Insatiable

by Val

  We downed our drinks in record time, and left them on the bar. We hurried up to the sixth floor; I was still seething with rage. When we reached Room 620, Mae did her best to get rid of me at once.

  ‘OK, this is where I’m going. Your room is a bit further down the corridor.’

  With that, she knocked on the door. I stood rooted to the spot, determined to get a glimpse of Giovanni.

  ‘I told you, your room is further down that way!’ Mae said in exasperation.

  It was Giovanni who opened the door. Alessandro was just behind him. They had got together in Room 620 and invited both of us in. Mae didn’t like that idea at all, but she tried to conceal her anger and joked that maybe we could turn this into an orgy. My face was so long and sad that Giovanni noticed immediately.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, everything’s fine . . .’ I lied. ‘Is it all right to smoke?’

  ‘Of course. Smoke as much as you like. But let me take your coat.’

  He came close to help me off with it. Mae sat on the bed and lit a cigarette, and Alessandro sat down next to her and started chatting. I did not feel like talking: all I wanted to do was to leave. I didn’t have the faintest idea why I had come in the first place. After a few minutes I couldn’t bear how proud of herself Mae looked, and my emotions boiled over.

  ‘All right, let’s get this sorted out. Since I’m spending the night with Alessandro, and Mae with Giovanni, I think we should be on our way,’ I said, speaking directly to Alessandro, who was busy peering down the neckline of the woman who had become my very worst enemy.

  Giovanni froze on the spot. Alessandro started to laugh, and soon Giovanni burst out laughing too, while Mae glared at me for being so rude. I felt like slapping all their faces.

  ‘You’re staying here with me, silly girl,’ Giovanni said, when he had finished laughing.

  ‘You’re not going with Mae then?’

  ‘With Mae? Alessandro’s the one who wants to be with Mae! I chose you. What’s all this about?’ he asked, suddenly serious.

  ‘I don’t know, you tell me! I was told I was to spend the night in Room 624 with Alessandro.’

  ‘Ma no, silly!’ Giovanni said, slipping back into Italian.

  He speaks good Spanish, but every so often he can’t help putting in a word in his native language. It sounds so sexy!

  ‘It’s the other way round. They must have made a mistake!’ he said.

  What kind of a joke was this? I felt like crying for joy, but at the same time I was really embarrassed at the way I had behaved, so I asked if I could use the bathroom. I locked myself in for five minutes, until Giovanni came to find me.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked in a worried voice.

  ‘I am now. I’m a lot better. Is it true you didn’t want to be with Mae?’

  ‘Of course not! I promised I’d spend a whole night with you, and here I am.’

  ‘You didn’t want to be with her?’

  It was plain he was really upset at what had happened, so his only reply was to take me in his arms. The other two had already slipped out, so we were alone at last.

  ‘Not even for a second?’

  We made love all night, and to my great surprise I found I could have one orgasm after another. Giovanni didn’t care who I was, or that he had paid to be with me, he didn’t care about the time or what my true identity was, all he wanted to do was make me happy.

  The next morning, after Giovanni ordered me a huge breakfast in his room, I finally gave him my phone number, making him swear not to tell anyone that I had done so.

  But this was like signing my death warrant in the brothel. Even though I did not yet know it, my days there were numbered.

  My Guardian Angel

  In my descent into hell, I discovered a corner of paradise

  WHEN GIOVANNI AND I met, I knew at once I would never belong to anyone else. It was as though he had put out the fire burning inside me all those years, and had given a final answer to all my questions about love, sex, fidelity, and one-night stands.

  In my descent into hell, I had discovered a small corner of paradise. My very own God was a tall, mature man with dark hair going grey at the sides, a face the shape of a ripe pear, piercing green eyes, and strong hands with uneven fingernails. It wasn’t that he bit them, but he chewed the cuticles around them. He had a couple of hairs protruding from his prominent nose. God even had a slight paunch, which delighted me. It gave him a vulnerable look, especially when I laid my head on it and started gently stroking him. I loved to poke my finger into his navel, even though he hated it. In the morning, God smelled of the breeze and of sliced almonds, of dew on roses, freshly chopped wood, of straw in a barn, of green grass after a storm. In the afternoon, his smell was of a newly published book, and wholemilk yoghurt, of a lion roaring at dusk. And of a soft, juicy peach without that dry taste on your teeth when you bite into one. God had a rebellious hair above his right eyebrow, which I always said hello to. Then one day it disappeared, and we both searched desperately for it in among the sheets. But the rebel hair had gone for ever. A month later, another one appeared. That was when I became convinced of immortality. God was constantly surprising me!

  God had strange teeth. They were dazzlingly white, but crossed over each other. Whenever he laughed he looked like a little boy, still with his milk teeth. God never fought with me. When I got angry, he would stare at me with his huge, intense eyes, and give me little kisses on my forehead to help calm me down. God had the instinct mothers have when a baby cries. If I was frightened, he would take me in his arms and rock me in my invisible cradle.

  God’s mouth was thin, and a pastel-pink colour. It drove me wild when it said that he thought of me every split second of the day. God taught me to give the most beautiful present: kisses. He devoured my mouth. I was not so good at it, but he only rarely told me so.

  God also spent whole nights crying, his head under the pillow and with Dvořák’s New World Symphony playing on his stereo, when he knew I was with someone else. That was when I discovered for the first time that a man’s tears are the very best gift a woman in love can receive.

  God had one small defect: he could not pronounce the letter ‘c’. I tried to teach him, but we could spend night after night spitting without getting it right. God was really funny! But what I most loved about him was when he gave me his blessing. God was generous, and blessed me whenever I begged him to.

  Odyssey in Odessa

  8th December 1999

  EVER SINCE I gave him my phone number, Giovanni and I have kept in touch. At first he began to call me once a week, but soon we couldn’t bear not to hear each other’s voice every day. I am still working at the brothel, so if he rings and my phone is switched off, he knows why. So far he hasn’t mentioned it, or objected in any way, but I know he doesn’t like it. Once I thought I could hear him choking back his tears.

  I haven’t told him about my life, and he hasn’t asked. Out of respect, I haven’t asked him anything about his situation either.

  Today Giovanni called to see if I could take a few days off in the middle of the month and go travelling with him. He has to sign a contract, and would like me to go too. It won’t be easy finding an excuse to be away from the brothel several days on the run, especially since Mae has let slip to Susana that she thinks there’s a lot of chemistry between the Italian and me. She suspects I’ve given him my phone number. She’s jealous, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she has told more untrue stories about me. The atmosphere is increasingly tense, and Manolo has begun to keep an eye on me in a very obvious way. Even when one of my regulars calls, he tries to get them to go with another girl, telling them I’m not there. He’s trying to get them to wheedle information about me from the clients. I really don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.

  So I had to think up an excuse in order to be able to get away with Giovanni without problems. I decided to say I’d got a crippling bout of gastroenteritis.
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  12th December 1999

  Odessa is a city on the Black Sea in the Ukraine. Giovanni and I have arrived accompanied by an official interpreter, a close friend of Giovanni’s named Boris, and he has found us somewhere to stay in a dacha that was part of a Soviet-era resort.

  It was a very cold afternoon. A seagull came to our window. I had never seen a gull at such close quarters. It sat on the verandah balcony outside studying us haughtily while we were making love against the chest of drawers inside. I was watching it too. From time to time I could see its greedy eyes fix on the toast Boris had prepared us, with a little caviar on the side. Yet it didn’t move, as if out of respect for what it could see. I found myself trying to imagine how gulls make love, and whether they use their beaks in any foreplay ritual.

  Giovanni asked me why I was so quiet, and if the bird was still there.

  ‘It’s watching us.’

  Giovanni suddenly shouted, ‘Porca putana! Fuori!’

  But the gull just sat there, like a kid’s plump toy. I could just see it preserved for ever by a taxidermist on my bedside table. No! It would never fit. It was far too big. Giovanni was still thrusting inside me, groaning in his own inimitable way. Feeling him like that while the gull looked on gave me a strange feeling of entering another dimension. Everything was pleasure and nature. All at once, Giovanni slowed down: he couldn’t concentrate properly.

  Afterwards, he went for a shower. I took advantage of being on my own for a few moments to pick up his shirt and admire his initials embroidered on it. He has them on all his shirts. I liked to run my fingers over them and feel how the thread stood out. I passed my finger back and forth, imagining I was blind and reading Braille. This was a very special moment for me, and I didn’t want Giovanni to come in and catch me at it. As soon as I heard he was about to finish in the bathroom, I put the shirt back where I’d found it.

  14th December 1999

  A black limousine with tinted windows drew up outside the dacha. Giovanni and I were sitting staring at the sea, realizing how it got its name. It was so dark it looked like a huge plastic bag. Only the murmur of waves on the shore reminded us it was made of water. The moon shone timidly far out on the sea, while bitter dark clouds clustered round on all sides.

  The chauffeur got out of the limousine and opened the passenger door. Giovanni and I held our breath. Then she got out. She was beautiful, in a black evening dress and wearing silver high-heeled shoes. Her hair was cut very short, with a small V-shape at the nape of her neck, which was so slender I could have closed my hand round it. Her shoulder bones were showing, which made her look like a fashion model, a treasure yet to be discovered. Her body was not yet fully formed: her breasts were like two drawing pins sticking through her dress, suggesting the rest beneath. She was truly breathtaking. Giovanni took her hand and led her to the house without a word. Inside sat Boris, filling his glass compulsively with vodka as if he was nervous before an exam. Giovanni wanted to offer him a present, and had invited this princess.

  The princess of princesses sat at the table with Boris, and without asking his permission started to drink vodka from his glass. Giovanni and I looked on in amusement. I was fascinated by how young she seemed, and so I asked how old she was: I wanted to be sure she was above the age of consent. Boris translated for me.

  ‘She says she’s sixteen,’ he said with a childish grin.

  I nearly fell off my chair. Giovanni was almost as horrified. I felt as though I was an accomplice in a crime, responsible for something terrible that was about to happen. I couldn’t bear the thought. I asked Giovanni to send her home, because I wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her. I asked him, begged him on bended knee. Giovanni agreed, but said that perhaps she was fine with the situation. It was better for her to be with us, who would treat her well, than with some sadist who might subject her to anything. With or without us, she was going to carry on doing the same thing. She even seemed to enjoy it. And when we asked if she would like to leave – we said we would pay her anyway – the princess decided to stay. I sat studying her, seeing myself reflected in this young girl. I watched how she moved, how she laughed. She was wearing a chain with tiny bells round her right ankle, which tinkled every time she moved and filled the entire room in the dacha with a strange, exotic sound.

  She got up on the table to dance, and even though the music on the radio-cassette was noisy and horrible, she swayed languidly to her own rhythm. Boris was sitting staring at her from two metres away, glass in hand. Giovanni and I were watching the show from a battered old sofa, full of strange stains and cigarette bums that must have been left from previous nocturnal orgies. The princess, whose name was Yana, started slowly to take her dress off. I could feel myself blushing. It was her clear, innocent smile which made me feel awkward in these surroundings. But she appeared happy and at ease dancing this provocative dance for an audience of three. She leaned towards Boris and whispered something in his ear.

  ‘What did she say?’ I immediately wanted to know.

  ‘She said you’re very beautiful and she really likes your earrings,’ said Boris, downing another glass of vodka.

  This made me feel even worse. I put my head in my hands, as if this would help me vanish on the spot. When I felt I could look up again, Yana was sitting on Boris’s lap, enticing him with the movement of her small round breasts in his face. All she had on was a fluorescent green tanga. Giovanni got up and switched all the lights out. Then the only thing I could see was the tiny V-shape bobbing up and down, until I felt giddy. I took my lover’s hand and led him up the stairs to the bedroom. As we made love, I could hear Yana crying out down below.

  The next morning I went downstairs very cautiously and found the princess completely naked, asleep on the sofa. I almost ran back upstairs as quietly as I could, and when I reached the bedroom out of breath, I looked anxiously for them. Where on earth were they? I finally found them on the floor under the bed next to my shoes. Making sure Giovanni was still fast asleep, I picked them up, went downstairs once more, and searched for Yana’s bag. I didn’t dare pick it up, but undid the zip and put my earrings into an inner pocket.

  15th December 1999

  The white enamel had chipped off the bath, and the shower handle was rusty. There was hardly any hot water, particularly at the times when Giovanni and I wanted to take a shower. We have no option but to grin and bear it. I grimaced as a jet of freezing water hit my skin. Giovanni thought it was a great joke, standing there watching me with his toothbrush in his mouth, the dazzling white foam just about to cover his pink lips. I rubbed myself all over quickly with the soap we had bought in Spain. (Ukrainian soap is a suspicious colour, smells awful, and is hard as a rock. So much so that when I first saw it I had said to Giovanni, ‘Look, here’s a pumice stone!’) I jumped out of the shower still covered in soap, searching for the least disgusting bit of the floor to stand on to dry myself. Giovanni had to catch me to prevent me from sliding straight onto my backside on the cold tiles. We both ended up laughing out loud. So much for our luxury lifestyle.

  Boris used the downstairs toilet, where there was only a washbasin, which suited him fine, he said. I was a bit disgusted at the thought, but couldn’t blame him for not wanting to risk our arctic shower. In the bedrooms there were still traces of the old communist regime: microphones on all the walls, sensors on the windows. It seemed that microphones followed me wherever I went. The verandah was supposed to have a sea view, but the clunky concrete posts made it difficult to see anything. The outside balcony was where I left my running shoes, which by the end of the day smelt like a mongrel dog. Even Giovanni, who usually accepts anything from me, warned me, ‘It’s your running shoes or me.’

  I did as he said, because even I realized they were unbearable.

  Giovanni and I made love three or four times a day. I learnt how to do the crazy frog (sitting on the edge of the bed with my legs wide apart and masturbating myself while he looked on, occasionally pouring mineral water
on my stomach), the French submarine (my small heart-shaped mouth aimed precisely, sliding down under the sheets until it screwed its lips onto his penis), and the levretinha (from the French word levrette, in other words doggy-style with an Italian twist). There was nothing Giovanni and I did not try in our lopsided bed. So far he has never shared me with anyone, but tomorrow there is to be an exception: she is called Kateryna.

  16th December 1999

  Boris wanted to see the princess again, but like the good disciple he is, he wanted to share her with us. There was no way I was going to agree to the three of us making love with Yana, and Giovanni agreed. So Yana decided to bring a friend of hers, who was older and had experience in threesomes, according to the person we spoke to at the agency. That was how we came to meet Kateryna.

  The two of them arrived in the same limousine that had brought Yana the first night. This time, our princess was dressed like an adolescent in a pair of short black shorts, a white tee shirt and platform heels worthy of a drag queen. The only protection she had from the cold was an enormous fur coat which she wore draped round her shoulders, and which looked incongruous with the rest of her outfit. I thought she must trust us a bit more this time, and had decided she didn’t need to put on airs as a femme fatale. She seemed even more relaxed than before, and kissed us on both cheeks as if she had known us all our lives. We were all outside the dacha; I was sitting on the verandah facing the beach. She sat smiling at me, which I took as her way of thanking me for the earrings, which she was wearing. All of a sudden she turned round and called to her companion.

  Kateryna was a very small woman with long curly blonde hair. She was wearing a blue dress with a pattern of tiny red flowers, and a wide blue leather belt that dug into what I suspected were more than ample hips. She had tremendous turquoise-coloured eyes, and a tiny nose that gave her a Japanese look. She seemed like a little puppy, too scared to smile much.