Enchanted

She walks out of the bathroom scratching her belly.

“I think those new jeans have given me a rash,” she says.

He looks up from the book he is reading. He looks over the rims of his reading glasses. From the pillows he is propped up on, he looks at this creature who both is and isn’t his wife.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Look,” she says, inspecting her stomach, holding up her t-shirt, but not moving a step closer to him. “Where the waist band has been against my skin, it’s all red.”

He looks at her, in her black cotton knickers like gym shorts and her red cap-sleeved t-shirt, with her hair pulled back at the sides and loose at the back, cascading over her shoulders in waves of dark brown. He looks at her and knows that she is all he’ll ever want.

She looks up at him. “Can you see?” she asks, then sees that he is smiling at her in love. “What?” she says, returning his smile, but not sure what they are smiling about.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, going back to his book. “I just love you, is all.”

She lets her t-shirt drop back down over her belly and climbs onto the bed. He carries on reading while she curls, cat-like, beside him, all but purring with contentment.

“You didn’t look at my rash, did you?” she asks after a while. Her fingers are tracing patterns in the hairs on his arm. She flips over onto her stomach and demands his attention silently, one leg in the air, foot twirling at the ankle. He doesn’t give in. He keeps reading his book, smiling where she cannot see him, hidden behind the pages.

He feels like an indulgent husband from Tolstoy or Henry James.

She wriggles, one leg still in the air, foot immobile for now. She places her head midway between his chest and his stomach, as though she is listening in the wrong place for his heart.

“You don’t care about my rash,” she sighs.

He places a hand on her head, stroking her hair. It’s the hand he uses to turn the pages of his book. He breaks off every now and then from the stroking of her hair so that he can do just that.

He feels like an Edwardian patriarch, soothing his wife who insists she is independent.

Her fingers dig into his thigh and he yelps as he feels the nails gouge into his flesh.

“You really should pay more attention to me,” she says sweetly, in the direction of his crotch.

He puts down the book. He lays it face down on the bed beside him, as though he will go back to it any minute now. “Show me your rash, then,” he says.

“Oh no,” she replies, still towards his crotch, her fingers stroking gently against his nervous thigh, much as his fingers stroke gently, absently, against her hair. “It’s too late now,” she says.

She tells him, “You should have looked at it when I came out of the bathroom.” She says, “That was when you should have paid it some attention.”

She’s tracing circles with her finger on his thigh. He feels like a medieval knight who has been bewitched by the local weird woman. The tip of her finger against his thigh is hot and it burns through his jeans.

“Tell me you’re a witch,” he says.

She laughs. “I’m not a witch.”

“You’ve got me under a spell,” he says.

“Don’t be stupid.” Her finger stops tracing. He can still feel the heat from where its pressure lay. She takes her hand away completely. Her body follows and she lies, flat on her back beside him, looking up at the ceiling.

She is like Ophelia floating on the water, or the Lady of Shalott.

He looks at her and she is the wrong way round. Her face upside down, her body stretching away from him and seemingly suspended from her feet.

“Rabbit,” he whispers, because now he feels like Ernest Hemingway.

She closes her eyes.

“Rabbit, show me your rash.”

He doesn’t need to ask, because her t-shirt has ridden up with all the wriggling, and he can see the strip of pink across her belly.

He feels like a soldier, home from the trenches, seeing his wife naked for the first time.

He closes the book properly and moves further down the bed, lying beside her so that their heads are level. She keeps her eyes closed, her face looking up towards the ceiling. He lies beside her, holds her hand, turns his face towards her.

He remembers the first time he saw her naked. Her hair was loose. She lay propped on her elbows, belly down, and her hair fell darkly against the milky whiteness of her skin.

She was a wood sprite from the teens of the twentieth century sent to torment him. Her skin was as soft as finest silk and he had kissed it a billion times that night, while she wove spells all around him.

He felt like the King of Samarkand, enchanted by the stories told to him by Scheherazade that night.

He could feel like that again tonight if she would let him.

He places his hand on her belly. “Is this where your rash is?” he asks her.

She doesn’t answer, but takes his hand in hers and moves it off her body.

“I told you,” she says, her eyes still closed, her face still towards the ceiling. “You should have paid attention to it earlier.” She smiles. “The rash on my belly is sulking.”

He puts his hand against the rise of her stomach again and she lets him leave it there.

“Poor tummy,” he whispers, his face still turned towards her.

Her smile widens; she is almost laughing now.

“Say it again,” she says softly.

“Poor tummy,” he repeats, moving his hand slowly against the skin, rubbing in circles as though she has a belly ache.

She laughs.

“You’re daft,” she says, and smiles up at the ceiling, eyes still firmly shut.

“Tell me a story,” he says. He moves his head closer to hers. His mouth is against her hair. He can smell her shampoo. It mixes with her perfume and the scent of washing powder coming from her t-shirt.

“What sort of a story?” she asks.

“One that will keep me awake all night. A magic story. Something that will stop me from having to kill you.”

“And why do you need to kill me?” she asks.

“It’s the law of my country,” he tells her. “I am the King, and I decreed it.”

“Is that so?” she says. He watches as the smile returns to her face. His face is so close to hers that he can hear her breathing. He can hear the kiss of her lips as she opens her mouth to speak, and the drop of saliva as she swallows.

He kisses her hair, and she begins.

“’There was a garden,’ is how the story starts,” she tells him.

“A garden?”

“You have to be quiet and listen if you want me to tell this story,” she chides.

He is silent, and she starts again.

“There was a garden, and in the garden sat a beautiful young woman. She was waiting for her husband, who had gone away on a long journey.”

“The fool!” he says.

She opens her eyes and turns her head. Her eyes look into his.

“What did I tell you?” she asks. “If you want me to tell this story, what did I say?”

He is silent. She resumes.

“The young woman sat in her garden, attended by maids and servants. All her needs were met. The finest clothes, the sweetest wine, the tastiest food that any chef could prepare. All her needs bar one.

“She longed for her husband to return. It wasn’t her needs as a woman, as his wife, that she couldn’t satisfy. She was a resourceful young woman; adept with fingers; skilled with objects. That was not the thing that she lacked.”

He stirs. He wants to say something, to make some crass remark. She pauses until he is settled into listening again.

“It was conversation that she needed. She was surrounded by people all day, but they were all servants, or they were visiting dignitaries, women from court, men on business seeking her husband. None of them would sit and converse with her about the world. They all had their own agenda, their own needs. Not one of them was interested in who she was or what she thought.

“There was only so much prattle about furnishings and fashion that she could bear. There was a limit to the amount of patronising smirks and ring-laden pats of her hand that she could take.

“She missed her husband and the freedom he gave her. In his absence, she was trapped in the role that society chose for her. The gracious lady of the wealthy man. The compliant hostess. The witness of, but not the participant in, great conversations in which great decisions were made.

“One day, as she sat in her garden with a plate of sweet plums at her side, she heard a horse being ridden along the road beyond the wall to her garden. She knew that it wasn’t her husband, because she didn’t recognise the sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles. She expected the rider to carry on past, and for the sound of his horse to fade into the distance, but instead she heard the horse come to a halt.

“She stood and looked towards the gate that was let into the wall. She believed it to be locked, and was surprised to see it opening. Whoever was behind it, pushing it open, was having difficulty; it was overgrown with ivy and little used, so that the hinges were rusty and resistant. Eventually the door opened enough for the person to step through and into the garden.

“He stood just inside the gate and looked at her, looking at him.

“‘Who are you?’ she asked him.

“’Just a traveller,’ he replied.

“’Well,’ she said. ‘I have heard that one before. Nobody is ever just a traveller who stops at this house unannounced and unknown. What business do you have here?’

“’None,’ said the man, turning to go. ‘I am sorry to have trespassed on your solitude.’

“The young woman took a step forward, holding out one hand towards the man, although she was too far away from him to be able to restrain him.

“’Wait!’ she said. ‘I apologise. I was hasty. You do not intrude upon my solitude.’

“The man looked at her. His face was intelligent; his eyes were keen.

“’Won’t you come and sit with me a while?’ she asked him. ‘I have refreshments and you would be most welcome.’

“’Madam,’ he said, astonished, ‘you do not know me. How can you be sure that I am not here on mischief?’

“The young woman laughed. ‘Because you did not fabricate a story to find your way in here. Because you are dusty from travel, and weary. Because your face is kind,’ she told him.

“’Madam,’ he said, ‘forgive me, but some would name you as foolish for those reasons.’

“She smiled at him. ‘Aye,’ she replied, ‘and maybe I am, but you seem honest and fair, and I am starved for conversation.’

“It was the turn of the man to laugh. He walked from the gate towards where she sat, on a chair beneath a bower of apple trees. She clapped her hands to summon a servant.

“’A chair!’ she commanded. ‘I have a guest.’

“A chair was brought, and the man sat down.

“’Now tell me,’ he said, taking a plum from the plate and peeling it. ‘What is a beautiful young woman like you doing sitting alone, being starved of conversation?’

“’Oh,’ she sighed. ‘You showed such promise, but already you fall into such clichés. Is there nothing else you can think of to say?’

“He bit into the plum where he had peeled away a part of the skin. His fingers glistened with the juice and his eyes devoured her face as greedily as his mouth did the fruit. He chewed and swallowed, then addressed her again.

“’Since your current situation is of no importance, then, I beg to know what conversation you would prefer? Is it news of the world outside your garden? Is it a tale about my life? Do you care to know who I am, or where I have been, or even where I am headed?’

“’No,’ she said. ‘None of those things in particular. I would just like a conversation.’

“’But, madam, a conversation must start somewhere,’ he laughed. ‘So where is it that you would have me start?’

“The young woman looked exasperated. She was unused to such insolence. She sat up straighter in her chair and shook her hair out across her shoulders, but did not speak.

“’I’m sorry,’ said the stranger. ‘I had not realised I was in the presence of such importance. Forgive me, and let me begin with a riddle.’

“’Oh no!’ said the young woman. ‘No riddles! I am not a child to be amused. Tell me –‘ she paused, unable to think of anything she wished to know from this stranger. ‘Tell me of your journey here.’

“’My journey here?’ mused the man. ‘That presumes that I have travelled to here from somewhere else.’

“’But of course,’ said the young woman. ‘Why else would you call yourself traveller?’

“’Maybe because I am setting out on my journey. Maybe this is the beginning of my travels.’

“The young woman observed him gravely. Her face was serious and sweet; her eyes were sapphires, her mouth a ruby, her teeth were the very epitome of pearls.

“’I do not believe you,’ she said.

“’And why is that?’ the man asked.

“’Because you do not speak as one from around here. Because your manners are too refined, not boorish and incomplete. Because you have dust on your clothing that suggests more than one day’s travel already.’

“The man smiled at her reply. ‘You are clever as well as beautiful, it seems,’ he said. ‘You were right not to believe me. I have travelled many thousands of miles already to reach this place.’

“’And where are you travelling to?’ the young woman asked.

“’I was making my way here,’ came the reply.

“’Here?’

“’Yes. I came to find a place where I could eat a plum in a garden with a beautiful and refined young woman who thought herself starved of conversation.’

“’Sir, you are a flatterer, and I must warn you that I do not favour flatterers.’ The young woman had risen from her chair and was looking at her guest sternly.

“’I see,’ he replied. ‘I wish you would sit down again. I meant no harm or offence by my words. I merely spoke the truth.’

“The young woman reluctantly lowered herself back into her chair, but she maintained a rigid posture for quite some time as she listened to the tale the traveller had to tell. She questioned him, and responded to questions he put to her. Gradually, she unwound and forgot to feel offence at what she had perceived to be flattery.

“’Would you care for some tea?’ she asked her guest, after they had finished laughing at a tale he told her of an encounter he had had with a one legged fisherman off the coast of Greece.

“’I would be pleased to take tea with you, madam,’ the stranger said, graciously bowing his head to his hostess.

“The young woman clapped her hands, and a servant appeared.

“’Prepare some tea,’ she commanded.

“The servant disappeared again.

“’He will gossip with the others,’ she told her guest. ‘There will be suppositions and uncharitable words.’

“’You are not without blame, then?’ the visitor asked.

“The young woman blushed. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

“The man stretched out his legs. ‘I mean,’ he said, folding his hands across his stomach, ‘that if you are without blame, then you have no need to worry about what gossip your servants might indulge in. You have no need to worry that they will gossip at all.’ He regarded her slowly, from head to foot. ‘But you are not without blame, are you?’

“The young woman blushed again, and dropped her gaze. She folded her own hands in her lap, and was ashamed to feel the forbidden thrill deep within her groin. She looked up and saw that the stranger was watching her.

“’And what if I am not?’ she said, trying to brazen it out.

“He laughed heartily, this man who seemed to know her so well already, even within this short time of being in her company.

“’Then if it wasn’t a matter of shame for you, you would not have blushed, nor would you feign such defiance,’ he replied.

“The servant arrived with the tea, and the young woman busied herself with pouring it into the small round cups. She handed one to her guest, and his hand brushed hers as he took the cup from her.

“’You and I will know each other very well before I leave,’ he told her, and he pierced her with his gaze.”

She breaks off, and lies there on the bed beside him, silent for a moment. She is lost in thought, in the dream of the story she is telling him. He is lost in the sound of her voice and the images it is conjuring inside his mind.

“Go on,” he whispers. “Go on.”

She smiles and then resumes, never once looking at him. Staring the whole time at the ceiling, as though she can see the woman in her garden. As though she can see the man sitting in his chair with legs stretched out and such confidence as could threaten a woman’s sanity.

“The young woman was discomfited by the stranger’s words. She drank her tea and tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground, but his words were lodged in her brain, and her body knew what they meant.”

He steals his hand further down her body. She relaxes her legs to accommodate his touch.

“The young woman lost track of the time. The sun began to sink down in the sky, deepening through pink to orange to red. A servant came out and lit citronella candles to keep away the bugs. The strange man in the dusty clothes talked on into the beginnings of the night, until finally he came to an end of conversation.

“’It’s late,’ he said. ‘And you should sleep.’ He smiled. ‘I should probably sleep too.’ He stood as if to go, and the young woman stood too.

“’Stay,’ she said. ‘Please, be my guest. We have rooms to spare, and you should rest properly.’ She hesitated. ‘It is the least I can do for your efforts in entertaining me today.’ She smiled at him shyly. ‘Please say that you will stay.’

“’You know that I will,’ he said. ‘And you know that you will invite me into your own bed.’ He paused as the woman started, as though with indignation. ‘But before you do,’ he continued, ‘you must allow me to tell you a story.’

“The young woman agreed, and they sat back down in their chairs beneath the boughs of the apple trees in her garden.

“’There was a garden, is how the story starts,’ he told her. ‘There was a garden, and in the garden sat a beautiful young woman. She was waiting for her husband, who had gone away on a long journey. The young woman sat in her garden, attended by maids and servants. All her needs were met. The finest clothes, the sweetest wine, the tastiest food that any chef could prepare. All her needs bar one.

“’She longed for her husband to return. It wasn’t her needs as a woman, as his wife, that she couldn’t satisfy. She was a resourceful young woman; adept with fingers; skilled with objects. That was not the thing that she lacked.

“’It was conversation that she needed. She was surrounded by people all day, but they were all servants, or they were visiting dignitaries, women from court, men on business seeking her husband. None of them would sit and converse with her about the world. They all had their own agenda, their own needs. Not one of them was interested in who she was or what she thought.

“’There was only so much prattle about furnishings and fashion that she could bear. There was a limit to the amount of patronising smirks and ring-laden pats of her hand that she could take.

“’She missed her husband and the freedom he gave her. In his absence, she was trapped in the role that society chose for her. The gracious lady of the wealthy man. The compliant hostess. The witness of, but not the participant in, great conversations in which great decisions were made.

“’One day, as she sat in her garden with a plate of sweet plums at her side, she heard a horse being ridden along the road beyond the wall to her garden. She knew that it wasn’t her husband, because she didn’t recognise the sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles. She expected the rider to carry on past, and for the sound of his horse to fade into the distance, but instead she heard the horse come to a halt.

“’She stood and looked towards the gate that was let into the wall. She believed it to be locked, and was surprised to see it opening. Whoever was behind it, pushing it open, was having difficulty; it was overgrown with ivy and little used, so that the hinges were rusty and resistant. Eventually the door opened enough for the person to step through and into the garden.

“’He stood just inside the gate and looked at her, looking at him.’

“The young woman sat and listened to her own story being told to her. The night grew ever darker, and still the stranger carried on, working his way through repeat after repeat of the same tale, her own tale, until eventually, as the next day followed and another night and another day, the young woman had forgotten who she was. She had forgotten who her husband was. Her servants had long since abandoned her, since she never slept and she did not pay their wages, so enchanted was she with the story the stranger was telling her.

“Her golden hair became matted and long. Birds began to nest in it. The stranger never seemed to tire. He never seemed to grow older; he never seemed to change.

“And then, one day, she awoke from a slumber that she had not known she had fallen into. She woke because the stranger’s voice had stopped. In front of her knelt her husband, returned from his long trip away from home, from her.

“He asked her why she was sitting there, alone in the garden. He asked her where the servants were; why they had left her out here alone in the garden in the heat of the sun.

“She smiled at him and pointed to the empty chair behind him. ’A man,’ she said. ’A man came on horseback. A traveller. We sat and ate plums and drank tea.’

“Her husband gathered her up into his arms, that young and beautiful wife that caused him such sorrow, such pain. He carried her back into the house and laid her back down onto her bed, in the darkness of her room.

“’I can’t even leave her for half a day,’ he said to the woman he employed to keep his wife safe in her room. The woman grovelled before him, begging his forgiveness. He strode away, shaking off her fervent kisses from his hand. ‘I can’t even leave her for half a day,’ he said to himself as he walked down the corridor to his study.”

Silence stretches. He opens his eyes to find her still staring at the ceiling.

“I wanted you to tell me the one about the dog with one leg,” he says.

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow night for that one,” she replies, and turns off the light.

© J R Hargreaves October 2006