Marco reached for her. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her to him.
‘Stay for summer. I no paint. We have fun.’
‘You’re not happy when you’re not painting.’
‘I not happy if you go.’
‘I have to go to work. Sylvia expects me.’
‘One month. You and me. No paint. Fuck. We fuck everyone.’
‘No.’
‘Si,’ he said. ‘I work since I was fifteen. Paint too much. I need holiday.’
Emma smiled but shook her head.
‘Va bene, you make no and no and no. We go.’
Emma took one last look around the barn. She was deciding never to come back. She would only be strong enough to resist Marco once. Even now her body was leaning towards accepting his offer. One month of Marco all to herself – no painting – was more than a temptation, it was a facsimile of the life she was leaving him to go in search of. He had said they’d fuck everyone. She imagined them cruising the bars and the beaches, selecting tourists to take home.
He would do it, too. She had seen the sketches of the orgies. These were real. These happened. He had done these things before. This is the life she said she wanted – the erotic life. And she had a partner willing to go along with her.
She walked around the easels and stared down at the divan. She knew she was stalling. She imagined it covered with beautiful naked bodies, entwined and sweaty.
‘We go?’ asked Marco from the door.
Emma was startled out of her daydream. He sounded hurt. If he had known how close she had been to relenting he would have come to her. But no, he had shut up shop to protect himself.
Emma saw herself in the mirror. The hand prints were still there. She took a step towards it and knocked a canvas which Marco had left resting against the chest. It fell on its back with a ‘flop’. Emma reached down to pick it up but when she saw what was depicted she screamed involuntarily.
Marco appeared around the side of the easels. ‘Cosa?’
Emma stared at the painting. It was another of Marco’s street portraits. The eyes of the male sitter stared back at her. They looked right into her and asked a question. Her immediate and involuntary answer to that question was, yes.
She felt weak and sensed Marco’s gaze on her.
‘When did you do this?’
‘I make yesterday.’
‘The sketch?’ Emma rested the painting against the leg of an easel, making sure that it faced her. The sitter had none of the boyish, model perfection of Marco’s face. He was not beautiful; he was handsome, masculine and exuded strength and power. There was history in that face. And behind the questioning eyes, suffering.
‘Um …’ He rummaged through the loose sheets on his bench. He handed a page to Emma. It was dated two weeks earlier.
The sketch was even more affecting. Marco had tamed some of the intensity of the eyes in the painted portrait. In the sketch the sitter’s eyes were even more attractive, even more penetrating. They seem to accuse her of something before the question. She let herself drop to the divan.
‘You know him?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Emma, looking away. ‘I accidentally knocked it over. I thought I’d damaged it.’
‘I see him again.’
Emma waited a moment. She already felt exposed before Marco. But though her reason said drop it, her heart had to ask. ‘Where?’
‘Elena give him beach for summer.’
‘Elena?’
‘Si, on rocks. Not far.’
‘Humph, that’s funny.’
Emma picked up the painting. Under the gaze of the sitter she grew impatient. Not just with this moment but with her own life. She had been lulled into a dream life. The eyes were insistent. She had to leave. She had to find him.
‘Maybe you can sell him the painting. Is he still there?’
‘Painting not finished.’
‘Take it to him. We can let him decide. If he pays, you can have holiday, no?’
Marco was looking at Emma strangely. ‘You know who he is.’
‘No!’
‘Yes, you do. Who he?’
‘I swear, I don’t!’
‘OK. You lie. I don’t mind. You tell one day.’ He took the painting from Emma and rested it against the chest again. ‘You stay now?’ he asked, his face devoid of expression.
‘No, I leave today.’
They found Elena sitting in the courtyard in the sun. Pluto ran up to Marco, who gave him a quick stroke. Little Marco was on a blanket talking to himself and playing with his toes. His mother was wearing a simple knee-length cotton dress and was slumped in her chair, her legs were parted and her feet bare. The dress had ridden up her thighs and she pushed it down between them as Emma and Marco approached. Emma could see a sheen of sweat on her skin and her hair was a mess. Reacting to Emma’s scrutiny, Elena took out the hair tie she had hastily used to tame it and let the hair drop. She had never looked more beautiful.
When Elena raised her eyes to Emma, it became even more obvious that her lover had only just left. Elena wore a heavy, languorous expression, sated, fulfilled.
It was all Emma needed, the connection was made.
Blood pounded in her ears as she rushed back into the barn. She returned seconds later with the portrait and stood in front of Elena. She held it out in front of her.
‘What do you think of Marco’s painting, Elena?’ she asked, glaring at Elena over the top of it, her voice raised and strained.
Marco walked in and took it from Emma, saying, ‘It not finished.’
But Elena had seen it and now stood, her face pale.
‘Is it a good likeness?’ asked Emma, stepping right up to Elena.
Emma’s eyes were wild. She felt short of breath.
‘Non lo so,’ she said, bending down to pick up little Marco as casually as she could.
‘You rent him a spot on the rocks, don’t you? Marco said he’s seen him there.’ Her voice trembled slightly. She was trying to calm herself but her heart beat too fast and she felt a hollowness in her stomach. She was sure she was right in her suspicion.
Marco was now looking at his sister with interest.
‘Si, I remember him.’
‘He is handsome, no?’ asked Emma, taking Elena by the arm.
Elena shook free.
‘Hey, Elena like him! I can see. In eyes. You like him, Elena?’ asked Marco, teasing her. ‘What Giovanni say, eh?’
Elena walked into the house and Emma and Marco followed.
‘Is he still close by? Have you seen him today? Do you think he would buy the portrait?’ asked Emma.
Elena gave Emma a look and made a movement with her hand. Be quiet, she was saying.
Emma was right. The man in the portrait was Elena’s secret lover. He had come to her again and again. He had been in this house. He had fucked her. Elena. Marco’s sister. He had seduced Marco’s sister.
Emma wanted to sit. She would have crumpled to the floor but she let the wall hold her up. Of all the women in Italy to fuck!
‘Maybe Elena buy it from me?’ asked Marco with a smile. ‘You want I put on the wall?’ He rested the painting on the bench. ‘You OK? You not look good,’ he said suddenly.
Elena sat heavily on a kitchen chair. Her face had lost its colour.
‘Emma knows him, too,’ said Marco.
Elena’s eyes fixed on Emma.
Marco turned from Emma to Elena and back again. Something was going on and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.
‘Who is he? Dimmi! Tell me. Elena? Emma? What goes on?’
‘I knew him in Sydney,’ offered Emma.
‘Si, Australiano,’ agreed Elena.
‘And?’ prompted Marco.
‘Well, if you must know …’ Emma smiled wanly and, glancing first at Marco before settling her gaze upon Elena, said, ‘He’s my husband.’
They were at the top of the cliff before they caught up with Elena.
At first she had covered her f
ace with her hands. She just couldn’t process what she had heard. It was too strange. Then she’d run out of the kitchen swearing.
As they jogged after her, Marco, with little Marco still in his arms, asked Emma, ‘And he fuck Elena?’
Emma lied and said she wasn’t sure.
‘It look like,’ said Marco with a frown.
Elena stood at the edge of the cliff. She couldn’t see the spot where he usually sat. She was about to climb down when Emma took hold of her arm. ‘He isn’t there,’ she said.
‘How you know?’ she asked angrily.
‘Because he’s there,’ she said, pointing a hundred metres or so out towards a large white yacht. It had pulled anchor and was motoring slowly south in the direction of Otranto.
David stood at the helm staring at them. He raised his arm and waved.
They watched for a moment in silence. Emma did not quite believe what she was seeing.
Then Elena burst forth with a barrage of expletives. It is said that an Italian can swear for an hour without using the same word twice. Elena was out to prove it.
SIXTEEN
Emma wasn’t able to resist the night. Having promised herself she would not stir, she left the pensione around eleven. The old town was too lively. The warm breeze carried with it the music and laughter of summer. She left the pamphlets she had taken from the train station on the bed. Trains to Rome, to Berlin, to Paris, to Vienna … At Brindisi and Bari there were ferries to Albania and Greece and from Greece it was a short jump to Turkey. Then it was through the Bosphorus to the Black Sea and on to Yalta.
She closed the door behind her.
Making her way through the maze of streets, she was returning to a spot she had walked to a few times a day since returning to Otranto, the pathway along the top of the old town’s fortifications. From there she could see the marina. From there she could see if David’s yacht had docked.
Days had passed since she’d left Marco’s place. Emma had spent them on the beaches of the harbour. In the shallow crystal-clear water she would wade and lie. Sometimes she would join those on the rocky foreshore of Otranto harbour directly under the walls of the old town. The Italian male was a different beast in high summer. The beaches and streets were overrun by beautiful girls and women in short shorts and bikinis. There was none of the urgency and desperation of the winter months. They could take their time, sit back and watch, pick and choose. There were women enough for every man. Even so Emma was popular in a bikini. She made new friends. She was invited onto boats. She was taken to dinner. She was living light and putting complications behind her.
David had left a mess when he sailed away. Elena was a simple woman. She was convinced Emma was going to tell Giovanni what she had done. To Elena’s way of thinking Emma would want revenge; there was nothing else to it. Elena had slept with Emma’s husband. And what better revenge could Emma have than ruining Elena’s relationship with Giovanni? Emma could see the logic but wasn’t wired like that. Even though Elena’s lover had turned out to be her husband she was still happy for the woman. At the very least she had had a holiday fling. That was not something to regret.
But these things were unnecessary complications and Emma wouldn’t stay to work them out. She had kept to her plan. She had left Marco. She had returned to Otranto intending to move on. Yet once again she’d lingered. David had sailed south towards Otranto. Surely he was still in the area. Surely he would dock and refuel, take on supplies, and come looking for her.
Come looking for her again, she meant.
Because he had come looking for her. He had come to Otranto. He had come to the bar. He had paid Marco to sketch him. He had fucked her lover’s sister. He had come for her. He’d just gone about it in a very strange manner. It wasn’t exactly cautious, but he had kept himself out of reach. It wasn’t exactly predatory. He had tracked her down, had circled her but had not pounced. It was unlike David. That was what most unnerved Emma. If he had come from Sydney to Italy to get her back he would do just that. He would walk right up to her. This was something else, and it was perplexing.
So she lingered, day after day, living light – lying in the shallows of the harbour, sunning herself, diving off boats and swimming into grottos with new friends, sitting in the restaurants overlooking the marina at night with men she’d met on the beach that day, some of whom she allowed to walk her back to her room. Two of whom she had allowed to come up.
And all the while she felt David’s eyes upon her.
But he did not come for her, and days threatened to turn into weeks. So that night she chose to stay in, to decline invitations to dinner, to sit in her room until a decision was made. The pamphlets gave her options, many options, none of which excited the least interest. Then she had packed her bag in an attempt to force a decision. She would leave in the morning. She gathered up the pamphlets and threw them up into the air so that they landed randomly on the bed. Closing her eyes she chose one. Paris. But she didn’t want to go to Paris. She closed her eyes again. Athens. No. She tried again. No. No. No. No.
Moments later she was making her way through the passages to the parapet on top of the old town’s fortifications. It was still so warm. Leaning against the town wall she could see the small dark harbour was dotted with brilliantly lit boats, which had dropped anchor here and there mostly near the beaches. None seemed big enough to be the yacht David had been sailing. She looked towards the marina and scanned the boats moored there. Many were lit up. There did appear to be more than there had been in the afternoon. Holiday-makers returning from day trips, she assumed. It was more difficult at night to tell one boat from another, but there were two large yachts moored beyond the main marinas with their sterns to the sea wall. Each was ablaze with light and from where Emma stood it looked as though there was a party going on. Her heart beat faster. She had no evidence at all but she was sure one of them was David’s yacht.
There would be no sleep that night if she didn’t find out for certain. Emma paced the parapet. She would have to go down. It was quite a long way to go if she was wrong, but no distance at all if she was right. She stopped and stared at the two boats again. There was a big party on one, no doubt about it. Maybe she could get close without being noticed. She just needed to know.
Her walk down was circuitous as she had yet to discover a quicker way. When she reached the road that ran alongside the marina she found it deserted. The street lights were bright and the warm breeze carried the chatter of the party and the deep bass of the music but the vista before her reminded her of the night Maurizio and his friends had stopped her. She made her way cautiously. The further she went the more exposed she felt herself to be. She was moving towards a particularly lonely part of the harbour, especially at night. If she were to be accosted, this time there would be no Marco. She knew you didn’t get that lucky twice. So she kept looking over her shoulder. The street was as empty behind her as in front. There was no one following her. She was alone. She kept expecting to hear the sound of someone running. It would happen quickly, said her imagination. But every time she turned her head, nothing.
She took some comfort from the view, though. Otranto was beautiful at night. The lights of the town were reflected on the water. She crossed the road and walked along the edge of the sea wall. As she passed the end of one of the long jetties she saw a group of people helping each other off the back of a large boat. She paused to watch them and felt less alone. They were talking and laughing, and began to walk along the jetty towards the road. One of the women looked at her and Emma moved on. It wasn’t far now. She kept her eyes on the lights of the larger yacht. The noise was getting louder. Laughter and the squeals of a party. And ABBA. They were definitely playing ABBA.
When she felt she was close enough she crossed the street and walked past the boats and sat on a concrete bench in what was some kind of civic space, like a small square, but ugly and ill-conceived and left to rot. She made sure her back was to the wall. No one could come near her withou
t her seeing them, but from her position she could see the two boats quite well. They were not well matched. One dwarfed the other. The larger boat was the one she had seen David skippering. Emma had been invited onto a few large boats over the last couple of days, but David’s boat was in a class of its own. She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover the Kennedys partying alongside the others. It exuded wealth. Not in the gaudy style of some of the luxury motor boats that clutter the Mediterranean. It was old-world wealth. The other yacht was new to her. They were tightly bound together and as she watched she saw a couple trying to cross between them.
There were at least thirty or forty people enjoying themselves. Mainly women, she noted, though there were some men. The larger boat was more popular as there was more deck space to stand and a sunken area where Emma could see a bar and some lounges. It was all incredibly luxurious. Some of the guests were dancing. The music was very loud, and someone had strung a row of coloured lanterns along the boom.
David was nowhere to be seen. Emma didn’t know how long she was going to stay. But ten minutes had passed by without any sign of him. She assumed there was a lounge area inside. People were coming and going through a door at the end of the sunken area. The predominant language was Italian, but she had heard English being spoken too. Some of the guests were dressed semi-formally, some of the women looked as though they had stepped out of Vogue. But there were others who had come straight from the beach – men in board shorts only, women in their bikinis. There were the very drunk and the stone-cold sober. They were having fun. They were laughing, shouting over the music and dancing. A couple had snuck up to the bow and were making out.
Then David emerged through the doors, coming out onto the deck. He held a bottle of champagne and was filling glasses. This was enough for Emma. Too much. He was so close. All he need do was look across the road. She had been stupid to come so close. She waited for him to turn his back then dashed across the polished tiles of the small square. When she reached the road and was thirty metres or so along, she slowed her pace and dared to look over her shoulder. David was easy to spot, being so large. His back was turned to her. She stopped and stared at him. She was shaking. What was she feeling? Was it fear? Why was she so anxious?
The Secret Lives of Emma: Unmasked Page 11