Page 44 of This Vicious Hunger
I consider titles on death and mourning. My father always said there was more to learn—I wonder if there have been any advancements since he died, in the ritual preparation of bodies or the casting of new cradles, a process that has had bloody wars fought in its name for centuries. But it isn’t death I want to read about. Not bodies or thoughts. I want—the realisation hits me like a carriage—I want to read about love.
I’ve gravitated towards fiction, most of the library’s offering here of the elegiac and temporary variety. Novels by poets, pretty in prose and heavy in ideas, or great tomes by old professors in their waffling prime. I have never really been one for fiction, except—
I stop. The book—right ahead—with the black spine, completely innocuous in both appearance and title, is one I would recognise anywhere. The image of it is seared into my mind; my whole body flushes at the sight of it, cheeks hot, palms sweating. I recognise it because it is a book I have seen before. Not in my father’s private stash—he would have been disgusted if he knewsuch things existed—and not in any public collection I have seen since. But it is one I had once, hidden, in my marital home.
More than most of the titles I secreted away, concealed from Aurelio’s prying eyes, this one was special. And not only because of what made it worthy of a secret, the scenes that burned behind my eyelids in the darkest hours of night, throbbing deep in my belly, but the story.
I creep closer. It can’t be—can it? It is small, about the height of my palm, and sits nestled between two much larger companions. It is a slender thing, no more than a hundred pages, and I might have missed it if I hadn’t seen it before. What is a book like this doing here? Dimly I wonder if the author is a scholar or professor at the university. It’s the only thing that would make sense. Such inflammatory material… out in the open?
My chest rises and falls rapidly, my heart a bird fluttering inside a too-small cage. Part of me wants to scream, to run, to demand that the librarian remove it at once, or better, to run away and never come back again. This isn’t the part of me that wins.
It’s as if an unseen hand guides me, my arm that of a puppet and somebody upstairs pulling the strings. I swipe the book off the shelf and shove it deep into my trouser pocket, where it nestles against my skin through the thin material, warming with the heat from my body.
I glance quickly up and down the stacks, but there is nobody up here. Then I head back out the way I came, trying to affect the same innocence. It isn’t possible—I can’t pretend. I’m convinced that any second somebody will stop me, will demand to see what I’ve concealed in my pocket.
Nobody stops me. And I can’t stop myself. I’m back at my rooms, hot and sweaty and trembling with fear and hunger anddeep, impossible delight before I even realise what, exactly, I have done. I pull the book from my pocket carefully; it looks nearly new, not thumbed and creased like its shelf mates, and I stare at it in awe.
The first thing I think is that Aurelio is going to kill me when he finds out what I have done—and then I remember. Aurelio is dead. There is nobody here in these two rooms of mine to care what I read or what I think. Or whom I think about.
I hurriedly start the task of closing the shutters, giving the hot, sun-filled garden one longing glance, before carrying the book through to the bedroom. I glance down at my hands, then remove my wedding ring. I strip down to my underwear and crawl between the sheets, limbs singing, skin already prickling with anticipation.
There are no thoughts of fear now. No worry about whether this is wrong of me to want or need. I remember the same anticipation in my study in Aurelio’s house, the way I would hide behind my husband’s desk with my knees propped up against the wood and my hand circling hesitantly beneath my skirts. Back then I was afraid—petrified—of being caught and crucified. I wanted nothing more than to wipe the memory of his touch from my body, to reclaim the burning feelings that were mine alone.
Now I read with delight, page after curious page of the chapter I have always loved best. It is an ancient story within a story, the legend of the nymphs Hekaline and Orithyia, who were cursed by the great Lord of Death to exist eternally opposed—one condemned to the night, the other to the day. In this version of the tale, Orithyia discovers the ambiguity of the greyness in dusk and dawn, and the lovers meet under a secluded rocky overhang where they satisfy their desires beneath the golden-edged shadows of the sunrise.
It is a story of beauty and daring and resolve. It is trust, and the risk of betrayal, for each of the nymphs must wholly believe in the other or risk death. When I first discovered it I felt like Hekaline, and I would have given anything to trust in the greyness; now it is Orithyia who speaks to me, the one who holds the cards—and the responsibility if it all comes tumbling down.
Of course, like the rest of this novel, this chapter spares no details of their passion.
As I read I think of last night, of the crush of Olea’s lips on mine, of the delicious softness of her skin, her breasts. I want to gorge myself on her. I want to hold her body with every inch of my own, palms and nails and lips and teeth; I want to crawl inside her skin. My body grows loose and comfortable—and as my fingers reach the soft, warm flesh between my thighs, all I think of is Olea.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When I wake my bedroom is dim, threaded with golden pink strands of fading sunlight, the air still pleasure scented. My skin is slick with cool sweat, almost feverish, and my hair is soaking. I dreamt, I think, of the garden—but I don’t recall why.
My stomach pinches painfully. My limbs feel weak, as if I have run and run for days without rest or food. I’m thirsty, too, my tongue parched and sticking to the roof of my mouth. I lick my lips, tasting the faint crusting of blood from last night, and I think, again, of Olea. Oh, the sharp pain behind the pleasure in our kiss.
Normally I would be getting ready to head to the garden with her now. I’ve hardly made it past sunset the last few days. I don’t like the disruption of our routine, though I can’t deny the sleep—and what came before it—was necessary. I’m still tired, muzzy-headed, but at least it isn’t the same bone-wrenching exhaustion as when I finally collapsed against the pillows, my right hand and arm aching fiercely.
I flex the muscles now lazily and consider my food options. The dining hall will be closed before I get there, and I have littleto eat here except some stale bread and cheese I put in my pockets a few days ago for a snack. Everything else I’ve systemically polished off. The thought of food makes me want to cry; I’m not used to being governed by it like this. Why am I so famished?
I lie in the evening dimness for a while trying to gather the energy to move, and it is only the call of a fresh breeze that drags me from my bed to the study, where I throw open the shutters and let in the everlasting-flower-scented air. I stuff the bread and sweaty cheese into my mouth in one go and make tea with some of the flowers mixed with peppermint and a small amount of vanilla, all crushed together with the tea leaves to create a fragrant stew. Hunger pangs grip my belly, one after another, as I sink down at my desk and rest my chin on my hand.
For just one minute I allow myself to fantasise. Not about Olea this time but about the feasts my mother cooked, once upon a time, whenever my father would return from performing the death rites. It was a celebration of his work, of his patience, of his ability to keep us clothed and fed—but most importantly a celebration of his rites. The gentle but unrelenting way he shepherded the dead and pushed the mourners through their grief. My mother was a wonderful cook; the table would be laden with jellied meats, candied bacon, and tart apple stew, fresh bread folded in themoerorloaves, and seasonal vegetables or salads dressed in expensive, thick vinegars and honey. My mouth waters at the thought, my bones hollow for the need of it.
Then I force myself to stop. There is no use thinking of the past. Tomorrow my work with Petaccia begins anew. It would have been wiser for me to spend my afternoon studying so that I am prepared for whatever the doctor may ask of me, but it is too late for that now. The demise of her precious vine still niggles atme; there is something about what happened that I can’t ignore, but my thoughts are jumbled, as if everything is coming through brackish water. When did it become so hard to think? I don’t recall it being this way when I first arrived here. I felt fresh then, ready to tackle the world. It feels now more like I am swimming with my eyes open, fingers clawing for purchase on nothing but silky water.
I sip my tea and try to make it last, hoping that the mix of leaves and flowers will settle my stomach and soothe the dizziness in my eyes and my tired brain. I must have overtired myself earlier. What was I thinking? I attempt to shake my head, to clear my mind, but I only succeed in rattling myself badly enough that I think I might vomit.
There is something wrong with me.The thought comes so suddenly that it takes me by surprise. I stop mid-sip, the cup of tea partway between my face and the desk. My hands begin to tremble something awful, a rotten sensation unfurling from my core right out to my fingertips.There is something wrong, and I don’t know what it is.
I think back. When did I last feel normal? When was I last completely well? I’ve lost all track of my days and weeks, but I think it must be weeks now since I woke from a sleep without the painful, gnawing pit of hunger in my belly. Weeks, too, since I could walk without some mild dizziness. Leo has been complaining of my distractedness for longer than that—though of course I’ve mostly ignored him. I’ve been too busy to worry. Should I worry? My father was taken by some meandering, withering illness that started a few months before my marriage to Aurelio. He complained of no dizziness or hunger but often said that his chest ached, though he—and I—brushed it off as nothing.
I lean forward and then backwards again. My chest feels fine. The inside of my mouth has the tangy iron taste of blood, but I’m almost certain that’s from the bruises on my lips—and I’d take Olea’s hungry grazing again despite the pain.
Olea. It is early yet for her gardening hours, and I know she’d hate the idea of me watching for her, but I lean out the window anyway, just in case I can spot her. The hours stretch before me without the promise of the garden. I want to see her. I want to talk to her and hold her. And the plants, too, I realise. I miss them. It feels as if I’ve been severed from them, although they’re so close I can almost smell them.
I wonder if this is what Leo was worried about when he warned me of the garden. Did he suspect I would become addicted to it? Does he know for sure that his Clara was there, at the gate, visiting with my Olea? Does he think that’s why his wife abandoned him? He drove her away with his desperation for her happiness, drove her right into Olea’s arms…
