by J. D. Weston
Taking Duska by the hand, Mr Francesco perched himself on the arm of one of the couches then tapped his leg, inviting her to rest on it. She did so with the grace and charm of the girls Emma’s mum had told her about. Girls who found comfort on the knees of strangers in return for a warm bed and a few ill-gotten gains.
“So, tell me, Duska, what are you looking for?”
His accent was Italian. The tone was soft with a threat of vulgarity, and the question was accompanied by Mr Francesco’s hand resting on Duska’s knee.
“I am, how you say…” Struggling with her limited English vocabulary, Duska watched as his hand ventured further along her leg. But instead of being repulsed by the man’s vulgar advances, Duska seemed to offer more of herself, straightening her leg to reveal more flesh, which the man took as a signal to venture further up her leg. “A simple girl. With simple needs.”
“That’s a good thing in my books.” Mr Francesco removed his hand and raised it to Duska’s neck. “And what would a simple girl do in return for such a simple life?”
Letting gravity take hold of his hand, Mr Francesco’s fingers slipped from Duska’s neck to her ample chest.
“I would do whatever my master required me to do.”
Emma turned away, repulsed by Duska’s charade as she leaned in close to Mr Francesco’s face and kissed him on the cheek, to which he responded with a gentle tap on her backside, indicating that she was to stand. He followed the gesture with a wave of his hand to girl number two. Until that moment, she had appeared to Emma to be indifferent to the scene that had just taken place.
“Anna, would you care to join me?”
An icy chill formed in Duska’s eyes as the two girls passed like leaves in a storm, each of them unsure of where the other might tread. But the icy glare fell on Emma as Duska retook her place in the line. Anna lowered her tiny frame onto Mr Francesco’s knee.
“I’m told you would like a new life, Anna.”
Once more, Mr Francesco’s wandering hand fell onto Anna’s knee as if testing the ground before exploring further. Reciprocating with a parting of her legs that pushed her already short dress further up her body, Anna smiled at him and began her own act.
“It is not a new life I seek, Mr Francesco, sir.”
“Have I been misled?” A confused expression formed on Mr Francesco’s face, furrowing his brow. His hand retracted a few inches.
“I have no life. I sleep on the streets. I eat only what I find and I shelter in the places where cruelty is a currency. No. It is not a new life I seek. It is merely a life.”
“Your English is very good, Anna.”
Once more, the hand began to explore the shadows of her dress.
“Without English, I would not survive. But I would like more to learn English.”
“And what about the things I would like? In return for shelter, warmth, food and drink, and in return for a language tutor, what can a man like me expect?”
Reaching for his wrist with both of her tiny hands, Anna pulled him away, inciting a trace of anger. But he let it ride, intrigued as to where Anna was going. Staring through the anger and lust, Anna peered closer into the man’s eyes as if she was searching inside him deeper than anybody had ever tried.
“Adoration.” Her words were spoken with gentle, imperfect English from lips as red as Emma’s old, ruined dress. She pulled his hand to her childlike chest and closed her eyes. “Adoration. Devotion.” She leaned forward, perhaps stealing a move from Duska, who looked away in disgust, and kissed Mr Francesco on the cheek, lingering longer than her rival while her own hands found the warm space between his legs. “My body and my soul.”
Standing of her own accord and leaving Mr Francesco to rearrange his suit jacket, Anna walked back to her place, hips rocking from side to side and eyes offering Duska a winner’s stare. If she had a microphone in her hand, Emma would bet that she would have dropped it, confident of victory.
But instead of the microphone drop, Emma’s distraction was broken with a clicking of fingers. Without bothering to stand, Mr Francesco waved at Emma.
“You girl. Come here.”
He tapped his knee, ready for Emma to follow suit and let his wandering hands take more than she was willing to offer for a meal ticket. Feeling both Duska’s and Anna’s eyes on her body, Emma’s hips swayed from side to side, mimicking the lady’s walk that had entranced Emma from the day she had opened the door to her dirty, little room.
“Well, are you going to sit?”
It was with interest that Emma found his Italian accent giving way to English the more he was angered. It had returned to its natural Italian as the girls had teased him.
“I prefer to stand, Mr Francesco, if it’s all the same to you.”
The statement invoked a suck of breath from each of the girls behind her. But Emma held her own. With her legs straight and tall, her backside clenched, stomach in, chest out, and chin lifted, she peered down at Mr Francesco, offering the faintest of smiles.
“I told you to sit, girl.”
Standing, unashamed at his clear arousal from the willingness of the previous girls to give all they had, he stood before her. Although shorter, his round belly and large frame made up for his lack of height, giving him a wide appearance.
“Are you always this disobedient?”
“One day, Mr Francesco, when we are far from here and we are beneath the blue sky, I will bring you drinks before you ask for them. I will dance for you when your day has made you weary. I will sit on your knee before you even feel the need for company.”
The words flowed from Emma’s mouth like a poem she had never voiced, only scrawled on parchment in her mind. Remaining true to the posture the lady had instilled in her, Emma stared back at Mr Francesco, not with defiance, but with the appearance of calm composure as if waiting for his next command. Inside, her body twitched and fidgeted, readying itself for a blow.
“So you have brains as well as beauty, do you?”
“I am an educated girl, Mr Francesco.”
“An educated girl who needs a new home? But tell me, what could an educated girl learn from an old man like me?”
Emma moved closer until his rotund belly grazed the soft material of her dress and her body was in reach of his short, plump arms. Mr Francesco tested the frigid waters with a hand on Emma’s hip. Considering such a touch to be a small price to pay, Emma allowed the move. She was keen to distract his wandering hand with her tongue. She cast her eyes off to a watercolour hanging above the couch behind Mr Francesco and let her mind paint a scene to surpass the evocative advances her two rivals had allowed.
“I imagine us sitting, Mr Francesco, beneath the clear, Italian sky with wine in our hands and a soft breeze to cool our brows. And while you lay there, I will feed you grapes, olives, and strawberries, each fruit sweetened with a kiss. I will recite poems from the pages in my curious mind. I will argue that Caravaggio was surely the master of oil and mood, and I will read you tales of love written by hands far older than you or I.”
Feeling his hand sliding to her rear, Emma slid her bruised arm from beneath his, pulling his hand closer to her chest, where she cradled it, nursing his fat fingers in her own.
“If I want a history lesson, I can go to a museum.” He snatched his hand away, returning it to the position from where it had just been removed.
But once again, Emma manoeuvred away, taking his hand in her own.
“If all you want is a girl to come home to, Mr Francesco, someone to hit, spank, or lay with, then I’m afraid I am not your girl. Choose one of the others. That’s all they are good for.”
“I want to know what I’m getting.”
Once more, Mr Francesco tried to grab a handful of Emma’s backside, resulting in a harsh slap on his hand that stunned him into silence, allowing Emma to continue. Her heart thumped inside her chest, but she was adamant that she should continue on her path that set her aside from the other two.
“But if you want som
eone who will hold your hand, who will join you at the country club, arm in arm, smile at your rich friends’ cheap jokes, converse with intelligence, and then take you home to make love as only wild animals do…” Pausing to ensure she had his full attention, Emma waited for his rage to disperse and his intrigue to heighten. “And if, in return, you are willing to provide me with a home, feed me the finest foods in the most expensive restaurants with the finest wines, and give me dresses and jewellery that are fit for a princess, then I am the girl you are looking for, and you are the man for me.”
Closing with a gentle touch like the other two girls, Emma leaned into him and lingered, his face barely an inch away, until the rasp of his eager breath grew louder and warmed her neck. She waited until, without a shadow of a doubt, her power had him on his knees and all she wanted would be hers. Then Emma kissed him on the cheek.
The look on Duska and Anna’s faces as Emma strode past them, hips working in the closing act of Emma’s charade, was priceless. Gone were the bitchy ice-cold stares of hate. In their place were expressions of bewilderment. Their mouths hung open at Emma’s performance. Their eyes widened at the old man’s unashamed arousal over what Emma could only describe as verbal foreplay.
Returning to her place as number one in the line, Emma’s eyes found the photo of the lone soldier. Her knees straightened, her backside clenched, her chest stuck out, and her chin lifted as if from nowhere. A surge of raw power trembled from the very tips of her toes, through her weakened knees, her warmed loins, and her churning stomach to settle in the form of a tender smile that spread like the blooming of a spring flower.
An anemone, thought Emma, relishing in the three pairs of eyes that stared at her with incredulity.
It was a smile that Emma had never smiled before.
“So, Mr Francesco…” Under the spell of her own power, Emma had failed to notice the lady return. “Have you made your decision?”
Closing her eyes and picturing the freedom and opportunity on her passage to a new life, Emma let the power soar through her.
“I have made my decision.”
Bracing herself for the news that would change Emma’s short life forever, she turned her head to face the lady so they could share in the success.
“The girl I have chosen is everything I need. She is everything any man needs. But each girl is beautiful in their own special way. If I could take them all, I would.”
“I’m sure.”
As Mr Francesco opened his mouth to announce his decision, the thought occurred to Emma to step forward, to receive the news with the grace it deserved. But as she lifted her foot, shifting her balance, three words ripped the power from within her. In a matter of microseconds, she was left with a cold, empty space in her heart as if the icy stares of the girls had stabbed through her chest.
“I choose Duska.”
Chapter Forty-One
By the time Frankie returned to his room, his mind was swimming with possibilities. A small pile of clothes sat on the bed folded in a neat pile, and a steady flow of steam was rolling from the open bathroom door. Sophia’s gentle humming accompanied an occasional splash of bath water.
Without wanting to embarrass her, Frankie poured a drink, making sure to clink the little miniature bottle against the glass to alert her to his presence. Kicking off his boots and socks, Frankie settled into the armchair by the window overlooking Syntagma Square. Resting his bare feet on the small table, he pulled out his phone. Keeping an ear out for Sophia, he found his place in Emma’s diary once more, took a sip of his drink, and then lost himself in the mind of an eighteen-year-old girl.
Day 4 - Had a lovely day with Mum and Dad. They seemed to get along really well today. Dad hired a man and his boat to take us around some of the islands. I can't believe how blue the sea is. But the best part is, the man was the Greek boy’s dad. His name is Christos and he has a body to die for. It’s like he’s lived his entire life on the beach. Christos drove the boat, but I felt him staring at me all day (in between me staring at him). Mum had brought a salad for our lunch and we stopped in a little bay to eat and have a swim. I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a place like this. If I didn't need any money, I’d live here. Christos dove to the sea bed and brought up some shells for me, but Dad said we couldn't accept them as it’s illegal to take things like that through customs and he made Christos put them back.
Christos and his dad are really nice people. They dropped a cool box on the little beach, which they said was for one of Christos’ friends to pick up. They had extra food and his friend is poor. Apparently he takes people from further along the coast out to the islands, but because it isn't as nice, they don't pay as much. Mum made us stop eating and gave it to Christos to add to the food. It was quite funny. Christos and his father seem to be very proud. They wouldn't accept the food, but Mum being Mum insisted and made Christos put it in the box before he took it to the beach.
Mum and Dad had a little swim too. I took a nice photo of them both floating together while I sat on the boat drying off, which I think I’ll have framed as a reminder of this time. I think little moments like that remind them why they are together, and that they were once so very much in love. While they swam, Christos taught me about the boat terminology. The front is called the bow and the rear is called the stern. He explained that port means left and starboard means right. I didn’t care much for what he was saying, but I relished in the time with him, musing at his passion and catching glimpses of the tight muscles on his back as he demonstrated each explanation.
My highlight of the day though was the sunset. I never thought I could be so mesmerised by something so simple. The horizon was just a flat line where the sky merged with the sea and I just sat there staring at the hues of colour, wondering what was out there. Wondering if I would ever be out there looking back at Greece. I hope so. I want to see the world. There’s so much to see and do. I’m eighteen and haven't seen anything, really. One day, I’ll fly away.
“Oh, you’re here. I didn't hear you come in.”
Standing at the bathroom door wearing nothing but a short bathrobe, Sophia dried her hair with a small towel and hung it on the rail. Frankie’s presence had little effect on her. She didn't seem embarrassed or shy. She just moved across to the mirror and tied her hair up off her shoulders, exactly as Jacqui used to do.
“It keeps your damp hair from sticking to your skin?”
With her arms raised, the lower hem of the robe lifted, revealing far more of Sophia’s leg than Frankie had anticipated. He closed the photo of Emma’s diary and opened his email, checking for any news from Tom or Mary.
“I don't imagine you have that problem.”
“My wife. She did the same thing after a bath.”
“I didn't know you were a married man, Frankie.”
“She died. A while ago now. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry to hear-”
“It’s okay. Just certain things people do often remind me of who she was.”
Cracking the lid off a miniature bottle, Sophia began to pour a drink. “Do you need topping up?”
“No. But you go ahead.”
There were no emails from Tom or Mary, but Frankie set himself a reminder to call them and check in like he said he would. Maybe Jake would want a chat. As he closed his phone, Sophia moved across and sat on the edge of the bed a few feet from Frankie.
“I’ll bet she was a strong woman.”
Realising that Sophia was pursuing the conversation on Jacqui, Frankie smiled and nodded.
“Stronger than me, I think. Mentally.”
“And you have a child?”
The smallest of laughs came from Frankie’s throat. But instead of replying, he stared up at the window. His private life was his own. Frankie Black was all the information people should know.
“A boy?” she asked.
“I’d prefer it if we-”
“I’m right. You have a boy. I’ll bet with such a strong mother and f
ather, he is a wild child. Determined. With a spirit as free as a bird.”
Concluding that he would be unable to move past the subject until he had engaged, Frankie nodded.
“He’s my everything. That’s all you need to know.”
“It must be difficult being a single father. Do you miss him?”
“Of course I miss him.”
“So why do you choose to work away? Surely a man of your talents could get work anywhere?”
“I don’t choose to work away, Sophia. I choose to help people. To find people. It’s what I do, and it’s what I’ve always done.”
“But you’re away from your son. Surely that is a strain on your relationship?”
“He knows where I am. He’s young. This way of life upsets him occasionally. But it teaches him values.”
“And you can’t teach him those values any other way?”
“I just want to be a good father. I think that’s what most parents want, isn't it? To be a good parent. To have their children grow up learning values and for them to be good people. I’m away sometimes, but what I do helps people. One day, I’ll tell him what I do. I’ll show him all the people I’ve found, all the families I’ve helped, and he’ll understand.”
“Is that why you took this job? To help people? Or to show your son you’re a good Samaritan?”
Tipping the remainder of his glass into his gullet, Frankie stood, collected Sophia’s glass, and poured them both fresh drinks.
“I took this job to help the Fletchers. I nearly didn't. It was far more important for me to be with my son.”
“But?”
“But, like I said, one day Jake will understand.”
Crossing her legs to reveal more of her tanned skin, Sophia leaned back on the bed, twisting to catch Frankie’s wandering eye in the mirror above the little minibar. Making no attempt to cover herself, Sophia smiled, leaned back, and cast a wistful gaze at the ceiling.
“One day you will show him a photo of Emma and you will tell him that you found her. You saved her.”
