RIDE THE WAVES.
After the weirdo waiter sat me down at the table I picked (the hotel dining room was empty when I came down from my room), I put my big pink purse on the seat next to me, ordered cantaloupe, prosciutto and a cup of cappuccino for breakfast and checked my smart phone again--still no signal.
I picked a table facing the entrance of the dining room; I sat with my back to window. I'd be the first guest in his line of sight when he walks in here.
I readjusted the horn-rimmed glasses I finagled running around Palermo like a chicken with its head cut off yesterday. I found them in a costume shop; the lenses are just regular window glass. My auburn hair was tied up into an ordered chaos.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the hard cover book next to my pistol. (I found the.22 auto and a silencer in a brown paper package under my double bed.) I figured a man like the Incorruptible would be interested in intellectual chicks. It would pique his curiosity to happen upon a stacked woman reading an old book, especially one not wearing a bra. Everybody knows those feminist sluts don't wear bras.
I pulled up the collar and undid the third button down from the top of my white, cotton blouse. It contrasted with my simple black skirt and red four inch red stiletto pumps. And then I opened Man As Potency by Julius Evola and pretended to read its first page. (This is what the nerd at the used book sold me when I asked him for something brainy.)
I've come a long way since the Grand Duke of Corsica deflowered me on my eighteenth birthday.
I checked into the Hotel Avernus last night at nine. It was easy to find, the marina was right in front of it. The concierge was a very tall, thin older man with a black mustache and an arrogant demeanor. He obviously didn't approve of how I was dressed: green windbreaker, plaid shirt and jeans. And one suit case big enough to hold my purse and my disguise.
"Are you here for the Festival?" he asked in a slow deep slightly sarcastic voice. He reminded me of Christopher Lee, one of my old boyfriend's favorite actor. So handsome. Lee, not the old boyfriend, who was just a meal ticket.
"Wh--yeah, yes yes yes, I'm an anthropology student from Milan, I'm doing um research on the rural traditions of um country folk." His look of contempt gave me a stab of fear from the crazy thought that he knew the real story.
"How long will you be staying?"
"Tomorrow," I blurted out, flustered.
"Let me show you to your room Miss Benussi." We took a small lift to the second floor. The hotel was clean and classy. Instead of numbers the rooms had letters. I was put in room "P". My room is spacious, with a very comfortable bed, big enough for an easy three-way. I didn't see any other guests on the way to my room.
I was lost in my thoughts, looking inwards, the hard cover propped up in front of my melons, when an ironic voice cut through the static: "What do you think of Avola?"
Tanned, in a tan blazer and with matching slacks, the news-clips on my smart phone hadn't done justice to how masculine a man is my target. Short cropped blonde hair, chiselled features, steely blue eyes, broad chest and shoulders, in his early thirties, the Incorruptible stood at attention in front of my table, every inch of him beaming confidence and vigor. He looked Czech.
He'd taken the bait.
I tried to remember the Wiki entry I skimmed under before I boarded the Kharon.
"He's a faucet."
"A...faucet?"
"A bit."
He pursed his lips ironically: "Yes, a bit"
I closed the old book and put it on the table next to my out smarted phone.
I took at deep breath and asked:"Would you like to join with with me for breakfast?"
That smile again. He sat down across from me and waved his right hand over our table and said, "The Americans say 'Breakfast is the most important meal of the day'."
Looking at the Incorruptible directly I stated in a low voice, "Here's the cantaloupe." His steely eyes flickered with delight. Before he could respond the strange waiter appeared like a bolt from the blue carrying a serving tray.
The waiter put a white plate of cantaloupe balls with toothpicks stuck in them and three tightly rolled slices of prosciutto on it. He put the tiny steaming cup of cappuccino beside my plate, turned towards the Incorruptible, bowed slightly and inquired, "Will you have the usual this morning Signore Machiavelli?"
He made my pussy wet. The Incorruptible, not the waiter.
***
When, smiling slightly, I stepped out of the small court yard through the door way Machiavelli, the Incorruptible, had opened for me, my nipples got hard in the thrilling anticipation that I'm going to get naked soon, real soon.
I was in a large-ish room with a small red couch, a few simple chairs, one chair covered in lamb's wool, an old wooden desk with an old fashioned keyboard that wasn't plugged in to the Net. The wall opposite was three shelves of books. Through an open door on my right I saw a kitchen with a long, wooden dining table. To my left was a closed door with with a big brass knob. The bedroom?
His house was very clean.
I nonchalantly put my pink purse on the floor next to the lamb's wool chair and asked, "No TV?"
"The village doesn't allow them."
I sashayed to the book shelves and ran my right index fingertip down the spine of a red leather bound book called Casanova, Memoirs, Vol. 6.
"Have you read all these books?" I asked.
"I prefer the classics: Sun Tzu, Juvenal, Aretino, Casanova, Bierce, D'Annunzio, Parento, Dystropianist, the last one is obviously an acquired taste you would agree?"
"Obviously," I agreed. I didn't know any of those name, though the last one sounded like a weirdo.
When he'd asked me what I did for a living I told him the same lie I'd given the Hotel concierge. "Ah, you're here for the Festival."
After breakfast he invited me to his house to look at a few volumes about the mores of village for my research. I didn't know what eels had to do with anybody. I just nodded twice.
During our breakfast--he had eggs Florentine--his eyes kept lowering to my cleavage. My large Oreos were easy to see through the thin, white cotton of my blouse. He was not what the nuns in my private school called a sodomite. He was straighter than a measuring stick.
"I see you're a liberated woman," he said with that ironic expression that hardly ever left his face.
I didn't know that meant, so in response I just eyefucked him doggie-style instead.
When I asked him what he does for a living, he replied, "I bring dangerous criminals to justice."
"Sounds dangerous."
"Some people find danger exciting; do you?"
"Yes."
When we left the hotel there was still no other guests in the dining room. I insisted on paying for breakfast, much to his amusement.
Don Volpone was right about the village's narrow streets: they had no names, they were narrow with cobble stones, twisted and turning like over cooked spaghetti. The houses had no numbers, they were packed right up next to each other with no windows opening on to the streets. And the houses all had the same style of high narrow front door: heavy dark blocks of wood with three rows of three big iron knobs down the middle. All the doors had big knockers, like me.
The Incorruptible's house, indistinguishable for the rest, was the last on a dead end street. I had no idea how I'll find my way to the marina through this maze after the hit. I didn't see any villagers on the way to the Incorruptible's house. That's lucky.
I turned my back on the books and put-on-my-best-faced the Incorruptible. There was a motto I read in one of the glossy gun magazines of an old boyfriend who told me he used to be a paratrooper: He Who Dares, Wins.
She Who Dares...
"I'm a swinger."
"Strangely, the village approves of swinging." He threw his blazer on to the red couch.
I couldn't help myself: with my back pushed up against the hard covered books I gave him a stuck-up look through my horn-rimmed glasses: "These...yokels?"
"That look suits you; it's an ancient tradition."
"Do you like my look?" I opened my arms wide and did a quick curtsy.
"I'm going to lick that look."
"Oh, you're so cocky!"
"Very."
I'm surprised my nipples didn't poke holes in my blouse.
***
I was totally pissed at my parents for flying me a chartered Lear jet from Milan to Palermo for me eighteenth birthday! When I whined why do we have to spend my birthday with some old guy lives in a Castillo in the middle of Sicily that I've never met, my Mother snapped, "Because he paid for your education you brat!"
My parents had sent me to an all girls boarding school run completely by nuns. I was a month from graduation.
My father wasn't the son or nephew of the Grand Duke of Corsica but a junior member of their clan. I never figure out why a Grand Duke of Corsica had a clan in middle of Sicily.
When we landed in Palermo airport a tall young cute man approached and said he would fly us in one of Grand Duke's helicopters to Castillo Borgo for my birthday party. I asked the cutie how many helicopters did Duke have he replied "His Majesty has three; he has many kinds of aircraft."
The flight to the Castillio was exciting but the countryside skimming past us was dull.
The Grand Duke greeted us at the helipad next to a big, fancy mansion at the foot of a rocky hill with a bunch of ruins on top of it. The Grand Duke was tall, dark and handsome for an old guy of fifty. He had thick, slicked back black hair that was greying at the temples. His mustache and goatee were jet black. He made me laugh. His jokes made my parents squirm.
My party was fun, great food, presents (a charm bracelet, smart phone, graphic novel) and a red velvet birthday cake. The only people at the big round table (not counting the maids) were the Grand Duke, me, my parents and a scary man with an eye patch His Majesty introduced as his Head of Security. He didn't say anything during my dinner except to join in when they sang me Happy Birthday. When His Majesty asked asked how I was doing at school, I embarrassed my parents by admitting I was a so-so student. I did like my creative writing class though. He told us he found my honesty refreshing.
