Paradise - Part One (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) (3 page)

“And the baby?”
I asked. It seemed to catch her off guard.

“Savannah is asleep.”

I found myself in a great, chalky catafalque of a room with flat screen televisions on every wall, a bar, and bay windows to one side looking over the great mass of sea. Wind and rain ripped through the palm trees, the bud shafts of which I was on the same level with, and lightning struck in the distance. Anna brought me tea. She sat across from me and drank coffee. She was a Cuban immigrant who looked like a Hopi Indian with large widespread eyes. Her physique, which I hadn’t at first noticed, was impressive with hourglass curves and an ample bust.

She smiled seductively and glared at me as though she was reading my thoughts—or at least trying to.  “I’m happy you came,” she said at last. “When I first saw you, I know you are not like the others here. You have a very—let me say, natural way. You do not put on acts. Your movements and—how do you say?—expressions are so pure that I would say I almost can know what you think.”

“What do I think?”

“You think
like the lioness, ‘How can I control? How can I take over?’ like a panther. You are strong—unbreakable—like the Amazonian woman. The myth. You are
indomitable
—is that the word?” She was very forward in her analysis, perhaps something of her native culture. I must say, I liked her from the start.

“Perceptive.” I laughed.

“Do you smoke?” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

“Cigarettes?”

“It depends on what kind of cigarettes you mean—
grass, weed
, I mean.”

“Sometimes with friends.
It’s been awhile, really.”

“I have the AK-47. Come.” After shaking the thought that she might actually have a Soviet assault rifle, I followed her. I thought of all the reasons I shouldn’t have done it: first day on a new job, a promising job at that, it’s unprofessional, I’d probably have to learn quite a few new things—but I didn’t really care, I didn’t like the people, other than the baby, and now Anna. At worst, I’d end up going back to my old nanny job in Gainesville and to Julie, whom I was painfully missing already.

In a supply room no larger than the couch I slept on at Julie’s, we huddled together around a small glass pipe bearing a few buds of the AK-47 variety. After we blazed through those, Anna packed the bowl again, and, after repeating this experience a few times, I lost count of how many times it happened. Plentiful coughing ensued. She sprayed with apple-scented air freshener, we each took a stick of gum from her pack, and went out of the dank air.

She took me out on the balcony and pointed out certain landmarks on the property but I’m afraid her words were lost in the raging gale. The rain was blowing sideways, and it was difficult to make out anything as a sort of eerie mist clung to the grounds below. What I did notice was the way her dress clung to her shapely form as it got wet. I felt something surge from my legs upward as I watched her thighs, then her hips.

Next to a raging fire in the chalky, great room, Anna and I bonded over more tea and coffee. As she spoke to me about trips with the Staffords to the Bahamas and the Florida Keys, or England and France, I felt that she was painting pictures—great landscapes and portraits of the family. One moment I was in that room by the fire, the next I was on an island in the Gulf of Mexico with white beaches, crystal water, and skies of the deepest blue. I felt the granules of sand beneath my feet and caked between my toes, and the balmy air mixed with the warm, clear waves of the tropical sea. I heard the Creole voices calling to me and saying something which normally I could not understand, but which, in this state, like lucid dreaming, was easily decipherable.

Then it hit me; the Afghani bud we had teleported to closet space to partake of. I was conscious of the room as one might be conscious of a golden bubble she is floating in above some bejeweled tower in a futuristic city among the clouds. The kind where all the inhabitants are hermaphrodites, worshiping statues made of dark matter while walking sideways on the walls of catacomb tunnels. I conceived of the whole universe as the grooves in an immeasurable vinyl, while consciousness was the strange sound produced by the gargantuan needle of the record player scratching its endless surface. I was conscious of ants racing in dust storms as far west as Texas. I swear I could hear the scuttle of their feet across the desert floor. I felt extremely ill-at-ease in my skin while simultaneously sensing what I thought was the perfection of the world and this life in it. The sense that everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be.
That there was an all-conscious, singular mind manifest in all things—universal consciousness. It was similar to the feelings of ecstasy in my liaison with Julie the night before. I was at the edge of ego-consciousness, pushing outward into something sublime and unknown. The unease was fear.

Anna spoke to me with increasing speed and I watched two
Annas: one that spoke with growing interest in her subject, and one that was silent and watched me. I was terrified of the first and fascinated by the second. Or was it the other way around? Next I had a feeling, at once natural and strange, of the fundamental splitting and doubling of all things. The dual nature, the world of light and dark, of opposites. It was somewhere in this expansive and muddled thinking that there came the voice of Isabella Gardner. Calling from some lost corridor, I heard my name and Anna’s echo into our room and our fireside chat.

There was a conscious effort to “straighten up,” to put my intense, passionate feelings for wonderful, divine Anna into a box where they temporarily belonged so I could focus. It was like I was floating in a harsh wind, above the clouds, with a lasso fastened around one ankle, and, as I looked down, I saw myself, miles below on the beach, vainly attempting to reel me in. “Sophia,” I called from below or was that the voice of Isabella Gardner?

The stern woman with the saturnine glare peered into the room, cradling her baby in her arms. Beautiful Savannah, I didn’t want the pure little soul to see me in such a state. I knew babies of all kinds were sensitive to the mental states of others, and, as if in reaction to this very thought, the baby began to cry as she first set eyes on me. I tried to comfort her and made an effort to exude positivity, but Savannah began to cry harder and buried her head in her mother’s bosom.

“I’ll be taking Anna with me to run some errands since the storm
has died down.” She did not look at me as she said it. “I’ll need you to prepare little Savannah for bed, give her a bath, and put her in her crib. One of the maids will show you where it is. Once she is down you may go about unpacking and settling into your rooms. Fortunately, Savannah is one of those magical babies that sleeps through the night without a stir till six a.m. Every night, she sleeps soundly from nine p.m. to six as she has done from the age of three months.”

Isabella unceremoniously handed me the baby in a way that suggested she felt Savannah was more of an object than a little human being. Savannah smiled as I held her. I began to bounce her as Isabella took Anna off into the maze of corridors.

I held Savannah still and admired her big happy eyes and ruddy cheeks. She was a fat baby. As I sat with her, she fell asleep in my arms almost immediately and I carried her down the labyrinthine corridors till I found a maid who took her to her room.

At first I moved just an overnight bag into the quarters allotted to me. It was a pleasant three-room house with a bathroom and laundry room to boot. The house was as tasteless in layout and décor as all the others, but, with a little work, I would make it my own. There was a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape on the kitchen table with a ribbon around it.

The last red rays of the evening sun spread themselves in shafts like fingers across the walls in my bedroom. I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, making shapes and faces out of the finish. I mustered what energy I had left and got ready for a shower. I removed my vest and skirt in front of the mirror, unhooked my bra and slipped off my panties, placing them in a pile by the door. Note to self: buy a clothes hamper at first opportunity. Standing before a full-length mirror, I gazed on my body in all its full-frontal glory. My hair was a mess, mostly because of the storm, and I had a five o’clock shadow over my sheath. There was some trimming to be done. I was not Lady
Anais, though I respected her for the way she wore it. The shower was refreshing, though I felt like I was being watched through the steamed glass. I sat down on the bed, opened my MacBook Pro on the nightstand, sipping a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

I checked
Facebook—nothing worthwhile there—and Twitter for the news. It seemed a storm had killed some people in the Midwest and Europe was in trouble economically again, if not in many other ways too.

I found a note from Julie in Gmail.

How is life in the dacha? I’m sure it’s blowing your mind. As for me, what can I say? Our last night was among the most spectacular of my life. But perhaps it’s better if we never speak of it, as not to diminish the quality. I’m very happy for you and your new life. May you receive all that your wonderful big heart deserves and then some! I’ll visit you in a week. I can’t wait to continue our affair – seaside.

Tears filled my eyes. I don’t know whether they were of joy or sorrow, but I needed sleep badly. I turned off the bedside lamp and rested my eyes.

The sound of shattering dishes greeted my entrance to the dacha. It was before six a.m., and Anna was there to greet me with the baby in a downstairs parlor. The room was unique in my experience because it gave the distinct impression of being in the middle of an Amazonian rainforest. The trees and flora were so thick I could scarcely see the walls and the high, domed ceiling
was painted like a cloudless sky. There were streams running to and fro between plants and sand-covered walkways. It was like a scene out of Oliver Stone’s
Alexander
after the conqueror had defeated Darius and entered his Babylonian palace. In my imagination I saw a harem of beautiful Persian women ready to meet any demand, to fulfill any desire, at the drop of a hat.

In reality I heard shouting and more crashing of china coming from the next room. For a split second I saw Isabella’s face before she slammed the door to the adjoining dining room. And in that moment, I felt sympathetic toward her. Her face was red, all flush with tears, and she seemed short of breath.

“She’s fighting with Mark,” Anna said.

“What about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Take the baby. I have work to do.”

She handed me the baby and abruptly left the room. I cradled little Savannah in my arms. She was very tired, her eyes rolling back up into her head and shutting as she tried to force them to stay open. This was a baby who did not like to go to sleep. After she did go to sleep, I surveyed the room, walking around looking at the various streams and small waterfalls.
So, this is what people do who have exorbitant amounts of money
. They indulge every single architectural fantasy they ever had—if they’re so inclined. This room in particular looked as though it was something that might have come out of a disturbing dream.

Pretty soon the crashing of dishes came to an end followed by silence in the next room. Still cradling Savannah, I leaned against the door to the dining room. I couldn’t hear anything at first. Then slowly, spread out then coming closer together, I heard a sighing intermingled with a moaning. I thought it was Isabella sobbing on the floor, but then I heard a thumping sound—like a soft tapping on a wooden cabinet with perhaps an open palm—and I knew what was happening: makeup sex. I listened perhaps for a moment longer than I should have till I felt self-conscious and wanted to go somewhere else. Also, there was the fear of discovery. Before I left,
I pictured what was going on in the next room. I couldn’t help it. But more than that, I wondered what must be going through that woman’s head as I saw more of what I consider an increasingly bizarre relationship between two very different people.

I took the baby upstairs to a room with a crib. I placed her gently in it. I put a blanket over her and turned on the ceiling fan. Under the chopping whir of the spinning fan blades, I opened a set of French blinds to find a view of the beach. Overhead the sky was clear, but in the distance there were heavy clouds brewing, looming over the ocean.

I heard the sound of a door opening downstairs and cautiously treaded to the corridor. Below, I saw Stafford tucking in his shirt and putting his belt back through the buckle.
Fucking pig
, the first thought to pass through my mind, was followed by a wave of intense desire which I decided to suppress as quickly as possible. I seriously doubted I would ever have a chance with him and I didn’t really want to get involved with a married man. I like to think I possess some of the old school ethics and morality that so many of my generation were so quickly losing as they plunged headlong into a society that was becoming so destitute it bordered on depravity. As I pondered a world quickly going to the devil, I watched someone I thought must have some kind of pact with the Evil One to have achieved the kind of material success he had so early in life. What are his thoughts about business and life in general? What attitudes led to his great wealth? What connections? How much of it’s inheritance?—and on and on like this, till I was overcome by the absurdity of these thoughts.