0 comments/ 5443 views/ 1 favorites The Sweetness of the Pear: Lula By: HectorBidon When your boss's boss's boss, the President and Chief Executive Officer of the Central Calandrian Engineering Company, has entertained you at a formal dinner party in her own home, a thank-you note is most certainly in order. I began by trying to convey a sense of how thoroughly I had enjoyed myself: the pleasant conversation, the appetizing meal, and, especially, the charming Calandrian folk dance that had been the centerpiece of the evening's entertainment. I felt particularly beholden, I wrote, that my hostess herself had so graciously stood in when my slated partner had pleaded an unfortunate incapacitation. Dancing with her had been by far the loveliest of the evening's many pleasures. (I did not feel it necessary to remind her that the dance had culminated with the two of us lying naked on her living room floor, locked in a passionate, conjugal embrace.) I ended my note with the heartfelt wish that I might one day have the opportunity to repay her kind and generous hospitality. I knew that this was just a formality. As president and chief executive officer, Madame Lefarge's time was seldom her own. Besides, over the course of the year she made it a point to invite each of her employees to at least one of her dinner parties, brunches, teas, or soirees. Although it was not a huge workforce, it would nevertheless have been impossible for her to accept every offer of reciprocation. I was somewhat surprised, then, when I received a note from her a few days later. She was glad that I had enjoyed the evening and pleased that I was open to the old customs and traditions. Dancing with me had brought her a great deal of pleasure as well. She would be delighted to accept my hospitality. In fact, if she could be so bold, her calendar had a fortuitous opening two Saturdays from now, if by some chance that date should happen to open up on mine. --- Ilsa read the note twice, gave me a scrutinizing look, and then read it carefully for a third time. "She wants you to invite her to dinner," she translated. "That's what I thought. But she is the President and Chief Executive Officer. I'm just a third level engineer." "That won't make any difference to her. Presidents pretty much do whatever they want. I take it you made something of an impression at the dinner party." She already knew every detail. She gave me another scrutinizing look, tilting her head slightly to obtain a different perspective. "Well, you're presentable enough, I guess. You do have a few endearing qualities, not the least of which is a certain earnest insouciance. I don't find it altogether beyond belief that a discerning woman might want to spend a pleasant evening in your company." "So what should I do? How many people should I invite? Should I hire a dining room? Is there a place that rents out silver and china?" "Calm down, calm down. From the tone of her note, I'm pretty sure that what she has in mind is nothing more than a cozy little supper for two. She knows that you are a third level engineer. She was one once herself. She won't expect silver and china. "You should know by now," Ilsa continued, "that the only indispensable ingredient for a successful social event, no matter how big or small, is the congeniality of the host. You can look to Madame Lefarge herself as your example. If she had held her dinner party in your tiny apartment, using your chipped plates and mismatched knives and forks, do you think it would have been any less delightful?" I have learned to always trust Ilsa's insights in matters of this sort. So I sent off another brief note inviting Madame Lefarge to supper at my apartment on the suggested date. I soon received her reply. She was counting the days. --- If congeniality is the most important ingredient for a successful event, it is because, when applied early enough in the process, it leavens and fortifies all the other ingredients to produce a result that is both palatable and satisfying. It was decided that I should serve my famous Afghan eggplant stew, which Ilsa agreed is really quite delicious. It was judged that a single tasteful arrangement of flowers would be just the thing to brighten my spartan decor. It was finally conceded that my plates were perhaps just a bit too chipped, and that borrowing Ilsa's would not impinge too severely on the earnestness of my insouciance. It was proposed, and roundly seconded, that for entertainment I should take Madame Lefarge to the promenade. Not only is the promenade wholesome and fun, but the bustle of the public boulevard would offer a pleasant contrast to the intimacy of the dining room. The only point on which we disagreed was the called-for degree of formality. Ilsa was of the opinion that informality is perfectly de-rigueur in this day and age, besides being so much easier to pull off. But I had been developing my own sense of Calandrian propriety, and it seemed to me that the situation called for just a touch more. Madame Lefarge's dinner party had been very formal indeed. She had answered the door dressed in the conservative and elegant couture of the ancestral forest---that is, without a single piece of jewelry, a single touch of makeup, or a single stitch of clothing. The raiment of birth and conception is the basic black of Calandrian fashion. Never out of style, within everyone's reach, simple, comfortable, unpretentious. Also ultimately democratizing. There are neither lords nor paupers in this long-house, it assures. Neither presidents nor third-level engineers. Only fellow tribesmen come together to enjoy one another's company. This was the first time that I had ever seen Madame Lefarge naked. She was several inches shorter than me and probably in her early forties. Her hair was black and cut boyishly short. Her figure was trim, almost to the point of delicacy. Her skin was as white and fine as porcelain, without a trace of hair anywhere except on her head. Her breasts were exquisite, her vulva demurely tucked away right where it belonged. "It is an honor to welcome you to my humble home," she said with a graceful bow. The words were part of a standard formula, but she spoke them with the directness and simplicity with which she might have greeted me in the hallway at the office. "The honor is mine for your having invited me." "This is your house. Please make yourself at home." This was an invitation for me to disrobe as well. If the epitome of Calandrian comfort is to be comfortable in one's own skin, the epitome of Calandrian hospitality is to provide the ambiance of warmth and good feeling in which this can take place. Madame Lefarge got her first look at my cock and hung my shirt and trousers in the closet. "Won't you come in and meet the other guests?" There were two guests, both colleagues from the office: Simon, a friend of mine, and Gwendolyn, whom I did not know very well. Simon was darker and more muscular than me, and uncircumcised, with a bushy patch of pubic hair. Gwendolyn had wavy blond hair and very attractive breasts with tiny areolas and long, skinny nipples. We were soon joined by the fourth guest, Marianne. Marianne's office was just down the hall from mine. We were workout partners and occasional fuck mates. The idea of mingling and exchanging small talk in the altogether is less off-putting in Calandria than it would be in the States, but also less titillating. Nudity is largely seen as just another form of dress. Whereas we rely on clothes to downplay differences and hide imperfections, Calandrians are not so much bothered by either differences or imperfections as long as one is reasonably trim and kempt. And since nudity is not so uncommon, one becomes somewhat acclimatized. That is not to say that one loses the frisson, but that one can go the distance. Hold one's liquor, as it were. Madame Lefarge was a splendid hostess, engaging, interested, never patronizing, never dull. She drew out sparkling conversation and genuine bonhomie from every one of us. If someone put forward a preposterous proposition, she would play along and then join in the general laughter as the inconsistencies came tumbling down. If someone confessed a heartfelt emotion, she would listen with rapt attention and make it her own. I can truly say that this was one of the most enchanting and cathartic evenings that I have ever spent. The ton-ton is not really so much a dance as a series of choreographed movements and interactions. At weddings and on special occasions it is often performed by a dozen or more couples arranged in a ring, but it can be pared down to fit any number. Normally the hostess would serve as mistress of ceremonies, but Gwendolyn was having her period and did not wish to dance. So Madame Lefarge took her place as my partner, and Gwendolyn became our mistress. Simon and Marianne formed the other couple. For the first movement, the partners faced each other. The music (from Madam Lefarge's tape recorder) began with a slow and somewhat formless introduction that soon coalesced into a stately waltz-time march. The mistress of ceremonies struck a shimmering note on the thunder sheet. The partners approached each other with their arms held out to their sides. They took each other's hands and approached into a close embrace, torso to torso, cheek to cheek. Ideally the man's penis was semi firm, but still pointing down, and it pressed cozily between the lips of his partner's vagina in what is called a pink kiss. As the music fell and then swelled again the partners drew back slightly, still holding hands, and came together again aligned along the other cheek, and then a third time back along the original cheek. Another shimmering note from the mistress of ceremonies and everyone changed partners and repeated the three embraces with the new partner. Then another shimmering note and everyone went back to their original partner and repeated the embraces a final time. Each movement proceeded in this same way, as three sets of three actions. In a larger ring, the first set would have been with the neighbor on your right, the second with the neighbor on your left, and the third with your original partner. The music was different for each movement, but it always followed the structure of three sets of three. The mistress of ceremonies accentuated the changes with her thunder sheet. Madame Lefarge moved into and out of each action with dancing grace; I pretty much just shuffled along. The music and the choreography built gradually toward a crescendo. In the second movement, the man stood behind the woman and caressed her breasts and her vulva. Then she stood behind him and caressed his chest and his testicles. Next the woman lay on her back and the man knelt athwart her head and bowed down to kiss her clitoris. Then he lay down and she bowed to kiss his glans. In each movement the actor performed each action three times with the original partner, then three times with the neighbor, then three times again with the partner. In the penultimate movement, the man remained supine and the woman impaled herself three times on his rigid cock. In the final movement, the woman knelt and bowed toward the mistress, and the man penetrated her three times from behind. If you find it shocking that the national folk dance of a small but relatively well known parliamentary democracy is really little more than choreographed debauchery, you would not be alone. If it strikes you as depraved that there is a society that not only condones, but actually encourages, promiscuous copulation at its wedding celebrations and office dinner parties, there are those who would agree with you. In defense of this custom I can only tell you what Ilsa has told me. That for the last who-knows-how-many hundreds of years, the universal consumption in Calandria of a native herb with foolproof androgynous contraceptive properties has essentially decoupled the sensual and procreative aspects of sexual intercourse. Fucking has come to be seen as a shareable pleasure, more intimate than a kiss on the cheek, somewhat less intimate, perhaps, than a kiss on the lips. The ton ton does not celebrate fertility, it celebrates the giving and receiving of venereal joy. Is it promiscuous to throw a sumptuous dinner party and invite more than one guest? Is it depraved to attend a savory feast just because it is hosted by your neighbor? In any event, the adept ton tonner climaxes on the third and final penetration of the third set of the final movement, at the very apogee of the musical trajectory and accompanied by strident ripples of thunder. Madame Lefarge was thus adept, but the rest of us were not. It was not so much lack of stimulation as anxiety over the proper footwork. Fortunately, Madame Lefarge's tape foresaw this possibility and continued with a romantic coda to give the rest of us a chance to catch up. I gave Madame Lefarge a few more thrusts from behind. But then I eased her over, and entered her from the front. I lay my body upon hers, my chest against hers, and, on impulse, I kissed her full on the lips, my boss's boss's boss, the President and Chief Executive Officer of the Central Calandrian Engineering Company. She framed my face with her alabaster fingers and kissed me back. And that was enough. We crossed the finish line nose to nose. And although she was on her victory lap, she was sprinting alongside me full out. My initial impulse for my little supper, then, was to match formality with formality. I would answer the door in the garb of the ancestral tribesman and invite Madame Lefarge into my humble home. But wasn't it just a tad bit ostentatious to flaunt a humbleness that already spoke so loudly for itself? Well, at least I would impress her with my knowledge of Calandiran custom. As if she would be impressed by such a dilettante as me. Well, at least I would create such an ambiance of warmth and good feeling . . . In the end I acquiesced to Ilsa's better judgment and laid out a nice pair of trousers and my best Hawaiian shirt. --- Madame Lefarge arrived on the appointed day wearing a beautiful kimono of ultramarine buffeted with gusts of lavender, mist, thistle down, ivory, and ice. I welcomed her in, and couldn't help but notice how warmly the walls of the room lit up in her presence, and how proudly the flowers on the sideboard stepped up on tiptoe to greet her. "Lilacs! Freshly cut!" She breathed in their delicate perfume. "Did you know that I used to live in a flat not too far from here? The thing that I loved the most was the lovely courtyard, full of lilac bushes. I was just out of university, living on my own for the very first time. "I remember sitting out in the early mornings, in that special hour when the only ones up are you and the sun. I would see my day laid out before me like a fresh piece of paper, just brimming with possibility, just waiting for me to dip my pen into the ink. Some mornings I would dip, some mornings I would just savor the possibility. "The days were longer then, I remember that very well. Or at least the hours were not so filled up. There were days when I had absolutely nothing that needed to be attended to between supper and bed time. Nothing except the fireflies and the swallows and the wafting scent of lilac." She had brought me a gift, wrapped up in paper and twine. It was a child's abecediary---used, but respectfully so. Every page was devoted to a different letter of the alphabet, with a colorful picture and a simple verse. It would have been gift enough just to see how pleased she was to give it to me. "If any volume can be said to be an essential part of the Calandrian canon, this one certainly can. It's known to every schoolchild, past and present, throughout the country. It's a sort of touchstone to our shared vocabulary---its verses have entered the language as proverbs, and its pictures feature regularly in our dreams. I suppose you could say that it's a primer on what it is to be Calandrian." I was touched. The pictures were indeed charming---of a certain age, but captivating, archetypal. I stopped by chance at the letter P. A verdant bower. A curly haired boy, shy but determined. A frizzy haired girl, coquettish but uncertain. A golden piece of fruit. "Will you taste the sweetness of the pear?" No serpent. No fiery sword. Just sunshine, a sturdy arbor, hanging gourds, an earnest exchange, the promise of sweetness shared. Supper was a complete success. Madame Lefarge had two helpings of stew. She had learned to calculate using a slide rule and punched cards. She had never come across a bear in the wild. She loved traditional Calandrian folk songs. She was fascinated to hear about the colorful patterns on old Amish quilts. As we cleared away the dishes, I asked her if she would like to go to the promenade. She clapped her hands together just like Claire might have done. "Oh, Hector," she said. "That's a lovely idea. I hardly ever get the chance to promenade these days." "We should be right on time." "Hector." She was suddenly very animated. "I have an idea too. Would you consider escorting me to the promenade en regale?" "Of course I'd be more than happy to. But I don't really know what it means." "In my parents' and grandparents' day, and even when I was a little girl, the promenade was somewhat more formal than it is now. The ladies would wear their best kimonos." She spread her arms. "That is part of what gave me the idea." "And the gentlemen?" "They had their own special uniforms too. Their principle accoutrement was a ceremonial sword. I know that the idea of swords in Calandria must strike you as funny. Even in my grandfather's day they were just a ceremonial remnant of an earlier time. But they convey a very deep association with our ancestral past, and they are still worn today on very special occasions." "I'm afraid I don't have a sword." "I wish I had thought of it earlier. Let's think. Do you happen to have within your circle of friends any older gentlemen? Gentlemen who might be about my father's age?" "Well, there's Mr. Papago." "Tell me, are you good friends?" "We get along. He lives downstairs." "Do you think he would mind if we paid him a visit?" "I'm sure he would be delighted by the company." --- Mr. Papago answered the door and looked up at me through his thick glasses. "Hector," he said. "Come in, come in." He was dressed casually, in khaki shorts. His bare chest and bald head were as brown as a nut. "Mr. Papago, may I introduce Madame Lefarge. Madame Lefarge, this is my friend Mr. Papago." Mr. Papago undoubtedly recognized the distinguished name, because all of a sudden he was too tongue-tied to speak. Madame Lefarge kissed him on both cheeks. "Mr. Papago. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Come in, come in," he managed at last. "Will you have some tea?" "It is very kind of you to offer," said Madame, kneeling gracefully at the low table, "but we do not want to trouble you. We were only hoping we could ask you for a piece of advice." "Of course, Madame. It would be my pleasure." "Mr. Papago," said Madame, "May I ask, are you perhaps a member of one of the Calandrian Orders?" "I am, Madame. The Royal Kardosians. In good standing." "Ah, Mr. Papago! How well I remember when I was a little girl and my father used to take us down to watch the Flag Day Parade. How thrilled we would all be to see the Red and White being carried so proudly by by the gallant Royal Kardosians." "I would have been among their number, Madame," said Mr. Papago proudly. "And I'm sure that you must have carried the Kardosian steel on promenade more than once in your day as well." Mr. Papago chuckled. "Aye, Madame, that I did." "Those were glorious days, Mr. Papago." "They were indeed, Madame." "Sometimes I think that as long as those days still live in our memory, they are not entirely gone. And then I think that if they are not entirely gone, why shouldn't we fetch them down from the attic every now and then so that the younger generation can get to know them as well?" The Sweetness of the Pear: Lula "Madame?" "Hector and I were talking about some of these things over dinner. I was remembering how delightful it always was to be escorted to the promenade en regale. Such flourish! Such derring do! I think that it would be so lovely to resurrect that old custom, and Hector has most graciously offered to help." Mr. Papago looked at me with a look that I could not interpret. I had been with him during the single most wonderful event of his recent adult life, when the football team from his old home town had hung on by the skin of their teeth to beat the Central City North Side Athletics in last year's championship match. On that occasion, his eyebrows had been raised an excited three eights of an inch above their normal placid altitude. Now, they were a good sixteenth on an inch higher than that. "But alas. As you know, Hector has only recently come to our country, and he has not yet joined an order or a guild. Nor is he a member of an ancestral family. He has no steel of his own. That is our problem." "But, Madame. Hector may always wear the steel of friendship." "If only he had such a friend!" "Madame, Hector, would you please excuse me for a minute." Madame Lefarge was a model of patience. Mr. Papago came back to the table holding in his outstretched hands an ornamented leather belt and a sheathed sword. The Kardosian steel. Madame Lefarge touched it reverentially. Mr. Papago drew out the blade and showed it to me. It was more of a dagger than a sword, really, about a foot long, steely black. He looked at me with a seriousness that I had never seen in him before. "Hector, my friend," he said, "it would do me great honor if you would wear the Kardosian steel tonight as a token of our profound friendship." To tell you the truth, if either Mr. Papago or I had been asked, before that moment, to rate the profundity of our friendship, I don't think that the sharing of ancestral steel would have popped into either of our minds. But friendship is a fluid commodity, always open to reevaluation. We had spent more than one pleasant evening playing checkers in the apartment courtyard. I had been there cheering with him during the single most wonderful event of his recent adult life. And it must not be forgotten that one of the most very important aspects of friendship is the way that it helps to weave us more tightly into the broader warp and weft of society. Isn't the mutual ability to come to the aid of a respected patroness of Calandrian culture a strong enough foundation to support a friendship of at least a certain level of profundity? In any event, one chooses one's friends. And in that moment, Mr. Papago chose me, and I accepted. And from that day forward, there was not a thing that he would not do for me, nor I for him. "Oh, Mr. Papago!" exclaimed Madame Lefarge. "Well, let's see how it looks." He waited for me to do something, but I didn't know what. "Hector," said Madame Lefarge sweetly, "the ancestral sword is traditionally worn in the manner of the ancestral warriors." "And what is that?" I asked. "They were people of the forest. They wore little in their daily lives, and nothing except their sword during battle. We still dress that way to this day in their honor." "The sword and nothing else? You mean I have to walk around naked?" "Oh, Hector! In Calandria, anyone wearing an ancestral sword is considered fully dressed. Isn't that right, Mr. Papago?" "Fully dressed," he agreed. He motioned for me to get on with it. I took off my shirt and dropped my trousers. Mr. Papago secured the belt around my waist. Madame Lefarge got her second look at my cock and made some minor adjustments to the tassels. Then she then stood back to check her handiwork. "Mr. Papago," she said, "I think he will do." Mr. Papago stood more fully to attention and nodded for me to do likewise. He tapped my chin with the fingers of one hand, and shielded my crotch with the other. "Chin up," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Sword down." "Dear Mr. Papago" said Madame Lefarge, "I don't know how to thank you. I hope that one day you will do me the honor of escorting me to the promenade yourself." She said it in all sincerity, and if I had only been able to harness the sheer wattage of Mr. Papago's beaming smile, it would have been enough to illuminate the entire North Side. --- I may have been fully dressed in the eyes of the Calandrians, but it sure didn't feel that way to me, strolling down the Boulevard Marti with my balls blowing in the wind. Madame Lefarge walked at my side, with both her arms on mine. I must say that as we approached the square, it was only her serene confidence that kept my chin up and my sword down rather than the other way around. Right off the bat we encountered two older ladies, one fat and jolly, the other saucy and intense. Didn't we look splendid? When was the last time they'd seen such elegance on the promenade? Were any of my regimental compatriots looking for a pair of fashionable ladies to escort? The fat one reached over and gave my penis a gentle squeeze. Then the saucy one gave it a yank. So nice to have met you. Have a lovely promenade. Next we ran into the second vice president of the company strolling with his wife. If they were surprised to see the Chief Executive Officer on the arm of a naked third level engineer, at least they didn't show it. We chatted about the upcoming flower show and the ongoing remodeling of the vice presidential abode. I had met the wife briefly at a couple of official functions and had been very taken by her vivacity and exotic beauty. Without missing a beat of the conversation she reached over and gave my penis a lingering, tender caress. So nice to see you again, Hector. Um, nice to see you again, too. "Why is everyone feeling me up?" I asked Madame when we were by ourselves again. "It's part of the tradition. It brings luck to them and honor to you." I don't know if it was the presence of Madame Lefarge, the formality of our attire, or the combination of the two, but I was greeted by more people that evening than on any other promenade of my life. No one mentioned my costume, but everyone seemed aware of it. Everyone Madame's age and older seemed charmed to be in our company and eager to bestow upon me as much honor as I could bear. Everyone my age and younger seemed intrigued by our outlandishness, although not particularly aware of my luck generating capability. Once I was over my initial hesitance, I found it rather enjoyable to parade around wearing nothing but a sword. It was like being the emperor and knowing that everybody knew that my suit was only imaginary but were too polite to say. In the third block of the promenade, near the labyrinth, Madame Lefarge recognized a woman sitting on a bench. "Auntie Retta!" "Lula, dear! Is it you?" Madame Lefarge let go of my arm and sat down beside the woman, taking both her hands in her own. Not knowing the exact protocol, I remained rampant and en regale. Madame Lefarge introduced the woman as a dear family friend on whose lap and knee she had passed the happiest hours of her childhood. Auntie Retta nodded to me politely, but then turned her attention fully back to her darling girl. How were her mother and father? Had the old pear tree blossomed this year? Why didn't she come over one of these days for a proper chat, with crackers and blackberry jam? Auntie Retta didn't want to sound the scold, but wiser people than her had said that too much work makes Jill a dull girl. She took the briefest glance my way, then gave her darling's hands an earnest squeeze. When we finally took our leave and were strolling on, Madame Lefarge transfered a thoughtful synopsis of that squeeze on to me. Early into our second circuit, after bestowing a second handful of luck on the jolly woman and her saucy companion, we came upon Ilsa. I was not as familiar with all the details of her private life as she was with mine, but I did know that she often promenaded and was often accompanied. Tonight, though, she was alone. I won't go so far as to say that she was spying on us, but I won't say that she wasn't, either. As always she was an exemplar of politeness and graciousness, but the crinkle in her eyes told me that she was deeply astonished---and highly amused---by my unexpected regalia. Madame Lefarge was delighted to meet a special friend of mine, and invited Ilsa to walk with us a while. We continued to attract honor and to dispense luck, and in between customers the two of them talked about traditions and folklore. Madame Lefarge was charmed by the breadth of Ilsa's knowledge and the clarity of her opinion. She relinquished my arm to Ilsa for the last several blocks of the circuit, and then asked if we couldn't invite Ilsa back to my apartment for tea. --- "Hector," Ilsa whispered when we got back to the apartment, "it is considered gauche to wear steel inside the house. Why don't you leave it here by the door." So now I was completely naked, even by Calandrian standards, trying to play host to two attractive and fully clothed women. It was a situation that I somehow tended to find myself in more often than you might think. I prepared the tea, and when I brought it to the living room the two of them were having an animated conversation about foreign influences and generational differences. When it got to be late, Ilsa excused herself and gave my cock one last fond good night squeeze. I assumed that Madame Lefarge would take the opportunity to leave as well, but she remained on the sofa. The rules of Calandrian hospitality leave many things to the discretion of the host, but on this one particular issue they are pretty clear about what needs to be done. "It's getting late," I said. "Would you like to go to bed?" "I would like that very much." I told her I wanted to freshen up a bit after having been so exposed to the elements. I took a quick shower. There was no need to get dressed. She was waiting for me in the living room. She took my hand and allowed me to lead her to the bedroom. She let me undo her sash and help her out of her pretty kimono. She stepped into my embrace, and let me promenade my hands all up and down her silky boulevards. She let me lay her down and suckle at her breast---not porcelain at all, but soft and warm. She let me sheath my sword, now up and hard as Kardosian steel, in her juicy scabbard. She let me deposit my honey there, sweet with all the honor that I had collected that evening from a hundred different flowers. --- In the morning, Madame Lefarge was already awake when I opened my eyes, lying on her side with tousled hair. She smiled, and I put my arm around her. I was thinking of what she had said about the morning being a fresh piece of paper. I must have dozed off. When I opened my eyes again they met hers. She had hazel eyes, specked with amber and gold. They were staring straight through me, almost unblinking, as if through a telescope into a far-off time and place. Where was she looking? What, in fact, was she even doing here in the first place? That is the question I had been putting off asking myself. I did not doubt that she had enjoyed our evening together. But there must have been any any number of equally enjoyable invitations that she could have accepted instead. A president may well do pretty much whatever she wants, but what exactly was it that she did want? Her eyes came back into focus. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she said. "Good morning, yourself. Did you sleep well?" "Very well, thank you." We both knew that we would make love one more time, and that then she would have to be on her way. But neither of us was in any particular hurry. "Did you dream?" I asked. She did not reply at once, and when she did she did so rather shyly. "It's an intimate thing, isn't it, to ask someone her dream?" As if we were sitting together in Sunday School rather than lying together naked, our legs entwined, my cock pressing against her thigh. "Shall I tell you mine, then? I was back in Ohio, in the house where I grew up. There was a patch of land, a corner of our yard, but it was so much more pleasant and commodious than I had ever realized. I had planted a row of flowers there, zinnias, and a row of squash. I was happy to see so many yellow blossoms." There were flecks of black in her eyes. Smudges of olive. "That is a lovely dream, Hector. A young man's dream. Full of hope." A boy's dream, she might have said. Like the dream in which I discover that I can glide effortlessly along the sidewalk or the dream in which I discover that I have only to spread my arms to be lifted aloft by the wind. Pretty pictures. Innocent entertainment that can be shared without consequence. "I was taking care of my little niece." She blushed deeply. I didn't know that presidents ever blushed. "You don't have to tell me." "We were in a warehouse. I had to find a particular item, but the shelves were not correctly labeled. Every time I looked, my niece would have wandered off again and I would have to search the aisles for her." A fretful dream. The dream of a grown woman. I had had no right to ask. "Ilsa says that the key to understanding dreams is through their emotions," I said. "The constellation of emotions in a dream is always true to your real life. If you can work out the emotional constellation, then you can work out what everything else in the dream stands for." "So how would you interpret my dream, then?" "How did you feel about your niece in the dream?" "I was worried when I noticed she was gone. I was relieved when I found her." "How did she feel about you?" "Ah, yes. In the beginning we were playing tea party and she sang me a happy song. But she became sad when we had to go." Surely she must see herself what it meant. But for some reason she wanted me to say it out loud. "Responsibility. Never ending work. Innocence lost track of. A girl and her aunt . . ." She did not reply, but she did not look away. "Did you manage to find her in the end?" "Yes, I did." "Good, then. Good for you." "Hector," she said. "I shared my dream with you. May I ask you a question?" "Yes, of course." "The picture on your dresser. Is it Claire? From Santa Rita?" "We've become good friends." "I'm glad. I like her very much." Her irises were as intricately grained as inlaid chips of granite. I felt so close to her. We were sharing things so much more intimate than just our physical nakedness. "Do you have a picture on your dresser, Lula?" Again she did not reply at first, and I was afraid that I had gone too far. But finally she put on a meek smile. "It's a pet name, from when I was little." She became more pensive. "There is a photograph. Taken on the peak of Mount Oroboro. A long time ago." Is that where she had been looking through her telescope, I wondered. Was that why she accepted my invitation in the first place? Because in some way I was able to provide her with just the right angle of diffraction to allow her to peer back to a happy time of limitless mornings and firefly lit evenings, a time of journeys to mountaintops with someone I could only imagine she must have loved very dearly? I was overcome by a surge of auntly affection for her. But I also saw, with the clarity of a vision, the impeccably dressed, deep-hearted captain of industry on whose arm she rightfully belonged---the equal helpmate who would not only cherish her, but challenge, inspire, replenish, and sustain her. And as much as I wished that I could be that man, I wanted more to see her as happy as I saw her in my vision, stepping along the promenade on his stalwart arm, trailing clouds of contentment and joy. For whatever reason, she had come to me and had trusted me with her dream and her photograph. I could do no less than be true to my vision. I knelt up. "The mountain is still there. Come up on the roof with me and you'll see. It's not mislabeled. It's only a train ride away. I don't know what happened in your photograph, but I know that you should go back up there. Back up to the very peak. Today! Tomorrow." The spirit compels you to speak, but it leaves you to fumble with the words. "Someday I hope to be as accomplished as you are, as competent. I intend to be! And maybe have a fraction of your refinement and your grace. You don't know how much we admire you. All of us. How much we all root for you." Stumblefoot! Tomnoddy! "And I intend to climb mountains too. And if I'm blown off, I'm going to climb back up again. As many times as it takes. And I want to meet you there, at the very top, when I arrive. It's selfish, I know. But that is what I want. To meet you there when I arrive." Muttonhead! Clodhopper! "What I'm trying to say is this: accomplishments, scholarship, soirees---I know that that will not be enough for me. I know that I will need to have someone to share my life with. And how can I want anything less for you? I want you to be happy. Incandescently happy! I want you to be . . . complete." Chowderhead! Fiddly Bupkis! "If I'm speaking frankly, I'm trying to speak as your friend. Lula, someone out there is waiting for you. A captain of industry. An ambassador. And he will not be complete until you are too." And just as abruptly as the spirit blew in it blew back out again, without a second's thought for the havoc it left behind. I had answered her trust with a presumptuous tirade. Spirit indeed! It would make things so much easier if she just fired me right then and there. Slapped my face, picked up her kimono, and left. But she had not once averted her eyes. She continued looking up at me. As if being lectured to about her personal life by a raving lunatic with his dick sticking out was not altogether inconsistent with her understanding of the way the world worked. As if the effronterous rantings of a brash, foaming, stark-eyed, stumblefooted chowderhead were somehow worthy of a moment's consideration. As if it were still a part of her job to proofread the blueprints of third level engineers. "Well," she said. "It's turning into a rather popular theme lately," she said. "Perhaps I am set in my ways. But I can assure you that I feel every one my lines being strongly tugged." She gently drew me back down to the pillow. "One thing at least makes me very happy, Hector. You called yourself my friend. I don't know exactly where I would go if I did decide to cut my moorings, but I do know that I would very much like to have a friend to share my dreams with from time to time along the way." I framed her face with my ink-stained fingers and tenderly kissed her lips and her hazel eyes. And in the hope that some sprinkling of the spirit's pollen still clung to my skin, I did my very best to brush as much of it as I could into her tousled hair and along her cheeks and neck; to coat every inch of her soft breasts and blushing nipples, every ticklish rib, every facet of her stomach, every plane of her hips; to rub it down her thighs, down her flawless calves, over her soft, pretty feet; to work it into her toes and fingers; to stroke it thoroughly into every knob and crease and crevice, into every yearning sulcus---in the hope that it might leaven and fortify her for the first few miles along her way. Because it seems to me that Ilsa's account does not tell the entire story. It seems to me that in exchange for its drop of nectar, the act of love cannot help but exact a cross pollination of one sort or another. --- A week later, on Tuesday, Madame Lefarge took Ilsa as her guest to the Ladies Historical Society luncheon. Then on Friday she accompanied Mr. Papago to the promenade. She and I had only infrequent opportunities to exercise our friendship, but it was precious in its latency, and we did exercise it often enough---for brief pleasures and little confidences---that I was hopeful that it had taken firm root and would continue to grow and mature and blossom and fruit for many years to come. The Sweetness of the Pear: Lula I wished that Claire did not live so far away. I passed several pleasant evenings with the Child's Alphabet of Virtues, trying to bring myself up to speed. I found myself particularly drawn to the letter O. A young couple in hiking boots and woolen sweaters, walking staffs in hand, gazing back down a rocky path and out over oak-clad foothills toward a golden horizon. "From the peak of Oroboro one may glimpse the shining sea."