Tacit Resonances

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

I closed my eyes, feeling the cold air whip against my skin like little icy lashes. I recalled a time when I had used a velvet cat-o'-nine-tails to whip an elderly Greek shipowner. The lecherous man had knelt before me, his sagging privates exposed, waiting for me to administer a humiliating blow. He had reveled in the sensation, while I, masked with tulle to shield myself from the thrill and illusion of power that had momentarily consumed me, had indulged in the financial gains it brought.

But now, I felt no power, only the cold and the inappropriate emptiness of no longer being a virgin—emotionally. The curves of the road and the body of the bike, in perfect harmony, moved up and down, left and right, hypnotizing me. I simply wished to disappear.

If I let go and allowed myself to fall, to surrender to the void of air—not asphalt beneath spinning wheels but air and water and a dense limbo—I believed it would cleanse, purify, and revitalize me, returning me pure and alive, ready for a new beginning.

Perhaps I had relaxed my grip on his waist, for his large hands quickly reclaimed my wandering wrist and returned it to its rightful place. Like a meticulous Lego construction, I complied.

He had orchestrated our scenario expertly, rescuing and saving me and escorting me to the hospital, where I could seek treatment.

I glimpsed the lights of a town through slitted eyes. The fog had settled, enveloping us in darkness. The headlights barely penetrated the thick, smoky fog, reminiscent of children's nightmares filled with wolves and malevolent ogres. The engine's revs diminished, signaling our deceleration.

I could hear the voice inside me, tired from hours, days, and years of solitude, screaming for something innate, something related to our presumed arrival.

"We have arrived. It's the Brungenwald hospital. They'll take care of you," he informed me, and I gripped him even tighter.

He turned to me, causing me to loosen my hold on his chest.

"Get off," he instructed, and I looked at him, taken aback.

"You can't just leave me here," I protested.

"No," I insisted, "Please, I'm cold and scared. I'm not accustomed to this."

It was a falsehood. I was used to fear and coldness, but I wasn't used to feeling vulnerable.

"I have an important appointment, and I'm already late. I need to drop you off here, then I'll return and check on you and find out about your condition."

"Please, I feel like crying. You may not understand, but I really need you to stay with me. I can't do this alone—going inside, calling for a tow truck, getting my car fixed. Please."

He inquired about my condition, seeking the truth behind my words.

"Good," I replied, feeling somewhat ashamed.

"Then I'll take her to my house. You can sleep in the guest room, and Mrs. Boff will take care of you. We'll handle everything from the chalet. That way, I can almost make it to my appointment on time."

"His house?" Various images flashed through my mind—naked bodies, English moors, vintage engines, and biker scarves with badges and orange goggles concealing discerning, serious eyes.

"Either at my house or here. Decide quickly; I'm in a hurry," he urged.

"His house," I declared, a shy smile escaping me. It was a smile a virgin wouldn't have widened, but rather one of a hungry tiger spotting its prey in the foliage.

"She seems content," he observed.

"Yes, I am," I replied, refusing to lie.

He started the engine once more, and we departed from the town. However, it was only for a short distance. The bike followed a narrow path, and the drizzle continued to fall persistently, completely soaking me. I daydreamed of a hot shower, steaming tea, and a crackling fireplace awaiting me.

But for now, I was growing colder and colder. My hands turned numb and icy, even as I attempted to shield them within the folds of my leather jacket.

Finally, the bike lost speed and seemed to come to a halt. In the distance, I could make out a house, shrouded in the crimson foliage of vines, though I couldn't see it clearly.

It was an old manor house, with a slanted red roof and walls overgrown with ivy and climbing roses. Wide, rectangular windows in the grand rooms were framed by towering stone fireplaces and large chimneys.

"Get off," he instructed, guiding me.

A narrow path, composed of small red gravel, led to the front steps of the house. The door opened slowly, revealing a slice of warm light, like a piece of cake, illuminating us two dark silhouettes in the evening's obscurity.

"It's raining, sir. You'll get wet. Come inside," suggested a woman, likely the maid.

I hadn't dismounted yet.

"Come, Madam. We'll get you some hot soup and dry clothes," she said, taking charge.

He took my hand, and I didn't know which version of myself I was: the shy one, the bold one, the virgin, or the seductress.

I was wavering, feeling dizzy within all these personas.

Perhaps I was still a chrysalis, capable of undergoing metamorphosis to please this kind man.

Perhaps I could become better and forget.

In his eyes, I was nameless, and with him, I couldn't remember my own name.

I descended from the bike, shaking his hand.

"What a warm welcome, and I can smell the soup already. We'll have some right away. Thank you," I said.

"Mr. Beaumont has been waiting for you in the study for about 30 minutes. Does he prefer you in the study?" the maid inquired.

"No, it's for the young lady. I'll hurry with Mr. Beaumont and be with you shortly. Please, take care of her. Provide a hot bath, dry clothes, and her soup."

I watched the scene with a sense of detachment.

I saw him remove his helmet, revealing a thick mane of reddish hair, small curls cut short as if tamed. His eyes were a bright aquamarine, and freckles adorned his aquiline nose. If not for the beard, he might have passed for a teenager on a motorcycle.

Yet, there were strands of white in his reddish-blond beard and temples, and a few small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and lips revealed that he was not, in fact, youthful. But he was undeniably handsome.

He gazed at me, and the helmet continued to obscure my features, preventing me from fully expressing myself.

The cold had bleached his face and lips, and his eyes, wide and filled with astonishment, seemed to belong to a new day brimming with fresh emotions.

"Go," he said, turning away.