by Evie Blake
‘I’m sorry, darling; you are way too young. Come back in another year,’ the woman says, winking at her.
What kind of mask-maker is this? wonders Belle. She can see no evidence of a workshop in the dark hall behind the woman. With thumping heart she realises that perhaps Santos is not here to trade after all. She is just about to let the woman close the door in her face when courage seizes her.
‘Santos Devine,’ she croaks. ‘I have a message for Santos Devine.’
She is almost hoping the woman will tell her he isn’t there. That this is all some kind of bad joke. For how could Santos want to be with another woman, older and frankly more common than her, when he knows he could have Belle with one snap of his fingers?
The woman pushes her hip to one side, balancing the cat there, and flicks an auburn curl behind her ear.
‘Yes, he’s here. Who are you?’
‘My name is . . . Louis,’ she stutters. ‘Can you tell him Louis Blackbird is here?’
She is so consumed with desperate longing that she doesn’t care about the situation she finds herself in. The man she loves is sleeping with another prostitute. It doesn’t matter to Belle. She still wants him.
The woman disappears down the dark corridor, and Belle is left waiting with the cats. A second passes, two, and then a door at the end of the corridor swings open. Her chest tightens. There he is. The man she has craved these past two weeks. He is shirtless, but still wearing his white trousers and sailor’s cap. He stands in the doorway, the light behind him so that his face is in shadow.
‘Belle Blackbird?’ he calls out. ‘Is that you?’
She steps forward, scattering the cats.
‘Yes.’
She can see his face now. It is perfectly symmetrical, with its heavy eyebrows and the cleft in his chin.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, sounding surprised.
The woman appears next to Santos. She drapes her arm around his neck possessively, and Santos does nothing to stop her.
‘I came to find you,’ says Belle in a small voice. She looks into his eyes, those amber and blue eyes promising all the sensual wealth she desires. They make her want to fall into his arms and push the other whore away.
‘But why?’ he asks. ‘I told you that I would come and find you. One day.’
‘I cannot wait any longer.’ Her honest words sound clumsy now.
The other woman looks between Santos and Belle, uncomprehending.
‘Well, Santos!’ she laughs. ‘I didn’t know you were that way inclined.’
Santos grins, and tickles her under the chin.
‘He’s a girl, can’t you see?’
The woman turns to stare at Belle.
‘Oh yes, of course . . .’ She smiles cruelly. ‘But not much of a girl.’ She addresses Belle coldly. ‘Do you want Santos for yourself? Don’t you know that he is just like a cat? You can’t ask for his affection; you have to wait for him to deign to give it to you.’
Her voice sounds bitter, and Belle notices hurt in her eyes as she drops her arm from around Santos’s torso. She wonders if this woman might be more than just another prostitute to Santos.
‘I’ll leave you to talk,’ the woman says icily, disappearing into her room and clicking the door behind her. They are in near darkness, and all the while the other woman has been speaking Santos has not taken his eyes from Belle’s. His gaze is so intense, she feels as if she is pinned to the wall by it.
‘Belle,’ he asks her gruffly, ‘why did you come here? I didn’t want you to see me here. I told you . . . when the time is right, I will come to you.’
‘Why do you get to decide when it is the right time?’ she cries.
She is suddenly so angry, consumed by the passion of her rage. She flies down the corridor towards him, raises her hand to hit him, but he catches it in his.
‘You made me fall in love with you and then you left me stranded . . . hanging on for you. You’re a monster . . .’
He flinches, and she thinks she sees him grow pale.
‘We only spent an afternoon talking . . . Belle, you are married. I didn’t think—’
‘I am in love with you,’ she wails, pulling herself away from him. ‘Yet to you I am just another silly lovesick girl.’
She turns away from him, stumbling blindly out of the house and back down the narrow alley. He catches up with her.
‘Belle, Belle.’ He tries to take her arm, but she pulls away and storms on down the alley. He grabs her from behind, swinging her around, his strength taking her breath away. He presses her against the wall of the alley. It is siesta time and no one is around. She can feel his breath on her lips, so tantalisingly close.
‘Shush,’ he says, pushing her hair back into her cap. ‘Your disguise is falling apart.’ He gives her a smile, and it lightens her heart slightly. He cups his hands around her face.
‘Dear Belle, you have to understand that I cannot give you what you want. I love all women, and no woman. Do you understand?’
She nods, a tear trickling down her cheek.
‘Yet I find you hard to resist. Especially in your sailor’s disguise.’
He leans down and kisses her tenderly, and she can taste the salt of her tears on their lips. She pulls away.
‘I am a married woman and a prostitute, Santos. I am not an innocent child,’ she tells him, letting her skin brush against the soft hair on his cheek. ‘I don’t want you to stay with me for ever. I just want you for now, until you have to leave again.’
‘But is that enough for you?’
‘Yes.’
As Belle says this, she knows she means it. Even if she has Santos for one night only, even if her love is unrequited, it is so much more than she has ever had before. And there is a part of her that hopes a little. Maybe he might come to love her too?
He sighs.
‘All right, my little blackbird. I will meet you tomorrow, I promise. In the same piazza where we first met.’
She holds his hands tightly, her stomach filled with butterflies.
‘Come with me now,’ she begs. ‘I am afraid I will lose you again.’
He shakes his head.
‘No, I can’t walk out on Lara. I am not a complete scoundrel. Although now that I have seen you, I think we will just be drinking tea and trying on masks!’ He winks at her, and Belle feels herself relaxing a little. ‘I made a promise to you,’ he says. ‘I will be there tomorrow, at three.’
He kisses her on the forehead, and spins her around, slapping her bottom lightly.
‘Now run home, my little sailor boy, before I change my mind.’
She twists round and gives him a little smile. He comes up close and trails his finger over her lips. She licks his finger, holds him with her gaze.
‘I think you are dangerous for me, Belle. And I know that I am bad for you.’ He frowns. ‘I am not sure—’
She interrupts him.
‘It’s too late. You promised!’ she calls out triumphantly as she runs away before he can say another thing.
This time she flies through Cannaregio without taking one wrong turn. She is back in her apartment and changing into her Louise clothes before she knows it. She stands in front of her mirror, and pushes her hands between her legs, looks at her dilated pupils. She can feel her excitement. Tomorrow she will have him.
She trips back home with a lighter heart, ready to take another beating from her husband. Yet today she doesn’t feel the strap against the back of her legs; instead she imagines it is the sea slapping against her as she swims with Santos by her side. In the distance she sees a tiny island: another, more enchanted Venice, a lovers’ Venice, with castles in the sky.
Valentina
VALENTINA AND GABY ARE DANCING JUST LIKE LULU AND her lesbian lover, Countess Geschwitz, on her wedding day in Pandora’s Box. Valentina, with her shiny black bob, is dressed in white; Gaby, with her soft blond curls, wears black. The two girls are spinning around and around the dance floor, their bo
dies pressed against each other so that they can feel each other’s curves through the shifting silk of their flappers’ dresses. All the couples are looking at them, but they don’t care, their cheeks pressed together in unity.
The dancing crowd begins to dissipate and Gaby’s lover Massimo appears. He is wearing a dark suit and spats, and his black hair is slicked back. He approaches the two of them and taps Valentina on the back, trying to break them up so that he can dance with Gaby. Gaby looks at Valentina, asking a silent question, and Valentina automatically understands what she wants. Gaby offers Valentina’s hand to Massimo, then walks away, disappearing into the soft contours of the dreamscape.
Valentina dances with Massimo. He smells of Gaby, and more of her love for him, as bitter and spoilt as burnt coffee. Gradually the other dancers disappear, so that it is just Massimo and Valentina dancing around and around the dance floor in black and white. No words pass between them, but Massimo bends down and sniffs her neck, and she knows that he can smell Gaby on her. The circle of their dance spreads so that they are brushing against the walls of the room as they pass by. They stop, and Massimo pushes her up against the wall. He peels off her dress and pulls down her pants. And as she looks at him, Massimo merges into an image of Francesco, her first and only married lover, and then back again into Massimo, her best friend’s married lover. He tucks himself inside her within a heartbeat. There is no need to explain themselves, for it is quite clear that Valentina is a missive from her friend. Massimo pounds into her, and although it is not unpleasant, Valentina does not find it that erotic. Not until she looks over his shoulder and sees Theo sitting on a chair in the middle of the dance floor, one leg crossed over the other, watching her. She locks eyes with him, and his gaze is expressionless. Does he love her? she wonders. How can he watch her with another man and do nothing? And yet already he has . . . and she too has watched him with another. She flashes her eyes at him, as if to say, See, I warned you. Don’t try to fall in love with me. I will hurt you, and you will hurt me. All that we have will be worth nothing in the end.
Massimo comes, calling out Gaby’s name. He pulls away from her, his face wet with the tears of remembrance. She pulls up her pants, but leaves her discarded dress on the ground like a phantom of her friend’s lost relationship. And now she cannot help herself. She runs to Theo like a child to her father. She climbs on to his lap and puts her arms around his neck, linking her hands and nuzzling into him for comfort. He rocks her for a moment before standing up and carrying her. Her bare chest is pressed against the coarse material of his jacket. Its roughness soothes her, brings her back into her body. She closes her eyes.
I am so tired of being alone, so lonely without you.
When she opens her eyes again, he is carrying her down the hallway into their bedroom. And there is Gaby, sitting up in their bed, waiting for them. Theo puts Valentina down on the bed, and Gaby crawls over towards her. She peels Valentina’s pants off her and holds them up to her face. Her eyes shine bright with grief, and Valentina can see that she smells her lost lover on a part of her dear friend. She takes Valentina’s hand and squeezes it tight in a silent thank you.
And now Theo is in the bed with both of them, and Valentina doesn’t mind at all. He comforts Gaby, stroking her steadily with his fingers so that Gaby closes her eyes and drifts away from them. And when he has made her friend climax, Theo turns his attention to Valentina. She climbs on top of him, and they make love like they have never done before, aware of how precious their fragile connection is. Valentina splinters into a thousand tiny shards, and in them all she sees the many hearts of her lover – his passion, his wisdom, his generosity, his desires, and yes, his devotion to her.
The light is enchanting on top of the Duomo. It is nearly midday, the sun creeping through the clouds, returning after days of rain. It might be cold up here, but Valentina doesn’t mind that; she revels in the vision before her. The pale spiky spires of the Duomo, which look just like a princess’s tower, glisten all around her. She knows that a lot of Milanese don’t like the Duomo, but she has always loved climbing up on to the roof. Being like a bird and looking down on her bustling city with a rare detachment. This morning, though, she doesn’t have time for such flights of fancy. She is on one of Marco’s shoots for Elle magazine.
Marco is one of her few friends from the fashion scene in Milan. Their friendship blossomed on a shoot for Vogue, when they discovered they shared a passion for all things vintage, particularly the sixties. Today, though, it is all fairy-tale stuff. Marco tells Valentina that his theme is You shall go to the ball, darling. The two models are of Amazonian height, but are so pale and flimsy, Valentina fears they could be blown off the roof of the cathedral at any moment. They are both very young. One of them is from Latvia, and the other from the Ukraine.
They are just finishing the last shot of the morning when Valentina sees him out of the corner of her eye. She is sure of it. Marco is demanding her attention, touching up one of the girls, the poor thing quaking with cold in an insubstantial ivory silk dress. And yet Valentina ignores her friend for just one second and spins around. Yes, there he is, Inspector Garelli, pretending to be incredibly interested in one of the gargoyles. He is fooling no one, Valentina thinks, as she turns her attention back to the shoot.
Later that day she sees him again. She is with Antonella in La Rinascente, buying some underwear. Valentina is at the till, paying for a new pair of stockings and a little black corset with suspenders, when she sees him walking through the store, again studiously not looking at her.
She gives Antonella a hasty kiss goodbye, telling her that she forgot she had another appointment, and rushes down the escalator behind him. Two can play at this game, she thinks, annoyed that Garelli assumes she won’t notice him. As she emerges from the department store, she sees him turn to the left, and she follows him as he walks alongside the Duomo. She really doesn’t know why she is doing this. It is almost as if she is on automatic pilot, her curiosity fuelling her.
She follows him into the Galleria shopping arcade, for once not distracted by its art nouveau splendour, and just catches sight of him as he enters the Avatt Park Hotel. She glances at her watch. It is six thirty, and really she should go home and get ready for tonight. She has another session in Leonardo’s club. Yet her curiosity is too much for her. She will just take a peek in the hotel, and double-check that it really is Inspector Garelli. Maybe she is mistaken?
She walks into the reception and looks around, but she can’t see him anywhere. He appears to have vanished into thin air.
‘Can I help you, Signorina Rosselli?’
She nearly jumps out of her skin, spinning around to come face to face with Garelli. He is standing right behind her, his stern grey eyes pinning her like a hawk’s.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ she says angrily. ‘Why have you been stalking me all day?’
She sees surprise register in his eyes.
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ he says calmly. ‘However, since we have so fortunately bumped into each other, would you join me for an aperitivo?’ He waves his hand towards the entrance to the bar.
Why not? thinks Valentina. Maybe he can help her find out what’s going on with Theo. She still hasn’t heard a word from him since her extraordinary experience at Leonardo’s club on Saturday night.
They settle down at a small table in the centre of the bar. Valentina asks for a Bloody Mary, while Garelli orders a comparatively modest glass of white wine.
‘I was wondering if you have heard from Signor Steen since I spoke to you on Friday?’ the detective starts off.
Valentina is certainly not going to tell him about Saturday night, and what happened with Celia and Leonardo. She looks him square in the face.
‘No. Have you?’ she answers with hostility.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Garelli blusters. ‘Did you break up? Am I touching a nerve?’
‘No, we did not break up, Garelli.’ He has annoyed her even
more now. ‘We just aren’t joined at the hip.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ he says, coughing pointedly, and Valentina wonders how many days he has been following her for. She imagines him inside the Velvet Underworld room at Leonardo’s club and the thought amuses her. Maybe she could bring herself to take a whip to Garelli? She certainly doesn’t like him.
‘What’s this all about?’ she asks him directly. ‘Has Theo done something wrong? Is he in trouble?’
‘No, no,’ Garelli replies meekly. ‘I would just appreciate his help on a certain matter concerning the theft of six artworks.’
Valentina can feel her blood freezing in her veins, yet she manages not to react.
‘What artworks?’ she asks calmly, avoiding his eyes.
‘A random selection of pieces, Signorina Rosselli, between which I can find no connection, apart from the fact that they are all European paintings and none of them was painted after 1930 or thereabouts. Some are more valuable than others. There is for instance a Dutch Master from the seventeenth century by an artist called Gabriel Metsu. Maybe you have heard of him?’ He takes a sip of his wine. ‘The first painting was taken from here in Milan. But the others were stolen abroad: one from New York, two from England, one from France. The last painting to hypothetically go missing was taken from a private collection in the far north of Sweden, practically Babbo Natale’s home.’
He took his snow boots and down jacket.
‘What do you mean, hypothetically?’
‘Well, it is rather strange,’ Garelli tells her. ‘The paintings are reported stolen, then less than twenty-four hours later the victims all change their minds. Say they want to withdraw their statements. In a couple of cases I followed it up. For instance, I travelled to London concerning one painting. The victim refused to show me the picture back in situ, even though they claimed that they were mistaken and it had not been stolen. I mean, Signorina Rosselli, how do you make a mistake like that?’
