England -- Fiction; Gay men -- Fiction; Italy -- Fiction; Paranormal fiction
He turned over on to his back, and threw an arm across his eyes, to
shield them from this resplendent glare of the noonday, and let his body
and limbs drink in the light and the heat. These were the allurements of
the South: the hot basking and the plunge into that liquid crystal, the
mouldering fragments of Roman masonry, with lizards basking on them, and
tufts of fragile campanula springing from the crevices, dusty roads with
walled-in paths leading through the ripening vineyards, stories of
Tiberio, wine decanted from perettas into bottles stoppered with green
folded leaves, ripe figs, and the warm dusk of evening, saunterings on
the piazza among dark-eyed boys and smiling girls, gay and friendly ...
all these made up the Italian spell of exquisite conditions and
effortless existence. To his loveless nature mere physical passion was
an affair of kisses and laughter and light caresses, to be enjoyed and
forgotten and renewed. If you adored a woman’s personality, you would
need her, body, soul and spirit, but without love to inspire passion she
provided no more than a pastime. And love was his enemy; whether it was
such love as Violet’s or such as Pamela’s, its only office was to give
quarry for his sport. He liked laying traps and ambushes for it, he
liked hurting and humiliating it.... Sometimes, of course, the claims of
the body were insistent, you desired satisfaction, if only to rid you of
its unease. Just so, if you had a corn, you would go to a corn-cutter,
who would make you comfortable....
“Yes, Pamela shall come,” he said to himself, “and God knows in what
plight Pamela shall go.” That would all be settled for him, he thought,
some inspiration would come, not out of his own contrivance and
ingenuity, but, like those words which he had spoken to Mr. Cecil
yesterday, out of a subtler wisdom than his. Never had he been able to
recollect them: they were spoken in some ecstasy, and how well they had
done their work! He had seen how the man’s face changed to damp ash as
he listened; would Pamela’s suffer some such change?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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