Excerpt:


Catherine looks at her husband, holds his gaze in spite of his desire to flick away, alight on the soft-petalled rose in the centre of the table. His wine glass is trembling as if assailed by a wind. He has gone further than he meant to. Catherine folds her napkin, places the bottle of claret and the rose on the floor, slips off her stilettos, and is herself the centerpiece of the table in a movement so swift and sure Richard has no difficulty in persuading himself he is dreaming.

Gasping for air, he pushes back his chair. A woman mountain surges above him, an Amazon, except her face is not in the least vengeful. It is calm. She appears to be listening.

All sounds, even the muted fleshy sounds of food being chewed and tucked away down throats, have ceased. The Amadeus restaurant is preparing for disaster. Knives and forks and glasses smeared with lipstick, are tabled; napkins have patted lips, shoulders are squared and mouths are slightly open as if ready to inhale great gouts of oxygen. A frisson of expectancy animates the dining room.

Over Catherine’s belly, the orange silk of her gown flutters, eddies, spirals into a vortex. Her belly is whirling and pulsating drawing all eyes, thoughts and feelings into the frank gut life of her woman’s body. Her hips undulate, her arms twine like coupling snakes, her toes, fluid as a cat’s, stretch and flex on the white tablecloth.

Richard can hear a ripe rope of sound, an undulating line of melody issuing from her belly coiling up and around her head, twirling like incense among the diners; a sound both rich and plaintive, the questing sound of spirit made flesh. He sees it trailing among the adobe houses, rounded like breasts, and the pink limestone mountains of Turkey and what was once Persia. He sees it drifting off into the echoing reaches of the great sandy deserts and up to weave its warmth among the cold and brilliant stars. His heart aches. He yearns….