Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One) (31 page)

‘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 laughs. ‘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?

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 hers, 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.

They scramble down the side of the roof, and along the edge of the next one, dropping on to a tiny terrace belonging to one of Belle’s neighbours, who it appears is not at home. The freshly whitewashed terrace is sparkling in the sunlight.
At one end is a line of washing strung between the two walls. At the other are baskets full of red carnations, white roses and myrtle bushes. Belle walks over to the wall and looks out across the city. The aroma from the flora encircles her with a slight spiciness, sweetness and tangy herbal scents; all the contradictions of her sensations when she is with Santos. She lets her dressing gown drop, and feels the sun’s light warming her skin. She remembers how she felt all those nights she waited for Santos to come to her. She crosses her arms in front of her breasts and hugs her sides, dropping her head so that she is looking down. Santos takes off his sailor’s cap and positions it on her head, before stepping back. She hears the camera clicking and then Santos comes over, whipping the hat off her head and dropping to his knees behind her before kissing one of the cheeks of her bottom.

He gets up and spins her around so that she is facing him. As trusting as a bird in the palm of his hand. He has the camera right in front of her face and he takes a picture of her downcast eye. He kisses her closed eyelid. She opens her eyes and sees him pull her lipstick out of his pocket.

‘Pout for me, Belle.’

He smiles at her, and as she pushes her lips forward, he applies crimson lipstick to them, before taking another photograph. He kisses her lips, and she can feel her nipples erect, her body softening, craving him. She wants him to make love to her on this roof terrace. She doesn’t care who sees them. She finds it so erotic to be objectified by him like this.