| “The Hannibal Variations: Act Two” Buenos Aires, one month later He hadn’t let her change her hair anymore. Wouldn’t let her cut it again or colour it, nothing. It was a risk, trying to get out of the country with her appearance so much the same, but apparently it was a risk he was willing to take. And they had arrived, without incident, in Buenos Aires three weeks ago. They were still staying in a beautiful suite in a sort of small hotel/bed and breakfast; it catered to his tastes but was not popular with tourists. A pattern of leisure had settled in their lives and every evening they would sit together for hours. She enjoyed curling against him, and he seemed contented to let her. She now understood why she hadn’t been allowed to cut her hair, each evening as they relaxed he ran his fingers through it endlessly, delighting in the silken feel of it. She didn’t mind, though, the way his fingers combed her hair sent shivers of pleasure through her and it relaxed her to no end. In fact, she loved this ritual more than any other part of the day she spent with him, but it always came to the same frustrating conclusion. When it started to get late, and somehow he could sense when she relaxed near to sleep, he would gently “wake” her and send her off to bed. In her room. Alone. The suite had two bedrooms, each with private bath, leading off opposite ends of the sitting/dining area. To date there had been no repeat performance from the emotions she had felt when she was against the fridge, no kiss, not even a little peck before she was sent to sleep as though she were his daughter. She was a little disappointed. She had given up her career, well, what was left of it, and her life, such as it was, to be with him. Certainly he loved her, she knew he did, she saw it, buried in his eyes time and again, but he had shown no other indication of his feelings. He seemed contented with her as his companion, nothing more. Tonight was no different; it followed the same pattern as all the rest. He stroked her hair and she relaxed more and more. There was something innately soporific about the entire process and shortly before she felt she would drift off to sleep he gently shook her. “Clarice, perhaps you would be more comfortable if you went to your room to sleep.” She could only nod, bid him goodnight, and leave. Much as she wanted to argue, or say that she wished to sleep in his arms (and more!) she was reluctant to contradict him. She went to bed feeling intensely jealous of her hair because it received the attention of his hands that the rest of her did not. Sleep did not come easy that night. Thoughts turned about in her mind like a stormy sea, she was restless. She longed for so much more from him. Her mind conjured a hundred different ways in which to tell him, even if she thought he should already know. All achieved her goal, but all were impossible. Eventually a fitful sleep found her and she dreamed uneasily. It was a beautiful ballroom, parquet floor, every imaginable kind of wood had been laid into the intricate pattern, and a vaulted ceiling dangled crystal chandeliers from its frescoed heights. She had never been in such a room before. Turning she caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored panels, there to reflect the dancing candlelight. She wore a beautiful white gown, a simple elegant cut with a long skirt that whispered when she moved. Emeralds encircled her throat and hung from her ears, her hair upswept with wisps framing her face. Then he appeared in the mirror beside her, slowly she turned to face him, strikingly handsome in his black tailcoat. Soft strains of music began to reach her ears as he held his hand out to her, inviting her to dance. In the moment their fingers touched she realised where she was: inside his memory palace, but as he guided her across the floor the scene changed. They moved from place to place, locations in Florence, the Verger estate, the FBI offices, her house, his old cell, Union Station, the pig pit, the house on the waterfront and then the terrace here in Buenos Aires. The music stopped and quickly they parted, he stepped away from her and she moved towards him and again he backed away. She took his hand, trying to bring him close, but he resisted. Then he reached up and stroked her hair. “You must be certain, Clarice, quite certain of what you want. Sometimes wishes come true.” And he was gone. She woke then, trembling from the dance and the clarity of the dream, uncertain if she were still dreaming. Or had it all been real? Slowly she opened her eyes, across the room stood an indistinct form; her was watching her sleep. Somehow the thought of him standing there comforted her, perhaps if was only a matter of time before he turned his attentions to something other than hair. When slumber reclaimed her it was most peaceful. |