The Devil Tree Read Free Page B

swimming pool. Otherwise, we would be alone.
    I helped Mrs. Llewellyn ready her car for the trip, and she left the following day. From her terrace Barbara and I watched the ships in the harbor and the yachts criss-crossing the bay.
    In bed that night, Barbara said, “It would be nice to own this house. We could live here, smoke our pipes, and not be bothered by anyone.”
    “I could easily get rid of Mrs. Llewellyn,” I said.
    “What do you mean?”
    I shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. She’s old and alone. No relatives, hardly any friends. And since she travels once in a while, no one would notice if she failed to come back.”
    Barbara laughed. “Don’t be silly. This isn’t a Hollywood horror movie. Go to sleep.”
    Later I tried to make love to her, but even though she had smoked a pipe shortly before we had gone to bed, she didn’t respond.
    The day Mrs. Llewellyn was expected back we waited up past midnight, but when she hadn’t arrived by one we went to bed. An hour later we were awakened by the sound of a car. I told Barbara to go back to sleep; that I would help the old lady with her luggage.
    When I awoke in the morning, Barbara was already up and dressed. “Where is Mrs. Llewellyn?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. She’s not back yet.”
    “But we heard her come home last night, and you said you were going to help her. Now she’s not in her room, and her car isn’t here.”
    “I told you she hasn’t come back,” I insisted. “We heard someone else’s car, that’s all.”
    She became angry. “Stop playing games. Where is Mrs. Llewellyn?”
    “I suppose she’s somewhere. Everybody is. If I were you,” I said deliberately, “I wouldn’t bother about her anymore. No one will notice if she doesn’t come back. The place is ours now.”
    Barbara stormed out of the house, slamming the front door. Through the bedroom window I watched her examining the unpaved driveway for car tracks and searching the adjoining garden. She came back, visibly upset, asking, “Where is she? What did you do to her, Jonathan?”
    “Stop it. Let’s go swimming,” I said calmly.
    Barbara put her hands on my shoulders. “What have you done to her?” she asked.
    “Please, forget it,” I said, pulling her toward me and kissing the inside of her ear.
    She pushed me gently toward the bed.
    “How did you—? Was it. . . was it quick?” she whispered. “What if they find the body?”
    “Stop talking about her. This isn’t a Hollywood horror movie.”
    “If I’d known you meant it, I never would have—”
    “Let’s go swimming,” I said.
    When we came out of the pool, naked, and I pointed to the cabana, Barbara followed me inside. Impatient, she threw some pool towels on the floor and lay down on them, her legs spread apart, her arms held up to me. I went down on my knees, my hands rubbing her thighs, searching her flesh. She was in a frenzy, trembling and shaking, her movements quickening as, urging me to take her, she arched off the floor, then fell back, then arched again.
    “Don’t—don’t be gentle,” she moaned. “Please be rough, Jonathan.” For the first time in our lovemaking she was abandoned, no longer suppressing the desire that opium had heightened, probing my body, eager to feel me hardened. Thrashing under me, she yanked my hair, reached for my groin, tightened her grip on my flesh, bit my shoulder. Her orgasms came one after another, and she went limp and calmed down only after I reached mine.
    No longer expecting to be interrupted by the return of Mrs. Llewellyn, we became comfortable hermits, for whom smoking opium was not a routine of slavery but a ritual corresponding to the rhythm of our life.
    We smoked two pipes in the morning, one at midday, two in the afternoon, one in the early evening, and two or three at night, sleeping, eating, and playing with each other in between. We were attended to by two sons of my opium dealer, and these boys prepared our pipes, lit the lamps, and