The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [149]
She smiled a sly, triumphant smile. “Not after you stared at me in Palermo,” she said. “From that day I prepared myself for you.”
He leaned over to kiss her full lips which were a dark winey red, and this time she did not avert her face. He was surprised by the sweetness of her mouth, the sweetness of her breath and the responsiveness of his own flesh. For the first time in his life he felt his body melting and falling away from him. He started to shiver, and Justina threw back the goose quilt so that he could come into the bed with her. She rolled over to her side so she could put her arms around him, so they could flow together, and the feel of her body was different from any other body he had ever touched. She closed her eyes.
Turi Guiliano kissed her mouth, her closed eyes and then her breasts, the skin so fragile that the heat of flesh almost burned his lips. He was stunned by the smell of her, so sweet, uninfected by the pain of life, so far removed from death. He ran his hand down over her thigh and the silkiness of her skin sent a thrill from his fingers to his groin to the top of his head where it almost gave him pain, at which he was so astonished that he laughed aloud. But then she put her hand between his legs, very lightly, and he almost literally lost his senses. He made love to her with a fierce yet gentle passion and she returned his caresses, slowly, tentatively and then after a time with equal passion. They made love for the rest of the night without speaking except for short exclamations of love, and when dawn broke, Justina fell into an exhausted sleep.
When she awoke near midday she found the huge marble bathtub filled with cool water, and buckets also filled next to the sink. Turi was nowhere to be seen. She was frightened for a moment at being alone; then she stepped into the tub and washed. When she got out she dried herself with a huge coarse brown towel and used one of the perfumes at the sink. When she had finally completed her toilette, she put on her traveling dress, a dark brown frock and a white button sweater. On her feet were sensible walking shoes.
Outside the May sun was hot, as usual in Sicily, but a mountain breeze cooled the air. There was a campfire by the trestle table, and Guiliano had breakfast ready for her—toasted slices of coarse bread, cold ham and some fruit. There were also mugs of milk poured from a metal container that had been wrapped in leaves.
There was no one else in sight so Justina ran into Turi’s arms and kissed him passionately. Then she thanked him for making the breakfast but reproached him for not waking her up so that she could have prepared the meal. It was unheard of for a Sicilian male to do such a thing.
They ate in sunlight. Enclosing them, enclosing their enchantment, were the ruined castle walls, above them the remains of the Norman tower, its spire decorated with a mosaic of brightly colored stones. The entrance to the castle had handsome Norman portals, and through the broken stone they could see the altar arch of the chapel.
They stepped through the ruined walls of the castle grounds and walked through an olive grove, a scattering of wild lemon trees. They waded through gardens of those flowers that grew so profusely all over Sicily—the asphodels of the Greek poets, the pink anemones, grape hyacinths, the scarlet Adonises that legend said were stained with the blood of the lover of Venus. Turi Guiliano put his arm around Justina; her hair and her body were drenched with the perfume these flowers gave. Deep in the olive grove, Justina boldly pulled him down onto the vast carpet of brilliantly colored flowers, and they made love. Above them a tiny cloud of yellow and black butterflies circled, then soared up into the infinitely azure sky.
On their third and last day they heard the sound of gunfire far off in the mountains. Justina was alarmed, but Guiliano reassured her. He was always careful throughout their three days together never to give