Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (4 page)

“Does that happen often?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, far too often. And worse.”

His hotel was not far off. I sat trembling with… Not fear exactly. I was far too experienced for that. It was anticipation, of course, and excitement—I hadn’t been with a man that I cared about in ever so long. Did I care about him, already? I can’t say that with certainty; it was too soon. But, undeniably, there was something about the smell of fame that was making me absolutely wet with desire. Bad, isn’t it, to admit such a thing?

We gained entry to his hotel with no one remarking upon it, then ascended to the third floor, all very calmly and modestly. He unlocked the door, we stepped inside, and he locked us in. I stood there, wondering what would happen next, whether I should dare to take the initiative.

“Lola,” he said quietly. “That’s a pretty name. A Spanish name.”

I nodded; my palms were wet now, as well as other parts.

“What is your artistic path, that I should unite with it?”

Oh, my, he certainly cut to the chase.

“I am a dancer, from Seville—” I began.

“The one who slashes Prussian officers.”

I gasped, and at that, he laughed out loud, a good laugh because it came from the belly and was full of genuine mirth. He’d obviously seen the infamous cartoon of me—me, Lola Montez!—slashing a Prussian
gendarme
across the cheek, and sending legions of mounted
gendarmes
fleeing from my wrath.

“I hope you haven’t brought your riding crop with you,” he added. “That it’s not hidden in those lovely skirts. May I check?” And his arms were around my waist, his long hands running up and down my thighs. “No whip, but something even better,” he breathed in my ear, bending his head, with his golden hair falling forward. “A pair of strong and no doubt lovely legs. I love the forwardness of your words, my dear Lola, and the boldness of your eyes. You made me skip three notes last night, and I could not retrieve them. That happens—never.”

I tipped my face up to his at this and kissed him. I liked it, so I reached up and held his smoothly shaven cheeks between my hands, kissing and tasting his lips and his tongue. He was interesting; he turned it into an exploratory kiss, not full of haste and a rush to pull off our clothing. That’s unusual, for a first time, surely? I was more full of haste than he—and then it occurred to me that maybe he’d stop, think better of what he was doing, and there I’d be, hung out to dry with desire for this man of whom everybody wanted a piece. I wanted more than a piece. I wanted, suddenly, more than anything, to know what made him breathe hard, what he liked, what his thoughts were, the way he’d cry out, what parts of me would make him harder. I’d been without for such a long time, and my body could hardly wait to give and feel delight.

“Where is the bed?” I asked.

“Through that door.”

We began moving slowly towards it as I undid his neckerchief and he loosened my hair. It was a slow dance towards nakedness that I liked very much. As it was revealed, bit by bit, I could see that all of his skin was incredibly white, as if he stayed strictly out of the sun; he was without an ounce of fat, and yet not bony. Just enough flesh covering the muscles to make him strong, keep him flexible. Usually I like to laugh in the bedchamber—it releases tension and keeps things light—but with Liszt, there was silence and grace instead. One part of my aroused mind noted the ease with which he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his trousers. Usually, with men, this was an amusing exercise in disencumbering themselves of awkward tubes of fabric, turned inside out and yanked from the foot in lusty haste, but Liszt slipped out of them like a snake its skin.

He rose again—and there it was. Standing hard, for me. Long and pale as the rest of him. By then I was shivering with anticipation of delights to come. I turned around so that he could unlace me, and as he stood to do so, I could feel his prick nudging the middle of my back, first through folds of fabric, then against bare skin. I’d never made love with such a tall man—what would that be like? Would I feel crushed against his chest, would it be difficult to breathe? He turned me again to kiss me, bending like a stork to reach my lips. I urged him to the bed, where we lay down, and where any worries about our differences in size were forgotten. I found myself overwhelmingly excited, and, for a change, had to try to slow to meet his pace. I was so thrilled and ready that, as his hand stroked and circled my breast and his lips tickled my belly, I came with a loud cry and a voluptuous shuddering all over.

He propped himself on an elbow. “I’ve never seen that before,” he said. “Or—to be clearer—not when I am doing so little.”

I was about to apologize, or something ridiculous, but he added, “That was very beautiful, Lola Montez. I thank you for trusting me, and be assured, I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Mon Dieu
, what a wonderful afternoon. Franz Liszt was a very thoughtful lover. His fingers seem almost to be able to disjoint themselves, to spread apart more widely than would be believed. The pads of his fingers are flat and broad, and—as one would imagine—he is very skilled with them, and not just upon the piano. “Your legs are so fine, Lola,” he told me, moving one hand higher and higher, and going on kissing me. “How round, how lovely your thigh is…” His fingers slipped inside my satiny, wet lips, and our mouths were also glued together; he was playing me like a sonata. Soon enough there was more of him inside me, and the sonata became soulful and deep—almost to the point of pain, for his member is very long and he is a very intense man. These moments, though, as all lovers know, are so engrossing in their deliciousness… They defy description, they simply melt and flow, amid murmurs and short, sharp cries of rapture. In the warm bed, absorbed in sensations, not another word passed between us ’til he had spent, with a soundless force.

“Oh, too quick, too quick,” he breathed then, “Lay still.” We kept together in our fleshy conjunction; I tightened my muscles to keep him inside. We lay that way, and before too long, little stimulus was needed; our spends, separately, had only made us want it again, together, if we could manage it. How wonderful it is when the world is right and the impulse is great in both; when, thrilling with lust, when prick and quim are joined, both come to a hot eclipse at almost exactly the same moment! It’s not a commonplace circumstance, perhaps—and one at a time is equally gorgeous—but when it does happen, it feels like true bliss.

Repose then became a pleasure, and we drew apart, resting. Reaching down, I laughed and told him, “Oh, how wet you’ve made me. It’s all over the sheet.” Holding his slippery member, I took his fingers and guided them again between my legs. “You’re a fine one to talk,” he smiled. “You’re like a paste-pot.” I laughed, and, hands still upon each other, we dozed off.

Liszt woke first, and this time it was more like a mazurka, fast and randy and very fun, full of punch-drunk, lusty chatter: “Let me feel…” “Oh, I’m coming!—my God!” “I can’t wait, I must—!” By then, of course, we’d begun to relax with each other, having passed the first test by providing pleasurable sensations without too much imperativeness, and now freeing our voices to utter nonsense and libidinous cries.

Finally we fell apart again, sweating and sated.

“Tell me about that cartoon,” he said with a lazy yawn, stretching his long torso out upon the mattress.

“Mm, very well,” I answered, pleased to be asked—pleased to be with someone who wanted to converse. I’d been constrained for so long. “The whole thing was quite a to-do.”

“So I gather.”

“It was last August. I’d just arrived in Berlin, to find the city in a frenzy. Czar Nicholas I of Russia had arrived. Tens of thousands of visitors were all trying to catch a glimpse of the great and powerful ruler. Fine, I thought. Why not me, too?”

He propped his left heel into the big toe and second toe of his right foot; the narrow feet rose above the mattress, one on top of the other. “Paint me the picture…”

One of my favourite things: telling a story! I sat up in bed, naked, legs tucked under me and resting on my heels, ready to enchant him. “It was the day of the Grand Parade,” I began. “I’d hired a first-rate saddle horse, and purchased a stylishly-cut amazon outfit in deep red velvet to ride him in.” (Remembering how proud I’d felt, and how much I’d adored the accompanying riding chapeau I’d also purchased: like a small hatbox, with black veiling attached to the back of it, which flew along behind me like a second tail as we galloped). “I rode to the Friedrichfelde to see what all the fuss was about. There were absolutely thousands of people and horses and military men, you see—and perhaps it’s true that I went too close, but it wasn’t intentional. My horse, I think, shied suddenly at the sound of gunshots—another military salute or something—and somehow I found myself inside the circle reserved for important personages. Very close to the czar himself, in fact, with his little pointy beard and mean, squinty eyes.”

Franz gave a snort at this—“Were you, now?”—then reached out languidly to caress my waist.

“An officer galloped over and yanked at my horse’s bridle to pull me away, cutting the animal’s mouth. I simply reacted—he’d startled me, and hurt the horse—so I lashed out with my riding whip: shissht!” I slashed with my arm through the air above Franz’s head, to show him the manoeuver.

He flinched, then began to chuckle, a deep sort of rumble as if he was employing the bass pedal on his piano. “And then?”

“Well, immediately, the gash on the man’s cheek started to bleed quite profusely—though he did let go of my rein. So I rode away and forgot about it. But apparently the fellow was outraged. First, that I was a woman on her own—which seems to be a crime in itself, for some men.”

“Indeed.”

I was getting riled again, just thinking about it. “Second, since I wasn’t a servant or other subordinate, he couldn’t punish me or take away my wages. Third, I wasn’t a man, so he couldn’t challenge me to a duel—and just as well for him, for little did he know what a crack shot I am!”

“Are you, Lola? However did that come about?” Liszt asked, with a real curiosity that made his sleepy eyes open and his frowning brow corrugate.

“Too long a story for here,” I said, giving his celebrated nose a kiss. What a boldness! But not, surely, after all the other boldnesses we’d just been indulging in. “That evening, I was served with an official summons to answer a charge of assault on a Prussian officer. I mean, how ludicrous! I ripped it up.”

“You didn’t.”

“It might have been a mistake…” A brief pause, then, “I was charged with contempt of the legal process.”

Here Liszt began to laugh—snorts and chuckles first, followed by a medley of amused sounds as I went on to finish my tale. “There were two articles in the press about the whole silly thing the next day. The officer’s honour had been besmirched, ‘Ladies of outrageous behaviour do not merit gentlemanly conduct,’ and so on. I was advised to leave Berlin. And Germany!”

A huge guffaw.

“I know, I can still hardly believe it, but that is what happened!” I checked to see whether he was genuinely amused, and since he seemed to be, I carried on. “A further result was the cartoon in the press, of me—Lola Montez!—slashing an officer with a wicked-looking whip. Then that first cartoon expanded into—”

“The one of you chasing the terrified legions.”

“It was a sensation, that second one.”

“I saw it everywhere,” he averred. “In several different countries.”

“And it gave me more press than I would ever have dreamed possible.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” he nodded, wiping at his eyes.

“It wasn’t all good press, perhaps,” I faltered, before recovering with, “—but not completely bad either.”

“And how do you make that out?”

“It opened doors. When I mentioned my name after that, people already knew me.
You
knew me.” I had just realized it. “That’s the real reason you agreed to meet me, wasn’t it? You were intrigued; you were challenged.”

“I admit nothing.”

I leapt on him and pinned him to the mattress with a torrent of kisses.

Once we’d laughed ourselves breathless and his chuckles were easing, he whispered, “Well, now, my lady of outrageous behaviour…”

“Oh yes, let’s, Herr Liszt!”

And this time I had the momentous happiness of experiencing the real
cri de coeur
of a genius. Although he protested he was “exhausted, I’m spent, my dear creature, completely wrung out,” I persisted because I could sense that he had more stamina than he knew. It was my turn to play him, and I think it is safe to say that my performance was virtuoso. Up and down, up and down his long, thin member, first with hands, and then with all of me—for I am very athletic; it’s one of my passions. My athleticism was something Diego went crazy for. Most men seem astonished, and yet once they’ve experienced it, they crave it: that is, a woman who enjoys it as much as they do. Like a jockey on a winning steed, riding full tilt for the finish line: Lola, the athletic jockey, with knees high and imaginary whip in hand. All the sensations inside him roiling through that one potent connection, up and down, up and down—and the finish line was an enormous bellow of release. When I dismounted—ecstatically, proudly—rolling into his arms, he held me tight, a deep sense of peace enfolding us. And it was beautiful, as beautiful as it was private… Only for me and for him…

I watched him for a long time, his closed orbs, the troubled face. Watched the lines relax, the care lift away, the breathing soften. His hands—those instruments of wizardry—upon my skin… I memorized them; I’ll never forget the look and feel of them, cupping the curve of my hip instead of his keyboard. Amazing, and all for me! The touch of a genius. Fame’s caress… I wanted it so badly, fame. Why? Sometimes I hardly know—but, if I had to explain it… I suppose for excitement, for the novelty of new things, new experiences, for open doors. The security of ready money, always to hand. To be known for something that sets you apart. For vanity? I hope not, but yes, perhaps… I lay awake, as he slept, hoping for what might happen next, what might come of this. Of course, no one can plan such things—no one can force them. Life is a complex web, and Franz Liszt was deeply entangled by it.