The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [58]
Pavel sighed. “There are millions who have returned to the church in Russia. They have bumps on their foreheads from kissing the cold stone and praying. But me? I will always return to my banya.”
During his story, Pavel’s hands had navigated their way, slowly, so slowly, through her layers of clothing, moving in a series of slow-motion fits and starts.
“Please, hurry,” Charlotte finally said, arms over her head and legs sprawled open on the couch. “I want you to hurry.”
“There is no hurry,” he said, fingers fluttering like a moth’s wings over the hollow space between her shoulder blades. “Just breathe, Charlotte. Breathe.”
She closed her eyes and obeyed.
With other men, Charlotte had also always insisted on keeping some piece of clothing on, even if it was only a lacy French bra. It comforted her, somehow. It made her feel less exposed. But Pavel had understood her need for darkness and her fear of being naked. By the time they had gone into her bedroom and he had brought her to a second climax, it was she who had snapped the light on.
“I want to see you,” she’d said. “I want to see where you like to be touched.” And he’d shown her.
Before Pavel had drifted off to sleep, Charlotte ran her hands over her own body, amazed at the smoothness of the curves, at the sensitivity of areas like the nape of her neck and the inside of her calves.
As he began to snore, her eyes traveled over his taut muscles; his knotted arms and long, delicate fingers. Even his toenails were buffed. When he abruptly shifted position, stretching out his arms, she wriggled away. It was then that she saw the tattoo. It was the silhouette of a sailing ship, hidden in the crook of his left arm. Her heart leapt as he turned over and she closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
She woke up at three in the morning, her pulse racing. It was the usual nightmare with her mother chasing her. Snapping the switch off on her bedside lamp, she sat up in the dark and saw herself as a small child, shrieking and clutching something tightly in her fists; something that was all over the sheets and pillowcases of her bed. But what was it? Not blood. Charlotte was sure of that.
Pavel’s kiss startled her so badly she nearly screamed.
“What is it, Charlotte. What’s happened?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Please, Charlotte. Allow me to comfort you.”
She stiffened and pulled away.
“Or if not comfort you then listen, Charlotte. I am a very good listener.”
And to her surprise, she told him the truth. “It was a dream about this thing that happened to me when I was a kid,” Charlotte replied, pulling the sheet around her body, hugging herself. Charlotte was so stupefied at the intensity of the memory that her teeth were chattering.
With his eyes shut, Pavel’s fingers traced the outline of his tattoo, following the shape of its billowing sails, caressing the waves that lapped up against the ship’s prow. As if by touching it, Charlotte thought, he might find himself transported elsewhere. Even his voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.
“Do you know what is the hardest thing for humans to forgive, Charlotte?” he asked.
“Hurting children,” she instantly replied, seeing that image of herself in bed as a child.
“Perhaps. But I think it is forgiveness itself.”
Charlotte just shook her head.
“You think it doesn’t make sense? But if you forgive even the closest friend one too many times, the friend will become an enemy. It has happened to me. Because to accept forgiveness, you must first accept that you are loved. Do you see?”
“Not really,” Charlotte answered, pulling the sheet so tightly around her body, she could hardly move.
“Ambulance drivers in Italy used to wear black hoods. So that the people they saved would not feel they owed