Other Earths (collection)

“I suppose that’s where I would leave you,” she said. “Assuming you deem me suitable.” Her mouth thinned. “I probably shouldn’t put this out there, because whenever I show enthusiasm, you become reticent. But this is so wonderful.” Lucy’s gesture embraced the world as seen from the deck of the Undine. “In order to get rid of me, you may have to throw me overboard.” She sat forward in the deck chair. “What are you thinking about?”

I saw no reason to delay—the prospect of spending another day at the Sekong was not an engaging one. “Welcome aboard,” I said.

“Oh, gosh!” She pushed up from the chair and gave me a peck on the lips. “That’s marvelous. Thanks so much.”

We went inside, and I showed her the shower, the galley, and the king-size bed; then I left her to wash up and stood looking out over the river, listening to the loopy cries of lizards, alerted now and again by the plop of a fish. Night had swallowed all but the lights on the shore, and I could no longer make out Lan in the bow. Deng sat on the roof, legs dangling, reading a comic by lantern light. I felt on the brink of something ineluctable and strange, and I suspected it had to do more with Lucy than with the voyage. Kim’s caution notwithstanding, I anticipated losing a piece of my soul to this forthright, tomboyish, opium woman. When I went back down, I found her on the bed, her legs stretched out, toweling her hair, wearing only a pair of panties. It looked as if two-thirds of her length were in her legs. Bikini lines demarked her small, pale breasts. A brass box of some antiquity rested on the sheets beside her.

She came out from beneath the towel and caught me staring. “I know,” she said. “I’m revoltingly thin. I look better when I’ve put on five or six pounds, but I can’t keep weight on when I’m traveling.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” I said. “You look great. Beautiful.”

“I’m scarcely beautiful, but I do have good legs. At least so I’ve been told.” She stared at her legs, pursed her lips as if reappraising them; then she said, “I came all the way from Vientiane today, and I’m exhausted. So if you don’t mind, I’ll indulge my filthy habit earlier than usual this evening.” She patted the box. “It’s awfully bright in here. Can something be done?”

I joined her on the bed, switched on a reading lamp, and cut the overheads.

“Much better,” she said.

She opened the box, removed a long pipe of wood and brass, and unwrapped yellowish paper from a pressed cake of black opium.

“I’ll be completely useless once I’ve smoked,” she said. “However, you may touch me if you like. I enjoy being touched when I’m high.”

I asked if she would be aware of what was going on. “Mmm-hmm. I may act as though I’m not, but I know.”

“Where do you like to be touched?”

“Wherever you wish. My breasts, my ass.” She glanced up from her preparations. “My pussy. Go lightly there, if you will. Too much stimulation confuses things in here.” She tapped her temple.

She pinched off a fragment of opium and began rolling it into a pellet, frowning in concentration; her hands and wrists were fully illuminated, but the rest of her body was sheathed in dimness; she might have been a trim young witch up to no good purpose, drenched in the shadow cast by her spell, preparing a special poison that required a measure of light for efficacy. She plumped the pillows, making a nest, and lay on her side.

“Kiss, please,” she said.

Her lips parted and her tongue flirted with mine. She settled into the pillows and lit the pipe, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked in smoke. She relit the pipe three times, and after the last time, she could barely hold it. After watching her drowse a minute, I stripped off my clothes and lay facing her, caressing her hip, tasting the chewy plug of a nipple. Her eyes were slitted, and I couldn’t tell if she was focusing on me, yet when my erection prodded her thigh, she made an approving noise. I slipped a hand under her panties, rested the heel of it on her pubic bone, thatched with dark hair, and let the weight of one finger come down onto her labia. The intimacy of the touch seemed to distress her, so I reluctantly withdrew the finger, but I continued to touch her intimately. Holding her that way became torture.

“Lucy?” I whispered.

She didn’t appear to be at home. Her breathing was shallow; a faint sheen of sweat polished her brow. I had no choice but to relieve the torment as best I could.