The Story of X: An Erotic Tale (19 page)

Marc smiles at my astonishment.

“Yes, it is ancient Greek,
Grico,
from the time of the Hellenic settlers. The language never quite died out in these
really remote valleys.”

I stand here, in the hazy sun: an American utterly dwarfed by the ancientness of Europe.
I am listening to the language of Plato and Pythagoras, spoken by the very descendants
of Plato and Pythagoras.

Marc is gesturing and chatting with some locals in Italian. So they are also bilingual,
which makes sense.

Retreating from the scene, letting Marc do his thing, I walk over and sit on a bench—and
yawn. The drive has been very rough. I am tired; my limbs ache. A long day already.
The old man next to me turns and smiles. And speaks ancient Greek.

I nod and smile hopefully at this son of Socrates, and his incomprehensible words.

Oh, Italy. Oh, Europe.

“Okay,” Marc calls, returning from his task. He opens the car door and jumps in, and
gestures for me to do the same. He seems invigorated. “I was right,” he says, switching
the engine back on. “Just twenty more kilometers. On the back road to Plati.” He points
into the darkest valley, incised into the most malign mountains. Of course it would
be that way: the most sinister direction.

I sit back. And try not to fret.

But this is difficult. It may just be “twenty more klicks” but the last leg of the
journey takes us
another two hours,
driving past landslides, sliding through washouts, climbing horrible unpaved hills.
At last I see a town around the next vertiginous corner of pine tree and slender beech.

As we enter the “town,” the sense of horrible revelation grows apace. All the ancient
and modern houses are derelict. All are grisly shells, with dark, cracked windows
and doors cruelly twisted on hinges or simply kicked through.

“My God,” I say. “It’s a ghost town.”

Marc nods.

“Rhoguda. It was finally abandoned in the nineteen fifties. Too many earthquakes.
And too many witches.”

“But . . .”

“The Mystery will happen in the Bourbon castle, up there on the rise.”

I shade my eyes to see: an immense, austere building—somewhat like a nunnery, half
a kilometer beyond and above the town.

I turn and look at Marc. I have suddenly realized.

“This is where I am going to be flagellated, isn’t it? This is where I will be whipped?”

He says nothing, just steers us toward the lofty castle.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

R
HOGUDA
C
ASTLE CAN’T
ever have been beautiful, but it must have once been awe-inspiring: it is still enormous,
frowning, military—and austere in that Spanish-Italian style. Just like the palace
of Caserta.

As before, there are dozens of young men in dark suits at the gates, and as before
they have unsmiling faces, earphones for communications, and black sunglasses despite
the clouds. The ominous creases in their smart jackets—I am now pretty sure—indicate
where they holster their guns.

Marc shows his credentials—an ID card, and some kind of small ivory plaque, depicting
Dionysus the God, clutching his staff of fennel, the thyrsus. I have surmised this
is a symbol for the final initiation. I wait patiently, if a little anxiously, as
the guards do their thing, and then we are escorted through a large door, big enough
for a carriage, and up some plain whitewashed steps to two large and almost empty
bedrooms. Some of the ruined castle has been revamped, presumably for the Mysteries.

By whom? Who is paying? Is it Marc himself? Marc and a few other billionaires? What
business is he doing?

There are questions I want to ask, and then there are many more questions I probably
don’t want answered. I gaze about me, a little bewildered; then Marc says I have time
to rest before the rituals begin. This is good, because I feel so tired. Kicking off
my shoes, I fall straight onto the bed and lapse into a deep, exhausted sleep.

But my sleep is fractious. I dream of Marc and me in a sinking cruise boat; the crockery
is crashing everywhere and passengers are panicking. Then I am drowning in a wedding
dress, scrabbling at the porthole glass as the water rises—water that is polluted
with some kind of red oil—and Marc is putting his hand over my mouth so I can’t speak,
dragging me under the waves and—

I wake with a start. Barefoot in my jeans on the bed. Startled and alone. My mouth
is terribly parched and I run into the bathroom—also austere, but clean and newly
painted. I run the tap and fill a glass with the water of the Aspromonte, the Bitter
Mountains. And I drink the taste of the dream away.

When I fell asleep it was mid-afternoon. Now it is quite dark.

The bathroom window is open to the warm night air and the whining mosquitoes. Beyond
the crumbling exterior walls of the castle, the mountains recede in their savageness,
forested and lightless, apart from the odd pinprick of car lights coming our way.
Guests for the Mystery?

In the other direction, the abandoned ghost town of Rhoguda lies in a heap beneath
the palace: a silhouette of dark, groping shapes.

I squint at all the ruined houses, the ruined shops and cafes. Who lived down there?
Who grew up down there? It must have been an amazing place, once: dreamy and lost
in its gorgeous little valley. A village with a frowning priest and a grumpy postman
on a bicycle, rattling on the cobbles, and girls singing Calabrian songs as they washed
clothes in the clear mountain sun.

All gone now, all ruined, all ghosts. Destroyed by earthquakes, and witches, and the
’Ndrangheta.

I hear a noise.

“Marc?”

No answer. Maybe it was someone upstairs; I can sense floorboards creaking. Other
guests are arriving, no doubt, other Mystery-goers, other Dionysians and Mithraists
and Eleusinians. And some other women, perhaps, being inducted into the Third Mystery.

I look back out the window. The moon is luminous and wise, staring down. Like she
is used to this sort of thing.

Voices.

Now I can definitely hear voices. Outside my room. They sound subdued, like people
exchanging confidences—almost whispering, possibly conspiring. Shelving my anxieties,
I pad to the door, and listen. The door is slightly ajar, and outside I can see Marc
and Giuseppe talking with some other men.

Who are these men? And why is Giuseppe here? I suppose Marc would not risk coming
here alone; he would want his best manservant for protection. In the land of the ’Ndrang,
the mafia that he angered. But why are they talking in this subtle and conspiratorial
way? Marc is frowning, and nodding.

I yearn to see the faces of their interlocutors. These voices sound older—speaking
in rapid yet reedy Italian. I cannot quite catch what they are saying: though I hear
the word ’
Ndrangheta
.

Twice.

A floorboard creaks. The conversation is breaking up. And I catch a glimpse of a third
face. It is the face of a very elderly man, maybe eighty years old. I recognize him.
I’m not sure from where, but I know that I recognize him. This man is famous in some
way. How?

Marc is coming to the door. I step back in urgency and try to look normal, but he
catches me in the middle of the room, like an idiot, just standing aimlessly.

“X?”

“Yes?”

He frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. I . . . I just woke up. God. You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.
Sorry. Sorry. I’m all over the place.”

The rush of words seems to soothe him. His frown softens.

“Okay, well, you better get ready quick. The preparation for the Mystery begins very
soon.”

Only now do I notice that Marc is in his tuxedo. Black and white, showered and sleek.

“Oh, but what do I wear?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Just have a shower,
carissima
. That’s all you need to do. The girls will be in to help.”

He turns and leaves. I stifle my fears and make for the shower. It is good and hot.
As soon as I am dried, the handmaidens come in, wearing those simple white tunic dresses.
Where do they find these girls? How do they employ them?

Just let it roll over you, X
.

My anxiety is also tinged with real excitement. I remember, now, how much I enjoyed,
at least at first, the sensuality of the Second Mystery, the feeling of an inner revelation,
even empowerment.

Come on, then. I am ready.

Ready for
whatever
.

The girls smile, but they speak no English and their accents are so thickly Calabrian
I can barely understand a word. But it doesn’t matter: it is clear what they want
me to do.

One girl gestures that I sit on the bed. I do so, a little shyly, as I am quite naked
under my enrobing bath towels. My shyness is ignored; the handmaidens remove the towels
and then I am just naked. Now a third girl kneels and pushes my thighs apart. She
squints and examines the tattoo, and then she turns to the other girls and nods.

She gestures. The handmaiden wants me to stand. So I do. One of the other girls steps
forward; she is clutching a small, white porcelain jar. She opens it and I can see
glittering color inside, a liquid gold. Then I realize what is happening: they are
painting me. Two of the handmaidens have brushes, the others hold the paint. My bare
skin is going to be adorned.

It takes almost an hour. Yet the hour passes quickly. The girls kneel and swirl me
with colors: gold, magenta, and lapis lazuli. The swirls are abstract yet very sensuous,
curving around my breasts, decorating the swell of my stomach, traced delicately along
my naked thighs, making tender gestures to my pubic hair; my feet are left unpainted,
as is my face—and my behind. Why?

The sensation of being painted is not unsexual. The whispering tips of the paintbrushes,
the soft and gossipy murmur of the girls. I begin to feel resplendent as I stare down
at my gorgeously decorated naked body. The colors are stealthy yet glittering. I am
gilded and majestic; my skin is narcissus-yellow and glowing red and Byzantine purple.

I am a work of art.

The painting is done. I stand here, depicted. The girls whisper among themselves as
they wait for the paint to dry. Then the smallest handmaiden steps close. She is holding
something: it is a plush velvet collar, a sort of dog’s collar.

The collar is fixed around my painted neck. Then a second girl clips a long silver
chain onto the collar.

I wait here naked. Chained. Collared. And painted.

Marc enters the room. He bows graciously to me, then takes the other end of the silver
chain, and gestures toward the door.

My Lord Roscarrick is apparently going to lead me naked out of the room, by a chain
attached to the collar. The only thing I am allowed to wear is high heels: the girls
have brought some elegant black leather stilettos. Sexy shoes. I glimpse the label
as I slip them on. Blahnik. Designer Mystery Religions. The Italian touch. But the
mood is somber, not amused.

Marc is gesturing again. I take the deepest of breaths.

“
Sì
, Celenza.”

I nod my submission. Marc lifts the chain and leads me outside, downstairs and along
a corridor, where I glimpse people in dark candlelit side rooms: Kissing? Fucking?
I don’t know. They are just writhing shapes. Low laughter. That music is filling the
air again, sweet choral music but with a low, driving rise, a holy bell, getting louder
and louder, ominous and very beautiful.

And at last I recognize it: Arvo Pärt, the
Cantus
. For Benjamin Britten. There was a girl at Dartmouth who loved this music. Sad and
yet sensual in the extreme. It fills all the rooms, churchy yet pagan.

I am led on the chain, exactly like a dog, or a slave, by Marc, my slavemaster. But
somehow I do not mind: If I am a dog I am a splendid dog, I am a royal hound, the
lion-hunting dog of an Assyrian king, a prized and beloved Borzoi.

Marc leads me into a sizable room, which seems to be a chapel. I glimpse the shape
of an apse, a nave, an altar. The music rises. There are many people in here—two or
three dozen—all dressed mainly in black. And they are masked.

Everyone is masked, apart from Marc and me—the naked woman in the center: me, feeling
like a splendid hound, an animal in her glorious coat, wearing my golds and crimsons.

I gaze around at the big candlelit room. It is shadowy, with hints of purple in the
darkness. It is warm and scented and lovely. The air is incensed. The candlelight
is flickering, and it flickers, particularly, off my painted bare skin. I am glittering.
Literally sparkling. Shining in this light. My mind is losing focus. The perfume of
the incense is powerful.

“Alexandra,” says Marc.

The chain is tugged and I step forward, until I am at the very center, the pivotal
point around which the room revolves.

“Celenza.”

Two masked men step forward and remove my collar. Then they take my wrists and tie
them together with a soft rope. The knot is tight and I wince slightly. But it is
not so painful. I watch, with unexpected calm, a strange lack of anxiety, as my cuffed
wrists are then lifted as one, and attached to an iron ringlet that hangs from the
ceiling by its own black iron chain.

I am being shackled—my arms are handcuffed high above me. And I do not mind. What
has happened to me? The elaborate preparations have acted like some drug, spinning
me out, taking me into a different zone. Tranquil, and sexual, and not myself.

Marc is standing right in front of me. Watching me being shackled. I look at him.
He looks at me. We stare deep into each other’s eyes.

“Drink,” says a handmaiden, offering me a cup, like someone offering vinegar to Jesus.

The cup is metal, and the liquid appears thick. The blood is rushing from my cuffed
and hoisted arms, making me feel light-headed, but I drink anyway. And this, it seems,
is no vinegar. It is a sweet wine, extremely strong—laced with something I can’t identify.

“Alexandra of the Third,” says Marc.

Something is happening. I close my eyes. I sense what is coming. They are going to
whip me.

I wait, utterly tensed. The music swells and ebbs. I wait some more, and then—

Crack
.

I feel the first impact of the cane on my backside and it stings, very badly, yet
the stinging is sugared with pleasure. I stare at Marc. He stares at me. He is watching
me being whipped. We have become the frescoes of the Villa of the Mysteries.

“Drink.”

The handmaiden steps forward and I stoop my head and sip; some of the wine slips down
my chin. I feel like a shackled wild animal. I understand why they would want to chain
and cuff me. I sense a certain dangerousness inside me.

Crack
.

I do not know how long the caning lasts. The alcohol, if that is what it is, makes
me even dreamier. All I want to do is look at Marc as he looks at me and watches me
being beaten. And he does, he watches. Unsmiling. Yet somehow intense. Our eyes seldom
leave each other’s gaze.

Between each lavish and stunning blow, the handmaidens give me this gorgeous wine
to drink and I guzzle it down thirstily. I am reveling: let them all observe me. Let
them regard my beauty being beaten and whipped. My naked and painted skin in this
dark, sacred space. The masked faces all around me are dipped and admiring. Reverential.

The music has changed, though it remains choral and quite fitting. The caning is sumptuously
erotic: the snap of the rattan on my flesh; the sense of pain and the wine on my tongue.
The candlelight is gorgeous and soft on my sparkling skin. I am not cold, and I am
not too warm. I am beautiful, I feel more beautiful than I have ever felt. Look at
me, Marc.

He looks at me.

Then I speak. “Do it again,” I say. To no one, to everyone, to Dionysus. To Marc.
“Do it again, Celenza.”

Marc nods at someone behind me.

And whoever this person might be, whoever is hitting me: he obliges.

The impact of the cane is so sharp I can feel myself quivering. And trembling with
pain and pleasure. And still I hang suspended, swaying from the blow, barely able
to touch the floor in my heels. After the next exquisite strike I shudder and moan
and know I am close to something—but it is not an orgasm; it is a different kind of
climax. Another shivering inner release of psychic pain. What is this?