Authors: Roberta Latow
Arabella had expected to find the most beautiful women at this ball, but what a collection of men! Oh, the men! Most of them were elegant and dark, olive-skinned, and terribly handsome, dressed in smart, well-cut tuxedos, soft black silk bow ties, jeweled studs, and white silk dress shirts. They were the cufflinked brigade out to conquer the women at the ball with charm, a silver tongue, and whispers of love. They were outrageously flirtatious, extravagant with compliments, the image of Latin lovers at their best. That was what the men were like at the Bolsena Ball.
It was one of the most happy and dazzling parties she had ever been to. There was laughter, there was kindness, there was a surprising warmth among the guests. It was just one of those rare, perfect parties.
There was dancing in the great hall to two orchestras that played continuously. Arabella and Anthony twirled around the restored ballroom hung with garlands of laurel and wildflowers and lost each other to other beautiful partners and found each other again at dawn. At last they thanked their host, returned to the
Belvedeer Clipper
, and, in each other’s arms, slept the Saturday away.
Arabella was awakened by a combination of sensations. A sensuous rocking and bobbing up and down, as if she were lying in the bottom of a rowboat. There was the sound of muffled voices somewhere outside. She felt a sexiness brought on by a pair of lips and a roving tongue. She opened her eyes, wriggled her pelvis round and round, stretched
and opened her eyes to her lover, who gathered her in his arms and said, “Good morning.”
Anthony kissed her on the cheek and briefly on the lips. He said, “Hello there.”
“Hello there yourself,” she answered.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes, very well. But I kept feeling as if we were taking off and landing, sometimes as if we were out at sea, cruising on a boat.”
They lay there silent in each other’s arms for a while, and then she said, “There must be a storm coming. The lake feels different and rough.” Then she noticed the bands of sunlight coming through the windows and crossing the bed. She looked out of the window and said, “Just look at what a glorious day it is out there. You know, I’m famished.”
“Me too. It’s half-past two in the afternoon. Come on, we’ll be late for breakfast.”
Arabella got out of bed, went over to the window, and gasped. The
Belvedeer Clipper
was bobbing up and down on the waves half a mile off an exquisite white sand beach. She ran to the other side of the cabin and looked through those portholes. There she saw more white beach, a crumbling, weatherbeaten wooden dock reaching out into the water, and a tiny crumbling village with no more than ten or twelve houses. On the other side of the village, sparkling under the hot sun, was a magnificent ancient temple of some kind and the ruins of a once magnificent amphitheater.
Arabella flushed with excitement and wonder. “I
didn’t
dream it. We flew away. Where are we? It’s magnificent! Unbelievable and magnificent. Fantastic! Let’s go and see.”
“Stop,” said Anthony, laughing. “One thing at a time. Put on a comfortable dress and put a swimsuit on under it as we might want to swim.”
While dressing, she caught a glance of some men — dark, rugged, rough-looking peasant types. It had to be Greece or Turkey — maybe even Syria. It had to be someplace magnificent
and remote. She felt the airship turn and taxi toward the dock.
They had breakfast at a rickety table with wobbly chairs set on the beach at the end of the village a few feet from the water. They were served fresh fruit, warm bread, grilled fish, sweet butter and honey, hard-boiled eggs, homemade yogurt, and tiny cups of Turkish coffee by a young Turkish man who ran back and forth from the village restaurant.
Anthony explained that they were in Side, once a great seaport, on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey, close to Syria. The village was very small, only a few houses, bleached by the sun and sea salt, the villagers hesitant but friendly. There were no signs of twentieth-century culture or artifacts. Camels and donkeys were used for transportation. Well-worn kilim rugs and crude pottery could be seen through open doorways. Men and women alike wore layers of loose-fitting, flowing robes. Shopping and commerce were done in open stalls. There were no paved streets, electricity, or cars, and no tourists. It was divine there, sitting under the hot sun. Arabella could hardly believe this was all happening to her.
After breakfast they walked arm in arm along the water’s edge through the ancient port and visited the tiny museum, which housed several ancient bas reliefs in white marble. Then they visited the amphitheater, a remnant of the Greek culture that had once ruled this part of the world. The quality of the architecture, the carvings, was remarkable. There was a strong aroma from the spring flowers that grew between the marble seats. Arabella and Anthony sat high up and looked down into the amphitheater and out over the Mediterranean.
“Stay here,” he said, and rushed down the twenty rows to the center of the amphitheater floor. Then, in a whisper, he sang “Happy Birthday.” The acoustics were so perfect she heard every word from where she sat high above him.
They walked from there back through the village to the deserted beach. It was a very long, narrow beach beyond which the land rose slowly and was covered thick with wild
bushes, some flowering. Though it was almost sunset, it was still warm so they dropped their clothes on the sand, held hands, and ran out into the shallows to swim in the sea. They swam together, played in the water like children. They floated on their backs drinking in the view of the glorious coastline. Arabella threw her arms around Anthony’s neck and kissed him.
“You are an amazing man. I’m so happy. I thank you so much,” she said, kissing him deeply.
He floated on his back and she saw that he had an erection. She released it from his trunks and, slipping through the water between his legs, she licked the salt water from his cock and fed him to herself, sucking him deeply. It was an act of affection, not passion, and they both knew it and enjoyed it. She tucked him away once again and lay next to him on her back in the shallow water, her arm around his shoulder, and they floated together.
It was getting late and cool, and they were about to swim to shore when they saw four white horses break through the thick foliage onto the beach, led by a great white stallion — a magnificent beast with a long white silky mane. They ran across the sand and leaped into the water with a great force of animal energy. Arabella and Anthony watched the magnificent horses running back and forth into the crashing waves. They swam away from shore in a single stream, following their leader, and then abruptly, as the tide came in, they reversed direction and headed back toward the shallow beach.
It was a magnificent sight never to be forgotten. Arabella and Anthony, not wanting to frighten the horses off, stopped and waited until they ran out of the sea and up the beach. Two of the horses continued to run, disappearing once again into the bush from whence they came. Silhouetted by the setting sun, the white stallion mounted the remaining mare. They coupled with a surge of animal instinct and rhythm and for a brief moment remained locked together, standing as sculpture against the evening sky. Suddenly the stallion
leaped back and the two horses turned in unison and ran back into the trees.
There was something about that scene that was so special and so sensual that they could hardly speak about it. It was a special moment of beauty in a special moment of time.
They went back to the
Belvedeer Clipper
. They departed quickly and flew over Lake Damsa Baragi. As they soared over Cappadocia, Arabella viewed the magnificent, exotic landscape — more like a moonscape than the middle of Turkey. It was hard to believe that nature and time had formed the weird and wonderful landscape. Miles and miles of hills and valleys extended along dry and arid land. From the air they looked like tiny Henry Moore sculptures.
In the twilight the Goreme Valley looked like a city of soft forms, a city made not by architects but nature. She recalled it was once occupied by Byzantine monks, fleeing from oppression. They made churches and chapels, hermits’ caves and monasteries by digging steps up the cone-shaped cliffs — creating their caves high above where they could feel safe, and closer to God. For the love of God, they decorated them with murals sensitive and primitively beautiful enough to make one weep. They lived and prayed, roasted in the summer and froze in the winter, in this windswept landscape. The vivid history and passage of time and space seemed surrealistic to Arabella as she continued to stare in silence through the porthole windows of the aircraft and saw the moon rise high over the Goreme Valley. It was full and white and reflected the conical churches and Byzantine chapels. The moon turned the valley to silver, creating shimmering stark images on the landscape.
Anthony told Arabella old Turkish fables that he learned from an archeologist friend in London. They sat close and talked softly through the dark hours in the air, guided by the stars. They watched the sun come up and turn the sky red, then pink that Sunday morning. Finally they flew over sea and land again and headed home.
Arabella was jolted from her reverie by the sound of the telephone ringing. It went on ringing as she made her way through to the bedroom.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” he said. “You must have been in a deep sleep.”
“No, not really,” she said, very pleased to hear Nicholas’s voice. She went on. “I’m so happy you called. Have I told you I love your voice?”
He laughed and suddenly she saw his handsome face, the open, clean-cut smile.
“No,” he said. “But that’s a beginning. Did you sleep?”
“No.”
“You must be exhausted! We had no sleep last night and when I left you I thought for sure you’d catch a nap at least.”
“Well, I was going to but then I decided to go for a walk to get some fresh air. I had a golf lesson too, with that nice Mr. Katz. We came back here, had tea, and since then I’ve lost track of time. I’ll take a nap now.”
“Darling, how? It’s seven. I called to ask you what time to pick you up. I must be at the captain’s party on time. He’s made a point of holding the dinner in my honor.”
“Oh, Nicholas, I’m sorry.”
“Darling, there’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s just that I’ll have to ask someone to escort you other than myself. You do understand?”
“Of course. Don’t worry, Nicholas. I’ll be there before you all sit down to dinner. Nine, isn’t it?”
“Yes, nine. I’ll send Marvin down for you.”
“No, there’s no need to do that.”
“I’ve invited Xu and Missy — or rather, the captain has at my request. Would you prefer me to send Xu?”
“Yes, fine. Send Xu. I’ll be ready by eight forty-five. If I make it before that I’ll just arrive. I know my way. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
“Okay. See you then.”
She put the phone down and went to the dressing room, put on the lights, and looked in the mirror. She wanted to look ravishingly beautiful. She wanted to give Nicholas her best. Arabella was excited. It suddenly came to her how remarkable it was that she and Nicholas found each other at this time. Just as she was turning her life around, so was he, trying to work out a new life to satisfy a hidden dream. And perhaps they each were destined to be a part of the other’s life.
The captain’s dinner for Nicholas Frayne was in the Trocadero, the largest of the first-class dining rooms. It was Arabella’s favorite — not only for its Art Deco design and all the Lalique etched glass, not for the orchestra that played in the well, but because it was where she and Nicholas had had their first lunch together.
Arabella hurried toward the Trocadero. It was eight forty. Miracles had been created swiftly and brilliantly thanks to Missy, who delivered the hairdresser, manicurist, florist, and M. Gerard, the jeweler.
Arabella had given Missy a message asking Xu to remain at the reception. She wanted to arrive alone in her own time. She made a supreme effort to be at the party as quickly as possible, because she instinctively felt Nicholas wanted her there to share this, the first of the receptions to honor him in his new political career.
She thought of the man behind the movie star, the real Nicholas Frayne, relating to her, Arabella Crawford. She felt strangely young and slightly immature with excitement at the ease and joy, the old-fashioned simplicity with which he courted her. The handsome, admiring looks he gave her seemed to mean more to her. It was as if she had been released in some way that allowed her to think of him
openly — his looks, his hopes and dreams, his lust — with her heart as well as her mind and body. Maybe “openly” was the operative word. That was how he came after her — openly, out front, before everyone, quietly but powerfully.
She knew he had taken her like a tidal wave. Only now could she fully appreciate how very like a
tsunami
he was. She thought of him up on the big movie screen, how his staggeringly handsome presence, his open clean looks, swept over viewers, engulfed, absorbed, then released them, making them feel as if they had been touched by the gods, the sun.
In bed, on screen, with people, at work or play, this man, this tidal wave, was a subtle but powerful force, a winner.
Arabella clearly remembered every detail of the tidal wave. A few years ago she was making a routine visit to a small island in the South Pacific with some very boring businessmen. It was an island rich in bauxite and nothing else. The only nice part of the trip was flying low over tropical islands floating in the vast ocean.
There was nothing there but the bauxite company, a few very unattractive villages, and the inhabitants of the island who all worked in a profit-sharing arrangement with the island’s one industry. A scientist was the only other resident. He kept a small seaplane and a helicopter. A one-man institute of oceanography, he was working there not on bauxite, but waves — ocean waves. He had a number of extraordinary detectors set up on the bed of the Pacific Ocean around the islands that did nothing but measure waves. He was an interesting man with an interesting project, so she accepted his invitation to fly with him. He was looking for a specific wave that his detectors reported as different from all the other waves in the ocean. She thought he was mad and wanted to see for herself if indeed he could spot a specific wave from the plane.
Two hours and fifteen minutes out from the bauxite island, he found his wave. He put the plane on automatic
pilot, and they followed the length of the wave while he plotted its path. He showed her a small dot on his map, which he said was a deserted island called Alona Noa, and assured her that he could predict that the wave they were following was a tidal wave of vast proportions that would wipe out the island. He was extremely relieved because he knew there was nothing but an old deserted harbor and coconut palms growing down onto white sandy beaches.
The detectors had reported that this particular wave was only half an inch higher than the others. No more than that — just half an inch. Now five hours since that report, the wave was a few inches higher and traveling at a speed of 350 miles per hour.
She ignorantly said, “Surely you’re not going to tell me that that long wave, which is just barely higher than the others, is a killer wave, the sort that destroys homes, factories, wipes out islands, sweeps away entire communities in seconds?”
Then he explained that the trouble comes when those long waves just a few inches higher than the others, all moving a few hundred miles per hour, pile up on a coast. It is there, on the shelving floor, that they build up to giants, higher than houses, and cause swift torrents that can drain and refill harbors, causing immense damage.
Flying just barely above the blue ocean waves sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, it all seemed impossible. One could barely see a difference between the waves.
Tim Huggins, the scientist, explained that the killer waves are not caused by tides but by undersea earthquakes that suddenly change the ocean’s level. A little shiver is recorded from the first seismic wave of the earthquake through the rock of the ocean floor. What follows, about ninety minutes later, is a slow, regular oscillation of pressure that comes from motion on the sea surface. Over approximately two hours, the sea rises and falls about four times by about half an inch, and your killer wave is born.
She listened to Huggins as they flew twenty-five feet above the ocean, following the length of his quite substantial
wave. It was interesting, fascinating, but that was all. She could not believe the wave he had chosen could, in her wildest imaginings, turn into his monster wall of water.
He double-checked his calculations as they flew back to the bauxite island, claiming he could predict within fifteen minutes when that wave was going to hit. She accepted his invitation to fly with him by helicopter the forty miles to Alona Noa to watch the disaster.
When he was reassured by his associates that she was an excellent helicopter pilot, he was delighted. Tim happily delivered the aircraft into her hands so he could concentrate on recording and photographing the event.
His enthusiasm was infectious. Arabella remembered thinking, while taking the helicopter up, how devoted and slightly mad he was. There was no way she could miss seeing his dream come true.
They spotted the wave twenty minutes off the shore of Alona Noa. They flew the length low, almost skimming the top of the wave. She sensed it was longer, much longer, and her feelings began to change. She could see a difference now. It was no higher but it seemed more powerful and was moving very fast toward the fringe of palm trees trailing along the beach.
They flew over the once thriving little harbor and village, then across the island. It must have been about six miles long and three miles across. There was no sign of life. They flew back to the center of the harbor and the white powdery sand beach that stretched for miles on either side. They hovered there, waiting for the wave to form itself and hit.
Tim laid out the plan. He instructed her to stay as close to the front of the wave as she could and fly with it down its length. That meant flying the length of the beach. He said that it was a bonus having a pilot and she was to handle it the best way she thought but not to depend on him; he would be too busy recording data.
Just then the entire coastline of rippling blue waves pulled back from the beach. It simply disappeared farther and farther out to sea. Arabella couldn’t believe her eyes. All she
could think of at that moment was: It’s Krakatoa, that old movie, without the volcano and I’m in it.
She followed the retreating coastal waters out to sea. Slowly the once harmless-looking wave started to rise higher and higher into a massive wall of water. The buildup was extraordinary. It was slow, powerful, its energy dynamic. Soon it was as high as an eight-story building.
She was flying much lower than the top of the wave; she was drawn to it. It was as if she was being sucked into its eyes. The wave was taking her over. She was part of that wave. There was an enormous sexuality about it. She wanted both at once to be taken by it and be it. She wanted it to crash over her, to engulf her. It made her think of the most gigantic orgasm ever. She wanted to have the white froth gently flow over her, followed by a crashing flood that would drown her and then she would come out of it, reborn.
She rode that wave like a surfer, riding the inside of the pipeline — only she was in a helicopter instead of on a surfboard. She had the heartbeat of that wave and flew its length through its tube of water, all the time traveling in with it toward the shore. Then she sensed the moment to get out as it hit. With barely seconds to spare, she pulled out and up, just clearing the coconut palms as they disappeared under the wall of water. She swung around and rode above that tidal wave until the island was gone. Then the much diminished killer wave rolled away cross the Pacific, where it slowly dissolved.
The proper name for a tidal wave in Japanese is
tsunami
; its literal translation is “harbor wave.” It was extraordinary and thrilling, from its humble beginnings to its peak, then its strike, and finally its end. It was a profound experience that she never, ever thought she’d have again. But she had. She had it with Nicholas.
She said to herself, Nicholas, when you make love to me, you take me like that tidal wave, and with you I come like that tidal wave. You devastate me with the power of us.
Arabella was rushing toward Nicholas with enthusiasm
and excitement. She wanted to share every moment of his debut, of his first public appearance as a political candidate. Arabella understood him. She was watching the public birth of a future President of the United States. This was his night, and she wanted to support him.
Nicholas was like the tidal wave. He was just that little bit higher, that little bit more special that all the others, the one that slowly grows and becomes all powerful. This was the man she wanted to be with!
Arabella looked magnificent. She knew it, as all women know when they are looking their very best. She felt the way she looked and every head then turned as she walked through the passageways confirmed how glorious she was. She wore a silver and gold brocade jacket of a thousand exquisitely worked butterflies. It was a glittering, magnificently designed St. Laurent, of pure silver thread with accents of gold and occasional tiny Cabuchon rubies set as decorations in some of the butterflies’ wings.
The jeweled jacket finished just below her hip, dazzlingly elegant and severe against the soft, cream-colored crêpe de chine strapless dress that offered a tantalizing amount of cleavage while remaining within the limits of propriety. The dress hung straight but softly from the waist to the ankle, with a daring slit to the top of the thigh. She wore her hair pulled back with diamond hairpins, and clasped to the hairline at the nape of her neck were four very tiny, magnificent orchids of cream and lavender.
She walked into the Trocadero dining room behind a party of four who were greeted by the
maître d’
and shown to their table. The room was nearly half full, and many of the diners gave her discreet glances of admiration. Arabella felt their eyes upon her and was ashamed of herself for enjoying so much attention.
She thought, That’s what comes from staying in the background too long. Watch out for overreacting, Arabella. Don’t let it go to your head! But then she thought, Why? Why can’t I enjoy it, revel in the attention? I’m not on a business
trip. I never will be again. I’m here to live my life! To be with the man I love! To hell with restraint! And she smiled broadly, laughing on the inside, really, and sailed through the room.
She saw the captain’s table — a long, wide, rectangle set with glittering crystal, silver, and magnificent Minton plates, for about fifty people. Down the center were beautiful floral arrangements of full-blown red tulips, irises of cerulean blue, deep purply blue, arranged cleverly among masses of white baby’s breath. The arrangements were in silver baskets with handsome wide red, white, and blue ribbons tied around them, trailing down the center of the table. Ten heavy silver candelabras with white candles were ready to be lit.