The Velvet Hours by Alyson Richman Read Free Book Online

always high,” he replied.
    But she wanted them desperately, and knew she would have paid any price he asked.
    *   *   *
    She carried her package home, each print carefully wrapped in several layers of rice paper and slipped into a stiff portfolio tied with a purple silk cord.
    That afternoon, when she was in the privacy of her bedroom, she withdrew them and gazed at the images for clues of giving Charles pleasure that she might not otherwise have known.
    She looked at the women with their broad faces, their black hair plaited with tortoiseshell combs, their robes open and their bodies welcoming their lovers’ touch. As if studying a dance, she scrutinized the way their bodies entwined, their fingers grasped, discerning what they revealed and what they kept hidden.
    She also noticed the sparseness of the rooms depicted in the prints. Paper screens and sliding doors. There was no evidence of a bed, just a floor with the sculpture of interlaced limbs. But it was the unabashed rapture in the lovers’ expressions that fascinated her. Another world had opened for Marthe, and she was curious for more.
    *   *   *
    Every week thereafter, she would pay Ichiro a visit, never once asking to be taken to the back room.
    She would instead merely admire the ceramics he displayed up front, her gloved finger caressing the pieces on the shelves. Ichiro, however, would remain firmly in place, his hands clasped in front,his eyes firmly weighted on her. He could sense her anticipation, her yearning to be invited behind the curtain. But still he waited, holding her off in order to increase her anticipation, before he finally relinquished and motioned for her to follow him inside.
    Her eyes would come alive in the darkness of his storeroom as he withdrew a few more of the prints she had come to secretly enjoy.
    â€œI have a rare print from
The Poem of the Pillow
series,” he told her. The name itself was so evocative, Marthe felt a tingle run through her spine.
    When Ichiro revealed the images, she was immediately struck by the calligraphic lines, the soft rendering of color added to the folds of the lover’s robe, pulled up to reveal the soft contour of her thigh. The intimacy of the scene thrilled her. The woman’s exposed neck, her slender fingers threading those of her lover’s, the pressure of her hands revealing her delight.
    â€œAnd I have something else to show you,” he whispered. He removed the print he had just shown her and placed it back in a portfolio, returning it to a drawer in his desk.
    He then reached for a small wooden and paper scroll on the shelf beside him and placed it on the desktop between them.
    â€œThis is from the seventeenth century. It belonged to a Samurai family for many generations . . .” Ichiro’s hands grasped the ends of small wooden handles and began to carefully unroll the scroll.
    The images were hand painted on the rice paper, the artist’s sweeping black lines enhanced with dabs of brightly colored paint. The figures had their eyelids closed, their mouths joined in a kiss.
    â€œLovers in a bamboo grove,” Ichiro told her. His finger pointed to the man and woman embracing in a garden of stiff bamboo and lush green leaves.
    The scenes continued to unfurl in front of her. The rapture and joy discovered in the lovers’ various poses made her flush.
    When they had finished gazing at the scroll, Ichiro rolled it closedand tied it with a string. “A hand scroll like this was once kept in the sleeve of a robe, to be pulled out and looked upon when one needed a little viewing of pleasure during the day.”
    â€œHow perfectly civilized,” Marthe said, clearly amused.
    â€œI’ll take both the print and the scroll.” She pulled down the cuffs of her sleeve. She smiled at Ichiro. “It’s too bad, it can’t fit.”
    *   *   *
    She wondered if Charles could sense