by Evie Blake
By the time she arrives at Marco’s party, it is in full swing.
‘Valentina!’ he cries when he sees her, his eyes flashing from too much wine already. ‘You look amazing. Where did you get that outfit? It looks vintage.’
‘It is vintage,’ Valentina tells him, as he hooks his arm through hers and brings her into the sitting room. ‘I got a package of old clothes belonging to my great-grandmother today.’
‘Dio mio!’ Marco looks like he is about to pass out with excitement. ‘When can I come over?’
Valentina balances her glass of red wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She doesn’t smoke often, but sometimes she enjoys the luxury of a cigarette with a drink. Marco’s sitting room is thick with smoke. She is disappointed to see that he has invited some of the dope crowd. She has never understood the attraction that most of her contemporaries in Milan have for marijuana. Many of them grow their own, and approach its cultivation as a fine art. She finds smoking it okay, yet she feels she doesn’t need it to get out of her body, if that is why they are doing it in the first place. Drugs in general don’t interest her, since her dreams are psychedelic enough. She doesn’t judge anyone if they want to take drugs, but if everyone is smoking dope, she finds that the party becomes a bit boring too early on, and conversation is certainly limited.
She walks through the lounging smokers; a few of them call out to her, offering her a spliff, but she politely shakes her head and makes for Marco’s terrace. Where has he gone? She wants to tell him all about her great-grandmother’s costumes. Maybe he could come over tomorrow and they could dress up together. Maybe she could talk to him about Theo. Out of all her friends, he is the most likely to understand how she feels. She might even tell him about the Dark Room. She wonders if he knows what it is.
She pulls back the sliding door into Marco’s tiny back yard. It is good to breathe in some oxygen after the smoky confines of his apartment. She steps outside to finish off her cigarette, balancing her glass of wine on top of an empty plant container.
‘Do you have a light?’
What a corny line, Valentina thinks as she turns around. The man in front of her looks vaguely familiar. She has obviously met him at one of Marco’s parties before.
‘Sure.’ She takes her lighter out of her shorts pocket, and steps forward to light his cigarette. He cups his hand around hers, although there is no breeze. She hesitates, looking him in the eyes before she pulls back. She notices how long his eyelashes are, like a woman’s, although the rest of his face is angular and rugged, and he is very tall with a broad build. She can tell by the way he looks at her that he isn’t gay.
‘I like your outfit,’ the man says, looking her up and down.
Valentina instinctively pulls down the tiny black shorts, which have ridden up her thighs. She supposes she does look a little provocative, but then this is one of Marco’s parties. Everyone dresses up, although this man looks quite ordinary in his blue and white shirt and blue jeans.
‘So how do you know Marco?’ she says, ignoring his comment.
‘Oh, you know, from round about,’ he says vaguely, puffing away on his cigarette.
‘Do you work in the fashion trade?’ she asks him.
He laughs shortly.
‘Do I look like I work in fashion?’
‘No,’ she says, stubbing out her cigarette, suddenly annoyed. She picks up her glass of wine and makes to pass him, but the man blocks her way back into the apartment.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, trying to push past him. He doesn’t move quickly enough for her, and Valentina gives him a shove, in the process of which she spills her red wine, fortunately not on her great-grandmother’s silk blouse, but all over the man’s shirt.
‘Oh,’ she says, a little embarrassed. ‘I am sorry, but you didn’t get out of my way.’
‘I didn’t realise you were in such a hurry to get away from me.’
‘I wasn’t . . . I was just cold . . . Look, do you want to take it off? I could get some salt from the kitchen and we could try to remove the wine with it.’
The man smiles at her, although it is not an altogether friendly smile.
‘Sure,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off. He has very pale skin, nearly as pale as hers. It is free from any body hair whatsoever, yet his chest is broad and manly. He hands her the shirt.
‘Why don’t you soak it in the bath?’ he says, his eyes narrowed.
She has a sudden image of herself in a bath, immersed in steaming water, and this man looking at her naked.
‘Okay, I’ll go and do that,’ she says, making to walk past him again.
‘Can you answer a question first?’ he asks, catching hold of her arm.
She pushes his hand away.
‘What?’ she asks sharply, although her instinct is to tell him to go to hell.
‘What boyfriend goes off and leaves his girlfriend all alone for one whole week, with no explanation at all?’
She stiffens, and looks directly into this man’s face. Who is he? Is he something to do with Garelli?
‘That is none of your business.’
He takes a step towards her, until he is so close that she can feel the naked skin of his chest brushing against her breasts through her silk blouse.
‘Oh but it is, Valentina.’
How does he know her name, let alone the fact that she doesn’t know where Theo is? She feels a cold prickle of fear down her spine. He is so close to her that she can smell him, an intoxicating scent of male sexuality. Despite his rudeness and her fear, this man is turning her on slightly. He leans down so that his lips are almost brushing hers.
‘He has abandoned you to me, Valentina. I can’t help wondering why.’
‘Who are you?’ she whispers back, feeling his long lashes brushing against her cheeks like butterfly wings.
‘I am real, Valentina, that is all you need to know.’
He puts his arm around her waist, and pulls her to him with such force, she almost falls down. He kisses her so violently that he bites her bottom lip, and she can taste blood. It takes all her strength to pull away from him. She slaps him roundly on the face, but he just grins at her, not in the least unnerved. Speechless, and before he can touch her again, she runs back into Marco’s apartment, past all the slouching smokers and up the stairs, into his bathroom. She locks the door, and stands with her back against it, breathing heavily. She walks over to the mirror and looks in it, sees the blood on her lip, and her flushed cheeks. She doesn’t look like Valentina. She looks in disarray. It is only then that she realises she is still holding his stained shirt. She holds it up and smells it. The scent is so powerful it makes her feel sick. She throws it across the bathroom, and turns on the cold tap, splashing water on her face as if she needs to sober up. But it is not too much wine Valentina has had.
She wants to stay in the bathroom all night, hiding, but she is forced to come out by a stoned friend of Marco’s banging on the door and begging her to let him in before he has an accident. Warily she comes back down the stairs and surveys the sitting room. Even more people have arrived and some are dancing in couples to Fats Waller on the stereo. She sees Marco dancing with a beautiful young man Valentina knows he has had a crush on for ages, and despite the fact that she is dying to ask him who the strange man is, she knows it wouldn’t be fair to disturb him now. She hunts around for the stranger. She is going to shove his dirty shirt back in his face, and demand an explanation for his behaviour. But she can’t see him anywhere. He is no longer out on the terrace, or in the kitchen, where both Antonella and Gaby are ensconced, munching through a bowl of crisps.
‘Did you see a blond man? Tall, with no shirt on?’ Valentina asks them.
Gaby stares at her with big black eyes, and Valentina can tell she is stoned, which means she is also mute. Grass, however, has the opposite effect on Antonella.
‘Sorry, did you say a man with no shirt on? What did you do to his shirt, Valentina?’ Antonella laugh
s. ‘You are a naughty girl, ravishing some stranger while your man is out of town.’
‘Yes, well did you see him?’
‘No, no, I wish I had, I would certainly have had some of that,’ she says, stuffing a fistful of crisps into her mouth.
Valentina pours herself another glass of wine. It’s no good asking those two anything; they are both off their faces. She downs her wine in one and decides to go home. She is no longer in a party mood.
Valentina cycles through the Saturday night throng of Milan. The city is bursting with energy, music pounding from the clubs, students spilling out on to the streets of Bocconi as she cycles through. Every now and again she hears the scream of police sirens as they fly by. There is plenty of traffic on the road home, but that doesn’t stop Valentina from noticing the ridiculous little Smart car trailing her. In an instant it is clear to her. The man at Marco’s party is the same man in the Smart car. But who is he? And what does he want with her?
Belle
SANTOS BRINGS HER A GIFT. IT IS NOT A RING OR ANY OTHER type of jewellery. Not clothes or flowers. Nor is it an exotic article from one of his travels. It is a little black box, with a lid.
‘Open it,’ he tells her.
She lifts the lid and gets the most delightful surprise. A soft black bellows springs up, with two delicate lenses on the end of it, one large and one small. Underneath the large lens are the letters Kodak.
‘A camera!’ she exclaims. Despite the fact that she didn’t know it, this is a gift she really wants. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she says, fingering the art deco springs.
She hands it back to Santos as if it is the most precious jewel she has ever seen.
‘Show me how it works,’ she demands.
At first they take pictures of Venice. They take the camera and a small light meter with them in Santos’s dinghy, and Belle follows his instructions as Santos rows her around the city. She photographs the gondolas and their candy-striped mooring poles; she photographs the old churches and the decaying palazzos.
The following day she brings the film to the pharmacy, almost shaking with anticipation. The first series of pictures are a disaster, much to her disappointment, but gradually she finds her feet. Santos tells her she has a talent for taking pictures. Sometimes she has no need for the light meter. She knows by instinct how long to leave her finger pressed down.
For Belle, these photographs are more than mementoes of Venice, or memories of her limited time with Santos. They are him. Since he won’t let her take a picture directly of his face, each piece of Venice is a part of Santos. The Campanile his pride and strength, the horses on the façade of the Basilica his wildness, the sky reflected in the canal the tranquillity of the refuge he gives her, the pigeons taking flight in St Mark’s Square his spirit.
Belle does not know this, but Santos stays longer with her than he has stayed with any woman. For once, luck is on their side. The day after his brutal attack, Signor Brzezinski disappeared on business without a word. She has no idea where he is, and she doesn’t care. His absence gives her and Santos precious time, so that her lover is able to stay with her until her bruises yellow and begin to fade. He stays with her because despite his experience, and the many lovers he has had, he has never expressed himself so completely as through his lovemaking with Belle. And he loves her most when she is preoccupied with her camera, lost from him fleetingly since she is so immersed in her picture-taking. It gives him a taste of how much he will miss her when he leaves.
This day is a bright Venetian morning. The sky is the colour of angels’ eyes, reflected in the water outside Belle’s apartment. They open her shutters and French windows wide, and the sunshine pours into her bedroom, drowning them in its splendour as they make love. Belle feels the heat of the sun on her back as she sits on top of Santos, and he raises his knees, pushing the small of her back so that she falls on to his chest. He is slipping his fingers through her short silky hair, and pulling her face down so that their lips meet. Belle closes her eyes and feels him deep inside her, tipping her in her most vulnerable and most joyous place. She loves him so much she would let him take her heart out with a spoon. As long as she has him, she can endure the violence of her husband. She tries to banish the thought that her husband will return one day. And soon Santos will be leaving. Can she make him stay? Despite her deep love for him, Santos would not be Santos if he settled down. It would change their love. She supposes they are destined to be star-crossed lovers, and that all the agonies she will have to face once he is gone will be worth it for these rare days of ecstasy.
Afterwards she lies in the crook of his arm, watching the curtains flutter in the breeze. She hears the song of a blackbird. She has an urge to see it, and gets out of bed to stand by the window, the light muslin curtain fluttering around her naked body. She feels Santos’s eyes upon her, but she doesn’t cover herself.
‘Stay quite still,’ he demands.
She hears a click, and turns in surprise to see Santos sitting on the bed with the camera in his hands. Her eyes widen into a question.
‘I don’t think there is enough light for that to come out,’ she tells him.
‘But I would like to take some pictures of you,’ he says. ‘So that I can have them with me when I go.’
When I go. She feels the dread of his departure as a dull ache inside her heart.
‘What kind of pictures?’ she asks him.
He rests the camera on his naked lap.
‘Special ones. So that I can look at your beauty, and imagine that you are with me.’
To remind you to return to me one day.
She wonders if Santos asks all his lovers for pictures. Somehow she knows not. He is a man of the moment, moving on to new futures, never looking back. Can she, Belle, make him look back for her? Can she speak to him through her body so that it is more than a shell, but an articulation of her love?
‘My darling Belle, will you pose for me?’
She smiles, just for him. A crooked, mischievous smile. She knows that he wants to take pictures of her naked.
‘Well, they will have to be taken outside,’ she tells him. ‘We need more light. Where exactly do you suggest I pose? In the middle of Piazza san Marco without a stitch on?’
He laughs, then comes over to her and pulls the fluttering curtain away from her body. He traces her with his finger, from the tip of her head all the way down to her belly button.
‘How about the roof?’
‘Isn’t that a little dangerous?’
‘Not for an experienced cat burglar like myself, and his nimble accomplice. Besides, I do believe there is a rooftop terrace on the building next door.’
It doesn’t take much to convince Belle. Wearing just her silk dressing gown and her black button boots, she lets Santos pull her up on to the roof of her building. They sit for a moment on the terracotta slates, looking at the skyline of Venice.
‘Sometimes this city feels like a father to me,’ she whispers.
‘In what way?’ asks Santos, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.
‘It has such spirit in the face of adversity. It protects its inhabitants, despite the fact that its very foundations are merely sticks stuck in the sand at the bottom of the lagoon.’
‘And what about Warsaw?’
She shakes her head.
‘I never felt safe in Warsaw, not how I do in Venice.’
He looks at her, surprised.
‘But your husband . . . how can you feel safe with him?’
‘Santos, don’t talk to me about him, please.’
He takes her chin and swivels her head. He forces her to look at him, and she notices how dark his eyes have become, like the night sky despite the brightness of the day. He is wearing just his trousers, and his chest is bare.
‘He must never hit you again.’
She reaches out and puts her hand against his heart, pushes her fingers into his chest hair. ‘Please, Santos . . .’
He puts his hand over he
rs, squeezes it.
‘Why don’t you leave him, my love?’
She tears her hand away from his, and grips it with her own. She looks out across the skyline of Venice. She wants to tell him about the promise she made to her father. Yet she is too ashamed. And would Santos even understand? He has never let any soul tie him to one place, not even her.
‘I can’t.’ She turns away from him and starts to crawl along the roof. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
Inside her heart another voice is screaming.
Oh but you can leave, Belle. You have paid your dues . . . Go with Santos, run away with him. You cannot help your mother now. It is too late for her.
She tries to silence this voice, yet hope has sprung within her. Maybe Santos will take her with him.
