Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two)

by Evie Blake

  ‘Fuck me now,’ she whispers through gritted teeth, ‘like you never have before.’

  He answers by rolling her over on to her front. She grabs him and pushes him inside her. He is panting, out of breath, but she gives him no respite, demanding more and more, pushing back against him so they are writhing like a torn beast, like the broken, conflicted part of her heart. For Valentina is looking for herself: the girl who loved Francesco. Would it not be better to be her than who she is now?

  She and Joan dance together: Pandora and Psyche, locked in the eternal struggle between the material and the spiritual.

  ‘You are the universal soul,’ Lempert had told her, ‘battling against all of man’s weaknesses.’

  Pandora is the darkness; she is the light. It is easier, Maria thinks, for Joan to show her shadow side. There is freedom within the confines of the dance for her to slide and slither like a snake. When she sees Joan moving – her cat-like grace, the threat of her malevolence – she is reminded of the primal part of herself, the part that enjoyed watching Joan and Louis together, her titillation at their coupling, her temptation to watch them again, all fuelling her desire to have sex with Felix. And yet all her dance teacher wants is for her to be pure. She is supposed to contrast with Joan’s passion, to cool her down.

  ‘Show me the unselfish devotion that is Psyche,’ Lempert screams at her as she sobs at his feet, worn out, desperate at her failure to articulate with her body what he needs.

  Devotion. She raises her head and stares up at him, all of a sudden comprehending. Of course, she has been focusing on what her body demands, but she should just listen to her heart. She is in love with Felix. Of that she is sure. She loves him so much, she would do anything for him. She is devoted to him. And, when she thinks of this, she is able to get up and dance again. Let this be a private dance for her would-be lover, to show him that she is his to take.

  ‘At last,’ Lempert says, clicking his fingers in time with the pianist. ‘At last, you see.’

  To her relief, Maria feels the glow of her teacher’s approval, but is it too late? Tomorrow is opening night. She knows she isn’t ready, despite the hours spent rehearsing late every day. Her body is so tight and sore, her feet covered in blisters. Yet, no matter how much she strains her body, she knows she is not the dancer that Joan is. She remembers Jacqueline’s surprise when she told her that she had been cast in one of the main roles in Pandora. Although she said encouraging things to her, Maria can tell that she doesn’t believe she is ready.

  ‘I wonder why,’ she commented, not three nights before, as they laboured over some stringy grey veal.

  ‘Why, what?’

  ‘Why Lempert cast you as Psyche.’

  ‘He said that I was the only dancer who had the same lightness as Alicia.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but Alicia has been dancing with him for two years. She was at Dartington, like Joan, and before that she trained in ballet.’

  Maria valiantly chewed the tough meat, forcing it down her throat with a swig of water.

  ‘Would you like me to talk to him for you? Ask him to cast someone more experienced?’ Jacqueline asked Maria. ‘I mean, if the worst comes to the worst, I could even do it.’

  To her surprise, Maria felt annoyed. Having not wanted to dance the part, she now felt affronted by Jacqueline’s lack of faith and her suggestion that she take over. ‘I think I should do it . . . Don’t you? Besides, it’s too late now.’ She challenged her with a glare.

  Jacqueline looked down at her plate and began sawing away at another piece of meat. ‘Of course, my dear. Your mother will be very proud. Did you write and tell her?’

  Maria nodded. Her letter had been shamefully short, for she had been unable to write to her mother about Felix. She can’t work out why. Her mother and Pina are not narrow-minded. And yet she remembers Pina’s last words as she left Venice: ‘Be careful.’ And her mother’s explanation that she meant to be careful of men. It was as if her mammas were saying there was some hidden evil in the gender, which Maria had no clue about.

  Even more surprising had been the fact that Guido had said nothing to Jacqueline about Felix, not even after he had confronted Maria. She had been avoiding him ever since he saw them leaving Battersea Park together. Yet, last Saturday, she came across him in the stairwell. She is certain Guido had been lying in wait for her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly, trying to slip by him.

  ‘Maria, wait,’ Guido had said, behind her.

  ‘I can’t. I have to get into the tripe queue. I don’t want to be stuck all day waiting.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ He followed her outside.

  It was raining and she had forgotten her umbrella, but she didn’t want to go back inside and give Guido a reason for delaying her further or, worse still, risk the two of them bumping into Felix.

  Guido fell into stride beside her. She couldn’t help noticing how skinny he was. His trousers hung off his hips and his face had a beaky quality to it – pointed, with his thick moustache and long, fine nose, his glasses perched on its end. He looked like Groucho Marx. A comedian. Yet she had never met anyone with so little sense of humour before.

  ‘Should we not go back for an umbrella?’ Guido asked her, wiping his spectacles with a handkerchief before putting them back on, only to get wet all over again.

  ‘No; I don’t mind the rain at all,’ she lied, bustling along, head bowed down.

  ‘You are used to water, I suppose,’ he commented, ‘being from Venice.’

  They had walked for several minutes in tense silence, Maria skirting around the larger puddles, while Guido splashed through them.

  ‘Do you like London?’ Guido suddenly asked her.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Maria said, realising all of a sudden that she had developed a fondness for the city. ‘There are all sorts of people in London. I like that,’ she added.

  ‘That is true.’ Guido paused. ‘But that is why you need to be careful, because not everyone is who they seem to be.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for instance, you might be prejudiced against all these German prisoners of war who are living here now, but in fact they could be viewed as victims as well. If you actually talk to them, they are young men who had to follow orders. They had no choice.’

  ‘Do you know any German prisoners of war?’ She looked at him with interest for once.

  ‘I do, indeed. In fact, the porter at my college is assisted by one such fellow. He is called Hemmel and he is very, very sad. He told me that he has lost everything – all the people he loved.’

  Maria pursed her lips. ‘So many nationalities suffered during the war—’

  ‘I know,’ Guido interrupted her. ‘The Italians no less than anyone else. That is not my point.’

  ‘What is your point?’ she asked him, suddenly irritated. ‘I am in a hurry, you know.’

  ‘To get into a queue at the butchers and listen to all the English housewives gossip?’ He gave her a mocking glance.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, defensively. ‘It can be very interesting, actually. We are not just chit-chatting about rubbish; in fact, at the moment, everyone is talking about the fact there will be a third world war. It seems the Russians are coming.’

  Guido narrowed his eyes. ‘I do not understand why the working men and women are so afraid of communism. It is all about liberating them.’

  ‘Are you a communist?’ Maria whispered, shocked at the possibility.

  He shook his head and took a step back, but there was something in his denial that made Maria think he might be.

  ‘Maria,’ he said, ‘I am not accompanying you so that we can talk about our political beliefs.’

  ‘Well, why are you following me, then?’

  ‘I saw you with Felix the other day, coming out of the park.’

  He turned his rain-streaked face towards her, but his glasses were so wet she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.

  ‘I know, but
what business exactly is that of yours?’ she replied, speeding up. If only he would just go away.

  ‘I didn’t know you were friends.’

  ‘Well, we are,’ she spat at him. ‘If you bothered to talk to him, you’d find he is a very nice man.’ She sounded ridiculous, she knew. The last word she would use to describe Felix was ‘nice’. ‘Interesting’; ‘complicated’; ‘intriguing’ – but never ‘nice’.

  ‘You should be careful,’ Guido said. ‘He is not what he seems.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’ She stopped walking and turned to face him, not caring that both of them were getting soaked. She was so annoyed with Guido. How dare he judge Felix when he didn’t know him? She felt protective of the Frenchman.

  ‘Let me explain,’ Guido said, hastily, obviously picking up her hostility. ‘If we were in Paris now, rather than London, it would be quite a different story.’

  ‘How so?’ she said, coldly.

  ‘The English were united. The French were not. Have you not heard of the purges?’

  She shook her head, feeling stupid. ‘I know a little,’ she said. ‘But those men who were purged were collaborationists and traitors to France.’

  ‘Of course; but during the war many of them were, in fact, the government. It is thought that there were as many collaborating French as there were non-collaborators.’

  ‘Are you accusing Felix of being a collaborator?’ Maria had said, hotly. How dare this snooping little Italian make such an accusation! ‘You told me he was in the Resistance.’

  ‘I am not accusing him of being a collaborator. Far from it.’ Guido sounded exasperated. ‘Look, I can’t say any more. I am just warning you. He is not the nice man you say he is.’

  He put his wet hand on her arm. She could feel it imprinting her damp coat, pressing down against her clammy skin. ‘Please, Maria, stay away from him. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.’

  ‘Guido, I am not a child,’ she said, haughtily, before knocking his hand off her arm, and marching down the street away from him. She had been furious. How dare he imply that Felix was a collaborator? How on earth could he know such a thing? Guido is a physics student at the University of London; he is half the age of Felix. Yet, despite her resolute denial that there could be any truth in what he had said, she can’t help feeling unsettled, for Felix is still refusing to tell her any details about his past. She has told him plenty about Venice, about growing up without a father and with two mothers instead. She has revealed all to him, and yet he holds back, evading her questions when she asks him about France. She resolves that, next time she sees him, she will force him to tell her something, just to reassure herself.

  She has her opportunity the day of Pandora’s opening. Lempert has given them the day off, telling the company to rest before the evening’s performance. She wakes to untroubled summer skies, the week of rain having steamed off into an invisible vapour. Already it is hot. The flat ticks in silence; Jacqueline left early. Maria remembers that today is her mentor’s full teaching day, when she travels around schools in North London, teaching ballet to the daughters of the wealthy. Maria is on her own and free, for once. She has the whole day to herself.

  She starts by trying to write a letter to her mother and Pina. She sits at the table, the coffee brewing, filling her with the smells of their kitchen at home. She untwists the lid of her pen and smoothes down the paper in front of her.

  Dear Mammas,

  I have met a man. He is French. His name is Felix and he makes films.

  What else? She can’t say he is the same age as Pina, but she knows he must be – if not older. She scrunches up the paper and throws it in the waste-paper basket. She knows that Jacqueline will scold her; paper is scarce. The coffee begins to bubble. She gets up from the table and takes it off the hob, pouring the treacle-black liquid into a teacup. Her stomach groans, but all there is to eat is porridge – not even a slice of bread this morning.

  She takes their ration books out of the kitchen drawer. One of the first things Jacqueline made her do when she arrived in London was to get a National Registration number and her allowance of ration coupons. Maria is mystified by the extreme austerity in Britain. She has heard some of the girls at dance school talk about trips to Holland, Denmark and Belgium, where they could eat sweets and chocolates freely. Maria groans at the thought. How she would like to eat a brioche, pumped with rich chocolate! She knows that, even if she goes down to the bakery with her coupons, there will be no such fancy delight available. She sighs and opens one of the cupboard doors, pulling out a saucepan. She supposes she should make some porridge. Maybe she could sweeten it with some cinnamon.

  There is a knock on the door. She frowns. She hopes it’s not that pest, Guido. She braces herself to tell him to go away. Yet, when she opens the door, Felix is standing on her threshold, clutching a brown paper bag. She is so taken aback that she says nothing for a moment.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asks her.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Good,’ he says, wagging the bag in front of her face. ‘Chelsea buns, freshly baked – they even have sugar on top. Not exactly croissants, but still, better than nothing.’

  ‘Where did you get them?’ she says, grabbing the bag out of his hand in excitement and opening it up, inhaling the spicy scent of brown sugar and cinnamon. He taps his nose, sauntering into Jacqueline’s flat.

  ‘Now that would be telling.’ He winks at her. ‘Do I smell coffee?’

  She is all aflutter. How did Felix know she would be here all day on her own? She hands him her cup of coffee and prepares to brew another for herself. Her mouth waters involuntarily at the thought of the sugary bun, but she wants to have it with her coffee, so she holds back. Felix sits languidly at the table, looking around the flat.

  ‘This apartment is much nicer than mine,’ he comments. ‘More light.’

  ‘So you have never been in here before?’ she asks him, carrying her coffee over to the table.

  ‘No. Not in the two years I have lived in this house.’

  She sits down opposite him and begins to unwind her Chelsea bun. ‘Can I ask you why you and Jacqueline never speak?’

  ‘But we do speak . . .’

  She pops some soft sugary dough into her mouth. It is delicious. She feels like swooning with delight. ‘You don’t really talk. I mean, you are both French; why do you avoid each other?’

  Felix says nothing for a moment. Then he looks at her, his gaze unflinching. ‘You want to know the truth?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘It is to do with your friend, Guido. He is obsessed with me – and not in a good way – and Jacqueline considers her loyalty to him as a fellow Jew more important than the fact we are both French.’

  Maria leans forward. It is all sounding rather strange. ‘What do mean, “obsessed”? I don’t understand.’

  ‘He thinks I am someone else. He thinks I left Paris to escape the purges of collaborators, because he believes I am one.’

  ‘And are you?’

  Felix looks at her with stern eyes, his mouth tight with disapproval at her question. ‘No. Not at all. He could not be more wrong.’

  She fidgets with her teacup of coffee, waiting for it to cool. She has to be brave and ask him this question. She needs to hear the answer. ‘So why did you leave France?’

  ‘It’s complicated. Let’s just say, I got sick of the vengeance of young communists – young men and women, just like Guido.’ He gets up and turns his back to her. His voice is a growl and she realises that this is how he sounds when he is angry. ‘Why should I justify myself to that young idiot?’ He turns and looks at her, his expression clouded, by what, she isn’t sure: memories too dark, too terrible to articulate, perhaps.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t mean to stir things up.’

  His face softens. ‘So you are a curious cat?’ he whispers, coming over to her and leaning down, licking the sugar off her lips.

>   His sudden intimacy causes her cheeks to flush pink, her heart to race.

  ‘So precious this sugar, we must taste every last granule of it, must we not?’ He holds her chin with his hand and tips her face up so that she is blinded by his gaze. ‘So, do you wish to be mine, Signorina Maria Brzezinska?’

  She nods, entranced by his magnetism.

  ‘Well,’ he says, pulling his hand away, letting her head drop down again. ‘Would you like to go boating?’

  He lifts the oars out of the river and carefully places them either side of him in the boat. She watches droplets of muddy water spattering her stockinged legs and pale blue skirt, like a dirty squall of rain. He says nothing. The boat drifts downstream and, for a moment, it is as if there are no other people in the world, just the two of them, unmoored upon the Thames, beneath the limitless blue sky.

  They look into each other’s eyes. His are gentle brown, appealing to her. She believes she can see his love for her in them. This, then, is her moment. She will give herself to him, for the first time. She wants to. It is wrong, she knows. They are not married – not even engaged. She knows so little about him, and yet she trusts him.

  She looks around her. The bank is empty. It is the middle of the week, after all. The only living creatures are they two and the river birds: moor hens cooing, families of ducks and a lone heron, silently surveying them as they eddy downriver.