“I come in peace,” he says. “You proved your Amazonian might in Positano.”
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” I say, putting the sword down.
“I came to help with the prognosis,” he says. “Come in, see for yourself,” I say.
“Putain de merde!” he whispers in disbelief, staring at the bed. A smile spreads across his face as he looks back at me. “How is the surgery going, doctor?” He’s teasing but not mocking. Maybe he’s not angry. I muster some gumption.
“When I put it back together it’s going to be an espresso machine,” I say. He laughs. This is encouraging. “I’m very sorry about your photos,” I say. “And, for kneeing you in the balls in Positano. And, for ripping your shirt. And, for thinking you were trying to abduct me and sell me into sex slavery back in Rome. Did I miss anything?”
“Don’t think so. But we will start a list so you can make it up to me,” he smiles.
“What?”
“Your incroyables fuck-ups? You are talented there.”
“Well you must have a good view from such a high seat,” I say. Arrogant bastard. He laughs and takes my chin with two fingers, winking at me.
That’s what I like about you Americans. You’re proud even as you fall.”
“Nobody’s falling, anywhere,” I stammer. Who does he think he is? “I take it back. I’m not sorry, for anything, you photo stealing jerk!” My hands are shaking. “Just because you get paid to take pretty, pervy photos, doesn’t mean you can take them without asking!” I don’t realize how loud my voice is.
“No, shh shh shh.” He turns and half closes the door. His voice is soft. “S’il vous plaît, ma chèrie. You are right. I am sorry for taking those photos of you without your permission,” he cedes. “But, I am not sorry I took them. They are fantastic. I have caught a fifth fountain nymph, turned from stone to precious flesh, sprung to life in a sublime moment of pure joie de vivre. Wet, wild, and alive. This is not ‘pervy,’ this is raw beauty. If I see this and do nothing, I cannot call myself an artist. I had no choice.” I stare at him, wordless. He’s an artist all right. A bullshit artist. But, though he is unapologetic, there is no trace of contempt. He seems utterly sincere. Raw beauty?
“Fine then,” I take a deep breath. “Show me the photos.”
“They are at my studio in Firenze.”
“Convenient,” I say, annoyed.
“I will show you, ma chèrie” Frantonio says. “But please do not take them from me.” His eyes blink, silently sincere. He reaches out and takes my hand gently. Without warning, the security blanket of my anger is whipped away, leaving me totally exposed. I squirm. Leaning over, I pluck the camera’s memory card from my pillow and put it into his hand.
“Here. You can still save the group photos you took.” I take microsteps backward as I babble nervously. “Stellar Phoenix Photo Recovery can recover inaccessible photos from SD cards. Just preview all recoverable photos and hit the recover tab.”
“A little online reading?” he smiles, slipping the card into his pocket.
“Not the first time I’ve dunked a card,” I admit.
“Or yourself.” His gaze is soft and steady. I shrug, trying not to look directly into his brown eyes. Instead I look at his perfectly rumpled hair. How is it always perfectly rumpled? He reaches out and touches my side. “You’re still in your wet dress?”
“This one you’re supposed to wear wet.” I think he’s going to take his hand away, but he doesn’t. The warmth of it permeates the damp silk of my dress and sends a shiver through me. Does he still want me? Did he send that message?
“Elle est,” I whisper with a smile.
“One of my favorite songs,” he smiles. It was him! I knew it.
“She is everywoman.”
“Oui but much better in French.” He sings, “Faire danser mes doigts sur son dos.” He slides his hand down my bare back. “To dance my fingers down her back.”
“I don’t slow dance,” I whisper weakly as I take a step backward. We were making out like teenagers by the bathroom back in Positano, why am I nervous? He takes his glasses off, slips them into the breast pocket of his shirt. Is he going to kiss me? Am I going to let him? He moves closer. His face is inches from mine.
“Elle m’ensorcelle, elle m’embrasse...” He says this last with his warm lips on mine. He tastes like salty olives and oranges. I kiss him back. He kisses me harder. My hand is now in his perfectly rumpled hair. It’s soft and fine between my fingers. My tongue is in his sweet, salty mouth. His left hand slides down my bare back into my dress, to my ass. The fingers on his other hand expertly unhook the halter strap behind my neck, and suddenly plum-colored silk is swiftly cascading down my chest to hang limply at my waist, revealing both my breasts. I come up for air. Is this happening? I step back again, and now my back is against the wall. “The door is open!” shouts Modesty, clawing her way into my consciousness.
“The door’s open a little,” I whisper.
“Now you are shy? After the fountain and the bathroom?” He pushes me gently up against the bedroom wall. “Don’t worry, chèrie. Everyone is busy.” He kisses me more deeply and hungrily, his teeth gently raking my tongue. I forget the door. I abandon Modesty on the high ground and dive headlong into Frantonio. I am falling. We kiss long and hard. We cannot get enough of each other. It’s like our mouths are fucking. My chest heaves as my breathing grows faster. Frantonio pulls his chin back, also breathing heavily. Our foreheads pressed together, he looks down at my chest. As his left hand grips firmly onto my ass, his right begins to caress my breasts, my nipples, my belly, my navel. Goosebumps ripple across my skin. I can feel my figa tingling, getting wetter by the second. My heart thumps loudly. I’m sure he can hear it, feel it.
“That tickles,” I laugh, shivering.
“You like being tickled? Oui?”
“Oui,” is all I can manage. My body is shaking, not because I’m cold. “Your breasts and belly are exquisite. Like the Venus de Milo,” he murmurs, entranced. He now holds a breast in each hand. He squeezes them gently, stroking, tickling as if he’s sculpting my body. Wow. My breasts and belly are exquisite? I am the beautiful Venus de Milo. I smile to myself as he turns his attention to my neck, kissing my throat, my collarbone. His hands over my shoulders, down my back, to my ass. He leans into me, burying his face in my hair as his hands massage my ass cheeks. Wait. Isn’t the Venus de Milo the one with no arms? How exactly am I supposed to grope him back with no—
“OH!” My wandering mind is yanked back like a dog on a leash. His left hand has slipped lower and the tips of his fingers are now exploring my figa from behind. I react, stepping forward, but this only pushes my bare breasts against his chest, enfolding me further into his embrace. His heart is now pounding too. Our chests are smashed together, mine sweating. There’s sweat on his neck as it rubs against my cheek. The crown of his head presses against the wall as he leans over me. His fingers slide deeper inside me. Tickling and teasing. In and out.
“Ç’bon?” he asks, his breath quickened too.
“Sì. . . oui . . . whatever, yes!” My hips push involuntarily into his. I can feel his hard cock pressed against my now throbbing figa. A moan escapes my lips. He holds me tightly against him, plunging his fingers deeper. In and out. In and—Oh, my, G-ood. It’s so fucking good.
My knees start to buckle, and now I’m whimpering softly, but he doesn’t let me go. Frantonio’s right hand holds my ass firmly in place as his left fingers fuck me faster and harder. Again and again. In and out. The blood rushes to my head. My back arches. My legs fold. I cry out, and he covers my lips with his mouth. Kissing me one last time as I gasp for air, Frantonio guides me gently down the wall, where I collapse onto my knees. I can’t remember my name. Suddenly I remember to breathe, and I suck in sweet oxygen as I resurface from my deep orgasmic dive. I see him pull out a green cotton handkerchief with white stripes. He wipes his wet fingers. Who carries handkerchiefs anymore? Does he carry that
for after he does this? Do I care? I don’t care. I love those fingers. He crouches next to me.
“My dear, you have fallen,” he says softly, as I sit helplessly before him on the floor. I am speechless. I have no clever come back. “You should come eat something. You look weak.” He winks, adjusts his pants, and then he’s gone. Bastard.
Chapter 20
How Not to Admit Defeat
1. Take a cold shower. Twice.
2. Sit between your friends at dinner.
3. Don’t make eye contact with him for more than five seconds.
4. Do not picture him naked in your head.
5. Pretend he’s a dentist.
6. Do not visualize him on top of you in the dentist chair.
7. Pretend he’s a telemarketer.
8. Do not wonder if he’s good at phone sex.
9. Sit tall and proud, with your shoulders back and your tits up.
10. Forget that less than an hour ago you were reduced to a puddle of whimpering pleasure on the floor.
Dining Terrace, Casa di Pavone: Thursday, 10:01 p.m.
Frantonio’s smugness is almost as unbearable as my body’s unquenchable response every time he comes near me. When he sits opposite me at dinner, I wonder if I’m going to taste anything I eat. Over the pasta course there is a debate, in Italian, about Martina Stella’s latest film, which I have not seen. Then Frantonio surprises me.
“Why don’t we speak in English so everyone can understand.”
“That’s okay, I haven’t seen it,” I smile, embarrassed that I’m the only one at the table who doesn’t speak Italian.
“Ms. Taylor, Regina tells me you’re writing a book about influential Italian women,” says Frantonio. “I do hope you’re planning to include Virginia Oldoini?” I give him a blank look, start to feel stupid, but then decide to own it.
“I’d love to. Who is she?”
“Virginia, the Countess of Castiglione, was the selfie queen of 1800’s Paris.”
“—and Napoleon’s mistress,” Yang chimes in. “Don’t leave out the sex.”
“The sex is always there,” says Frantonio. “You needn’t go looking for it. It’s the art that matters. The countess was quite influential in the early history of photography. But, that’s all I will say. I won’t rob you of the joy of chasing down the rest of her story on your own.”
“Well I do love a good challenge,” I smile.
“Good for you, Ms. Taylor. Most of us grab our phones anytime we have a question. We cannot resist instant gratification at the touch of our fingers.” He waves his two fingers in the air and stares back at me with a smug smile. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who can.” Touché.
“Au contraire, I like a quick taste to whet my appetite just like anyone else, but that just makes me hungrier. You’ve got to plunge in deep if you want real satisfaction,” I smile. “Don’t you agree?”
“Absolument,” he agrees, raising an eyebrow. Checkmate. Others are now wondering if we’re still talking about research. Yin knows we’re not.
“You pair sound like a couple of swots!” snorts Yang. “Have your nerd fest in the library after dinner. Let’s get back to movie goss. Is Billie Piper gonna get her gear off again in her new film, or what?” At this point, a very handsome cook enters and places a giant silver bowl in front of our hostess.
“Allora, here is the cioppino,” announces Regina, “I thought, in honor of our American friend, we’d do an Italian-American mash-up.” She smiles at me, and I nod. Regina lifts the lid off of the bowl and a cloud of steam billows out like a piñata of smells, launching nose candy in every direction. People react—this is a special dish. Regina serves up bowls and passes them down the table. I realize with a lurch that cioppino is seafood stew. I don’t eat fish. Maybe I can fake it and fill up on bread? All the guests are ooh-ing and ah-ing over their bowls of magical stew. Everyone except Frantonio, who is staring at me. I stare back. Is this a contest? Each of us refuses to look away.
Our bowls land in front of us. But still we stare. Decadent scents of rich tomato, fish, crab, shrimp, and garlic tickle our noses. I try not to inhale. Why did it have to be fish? I focus on him. Who is the gazer and who is controlling the gaze? The steam from Frantonio’s soup fogs his glasses up. He chuckles as he looks down, removes his glasses, wipes them clean. Yes! I win. I control the gaze! He glances up, his light brown eyes blinking long, curly lashes at me, and smiles. The candlelight softly lights his beautiful face. He’s gorgeous. I suddenly see that I have it backward. I am gazing at him. He’s controlling my gaze.
“Way too hot to dive in,” he warns with a wink. “Some things take patience.” Later, when dessert is served, Frantonio bids us all “Buona notte.” He has to get his rest before he shoots tomorrow. I pretend to be focused on my torta al cioccolato. But then he is behind my chair, leaning in. He whispers, “Sogni d’oro, bella.” I hope it means: “Meet me in my room in ten minutes. I cannot bear to sleep without your beautiful, naked body next to mine.” But, sadly, it does not. Damn.
“Dreams of gold,” Yin translates for me. How sweet, I think. But, you have to sleep in order to dream.
My Room, Casa di Pavone: Friday, 1:12 a.m.
No rest for the wicked. Unable to restrain myself, I’d texted him back around midnight. I thought I was being clever picking a new song:
There’s a star above, winking at me
It’s you, I know. It’s you I see.
But he must be asleep. No response. My mind keeps replaying the scene that transpired in this very room, only hours ago. I must find something creative to do. My eyes fall on the pile of camera pieces.
Hallway, Casa di Pavone: Friday, 1:20 a.m.
I walk through the now still house carrying a small bag. My goal is to find some tools or glue or something. I creep past an open balcony, and a cool breeze off the ocean carries in cigarette smoke and low voices from some unseen terrace above. Walking past a door, I hear people having sex. I walk more quickly. Descending the short stairwell at the end of the hall, I hear the faint sound of music. Is that . . . Bob Dylan? Following the gravely tones, I venture down another set of stairs and then a third. Bob’s voice grows slowly louder until I’m standing in a small, open studio.
It’s filled with bits of junk, materials of all forms, and sculptures of all kinds. Clay. Metal. Organic materials. There’s a giant dog made of watch parts. A watch dog? In the middle of the rubble, a very small, very old woman glues coins onto a cow skull. My first instinct is to turn around. Here, you’ll remember my allergy to old people. South Florida is ruled by a blue-haired mafia with a high turnover rate. They keep rock concerts out of the park and vote against same sex marriage. But this oldie was singing Bob Dylan. I could tell she was different.
“‘The Hiiigh-waaay siiixty-one.’” Rosalie would love this. She’s a closet Dylan fan.
“Mi scusi, signora?” She does not hear me. I walk around a nearby table slowly, so as not to startle her. Her gray hair is piled high into a sculpture of its own atop of her head, like an inverted silver tornado struggling to escape a myriad of hair pins—wood, metal, jeweled. I’m now standing right in front of her. It’s the same woman I startled when I burst into the wrong room earlier. She’s obviously not deaf, but she doesn’t look up. Her hands move confidently and rhythmically, sorting coins, selecting the right one, finding the perfect spot on the skull, and gluing it into place. She’s blind, I realize. I reach over and turn the music off. She looks up immediately.
“Chi e?”
“Hi, sorry to interrupt,” I reply. She turns to face me.
“Sei tornata?” Her Italian dialect sounds different from what I’ve heard so far on my trip.
“Do you speak English?”
“L’inglese? Sì. ‘Blowin’ in the Wind?’” she says. I smile, thinking of another song title.
“‘Like a Rolling Stone’?” I reply. The sculptor smiles. “I love your work,” I say.
“‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s A
ll Right,’” she replies.
“‘It Ain’t Me Babe,’” I counter. She slaps her hand on the table with vigor and laughs heartily, startling me. I can see from her grin she’s missing a tooth. She reaches toward me, beckoning. I have passed her test. I let her squeeze my hand, feel my shoulders, my face.
“‘Forever Young,’” she grins. Another one of Bob’s songs. She pats my cheek. Her finger feels the chain around my neck and she lifts the tiny star made of gold wire. “Una piccola stella?”
“Little star, si. I made it myself, but I’m not very artistic.” I remember the bag I’m holding and turn to the workbench next to us. Carefully I empty out the contents. Hearing the tinkling and clicking of metal and plastic, her hands investigate the small pile of camera pieces. Her fingers expertly twist and turn each piece like a spider with an insect.
“Mi aiuti?” I ask for help. “It was a camera . . . una fotocamera.”
“Un macchina fotographica?” She makes a disparaging noise with her mouth as she shakes her head, unimpressed with my request. “Forse qualcosa di meglio?” she counters.
“Something better?” I think about this. Yang was right, Regina would just buy another. What would be better? Then I smile. “Un pavone?”
“Un pavone?” She lays her hands flat on the pieces, closing her eyes to visualize. “Un pavone. Sì. Perfetto.” She reaches under the bench and pulls out a stool for me. “Riaccendi la mia musica,” she says, motioning to the stereo. I walk over and switch the music back on. She smiles. Together we sit. Together we sort the pieces according to size to make a peacock. Together we sing Dylan. Perfetto.
Library, Casa di Pavone: Friday, 8:42 a.m.
Everyone is still asleep. I have found Regina’s library. The room is stunning. Walls covered with wooden shelves full of ancient tomes and new paperbacks. Marble floors and faint smells of incense and old paper. Pages of illustrated books, hand lettered by monks, hang in gilded frames on every wall. Warm light from Tiffany stained glass lamps completes the ethereal effect. As a writer, I’m awestruck.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 12
