The Pleasure Garden

The scene was visceral, and more than a little surreal. The murmurs and sighs reverberating across the greenhouse. The nude bodies, covered by thin, translucent veils, entangled in each other’s arms. Heads and hips bobbing in the dim candlelight.

The smell of incense. The tiger skin rugs.

And the mirrors. Oh my God, the mirrors.

But the worst thing was the one lonesome man, watching. Waiting patiently in the wings, hoping for some sloppy seconds.

“What did I just read??” I thought to myself, blushing as I slammed my laptop shut. “I am such a prude.”

It was like something out of Eyes Wide Shut, but exclusively for women. And set in Italy... before the radio was invented. It had the excesses of The Great Gatsby and the Italian allure of The Talented Mr. Ripley.

“Who are these people?” I think I said out loud. It wasn’t my type of literature, but the appeal was intoxicating. I mean, who would resist a hundred-year-old literary cold case?

Oh? Everyone?

I guess it’s just me then.

*Excerpted from my manuscript, Quasi Virile: The Duplicitous Life of Nada Peretti. Based on the fifth chapter of L'Eredita di Saffo: Il Giardino del Piacere (The Pleasure Garden).