"All things are possible," she said, "if only one follows proper protocol."
To Justin, Anna's words were loaded with innuendo. They often were, it was one of the things that made her intriguing, but this time there was a hint of reality in her voice, and in the way she arched her eyebrows. She knew something. A small, dimpled, slightly nervous Cheshire cat smile accompanied her words.
"What do you mean?"
Justin was a student of literature, studying in London. Anna was an art student. They had first met during a life art class his literature seminar class visited during the term. There was something about her he noticed immediately, in the way she delicately held her pencil, by the fingertips of her angular hands. Completely absorbed, she leaned into her work, as if scratching these simple lines to paper was the most important thing in the world. She sat with the chair reversed, her slender jeaned legs straddling the back, leaning on the bent wood with one arm, sketching with the other. Sitting in this fashion, he
was later to find, was her custom always whenever available chairs allowed it. Her dark blond hair hung in a single thick braid to her waist, and a long scarf was wrapped around her neck. As he studied her, she turned very deliberately and looked directly into his eyes, catching him watching her. The blue-violet spotlights of her eyes illuminated his act. He felt suddenly exposed, a role reversal of voyeur to reluctant exhibitionist, made all the more uncomfortable because he knew they were searching eyes, observant eyes, artist's eyes, missing very little. He averted his gaze, looking away to her work.
The model had been male, a bodybuilder, with rippling muscles and an enormous penis. Her work was beautiful, clean and expressive. She had caught him perfectly. His pose, the tilt of his head, the arrogant, self-absorption of his manner, she caught it all except for one small detail. She had drawn the model with an erection, and that particular portion of the drawing was the most detailed, the most complete.
He looked back at her. There was the smile. The dimples at the corners of her mouth grew, and as she turned her attention back to her work, she looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. He caught her glancing in his direction several times during the lecture and plotted to talk with her after the session. To his chagrin, she looked at her watch, packed up her belongings, and rose to go. She spoke briefly to the instructor as she left, and with a final glance in his direction, was out the door and gone.
"I mean the things people write about, the writings of Anais Nin and De Sade, these things are possible, if done in the proper fashion, with the proper protocol."
This was food for thought, if not fantasy. He had imagined all sorts of things to do with this woman, finding her as he did, beautiful. Unreachable, but beautiful. This thought was a fantasy of a dim glimmer of reality in an otherwise empty landscape of hope. He tried to hold his voice steady.
"How do you know?"
She glanced at her hands and back up at him. "I have a proposition for you. An instructor has offered me a kind of, well, life experience, for lack of a better word. Something to see. I want to go, I want to see it, but if I can't find a companion, I probably won't, I'll chicken out. I'd like you to go with."
"What kind of life experience?"
"Nothing dangerous, just different. Please come, and don't ask too many questions. That's part of the protocol."
"And the other part of the protocol?"
"Meet me here at 10:00 tonight, and wear quiet clothes."
"Quiet clothes?"
"Quiet clothes, no rustling. Please?"
He was silent for a moment. "All right."
She smiled quickly, biting her lower lip and hugged herself tightly for just a moment. "Great." She got up, talking, gathering her things. "I'll see you tonight then." She touched his shoulder for a moment, squeezing it, and was gone.
She had never touched him before. Such a small thing, but nice. He found himself thinking of quiet clothes.
That night, Justin was wordless as the car sped to an unknown destination via the motorway. She had picked him up as promised, arriving in a black London cab, relief flooding her smile as she reached over to open the door. She was dressed in a long skirt and soft boots, something he had never seen her wear.
Nice. After initial hellos and exchanges of smiles there had been silence. His body was stiff, primed for action, but at this moment he could think of no action, no word he could offer without his seeming impossibly dull and provincial. What seemed required was relaxed nonchalance. The nonchalance he could feign, holding himself still. The relaxation was harder. It didn't seem to matter, though. Anna seemed as stiff as he, her long fingers tightly intertwined across her knees.
Leaning forward, she tapped on the glass and spoke softly to the driver.
"You sure, miss?"
"Quite sure."
The cab driver's face gave a little shrug. "Righto." The cab took the next turning.
Anna reached over and took his hand, squeezing it, intertwining his fingers with hers. He squeezed hers gently in return, acutely aware of his excitement, trying not to squeeze too hard. He did not let it go. Neither did she.
The taxi bore them through an older neighborhood, houses made primarily of stone or brick, large but not too, stately without presumption, spelling unobtrusive old money. The cab halted in front of one house and Anna let go his hand to pay.
His hand felt cold without hers.
They got out. The black cab drove away, tires hissing on the roadway. They were alone.
She fiddled with her bag, checking the address and putting it away, until there was no more fiddling to be done. Anna stared up at the house. It was large, three stories, and was built of very large stones set in Gothic architecture, narrow arched windows set in triplets. It looked like a combination of castle and church. Two very expensive-looking automobiles, sleek and black, rested in the driveway.
He reached out and took her hand, intertwining fingers as she had done. She took a breath, and led the way up the flagstone path to the door. An ornate brass knocker hung from the center of the door. Anna reached up, lifted it and let it fall, twice. A short wait, then a dull metallic scrape as the bolt slid back. The door opened to a dimly-lit interior. A small woman in a Victorian housekeeper's dress stood before them.
"Hello, Professor Graves sent us, I am Anna."
The small woman nodded, reached out her hand to Anna's. "I am Margaret, please come in."
They were led to a spacious interior, richly furnished, potted plants, ferns everywhere, stone floor echoing their footsteps in the hallway alternately with thick patterned rugs. The house was lit with candles and oil lamps, lending the feeling of a place out of time.
Lifting her skirts in the proper fashion, Margaret led them up the massive staircase to the third floor. She stopped and unlocked a door. It opened into a tiny room with cloth-covered chairs all facing in the same direction.
She waved them to a small sofa. "Please be seated. It will take a little time, so please wait patiently. Do not speak, they do not know they are being observed." She took the one lamp in the room and left.
Anna squeezed his hand. He thought he felt it trembling, but could not be sure if it was her trembling or his own. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and he saw a window in this room looking onto an adjoining room, apparently of one-way glass. In the adjoining room, dim moonlight streamed in through the window, revealing a massive four-poster bed low to the ground, but piled high with pillows.
They had not long to wait.
Margaret entered the room. She put an oil lamp on a table and stopping at the door, stood at attention almost, and looked out the doorway, hands clasped in front of her. A woman walked past her into the room. She was small-bonded, but ample, with delicate hands and features. The walk was slow, deliberate, and stopped right before the foot of the bed. She grasped the bedpost nearest to her with both hands and embraced it, resting her forehead against the dark wood, holding to it as if for some measure of support. The look on her face was not exactly fearful, but afraid, yet apprehensive and eager. She gripped the bedpost fiercely, digging it in between her breasts, holding herself together for the strength to do...what? Justin wondered. The woman evidently wanted to be there, felt she must. Her head bowed slightly and she closed her eyes, evidently waiting.
Margaret observed her not quite impassively, then left, closing the door behind her.
The woman wore a silken blouse, a long wrap skirt with a belt at the waist, and high boots reaching up out of sight underneath the skirt. A single silver band encircling one finger (a wedding ring?) and delicate dangling silver earrings comprised the only adornment. Her hair was dark, piled up on top of her head.
Justin wondered about this woman, where she came from. Who ever she was, where ever she came from, or whether there was money involved, she did not look or act like a prostitute.
Justin felt a thrill go through him. This was real.
He glanced at Anna. She looked as if she was immersed in the scene. He could not see her eyes clearly in the dim light, but her mouth was slightly slack and her brow was slightly furrowed.
She squeezed his hand once, then stronger. He looked quickly back at the room, thinking he had missed something, wanting to know what had transpired to make her react so.
