by Evie Blake
It was around ten at night last spring, and she was on her way home from seeing the movie Midnight in Paris with Gaby. She said goodbye to her friend outside the cinema as Gaby had made arrangements to meet her new lover later. A fact Valentina refused to comment on, despite her friend’s entreaties for her opinion. What could she say? Gaby’s new man was married. Deep down Valentina was worried for her friend, but she refused to tell her what to do. She had no right to judge.
And so she banished thoughts of Gaby’s endangered heart, and marched down the street to take the metro home. The carriage was half full and she was minding her own business, staring up at the advertisements on the other side of the train but not really looking at them. She was thinking about the film, and the possibilities of moving through time like Owen Wilson’s character had done. What period of time was a golden era to her? If she could go back, to when and where would she go? She knew instantly, of course. It would be the twenties in Hollywood, the silent movie era. The jazz, the flappers, the hedonism! She smiled inside herself at the thought of it. She would get to actually meet Louise Brooks. If they could have a conversation, what would she ask her?
Do you believe in love, Louise? Is it possible to be a free spirit, and be loved for it?
At the thought of her icon’s responses, Valentina felt momentarily sad. Louise Brooks had paid dearly for being a forthright young woman before her time. Hollywood had turned its back on her, and her talent had been unacknowledged. She believed that if Louise Brooks were a young actress now, she would most certainly have played Marion Cotillard’s character in Woody Allen’s film.
Valentina cast her eyes around the carriage and imagined herself in a movie, travelling back into the past. The other passengers become unfocused shadows, superfluous extras, as she smoothed down her pencil skirt, crossed her stockinged legs and clasped her gloved hands in her lap. She was Miss Valentina Rosselli, acclaimed starlet of the silent movies, on her way to a day’s filming. This was not the metro in Milan but a streetcar in Los Angeles in 1926. And as she was having this rather delicious fantasy, she found herself staring straight into the curious eyes of Theo Steen. Within the haze of her dream he stood in front of her, more real than any man she had laid eyes on before. She could not help but admire him. Smartly dressed in a pinstriped suit and tie, his dark hair groomed, he could have stepped right out of an old movie. He had the features of a screen idol. And he was looking right at her. Blatantly.
It was impossible to look away. His eyes, such a deep blue, seemed to belong to a magician. It passed through her mind that she was being bewitched, because she could sense her own eyes widening, her lashes fluttering involuntarily, and she knew her pupils were dilating. The train stopped at Duomo and a group of teenagers got on, filling the space between her and the stranger. Yet still their eyes found each other. In fact the jostling bodies between them added to the eroticism of their optical connection. He could reach her only with his gaze. She tried to pull away from those hypnotic eyes, yet all she could manage was to take in his face. Dark hair, as jet black as hers, tanned skin, a square jaw with dark stubble. She imagined the feel of that stubble on her naked skin, and it made her shiver involuntarily. He was staring at her hungrily, and she wondered for a moment whether he was dangerous. She tried to look away, down, anywhere but at him. She considered getting off at Cordusio and walking the rest of the way home. Yet just at the moment she was about to get up, he smiled at her, and that changed everything. Valentina rarely smiles, and yet she is drawn to those who do. Theo’s smile was engaging, open, teasing. This man was no danger to her. She tipped her head to one side and gave him a little Louise Brooks half-smile in return, one of her eyebrows raised, a question in her gaze. It was the most she could manage, but it was enough. The gang of youths got off at Cairoli, and then it was just the two of them left, a fire building between them in the empty carriage. Yet neither of them spoke. It was as if words would break the erotic spell between them.
They both stood up at exactly the same time to get off. How did he know this was her stop? She walked towards the doors, sensing that he was standing right behind her. Just before the train trundled into Cadorna, he picked up her gloved hand in his and swung her around to face him. His lips found hers in a perfect screen kiss. As the train stopped, she fell against his chest. He smelt of Bulgari, strong, true and enticing. The doors slid open and they stepped out on to the platform together hand in hand. No words passed between them. There was no need, because their eyes had already made an agreement on that bewitching train ride. They walked hand in hand down the platform and up the escalator, through the barrier and out into the stormy March night. It was raining torrentially, but this added to the eroticism of the moment. He put his arm around her shoulders in an effort to protect her from the rain, and ran with her down the street, letting her lead him to wherever she wanted to take him.
Once inside her apartment, they kissed again. Deeper this time. They clung together, feeling the shape of each other’s body through their wet clothes. He took a breath and stepped back as she ripped her wet gloves off, dropped her coat to the floor and began to undo the buttons on her blouse one by one. She waited for him to speak, but it was as if he knew what she wanted. No words. Nothing false, just the blind truth of desire. Instead he arched one of his eyebrows and spoke with his expression. He slipped out of his jacket. She noticed, despite his ardour, that he was careful to hang it on the back of a chair before he began to unbutton his own shirt. Ah, she thought, pleased, this man has high standards. White heat was rising between them like a summer haze as they watched each other undress, not yet touching, taunting each other with the promise of their bodies.
They took their time, a bold, languorous dance of foreplay. He yanked his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and took it off. She slipped her own blouse off in return. Slowly she unclasped her bra, and let it drop from her breasts. She watched his chest tighten, heard his shallow breath as he looked at her. She could see his erection in his trousers, and it was answered by an ache below her pelvis. She shouldn’t be doing this. Stripping for a stranger in her apartment, promising him sex. They had not even introduced themselves to each other. And yet the pure abandon of it drove her on. She could really lose herself tonight in this man. She slid her hands around to the back of her skirt and unzipped it, wiggling out of it so that she stood before him, wanton in her G-string, stockings and suspenders. His lips curled up into a smile, his eyes warmed with appraisal as he took her in. He unzipped his trousers and let them fall from his waist. She could see him pushing against the soft fabric of his boxer shorts and she longed to touch him. Smell him. Feel him in her. A dream man from the twenties, alive and breathing in her own real-life silent movie. She could see the dampness of rain glistening on his chest and she stepped forward boldly, leaning down and licking the raindrop off his skin. He held her shoulder with one of his hands and brought her closer to him, so that she could feel his length brushing against her stomach. He was so much taller than her, and his height made her feel even more aroused. She wanted to climb him, so he could bring them both down and pin her to the ground with his long, muscular legs.
They rubbed against each other, warming their damp, chill skin. His silence was intoxicating, as if he knew that to speak would destroy the passion between them. She felt like a different woman, all normality abandoned, just sheer delight and desire fuelling her. What was making her behave in such a way? Was it the whole romantic notion of it, as if she really were living a scene in a film, or was it her carnal need pulsing through her, the badness of what she was doing urging her on. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
She took his hand and pulled him towards her bedroom, walking backwards through the debris of their clothes. He followed her lead, and once inside the room he took her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. The romance of it took her breath away. No man had ever carried her like that before.
He placed her carefully on the bed, and knelt next to h
er, hovering over her. He stroked her body with his fingertips, and she found herself exhaling a deep, guttural breath that made her feel as if she had never really exhaled properly before. He unclipped her stockings from the suspender belt and rolled them down her legs. She could tell he was enjoying this rare ritual. Not many girls wore stockings any more. He hooked her G-string around his index finger, and pulled it suddenly with tremendous force, so that it ripped in two. The energy shifted between them as he gathered her up, and they began kissing again. Her heart began to race as their now warmed bodies merged together. This man was a panther beneath his civilised exterior. Her skin was singing with delight at his touch, as if they had been meant to meet, as if there was some other power at play this night that had led them both to be on that metro in Milan at exactly the same time. A ridiculous idea, and yet a wonderful fantasy.
His mouth on hers, his taste so sweet and right, she reached down with her hands and tugged at his boxer shorts, cradling his penis in one of her hands. She wanted him right now, before the magic disappeared between them. Still kissing him, with her other arm she reached over to her bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out a condom packet. She drew back from him slightly, found his hand and gave him the packet. She wanted to make sure it was what he wanted as well. He smiled at her in appreciation. A gentleman, of course, no question of not using a condom. He sat back on his heels while he put it on, and she watched him, her insides melting with anticipation. Then he picked her up and rolled them, so that she was now on top. She took him in her hands, and as she leant down, pressing her lips to his, she pushed him up inside her.
It had been a couple of months since she had had sex, and yet she knew already that this was like no sex she had had before. Was it their anonymity that made it so incredibly intimate? How much this human being trusted her. How much she trusted him. It was heady. She lifted her body, and balanced above him before pushing down again. He reached up and cradled her breasts in his hands, his mouth a little open, his tongue flicking across his teeth.
In the beginning she had thought he would come inside her, and it would be enjoyable for her but she wouldn’t climax herself. She had never been able to orgasm if her partner was wearing a condom, and especially if it was the first time she slept with someone. And yet with this stranger, something new was happening to her. He didn’t succumb to his own pleasure first; instead he held her arms with his hands and moved her up and down, pushing his hips up to hers and making her ride him faster and faster. Deeper and deeper he went, and on and on. She had never made love for so long. They rolled over again and he was on top of her, pushing up into her. She began to feel herself quivering. Could this be possible? She was panting, crawling up the walls on the edge of her abandon, tipping over, so nearly, so nearly. He leant down and bit her nipple, pushed up again inside her, and to her shock she was coming, throbbing around his hard length. She looked into his eyes, almost black now, and they stared right into hers, sheer as onyx with his own sensations. He gasped as he joined her in her orgasm, falling on top of her so that they were both sinking into each other.
Of the few one-night stands that Valentina had experienced up to this point in her life, she had found them all disappointing. Embarrassing almost, when the deed was done and she was trying to get rid of the guy without seeming too cold. Yet this time was different. What kind of magic was this? He seemed to find her as irresistible as she found him, for after the first time they made love, they did not fall asleep or even talk to each other, but started all over again. How was he able to do it? she wondered. Was he some kind of superman? So many times they made love that first night. It was as if they explored every inch of each other’s body in the space of eight hours. Underneath him, and on top. Standing. Sitting with her back to him, and him leaning over so that he could grip her breasts from behind. Kneeling in front of him as he took her from behind. Sitting on him on a chair in the kitchen when she went to get them a glass of water and he followed her. On top of him on the hall floor on the way back. Curled around each other in the shower the next morning. All this passion felt like a kind of homecoming, and yet she didn’t even know his name.
Valentina sprays some canned air on to the old negative and gently brushes it with a sable brush. She places it carefully between two pieces of clear plastic and puts it down on her dresser. She remembers those first moments when she woke up the next morning, expecting in the cold light of day to be awkward with this stranger in her bed, at the very least to want him to leave. Yet that didn’t happen. She awoke to his kisses, and they made love yet again, as tenderly as if they had been lovers the whole of their adult lives.
That night was the most erotic of her life, yet she never expected anything from it. Even after they had finally made their introductions: Theo Steen, American, art historian, in Milan to work on his post-doctoral thesis, single; Valentina Rosselli, professional photographer, native of Milan and single too. Even when Theo joked over coffee and brioche the next morning that this would be a good story to tell their children, she thought he was just being funny. How could two people who had met in such a way have a chance of sustaining any kind of relationship? And yet somehow they managed to become lovers. She was so surprised when he rang her the following evening and asked her out for a drink. She had believed she would never hear from him again, and was hesitant about accepting his invitation. Now their lives are entangled, no matter how hard she tries to keep her distance. Is this what these negatives are about? A means for Theo to communicate with her?
She picks up the enlargements she has done so far and arranges them in a row on her bed. As well as the ‘landscape’ back and the tied ankle, there are four more images. One is clearly an ear lobe with a gold ring in it. Instinctively she feels this is a man’s ear rather than a woman’s. The gold ring is too plain and small to be women’s jewellery. There is a picture of a gloved hand and arm, holding a long string of pearls. Valentina particularly likes this image, the contrast of the black glove and the white beads. There is a pair of lips, unsmiling and dark; she imagines them stained with red lipstick if the image were colour. Finally, most tantalisingly, there is an eye. Just one. It is so close up it took her a while to realise what it was. The eye is looking down so that in fact all that can be seen is an iridescent eyelid, framed by a straight and defined eyebrow and long black eyelashes sweeping the tip of the subject’s cheek.
Who is this woman? Valentina is consumed by curiosity. The only person who can give her any idea is probably miles away from Milan. Is Theo trying to drive her crazy with frustration? He knows this puzzle will obsess her, and yet she has to admit it, at the same time he knows she will love it. But how can she find out the identity of the close-up woman . . . and now a man as well? She has absolutely no information about them. There was nothing in Theo’s desk. She chews her lip, picking up the tied ankle image and staring at it again. These images have started to become part of her dreams now. Last night she dreamt her ankles were tied to the end of the bed, just like in this picture she was looking at before she fell asleep. She had the most erotic dream about Theo caressing her all over. She woke up wanting her lover, and disappointed to find he wasn’t there. Maybe it was the phone call with Leonardo Sorrentino that made her dream about such things. Well she doesn’t have time to analyse her dream psychology now. She has a meeting to get to with said Leonardo, owner of an S&M sex club.
What to wear? It’s early evening, yet she doesn’t want to dress up too much and attract unwanted attention at this club. At the same time she doesn’t want to stand out as looking too casual or square. In the end she dresses in black trousers and singlet with a leather jacket, always a safe option, and always complementary with her black bob. She puts on some dark lipstick, the colour of oxtail, and grabs her camera bag on the way out the door. She is not sure if she will need it, but she guesses it’s better to be prepared.
Just as she is about to get into her taxi, she sees a figure stepping out from behind a car on the ot
her side of the street. He has his hands in his pockets and he is staring at her. She glances behind her as she approaches the taxi. Yes, quite definitely he is looking at her. Instinctively she knows that this is not the man from the garden. He is older, shorter and stocky, with grey hair. He looks as if he is about to say something, but she doesn’t give him a chance. She jumps into the taxi. As it speeds away, she turns around and looks out the rear window. He is still standing in the middle of the road, his hands in his pockets, frowning.
Two strange men watching her within the last twenty-four hours. She can’t help feeling a little unsettled, wishing Theo were here. She takes her mobile phone out of her bag, rotates it between her hands. Maybe she could call him. Ask him when he’ll be back. She wonders what he would say if she told him about the watchers. Would he tell her she was being paranoid? Certainly the man in the garden could have been a figment of her imagination. Yet the man she saw just now was real, and he did look as if he wanted to speak to her. She chastises herself; he is just some sleazeball wanting to chat her up. That’s what Theo would tell her. Valentina, you are unaware of the impact you have on men. She laughed when he said this. Told him he was being ridiculous. She was no Marilyn Monroe.
‘Absolutely you’re not, darling. But not every man wants a busty blonde, you know.’
She pops her phone back into her bag and dismisses the thought of the strange men. She has an interesting evening ahead of her. She is already jangling with nerves. What will this Leonardo Sorrentino show her tonight? She needs to be grounded and calm, not worrying about anything else right now.
The S&M club is in a part of Milan Valentina doesn’t know very well, near Via Garligliano in the Isola district. The part of Milan that used to be like Venice, until Mussolini decided to block up all the canals. It used to be a very rundown, seedy area, but recently it has become quite trendy. Like S&M, she supposes, which is gradually being viewed as more acceptable as well.
