Revenge Should Have No Bounds 071

 [If you have not already done so, you must
read the Introduction
before proceeding.]

For 1-55 (Chapters 1-13), see here.
56     57     58     59     60     61     62     63     Chap 14  056-063     64     65     66     67     68     69     70

Revenge Should Have No Bounds  071
Chapter 15 (8 of 11): Lovers

They were sitting on the bed undressing each other.  Yukiko rubbed her head against Mazarine’s breasts.  “I guess not, honey,” she said.  “Maybe I’m just really angry at your brother and his dreadful wife.  Cute ass, but dreadful.”

“Pshh, shame on you, hussy!”

They laughed and fell, skin to skin, into each other’s arms on the cool bed.  Holding each other, they soon slipped off into the welcoming arms of sleep, exhausted by the tense evening and the nightcaps.

It was rare for Mazarine to sleep over in 1965, and this was the first time she did.  Last night it had just seemed the right thing to do.  When they woke up around nine the next morning, they took turns brushing their teeth and taking a shower, and then lay in bed lazing, necking and chatting.  The room was bathed in the thin luminosity of early November and from their bed they could see patches of grayish clouds suggestive of snow scudding across the pale blue of a cold sky.  Mazarine had not seen the room in this light before, and she let her gaze roam.

The room was spacious, done in low-key tints, and plushly appointed.  A pale blue carpet with deep nap covered the floor, and in addition to the king size bed in which they were lying, there was an attractive ensemble in off-orange near the broad window consisting of a large sofa, an easy chair, love seat, and low-slung table of glass and metal tubing.  A smart escritoire in light wood with high-backed chair stood in one corner, tasteful paintings with Oriental motifs hung judiciously placed along the walls, and their bed was flanked at the headboard by two chests of drawers topped with heavy lamps.  Along one wall stood a large chest of drawers whose surface supported the smooth and sinuously curved sculpture of a weighty metal dragon stationed between two heavy porcelain vases.  The door to the large bathroom was partially open, and muted lighting spilled out across the carpet.  The overall effect was restful, and Mazarine happily buried her head in Yukiko’s hair, spooning herself tightly against the warm and silken body of her lover.

“Hey,” she whispered in the ear, “do you want to do the big Sunday brunch downstairs.  I hear it’s really something.”

Yukiko wiggled her bottom against Mazarine.  “Sure, honey,” she answered in a drowsy voice.  “That sounds pretty good right now.”   Turning over to face Mazarine she tossed the sheets and bed spread to the side and revealed their sleek bodies to each other.  “But first, I want to do something else,” she purrs coyly.

“What?”

“You.”

Mazarine laughed deep in her throat as their eager lips and clever hands began to roam.

By eleven, again showered, perfumed, faces meticulously done, sheathed in last night’s black and shod in high heels and coats on their arms, they made their entrée and, amid the concupiscent stares of every male above ten in the dining area, were seated at a table adorned with a crystal bowl of freshly-cut flowers, damask napkins, heavy silverware, ice water in heavy glasses, delicate flutes, and plates and cups decorated in a geometric design of glossy red and black.  They both ordered cantaloupe, eggs benedict and Sumatran coffee.

“Hold the champagne, sweetheart,” Yukiko smiled demurely up at the blushing servitor who, to the envy of the other waiters in the room, had their table as part of his station.  She put a tapered hand with fingernails of deep red across her fluted glass.

“Me too, honey,” Mazarine stage whispered and aped Yukiko’s hand movement.

As the young man bustled off, the two women glanced at each other with furtive amusement and giggled.  “Did you check our young friend’s basket?” Mazarine asked.

“Filled out all of a sudden, didn’t it?” Yukiko nodded, bending forward and putting the napkin across her mouth as she tried to check the hilarity burbling up from deep within.

“Men!” Mazarine mouthed.

“Poor things!” Yukiko mouthed.

And they burst into more giggles, bending forwards across the table with unquenchable laughter.

It was infectious, and parties sitting near them began to smile and, although not quite sure about the source of this endless amusement, chuckled lightly in sympathy.

What a way to start a Sunday, Mazarine thought as she caught Yukiko’s gleeful wink at her.  All is right in my heaven, she reflected with great satisfaction.

They ate with gusto, satisfying this appetite too, chattering in desultory fashion about everything and nothing, keeping up a happy patter.  The weather was cold and blustery, but they decided to take a walk to settle the meal.  And then, as if some hidden switch had been thrown in her mental machinery, Yukiko the philosopher and culture maven started in.

In a startling non-sequitur apropos of nothing she launched her first-strike ethnic missiles.  “You really have no idea what it is like to be Japanese, do you?”  The sun was feeble and they were marching briskly along a sidewalk covered in whirling leaves that had fallen from now denuded traceries of tree branches.  “I mean, how could you?  How could you possibly?  You don’t even speak Japanese and you certainly have no knowledge of Japanese literature or civilization.  It is all obviously beyond you.”

Mazarine was hesitant to insist on a more exact precision for that catholic ‘all’.  Yukiko kicked at the spinning whorls of leaves rotating around her legs.  “The Japanese sensibility is all about exquisiteness, about deliquescence, mutability, decay.  It is like our relationship.  I do not give it many more weeks now.  It is not the apex, the peak, the climax that is of ultimate significance.  Nor the early deliciousness of anticipations of what is to come.  It is the impermanence and the decay.  It is the percipient awareness of transience and fragility.  If one is assured of durability in a relationship, the magic and the mystery melt away like a summer morning’s dew at noon.  It ceases to exist.”  Yukiko is gesticulating extravagantly now.

Actually, Mazarine thought, Glaukos had said it more succinctly about three-thousand years ago.  As is a generation of leaves so is one of men:  some leaves the wind sheds to the ground, others the burgeoning forest puts forth when the season of spring comes along; so now a generation of men comes to life and now a generation ceases to exist.  But, given their earlier discussion of literature and its indeterminate outcome, Mazarine had the unmistakable impression this was not what Yukiko wanted to hear at the moment, and she kept her Homeric counsel to herself.

Yukiko was in full ethnic rant now.

TO BE CONTINUED

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