KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

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PART 13

"Can you play music, Catherine?"

"No, Samantha. I wish I could, but I never really learned."

Samantha's yes welled with concern, her dauntless spirit as quick to offer heartfelt sympathy as information. "Didn't you have any instruments when you were little?"

"Actually, we did. There was a piano in our house that I took lessons on, and I tried the violin for a while, but I'm afraid it didn't work out."

She was ashamed to admit to these wide-eyed children how undisciplined she'd been about practicing. Impatient with the scales that never sounded like real music, eager to run through the high, sweet grass of summer or steal away to concoct some elaborate game of make-believe with her army of dolls.

It had been more than that, she realized with a flash of clarity, as if some self protective mist had evaporated briefly, revealing a tiny little truth never before recognized. She saw quite clearly that reluctance, unnamed in childhood, to pursue an activity at which she didn't automatically excel. To struggle with the music was to make mistakes, to show herself less than perfect, and it was so easy to win approval simply by being pretty and charming and bright -- all qualities that took no effort. Her father had said she was perfect. How could she be brave enough -- cruel enough -- to show him it wasn't so? "I guess I couldn't really hear the music, Samantha, like you can, so that I could begin to play it."

"Vincent says the songs are all around us, and some of them are in here, waiting to be let out." Samantha eyed the recalcitrant clarinet in her lap, daring it to withhold its secrets. "And the notes are like a map that shows you where it is, so when you learn to follow it, everyone else can hear the music too. Can you hear the music now, Catherine?" She seemed genuinely worried that her friend might be incapable of enjoying such a pleasure.

"Catherine hears the music very clearly, Samantha," Vincent slipped his arm around her once more, and she leaned almost imperceptibly into him, just to feel the source of the warmth and certainty reflected in his voice.

"That's true." Her eyes sought his. One of those astounding rushes of unqualified love surged through her, mingled with the rich, intoxicating taste of desire. His or hers -- it was all the same. Suddenly, she wanted desperately to be alone with him, if just to lean more surely against his solid strength, to wind her hands in the wild hair and whisper what was in her heart. So immersed was she in this longing, that the words spoken at her elbow threw her into confusion.

"Your devotion and self-discipline have brought you a long way. Hold to those principles, and you'll soon create something very beautiful together, but for now it's time you were in bed."

The children to whom this statement was apparently directed protested mildly, as they carried the music stands and stools back to their places and said good night.

"Vincent, can I persuade the two of you to join me for a cup of tea? I have some -- Catherine, whatever is the matter? You look quite flushed."

"I'm fine. It's just the sunburn."

"Father, I'm sorry. Another time. Catherine has had a long day. She should be getting back."

"Oh, of course. Another time then." He moved back to his favorite position behind the desk. As they started for the stairs, be called after them, "The case you've been investigating, Catherine, has there been any news?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Our experts are afraid the painting's disappeared into someone's secret collection."

"Despicable," Father grumbled, easing into the chair. "To take something so lovely out of the world's sight. Despicable and selfish. Well, good night, Catherine."

"Good night," she called. Vincent had taken her hand and was making no attempt to adapt his longer strides to hers. She almost had to run to keep up with him, as he drew her out into the passageway. "Vincent, what are you doing?" She was still finding it hard to focus on her surroundings, when inside all her perceptions seemed lost in a sweet fog of yearning for his touch.

"Something despicable and selfish," came the cryptic answer. Where the tunnel veered, beginning its gradual descent, there was an opening, an abortive passage that ended a scant few yards beyond. Here there had been no reason to place a torch, such as those that guided travelers in the viable tunnels. Here shadows flourished, undisturbed, and here he entered, stopping to turn and look down at her.

"I am taking something lovely," he quoted softly "out of the world's sight."

She felt herself pulled lightly, giddy into his arms, and he bent to bury his face in the sweep of hair that brushed her neck. She answered his embrace, her fingers seeking the raw silk of his hair, her lips pressed hungrily against the warm pulse at his throat. Neither moved for long minutes, surrendering to the natural propensity of the bond to complete itself, to integrate the tangible with the intangible. The result soothed and excited her beyond reason. "You knew how much I needed this," she said dreamily, "but did you mean it when you said it was time I went back?"

"Would you have me lie to Father?"

The low, entrancing voice held the barest hint of dissemblance, but, in fact, she couldn't imagine him doing such a thing, and she tried to repress her disappointment as she said, "You're taking me back then?"

"The ways change, Catherine. Some of them take longer than others."

Her smile started at the point where his words had entered her heart and radiated outward till it glowed in the tips of her fingers, her sandaled toes curling in response. He had felt that same need to be alone --just the two of them -- and found a gracious way to make it so. "Is there one that would take us -- oh, say -- by way of the Bronx?"

"Anything is possible." His smile was so subtle, she thought, not like the exuberant grins that most people displayed. As they moved out into the light, she noted it was not confined to the sweet curves of his mouth, but danced in his eyes, in the slight tilt of his head, even in the movements of his body.

Well bred young ladies don't grin, Cathy: Her grandmother's voice, admonishing her as she cavorted with her cousins on the wide verandah of the summer house. And they don't shriek with laughter. They smile demurely and chuckle very softly.

"I think my grandmother would have approved of you, Vincent."

"She must have been a very unusual woman," he replied drily.

"No, actually she was quite old-fashioned, but then in a way so are you."

"But you, Catherine -- you're very much a woman of the modern world."

"Am I? I always thought I was. I always hurried to wear the newest fashions or buy the latest best-seller or book reservations at the trendiest vacation spots, but when I think of that now, it feels a little sad, as if I was searching for something that I couldn't identify and hoping to find it in each new fad that came along." She shook her head. "The more I look at myself, the more I feel like I don't know me very well.'

"Self-knowledge is an ongoing search, Catherine. It never truly ends."

"But sometimes I'm not sure I know how to go about it. Things that I've done ... things I've believed . . were they really choices freely made, or was I simply trying to fulfill someone else's expectations or accepting as my own values that were imposed by somebody else? You know, you're told for so long that this is what you're like, this is what you should do, and you start to believe it. People with the best intentions -- people who love you -- still can never really know what's inside you-- what you really need."

"That's true," he said, 'But it can be very difficult to convince them of that."

She stopped suddenly. "Are you talking about me. Vincent?"

"No." He shook his head, emphatically. "I was thinking of Father."

"Oh, well, yes, he's a perfect example, but don't you think he's beginning to come around, to accept that his concept of what was best for you was a little limited?"

"Perhaps. His advice, Catherine, was meant only to protect me. to spare me pain or disappointment. It was always a sincere expression of his love."

"Like Father, like son?" she ventured gently.

He looked a little startled, but she knew he would be swift to follow her meaning, and he didn't pretend not to grasp it. He shook his head again, as they resumed walking. "His vision of me -- for me --it came from such a source of wisdom and devotion. How could I doubt it for the truth? Even now, deep inside myself, there are truths I must struggle to identify as my own or merely Father's version of what must be."

"Exactly." She squeezed his hand in sympathy. "Those little messages from childhood. I guess they play in everyone's mind."

They had reached the junction of three wide mouthed tunnels, and her steps turned out of habit toward the right one, the one they usually took, but Vincent had stopped.

"The tunnel just ahead. Catherine. It can lead us eventually to the park, but the route would be circuitous, time-consuming. To choose that way would be to delay your departure unnecessarily."

"Is that right?" she said, as countless little bubbles of joy began fizzing through her veins. "Well, it just so happens, I have a strange craving for unnecessary delays. Do you mind?"

The golden head dipped in a slight bow. "You are my guest here, Catherine. How can I be so impolite as to ignore your wishes?""

"How indeed?" she laughed, hugging his arm in delight.

They strolled slowly, contentedly onward, their soft conversation jumping from one subject to another with perfect ease, and she thought of a dream she'd had the night they'd spent together. The wonderful warmth of pleasure just walking with him, her hand in his, had come to vibrant life, though here the scenery they passed through was all variations on the tunnel world. There were no surrealistic shifts to sunlight and city streets, but she thought now those dream images had been telling her that it wouldn't matter where they were; the feeling would stay the same -- that this was completeness. This was happiness.

On winding through a short passageway, she was surprised to find that they were facing the Whispering Gallery with its rather intimidating bridge.

His look was a question, and she nodded eagerly in response. "I'd love to hear the voices."

He preceded her out onto the none too trustworthy looking planks, but if he was confident they would hold his greater weight, there seemed little need to fear the consequences of her own light steps. He looked upward, as if homing in on the optimum spot to catch the erratic communications from the world above. When he'd found it, he turned and brought her into his arms, letting his reassuring strength compensate for the breathless drop before them and the ominous creaking of the structure on which they stood.

For a moment there was nothing. Then the wind changed, and they were listening to men's voices, raucous and bantering, interspersed with the muffled sounds of a crowd cheering.

"I think they're watching a game on television." she whispered. The voices grew less distinct, replaced by the whine of a vacuum cleaner and then the twangy sound of country music. A woman called to someone named Carl to be careful or the dog would get out. In the period of silence that followed it was at last possible to hear the soft giggle of a child. She raised her eyes to see if he had noticed, and he smiled.

"It's wonderful, Vincent," she breathed, careful not to speak above the other voices that wandered here.

"Yes." The whispered conversation had brought his face close to hers, and as she gazed into his eyes, indulging her unquenchable thirst for those, clear, blue depths, it occurred to her for the first time that he must find a similar pleasure in looking into hers. What could he see there that could possibly equal the fascinating expressiveness, the sheer haunting beauty of his? Perhaps these moments when they stood immobilized, caught in the spell of openly gazing at each other. were a chance for their bond to rejuvenate, made even more powerful by the reflections of itself, like two mirrors casting an infinite series of images, endless and full of light.

"I adore you," she heard her own voice whisper. An odd choice of words, one she'd never thought to use, yet hearing them, she knew them to be true and moved first to brush her lips softly across his.

He responded with his own gentle nuzzling, his hand moving to caress the hair around her ear. The instant sensation of sinking into fathomless depths, soaring to dizzying heights left her uncertain -- and uncaring -- whether the swell of music surrounding them, the full-bodied sound of a symphony, was part of the gallery's random repertoire or that other music waiting to be found.

He continued his tender assault -- small kisses teasing at the corners of her mouth, never allowed to deepen, to stray overtly into the realm where the fires burned, waiting to consume them. It scarcely mattered. The languid tracing of her lips by his own. the provocative sensuality that seemed to emanate from him like a palpable force, even the moment when he paused, his mouth touching hers only lightly, not moving, sent desire thundering through her with a force that no more blatant technique for arousing a woman could have equaled.

She knew he sensed this. He had to. But it was not her submission he sought. Nor was he purposely tantalizing her at no cost to himself. The same exquisite torment that coursed through her veins beat in his blood as well. Rather. she thought, he was reassuring himself of his control. Taking them both temptingly close to the flame, confirming that they could enjoy its warmth, revel in its light, without being burned. Gratefully, she welcomed the experiment, hoping he would find it necessary to continue it at length before drawing any conclusion. Steps on a journey. Steps whose volatile magic brought such rapture that their elusive destination seemed momentarily irrelevant.

He stroked her hair and moved to kiss the single remaining scar at her temple, a symbol to them both. The insistent drumming of New Wave music wrapped around them, courtesy of the capricious wind, a song she'd heard on the car radio, and as he finally took her mouth in a full kiss, the strange lyrics swam through her heightened senses on a tide of passion: It's a matter of lust. It's a matter of trust. It's a matter of not letting what we've built up crumble to dust. So that when he released her she murmured nonsensically, "Depeche Mode.'

"What?"

Her eyes fluttered open. "Oh... that . , . that's the name of the group playing the song." She blushed, knowing she sounded delirious. "Vincent, I honestly don't think you need to worry about control. You seem to have an amazing amount of it."

He pulled her close, his hand caressing the back of her neck. "Does that trouble you?"

"No. I'm just in awe of it. I've never had so little myself."

"What we share -- these moments together -- are the sweetest pleasure I have ever known. I want to savor them, Catherine. To know them fully and rejoice in them for their own sake."

"So do I." She hugged him tighter, struck by two words he had spoken -- words she had seldom heard him use and doubted he was conscious of saying: "I want." Yes, Vincent, feel free to want, feel free to say so. You have every right. She reached up and kissed his chin, while somewhere above a man and woman argued over who would pick up the dry cleaning.

"Some people have such simple problems," she smiled.

"To them it may seem insurmountable."

"Well then, maybe some problems that seem insurmountable will turn out to have very simple solutions."

"Perhaps." The expression in his eyes threatened her dwindling supply of self-restraint, and as if aware of that, he dropped his gaze.

"Heavy showers are expected tonight," a disembodied voice informed them.

He shrugged, smiling. "We should get you back -- before the rain begins."

She nodded reluctantly, and he guided her from the bridge and through a short series of tunnels that brought them to the Central Park culvert in only minutes. Was this the route he had planned to take before they'd heard the ghostly weather report?

"I'm not afraid of a little rain, you know."

"Yes, I do know that."

The gleam in his eyes told her he was remembering the rained out concert they had enjoyed together: her exuberance at the sudden cloudburst, and his smile -- oh, how he had smiled. "There's a concert Friday, as a matter of fact," she hinted, "if you don't think you'll be too busy."

"Too busy to listen to the music? No, I'll find the time, but perhaps you should bring your umbrella."

"And miss the pleasure of getting you all wet?"

"There are other kinds of pleasure, Catherine -- waiting for us."

If she thought she'd taken the advantage in this conversation by teasing him, he neatly pulled it out from under her with that one quiet statement. Surely, the seductive tone could not be unconscious or her own wishful interpretation. It seemed he was picking up the unfamiliar art of flirting with the same quickness he brought to every new endeavor.

"You can't get away with saying things like that, Vincent -- not without paying the consequences."

She took his face in her hands and deliberately kissed him full on the mouth, expecting him to be startled, to pull back, or at least to be too taken off guard to respond. Instead, he pulled her tightly against him and finished what she'd started with an uninhibited thoroughness that left her knees shaking.

"Tell me," he whispered into her hair, "was that payment enough?"

She pulled back, blinking up at him. This time she was sure his innocence was feigned. "Oh. yes, that will do nicely," she said, laughing shakily.

Her unsteadiness, instead of making him smug, stirred an expression very like remorse in
the clear azure, and he folded her to him with infinite tenderness, as though to protect her from the tumult he had caused. While he had mastered easily the game of sexual provocation, she realized he wasn't entirely comfortable with winning it, that his inexperience and self-denial had left him feeling guilty for having toyed with her emotions.

"How could I object to a kiss like that, Vincent? Never. But if you're really trying to get me to go home, you're going about it the wrong way." In fact, she feared if he could manage to peel her off him, she might end up in a heap on the concrete floor.

He glanced out at the midnight shrouded park, aware again of the circumstances, "It hasn't begun to rain, but you should hurry." Taking her hand from his shoulder, he kissed it lightly. "I'm with you, Catherine. Know that."

"I do," she whispered, loving him with her eyes, letting the crush of emotions rising from every part of her, follow the unerring course of the bond to his heart. With an effort she tore herself away, not daring to look back and plunged into the night shadows, unafraid and invincible.