'Sibyl Sybárites, that is my name. Others may describe me in other ways, but that is my name, Sibyl Sybárites. My husband, he was a Greek shipping magnate that attracted money, money superabundantly; it is what attracted me, I admit it; I don’t care; you think what you like. I and my husband, we live in the
Kikládhes, it is close enough; I live, he lived; it was his heart, he died of an attack of the heart. I never had a man die on me—galvanic.

'Appetites are for the abstinent, mine is an abstinent style of life; abstinence, it is how I relish my appetites. Daily appetites, I have one for each day, and days for more than one. Appetites, my appetites, I caress and nurture them, I manage them with my will. My will is strong. My appetites stronger.

'Come! Come! It is the hour before dawn; I must rise; I must be alert; I must be ready—a shower. . . . Look. You see my body, it is still firm for its fifty years and to it these birdseye cloth towels of the best Egyptian cotton are of sensuous touch; this kaftan of the thinnest silk of comfortable caress. Go to the terrace, I will meet you from the kitchen.

'Here. Sit. Sit, the sun will be up in a moment. Wait for the sun, wait for it. Now. Now, eat the olives, drink the ouzo; be quiet, enjoy the spectacle. . . .'

She sat, alert to the world; the sun began its ascent; she began to eat and sip, and by the time the sun was a handsbreadth above the horizon the olives were gone, the bottle ebbed, and the dawning day engrossed by Sibyl.

'No go, boy, begone until next time.'

♥ ♥ ♥

Standing, she arched her body, thrust back her shoulders and linked the fingers of her hands behind. Raising herself onto tip-toes, Sibyl cast back her head, and, gradually releasing the tension, groaned and began her walk. She walked into the orchards of widely spaced trees, feeling the sun warm through her silks now diaphanous, now opaque.

Climbing the steps to the terrace, the biscuit coloured skin of Sibyl's slightly mongol face was flushed, her face haloed by naturally curly hair still jet like her eyes, eyes lit by a predatory gleam. In her kitchen, she poured cool water from an earthenware jar and drank deeply, slowly, the relentless muscles and tendons of her neck working, working; she lowered her glass; her stertorous sigh released a tremor through her body—her thirst vanquished.

While preheating the oven moderately hot, Sibyl combined a half-cup of water and four tablespoons of butter in a saucepan, bringing them to the boil. As soon as she removed the pan from the heat, she added the half-cup of flour and began stirring the whole with a wooden spoon, making vigorous swoops and swirls with the spoon, the automatic movement of the practiced chef. Sibyl glanced out of the kitchen window open to the bright day, the sun high overhead, across the tops of the fruit trees to the distant blue, sparkling of the sea.

'Today, it is good, very good!'

Returning the pan to moderate stove-top heat, she stirred the mixture constantly. A cooling breeze penetrated the thin silk of her kaftan, the lightest of touches shivered her callipygous flesh and raised her papillae. At last, the dough left the sides of the pan and formed a ball. Sibyl removed the pan from the heat and let it cool, stepping out onto the balcony the while to reabsorb the day and another glass of water. A brightly coloured Yellow Hammer, the male, landed on the coping of the stone balustrade, gave a brief call, and,
catching sight of Sibyl, flew off to safer territory. She returned to the kitchen, took up the pan and cracked in an egg, beating the mixture unmercifully until the dough smoothed out; a second egg and another violent assault, the dough cringed to a glabrous texture. Sibyl placed a dozen, large tablespoons of dough onto an ungreased baking sheet, a baker’s dozen, these she baked to a golden brown.

'Ah! That boy! His skin, his colour!'

Pausing, she ran the tip of her tongue across the inside of her upper lip. Yesterday’s boy had been particularly well-made, in his first flush of vigorous manhood—ripe—zestful. Sibyl Sybárites left the choux to cool on a wire rack.

Lunch this day was potato, large, baked, split, on shredded lettuce and greens, filled with cheese and sour cream, topped with cress and fresh tomato. Sibyl ate slowly, savouring each mouthful with great care, easing her digestion with swallows of cool water, between each mouthful of the farrago. Light lunching was part of her meticulous living of each day. A way of enhancing her future pleasures with present restraint, her abstinence. Starch and green vegetable matter to bulk her stool, to stimulate peristalsis, to bring her diurnal rhythms to concert pitch. A last mouthful followed by a last glass of water and the post prandial nap.

Yoga to revivify herself for the afternoon hours, she combined the Bhakti and Hatha systems. Sibyl followed the Bhakti path of love and devotion to a personal God, and the Hatha system she practiced for the physical control and postures necessary to keep the temple housing her personal God in sleek repair.

Long past its zenith. The sun was making its way down to the Western horizon. Now limber again, Sibyl returned to the kitchen. Taking each chou in turn, she lopped off the top and scooped out the inside. Double cream she prepared and lashed to a frothy thickness. Bitter chocolate she made into a thick sauce. Each chou she stuffed with cream, replaced the top, drizzling chocolate sauce onto each. On a silver platter, she arranged the profiteroles, the thirteenth she noticed and took particular care to place apart, slightly, from the round-dozen.

Grinding dark roasted beans of Arabian coffee, she made the drink strong and black. Sibyl carried the profiteroles, coffee, cup, saucer, and plate on a tray to the table, by the French doors of the library that open to the West. As the sun began to set, she ate and drank, ate and drank, watching the sun, glancing at the thirteenth profiterole; she drank and ate, drank and ate. Sibyl paused. . . .

'It remind me of that boy, his chou, this chou. . . .'

In one swift movement Sibyl Sybárites swept the thirteenth profiterole into her mouth and mashed it, chewed, her neck muscles worked; she flicked her red tongue out recapturing the cream escaping down her chin from the corner of her mouth. She relaxed into the embrace of her chaise longue and belched, loud, long—the sun set.

Woken by the violence of her borborygmi, Sibyl made ready for her penultimate pleasure of the day. On the way to the bathroom, she passed the glass case containing the Meerschaum Man, muscular, bearded, tanned, crouching, with a rampant amber stem.

'Tomorrow, it is your turn. I savour you with latakia and macedonian leaf.'

Seated, her rectum stretched; she sat upright, stretched her arms and shoulders; making the Lion's Face, her anus opened, at which instant her yelp filled the room, the yelp of a hyena. Outside, bushes rustled as a nocturnal creature made its escape. Sibyl relaxed, stepped into the hot shower. . . .

Dried, powdered, Sibyl Sybárites slipped between the maroon satin sheets of her bed to sleep.