Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two)

by Evie Blake

  She recalls her frustration when her mother had banished Francesco before she had had the chance to tell him what she really thought of him for cheating on his wife, and for taking her innocence, her trusting heart and breaking it. It is nearly ten years ago now, and yet she still feels angry with her mother about it.

  ‘Yes,’ Francesco continues to speak enthusiastically. ‘I always believed we would see each other again, too.’ He smiles, looking triumphant. ‘Valentina,’ he says, taking her hand in his, ‘we are meant to be together.’

  ‘No,’ she says, the word coming out more harshly than she expects. She pulls her hand away. ‘I don’t mean it the same way as you do.’

  ‘What do you mean, then?’ He looks confused for a moment. ‘Do you want to talk about it somewhere else?’ He winks again. ‘At my place. You like it there, don’t you?’

  The man she first loved is a loser, she thinks to herself. His flat is swanky, yes, but it’s soulless. And also rather puzzling . . . It occurs to her what it was that made her surprised to discover that the sleek, minimalist bachelor pad was his.

  ‘When do you see your daughter?’ she asks him.

  ‘What?’ Francesco looks even more perplexed. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, when do you see her?’ she persists.

  ‘Do we have to talk about Lucia now?’

  ‘I just wondered because, when I first met you in the restaurant, you talked about her but I didn’t see anything that belonged to her in your apartment.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he mumbles, squirming under her glare. ‘The truth is, I don’t really see my daughter much. She lives with her mother and her stepfather . . . and . . . well . . . I think she is better off without me.’

  ‘You mean you can’t be bothered to see her?’

  Francesco starts to look cross. ‘Can you stop interrogating me, here of all places? You never used to be so judgemental, Valentina.’ His tone softens again. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here; you can question me all you want in bed.’ He leans forward and takes her hand in his.

  She pulls it away again. ‘No, I said.’ Her eyes are like flint. ‘You don’t understand. The reason I knew we would see each other again is because I wanted to hurt you, like you hurt me.’

  He looks startled.

  ‘But I realise it is a pointless exercise,’ she continues. She knows she is being cruel, that it is unfair of her to judge him, yet she is fuelled by this passion, this anger on behalf of little Lucia. ‘The kind of man who doesn’t care about his own daughter can’t have much of a heart to hurt.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair.’ Francesco looks wounded. ‘You don’t know the whole story.’

  ‘I know enough,’ she says, turning on her heel and strutting away, her heart pounding inside her chest. She is astonished at herself. Why is she so furious? She has never judged anyone the way she has just judged Francesco. He is right. She doesn’t know the whole story. Yet she can’t help it. She could never let him touch her again, even if she wanted to, because she cannot respect him.

  She charges through the crowd. She is pretty certain he won’t pursue her now, but, to be on the safe side, she goes into the small gallery that adjoins the main one. It is a small box-like space, unlit; film is being projected on the far wall. She sits down on a seat, relieved to be on her own now, with just a few other people around her in the dark, silently watching the installation. She focuses on the images in front of her. It is a black and white film and is in the style of an old movie – thirties or forties. In fact, she wonders if the artist is actually using original footage. There is a flickering shot of a window under the sloping eaves of a ceiling and the camera zooms in to reveal a vista of Paris. She can see now that it is probably just after the war. She can see some bomb damage and a few old cars travelling up and down the broad boulevards. The screen goes to black and titles appear in white.

  Quite fortuitously, it appears she has sat down right at the moment of the beginning of the video installation.

  Projected on the black, in white, are the words:

  Beginning of O, an erotic fairy tale by Anita Chappell

  Based on the film, The Fall of Psyche, by Felix Leduc, 1948

  So this is Anita’s video installation that Kirsti Shaw was so excited about. A woman’s voice speaks in a crisp English accent and, as she listens to it, the grainy black and white film rolls before her. She sees a young woman sitting on the bed in the room with the window, her face slightly out of focus, hands in her lap, naked and staring into the camera. There is something about this young woman’s stare, her demanding eyes, that entrances Valentina. The voice speaks:

  ‘Another version of the same beginning is more complicated, less direct. Before the young woman was taken off by her lover and the second man, an unknown friend of his, and before her lover prepared her by tying her hands behind her back, unfastening her stockings and rolling them down, removing her garter belt, her panties, her brassiere and blindfolding her, and before they drove her to the château where she would receive her instructions, before all of this, was the beginning of O. She arrived in Paris uninitiated in pleasure, afraid of pain.’

  The image of the girl sitting on the bed disappears and is replaced by a close-up of her lips. The camera slowly moves out and we see her face, still out of focus and hazy. Yet her eyes are huge, as if shining in adoration, as she looks into the camera. She says something to the camera but, of course, it is impossible to hear what she is saying, for the film is silent.

  ‘What is she saying?’ the narrator asks. ‘Is she asking for him to touch her?’

  The camera pans out and now Valentina can see the girl is on her knees, almost as if in prayer, and naked. She reaches up to the cameraman, again asking him something.

  ‘He teaches her to pleasure herself,’ the voice says.

  The next image is of the same girl sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, with her knees pulled up and her legs open. She is touching herself; her eyes are closed but she is speaking – the same words again and again and again. The footage is remarkable. It is obviously an early pornographic film, and yet it does not appear vulgar to Valentina.

  ‘He watches her, taking herself all the way to the edge.’

  Valentina is astonished to see the woman actually having an orgasm on screen; something about it is incredibly erotic. She feels a tightening between her legs and wonders if the other people watching are feeling the same way.

  In the next image from the film, the camera is again close up. We see the back of the girl’s head, her dark curly hair tumbling down her naked back. She turns around for a second and smiles at the camera. There is something familiar about her face. Now the girl is on her knees, her back to the camera, her arms splayed, her wrists tied to the bedstead. The camera focuses on her bottom. It appears pearly white and smooth in the black and white images, like a beautiful marble sculpture – not a real body. The camera pulls back even further. Suddenly, the girl pushes her backside up higher, as if she has been instructed to do so, and spreads her legs wider.

  ‘He begins his possession of her.’

  Now Valentina sees another figure in the room. It is a man, but his back is to the camera. He is fully clothed and stands in front of the bare bottom of the girl. He unties his belt and lets his trousers slip down so that his firm buttocks now replace the girl’s soft curves. Valentina sees his hands grip the girl’s waist and then he pushes into her. She finds herself not looking at the man fucking the woman, but at the back of the woman’s head as it rocks back and forwards, and she wonders what expression she has on her face. Is she smiling with pleasure? Is she twisting her mouth in pain? Is she indifferent – her eyes shut, her mind elsewhere? Is it just another pornography film? Or is she really a young woman at the beginning of her sexual life, like this video artist’s O?

  ‘The beginning of O was when her body became a messenger for her heart. Is her love for man so great that she can sacrifice hersel
f or does man love her so much she is adored? Is she divine or diabolical?’

  The old black and white movie ends abruptly and the audience is bombarded by fast cutting: image after image of women in bondage, and the monotone of the narrator repeating again and again, ‘Do you like it? Like it? Is it your fairy tale too?’

  Despite the fact it is Anita’s creation, Valentina had been enjoying the video installation and the use of the old porno film by the Frenchman, but all of the modern-day images irritate her. She stands up and walks out of the space. She has been in here ages, anyway. Just as she is stepping back into the light, she feels a light touch on her arm.

  ‘Valentina?’

  Her heart is skewered by the sound of his voice. She only saw him the day before yesterday and yet it feels like so much has happened since then.

  ‘Theo,’ she says, turning around to face him.

  They say nothing for a moment, only gaze into each other’s eyes. She is so close to kissing him. She doesn’t care that they are in a crowded art gallery. She can see his feelings in his eyes. She knows Theo loves her, she just does.

  ‘So, what did you think of Anita’s video installation?’ he asks her.

  ‘I liked it at first, but I didn’t like the end.’

  ‘The girl,’ he says, ‘in the old movie. She reminds me of you.’

  ‘She does . . . ?’ Her voice trails off. All she wants to do is embrace him. ‘Theo . . .’ She takes a step forward.

  ‘Valentina!’

  She hears her before she sees her: Theo’s beautiful burlesque lover, her rival, Anita. She tries to cool down her heart, prepare herself for what she is about to say, but, as soon as she actually sees Anita, the breath is knocked out of her. She blinks. The last time she saw this woman, she had curled blond hair and was wearing a busty pink burlesque outfit, but tonight she is dressed completely differently. She is wearing a sixties black and white mini dress, very similar to the Bridget Riley one that belonged to Valentina’s mother. She has black thigh boots on and, worst of all, she is wearing a wig of a perfectly geometrical, shiny black bob. In short, the woman is an exact image of how Valentina usually looks. Anita has not only taken her man away from her, but also her very identity.

  When she wakes, he is gone. On the little table by the window are some coins and a letter.

  My darling, I will be away tonight, as I told you, but I shall return tomorrow. Here is some money. Explore Paris. Felix. x

  His name ends with a kiss, she thinks. She climbs back on top of the bed, places his letter on her naked chest and closes her eyes. She returns to last night – those sublime sensations she experienced within her body when he adored her with his tongue. And then afterwards they had made love again, and it was even more incredible than the experience on the boat. She feels as if she is weightless, floating on the elation of her love for Felix.

  That day and night she waits for Felix to return feel like the longest hours of her life. After drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming of him inside her, and waking alone in the bed, she determines to follow his advice and take a look at Paris.

  She washes in the little cracked sink in the corner of the room and dresses carefully. She is wearing her jewel-blue dress with the pink blooms and her little bolero jacket that she made with the material her mother sent her. She thinks of her mammas. What would they say about her and Felix in Paris? She knows that Pina would disapprove – say she was too young, reckless. But Belle? She has a feeling that her mother might understand her actions. For she, too, threw all caution to the wind when she fell in love with Santos Devine.

  Maria walks down the cobbled streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, smooth and slippery from all those who have walked before her: the young and idealistic in love in Paris. She feels like a flower fed by rays of sunlight. Felix has made her beautiful and she cannot help but notice men look at her as she continues on her way. She has no idea where she is going, apart from that she is heading towards the river. She passes a boulangerie, and then turns around and walks back in. She is hungry. For a few centimes, she purchases a baguette of fresh bread. She devours it, sitting on a wall, looking across the Seine at the startling vision of Notre Dame. The bread melts in her mouth; the soft dough tastes sweet, like cake, after weeks of having to eat grey, coarse ration loaves in London. She cannot understand how it is that the French seem to be eating better than the English, when they were the ones who were occupied.

  Her mind strays and she wonders what business it is that Felix is doing here in Paris. Against her will, she recalls Guido warning her about Felix. The Italian had said he was not nice. Well, of course not; Felix fought as part of the Resistance during the Second World War, it is only natural he would have had to do things he would rather forget about. But why does it have to be so secretive? Maybe Felix is hunting collaborators and bringing them to justice? It doesn’t seem to fit with his role as a film director, but anything, of course, is possible. The war made heroes out of the most unlikely candidates.

  She is tired – weary from the drama of the past couple of days. She turns her back on the river and the view of the Île de la Cité. Another day, she will sightsee – with Felix. He can show her his city and where he grew up. Maybe she will meet some of his family? Surely he will tell her something of his past, now they are in France. And last night, was he actually proposing to her? She has a vision of herself and Felix walking down the lopsided street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés and ahead of them runs a little girl with black, unruly hair. She turns and she calls to her daddy, and Maria sees Felix scooping her up and swinging her in the air. And he is happy because of her, Maria, and what she has given him.

  During the night, he comes back to her. She stirs as he slides under the sheet next to her. He holds her in his arms. She is still asleep, but in her dreams she thinks she can hear him crying. He sobs as a child might, inconsolable.

  After a while, the crying stops and he is kissing her, stroking her limbs.

  ‘Felix,’ she murmurs, waking up and putting her legs around his waist, instinctively guiding him into her.

  He rolls her on to her back and he presses down upon her. She bears all his weight and she can feel his sorrow. It cuts her. Her poor darling; what has happened to him?

  ‘Never leave me,’ he whispers, urgently.

  ‘Never,’ she promises.

  He moves with fervour now. In the dark, she cannot see the expression on his face, but she can feel his wet cheeks and she knows that she did not imagine that he was crying. This mature, powerful man cried in their bed while holding her. He needs her. He pushes himself deeper and deeper inside her and she gathers him into her. She holds him tight as he rocks within her and allows himself to escape into the safety of her loving body.

  How many days do they spend in the little hotel bedroom in Paris? She loses track. The heat rises from the pulsing city, pouring through the open window, the sounds of life outside trickling in through the cracks in the ancient paintwork, yet Maria has no desire to leave the room. She has all that she needs behind the closed door, under the single sheet of their bed.

  She is intoxicated by sex, enthralled by Felix and what he does to her. At the back of her head is a tiny voice, pleading with her to get out of the bed. Telling her to run away from her heart and its exposure, just to get up and out of the room, to walk the baking streets of Paris and calm down. Yet she can’t. She is trapped by her own volition. She is held captive by her own desire. Not even hunger forces her to leave the room. While she sleeps intermittently between their lovemaking, Felix goes and gets them food, for, when she wakes up, he has provisions: fresh baguettes, ripe creamy cheeses, and red wine to drink. France is most certainly not living under the same austerity as England. She demolishes the food, instantly hungry, and allows him to trickle red wine between her thighs before licking it off her skin, damp with heat and longing.

  ‘It’s hot out there,’ Felix tells her, the hairs on his bare chest glistening with sweat. ‘They say it’s a drou
ght; the harvest will fail.’

  She is not interested in the weather, or the disastrous harvest and its consequences for the people of France. She doesn’t care about anyone else apart from herself and Felix. When he enters her, she wants to slip inside his skin and become part of him. She grips him tightly with her legs around his waist and bathes in the glory of their union. She sucks him deep down inside herself. He climbs higher and higher, scaling the pinnacle of her desire. Together they peel back the layers, turn inside out, sensations swarming around them, making her dizzy. Always, they climax together. And when he finally pulls out of her, she often finds herself crying.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Felix asks. ‘Why are you crying?’

  She shakes her head, unable to say why. It’s not tears of joy, but nor is she unhappy – far from it. It is an instinctive reaction to his withdrawal, as if her body has died a little death to feel him come from inside her.

  They lie for hours on top of the damp sheets: she, propped up on his shoulder, he with his arm around her, his hand playing distractedly with her nipple. They are bathed in heat, inside and out.

  One morning, she wakes to the sound of marching. She hears footsteps above her head and wonders if they have travelled back in time to the occupation. When she opens her eyes, she realises that it is not marching feet she hears, but rain falling on the roof. The window of the room is still open and it is as warm as ever. She watches a torrent of rain as it cascades out of the sky; there is a flash of lightning. Suddenly she feels an urge to dance in the rain. She wants to go outside of their room and get soaked through. Felix is sleeping beside her. She shakes him awake.

  ‘It’s raining,’ she says.

  He sits up in bed and looks at her with sleepy eyes. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Let’s go out.’

  ‘In that?’ He points at the lashing rain. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Yes.’ She laughs, feeling not herself but another Maria – a wild, free-spirited creature.