Emmanuelle II by Emmanuelle Arsan

Author:Emmanuelle Arsan [Arsan, Emmanuelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2014-03-10T23:00:00+00:00

8

Deus Escreve

Direito Por Linhas Tortas

God writes straight on crooked lines.

—Old Portuguese Proverb

I have caused great calamities, I have depopulated

entire provinces and kingdoms. But I did this for the

love of Christ and His Holy Mother.

—Isabella the Catholic,

Queen of Castile and Leon

Let us seek, as those seek who will find, and let us find

like those who find, and have to go on seeking.

—Saint Augustine

Marie-Anne surged out of the landscape one early afternoon, the air blue with the damp sighs of the earth exhausted by the rain. Emmanuelle was sitting on the threshold, resting her chin on one knee, the other leg stretched out straight in front of her, gazing into the rain-washed frangipani trees, waiting for Anna Maria. A week had passed since her last session with her.

“It’s you! You!” she shouted, scrambling to greet her little friend. “Where did you come from? How come you’re here?”

With both hands she took hold of Marie-Anne’s golden-blonde plaits, laughing out loud with the pleasure of rubbing her lips against the girl’s sea-and-suntanned cheeks.

“I’m here with Daddy: he needed Mom to be here, because there are people coming from Paris. We’ll be here all week.”

“Only a week!” exclaimed Emmanuelle, sounding disappointed.

“Why haven’t you come to visit with us by the seaside?” Marie-Anne said. “I told you to.”

Then she extricated herself:

“Please stop pulling my hair. It hurts.”

With lightning speed, Emmanuelle tied the two plaits in a knot and twisted them around Marie-Anne’s neck, as if to strangle her.

“Oh, I’ve missed you. You’re so pretty!”

“So you had forgotten?”

“You’ve grown even more beautiful.”

“Well, that’s just normal.”

Emmanuelle had a twinge of anxiety:

“What about me, do you still like me?”

“Well, I have to find out. What have you been doing while I haven’t been around to keep an eye on you?”

“Terrible things, just terrible!”

“You better prove that.”

“Why don’t you start by confessing your misdeeds. This time you’ll talk and I’ll listen. The roles have been reversed.”

“Come on, how do you justify that?”

“Because this time around I’m the less virginal one.”

There was a glimmer of skepticism in Marie-Anne’s smoldering green eyes.

“Seems like you’re cold-shouldering Mario these days,” the fey creature said, with studied nonchalance. “You’re not seeing him any more?”

“That’s because I’ve been such a great success: he just has to wait in line, like everyone else.”

It was necessary to show who was boss:

“But don’t you try to sidetrack me! Tell me, now. Have you had any adventures?”

“Oh, thousands.”

“Well, let’s hear about one, for starters.”

The open-throttle roar of a sports car made them spin around to look down to the road.

“What kind of a machine is that?” Marie-Anne wondered. “And who’s the driver?”

“That’s Anna Maria Serguine. Do you know her?”

“Oh, her. She’s painting your portrait. I’ll watch you.”

“But you know everything! How come you’re so well-informed?”

Marie-Anne half closed her eyes, and, with a sleepy glance at her friend, passed on to another question, in her very own manner:

“I hope it’ll come out nice, that portrait.”

“I’m sure of that. But it’s only my face. Pity.”

“You should have a male artist do the rest.

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