A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [82]
Their bliss led them to Venice. They arrived just a pinch before dawn and boarded the only gondola to be seen on the Grand Canal as a feeble sun arose, casting pastel glows mixed with foggy dew as in an Impressionist painting.
The honeymoon had been worth waiting for.
Glide, glide, glide skimmed the ornate boat; splish-splash whispered the gondolier’s rudder.
Under the little footbridges, click, click, click sounded the women’s heels.
The luring alleyways twisting and trapping as in a maze.
And not to forget the pigeons of San Marco Square.
Their corner suite of the Gritti Palace was mellowed by the smooth music of the Italian jazz saxophones and tapes of the San Remo Festival…and Pavarotti!
They did their initiation to Venice by making great love in a gondola. The rest of it was powerful, so powerful they seemed drugged and weary by daylight until the great blinds were opened and the sounds and light of that fairyland out there reached them.
At the end of a week, Quinn realized he had not thought of Greer Little since they arrived. Rita, him, Venice. A lifelong plan that absolutely thrilled him. Realizing he had not thought of Greer caused him to think about her. She was now locked away in a place in his memory. His desire for Rita was nearly crazy.
Yet, in the odd moments Rita seemed to stray. She could go from uncontrolled passion to a chilling, languid sadness.
It took six weeks for them to have their fill of Venice and find themselves flying back to America, starting to get homesick.
Once home, Rita dared her great challenge. The ranch and its divergent sounds, from bleating cattle to zooming pickup trucks and the general activity, threw her attempts to write off kilter.
She sought Quinn’s blessing and set up a studio at the Maldonado villa a half mile below. Her bedroom was huge, had a fireplace, and was isolated.
Rita put a small wardrobe for herself and Quinn down there. If she worked late, if he needed a break from the ranch, if they wanted to make mad love, the studio was perfect.
Now there was a commitment to write, but the plushest office is no guarantee for lush pages. Rita was alone with Rita, with nothing between her and her typewriter.
It was serenely quiet.
Mal was gone a good part of the time, sculpting or painting some gorgeous body. Jesus, Mal, all those rich married ladies who want their boobs aggrandized! Some of his clients were older ladies, not of the sturdiest stuff but defiant and flouting their sensuality.
Rita had seen a lifetime of her dad working them. Anyhow, he always seemed inspired, no matter their sag.
Mal settled into his studio down in Cuernavaca in order to give his daughter thinking space.
Quinn had some apprehensions about Rita’s studio. He did not want it to become the scene of her heartbreak. He traveled back and forth to Denver as a senator, or on ranch business or flying about the country to Democratic Party meetings. Ordinarily, he’d want Rita with him, but she was entitled to follow her own bliss and make her own life.
She wrote her Venice pages and read and corrected them, lured by the soft-scented fire. Thoughts which had been so clear in her mind had terrible trouble finding their way onto paper.
It was perfect here, she knew. Peace and isolation had been achieved. She had a wonderful, understanding husband. God, she thought, does God want writers to go to hell to write?
For all the ethereal wonderment, Rita began to feel she was in a trap, a cage. Why did the story stop suddenly?
Quinn was due home from San Francisco late. She admonished herself for not going into Denver to meet him and stay over at their condo. She didn’t like him flying into Troublesome at night.
She closed her eyes and thought of him, and the stirring between her legs went on automatic.