A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor

but Dikta was fast in and out of her urge. He felt exhilarated and aroused again at the sight of her water-sleek body whenshe lathered herself and with self-indulgence ran her hands on breasts, thighs and knees. He longingly wondered how her tight belly would grow to hold a child of his blood. By next Christmas, why not? It made him dizzy to consider it may have happened even now, by what translucent moisture had raced from him into her. So quickly, so quickly. The latency of life in his precarious self made all dangers to it bearable, even irrelevant: and she was precious many times over.
    He watched her. The silence outside of the room was only broken by the rhythmic step and singing of the SS column daily marching for its training up from Via Rasella.
    Emerging as from a warm rain, Benedikta gathered her hair to squeeze out its excess moisture. “Get ready, Martin, won’t you?”
    As they drove out to the restaurant – she did not want Italian food, so they drove to the Corso for Hungarian fare – he could think of nothing else. When a young pregnant woman walked in the restaurant he blushed hard, though his wife did not notice.
    By mid-afternoon they were back at the hotel. Benedikta joked that he should look at her less and eat more. From the suitcase open on the bed she began to take out her clothes, with little buffs of the hands smoothing them and placing them aside. Her perfume rose at each unfolding, as if her motions were scent itself. “Thanks for the beautiful roses,” she said. “And for coming to the station.”
    “How could you think I wouldn’t be there?”
    She smiled after a moment of silent arraying of clothes. “Well, considering... But I’m glad you didn’t mention it at all while we were out, Martin.”
    “Didn’t mention what?” he asked, conscious that she might speak of children, or lovemaking. He lit a cigarette for her, stretching it to her across the bed. “I believe we’re both thinking of it.”
    “But you’re so stoic. It’s wonderful how you take adversity.”
    “Oh, that. I have little choice in the matter, Dikta.”
    She took a drag, and then balanced the cigarette on the ashtray’s rim. When she leaned over the suitcase, her torso bloomed in a desirable curve under the blouse. “What I mean is that you’re not angry with me.”
    “Why should I be?”
    This time she looked up from the clothes. Her eyelids fluttered, although she still smiled. “Well, considering what I wrote to you, of course.”
    Bora felt a thin line of discomfort stretch within him, unwarranted yet but noxious. Arousal decreased sharply with it; a state of warning took its place. He said, “I was reassigned suddenly; my last mail hasn’t been forwarded. I don’t necessarily know what you mean.”
    The brightness of the dress she was holding crumpled like a bird in her hand. “Oh, Martin.” She slowly sat on the bed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t read it!”
    “What is it, what did you write to me?”
    “You don’t even know why I’m here, then.”
    A nervous smothering of her cigarette in the ashtray was all that passed before she spoke to Bora again, eyes averted. The room shrank before him as if she were the only thing of notice in it, the most disquieting and terrible one. She dealt him the blow quickly. “I petitioned the Vatican for an annulment. It’s almost certain that it will go through, and I understand how you must feel, but there is no point arguing over it.”
    Bora had no need to convince himself that he had heard right: he knew he had.
    “ Oh Christ. ”
    She glanced his way, less apologetic. “Of course I know Catholics don’t divorce, so I thought that since you’re Catholic, this really leaves you free to marry again. I did it for you, Martin. I could have done otherwise, but I was thoughtful, and it’s for the best. And anyway, it’s your nature to get over things. You’ll get over this. You simply will.” Because he did not approach the bed, she cowardly