Gerry is sitting on the balcony under an umbrella.  Sorab squeals with delight at my appearance.  The afternoon is spent on the balcony with Sorab.  Pleasant.  Rare.  I won’t ever forget it.

That evening I go to the top floor.  A strange place.  Smooth marble steps right in the middle of the huge space lead to an antique clawed bath with gold taps.  I take my dressing gown off and step into the scented water.  Here the servants are light-footed and like ghosts.  Secretive and almost unseen.  I rest my head against the warm marble.

High above my head looming out of the dark of the vaulted roof space is an iron chain from which a glass chandelier of unsurpassed beauty is suspended.  Its many glass arms twist and turn into delicate cristallo cups that hold real candles.  Blake told me that it was once made for the Church of Santa Maria della Pieta, but one of his more flamboyant ancestors acquired it for himself.  He wanted to look up at the work of art as he bathed.  At the hundreds of diamond fruits and crystal teardrops.

I gaze at them with awe.  Each droplet, because of its position on the chandelier and its distance from each candle, has been blown a slightly different shape in order to transmit the same luminescence from every angle as they capture the flickering flames inside their prisms.

Blake appears at the door.  He stands in the enormous shadows cast by the candles.  Silent, full of some wild emotion that makes my cheeks burn.

‘I’ve dreamed of seeing you in this bath under this chandelier,’ he says huskily, and, coming forward into the light, takes the washcloth out of my hands and proceeds to wash my back.

I feel his mouth on the back of my neck; the evening stubble of his unshaved face rasps my skin.  Goose pimples rise on my exposed skin.  Instantly my head arches back exposing my entire throat to him.  He kisses my neck softly, delicately.  His large hands catch my breasts.  Immediately, the desire for him grows in my being.  I want him inside me, but he shakes his head lightly.

‘No, no, I have other plans for you.’  He stands up and brings the towel.  I stand, soapsuds running down my body.  Hoping he will change his mind.  His eyes darken, but he wraps the towel around me carefully and turns me around in his arms.

‘I love you,’ I say.

He stills.  Something indescribably beautiful comes into his eyes.  ‘I know,’ he says gently.  ‘It is what keeps me going.’  But he does not say I love you back.  Instead he helps me into my dressing gown.  ‘Fabiola is waiting outside to do your hair.’

‘Oh.’

Someone outside to do my hair.  I look at him in wonder, at the precision of his plans.  Is there anything he has not thought of?  Fabiola enters with a rosewood box.  In its compartmentalized interior she keeps all her accoutrements.  She is young, keeps her dark eyes lowered for most of her time with me, and does not speak English, but she is nothing short of a hair genius.  She twines blood-red rosebuds into my hair.  It is the kind of hairdo that you see on Oscar night.  I will be sorry to see it come down.

When she is gone I dress in the black gown.  There is only one yellowing bruise that shows through the net on my lower back.  I twist up the scarlet lipstick and apply it to my lips.  I get into my tall shoes and in the mirror a woman looks back, highly colored, wild-eyed, and more than a little wanton, but at the same time, rather beautiful.  I am still looking at my reflection when Blake comes into the room.  My breath catches.  He is dressed in a black tux.  I have never seen him look so vital and handsome.  His hair gleams.  With that aristocratic nose…he looks like he has just stepped out from a painting.

He is carrying two packages in his hands.  He comes and stands behind me.  Inside the looking glass we make a stunning couple.  I don’t make any sudden movements; I don’t want to spoil it for the woman in the parallel universe.  Perhaps she will get her man.  All day long, people have been staring at us.  Now I know why.  He opens the first package and takes out a necklace.  It is stunningly simple.  A band made of rubies with an oval black centerpiece.

‘It’s a black diamond,’ he says.

‘It is beautiful,’ I breathe, raising my eyes to meet his.

‘Something for you to remember Venice by.’  He sets it around my neck.  The red stones encircle my throat like ribbons of fire.  He stands back and looks at me.  There is a glint of possessive pride in his eyes.  And I feel owned.

Then he opens the next box.

I tilt my head forward curiously.  ‘What are they?’ I ask.  I cannot make them out.  On a bed of black material are some colorful gadgets made of plastic or silicon.

His answer is succinct.  ‘Spread your legs.’

My body’s reaction is immediate.  A wave of sexual arousal.  Those things fit into my body.  I obey.  He bends and, lifting the long dress, inserts one of them into me, adjusts it so the cup-like end fits snugly around my clitoris, and pulls my knickers up over it.  It feels strange and smooth inside me.  From his trouser pocket he takes out a small device.  It is no bigger than a remote control car key.  He presses it and the thing inside me starts vibrating.

‘Oooo,’ I giggle.  As he turns the dial the vibrations become more violent until I squeal, ‘Hey.’

He turns it right down.

‘Venetian music in its original setting and the latest vibrator,’ I tease, but I am fascinated with the idea of putting total control of my sensations into his hands.

‘It is the perfect touch,’ he says softly.  ‘Music is passion.  We are going to watch L’Incoranazione di Poppea.  The coronation of Poppea is a Venetian opera of unbearable sensuousness, and the frissons you will experience on the outside will be reflected inside your body.’

Seventeen

The sun is bleeding into the lagoon as we go down the steps and climb into the gondola.  It is a cool evening and his arm comes around me.  I revel in his touch.  I know Cronus is waiting for me in England, but this is my night, my adventure.  He is not allowed here, in this sinking city.

The theater is very old and full of faded charm.  There are no tourists present.  The other patrons who have turned up are mostly elderly and dressed in fine clothes.  They have a kind of grave dignity that reminds me of a time gone by.  Everyone seems to know everyone else and one or two of them even nod gravely to Blake.  It is almost as if it is a private showing.  We take our place in one of the boxes.

‘This theater affords better acoustics than some of the more glamorous ones,’ Blake explains, before the curtain goes up, and the vibrator begins its almost constant throb.  At first, I squirm awkwardly, judging it as an unwelcome distraction that is going to reduce my enjoyment of the experience of being at the opera, but then I begin to look for its rhythm.

It soars with the music.

The opera is sung in Italian, but I have Blake whisper in my ear each scene and even point out the significance of some arias.  The coronation of Poppea charts the opulently atmospheric journey of Poppea, the mistress of the Roman emperor Nero, who in pursuit of her desire to be Empress of Rome forsook love for the power.  As Blake warned, the story is erotic and decadent.  Combined with the vibrator between my legs the experience is indescribable and has me not only incredibly aroused, but also emotionally drained, and perhaps confused too.

During the rapturous love duet when Nero holds Poppea in his arms while she caresses her jeweled crown, and the vibrator has been turned to full, I turn to look at Blake wondering why he has brought me to see an opera where the virtuous are punished or put to death and the greedy and unscrupulous rewarded.  Is it an unsubtle hint to me?  Am I the greedy woman of his world?