Infrared Read Online Free PDF Page B

our guide we moved on unafraid By the red bubbles of the scalding ooze Wherein the boiled their sharp lamenting made.’
    Mesmerised, Rena contemplates the tortures of the damned, listens to their screams and blasphemies, feels herself being sucked down into the vortex…
‘The soul that had become a reptile fled With hissing noise along the valley side And the other sputtered at it as it sped.’
    Suddenly, to her left, she senses a man’s eyes on her.
    Really? She turns her head. Yes. There, by the door. His eyes interrogate, hers acquiesce.
    They exit Dante’s house together.
    Tell me, Subra says.
    The man is Turkish. Older than my Aziz—who isn’t?—but a few years younger than me. Our only common language is Italian, which both of us speak imperfectly. That’s fine with me. Touchingly, lamely, we exchange a few basic facts—true or false, what difference does it make? He tells me his name is Kamal; I’ll go along with that. As a private homage to Arbus, I tell him mine is Diane. I gather he works for some sort of import-export business…Then we move away from conversation.
    In his hotel elevator, Kamal’s eyes move down to my chest. Assuming his curiosity in the area has less to do with my breasts—their exact shape and size, the presence or absence of a bra to enhance their appeal—than with the Canon nesting like a baby’s head between them, I say, ‘Non sono giornalista, sono artista.’ Having gone that far, I figure I might as well go a bit farther. I ask if he’ll allow me to photograph him afterwards, without specifying after what. ‘Verramo,’ he answers—making, I think, a slight error in Italian. Then, stroking my cheek, he moves up close. Murmurs somethingabout my occhi verdi. When his body grazes mine, I feel he’s hard already—and the familiar tingling starts up at once, making me weightless, beautiful, and desirable in my own eyes. As I walk down the worn carpet of the third-floor corridor at the stranger’s side, I am floating.
    Go on, says Subra.
    He opens the door, revealing a room that looks for all the world like a Matisse—shadowy light, deep colours, red-brick wall, a framed picture of flowers, the bedspread striped by the shadows of half-closed shutters…only the fishbowl and the violin are missing. Every detail offers itself up to me, fairly shimmering with beauty and meaning. I move over to the window—red-tiled roofs, swifts wheeling in the air, the murmurs of passers-by in the street below, the occasional roar of a motorbike, the rich resonance of a church-bell. A faintly dank smell in the room, not unpleasant. The firm grip of the stranger’s hands on my waist. Oh utter delight. All of this exists—painted flowers, shutters, bell, October afternoon, my father napping a mere stone’s throw away. I am in Florence. A man is about to make love to me. Nothing could be more powerful than this anticipation.
    No sooner have we settled onto the bed and begun to remove each other’s clothes with the clumsy gestures of impatience than I realise Kamal also knows about passivity—yes, he also knows how to remain still, fully awake and attentive, and give himself up to me as a cello gives itself up to the bow. Arching his back, he surrenders his face, shoulders, back and buttocks, waiting for me to play them, and I do—I play them, play with them. Most men are afraid to let go like this—whereas with a little finesse the wonders of passivity can be tasted in even the most violent throes of love-making. In a delirium of restrained desire, I weigh, stroke and lick Kamal’s balls, then take his penis in my hands, between my breasts, into my mouth. He sitsup, reaches for me and I allow him to explore me in turn. He runs his tongue and lips over my breasts, the back of my neck, my toes, my stomach, the countless treasures between my legs, oh the sheer ecstasy of lips and tongues on genitals, either simultaneously or in alternation, never will I tire of that silvery fluidity, my