Fragrances were even heavier as they walked, hand in hand, along quiet gardens in this part of the old town. And each such paradisiac garden had a pretty whitish house to show. The spirit of summer evening was lowering like a veil over the fairy-tale street in the old Jewish quarter. So ethereal a veil it made the sky so present, like a benevolent witness.
“We’re here,” Marcus announced.
“This beautiful one, with the sculptured wood portal.”
She sounded somewhat pleasantly surprised, which invited Marcus’s introductory pitch. Upon second thoughts, he altered it slightly, made it softer. “A little princess once lived here. She was the princess of her father, who built this house for her.”
“Was he rich?”
“The richest banker in town.”
“Then why didn’t he build a bigger house, like a two-bedroomed one, for instance?”
“See the adjacent building? That was the main part. This was just a separate wing.”
“I see… Perhaps the servants’ quarter. I’ve learnt from my father about these old houses.”
. . .
“Stay here, don’t move,” he said and crossed the room to turn the light on. Rejoining Estera, Marcus plastered his whole frame to her back, coiled his arms around her shoulders, placed his palms on her chest, and directed her body a few steps away, together with his. First backwards, then to the side, until they came to face the mirror.
Although she was tense, Marcus knew he had won her over. Any stiffness there was receded, little by little. And now her well-rounded face, so preciously fresh, big-eyed, plump-lipped, and that dark brown lush hair, this whole beautiful package, man, so true, was facing him in the tall mirror, between his arms. This young woman, Estera, was throbbing between his sinewy limbs, throbbing against his chest, throbbing a wealth of female buttocks against his manhood of steel.
Marcus closed his eyes and crashed her warm female construction harder against his frame. He did not care now about her looks, or the look in her eyes. Es-terra, he thought. “Es-terra,” he said out loud. “Esta es tierra mia,” he repeated and renewed his embrace, still harder. She felt like cemented in him. Now, that was terrapy.
“Wait,” she said feebly. “You’re hurting me,” she insisted.
But Estera had to enjoy that embrace. Marcus would not have her play any stupid game of female pretense. Not with him. She should stay real. Eyes still shut, his head resounded of Nina’s melody on his mobile — so fakely Cuban, as Nina deserved. It was him who had chosen that ring tone, so appropriately Nina-like.
Marcus was now raking his brain for anything Cuban to choose for Estera’s calls. Nothing came. Her body was threshing against his, wriggling, just like to Cuban moderate wild rhythms. Marcus imagined what he loved most about her was the large hips, the hard fleshy halves of her bottom, undulating now and pulsing with raw life, hammering, quivering.
“Es tierra mia,” he whispered into her ear. “Tierra del Fuego,” he continued in a stentorian voice.
At hearing this, Estera burst out in a wild fit of laughter.
Wild, Marcus thought, yet so genuine, so sincere. The girl must have found a good reason for that. Estera was a natural, hard-core woman, as true and dependable as a plot of land. She was both tierra and fuego, everything a man needed to feel secure and thrive.
He loosened her up. “What have I said to make you laugh, dear Estera?”
“The way you talk…”
The girl could barely talk herself, as she couldn’t stop laughing. Marcus let go of her body completely. Looking at her, and at him, in the mirror, he asked, “What’s funny about it?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, to laugh, I mean, please―”
“Estera, stop. I’m not mad at you or anything, it’s just that I value everything you do, or say. You surely act as you do for good reason. For me, you are the reasonable woman, understand?”
“Tierra and fuego, come on, what’s got into you?”
“What’s tierra and fuego?”
“You don’t know? I’ve seen you know a whole lot of things.”
“I know tierra, know fuego, I know Tierra del Fuego, but where do I come in this picture?”
“That, I’ll show it to you when the right time arrives. Guess it’s not now.”
“Marcus, you could make a good writer, maybe a poet. I’m serious.”
“I know you are serious. Otherwise I wouldn’t have invited you here. I think highly of you, each minute more.”
“You could just as well say my name.”
“Alright, thank you, Marcus.”
“Estera, you’ve made my day.”
“And you, my night.”