by Evie Blake
Belle strides along Fondamenta Nuove by the side of the lagoon, whistling as she goes. It is wonderful. For once in her life she has the freedom to walk down the street without men looking at her, measuring her up. Once she has reached the docked boats she can see from her apartment, she decides to dive into one of the local tavernas. She wants to have a drink amongst her sailor pals. Inside the crowded taverna she recognises a couple of faces, but of course they have no idea they are rubbing shoulders with Belle, the infamous Venetian courtesan. This amuses her no end.
The owner approaches her as she sits down at a small table in the corner.
‘You look a bit young to be drinking hard liquor, son,’ he says.
‘And what business is it of yours?’ Belle replies as gruffly as she can, putting some coins on the table and trying to hide her manicured hands in the process. ‘Rum, please. Your finest.’
Belle knows that if she were a real sailor, she would knock her glass of rum back in one, but it is just too strong and she doesn’t want to make a scene coughing and spluttering, so she leaves it sitting in front of her for ages, taking surreptitious sips when no one seems to be looking her way. Oh my, it makes her feel good. At first a burning sensation on her lips, but as it slides down her throat, it feels just wonderful, warming her belly. How good it is to be a man, she thinks, to enjoy such simple pleasures as choosing what you want to drink and when.
A crowd has gathered in the far corner of the taverna. Belle strains to make out what is going on, but it’s impossible to see through the throng. She finishes her drink, and after having recovered from its powerful effects, she gets up and wanders over, pushing her way through a hubbub of sailors. Nobody minds. She is so small and lithe, they think she is a boy, and make way for her. Yet still she can’t see what is going on. All she can hear is a voice. Perfect Italian, yet with a foreign twang to it.
‘It seemed to be a hopeless situation, my friends,’ she hears the voice say. ‘Raoul and I were sure we were done for. However, luck was on our side. As we were being led away to certain death, some vicious bandits came tearing down the mountainside and attacked our guards. In the ensuing chaos Raoul and I were able to make our escape. Our hands still bound behind our backs, we ran through the rocky gorge towards the sea. Ah, we could not see the sea, but we could hear her, our darling saviour, slapping against the jagged rocks. I can tell you, it was hard work not falling down that treacherous gorge, with our hands bound, and beneath our bare feet scorpions and snakes snapping and hissing at us.
‘Well, we made it to the shore, and were able to untie each other, rather tediously, which delayed our escape somewhat. Hunting around, we spied a small boat, a tiny rust-bucket in fact, but we were not fussy, my friends . . .’ At this point everybody in the taverna laughs. ‘We sprang into that boat and rowed away at double speed, and just in time, for we were not far out from shore when some of the bandits emerged on the beach, shaking the decapitated heads of our captors at us.’ Here there are a couple of gasps from the younger sailors in the crowd. ‘Their message was quite clear. If our guards had not been such brutes, I would have felt sorry for them. As it was, I sent up a prayer, whatever good it may have done their departing souls.
‘Off Raoul and I sailed upon the endless China seas. Ah, we suffered for days, my friends, and at times we wondered if it would not have been better to have had our heads cut off, now that our tongues were swollen and our need for water was so great. Hither and thither we drifted, our hope nearly crushed, until one day we saw another boat, and after that another, and another. We had arrived in Hong Kong. We emerged in the bustling port like two newborns screaming silently for nourishment, our throats so dry we couldn’t speak. An old lady with a bucket of none too fresh water, I fear, ladled it into our parched mouths. Nothing tasted so sweet as that water in all my life.’
The gathering cheers, and congratulates the owner of the voice on his good luck. Belle cranes to see him, but the crowd is too dense. She pushes her way forward, and a large, burly docker in front of her finally lets her through. Sitting at the table in front of her, with a tankard of frothing beer, is the most devilish creature she has ever seen. She knows instinctively that it is the same tall, rangy sailor she noticed the other day as she walked home. Is it by the way he leans back on the bench, the sweep of his shoulders, or the curve of his chin? He has hair so black it makes hers look dirty brown, and his eyes are the full range of blue, the colours of all those oceans he has explored.
‘Tell us another adventure, Santos!’ someone yells out.
‘I have no more to tell . . . that is my most recent adventure. However, my friends, here I am in Venice, the city of mystery and magic. Without fail some adventure must befall me here.’
And as he says these words his eyes alight on Belle. He looks her square in the face and a wicked grin spreads across his features. He knows, she thinks, panicking. He can see that I’m a woman.
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘There are many secrets of Venice I would like to unveil.’
He is looking at her in such a way that her heart leaps into her breast, and she is more frightened than she has ever been in her life. She turns on her heel and flees the taverna, and doesn’t stop running until she reaches her apartment door, where she stands for a second, her head leaning against its cool wood, slowing her breath. She tries to calm down, chiding herself for being so silly, yet she knows that what has just happened is not a trivial thing. For Belle has just laid eyes on her destiny.
Valentina
VALENTINA IS IN THE DARK. SHE CANNOT SEE A THING. THE blindfold is made of dense black velvet, and not a chink of light penetrates. She is frightened and at the same time she is losing herself in the blissful sensations that are assaulting her body. One of the girls is teasing her with her tongue, while the other softly caresses her breasts. She feels a finger gently outlining her oval, and then pushing into its plushness. She gasps, all of her usual reserve abandoned. Rosa and Celia continue to play her. It seems they are masters of the art of bringing her close to the edge, and then pulling back, so that she is becoming more and more desperate for release. She imagines what kind of picture they must make. One she cannot photograph. Herself blindfolded and naked, her arms and legs bound to the bed with silk ties. The two young women entwined around her like Grecian nymphs. She is completely open to them, and she finds this risk, this trust in the unknown, enticing.
Everything is melting around her, and it feels as though the bed is rocking, as if it is a boat. Valentina begins to lose herself in fantasy. So this is why this room is called Atlantis, because she is being submerged into a lost place deep inside her. She imagines one of the girls untying her from the bedstead and the other pulling off her blindfold. She is throbbing still, burning to climax, but the girls are sitting back, smiling at her, their breasts pert and expectant, cross-legged in the lotus position. Rosa’s red hair is flying in the breeze as the bed/boat bucks in the choppy sea. Valentina looks around in amazement. The blue-painted walls of the room have vanished, and instead they are in the middle of the ocean. She can see land in the distance, but it is far, far away.
‘Where am I?’ she asks.
‘We are in your fantasy, Valentina,’ says Celia, winking at her.
‘Let’s swim,’ says Rosa, standing up in the rocking boat and gracefully diving overboard. Celia offers Valentina her hand.
‘Come on,’ she says.
Valentina lets her pull her up and the two naked girls dive into the ocean. Down and down they go, following Rosa’s streaming red hair. The sensation of the cold seawater against her sensitised skin makes her feel weightless, as if she is letting the ocean bring her where it will, rather than the other way around. They dive fathoms deep, so deep Valentina wonders how they can breathe any more, but breathing she is, effortlessly, as if she is a sea creature herself. They pass shoals of golden fish, which flutter through their legs, and long fronds of seaweed reach out and wrap around her before pulling away. A tiny seahorse ri
des in front of them, leading the way before disappearing into the night of the dark ocean. Finally Rosa stops by a mound of rocks on the seabed. Valentina sees a dark opening. Rosa beckons for them to enter the cave, but Valentina doesn’t want to go in. She treads water, hesitating. Rosa swims up to her and takes her other hand.
Don’t be afraid. We won’t let go of you.
Valentina hears her voice inside her head. Hesitantly she lets the girls persuade her, holding each of them by the hand. Into the darkness they take her, so that all is hot and throbbing around her. What is in the cave with them? Will it hurt them? She senses a rush of water in front of her, like the jet of an underground spring. She feels a pair of lips pressed upon her own, and a wave of relief rushes through her. She recognises that kiss. It is Theo. He is here with her.
She is floating like a starfish in the sea, the two girls holding her arms out to her sides, and her feet pointed downwards as Theo kisses her. He puts his arms around her waist and pulls her to him so that their chests are touching. With the ease of a knowing lover he slips inside her, and she brings her legs up to wrap them around him. They are making love, the currents of the sea pulling them this way and that. She feels Rosa and Celia let go of her hands and disappear in the blackness. She wants to keep Theo inside her for all eternity. She doesn’t want this feeling to stop.
Valentina wakes, her heart pounding. She opens her eyes. She is at home in her tossed bed. On her own. Yet her body is vibrating with emotions. The touch of Celia and Rosa on her skin is still present. She brings her hand up to her mouth in astonishment at herself. She really did do it. She let those two women make love to her last night. Immediately she wonders what Theo would make of it. She remembers her dream again. Was that her subconscious telling her it was okay with him? Or just wishful thinking?
The thought of Rosa and Celia bringing her into the sea cave, and the memory of Theo’s touch, which felt so real, begins to turn her on. She puts her hand between her legs and gently rubs herself. She closes her eyes and imagines the sea cave again. Theo kissing her. Theo inside her. Her imagination begins to recede in time. They are climbing into the boat together, sailing back into the Atlantis Room. She lets Theo tie her to the bed and blindfold her. She wants to let him. She wants to show him she trusts him. And then she imagines Theo fucking her, hard, passionate, and she is climaxing, gasping and breathless, sprawled across the length of her bed.
An hour later Valentina is sitting demurely at her dining-room table in her dressing gown, a mug of tea in her hand. She is still reeling from her passionate adventure last night. Her hand is shaking as she brings the mug to her mouth and sips the hot liquid. She made love with not one, but two women. Does that mean she is gay? She knows instinctively she is not, for what unsettles her more is the power of her emotions in the dream, when she was with Theo. The force of her need for him. She tries to distract herself. She still hasn’t solved the riddle of the negatives. The black photograph album is in front of her, and she begins attaching the pictures, one to a page. A bare back; a tied ankle; a gloved hand and arm with the pearls; a pair of lips; a downcast eye; an ear lobe with that ring in it. She has to work out what Theo is trying to tell her. Is he torturing her with these erotic images and his absence? Does he want her to be unfaithful? Yet he indicated that he wanted their relationship to be more committed. Isn’t that what asking her to be his girlfriend means? She doesn’t understand.
Valentina hasn’t finished enlarging all the negatives from the book, and now she has to develop the film from last night. Her chest tightens with anticipation at the thought of the photographs. Will they be as sensual, as tasteful as she hopes, or will they be vulgar?
She hopes they will have a similar effect on the viewer as these old pictures have on her. Every single one is an erotic close-up of a woman’s body; apart from the photograph of the ear lobe with the gold ring. She stares at this picture for a long time. She can see not just the ear with the earring but also the side of a cheek, and the end of a dark sideburn. She immediately thinks of Leonardo and his gold earring, and how it gives him the quality of some kind of pirate from the past. She has always thought that pirates are sexy.
She puts down the picture and looks at the remaining negatives. In the beginning she was desperate to enlarge them and find out what they were of, but now she wants to string it out. It is as if the images are entering her dream world and telling her a story. She is not sure whether it is about herself or the mystery woman in the pictures. But she feels there is a point to it, something to do with her and Theo.
Valentina gets up from the table and walks over to the window, looking out on to her street. She searches for a figure in the rain, wondering who the man was the other night. But the street is deserted apart from the odd car splashing past. She cannot remember such a wet, grey autumn before. If it were sunny, she wouldn’t feel so low. She would be lying out in the park under a tree, reading a book and eating an apple. She would be watching her fellow Milanese, the stylish, the moody and the ambitious, as they rush on by. She feels that outsiders, especially other Italians, can be a little unfair on Milan. They see it as austere, businesslike and unfeeling, yet underneath this there is another city of magic and fantasy. Like the 1940s rationalist buildings hiding enchanted gardens from the sixteenth century or tiny medieval cloisters. She is defensive of her city because she knows how it feels to be misjudged. Often she has overheard others describe her as unfriendly, or standoffish. She knows it’s because she never smiles. And she believes as well that some of these people are envious of her. They think her mother is cool, that she is the daughter of a celebrated sixties icon. If only they knew what it was really like for her.
Often Valentina is completely unaware of how the expression on her face puts people off her. She may well be smiling inside, but not many notice that. She is often told to cheer up despite the fact that she may be in an excellent mood. And that surprises her, how she might get a hostile reaction from someone, usually a girl, for some unknown offence. Of course she really doesn’t care in the end what people think of her. She has Theo, and her close friends Antonella, Gaby, and Marco. And those two girls, Rosa and Celia. They liked her, didn’t they?
Her phone rings and Valentina looks at the screen briefly before answering it. It’s Mattia. She feels a jolt of worry; her brother rarely calls her.
‘Hi, Mattia, is everything okay?’
‘Yes, Valentina,’ he says. ‘Just wanted to update you on Mother.’
‘Oh, right,’ Valentina replies, trying to sound indifferent. She watches a sparrow sheltering on the windowsill of her apartment, while the rain gathers momentum outside. ‘So what’s up?’
‘I just want to let you know that she’s moved again.’
‘Okay,’ says Valentina. It’s kind of her brother to let her know, but if her mother doesn’t want to tell her where she is living now, why should she care?
‘She’s in America still.’
‘Well, no surprises there. Do you see her?’
The little sparrow gives up and flies away, buffeted this way and that by the nasty wet wind.
‘No, she’s a long way from New York.’ He pauses. ‘Besides, you know how she feels about Debbie.’
‘Oh yes.’ Valentina had forgotten that. The big row at her brother’s wedding all those years ago. She was only about twelve or thirteen at the time, so she never did quite work out what the problem was. Her mother just seemed to dislike her brother’s fiancée intensely. Things have never been the same between mother and son since his wedding day. Mattia tried to patch things up, but neither of the women was willing to compromise.
Unlike Valentina, Mattia most definitely does not take after their mother in the slightest. He likes to keep things pleasant, and lives a safe, comfortable life with his wife and two children in New York. Valentina keeps meaning to visit, but in a way she is a little afraid. She doesn’t really know her brother at all. What if it turns out that they hate each other? He is thirteen ye
ars older than her and had left for America by the time she was five. Shamefully, her only childhood emotion concerning her brother was jealousy. She couldn’t help being envious when she looked through all the photographs of her mother, her father and Mattia together. She particularly remembers a series of pictures when they went on holiday in what was then Yugoslavia. There were so many photographs of six-year-old Mattia looking jolly by the sea, naked with his little fishing net, and hand in hand with her mother, who was wearing a tiny bikini. There were pictures of her father too, lying on the beach reading, his pipe in his mouth as always. She has no such happy family mementoes.
‘So how are you?’ her brother asks her.
‘Good, you know, busy with work.’
‘Great, and how’s it going with Theo?’
How does he do that? Remember Theo’s name? He has been married to Debbie for over fourteen years, and Valentina still manages to call her Libby sometimes.
‘Good.’
‘He seems like a nice guy,’ Mattia says. ‘You know, maybe he’s the one.’
She doesn’t reply, annoyed. How can Mattia comment on her boyfriend when he’s never met him?
‘Look, sorry, I can’t stay on the phone too long, but I just want to tell you that Mum is living in Santa Fe, in New Mexico now. I’ll send you her address if you want.’
‘I don’t want it, Mattia.’
‘Oh, okay . . . Well, I have it if you need it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘She also posted me some old pictures of the family. Mostly photographs of her parents and herself as a child. Do you want any of them? I thought you might be interested, seeing as you and Theo are into collecting pictures.’
Again that familiarity. It annoys Valentina. Just because he is her brother, it doesn’t mean he knows who she is.
‘Just send me the ones you don’t want,’ she says brusquely.
‘Right, well, okay, take care,’ he says, suddenly whispering. ‘Have to go.’
