The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [114]
He touched her hollow stomach. Phoebe moved near him. She could wait until morning to eat, she guessed. Each morning Wolf went down to one of the restaurants and returned with cappuccinos and brioches still warm from the oven, which they ate in bed. They were comfortable here, Phoebe thought; she would wait. The smell of that rain was a meal in itself.
The next morning, their fourth day, they awoke determined to visit the tower, and arrived there well before noon. Usually there were tourists up here, but today, cloudy, still wet from the rain, there was no one. Phoebe and Wolf sat side by side on a ledge upholstered with damp moss, and looked down. Without sunlight the hills appeared brown, toasted almost. Phoebe was pleased by the abundance of cypress trees, which Vincent van Gogh had painted so well. She found herself describing to Wolf the first sexual feeling she could remember in her life; it was part of the blown-openness of their situation that any topic, barring Carla or Faith, felt perfectly natural between them. She’d been eight or nine, she said, climbing a pole in a playground during the afternoon phase of someone’s sleepover party. The sensation seemed unconnected to her arms. She’d dangled from the pole in a kind of rapture, minutes at a time. She’d urged the other girls to try and they’d all taken turns, enjoyed it so much they’d demanded of the birthday girl’s bewildered mother that she bring them to the playground first thing next morning, before their parents picked them up. But that day was foggy, the pole cold to the touch, and nothing happened that time. The spell had worn off.
Wolf listened with great curiosity. “Was it like coming, the feeling?”
“I can’t remember. It went on as long as you could hang there.”
“You had strong arms.”
Phoebe laughed. “They got tired,” she said. “But when I started climbing more, I think they got stronger.”
“When was the last time?”
“Oh, a long time ago. It would’ve looked weird after a certain point,” she explained. “I mean, by sixteen your feet would touch the ground.”
“At sixteen you graduate to the real thing. The real pole,” Wolf said, laughing.
Phoebe swung her legs. Wolf took her hand, touching it to his lips. “We’re being very good,” he said.
Because the place was deserted, they allowed themselves to kiss. They were shy, kissing in public, as if someone watching would know everything. “Let’s go back,” Wolf said.
They stood up. Before them the brown hills swayed and dipped. “Why not here?” Phoebe said.
Wolf laughed, not thinking she meant it. But Phoebe liked the idea. She was wearing her long skirt, which should make it easier.
“Forget it. Someone could show up any second,” Wolf said.
“Maybe there’s someplace hidden.”
“We’d be thrown in jail. They’re all Catholics.”
“I’m Catholic, too.”
He laughed. “Well, that’s a relief.”
Phoebe ignored him. A flight of narrow, half-decaying steps led down to the other side of the wall. At the bottom, beyond a wedge of scrubby grass, the hill dropped suddenly away. Where the wall turned, Phoebe saw what she’d been looking for, a nook invisible except from the top of the wall or looking up through binoculars from the hills below.
Wolf followed her down. “We’d be back in the room by now,” he said.
Phoebe took his hand and led him into the nook. Tangled in the ivy at their feet were wine bottles, a pair of blue socks. As they kissed, Phoebe felt the responsibility drain off Wolf like an actual substance and it thrilled her, having that power. Wolf leaned against the wall while Phoebe unzipped his jeans—he’d joked about his permanent erection—now he gasped at the touch of her cool hand. The act itself was more awkward than Phoebe had imagined; being taller, Wolf had to bend his knees, but this didn’t seem to bother him now that they’d begun. Phoebe’s skirt virtually covered them—only the front was lifted. Wolf threw back his head, bracing it against the wall. Afterward he stayed like that, eyes shut, baring his throat while his breathing calmed. After a while he put