Read Online The Book of Revelation by Rupert Thomson - Free Book Online

it only happened sporadically, and often took him by surprise, making him jump. Oddly enough, about halfway through the banquet, he fell asleep. Maybe he was lulled by the darkness inside his hood, or maybe it was the effect of listening to three conversations at the same time, none of which he fully understood.
    A smell woke him. The heavy, sickly scent of marijuana. One of the American men was talking—in English, this time.
    “So tell me,” the American said. “What’s for dessert?”
    Somebody chuckled. Glasses chinked.
    Astrid spoke next. “It’s a surprise. Can you guess?”
    “Well, as far as I can see,” the American said, “there’s only one thing left on the table. . . .”
    This was obviously very witty because everybody burst out laughing. But, as soon as the laughter had died down, a silence descended, the silence of anticipation, soft and dense as velvet.
    Inside the hood he could hear his blood humming.
    A warm and slightly oily hand reached between his thighs. Was it the same person, or another, who then grasped his penis, which was already, for some reason, half erect, and put it in their mouth?
    He gasped.
    Just then he felt a hand on his upper arm. It was one of the women, he was sure. Though her touch was subtle—perhaps it even went unnoticed by the others—he knew it was a reminder, a warning. At the same time she was telling him that he should relax. Let things take their course.
    Remember, not a word from you. Not a sound .
    His chest expanded as he took air deep into his lungs. A pool of fluid slid out of a hollow where it had been resting and trickled sideways across his ribs.
    Meanwhile the guests were taking turns with him, it seemed. Some were rough, almost greedy. The prickle of a beard, an unshaven chin. The grazing of a tooth. Others were reverential. Delicate. A touching that was on the edge of touching. He found himself thinking of a butterfly alighting on a leaf. That almost negligible weight.
    And then, when it took off again, he followed it, past huge garish blurs of colour that were flowers, up into the air, where it was buffeted by the smallest gust of wind, its wings fluttering gamely. . . .
    •
    When the women finally removed his hood, the lighting in the tent was dim and intimate, just candles, most of which had burned down low. Even so, after the hours he had spent in total darkness, he found it difficult to see at first. Through half-closed eyes he stared down at himself. Blackened strands of salad clung to his legs, almost translucent, like seaweed, and empty clam shells tangled in his pubic hair. His whole body was stained with sauces, juices, traces of saliva. He looked like a piece of wreckage that had washed up on an unknown shore. Curiously, he ached too, as if he had been thrown about by waves.
    Gertrude was leaning against the wall to his right, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Her head was covered with a conical black hood, and a bracelet of beaten silver gripped her upper arm. Otherwise she was naked. The candle-flames sent lascivious tongues of shadow flickering across her skin. It was the first time he had been allowed a glimpse of her. She was solid, but slim. Her shoulders were the same width as her hips. She had no waist. Though her breasts were oddly elongated, they did not interfere with the impression her body gave of spareness and economy. She reminded him of the Ancient Greek statues that hold up the roofs of temples—the caryatids—and this was something he could not have predicted. From the way she moved when she was wearing clothes, he had expected her to be much heavier, more fleshy. On his left was Astrid. She was lying on her side on a heap of lavish cushions, her head supported by one hand. She was also naked, her face concealed by a matt-black rubber mask that he recognised from the night of her assault on him. She was smoking a cigarette. On the middle finger of her left hand she was wearing a ring that had several inch-long