“Three stories?”Jörn looks doubtfully at me looking up at the structure, “more like six—it must be the height of all the trees confusing your judgement,” and as he says this, he starts walking towards it, carelessly dragging the jacket and button down shirt that he had impatiently dragged over his head now drags over the grass
“Where are you….?” I start to say
He stops and looks at me, over his shoulder —and with a teasing sort of smirk, lit by that challenging twinkle in his eyes —and then, before facing back towards it, he tosses his head at me, like an off handed command to follow, as he heads right towards the silo
And because I’m curious, I follow cautiously behind him, totally not sure I want to see
I had not noticed there are windows, albeit placed discreetly in such ways as to make them blend into the surface of it and as he leads the way, I notice a laid out stone path; a walkway that is cleverly also well disguised from the entrance towards the buildings, where he parked the Volvo. The path leads to the side and as I follow him there, I realize there is a twin silo that was hidden from the side we walked up from; just the same and just as high; two silver towers stood beside what would appear to anyone else as an abandoned barn and stables, presiding over what is visibly an overgrown, defunct and unplowed farm
As I recognize the line of trees and how the sun dips in its descent as the other side of Sunny’s hunting grounds, I become somewhat intrigued, as I see Jörn head right up to the side of it, and reach a door —and standing there, punch a code into a keypad
Again that challenging look at me, and with a wink, he pushes the door open and goes right in, leaving the door open
I don’t know what I’d expected going inside, and at first I try to get my bearings as my eyes adjust to the surrounding darkness, so I don’t notice where Jörn has gone. I swivel around in a circle to take it all in, within the dim lighting ….dim lighting —which comes only from the concave windows letting in the early evening light
I realize it is furnished like an entranceway; like some grand circular hallway with staircases on two sides and a large marble console below a gilt mirror. It’s almost hilarious, the attention to detail —as if to model this after some old mansion, as everything has been obviously custom built made as it had to be as it follows the circular shape in a concave interior. It is like walking into a warped M. C. Escher drawing, or like an Alice in Wonderland reality
The acoustics create an echo as every footstep carries upward to bounce in a strange surround sound and I suppose, so distracted am I that I don’t notice anything —but what I am caught by to look at, as though engulfed and entranced in this kind of warped space, that the music which comes, seems to happen of it’s own will
I suspect it must have been the strange acoustics which disorient my ability to immediately recognize ….the opera
“Coming, duva?” he says above the recording of his pounding keys….
I follow the trail of his discarded jacket, shirt and tie as he stands in just the suit trousers with his bare back to me, looking at me over his shoulder by a doorway and as that now becomes the brightest light source, it draws me naturally to go towards the glow
and only once past the doorway, do I realize, when it closes and we ascend, we have walked inside a lift; half circular, like a crescent with the widest part glass, and only as I feel us moving upwards, do I realize it is a concave picture window, showing the world outside as the drama of his opera follows
so strangely hypnotized, I watch the scenery as we ascend
When we reach the top, the door of the lift retreats and opens under a dome of light filtered from outside. Directly beneath the dome stands a black grand piano
I don’t even have to ask
….but I look at him….with just his index finger he motions to me —but still—I stare at the piano as I go, without noticing that we now stand just outside the lift but are now enveloped inside an elaborate master suite which takes up the complete width of the top of the tower. The ceiling, a complete dome with a full uninterrupted skylight, exposing the sky above, so that the iridescent shade of the white of the walls is almost blinding
“Perhaps this is better,” Jörn says and flips a switch
I watch as the dome seems to shift, like a prism, filtering out the glare, the tone now takes on a more lavender iridescence, bathing the room in a dreamy tone of mother-of-pearl mauve
“Sometimes I think you just want to be on stage all the time,” I say
He shrugs,
“bath or shower?” then walks across the wide space and turns a chrome crank and from four heads, showers water, “no? Not feeling it?” but he keeps it on and goes to the clear tub that had been screened off by floor-length sheers and then starts the bath, “patchouli or lily-of-the-valley?”
But I walk over to the piano instead. sit down at it. I look at the keys remembering. I stare at the keys as if they are ghosts….because I see our hands…. and remember
and remember….
codes
I look up at him with alarm
He looks at me thoughtfully and sighs. Then goes to shut off the shower first, then the bath. He walks over to me in his personally tailored, well-cut trousers which emphasize all his advantages with tasteful ….discretion
and so walks towards me with a sigh of resignation and stops right behind me then leans over me. He takes my hands in his and places them on the keys. Then in this way, we start to play ….the opening notes of his opera which he joins with the recording that plays through hidden speakers ….but it is how he touches me…. how the lightness of his fingers ….touch mine
and like a master, he does not miss a beat as he caresses my fingers with every struck note. He presses his mouth to my neck and climbs onto the piano seat behind me ….so that I am wrapped in his arms as he cloaks me within his notes,
surround ….soundly
….until someone’s phone sharply interrupts ….
“ohhh!”
—is ….that ….me….?
as I seem to fall off the bench onto the floor
“Duva….?”
“Your phone—“
“—don’t bother,” he says quietly and reaches to pull me up
“….the codes, Jörn—in the office before….”
“No, min lilla duva, don’t bother….”
And his voice cracks as it did before in the headquarters office as he says now,
“don’t you know me by now?”
like it did when he said….that age old phrase….and moves to pull me up,
“don’t sit on the floor, come here,” he says
but I don’t move because my head is caught up in such memories ….I feel dizzy with it and his music ….and the habit of always having him so firmly deep inside of me, so impossible to ever ….want to let go
and being with him again makes me breathless,
“my lord and master,” and from the floor move to my knees facing him and stare up at him but then put my face into his lap where the tailor’s discreet cut draws me and ….feel him through the fabric first with my kiss —and then my hands and close my eyes ….to just feel him and the warmth of him through the fabric as …. and until ….I am reassured ….he burns for me….
and he says something but I don’t know what it is, or whether he pulls me or pushes me or draws me or caresses —or if I imagine the grand piano vibrates with the notes he plays
I only feel for him and only know that I feel ….want to feel him, need to, need to have him and feel him against my lips, as it seems it has been forever since ….because I need him, need to feel him, need to taste him and have him….
