Live for Eternity

By Johnathan Phillips Rogers

"Passions Have No Pity", from Live For Eternity.

The Man. Paris Stone. A fearless, seductive, passionate musical genius who vows to create a new music, win eternal glory and redefine what it means to be American, at any cost.

The Woman. Simone Duplaix. A proud, dashing, brilliant heiress of a 300-year-old secret tradition of American women, who vows to stop him because she loves him. Live For Eternity tells the epic human story of these two irresistible forces as they strive to outdo each other in love, passion, ambition and brilliance.

Paris Stone is the founder and leader of the revolutionary musical octet Orpheus. For ten years they've worked to create a new music and now they are ready to seduce and conquer the world with this new sound.

But months before Orpheus begins, Paris meets Simone, a moment that alters their destinies and everyone around them. When she hears about Orpheus' mission, Simone bets Paris she can stop his and Orpheus' inevitable success. Paris accepts her challenge and sets in motion events that might destroy them both.

In their relentless quest to outdo each other, they trample upon accepted truths, uproot popular beliefs, and push themselves and everyone around them to the limit and beyond, all for passion, love, honor and victory.

But how far will they go? How hard will they push? Sworn to eternal love but also sworn to outshine each other, will they risk everything they hold dear: their families, their love for each other, even their lives, all for victory and glory, all to Live For Eternity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595890705

Johnathan Phillips Rogers

A former reporter and multi-decade student of philosophy, world history, science, art and religion, Mr. Rogers has sifted through and distilled the wealth of his knowledge and literary artistry in this, his first novel, Live For Eternity. He currently resides in the mountains of his hometown, Charleston, West Virginia, where he has taken repose to create. When he is not writing he enjoys all sorts of athletic activities and the company of close friends and family.

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Copyright © 2007 by Johnathan Phillips Rogers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-44749-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-89070-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

I thank,

My Ancestors,

The Ancients,

My family and friends,

Frank Lloyd Wright, Erte, Arvo Pärt, Raymundo Sesma,

And that breath of fresh air known as Jazz.

I dedicate this to my progeny and to my dear friend whose acquaintance I sadly never made,

Ralph Ellison.

Contents

In memory

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

IN MEMORY

I send a special word of praise to the Americans who lived and died in courage and honor, on the ground and in the air, on September 11th, 2001.

PROLOGUE

In art, man takes delight in himself as perfection.

—Nietzsche

CHAPTER 1

"CAN YOU COMPEL THE

VERY STARS TO REVOLVE

AROUND YOU?"

Zarathustra

* * * *

He arrived early. He wanted to watch her strut through the bar and into his arms. He loved to watch her strut.

He leaned against the bar—head high, shoulders back, one sandaled foot extended. His cognac colored skin glowed softly in the bright afternoon rays. Large, dazzling, crystal-black eyes focused on the entrance. Long, curly eyelashes opened and closed like a tropical flower. Full, sumptuous lips rested between the sharp lines of cheek and jawbones. His normally intense expression was relaxed, almost pleasant. His eyes danced. His lips curled. Only the top button of his cream, three-button, linen jacket was fastened. Expertly tailored, the jacket was unlined and unstructured. His shoulders, chest and arms made it look otherwise. An eggshell white, v-neck tee shirt of knit silk stretched over the neat squares of his abdominals. Off-white trousers of linen and silk draped around his legs, loosely. Rich, smooth and supple, his belt and sandals mirrored his skin.

He looked sculpted, in Bronze. Everything else in the room looked lukewarm, half-baked.

A three-quarters full martini stood beside his elbow. Occasionally, he sipped.

Though clearly at ease he still looked like something poised, something ready to strike, like a cobra or a lightning bolt.

His anticipation rose with each breath. It flowed freely throughout his body, from proton to electron, from vertebrae to brain, from capillary to vein, from nerve to muscle to bone.

She’s even better than the anticipation. How little in life is.

Thirty-six days had passed since their last contact—no calls, no e-mail. They fasted from each other, meeting no more than once a month. But they did not fast to punish or to stop doing something. They fasted to purify and polish their desire. They fasted to sharpen the blade. This was her idea, one of her many challenges to him. Could he endure the distance? Could he endure the desire?

Sometimes he wanted to regret accepting the challenge but he could not. The magnetic tension felt too good. He relished these sensations the way he relished his music.

Let the common be common, let the rare be rare.

He repeated this phrase when his desire pressed hardest, when his bones ached for her Touch, when his muscles craved the sight of her. When this did not cool the flames he listened for hours to the timeless adagio from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. If that did not work, he reached for Finnish composer Jean Sibelius’ masterpiece—Swan of Tuonela. This always worked.

His bones did not ache as mercilessly as they did at first. He had grown comfortable with the intensity of his desire, the way one is no longer sore after the second day of hard exercise. He was stronger.

Visions of her—her eyes, her smile, her legs, her voice, her hands, the arch of her back, the nape of her neck, the curve of her hips—wove in and out of his mind in steady, forceful streams. Like waves crashing to shore, the memories of her never stopped.

Never had his hunger fought so fiercely to control him. This fact made his mastery of it even more pleasing.

He throbbed, patiently.

He swore he smelled her last night after they spoke on the phone. Her scent, the scent of her lips on his, came from nowhere: in a shirt, on his forearm, in the corner beside the mirror where she did her hair. Her scent intoxicated him so much he did not wash his hands for hours after they parted. Now, he raised one hand to his nose remembering this scent, the scent of Life, as he called it.

The hint of a smile curled in the corners of his mouth, a sign of pleasure. His eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles flexed—more pleasure signals. In a few moments the wait would end.

She’s in my blood.

* * * *

She flew down the highway, outrageously lawless in her desire to get there, to look at him, to taste him. A radiant smile glowed from ear to ear. She, too, had never wanted so badly.

She wore an ice blue shift by Michael Kors. It fell just below the knee. At a glance it looked See-through but it was not. Her sun-kissed skin glowed against its icy coolness. As usual in summer, a pair of open-toe, kitten-heel Blahnik’s adorned her feet. The white diamonds around the dial of her Buccellati winked. The three-carat studs in her ears twinkled. No rings graced her fingers. No necklace sparkled around her neck. No bracelets danced on her wrists. Her hair fell just past her shoulders, simply. A few loose strands dangled. This was her only hairstyle. It blew freely in her convertible’s top-down breeze. Her usual French manicure-pedicure, blush lip-gloss and Touch of mascara completed her ensemble. She believed in what her mother called ‘the golden rule’: Less is more but the perfect amount is most.

Her body owned the long, taut, sleek lines that came from years of practices, rehearsals and performances. It also owned the striking presence of her maternal ancestry.

She looked and felt vibrant, refreshed, purified, free. She could not remember ever feeling this way because of a man. She had never felt passion. Boredom was the usual sensation.

Passion was much more difficult and dangerous than like or lust. Passion did not leave. It grew. It was uncharted territory for her, this pounding, relentless need for the Touch of a man, the voice of a man, the sight of a man, the scent of a man. The passion unnerved and aroused her, especially now. Honey trickled.

Already?

She laughed aloud. Before she knew it she exited the highway. Eight blocks, eight lights, all green. She looked in the mirror before she stood.

Damn I look good!

She laughed and threw her head back in self-glory. Her radiant smile flashed. She tried to restrain her smile but failed. It refused to leave. This was always the case when he was near.

She tried not to walk too fast. Struts don’t move fast. But she was so close, so close.

Someone opened the door. For a split-second, every sound in the bar stopped. Breath held, necks twisted, jaws dropped, every eye shot to her.

She saw him before he saw her. His back was turned.

She slowed down.

He turned around.

Their eyes Touched.

She almost stopped.

He almost dropped his glass.

Everyone felt it, most watched.

Five feet, she floated.

His lips covered hers.

* * * *

Will you always take my breath away? she whispered in his ear. Her lips grazed his earlobe. A chill trickled down his spine. Always, he said. It’s my life’s mission. Mission accomplished.

She smiled and laughed. This was their greeting, their Hello, how are you?

Walk in front of me, she said.

Why? he asked. He knew the answer. He just wanted to hear her say it.

She pursed her lips then grinned. She knew he just wanted to hear her say it.

Because I want to watch you strut, she said.

Her right hand dropped to his side, went under his jacket and caressed his cheek.

You like that, no? she asked, grinning.

Four steps behind him, she followed. She relished the sight.

Hmh, hmh, hmh, look at that walk, like he owns the world.

She grinned and licked her lips slowly, a new habit since him.

They walked through the bar into the restaurant.

Your usual table is ready, sir, the hostess said. Is that where you and the lady would like to dine?

Please, thank you.

The restaurant was chic, intimate, dimly lit. He followed the hostess to a small booth in the corner. She followed him, savoring every moment.

He stood back and watched her slide to the center of the booth. He loved to watch her move.

Such luxury.

He slid beside her.

For several moments they absorbed their energy, their closeness—no words.

Then he turned to her, to her eyes.

Eyes like the dawn, he said. I’ve missed you.

And I you, she said.

Tonight, do we bless or do we continue the torture?

Have you had enough? she asked.

Have you? he countered.

No, I haven’t, she said. I want to continue. The pain of wanting you feels better than any pleasure I’ve ever known.

Mmmmm, yes, love. The river is deep and swift.

She placed her hand on his thigh, ran her nails back and forth, up and down. Chills raced across his body. He almost smiled.

He inched closer to her neck, closed his eyes and inhaled. Her scent, Jean Patou 1000, intoxicated him. It was his favorite perfume. She wore it for him only. His lips Touched her neck. She tingled.

* * * *

Like lightning flashing to the earth, they met nearly eight months ago: sudden, brilliant, frightening, irresistible. Yet they had not perfected their desire. They had not made love.

He challenged her and himself to this test, this test of passion. This was the first of an ever-escalating series of challenges between them. Could they resist their irresistible attraction? To give in, to make love, would be too easy. It would spoil the fun.

Can you not do it? he asked her that first night, his eyes like sunset, taunting and seductive. Can you pass through the flames and not melt? Can you stand on the glacier and not freeze?

Yes, she said, eyes dancing. I’m hotter than any flame, colder than any ice.

Her radiant smile flashed. His lips curled.

So it began.

* * * *

Were I trapped beneath mountains of ice, could your passion free me? she asked him, her eyes round, innocent, dreamy, like a child’s. Were I imprisoned for breaking the laws of time and space, of energy and matter, of life and death, could your passion free me? Were my shoulders burdened by the sufferings of the entire world, could your passion free me?

He answered slowly, deliberately, with a clear, crisp tone. His diction showcased the beauty of each word, of each syllable. His accent was subtle yet distinct. His delivery was leisurely yet precise. His choice of words and arrangement of sentences were unusual yet clear. He sounded as if he spoke for the joy of pronunciation itself. This was his personal English. He called it American.

Like a thousand suns, my passion is. The unending flame, the irresistible light, the heat without a source, I am. From the core of the earth to the highest regions of heaven, pure fire I am. Fearless, I melt your ice. Boundless, I break your bonds. Effortless, I remove your burdens. No chain can hold me. No burden can overwhelm me. No object can resist me. Of life-force unlimited, I am created. The overcomer, I am.

She smiled, pleased.

This impromptu dililoquy was yet another test of passion.

Each time they met, she challenged him. Each time, he met the challenge and wanted more. It was one of their many duels of body and mind. This one she began.

Not yet satisfied, she continued.

I yearn. I yearn for it not to end, for it not to begin. To spiral through a thousand galaxies before we bless, I yearn. I would walk through a thousand hells unmoved, to live and breathe the passion. I yearn.

He answered.

We consume each other with our own flames then rise from our own ashes.

She savored his words for several seconds before she spoke.

You’re my poison, she whispered in his ear.

The poison that makes me stronger, he whispered back, finishing the sentence for her.

A rare, full smile flashed across his face.

I love the way you feed me, he said.

You like honey? she asked.

Love it.

With one finger, she caressed his cheek.

The waiter did not intrude. He knew when the test was over.

Will you and the lady have your favorite dishes, sir?

Please, thank you.

They ate in silence. In between bites their hands caressed, their eyes Touched. No words.

He relished the movement of her hands as they sliced the delicious morsels into small pieces—so precise, so elegant. She watched his jaws pulverize chunk after chunk of pink flesh.

Suddenly, a woman appeared in front of their table. She held something in her hand. She wore blue jeans, an I Love New York tee shirt and a money pouch around her waist.

She interrupted their bliss.

They did not acknowledge her. They would have reacted the same way to an alien or to three masked men with axes in their hands.

Despite their indifferent reception, the woman stood, nervous and polite, the way a student stands who is about to ask a professor for an extension on a paper that is already late.

Several seconds passed in silence but she held her ground.

Finally, out of courtesy, they looked at her. A veil of curiosity covered the disbelief in their gaze. The woman did not See through the veil.

Hi. Well, I, um, well, my name is Claire Jackson, and, well, me and my husband are from a little town in Kentucky, See him over there? she said.

She pointed to a table in the middle of the restaurant. Her husband smiled and waved enthusiastically, as if he were on a television game show.

I guess y’all’re wondering why I came over here. Well, See, like I said, we’re from a little town and we ain’t never seen a couple like y’all, you know, as classy as y’all are. So my husband just knew y’all were somebody famous, you know, like some celebrity couple. He said he saw y’all on the cover of some trashy magazine, but I told him that y’all was too classy for that. But he said anybody famous could be on the cover one of those magazines. So he said I should ask y’all for your autograph and See if y’all’d take a picture with us.

She held up a disposable camera and smiled like a cheerleader.

They looked at each other. Their expressions said, Do you want to handle this or should I? He took the lead.

You flatter us, my dear, but no, we’re not celebrities.

The woman smiled, blushed and apologized profusely.

No worries, he said, smiling. I hope you enjoy your stay in our city.

When the woman returned to her table, the hostess walked towards theirs.

Is everything okay? the hostess asked. She wasn’t trying to sell you something, was she?

They chuckled.

No, he said. She just thought she recognized us.

Ohhh, the hostess said. It looked a little funny so I thought I should check.

Send them a round of drinks and put their meal on my bill, he told the hostess. And give them our usual dessert.

Are you sure? the hostess asked, surprised. I mean, she almost harassed you.

No, she was just curious, he said. Where would we be without curiosity? Besides, our city needs a new reputation.

Moments later, dessert arrived, a beautiful raspberry and chocolate mousse creation. One shiny fork sat on the plate.

Slowly, they fed each other. They whispered to each other and laughed at jokes only they understood. Their intimacy with each other and absolute indifference to the rest of the universe embarrassed some and inspired many others. To some it seemed indecent and unfair for two people to enjoy each other so. They did not care. If the world were coming to a catastrophic end, they would not notice.

On their way out of the restaurant he slid a twenty-dollar bill on the hostess’ station.

For everything, he said to the hostess.

* * * *

Hand in hand, they stepped onto the sidewalk. A cloudburst had lifted the suffocating Manhattan heat while they dined. It gave the normally oppressive New York summer a refreshing spritz. Steam rose from the pavement. Even the sewers did not offend as much. Sunfire glittered and danced among the skyscrapers.

Their long, leisurely strides tapped the concrete in unison. She tucked her arm under his, smiling. Her head rested on his shoulder.

Cocktails? he asked.

Shopping, she answered.

He chuckled.

Barney’s? he asked.

Bergy’s.

He hailed a taxi and opened the door.

No baby, let’s walk, she said. He shut the door.

They were on 22nd Street, off Park Avenue. Bergdorf Goodman’s was on 57th Street and 5th Avenue. But they did not mind the hike. When they were together, time and space melted away.

They stopped in Little India and browsed in several shops. In one store he was drawn to the wood sculptures of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of love, prosperity, beauty and status.

You must be one of her favorites, he said.

Maybe, she said. But I might be Kali’s favorite.

She referred to Kali, the Hindu goddess who was said to rip men to shreds, then dance on their corpses and make a necklace of their skulls.

No, not sweet little you.

You never know, she said.

Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised, he said.

She laughed.

Whose favorite are you? she asked.

Eternity’s, he said. But I don’t think that counts. Maybe I’ll create one. Would you like to help?

Only if I have the final yes or no.

You want the final yes or no for my god?

Of course, she said.

And what makes you think you deserve such a privilege? he asked.

Because I inspired it. I’m the spark. I’m its Breath, baby. I should have the last word.

He shook his head and chuckled. Such an ego.

And you love it, don’t you? she said.

Like honey to the tongue, he said.

How do you know it’s not a goddess? she asked as they browsed. Usually goddesses have male humans as their favorites.

I never said it wasn’t a goddess, he said. Maybe I’ll have both. You might be the favorite of a god and a goddess. I bet they blessed and out popped you.

No, I’m definitely a goddess’ favorite. Trust me on this one.

I know a god had a hand in such a delicious batter.

Only if his hand looked like yours.

They laughed.

So what will you call him or her? she asked.

My name, god and goddess alike.

Baby, you can’t do that.

Why not?

Because if you do that everyone will know your secrets. You’re supposed to have a public name for your devotees and the history books, and a private name for your priests.

You’re right, he said. How could I forget? When you think of a name let me know.

It’ll be my pleasure. She smiled and chuckled.

He purchased an exquisite three-foot sculpture of Lakshmi made of precious sandalwood.

You know kings in India went to war over sandalwood, she said when they reached the counter. Smell it, you’ll See why.

He put the sculpture to his nose and inhaled.

Mmmmm, yes, magnificent, I See.

He turned and bent his head to her neck. Eyes closed, he inhaled. His nose Touched her skin. She tingled.

But not as magnificent as this, he said in her ear. Do you know how many wars I’d wage for you? A thousand Trojan Wars. Helen’s beauty only launched a thousand ships. Do you know what I’d do to anything that harmed you? Achilles’ revenge would only scratch the surface.

She closed her eyes and smiled, intoxicated by his words and his breath in her ear. The woman behind the counter blushed.

Sacred ground, that’s what you are to me, he said, his voice low, even, thick. She did not need to look at him to feel the intensity of his gaze. She felt it in his Touch and his words. His jaw muscles flexed. Sacred ground. The temples and shrines are nice but nothing’s like this. All that, comes from this—my desire for you.… yours for me.… Touch to Touch … heart to heart—all of it comes from this.

He paused then whispered in her ear.

Can you live with that, babydoll?

Mesmerized by his voice, she could only nod.

Mmmm, I knew you could.

* * * *

Along the way to Bergdorf’s they browsed at a chic furniture showroom, a crystal and precious gems boutique, and a dozen other shops.

At one point in their walk he gently Touched his lips and cheek to her ear and neck, over and over. Her eyelids became heavy. Soon, she closed her eyes. Seconds later, she stopped walking. He continued caressing her, eyes closed, in the middle of the sidewalk.

Eventually, the sounds of New York interrupted their bliss.

I have to be careful with you, she said. I lose track of time and space.

I lose track of everything, he said.

The day drifted on and on.

Finally, they reached their destination.

They browsed briefly in the men’s department then walked across the street to the women’s department. The sales associates did not offer to assist them. From the looks of this couple, they knew they did not need assistance. They also knew this couple could make an entire day’s worth of purchases in an hour. They simply smiled and watched.

In short order, the fitting room became a runway. She slipped into dress after dress, suit after suit, heel after heel, testing, teasing, smiling, laughing. She strutted for an audience of one. He admired one body.

She’s the luxury, not the clothes. Nothing I could buy could come close to her Touch. That’s luxury. We could be in rags on a desert island and it would be the same.

After the show he walked to one of the sales associates and handed her his credit card.

Please deliver everything in the fitting room to her address.

She was on the other side of the room, browsing.

They have your address, love, don’t they? he asked her.

Oh yes, she said, smiling.

Yes, we’ve known her address for quite a while now, the saleswoman said, a knowing grin on her face.

When I got really bored in high school I slipped out for a little refreshment, she said. Bergy’s was one of my favorite refreshments.

Too much, he said, chuckling.

With the extremely expensive demands of his future only weeks away, this expenditure was a true sacrifice. But he did not care. In life, he felt, one receives what one offers. How could he place a price on the priceless?

This pastime of theirs also had its rituals and rules: only his eyes would See the clothes. When with him, she only wore clothing he had bought her. This was her idea. At their present rate it would take years for him to See it all.

* * * *

Let’s break another rule, he said as they walked east toward Madison Avenue. After Bergdorf’s few stores could please outside of those on Madison Ave.

Are there any left? she said.

There’s always another so-called rule to break, always. You’ll like this one. Since everybody’s rushing to platinum and silver and white gold, we should wear gold, yellow gold.

I thought you didn’t wear jewelry? she asked.

I don’t, he said. I wear gifts from you.

She kissed his cheek, smiling, laughing, eyes dancing.

That would be fun, she said. But only our type.

Of course, he said. How does the saying go? All that glitters is not gold. Everything below 22k definitely glitters."

True, but what about the ‘bling-bling’, she said, laughing. Don’t you want to bling-bling?

He laughed out loud.

It’s not easy to shine without jewelry, he said, still chuckling

No it isn’t, she said, smiling.

Besides, diamonds are a girl’s best friend, he said.

They moved through the hustling, bustling midtown crowds smoothly, the way a hot knife slices butter.

You give me more than you take, he said. And even when you take you give. You already know this but I wanted to be certain.

He paused. She smiled.

Part of it’s because you understand me so well, he continued. That’s the rarest luxury, to be understood. But there’s even more to it with you. I’ve known love but I’ve never known this. I would’ve told you sooner but it took time to understand. Forgive me.

You’re so silly sometimes, she said.

I try, he said. She kissed his cheek.

I don’t have words to describe how much it means to me, how much you mean to me, he said. Love only scratches the surface. Other than my music nothing else does to me what you do to me. You always make my cup overflow, always.

He kissed her cheek.

I’m very grateful for you, he said.

She smiled, inside and out.

He did not mean literal riches. She knew this. He meant a kindling and rekindling of the flame that sparks the desire to live, to grow, to soar; the hidden source and ultimate meaning of material wealth, the force without which nothing could exist. She offered him this fountain. He savored every drop.

You know, if I had my way I’d make you illegal, she said.

Illegal? he asked.

Yep, she said. Totally against the law.

I can’t wait to hear this, he said.

The problem is what you do to women. You make them feel beautiful, smart, sexy, privileged, secure, important or whatever they’d like to feel but don’t. Sometimes all you do is smile. I See it whenever we’re together: the waitress, the sales ladies, strangers, whoever. You make them feel better than makeup or drugs, but you don’t wear off, ever.

Interesting, he said.

Interesting my ass, she said, laughing. "You know it’s true. And it’s not just your looks. It’s your je ne sais quoi. I know you have a better word for it."

Hmmmm, let’s See, he said. "In a Greek word, perhaps eros. It’s more than sex and romance."

"Okay, eros. Your eros makes you better than makeup and drugs. That’s why I’d make you illegal."

Harmless me? he said. Illegal?

You’re never harmless. That’s why you shouldn’t be available to the general public. Only specialists should be allowed to handle hazardous material.

He laughed.

And what type of specialist should handle me? he said.

There’s only one of them, and her identity’s top secret. I’d have to kill you if I told you.

He laughed again.

And what does this hazardous material make you feel? he asked, his lips moving closer to her ear.

Baby, you know a lady never tells, she said.

Never? he asked. Not even once?

You already know, she said.

I just want to hear you say it, he whispered in her ear. Once, just once, for me.

She sighed deeply in mock protest, even as she grinned from ear to ear.

You know I can’t say no to you, she said.

You think I can say no to you? he said. Hm?

Okay, I’ll tell you but it’s top-secret, classified information, she said. It can never leave your lips. Scout’s honor?

He put his hand to his heart.

Scouts honor, he said, smiling.

She leaned to his ear and whispered.

Everything, she said. You make me feel everything.

A brilliant smile spread across his lips. They walked slowly, hand in hand, lips curled.

Let’s turn the tables for a second, he said. You’re addictive and poisonous. Look at what you do to your boys. They offer you everything on a silver platter, and what do you do? You probably laugh at them. If I’m illegal you should be banned.

She laughed. Sometimes I think I should be, she said.

Do they ever want to know the truth? he said.

No, they know better, that is, if they want their egos to remain intact. I think some of them know they’re entertainment and like it.

They stopped at the corner of 60th Street. She looked to the other side of the street.

The Breath takes shape, she said. There’s a member of my stables right now.

She pointed. His eyes followed her hand.

Kenneth Ingleton, she said. He’s one of the cutest.

Ingleton felt her gaze and involuntarily looked her way. She waved, her arm tucked under his. He waved to Ingleton as well.

Ingleton, a tall, handsome, well-dressed man looked stunned. He turned away, pretended not to See them and walked on, attaché swinging.

I’ve been taking him out to lunch once a month or so, for about two years. He does something with the markets, very successful. The only reason I’ve been seeing him that long is because he’s such a cute blonde. Sometimes I just want to pinch his cheek, he’s so cute, like puppies in a pet store. Yeah, the surfer boys and the crew and lacrosse types. You know, rosey cheeks and all that. They’re the cutest things, just like chocolate cuties, especially those Southern chocolates. Cute blondes and chocolate cuties; they’re some of my favorite entertainment, right up there with off-Broadway shows.

What category am I in? he asked, almost smiling.

You? she said. You don’t count. You’re off the scales, in a category of one.

Anyway, Kenneth, I call him Kenny because he’s so cute, Kenny proposed to me one night after about a year of lunches. I said it was very inappropriate. He said, Why? I said, Because you’ve never seen my home. He said, What does that have to do with anything? I said, Because if you haven’t seen my home why would you expect to See anything else?

What did he say? he asked.

Nothing. He just sat there for a second then started talking about the food or the weather or something like that. He’ll probably leave four messages on my machine as soon as he turns the corner. Then he’ll leave a fifth to ask if we’re still on for next Tuesday. Funny, no?

Very.

You know why I take these boys to lunch? she asked.

Entertainment?

Before you, yes, they entertained me, she said. But now I like to See them because they make me want you even more.

Hmmm, he said.

When I’m with them, listening to them go on and on about their job or something, I can’t stop thinking about you, about your voice, your thoughts, your eyes, your lips, your Touch. The comparison makes me want you so much it hurts—sweet, delicious pain.

Mmm, yes baby, I like, he said.

* * * *

They found a jewelry boutique on Madison and 65th St. where they had shopped previously. No gold in the store was less than 22k.

You first? he asked.

You first, she answered.

She pulled out a strip of black silk cloth from her clutch. A salesperson who had helped them before smiled and escorted them behind two curtains to a small parlor. Two club chairs and a matching chaise lounge, all from the Pace Collection, stood across from the display cases. He sat down in one of the chairs. She walked around him, leaned to his ear and wrapped the cloth around his head. A delicious grin spread across her lips.

I feel your grin, he said.

You think you know me that well? she said.

From the first moment I saw you.

Really?

Really.

She laughed.

Well, we’ll just have to See about that won’t we? she said.

The invitation’s open, always, he said.

Smartass, she said sarcastically under her breath. He chuckled. She browsed.

No diamonds, he said. They’re a girl’s best-friend.

Honey, we’ve already covered that, no? she said absentmindedly as she browsed. Now will you please hush. You know how easily you distract me.

He almost smiled.

Several minutes later she pointed to four items: a bracelet, two rings and a necklace. The salesperson took the items out of their cases. She tested each piece on him. She took his hand in hers and slid on the rings, one by one.

There’s only one ring for my hand, he said.

I know, she said. And I’m choosing that one and this one, so hush, she said.

He chuckled.

She stood back in judgment.

Gorgeous, she said. He smirked.

She walked around him and clasped the necklace around his neck.

A necklace? he said. On me? Never, in this lifetime or any other.

Baby, please hush, she said as she placed her index finger on his lips. This is for my eyes, not yours. What I like you’ll like, even if you don’t. Now, shhh.

Finally, she fastened the bracelet around his wrist.

I can’t wear bracelets, he said. It’s a law of physics.

Will you hush?

She stepped back in appreciation.

Hmmm. Let’s See. I’ll take this ring and the necklace, she said to the salesperson.

Impossible, he said.

You’ll See.

She untied the blindfold and held a mirror in front of him. He looked at the ring, then the necklace. He shook his head in disbelief.

I don’t believe it, he said, shaking his head.

She was right. They were both gorgeous.

You mean you don’t want to believe it, she taunted. As usual, I’m right, no? she asked.

As usual, he said, still shaking his head.

What do you think? she asked.

I think it says my name and yours, he said, smiling.

Mmmm, she said. I like that.

She sat. He blindfolded her. She could not wipe the grin from her face.

Look at that grin, he teased. People are watching.

Just one and she cares even less than I do, she said, referring to the sales associate.

I second that, the sales associate said with a grin.

See, she said then she licked her lips, slowly. He chuckled.

He took much less time to decide: a ring that matched his, a simple, elegant chain, and a roped necklace that met at one sparkling South Sea white pearl.

When he placed each item on her she asked, Does it say us, baby?

Yes, it does, he said each time she asked. Loudly and clearly.

While they waited for their items to be wrapped, he whispered in her ear. His breath was warm.

You’re my greatest necessity and my only luxury, my private treasure trove, he said. You love the way I plunder you, don’t you?

His voice and words intoxicated her so much that she lost the power of speech. She could only smile. The cat had her tongue.

* * * *

I have a surprise for you, she said as they walked downtown.

Nothing from you could surprise me.

This will.

He almost smiled.

Do you want me blindfolded? he asked.

Oh, no. I want you to See everything.

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity. She looked at him, smiled then raised his hand to her lips and kissed it.

But you have to wait, she said. I won’t say another word about it until we’re there.

Where’s there?

Shhhhh. Not another word.

She stepped into the street and stood. From nowhere three taxis raced to her. They almost collided. High-pitched curses erupted from each car in three different languages. He walked to the nearest one and opened the door.

Ninth and Broadway, she said to the cabbie.

Usually indifferent to passengers, the driver twisted, turned and almost broke his neck to look at her. The cabbie looked at him and smiled.

Verrry prretty, the cabbie said, his English heavily spiced.

He nodded. Yes, very, he replied to the cabbie.

Isn’t he precious? she said, referring to the cabbie.

She turned and kissed his cheek, then his ear. More chills raced up his spine. The cabbie grinned.

If only more women knew the power of honey, he said. Vinegar can’t compare.

Yes and no, she said. We always like to use honey but sometimes vinegar is the only thing some people understand.

That’s true, he said, chuckling. That is very true.

But never with you, never with such sweet, seductive Breath, she said. I’ll always pour honey on you.

Their lips Touched.

They flew down Park Avenue. Her fingers traced intricate, invisible designs on his leg. It almost tickled.

* * * *

It never occurred to either of them how few facts they knew about each other. They did not know their birthdays, favorite colors, or college majors. They did not exchange names until several hours into their first encounter. They did not Learn each other’s age and occupation until their fourth meeting. Customs such as how long to wait before calling, dates, pledges of fidelity, dinner and movies they simply skipped. These customs had their place, with the unfamiliar, the foreign. They provided the necessary distance from which to examine all parts of the unfamiliar or foreign. With each other, however, no distance was needed because none existed. Everything was known and understood, instinctively.

He felt her walking across-town on 57th Street that first time, nearly eight months ago. The day was bitter cold and crystal clear. Frozen blasts of wind barreled up and down the streets, terrorizing any scrap of helpless, unprotected skin. The sun dangled in the sky like an exquisitely cut and shaped solitaire. It gave no heat, only light. It sparkled, useless and rare.

She wore a fur-collared, chocolate overcoat that Touched her ankles, collar raised. A matching beret protected her head. A thick turtleneck sweater and scarf sealed her neck. Brown calf-skin gloves protected her hands. Her skin was the exact color of honey, smooth and flawless. Her face was expressionless but her eyes glowed fiercely, like redwood on fire. Her long, elegant shape moved smoothly. Like a swan gliding across a lake, she looked as if she never rushed.

Hmmmm. Is she plastic or Bronze? I wonder. Sunshine alone doesn’t mean it’s hot outside.

On the other side of the street, he turned around and walked in her direction. At the crowded intersection of 5th Avenue, she stood on the corner to go downtown. He stood on the corner to go uptown. Their eyes met and answered his question.

Bronze—from head to toe. My, my, my. What have we here? How did the Egyptians say it, She is more perfect than the world. Look at those eyes-feline, hypnotizing. It’s all in her eyes, mirrors of the soul. Indeed. Those eyes—so deep, so alive. Her face was made for her eyes. Cheekbones, mouth, eyebrows, everything flows to the eyes. Is this a call? We’ll See. We will definitely See.

He almost smiled.

The traffic light turned. Slowly, they walked toward each other. They stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, a foot apart. The crowd streamed around them.

You looked preoccupied, he said, eyes in hers.

I was, she said.

He removed his glove and held out his hand.

Come with me, he said, eyes sparkling.

Graceful arrogance. Mi hermoso. What kind of man is this?

She smiled and took his hand.

Come with me, she replied.

What have I found? The magic fire bird? I wonder if she’ll nest with me.

The light turned green for the oncoming traffic. They were still in the middle of the crosswalk. Enraged drivers pounded their horns and shouted obscenities but they did not change their casual gait. Hand in hand, they strolled downtown.

She looked him up and down. He wore a deep blue, almost indigo, chalk-striped double-breasted suit. Over the suit, he wore a full-length polo coat of guanaco, collar raised, belt undone. A silver streak flashed under a long, wide multi-colored silk and cashmere scarf. The streak was his tie.

He looked at her as they walked, eyes probing, the hint of a smile on his lips.

I must have her. Must. Will.

She absorbed his every movement. They told her in seconds what words took days, months and years to reveal.

So, so fine. Tall, dark and gorgeous. Look at that walk, like he owns the world. Teeth as shiny as snow. And those eyes, flashing, like diamonds. Hmph, hmph, hmph. He’s some kind of synthesis of opposites—mars and venus, violence and beauty. He could kill you with a smile or kill you with his smile. It’s subtle but he doesn’t try to hide it; like he could. What a specimen, like some jungle cat in the middle of Manhattan, but wearing a suit; a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a panther in a suit. Yum, yum.

Without thinking, she smiled and licked her lips.

He reminds me of Shostakovich’s tenth. I bet he makes you want to give him your soul, before you give him your body. Yeah, I can smell it. I guess that’s why he smiles the way he smiles and walks the way he walks. He knows. Whatever he does during the day is definitely not what he is, not at all, like lions and tigers at the circus. I bet his co-workers don’t have a clue. No, they have to have some idea, just from looking at him everyday. But I bet they don’t really know, not the way I’ll know. They’ll never know the way I’ll know.

A delicious grin spread across her lips.

This is going to be fun. Definitely not something for my stables. No, no, no. This is a wild stallion.

If you could listen to only one song for the rest of your life, what would it be? he asked as they walked.

He always asked this question of any woman he considered seeing. It told him the rest of her truth, one of the few things her eyes, walk and attire could not. With her, it was his last question.

That’s a lot to ask from one song, she said.

A lot should be asked, don’t you think? he said.

Yes, it should, she said.

She walked in silence for a few minutes.

Let’s See, she said. That would be a song that makes me want to sing and dance, or just listen to it, in the house, in the car, anytime, anywhere. Hm. That’s a good question.

She walked, thinking.

I’d have to say Water No Get Enemy, she said. Yes. That would be the one.

She referred to the triumphant, sultry song from legendary Nigerian bandleader Fela Kuti.

He nodded, lips curled. She expected him to know the song with only the title. Had he not known, she might have dropped her hand and headed back uptown. Anyone bold enough to ask that question should know the answer, no matter how obscure or unusual.

Fela, he said. Excellent choice.

Surprised? she asked.

Not at all.

I have to hear it at least once a day, she said. Water has no enemies, just obstacles. It never fights but it always wins, whether it takes an hour or a million years. Puts everything in perspective, no? Plus, it makes me want to sing and dance, anytime, anywhere. I think it’s my anthem.

Your anthem? he said. I like. Tell me more.

"It’s more me than any other song. It feels like me-the lyrics, the beat, even the words, she said. Yeah, it’s my anthem. That’s funny, I’ve never thought about it like that but that’s what it is."

What’s your anthem? she asked.

Other than my own songs, I have two. I can’t decide which one’s my favorite, or as you’d say, which one’s my anthem. One A is Cosmos by The Quartet.

He’s an artist. I should’ve known.

Who’s the Quartet? she asked.

John Coltrane, McCoy Tyner, Elvin Jones and Jimmy Garrison, with a little Pharaoh Sanders thrown in near the end. That’s what I call them. I call the song ‘Freedom’, with a capitol F.

Why is it one A and why do you call it Freedom with a capitol F?

It’s one A because it’s difficult to listen to other music after I’ve heard it, except for my own. I listen to it every morning. What would you rather have for breakfast, coffee or Coltrane?

She chuckled. He smiled.

I can’t wait to have him for breakfast. Mmh, mmh, good.

I could listen to it once a week and not want to hear anything else, he said. It’s that deep and rich, like a volcano. I call it Freedom because of how high they climbed to create it. I’ll play it for you one day.

You better, she said, smiling.

He almost smiled.

And one B? she asked.

One B is Stolen Moments, by …

By Oliver Nelson, she said, finishing the sentence for him. Probably the most elegant sound in the history of the universe.

He smiled. He wanted to be surprised that a woman obviously so young would know about legendary Jazz saxophonist and composer Oliver Nelson but something about her told him he should not be.

Yes, it probably is the most elegant sound in the history of the universe, he said, lips curled. When I hear it I don’t want to stop hearing it. It’s that attractive. They’re two sides of the same coin, I suppose, opposites and complements, and inseparable. Cosmos is torrential, like a thunderstorm. Stolen Moments is like sunset. I couldn’t choose one over the other.

What do you do when you can’t decide which one you want to hear? she asked.

Flip a coin, he said.

She laughed.

Is music your only necessity? she asked.

Definitely. Other than food, water and air of course, although New York makes me wonder just how much we need air. Music is very intense for me, too intense to be entertainment. I’m not easy going and my music is definitely not easy listening.

Is music your only passion? she asked.

No, but it’s the greatest.

Is it possible for a passion not to be the greatest?

He stopped in his tracks. His eyes narrowed.

You mean, is it possible to have more than one passion? he said.

Exactly, she said, slightly surprised by how quickly he understood the inner meaning of her question.

Hmmmm, he said. Tell me more.

He started walking again. Without thinking, she tucked her arm under his. He didn’t notice. It felt as if it had always been there.

A passion has to be the greatest and the only, she said. You can have desires and goals but only one passion. It consumes and it never stops consuming. It moves everything out of the way or it makes everything move its way.

He nodded, an amazed look on his face.

That’s true, he said. I love boxing but I could live without it. But I’d die, I’d literally keel over the second I couldn’t play my piano.

He paused and chuckled. I guess I only have one—my art, he said.

He boxes and he’s an artist? What kind of creature is this?

I don’t think people understand passion these days, she continued. I think they only want to like, or maybe, just maybe love something. Fanaticism doesn’t count because it’s always outside of yourself. Anything outside of yourself can’t be a passion. Even devotion is different. Passions are too personal, too physical. They’re all about creation and mastery, you know? They consume you, night and day. But these days, people don’t want to be consumed by anything, let alone themselves. They just want to get rich, not work and have fun, whatever that means.

He listened to her in silence. His silence said more than any words could. When he wanted to communicate with her, his eyes Touched hers.

Passions don’t fit into that neat equation, she continued. Hobbies fit into that equation, not passions. You know? Hobbies are happy. They take your mind off things. They relieve stress. Passions don’t do that. They aren’t happy and they definitely don’t relieve stress. They cause stress and unhappiness, at least at first. Sometimes people get excited about something or they lose themselves in something like nature, another person, a job, a cause, or whatever, and they think it’s a passion. It’s not. Sometimes people think they’re consumed by something when they’re really just losing themselves. Passions are the opposite of all those things. You discover yourself with a passion, in the most extreme way possible, from the inside out. It’s very unmodern.

What do you mean unmodern? he asked.

"I mean it doesn’t fit with modernity, with today, modern times. Passions aren’t instantly gratifying. They aren’t entertaining. They don’t forgive and they never forget. They’re not nice or considerate. They take forever to do. There are all kinds of sacrifice and pain. And you might not get rich or famous with one.

But if you’re interested in money or fame you don’t have a passion. Passions don’t care about those things. They’re not merciful or humane, especially not to the person who has one. It’s like a deadly disease, but it’s the opposite of sickness."

He grinned, chuckled and shook his head.

I’m right aren’t I? she said. You know I am.

He almost smiled.

Passions have no pity, she continued. In fact, you could say they’re tyrannical, a regular dictator. In the right hands they’re a beautiful sight, but in the wrong ones they’re usually very ugly. Sometimes they’re both. They don’t fit in with a ‘sound-bite society’ like ours.

Sound-bite society, he said, chuckling. I’m with you. Tell me more.

That’s what our society is. Sometimes I call it the three-minute culture: everything has to be ready and digested in three minutes—food, music, entertainment, sex, ideas, quality time, everything. Like those ridiculous flash cards they use to Teach three-year olds. Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous? I call that the name that tune education. The more tunes you can name the smarter you are. Nothing ever goes beneath the surface in a sound-bite, three-minute, name-that-tune culture.

He laughed. She smiled.

Well it’s true, she said. It’s like they’re training kids to be on Jeopardy or something. It’s ridiculous, totally bananas. But it fits today’s parenting style: hand-off parenting.

Hand-off or hands-off? he asked.

Hand-off, like my Giants used to do so well.

You like the Giants? he said, surprised.

I love my G-men. I’ve had season tickets for years. But football ain’t parenting, if you know what I mean.

She laughed. He chuckled.

Just think about it, she said. After the first few years, months sometimes, parents just hand-off their kids to someone else—schools, especially boarding schools, other kids, TV, video games, computers, therapists, experts in this and that and who knows what else. And if all that doesn’t work they can always pop a few pills to fix whatever’s wrong. That’s become the American Way. Then when the kids turn eighteen they really hand them off. But people wonder why so many kids have no connection to their parents, their families, their communities and no clue about themselves. Schools aren’t supposed to do all that and they couldn’t if they tried. Most kids turn to their friends but that’s the blind leading the blind. Why do you think there are so many self-help books and Dear Abbies out there? In our culture, almost everything we Learn is from the outside in—go to school, memorize this, regurgitate that, get good grades, go to college, tell the professors what they want to hear to get good grades to get a good job, get drunk and party, make money, get married, have kids, watch TV, go shopping, get drunk and party some more, take the kids here and there until they’re eighteen then it’s all over. You get the picture. And it’s not that these are bad things but they’re always from the outside in. Nothing’s ever from the inside out. And sooner or later you get sick and tired of doing everything from the outside in.

Interesting, very interesting, and very true, he said. I’ve only done ‘the inside out’, for as long as I can remember.

You’re one of the lucky ones, she said. Anyway, that’s one of the reasons why real, genuine passions don’t exist. They can only come from the inside out, and they take too long and they’re too hard. A three-minute culture and hand-off parenting won’t do it. But the biggest deterrent is the fact that we, as a country, specialize in making ourselves feel inadequate.

Hmmm, he said. I’m listening, closely.

"Just think about it. Everywhere you look, starting in grade school and continuing for the rest of our lives, our culture tells people, women especially, that they’re not good enough, not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not smart enough, not rich enough, not athletic enough, not young enough, not this enough, not that enough. In lurks in the back of so many people’s minds that it’s assumed, it’s automatic. But it’s like a poison, a mental-emotional poison, especially with young girls. With girls it’s never right. You don’t have the right clothes, the right hair color, the right skin color, the right body shape, the right height, the right parents, anything and everything to make them feel inadequate. And as soon as the craziness of adolescence is over there’s the