champagne. They indulged themselves in silence, savoring the luxurious lunch.

He stood up and, moving around to sit next to her on the sofa, filled her glass. He put the bottle down in front of them on the table after moving some of the empty dishes.

He looked at her and said, “That was a wonderful lunch. Memorable.”

Kissing her on the lips lightly, tenderly, almost hesitantly, he leaned back, moved closer to her, and drew her to him. He felt her relax into his arm. She rested her head
on his shoulder. The touch of her silk dressing gown and her body in his arms was enough to release the passion and tenderness he had felt when he had seen her through the binoculars during her spectacular arrival on the ship. He caressed her hair, kissed her on the cheek, and pulled her tighter to him. He tilted her face up to his and said, “I think you are divine.”

Arabella responded by twisting around in his arms, lying down with her head resting in his lap. Then she reached up and pulled his head down to hers. First she kissed him ever so gently on his lips — a whisper of a kiss. Then she pointed her tongue and outlined the shape of his lips.

Nicholas thought he would melt, the fire she ignited in him was so hot. He pulled her up tight in his arms as he opened his lips. She ran her tongue inside and their lips met again in a more passionate kiss.

She slid her hand under his cashmere sweater. The feel of his skin electrified her. She gasped at her unexpected response and quickly moved her hand away.

“Nicholas, let’s talk first. I want to know all about you.”

“Shhh,” he whispered, as he gently touched her lips. “We already know each other. What we are both feeling now is important. We have time to talk later.”

They held each other, silent and thoughtful, sometimes touching, petting, caressing, other times so sexually aroused they held back, trying not to drown out all the other things they were feeling for each other with lust.

The room was growing dark. Dusk was upon them when Nicholas kissed her on the temple. He was cuddling her to him as she dozed. She had that luscious, lazy feeling, induced by too much champagne and even more emotion.

He felt her come alive again in his arms as he touched her breasts. He unfastened the silk braided frogs that held her dressing gown closed and saw her body for the first time under the scant silver-peach chemise. He covered her with nibbling kisses across her shoulders, around her neck; he rubbed his face over the silk between her breasts and down over her stomach; then he pulled her close to him and
kissed her deeply as he found his way between her legs. He unbuttoned the three tiny pearl buttons across the narrow crotch of the chemise and found the moistness it had covered. He touched her, played with her mound of golden hair. She was so soft, velvety and warm.

She sighed and whispered, “Yes, oh, yes …” He worked the chemise up over her body, and when he saw her heavy, firm breasts with their rosy nipples standing forth, he quickly pulled the chemise over her head and dropped it on the floor. He looked at her naked in his arms and then suddenly, with overwhelming passion, he pulled her even tighter to him. The soft cashmere caressed her, and his erection stabbed her through his trousers. He held her that way with one arm around her back, the other over her bottom, which he caressed before he reached under it to feel inside her again. He released her and his passion subsided for a moment as he stroked her hair, looked into her eyes, and said softly, “I’ve thought of nothing but you since you landed in the helicopter. I watched you through binoculars and imagined how wonderful you would be, but I was quite wrong. You are more wonderful than I imagined. All through lunch I wanted to feel you, to know you, make love to you.”

Arabella put her arms around his neck and began kissing him slowly and sweetly over his face and neck while he touched her. He then bent to kiss her neck and whispered in her ear, “Come, my darling, come!” He felt her twinge with excitement and when, with deft fingers, he went deep into her and felt her come, she sighed and said softly, in a voice laced with sex, “Oh, Nicholas, I can’t hold back from you.”

He said, “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right,” and opened her wider, pushing in as far as he could go. “Shhh,” he said again. “I want you this way. If only you knew what joy it gives me to have you respond to me like this. It’s only the beginning.”

Eventually he removed his hand and stroked her thighs and hips. She reached down and took the hand that had
made love to her, raised it to her mouth, placed the palm over her lips and kissed it. He saw the passion in her eyes as she pulled slowly away from him, but only far enough away to slip back into her dressing gown. She wrapped it loosely around her and, still stretched out on the sofa on her side, facing him, her head in his lap, she said, “I want to show you how I feel about you.” She kissed him as she undid the large silver buckle, loosened his belt, and slowly unzipped his fly. He slowly moved aside and zipped up.

“I know how you feel about me, Arabella,” he said. “You told me by the way you responded to me. I’m sorry I must leave now. It’s not possible for me to stay. I’ll explain later.” He turned his face to hers and put his arms around her. He said, “We’ve been like two kids. I’ve fallen for you, and it’s true we know nothing about each other.” He then picked her hands up in his and kissed them, saying “Let’s take this crossing and the days and nights on board to discover each other.”

“I would like that,” she answered.

He took her by the hand and they walked to the door. Again he said, “I’m sorry to have to leave you now.” And he was gone.

After Nicholas departed, Arabella remained in a state of shock and euphoria. She couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would have been if he could only have stayed a little longer. She knew they were both sexually excited when they parted, a feeling that could only increase until they were together again. She knew she had been seduced in a way that felt uniquely special yet somehow familiar. She decided a long, luxurious bath would clear her mind. She went to the tub, poured in a packet of Caswell Massey gardenia bubble bath, turned on the gold-plated faucets, and watched the water flow. She gazed at the steady stream and the rising foam as if hypnotized.

The ringing telephone jarred her back to consciousness. She lifted the receiver from its cradle on the wall near the
tub. It was Anthony. The sound of his voice was both jarring and comforting. He was calling to say he had heard the news of her departure from the business world. He was thrilled and very proud of her and what she had done and wanted to wish her well. When he asked what was she going to do, she told him of her plans to build a new life, have fun and do all the things she had missed. “I’ll create a garden, bake bread, make a home, dance … who knows? All I do know is that I’m going to take each day as it comes.”

She shut off the taps and reached down to feel the water. The heat jolted her.

“Anthony, why are you calling me all of a sudden? This is the first time I’ve heard your voice in months.”

He replied, “Arabella, I want to talk to you further. I have something very important to tell you but I don’t have the time or privacy to talk now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right, Anthony,” she said, somewhat confused at this mystery. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Arabella.”

She hung up the telephone and returned to the bath. The oval marble tub was set in the middle of the room. She stepped over the side and slid into the soft, warm water scented with gardenia. Gliding forward until the liquid-satin water engulfed her up to her shoulders, she lifted the sponge and squeezed rivulets of the caressing, soothing water over her arms. She placed a padded cushion behind her neck and stretched languorously ….

Chapter Five

Arabella had not thought about her first meeting with Alexandria and Anthony for years. Her beloved Alexandria and her great love, Anthony Quartermaine.

It all came flooding back to her as if it were yesterday. Almost unconsciously she dipped the large round sponge into the bath water and pressed it against her face. She felt the water pour over her eyes, nose, lips, chin. It ran off her cheeks, down onto her neck and breasts. She dropped the sponge into the water and spoke to the ghosts sitting around her in the bathroom on the
Tatanya Annanovna
.

I have not forgotten you, she thought. My glorious Alexandria. How innocent I was when I landed on your shores! We were a party of naive foreigners, semisophisticated young ladies and gentlemen just out of Smith, Vassar, Harvard,
and Yale who had notched New York, Paris, and London under our belts and thought ourselves world travelers.

Young American innocents abroad, cruising on a Greek millionaire’s yacht — the father of one of our friends, who was determined to show us Egypt. A few house parties in Alexandria and a taste of the desert and he guaranteed us our lives would never be the same. Our host was right.

It’s funny, thought Arabella. Even all these years later I can still remember feeling disappointed that none of the group wanted to stay and explore Alexandria further, as I did. Yet, at the same time, I had been relieved to separate from the group and discover the life of the Levant without them.

As Arabella soaked in the steamy, fragrant bath, she remembered that time in Egypt.

The port was filled with the most exotic ships, both large and small. Dhows and feluccas bobbed up and down with caiques and schooners from every part of the world. Sailors in white suits, sailors in galabeahs with great white turbans, sailors in baggy shorts and in worn denim called out to each other in languages as exotic and sweet-sounding as one could possibly imagine.

As soon as she set foot on Egyptian soil, she knew she was in a strange, exotic land. She also sensed that a new world was about to open up for her, and she trembled with excitement as the city covered her like a blanket. She felt disoriented, slightly mad, as a Westerner walking through those ancient streets for the first time, watching the mélange of people — blue-black Sudanese; olive-complexioned Greeks; dark, sultry Egyptians; white-skinned descendants of Europeans enmeshed in a living theater. They wore exotic costumes: galabeahs, caftans, tarbooshes, turbans, and ties. The women in voluminous black dresses down to the dusty streets, black shawls over their heads, not a hair showing, their soft faces with black, liquid eyes highlighted in kohl, were in strong contrast to the most beautiful Egyptian women of wealth, who wore elegant dresses.

There were exotic cafés, taverns, and open-air coffee shops where men smoked their narghiles and drank tiny cups of strong sweet black coffee, or small glasses of thick sweet mint tea, and played backgammon, and where the occasional poet might be seen writing. As contrast, there were elegant, expensive coffee shops where handsome men and women met clandestinely to gossip and flirt and a Greek banker might be seen reading his paper. In between there were street vendors by the hundred.

Delicious Alexandria, your colorful people, the heartbeat of your city, a spectacle so rich I see it all again all these years later, thought Arabella.

The luscious city by the sea, filled with crushing poverty and exquisite beauty, teemed with sensual life, seemed to ferment in the sun. The Americans walked its streets and squares and became familiar with the broken marble fountains no longer gushing water. It was a city filled with the smells of garlic and jasmine, the desert, sea, and sun, always the sun. It was so strange how even the night smelled of the sun. Arabella would watch, mesmerized, as the darkness gave way to a white-hot moon.

Suddenly her senses seemed alive as they never had before. Alexandria made Europe and America, her friends and her life up until then, seem pale and dull, sexless and very far away. As if seduced by the city itself, she gave in to it and felt herself changing, growing away from the people she had come there with and toward something else as she mingled with the Levant and Africa.

Silently, Arabella let some water out of the bath, then turned on the tap to let some more hot water into it. Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on either side of her nose, above her upper lip, on her forehead. She stretched her foot out and turned off the tap with her big toe.

Arabella reached out to the table next to the bath and picked up a terry-cloth-covered neck rest and put it behind her. Stretching out, soothed by the heat of her fragrant bath, she closed her eyes and let long-forgotten memories return.

* * *

Arabella remembered standing up in the open horse-drawn carriage and waving good-bye to her friends after promising to meet them in Cyprus four days later. It occurred to her now how rarely she thought of her beau at the time of that cruise, Sam Waterman. Sam was a brilliant young medical student from Johns Hopkins. She could still picture his long face of disappointment at their parting.

He had been a sweet lover, a sensitive young man with whom she had had a friendly romance for two years. She had never expected to stay with him even that long, but it had been easier than breaking up. And he was nice enough. She remembered the pang of real loneliness she had felt sending him away, the fear of the unknown before her and the knowledge that she would miss him in bed that night.

Their last conversation together came back to her as if it had happened only yesterday. The others had all kissed her good-bye and boarded the yacht.

Sam had kissed her and said, “Why do you want to leave the group? Why break us up? We’re all on vacation together.”

She had answered, “I’m not breaking us up, Sam. I’ve fallen in love with this fantastic, erotic city and I haven’t seen enough of it. It’s been a wonderful vacation but I’m tired of island hopping, of seeing everything superficially, of glimpsing Crete and waving at Sicily and barely touching the shores of Turkey. I can’t do that with Alexandria. Anyway, don’t look so sad. What’s four days’ time? We’ll be together again in Cyprus and, besides, you can still stay — you don’t have to leave.”

“But I want to. All I see here is dirt, poverty, and weirdness. I don’t have the need to stay that you do.” He kissed her again and went on. “I just don’t feel the same. I want to go on with the others. I’ll see you in Cyprus.”

That evening, dusk came to Alexandria like a big deep bruise. The sky turned pink, pale yellow then lavender, until finally a deep purple before the black of night. For
Arabella it was a moment of depression, sadness. Until dusk in Alexandria, she had never been aware of the death of a day.

She sat in a carriage driven by the big, soft-looking Egyptian in his gray galabeah and large white turban. Around her were cars of every vintage and shape, hooting and tooting the pushcarts, bicycles, dilapidated lorries, donkeys pulling flat carts loaded with fruit, vendors, and people. Masses and masses of people.

By early nighttime, Alexandria was lit up by a soft yellow from a million dim light bulbs. The Corniche looked like a chain of twinkling diamonds. The city glowed on a low voltage and high atmosphere.

The dappled gray horse with his sway back clopped along the pavements, swinging his haunches like some seductive charmer to the tinkle of his own bells hung along a harness studded with charms against the evil eye. They worked. Arabella arrived safely back at the Hotel Cecil, that wonderful, old-time hotel. The Cecil, with its pale-pink facade of soft stone punctuated by latticed balconies under skimpy dark-green awnings. It overlooked the square of drooping old palm trees, worn-out grass, and the eastern harbor. The sweet and homey Cecil with its comfortable elegance and unprepossessing entrance was a welcome sight to Arabella. She went into the dark, old-fashioned lobby, where the ceiling fans lazily circulated what little cool air there was. There were dusty and tired potted palms, gigantic spiky green-and-white striped plants called mother-in-law’s tongue, and in the slightly seedy-looking, overstuffed chairs sat the hotel’s well-dressed guests. There were only eighty-three rooms in the hotel, and all their occupants had at least one thing in common: the pleasure in gossip and staring, Alexandrian pastimes.

This lobby had known throughout its history many famous poets, writers, statesmen, sheikhs and kings, presidents and prime ministers. It was the second home to the English when they were in Alexandria, as well as the French,
Italians, Americans, Saudi Arabians, Lebanese, Greeks — the list went on and on.

In the center of the main stairwell were a pair of tiny elevators, beautiful little black wrought-iron cages that ran up and down constantly, silently, as if running on greased poles. The white marble stairs, covered with ruby-red Turkish carpet on each tread, snaked around the elevators with a matching balustrade of wrought iron and a polished mahogany handrail.

The waiters, porters, and baggage boys were dressed in small white turbans and beige galabeahs intricately embroidered in chocolate brown. They were the best
sufragies
— servants — to be found in Alexandria.

It was there, in the famous old Cecil bar that had sustained poets and writers, statesmen and lovers, that Arabella saw him again. The tall, handsome, middle-aged Englishman who appeared so proper, so staid, so conventional, so very conservative.

It was quiet in the bar — such a contrast to the symphony of horns, bells, and people, the exotic sound of Arabic music blaring from the shops, the exquisite sound of the call to prayer echoing from the slim, needlelike minarets over the rooftops of Alexandria. There, in the quiet of the bar, the exquisite elegance and aristocratic bearing of the man caught her eye.

A
sufragi
showed Arabella to a table and took her order for a long, cool drink — a Pimms — that was served to her in a silver tankard. After a few sips Arabella looked around the room. She took it all in, the long elegant bar of dark polished wood, a table with several well-dressed Arab businessmen, another with two elderly women, faded European beauties. At another table sat a handsome French homosexual with a much more beautiful young Arab boy.

Arabella’s eyes met the Englishman’s. His face was passive but his eyes were not. She could not help but think that under that calm, cool facade was a very sexy man. She was disappointed when he looked away, paid his bill at the bar, and left.

Twenty minutes later she picked up her key at the desk and left an order for another Pimms to be sent up to her room. She had decided to drink it there, looking out over the city, then change and go down to dinner.

The elevator cage door opened, the operator stepped out, then a couple who walked toward the dining room. Arabella stepped in. When she turned around to face the front, the handsome Englishman had stepped in behind her. Although taken aback, now it was her turn to look passive. He smiled, turned around, and faced the front, with his broad back to her.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. The galabeahclad operator opened the little door and stepped out, followed by the Englishman and then Arabella.

Arabella heard the elevator door close as she walked toward her room; then she realized she was being followed by the Englishman.

She stopped suddenly, turned around, and said, “Are you following me, sir?”

“Why, yes, I am,” he answered pleasantly.

“You would not like me to call the
sufragi
over there, would you?” she said, pointing to one of the floor servants. “What do you want?”

“I want to go to my room,” he said, holding up a key with a worn wooden tag on which was written the number 406.

Arabella flushed and said, “Uh oh, I think I’ve made a fool of myself. How embarrassing!” She held up her key, “I am four oh five.” They walked to their rooms. Arabella gratefully closed the door behind her.

Her room had the look of faded elegance with its English flowered cretonne bed cover and curtains; the great white mosquito net hanging from the ceiling was draped back and tied to the bedposts. Arabella went to the window and cranked open the shutter. Another sound so familiar in Alexandria — the wooden-slatted shutters clattering up and down trying to adjust the sun and heat for comfort. She went onto the balcony and rolled back the green awning, hoping to get a
little more air into her room. She stayed there, drinking in the night under a blanket of stars. She saw the outline of the Englishman standing in the dark on the balcony next to hers.

Feeling bad about how she had snapped at him before, she leaned toward him and said, “Are you as seduced by Alexandria as I am?”

He smiled and said, “Yes, I certainly am.”

The breeze, what there was of it, was still hot and not refreshing. The streets below teemed with life. Arabella heard a click and turned to look at him again. A lighter flame glowed, illuminating the Englishman’s face as he lit his cigarette. An arrogant face, she thought, one of breeding and polish — an aristocrat’s face.

Arabella decided to be mischievous. As he was snapping his lighter closed, she said, “I think it is the sexiest city in the world. What do you think?”

He turned to face her in the dark and, putting his foot on a chair, he leaned forward and said, “Erotic, I think. The most erotic city in the world.”