Chapter 18. The Scent of Peonies, Valve Oil, and Female Desire
Four Months in May Part III
PART III
The Scent of Peonies, Valve Oil, and Female Desire
It was the smell of coffee that woke up Chipman. He fluttered his eyes open and memories of the night before flooded his mind. He felt a weight on his side of bed and turned to see Joanni, looking fresh and fully dressed, sitting next to him. She handed him a regulation paper cup of coffee, but the liquid inside smelled home brewed.
“You’re on duty shortly, Captain. Rise and shine.”
He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “What time is it?”
“Just about 0:700.”
“Why are you up?”
“I have a meeting in an hour. I’m going to go down and eat some breakfast in the canteen now, and . . . let you, give you some space.”
“Not necessary.”
“I know.”
He took a sip of the coffee and nodded approvingly. “It’s good.” He put his hand on her arm, “Doing all right? Did you enjoy last night?” It was a question one would ask only when one already knew the answer. When they had returned to Joanni’s quarters after the gala, she was passionate and giving, but also a little exhausted, a little drunk, and, suddenly, a little nervous. She had needed gentle reassurance that she was all that he wanted before surrendering to him, and he had been careful to give it. Now they both basked in the afterglow that surrounded them before it began its normal fading with the morning light.
She laughed, “I did.” Then she put her face close to his and confided, “I can still feel that you were inside of me.”
At times they surprised each other with their frankness. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he only half-joked.
She whispered her answer in his ear, and they both laughed. He kissed her and was about to pull her down on the bed, but she struggled away and stood up. “No, no. I got to go, and so do you.”
Joanni was almost at the door when she turned and said, “Feel free to use the shower, but if you use my shampoo, you’ll smell like a girl.”
“Come here,” he said. He beckoned her back.
“Look, I’m not a yo-yo . . .”
He took her hand and said, quite seriously, because he wanted her to know, “You’re what I’ve always wanted.”
She answered him with a look, then turned, and left him to his own devices.
Tom Chipman was a confident man, and when he walked onto the bridge that morning, he felt a great sense of owning the world: commanding his beautiful ship with one of the best crews in the galaxy, and now with the added awareness of possibly the love of his life—for he never felt he would find such a woman or be able to commit to her—safe within its confines, still feeling the presence of his love within her. A lesser soul might have succumbed to the anxieties of having to maintain such a position, but the captain was possessed of an expansiveness of mind, and he knew enough not to fear losing it, but to do everything in his power to keep it.
The next few weeks onboard the Eridanus were busy and somewhat rough. Everyone had too much to do. There were storms and strange radiation incidents and drops in pressure to combat as well as untraveled regions of space to map. The diplomatic crew had a backlog of non-command level communications from Oreana to translate and protocols for the treaty signing to work through. Brennan at one point urged her colleagues on by observing, “If the page contains only rests and no notes, then there is no music.” Everyone just stared at her. Previously unknown illnesses took out sections of the crew and a portion of the diplomatic corps for days at a time, keeping Dr. Pissario fully occupied. No one group was ever working at one hundred percent capacity.
Sitting for hours in these working meetings did little to lighten the spirit. However, via painstaking transcription and translation of low level communications from the Oreanians, the assembled Contact Group was able to construct a somewhat workable conceptualization of the ruling body of that planet, one that was not totally palatable or comforting. One communication centered totally on the appearance of Joanni: ‘The protrusions from your mouth are disturbing to our vision.’ The Oreanians had no teeth as, apparently, their diet was exclusively liquid, and they did not fancy the look of them. ‘When performing in public, you will wear a covering to conceal.’ Another problem: ‘We have not received adequate illustration of your dorsal appendages. Please amend. But a warning: surgical amplification does not invite esteem.’
Another disturbing revelation was that the Oreanian ruling membership was exclusively female and that the number of men allowed in the landing party would be restricted to a few higher officials of the treaty-signing delegation. No nonessential personnel such as the captain, officers, or crew of the Eridanus. The Oreanians would agree to broadcast all official ceremonies so they could be viewed from onboard the ship. Joanni, the most accomplished and nuanced interpreter of the Oreanian language, understood that the utmost accurate translation for the word the Oreanians used to describe the captain of the galaxyship ISS Eridanus was “bus driver.” Eventually, the focus of the meeting would be turned over to the scientists for discussion of the soil (hardpan iron oxide, burgundy in color) and the mineral deposits of vouronium that had started the whole thing.
Joanni entered the briefing room for each of these meetings with fresh excitement for the upcoming realization of her dreams of greeting the Oreanians and graciously accepting their homage like a queen. But, their apparent arrogance and insularity grew annoying to her, and as the specialists at the table inevitably droned on and on about vouronium deposits, she found it increasingly necessary to battle her claustrophobic demons. She had other dreams: of another planet, of familiar green vegetation, of hearing the birds sing before she opened her eyes. Of how, one humid summer day long ago, she and her parents and Lillian were at a street fair in one of the open towns, and the smoky smell of barbecued chicken wafted towards them, and how she had walked through that drifting cloud of aroma and breathed it in. An aroma not manufactured, or bottled, like her perfume, but emanating from forces outside her ability to purchase.
The captain would visit Joanni’s quarters occasionally during the week, but didn’t always stay; he felt he should be in his quarters and accessible to his officers. Often they were interrupted by an intercom request or an alert, but Joanni never complained. “Is there another captain sitting somewhere on this ship that could call in? No. It’s you. So call.” It wasn’t that she was noble or self-sacrificing, but that she understood the internal balancing act the man was conducting, and she had no desire to push him over to the other side. “I’ll never argue against your duty; it serves no purpose,” she told him.
But when they did manage it, those times were sweet. She’d put the back of her hand over her mouth in an exaggerated manner on greeting him and say, “I don’t know why it is, but I always have to smile when you walk through my door.” The captain was always hungry and tired, and she enjoyed fixing little meals for him while he sat collapsed on the couch.
“Don’t you get sick of doing that? I mean, I’m not complaining . . .”
“People don’t need to bring food up to us like we’re the king and queen of Spain. I like feeding you. I sit around reading all day. I like having something active to do.”
“You should go to the gym.”
She frowned. “I do. I do go. Why? You think I should lose weight?”
He cut it short. “Stop flitting around like a moth and kiss me.” She came and sank down close beside him. “What do you need right now?” he asked her. She looked at him questioningly. “What do you need?” he repeated.
“I just need to catch my breath right now. A breath of fresh air.” She took his hand in hers and kissed it. As he leaned into her, he drank in the now familiar scent of her, a combination of her perfume, her clesig trappings, and her desire.
Image: Qualities beyond purchase. Source: “Plant Forms, an Impression Figure” by Margaret Watts Hughes, pigment on glass, date unknown. Cyfarthfa Castle Museum and Art Gallery. Public Domain.