by Evie Blake
She staggers to her feet and stumbles into her own room. There are tears in her eyes, but they are tears of frustration rather than pain. Yet she is relieved it is not worse this time. There is a gentle knock on her door, and her little maid enters. What is the child doing up at such an hour? Pina is fully dressed, although her hair is still unbraided and her eyes look heavy with sleep. When she sees her mistress, they begin to fill with tears as well.
‘Oh please, madam,’ Pina whimpers, as if she is the one who has been hit. ‘Please don’t anger him so.’
‘He cannot keep me prisoner, Pina. I will die if I cannot get out. I will, you know!’
Pina makes her sit, rearranges her hair to hide the bruise beginning to blossom on the top of her forehead. And later that morning, while Signor Brzezinski is busy with his papers, she begs Louise not to leave the house.
‘Tell him I have gone to visit the Countess,’ Louise instructs her.
‘He’ll know that’s not true. Please don’t go, madam.’
Louise takes the girl’s child-sized hand in hers.
‘I have to, Pina. It is my only hope.’
And Belle hopes all the way to her apartment. Hopes she will see Santos Devine leaning against the wall by her front door, waiting for her. Yet each day she is disappointed, and she pays the price for her disobedience when she returns home, her pale skin mottled by bruises beneath her evening gown.
Today the Doctor is with her. She tries to enter into the spirit of things, but when he opens his bag and shows her his instruments, she doesn’t feel scared or excited any more. In fact today she wants him to hurt her, really hurt her with one of those sharp tools. Maybe that will stop the pain that sears her heart ever since she met Santos.
‘Now, Belle,’ the Doctor begins kindly. ‘I believe you have been feeling poorly of late.’
‘Yes, I have, Doctor,’ she says flatly.
‘Well I am going to make you better. Please turn around.’
Instead of turning her back to him so that he can blindfold her and tie her to the bed, Belle gets up off the mattress. She drops her silk chemise so that she is naked apart from her stockings. She feels open and careless, as if she could walk the streets of Venice without a stitch on her, not caring who sees her or what they do to her. She walks over to the Doctor, and she can see him taking in her bruised body. She supposes he has never seen her this bad. His face pales, and he looks even sadder than normal. Belle bends down to pick up his doctor’s bag. He looks at her, startled, unable to speak. She has broken the spell of his game. She puts the bag down on the bed and rummages inside it. She pulls out a pair of curve-ended scissors and hands them to him.
‘Doctor, please, I want you to make me better,’ she says, looking into his eyes with ferocious intensity.
The Doctor blinks behind his spectacles, the force of her gaze too much. His expression is puzzled. Eventually he regains his composure and assumes his character again.
‘Yes, Belle, I will make you better,’ he says, looking at the scissors in his hand.
She puts on the blindfold herself, and lies down on the bed for him. She waits for the feel of the sharp instrument on her skin.
‘Please,’ she begs. ‘Make the pain go away.’
She senses the Doctor hovering over her.
‘Belle,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’ And he sounds a little different, less steady.
‘Doctor, please cut out my heart.’ Her voice cracks.
She waits for the sensation of the metal piercing her skin, of the blood spilling out of her, and of the release she is hoping for. Instead the blindfold is pulled off and the Doctor sits down on the bed next her, the scissors no longer in his hand.
‘Dear Belle, what is wrong?’ he asks, stroking her hair ever so gently.
‘Oh Doctor,’ she cries out. ‘I’m in love.’ And she bursts into tears, burying her face in his bare chest.
The Doctor holds her in his arms, patting her back until her crying abates. She pulls away and looks up at his cloud-grey eyes, so like her dead father’s.
‘Oh Doctor, what am I to do?’
‘Ah, poor, poor Belle. I am sorry to say that I have no cure for love.’
‘Please, Doctor, tell me what to do.’ She clings to him. ‘I am in love and yet he does not come. I have waited and waited for him.’ She clasps her hands. ‘I cannot bear it any longer. I shall throw myself in the canal. I cannot go home again without seeing him . . .’
‘Now, now, Belle,’ the Doctor says sagely, rubbing her back. ‘Calm yourself, my dear. All is not lost.’
She looks at him hopefully.
‘The only medicine I know for love is love itself. Why don’t you go and find this man? You are Belle, famous courtesan of Venice! You cannot let love defeat you!’ The Doctor proudly pats her bare bottom. ‘I am sure you can seduce this man, especially if you love him.’
‘But where will I find him?’
‘Look and you shall find, my dear. Venice is small enough.’
She is so grateful for his encouraging words that she dries her eyes and embraces him. They are both naked, and yet it is the embrace of friendship.
‘I am sorry, Doctor,’ she says humbly, looking down. ‘I have been selfish and spoilt your time today. Would you like to start again?’
‘No, dear Belle. It is time I went.’ He pats her head, and kisses the crown of it tenderly. ‘You are very dear to me, you know.’
He stands up and takes his neatly folded shirt off his pile of clothes on the chair, begins to get dressed.
‘You are a woman who deserves to be treasured. It pains me to see how carelessly your husband regards you.’
Belle looks down at her body and surveys the blue bruises on her thighs.
‘I was defiant, I deserved it.’
‘No wife deserves to be beaten,’ the Doctor says sternly, lifting her chin and looking straight into her eyes.
She averts her gaze in shame. For it shames her to have the Doctor’s pity. Why can’t she be more tactful with her husband and avoid their violent confrontations? She believes she is a woman who should never have married. If only she had grown up in America, in a free-spirited modern family. She would have liked to be a dancer, maybe an actress in those movies she adores so much. Oh, if she could have danced the Charleston, kicked up her heels and had some fun. Her upbringing in Warsaw couldn’t have been more different. There was no gaiety. And when the war came, there was too much death.
After the Doctor has gone, Belle sits on her bed thinking for a few minutes. The Doctor is right. She needs to find Santos. Is this a test he has set her? She doesn’t know for sure. He told her he would set her free, but does she need to show him some faith first? She has waited too long for this moment to let it slip through her fingers. She can’t let this man sail away. She flings open her wardrobe and takes out her sailor costume. It’s time to become a boy again, and find the man who has stolen her heart.
Valentina
SHE IS WATCHING. HER CAMERA IS IN HER HANDS, protecting her like a shield, and yet she is not taking pictures. Celia is lying on her back on the four-poster bed in the Velvet Underworld, her arms above her head and tied to the bedstead, her eyes closed in ecstasy as Leonardo crouches over her like a lion, licking her and caressing her. Valentina raises the camera to her face and tries to concentrate on getting a good shot, but she can’t focus. She is not sure what turns her on more, Celia in her wild abandon, or Leonardo as he pleasures her. Celia climaxes, and Leonardo sits back on his heels, gently stroking her before untying her from the bedstead. Celia sits up on the bed and smiles right at Valentina, like the cat that got the cream.
Leonardo turns to look at her as well.
‘See how well I look after her if she obeys me,’ he says to Valentina, his brown eyes warm and teasing. She is blushing deep down inside. Somehow watching Leonardo in this scenario rather than a complete stranger makes her feel more self-conscious. His body is different from Theo’s. He is not as lean or tall, an
d yet he is all compact muscle and masculine power.
‘Why don’t you put down that silly old camera and join us?’ Celia asks as she stretches her porcelain legs out in front of her. She looks flawless, Valentina thinks, so pure and fresh, like a lily. How she would like to smell her again, feel the texture of her incredibly soft lips on her skin.
Leonardo cocks his head on one side and smiles at her.
‘Come, Valentina.’ He offers her his hand. ‘Don’t be afraid. This is a gift for you.’
His words resonate within her and she thinks of Theo’s gift. Those erotic photographs from so many years ago. Humans have always done this, she reasons, basked in the physical poetry of eroticism. How can something so pleasurable be wrong?
As if entranced, she puts the camera aside and walks over to the bed. She is naked already. Was she taking pictures with no clothes on? She climbs up on to the four-poster, which seems incredibly high, piled with mattress after mattress, like the bed in the story of the Princess and the Pea. The purple velvet curtains hang down around her as if she is on a stage and she, Leonardo and Celia are the principal actors.
‘Lie down,’ Leonardo commands, and she obeys him.
Celia crawls across the bed towards her. She leans over Valentina and kisses her gently on the lips before sliding down her body so that Valentina can feel her breasts rubbing against hers. Lower she slides until she reaches Valentina’s most private part. She puts her hand between Valentina’s legs and pulls them apart, and before Valentina can think, she feels Celia’s tongue right inside her. She gasps, with surprise, with pleasure. Leonardo is lying beside her. He cradles her head in one of his arms, and with the other hand he strokes her body, up and down, up and down, in rhythm with Celia’s licks. Valentina is going deep down inside herself, to a sensation as luxurious and rich as the crushed velvet that surrounds her in this pulsing red room.
She hears the door open. Someone else has come in. She opens her eyes, and to her astonishment Theo is standing at the end of the bed, looking down at her.
‘Theo!’ she cries, trying to sit up, panicking, but to her astonishment he puts his finger to his lips as if to tell her to be quiet. He is actually smiling at her, and she realises that he likes this, to watch Celia and Leonardo giving her pleasure.
Theo undresses in front of her. She longs to touch him, and give him the pleasure she is receiving now. He climbs on to the bed and Valentina awaits him with anticipation. Celia’s licks have become so deep, so intense that she is very close to the edge, and all she wants now is to feel her dear lover inside her. Theo puts his hands around Celia’s waist and lifts her away from Valentina.
‘Oh, Theo,’ she whispers, burning with love and desire for him. She is speaking in the throes of her passion. What is happening to her?
Celia is on her knees facing Valentina, Theo’s hands still around her waist. Valentina gasps in shock as she watches Theo push inside the other girl. She stares at him in disbelief, and he looks at her magnanimously, smiling all the time. And suddenly, instead of being angry or hurt, she understands what Theo wants. She twists towards Leonardo, who with no prompting at all pulls her up from the bed so that she falls on her knees as well. She spreads her legs and pushes her backside up towards Leonardo, looking at Theo all the time as he slowly rocks in and out of Celia. And then she feels Leonardo’s length inside her, and she sighs with satisfaction, holding Theo with her gaze all the while. It is incredibly intimate for her and her lover to be fucking other people while watching each other’s pleasure. When they are together, just the two of them, she is almost lost from him sometimes, but now she watches him acutely as he gets closer and closer to climaxing. She pulls herself up and reaches her arms forward, and Theo does the same. They are holding hands over Celia’s naked back, eyes locked, as they climax at the same time. And then they are falling back upon the bed, all four of them a tangle of limbs, and hot skin, and velvet. They are sinking into the bed, through its hundred mattresses and below into the plush carpet, through the floor, down, down into the red earth.
Valentina wakes tangled in her sheets. She flings them off. She is so hot, her body wet with perspiration. She swings her legs out of the bed, and holds her sides. Her body is still throbbing from the eroticism of what happened last night, her head aching with confusion. She doesn’t understand. What was Theo doing there, in Leonardo’s club? It really was him, wasn’t it? Yet afterwards he left her without a word of explanation. She was so shaken by the experience that Leonardo called a taxi to take her home. He was so kind, making her sweet tea, stroking her hair and asking her if she was okay.
What was he doing here? she kept asking, but he avoided her question, instead instructing her to go straight to bed when she got home.
She expected Theo to be in the flat, waiting for her, ready to explain everything. She thought it would be like one of their passionate trysts when they arrived and departed separately to maintain the sexual suspense. And yet when she got home last night, the flat was empty, and it was clear that Theo had not been back since he left five days ago. It made no sense. Theo had asked her to be his girlfriend, and yet he fucked Celia right in front of her. Why isn’t she outraged? Is it because she doesn’t care enough?
She goes into the study and turns on her laptop to check her emails. She needs to hear from Theo. His phone is off and she is desperate to speak to him. She sent him a message last night asking him what the hell was going on, and where he was if he was back in Milan. She also told him that a policeman had called to speak to him. Was there something he was hiding from her? He had told her to trust no one; did that include the police?
She is relieved to see he has sent her a reply. Yet it is sparse and unsatisfactory.
Re: Policeman. Nothing to worry about but don’t talk to him. It’s to do with my family. Re: Last night. Did you have fun? Theo xx
She slams down the laptop lid, furious. What kind of game is he playing? How inadequate his words are. He pushed her into sleeping with another man last night. She squeezes her thighs tight as she remembers the sensation of Leonardo inside her. It was lovely, although not the same as Theo. He didn’t fill her in the same way. And yet, she chews her lip, would she have slept with Leonardo anyway, even if Theo hadn’t been there as well? She was on the verge of it, wasn’t she? Before he came into the room. And what about Theo and Celia? Is he punishing her for not wanting to be his girlfriend? Well it won’t work, she thinks stoutly. She doesn’t do jealousy. She refuses to be pushed into it. The longer he stays away, the more likely she will be able to let him go in the end.
But she does have a problem. What if that policeman comes back? Is he going to tell her something awful about Theo? She tries not to worry. She knows Theo is not a bad person, even if he is playing games with her at the moment.
She weaves her way back out of the study. The room really is a complete junkyard, she thinks, as she moves a stack of books to one side. She glances again at the new paintings on the wall, confused that he would choose to buy copies of pictures he doesn’t like. Where does he get the money for all this art anyway?
Valentina stops in her tracks, a terrible thought occurring to her. What if . . . what if . . . he doesn’t pay for them? She shakes her head, scrutinising the Watteau painting, and then the one next to it, the Dutch interior of the woman reading the letter. What if they aren’t copies? No, Theo is not a thief. No way. It’s a completely ridiculous idea. Although she can’t help thinking of The Thomas Crown Affair, and how very like Thomas Crown Theo is. Suave. In control. Actually the idea of Theo being some kind of art thief is rather sexy, she muses, as she opens the curtains of her apartment and looks down at the dismal rain-streaked street. She scans it for the stranger with the camera, but she hasn’t seen him since that first time. She must have been mistaken. He wasn’t actually looking at her. He must be one of the new people living in her apartment block, or a visitor of one of her neighbours.
It’s still pouring with rain. Valentina feels lik
e hibernating. She is so exhausted and confused from last night that she wants to hide from the whole world today. She goes into the kitchen and looks in the fridge. There’s not much in there – a couple of eggs and some overripe tomatoes – but she should eat something. She takes down the coffee pot and prepares some coffee. Just as it is gurgling with strong espresso, her phone rings. She picks it up and sees Gaby’s name displayed on the screen.
‘Valentina?’
‘Gaby, are you okay?’ She can hear immediately that something is wrong from the tone of her friend’s voice.
‘Oh Valentina, I broke up with Massimo.’ Gaby is crying so much she can barely speak.
Valentina knew this day would come. Gaby’s married lover always made it clear to her that he was never going to leave his wife. Valentina knew only too well how things would end. And yet when she saw them together, he and Gaby were so in love. It was bittersweet to see. It made her angry, almost unable to speak to Massimo, although she tried not to judge him.
‘I’m so sorry, Gaby.’
‘I ended it. I couldn’t do it any more, Valentina. It hurts too much to be with him. To know I can never really have him.’
‘Maybe he will leave his wife . . .’
‘No, Valentina, he won’t . . . you know that . . .’
Gaby sighs. Valentina cradles her phone between her shoulder and her ear, as she takes the coffee pot off the cooker and pours herself a neat black espresso.
‘Do you want to come over?’ she says. ‘I’m not doing anything.’ Maybe this is what she needs. If she could be distracted from her own confusing situation by Gaby’s crisis, she might start to feel less worried about Theo.
‘Would you mind, Valentina? I know you like your solitude, but I don’t want to stay here. He might come over and I don’t know if I have the will to resist him . . .’
