Paradise - Part One (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) (5 page)

Anna removes a small pouch from the skirt next to her on the sand. From the pouch she takes a tin that carries a large cigar. A Montecristo Torpedo. Next she takes out a switchblade, releases the blade, and, with great care, makes a small incision near the end of the cigar, cutting through the wrapper and binder, to the filler. Anna breaks apart and clears out much of the filler, tossing it on the sand. I watch as a light breeze carries the discarded filler down to the water. She takes a small handful of green buds covered in tiny crystals that exude the strong scent of pungent grass. Anna packs these tightly into the emptied cigar and seals the incision with the saliva of a quick lick. She presses it down with two fingers to ensure it will stay closed. The ritual of the preparation is as important as the act that follows. And most important of all is the respect shown the procedure as if the goddess Mary Jane herself is watching and will bestow the intensity of the high accordingly. Anna takes out a silver torch lighter in the shape of a tiny Beretta and blazes the tip of the blunt with a long blue flame. After a couple of hardy tokes, coughing up thick blue smoke, she hands it to me. I take a deep puff and hold it in, looking at the endless, blue sea. After a few moments I let it out with explosive coughing. Anna laughs.

“Go on,
mas
,” she says in a hoarse whisper that I find enchanting.

She hands me the torch lighter and I blaze the end while sucking down as much blue smoke as I possibly can.

“I’ve been smoking since I was sixteen. And I’ll never stop. It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world—well, apart from one or two other things,” she smiles.

I smile too, wondering if it’s time to make my move. I watch her lips as they stretch into another smile. I watch the breeze catch in her wet hair, and the way she pulls a swatch of it behind her ear. Finally, I reason it’s not the time to do anything as our stay in the Bahamas has just started and there will be plenty of time to try with her later, when I’m more confident of any reciprocal interest there might be.

“Is there anyone special in your life right now?” I ask.

“No,” she says, smiling, “just you.”

I take this as my cue—it’s time, and I lean in and touch my lips to hers. The kisses are small and shy at first, but as our mutual confidence grows, so does the intensity of the passion. Our tongues meet. It’s as if there’s a great release of pent up emotion, like the explosion of fireworks in the air. On one hand, I’m confused. I don’t know whether this passion is purely sexual or if there’s some deeper emotional connection too. It doesn’t matter now, but it’s something I’ll think about later. I don’t feel guilt if it’s all physical, I never did in my limited experience—just emptiness. That doesn’t bother me either. But this confusion’s the only drawback to the spectacular fairytale vision that unfolds before me.

Tiki
torches burned in intricate patterns throughout the villa. A blood red sun touched the tips of the palm trees along the western horizon. Looking out on the incredible sea view from an empty room on the top floor, I cradled Savannah to sleep. She cried a lot that night and it was difficult to get her down. Relieved that I was finally able to manage, I set her down in a nursery room and promptly descended a winding staircase to find Anna in a dining room, sipping a glass of Chardonnay, waiting for me. Initially she smiled at me, but her manner was cold and not as communicative as before the kiss on the beach. Inwardly I rebuked myself for being so aggressive. But if this was the way she wanted to play it now, so be it. I would move on too.

“Let’s go sit outside and enjoy the evening air,” she said without looking at me.

I followed her out onto a deck looking over one of the overgrown gardens lined with small torches.

“This is the best time of day here.”

“The end of the day…” I trailed off.

“Indeed.”

I took my first sip of Chardonnay. It was cold and much welcomed by my taste buds. After a few sips I felt twisted from the combination of the wine and cannabis. I regretted it wasn’t red wine because in my experience that made for a better mixture.

I broached the subject, “If you’re uncomfortable about what happened on the beach, we don’t have to do anything like that again—much less, talk about it.”

“No, it’s fine. I liked it. Just…let’s not talk about it. I don’t really think much about things like that. It’s just something that happens from time to time. Casual.”

I liked this way of thinking as it perfectly suited my own. I smiled and felt at ease regarding the subject. I think Anna sensed the relaxed tension in me because she smiled and was warmer after that. Still, things are different now and nothing has happened between us since.

I saw Stafford that evening down below in the garden, leaning on a parapet, gazing off at the immaculate view. He stood alone, in a plaid shirt and khakis, hardly even the pink rag of a suit of Jay Gatsby’s, or the tieless open-collar shirt of Roman Abramovich. The fool probably doesn’t even know who Jay Gatsby is. Was he, too, a nobody from an impoverished childhood who fantasized at seventeen about the way life should be, then set about molding it in that image? Was there some unattainable lost love from his former underprivileged youth that inspired the leap to ghastly wealth that haunted him still? Does his silly, insignificant dreaming hold the belief in a promise that the rock of the world was securely founded on a fairy’s wing? I wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for the build and the ill-fitting clothes. I watched him for some time, quite carelessly perhaps, if Isabella was watching I don’t know how she would have responded.

He turned and looked up at me. I was not standing in range of any considerable source of light and I don’t think he recognized me, for he nodded with a small salute and walked inside. A cold wind blew and I folded my arms over my chest in a vain attempt to shield myself from it. On the horizon loomed a brewing storm cloud that covered the length of the surrounding sea and appeared to grow larger as it approached. Its tips were lined in brilliant red with the last rays of the descended sun. It lent a portentous feel to the atmosphere and I watched as an electrical storm began over the water. There was no thunder, just small flashes of pink and red light that came in rapid succession over the Atlantic at a tremendous distance. Exhausted, I went inside and to bed.

I had violent and horrific restless dreams that I awoke from in cold sweats on more than one occasion. Finally, after awakening from an especially violent episode at four a.m., I could not return to sleep and got my MacBook out to write a little in this diary. Closing the computer and looking out that window, I saw that the strange electrical storm had not let up. Strange because, for one, lightning was striking upward, rather than in its usual downward trajectory. Also strange was the fact that the storm was no closer to land than it had been when I first saw it and I wondered if it hadn’t changed directions in the night. I lay staring at the ceiling in the dark, the covers pushed to one side, the room was cool from the A/C but I still felt warm lying nude under a ceiling fan on the low setting. I clicked the fan setting up a notch on the remote and rolled to one side, looking at the night sky without. The electrical storm raged on and a strong wind pelted the palms close to the house. I began to think of all the things I would do tomorrow. Anna had relayed to me that I would have most of the day off since Isabella wanted to take Savannah to a beach on the south end of the island with some of the other women who worked for her. She instructed me to take advantage of a free day to explore the island, relax or do whatever else I may wish.

First, I would be sure to set aside some time during the day to do some research online. I wanted to know more about the family, my employer, and what he actually did for a living. Perhaps he was in hedge funds and derivatives, but I wanted to know for sure. I thought it silly that I didn’t, and didn’t want to appear too curious by asking
straight out. Second, I yearned to explore the nearby beaches. I wanted to go beyond the ends of the
anse
and see what there was: were there rocky reefs, slopes, and sheer cliffs, or was it more intertidal flats? Were there mangroves, channels, and deltas? I also wanted to explore the exotic wildlife. I would borrow a pair of binoculars I had seen in one of the mostly empty rooms and check out the birds. I would also find somewhere to acquire some basic diving equipment: a mask, a snorkel, maybe some fins—and check out the tropical marine life. The thought of diving in these waters thrilled me more than any other form of exploration in these parts. The rest of the day I might read or watch a classic film projected on that great wall. In the evening I hoped to see Anna, perhaps go for a walk with her.

I watched the hot espresso from the silver machine pour into a small porcelain cup, listening to the pitter-patter of the droplets as they splashed in. I loved the smell of good espresso first thing in the morning. I took the coffee to a card table by a bay window in one of the immense dining rooms and sat alone with the MacBook, reading a newspaper on it in the gray light of the tropical dawn. I read a few articles in
Le Monde
, which had become a habit since my college days in Paris. I mostly read it to keep up with the language. The headline was about the new Egyptian government and there was an article, as there often was, about Facebook. I mused at the curiosity of how a mere photo-sharing/message board had become such an international phenomenon and business empire. I looked at Twitter which had become, for me, something of an aggregate news website because all I followed were news sites. I found this the best way to get news. There was an article in
Wired
about a new NSA facility in the Midwest that would be the new storage site of the world’s electronic communications. Though there was nothing new about the NSA revealed in the article, other than the billions more in taxpayer money they would spend on the new facility (doubtlessly inaccurate numbers) which only the minutest percentage of taxpayers would actually ever glimpse. I read it with the avid interest I read all articles on the technology of the national security state I could get my hands on. I was a passionate techno-geek, never went anywhere without a computer or access to the internet, and had the most keen interest in what high tech companies were pursuing for the agencies of the Pentagon and the CIA. I also followed certain hacking websites to learn all the new tricks hackers were willing to publish. Sometimes I posted when I believed I’d happened upon a new technique, and I was even referred to in some circles as “1337” or “leet,” code in the techno-geek lexicon for
elite
. The first time I was referred to as “1337” it gave me a surge of adrenaline. I had written something about a new way to unrecognizably block IP addresses. This had led to an invitation to a group of hackers called the 26 Club. I had to rush outside and do something completely unrelated to computers and technology, I didn’t know how I could possibly handle more than one
techno-gasm
in a day.

Refilling my cup with espresso, I saw a shift in the light of the reflection on the silver machine and looked up. Mark Stafford entered the great room at the other end. He always came at the most unexpected times. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I looked immediately back down at what I was doing with the cup. In the reflection I saw him.

“You didn’t sleep much either, I take it,” came the gruff voice with a yawn.

“No, not much.”

I felt self-conscious, I had not showered yet, my hair was out of control, I had no makeup on, and I was wearing a skimpy, silk bathrobe. Fuck it, who am I trying to impress? Maybe I can impress him with my crudity, I thought.

“Is everything alright?” He sounded caring. Of course it wasn’t real. Who was I to him?

“Yes, wonderful. I just don’t know—weird dreams, trying to sleep in a new place. You know…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So what’s on your mind?” I looked at him now.

He hesitated, then, “Business.
A meeting today. That thing—the Brit.”

“The
routine
meeting.”

“That’s the one.” He sounded almost humble.

“He’s coming here, I take it.”

“Not exactly.
We’re meeting on a beach somewhere else. On the island, of course. But not here.” He looked out the window. The storm had engulfed the property and it was coming down in buckets now.

I took my seat at the table. He took out his billfold and removed a wad of hundreds.

“Here you go. I want you to take this. It’s a couple grand. It’s not your pay or anything like that. Just a bonus to cover expenses on the island. It oughta do for a week or so. I’ll give you more when you need it.”

I was taken aback. At first I refused the money.

“No, go on. Take it. It’s to show our appreciation for the sacrifices you’ve made to be with this family. And I wouldn’t want you to do without.”

I took it more out of politeness and confusion as to what the correct course of action was than any other reason. Stafford’s next act was even more bewildering than that of handing me all that cash—he sat down across from me and proceeded to make conversation. Admittedly, it was a weak attempt, but I saw a side of the man I had never imagined existed.
A humble side. A human side.

“What are you reading about?” He sounded like a little boy asking his mother.