Part 27 (1/2)
With a nod to Hollis, I leave the operations floor.
Amelia Gab leaves me at the entrance to the apartment. After prowling around aimlessly for a few minutes, I stop and look out over the city.
A golden dusk is falling, casting shadows that soften the corners of the buildings far below. To the south, s.h.i.+ps still come and go in the harbor. A few stars are already visible low in the eastern sky.
By any measure, the view is spectacular but I scarcely notice it. All my thoughts are of Ian.
Figure out what the problem is.
That's easy enough.
”I have to know that you're safe from any danger... including me.”
I am safe in Pinnacle House, nothing can reach me there. But safe from Ian? How do I convince him that he won't harm me when I don't even understand the source of his fear?
I'm only now beginning to realize what a complex man he is. He projects a seemingly effortless aura of authority that can be rea.s.suring or intimidating depending on the circ.u.mstances. Yet beneath that are dark shadows and a sense of vulnerability that make me ache for the man he is and even more, for the boy he was.
The wounds he carries can't be fresh; their effects run too deep. Something happened to him early in life. I am certain that it involved his father but beyond that I'm mired in frustrating ignorance.
I'm struggling with that, searching desperately for an answer, as I turn back to the room. My gaze falls on a set of double doors that I haven't noticed before.
Opening them, I find myself on the threshold of a long, high-ceilinged gallery. Directly across from me is a matching set of doors that must lead to other parts of the penthouse floor where Gab indicated there were rooms for receptions and other company functions.
To the far left and right, floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s walls look out over the expansive view. In between, the s.p.a.ce is filled with elegantly displayed paintings and sculptures.
The presence of such treasures is a welcome surprise. While I have a working knowledge of art, this is the first time I've been able to see so much of it for myself.
Along one side of the gallery is a series of photographs. Those in sepia must be among the earliest ever taken, depicting as they do scenes from the American Civil War. Others in black-and-white show the upheaval of the world wars as well as endless local conflicts, sometimes flaring into broader regional struggles, that continue to the present day.
I quickly see that the theme is the same for all--the death of youth embodied by men and women across two centuries yet united in the overwhelming sense of needless tragedy and loss.
Nearby is an oil painting of men wading through water toward a beach where bombs are exploding. The stark heroism of their action, moving toward rather than away from deadly danger, is striking in its power.
Something about how the men stand in relation to one another makes it clear that they aren't motivated in that moment by thoughts of country or flag. Instead, they are supporting one another at the most basic human level, a true band of brothers united by courage and sacrifice. The same is also true in a holographic work that shows soldiers on patrol in a narrow street, taking fire from adjacent buildings yet continuing nonetheless to advance.
In none of the works do I get any sense of the so-called glory of war, no hint of triumphalism. There is only courageous honesty and a certain forlorn pride in the sacrifices made for ideals that, however elusive they may be, are still the best hope of humanity.
Thinking of Ian, of what he has confronted, my throat tightens. I turn away toward the other side of the gallery.
At once, the mood changes. A voluptuous Renoir nude hangs beside a Gauguin depiction of Tahitian women bathing. Nearby is a vibrant, provocative portrait of a nude woman by Francoise Nielly.
As I walk along slowly, I come upon a medieval triptych depicting scenes from the Garden of Eden, a Caravaggio portrait of a young woman clutching a sprig of jasmine that I recall has been used as a symbol for eroticism, and a series of preliminary sketches for Botticelli's exquisite ”Birth of Venus.” I cannot begin to imagine what the sketches alone are worth.
I'm impressed that Ian is a discerning, if eclectic collector. Despite the myriad styles, the pieces all work together, expressing the effort of artists over the centuries to illuminate the beauty and complexity of the human condition.
I can't help but notice that there is also a frankly sensual aspect to the works. A nude by the contemporary artist Yasmin DeNiro makes me blush, so obvious is the woman's arousal as she lies stretched out on a chaise longue, one arm extended invitingly to the lover we can imagine standing just beyond the edge of the canvas. Or perhaps it is the viewer she is beckoning to; it's impossible to tell.
I've just turned away from her when my eye falls on what appears to be an abstract sculpture hanging on a nearby wall. I approach it, tilting my head this way and that, convinced that it reminds me of something yet unable to decide what it-- What....? No, that can't be right. I can't be looking at a life-size and very detailed representation of the female genitalia displayed between spread thighs.
Apparently, I can be. The highly polished metal--bronze, I think--of the thighs and the plumb outer l.a.b.i.a contrasts vividly with the bright copper inner l.a.b.i.a, almost frond-like in their rippled folds. Between them the exposed c.l.i.t and v.u.l.v.a are exactingly rendered, the c.l.i.t even more highly polished than the rest, clearly engorged while below it the v.u.l.v.a gleams wetly.
The overall effect is so precise as to leave no doubt that the work was cast from a living model.
Who was she, the woman who lay on a table, her legs spread and raised, holding herself immobile despite being teased to obvious arousal. How did she respond as warm, liquid wax was poured over her s.e.x, hardening into a mold for molten metal? How long did she remain encased like that until the wax was pulled away?
Did she come when it was or perhaps just afterward? At her hands? Or the artist's?
A wave of heat makes the muscles in my groin clench even as I remind myself that I have awakened in a world steeped in sensuality, whether for the indulgence of the wealthy and privileged, or as a means of diverting and controlling everyone else. The works in the gallery can hardly be considered extreme in a culture where even the opera is X-rated.
Yet they still have a capacity to shock me.
On a pedestal nearby is the nude torso of a woman rendered in great detail. The smooth stone is a sharp contrast to the deceptively softer texture of the natural jute ropes that tightly bind her b.r.e.a.s.t.s into engorged cones before extending across her hips to her crotch where they are drawn tightly along her inner l.a.b.i.a, her c.l.i.t protruding between them.
Looking at the ropes, I can't help but squirm. They would certainly be uncomfortable but the sense of pressure there, of being bound-- I glance away quickly only to confront a collage that dominates the opposite wall. It is comprised of a vast array of ominous looking implements--leather flails in a variety of colors and textures, wooden paddles, cuffs both metal and leather, whips of various lengths, steel clamps attached to chains, and--my blush deepens--riding crops are all arranged in a circular pattern within a large wooden wheel. The wheel of fortune, perhaps? Abruptly, my remark in the Rolls prompted by the allure of Ian's riding boots comes back to haunt me.
I'm staring at the collage, struggling to come to terms with what it contains--and the implications of it--when the sound of a throat being cleared freezes me in place. I only just manage to turn my head before I instantly wish for the floor to open and swallow me.
Ian Amelia isn't in the apartment. I confirm that within minutes of arriving. I can contact security and have them locate her but before I do, I notice that the doors to the gallery are ajar.
c.r.a.p.
With hindsight, I should have kept the gallery off the list of areas she can access. Now that she's there I don't know whether to be apprehensive or intrigued.
I slip through the doors and spot her almost at once. Her head is tilted to one side, lips softly parted and her eyes-- Her eyes are wide and dark, filled, I a.s.sume, with shock. She looks so d.a.m.n beautiful in a way I can hardly fathom. An innocent in a world that left innocence behind long ago.
My feelings for her threaten to overwhelm me. She fills me with raw l.u.s.t that's equaled only by the driving need to cherish and protect her. I want to possess her completely and at the same time crush anything that could cause her the slightest harm.
Without some way to reconcile such contradictory urges, I'm knocked off balance and left struggling to cope with a situation unlike any I've ever encountered before.
Before I can get mired in the emotions that provokes, I clear my throat. Softly, not wanting to startle her, I say, ”The collage is by Iago Reyes. It's one of a series he created in the years just before he entered a Buddhist monastery.”
She stiffens at the sound of my voice and shoots me a quick glance before looking anywhere but at me.
”He became a monk?” Her voice is a little high. She's blus.h.i.+ng fiercely.
”An acolyte, for awhile. He's back in the world and working again.”
I swear that I can smell the soft, alluring scent of her skin even across the distance separating us. That isn't possible but sense memories of her threaten to overwhelm me--the warm, silken smoothness of her thighs parting for my hands, the elegant arch of her back, her breathy moans as she starts to come-- My skin p.r.i.c.kles as though a storm is building, charging the air with electricity.
Instead of heeding the warning, I ask, ”What do you think of the piece?”
She tries to shrug but doesn't quite pull it off. ”It's very provocative.”
”Because of what it consists of?” I a.s.sume that's what she means but as always with Amelia, I'm in for a surprise.
She stares at the collage, studying it carefully. ”Partly but he's reduced everything to shape and color, stripped of function. And he's arranged it all like the seeds in a sunflower, spirals within spirals, using the harmony of nature to create unexpected beauty.”
I wait, impressed that she's able to see past the superficial so readily and at the same time knowing that I shouldn't be. From that first night when she challenged me by quoting Clauswitz, I've had no doubts about her intelligence or her perceptiveness.