David E Balaam - Nothing Is Sacrosanct

None of the boys seemed to have had much experience, and they always seemed so young. What they thought they knew was mostly gained from porn films or men’s magazines. Chas had been different, once he was sober. He was still a little naive, but had more concern than others, although still inexperienced at the end of the day. The ‘missionary’ position was the limit of our foray, but I did like the cuddles and quiet moments afterwards, if not the cigarette smoke.

“So,” Marcus asked, “what do you think of my humble abode?”

“Fantastic!” Chas uttered, transfixed by the décor but especially two paintings that adorned one of the walls in the large open-plan lounge that greeted us. Chas gasped in delight. “Bloody hell, man, is that a Picasso? It can’t be, can it?” he asked, staring at the large painting, almost in a trance.

“Very good. Unfortunately, it is a reproduction. The original is at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. They refuse to sell it. I have asked them enough times.” Marcus laughed, remembering something. “It’s called Girl with Mandolin, from his cubism period. So you like art?” He asked, seeing Chas was in seventh heaven.

“Yes, love it,” Chas answered, still mesmerised, but now looking at the other imposing image - the suppressed artist in him begging to surface.

“OK then, can you tell me what this is?” Marcus challenged.

It was not, in fact, a painting – it looked to me like photographs. “Not sure,” Chas said, hands on hips, transfixed, and looking puzzled.

“It’s a David Hockney. It’s made up of hundreds of photographs of Theresa Russell, the film actress. I think the two subjects, this and the Picasso, work well together – the Hockney is mirrored by the cubism of Picasso, don’t you think, Chas?”

“Yes, err . . . totally. Christ man, you must be rich.”

“Chas,” I said rather too abruptly, “don’t be rude.” Hoping Marcus was not offended. On the contrary, he just smiled and shrugged. “Everyone should have a hobby. Mine is collecting beautiful objects,” he said, looking at me with a captivating smile, making me blush ever so slightly. “Now, what about that drink I promised.” He offered, trying to put me at ease.

Marcus poured me a Martini with lemonade, and Chas a whisky. “If you like these, Chas,” Marcus said, nodding at the two paintings, “come and see what I have in the other room.”

And the two of them left me alone with my drink. Looking around the white-walled oak panelled lounge I had the chance to observe more closely the furniture and other objects and artefacts. There were several unusual bronze sculptures; some on shelves, and one, four foot tall standing on the floor. The subject matter for most of them was a naked or near-naked woman squatting, sitting, standing, or in one case, bending over.

A large button backed burgundy sofa faced an old inglenook fireplace, but what took my attention was a very unusual chair against the wall, opposite the paintings. I was about to inspect it closer when Chas called me.

“Bell, come and see these,” he called from somewhere close by. I followed the sound of voices along a narrow hallway to another room. This looked like an office or study with a large writing desk against one wall, and rows of bookshelves on the two adjacent walls. Chas and Marcus however, were occupied with the other wall adorned with framed photographs.

“Look, Bell, aren’t these fantastic. So atmospheric . . . so . . .”

“Erotic?” I offered.

“Bell, don’t be a prude. This is exceptional art.” Chas beamed, hoping I had not offended Marcus.

“Isabel, these are recent works from a very talented English photographer, Michael Payne. He captures the human form perfectly, don’t you think. Yes, erotic if that’s what you see, but the human form should be seen as having many other qualities, not just eroticism.” Marcus said, looking at me for a response. I was holding my drink with both hands – shivering slightly.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No, just the ice in the drink.” I lied. Not cold but slightly aroused by the images I was looking at. I knew they were beautiful but I was not going to encourage Chas about something we could not afford. Marcus seemed convinced I disapproved of the photos, but in fact, I did admire them. Photography was one of my secret ambitions, but all I could afford back then was a compact Kodak digital, with hardly any features.

“Ah, you didn’t think someone like me would consider having such . . . sensual, contemporary images adorning the walls of this old cottage.” And smiled reassuringly at me.

“I think they are bloody marvellous. Can we have some in our pad when we get one, Bell?” Chas asked excitedly. His Welsh accent accentuated by the recent alcohol.

At any other time, I would have shouted back. “Don’t call me Bell!” but I just smiled and sighed.

“I think you prefer Isabel, and quite right too,” Marcus said, sensing the distaste of my shortened name, and so Chas could hear. “How do you spell it?” he asked with interest.

“I.s.a.b.e.l”

“Ah, the French way, then you are not Jewish, that would be Isobel.”

I looked at him, but his words seemed distant and I felt light-headed. My legs gave way and I found I was falling backwards before I could resist. Instead of hitting the floor I was swept up into Marcus’s arms and carried back along the hall to the lounge where he laid me on the sofa.

“Hey, what’s happened? Is she Ok?” I could hear Chas’s voice somewhere, but not sure where he was. “Bell, are you OK? Look at me. What happened?” I felt Charlie's hand on my cheek, and then forehead.

“She will be fine. It’s probably just the heat, and a little too much of our local cider. Let’s leave her to rest a while – let her sleep a little. Come, let me show you the rest of the house. I think you will enjoy some of the other artistic offerings I have, and let me get you another drink, same again?” Marcus took Chas’s arm and guided him away from me. I laid there on the sofa, drifting into unconsciousness. My dress askew, showing a sliver of exposed white knicker.

I don't know how long I had been asleep but suddenly Marcus appeared, kneeling at my side, smiling. “Are you feeling better? Here, drink this.” I managed to sit upright and took the drink willingly. My throat was dry.

“What is it?”

“It’s just a refreshing drink. I thought you may need one. Are you feeling better?”

I was feeling better. No nausea. No dizziness. I felt warm and comfortable, and not shivering anymore. He took the glass from me and took my hand. I looked around for Chas, not in a panic mode, more out of curiosity. “Where did Chas get to?” I asked.

“He had another whisky and promptly fell asleep in the other room. I am beginning to think I am a bad effect on you two.” He smiled as he stood up, and walked over to the chair I had been admiring earlier, before my fainting spell. It was a strange shape, like nothing I had seen before. It was tall, at least six feet and covered in studded deep burgundy leather, with a canopy which made it all the more mysterious.

“Do you like it? It’s called a Porter’s Chair. I found it in Europe. It came from a very old hotel in Vienna which was having a refurbish. It is very comfortable, come, try it.”

He held out his hand, and without hesitating, I rose and walked over to this man, this man who was at least twenty years my senior, and of whom I knew nothing about whatsoever.

The light had well and truly vanished and I had no idea of time. I noticed the room was dimmer, and flickering candles cast shadows that danced on the walls and ceiling, and sandalwood incense filled the air. Chas, or Marcus, must have removed my sandals after the fainting spell, as I felt my toes tingle against the soft pile as I walked the few paces to stand in front of Marcus, who was now sitting in the chair.