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“L'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle” (The love that moves the sun and the other stars)
The day starts with a picnic in an isolated field near Fiesole.
The summer heat in Florence has become unbearable and Erik’s mood has soured along with it. The mask is stifling and itches his skin and is bothering him to the point that he refuses to leave the house – his job at the Pergola Theatre be damned – so as not to succumb to the torture of it all.
After two weeks of self-imposed exile, Christine has had enough and threatens him in all sorts of ways that if he won't leave the house and get some fresh air, she will take drastic countermeasures.
He is no fool and knows that the threats are real. He survived to this day by being smart and he knows how to recognise danger when he sees it.
The carriage leaves them at the crossroads between the main road to Bologna and a barely visible path that leads to the woods then opens into wide fields dotted with olive trees. From where they stop, after their walk along the path, the view of the city of Florence from above is something to behold: Brunelleschi's masterpiece cupola atop the cathedral and Giotto's bell tower and the Palazzo della Signoria are silent witnesses and guardians to the small city that once held in its hands the economic power of the whole known world.
Christine lays a blanket down under a tree with a wide crown that provides some much-needed shade and looks up at him expectantly. "Pass the basket?"
Busy as he was checking that the place she has chosen is isolated and protected, Erik has forgotten all about the heavy and bulky basket he has been carrying since they left the house, and wonders if she has managed to cram the whole kitchen in it.
While she sets up their lunch, he takes the time to explore the lay of the land. He took care to remove his coat as soon as they arrived and for the first time in the season, the combination of sun and wind makes it enjoyable to be out in the open in just his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Christine insisted on the non-negotiable condition that he must not wear his mask for the duration of their outing. His protests fell on deaf ears, and he accepted – not without giving a dignified show of grumpiness – only because he has been promised they will be as far as possible from civilization.
He is satisfied that from their vantage point even if someone were to approach, there would be plenty of time for him to put on his mask and cover his face.
Lunch is an idyllic affair and for the first time in a while, if not in his whole life, he acknowledges that he is relaxing, his muscles giving in to a languid lull helped by Christine's soft murmurs of local folk song and lullabies.
He lies on the blanket and the breeze caresses his face, but it is soon replaced by a more tangible stroke that starts on his forehead, slides down the bridge of his nose and follows the contour of his lips only to glide against both cheeks and along his throat where his cravat stands as insurmountable gatekeeper.
Or so he thought.
He feels the slight tug that makes it come undone – oh, how the mighty fall! when confronted with a woman on a mission. The popping sound of the first few buttons of his shirt follows fast and it is at this point that, slightly alarmed by the turn of events, he opens his eyes and meets the mischievous grin painted on Christine's mouth.
"What are you doing?" He hopes his voice does not sound as squeaky as he heard it in his head.
"Nothing." She shrugs, the picture of innocence. "Just making sure you are relaxed."
A smile. Her smile – and he melts. She could be telling him that she lost an audition against La Carlotta with that smile, and he would not find a single bad thing to say about it.
The caresses and light touches continue, and he lingers on the narrow divide between wakefulness and drowsiness, at least until he feels lips on the small strip of skin she has liberated from beneath the shirt, near the indentation at the base of his neck, and he is thrust back into the world of the living in the most pleasurable way.
There is no need for words when he lands his hands on her waist and glides them over her back to reverse their positions on the quilt. Surprise and delight colour her laughter and it fills him with so much joy that he can feel his heart burst with it.
The kisses become ardent, scorching hot. She grasps the tail of his shirt and frees it unceremoniously from the constraints of his trousers. It is a miracle that the buttons of his waistcoat don't get ripped off and lost in the sea of grass that surrounds them. Her hands burn a trail on his back and chest and wherever she manages to reach. An unconscious reaction makes him buck between her legs and he realises that this is going too far, too fast.
They are out in the open and anyone could pass by. He stops and buries his face in her neck, inhales its flowery essence and kisses that perfect spot where her shoulder dips behind the collarbone.
She sighs and kisses him on his temple, relaxes her body beneath him. Her small gasps turn to a steady breath and tickle his ear. They remain entwined listening to the sound of nature around them, the birds and crickets, the wind ruffling the mane of the trees.
When he moves to lay down once more on the quilt, he understands that the game of seduction she has started is barely in its infancy. Her approach is slow – almost cautious? – when she puts her head on his shoulder and her hand plays some more with the offending shirt buttons and the tail ends of the cravat.
He keeps still. His hand touches the small of her back and he draws slight circles with his thumb. She’s not wearing any of the trappings that women wear these days, just a light dress – it makes her look more like a country girl than a refined lady from the city – and her corset, which is driving him mad. He wants to touch her as much as she has touched him, but the damn thing is in the way, and he cannot well have her get rid of it here in the middle of nowhere. If anyone were to happen upon them, he would be forced to take drastic measures.
She is a pleasure for his eyes only.
“I love you.” She whispers in his ear and burrows into his neck. Her arms twine around his torso and he reciprocates the feeling with a soft voice and a firm embrace of his own.
“Then love me.”
His brain melts. Did she just? No, she could not possibly be suggesting that he… that they… “Here?”
She laughs and sits up and straddles him in the blink of an eye.
“Christine. We can’t!”
“Oh, Erik! Where has your sense of adventure gone?”
And then she reaches under her skirt which lies between their bodies and his breathing stops. His lungs ask for air, but he seems to have lost the ability to breathe. The unlatching of his belt buckle is a strange, unnatural sound in the middle of the field.
When she frees him from his constraints and holds him, he cannot take it anymore. The air rushes back in his chest with the force of an avalanche, a thunderous sound in his ears. From one extreme to the other: one, two, three breaths and his ribcage is expanding to its physical limits, and he needs air, more air than his body can accommodate as she is guiding him to her.
Like a pilgrim at the gates of a sacred place, he awaits entrance, seeking absolution from his sins.
She cups his face in her soft, silky hands, then his neck until she bends to kiss him, her unbound hair creating the only canopy that will grant them the privacy he so craves right now. Or maybe he does not care anymore. Christine is all he sees; Christine is all he cares about. Christine rests her hands on his chest as she straightens her back and the deeper connection spurs him to slide his hands over her thighs and grab her hips to facilitate her movements. There is no more rational mind in him now, only an ancient drive that pushes him to completion, but not without pleasing her first.
He looks up at his angel, the bright star that illuminates his life, her cheeks flushed, her mouth open and he is determined more than ever to bring her to the apex of pleasure. He detests the corset, he wishes that he could touch her more than this but then realises that not seeing, not being able to get what he wants is taking the experience to new heights.
Christine is nearing the point of no return, he can feel it and hear it and see it in every movement of her body, the rushed breathing, the pulsing point in her neck fluttering. He tugs her gently towards him and kisses her with abandon. She becomes undone in his arms, and he soon follows, finally sated.
She starts placing little kisses wherever she finds available skin but mostly on the side of the face he keeps hidden from the world. It is something she has done since the beginning of their relationship until one day – ever curious – he asked her why and she told him with disarming simplicity, “Because that side deserves more love than the other.” And to this day she always bestows more affection to the part of him that lacked any since the day he was born – at least until the day that Christine became the cornerstone of his life.
They spend the rest of the afternoon on the quilt, nibbling the leftover bread and cheese, drinking wine in quiet contemplation of the small piece of land that has turned into a tiny corner of paradise on one unexpected hot summer day. When the sun begins to rush behind the hills, they walk hand in hand back to the old town centre of Fiesole – Erik does not mention how cumbersome the basket is anymore – and they find passage back to Florence.
The summer is only starting, and Erik wonders already if the heat is going to keep up like it has in the past few days. Maybe there will be more chances to explore the hillside in the future.