A Cambridge academic. The impossibly beautiful Carlotta. Seven days in the majestic white marble ruins of Roman Turkey and Italy, ending on a rooftop in chaotic, passionate Naples. His fear of exposure and disgrace. The painful memory of a love lost. Her "shocking" secret. The frenzied dash to Iowa! And the sensuous poetry of Ovid. A romantic novella (30,000 words), with some erotic elements, beautiful locations, and compelling characters.
EXCERPT.
I left the “tour dinner” early that evening, as soon as dessert and coffee had been served. I shouldn't have. I was the host, and the excuse I gave was only half true, about needing to get back to my paper on Ovid. It was part true because it had been troubling me, all day in Pompeii, that I had sat at the desk in my room staring into the computer screen, pen in hand (for I always translated manually onto a scrap of paper before typing the words into the keyboard). And nothing had come. By late afternoon, by the time I knew the van carrying them (carrying Carlotta!) would be making its way back through the frightful traffic around the Bay of Naples, I had barely translated a verse and written not more than a sentence or two. I paused in my room to collect the volume of Ovid’s poetry, a glass, and the half full bottle of local shiraz, and made my way to the lift, en route to the rooftop garden. It was not a warm night. The air was crisp, with the hint of rain somewhere in the blackened sky. I had reasoned that no one would be up here tonight. Not at this hour, as midnight loomed. I was right. At least for a few minutes. I had barely settled into the cushioned deck chair, with the glass of wine at my side, and Ovid open in front of me, when she appeared in the darkness, looming before me like a shadow approaching. She wore, as she had at dinner, a black dress. Lace. Her hair fell over her shoulders, reaching for the breasts, like outstretched hands. It was straight and dark, like the nocturnal sky beyond her. She stood at the balcony railing in front of me, her hands resting on it.
“What are you reading?”
“Poetry. Roman poetry.”
Her neck and shoulders were exposed to the night air, and the skin prickled with goose-bumps. She seemed to be contemplating something, for she stood, pensive, for some time. Her lips were a fleshy peach colour. There was a hint of the same colour in her blushed cheeks, but only a hint. The peach lips were a tantalizing contrast with the dark skin, the brown eyes, the charcoal hair, and the black of her knee length dress.
“Can I read it?”
“It's in Latin.”.
“So,” she said softly, slipping onto the cushion next to me. “Translate it for me.”
“My Latin’s not so good,” I protested. “My Greek, on the other hand, is excellent.”
Carlotta waited. She was sitting cross-legged, just inches away. I pictured her, as she had been, at Pamukkale, approaching the white cliffs, squealing in delight at the beauty of the natural formation; anticipating the warmth of the salt water gathered in the basin-like white calcium. How she had reached for the hem of her dress, even as she strode towards it, and pulled it over her head in one swift motion. And then stood there holding the garment in one hand. Her flesh tanned. Hair tumbling down over her shoulders. So young, and full of life, and nubile. I remembered too, how almost every male head within seeing distance had turned toward the dark girl in the white bikini, like moths being drawn to a bright light in the darkness.
I began to read the poem, slowly, and deliberately.
“If a god said ‘Live, and set love aside’ I’d say ‘no’!
Girls are such sweet misfortune.”
“What’s it called?” she asked.
“This part is called ‘His Addiction’,” I told her.
“His addiction,” she repeated gently.
“Shall I?”
“Read it to me Duncan,” she purred, “please.”
advertisement