Photographs. I have a house full of them, but always want more. I just can’t resist the temptation of a midday snap. Four flashes in quick succession, four small stamp format images and it’s done. Now I wait for the film to dry, thinking back to what Danila said, all the chatter about my metallic eyes, owls, birds of prey, predators of all ilk.
Danila is mistaken when she confuses me with an owl. Owls are creatures of habit, and their rhythms always remain the same, sleeping by day, hunting at night, or so it goes. I’m a coldblooded animal. I assess the dangers ahead, analyse them. I pretend to be dead, defenceless, and all the time I am observing. I evaluate the adversary, extrapolate his movements, determine what his weak points are. Then I devour him. Assimilate him.
I take over everything I can from him and can then imitate him. It’s a natural talent of mine. Like being ambidextrous or owning iridescent eyes of an indeterminate colour, capable of changing according to the light or the darkness.
I take the photograph and look at myself.
My face is no longer my face. There is no longer any trace of youthful fury, or unrestrained and improductive ambition.
There is no longer any evidence of passion.
All excesses have been polished away.
My eyes are not the colour of grey metal. Now, they are gems, limpid green emeralds, sharp and defined.
I meet Maxim at the Hotel Diplomatic. I have brought with me a copy of the Chet Baker biography, the present I had bought for him. It will keep him company when he takes the plane that will return him to London. Maxim always talks of London. He’s both in love with and a prisoner of that city. In his books, he writes with infinite subtlety and in excessive detail, chapter after chapter, of places, because he has been everywhere, and knows that nothing compares to home.
Maxim will travel again, I know. But he will always return home. He does this time after time because his dance with the cosmos is complete. Mine has barely begun.
“You have nothing to lose,” he says.
It’s true. I can pack my cases at any time, without leaving anything behind, neither a true friend, nor an unforgettable lover. My life is so pitiful, barely a speck in the sky. But today the sky is greyer than usual. The sky is a dark cloak that hides important things from view.
2
The young woman’s fingers were caressing his chest. The sort of caress that awakens you.
“You’re very pretty for your age,” he said.
Her name was Lisa.
In the darkness of the room, Trevor admired her white skin and the small, firm breasts peeping out of her lacy bra. Lisa allowed herself to be examined, displaying no embarrassment. She continued to brush his skin with a light touch. She seemed at ease, much more so than Trevor. She now began licking his chest and his stomach with the expertise of a professional. Trevor closed his eyes. Lisa’s face buried itself between his legs. The heat from her tongue penetrated his veins, warming his body and senses. Clinging to her, Trevor began moaning. He took hold of her head, pulling her sharply against his stomach. Trevor was excited, but also annoyed by the assurance Lisa displayed beneath the sheets.
Love. Sex. Lust.
What do you call a blow job on a first date?
“I’ll call you a cab.”
Trevor moved to the bathroom and began running the water. Once it was hot enough, he stirred it firmly with his extended fingers. Small bubbles of air remained stuck to the hair on his arms. Blame it on the chlorine, he thought.
“The taxi has arrived,” Lisa shouted out from where she was standing at the door.
“Do you want me to see you off?”
“It ain’t necessary. See you tomorrow.”
Trevor has hung a copy of the poster from his exhibition on the bathroom wall. A successful show, although it might be his last. With these paintings he has finally confronted the heart of his carnal, lascivious work. A landscape of imaginary bodies, men and women obscenely linked by love and death. Arms and legs, loose and akimbo, initially together and then parcelled off like pieces of meat in a mad and murderous sequence. Not bad for someone who for years has only displayed children’s book illustrations in public. With painting after painting, Trevor has given life to a snuff movie of his very own, a defiant answer to all those who had accused him of no longer being alternative and cool.
For the time being, Trevor is satisfied. Tomorrow, he will have to decide what to do about his art and his own life. Right now, all he wants is a coffee and a cold shower. But first he must shave.
That beard was definitely not a good idea, even from a purely aesthetic point of view.
Trevor takes the razor and applies an abundant quantity of foam to his cheeks. With the beard on, he betrays his forty-odd years and how much he has grown older.
Trevor hates growing older. Or wiser.
In Toronto, Trevor works for a large publishing house, and enjoys a good professional reputation. But he no longer wishes to be involved in children’s books. Designing book covers is just a job, and it doesn’t make him feel much like an artist. On the contrary, the money has changed him; it makes him feel cheap, like a character in a B movie. He no longer wears the rough woollen sweaters he once liked so much, but a suit and tie, as they fit so much better into his new life. A life full of weaknesses and compromises. And it is all those compromises that he has made that now make him feel so old inside. The young kid who pretended to be Superman, has turned into an adult like Clark Kent, a tired Clark Kent. But if Clark Kent is none other than Superman with a pair of glasses, Trevor simply remains Trevor. With or without a beard. Which is why, today, with the help of a cheap disposable plastic razor bought at the nearest supermarket, he begins to shave with fast, steady strokes. And his old face emerges through the thick white foam, just like in that short film he recalls watching some years back10. In which a man kept on shaving his face and never stopping until his whole features became a mask of blood. Trevor slides the blade up and down, covering every square inch of his skin, but by the time he has finished, there is not even a scratch. Just his smooth, shiny face. How banal!
I want Los Angeles. A city I have only ever seen in films, a city whose images are bathed in an incredible array of colours. Art and spectacle. Beaches and indolence. Rum and cocaine.
I don’t know that face of America, but I know I could learn to love it. Maxim, on the other hand, only loves New Orleans.
We both agree to meet in New York.
America is a territory that both dilates and shrinks at the same time. Maybe New York is the capital of the republic of dreams. Maybe New York is the territory and I am the map. Maxim is late. Maybe even he has managed to lose himself within the stretch marks of this country.
I wait, and the waiting appeases me. I kill the time, creating Chinese shadows with the light shining through the windows of the forty fourth floor of the skyscraper. Like in a novel where all the characters are beautiful, rich, famous and fly away into the sky.
Without ever falling back down to earth.
3
No one apologised to Mauro for the fire. Not his roommate who accidentally started it, or the British authorities who because of a series of legal mix-ups failed to initiate a proper enquiry.
As a matter of fact, Mauro reflected, the British bureaucracy turned out in the end to be no more efficient than the Italian one. A lot of talk, but there always appeared to be some obstacle when it came to move into action.
He’d gone to London in the hope of making it as a photographer and setting up his own studio, one with black and white walls, a magical space he could share with just his cat. But that pipe dream was now defunct.
“It’s because of the fire. It’s all because of that damn fire,” he kept on repeating between his clenched teeth.
At first, in London, Mauro had acted like a proper tourist: he’d visited the City, taken walks by the Thames and gotten drunk in almost every Covent Garden bar, effortlessly wasting his money. He had then decided to pack his bags and mo
ve outside the centre of town.
The area was nowhere as fascinating and cosmopolitan as the West End, but because of this, accommodation there was so much cheaper. In Holloway, Mauro rented a small flat which he shared with two other dreamers, a young man and young woman he had met during the course of his wanderings through Chelsea and Kensington. Solveig was Danish and very pretty. She was determined to become a model because someone in Denmark had once told her she was tall and thin enough to make a success of it. Solveig was 1 m 83, almost ten centimetres taller than Mauro and barely filled a B cup. Her skin was the colour of milk and the hair falling down across her shoulders was a stream of golden curls. A splendid porno amazon queen. Sadly, outside of the bedroom, Solveig didn’t make the grade. It was painful to watch the gawkiness of her movements. The lessons in deportment had come to nothing. Solveig was a perfect sack of potatoes made in Denmark.
Paul, on the other hand, was Irish and played guitar. Half Irish, to be precise. His father was in fact Scottish, but despite this cocktail of genes his hair was not red but jet black.
Paul was convinced he would become a rock star and, although his celebrity was all in his mind, he already adopted some of the lifestyle of the rich and famous, moving steadily from pot to cocaine and, whenever funds from his mother back home permitted, the cheapest heroin available.
Mauro loved his new companions in crime. They somehow made him feel wiser, a most rewarding feeling to have.
However, since he’d been in London he’d only sold a few photographs to a minor magazine, but he was still convinced he was on the right road. It was just a question of time; sooner or later everything would click. But now, following the fire, time had slowed down. And things seemed to be coming to an end.
It had been an accident. The police had no doubt about it. That evening, Mauro had been at a nearby pub with Solveig and another friend of hers, a rather attractive brunette, also a would be model. Paul had remained at the flat. He often stayed back, thinking of having a bath and relaxing a bit. He’d filled the tub with lukewarm water and fragrant foam, and as a final touch he’d lit some candles.
“They give the atmosphere such a pleasant feeling,” he’d told the police.
Damn candles, the fool had dozens of them, in all shapes and colours, not only around the bathroom but all across the flat. In the kitchen, his bedroom, even in the airing cupboard.
Why in hell should he have a peppermint green candle in the narrow airing cupboard? In the days following the fire, Mauro asked himself that over and over again, but could never fathom an answer. What then happened was so obvious. What occurred was bound to happen. Paul had lit the candles on the window sill. Maybe in his imagination they were like a lighthouse, a bright light that would lead his friends home. What a wonderful idea!
“The damn prick didn’t even think of pulling the curtains back,” Mauro cried out, talking aloud. And the old woman sitting next to him opened her eyes in response. Several of the passengers on the coach turned round to look at him, but Mauro didn’t take notice. He was still thinking of that evening. Of the polyester curtains catching fire. Of the smoke spreading across the rooms. He was thinking of the flames slowly moving like fiery snakes towards the dark room. Of the explosion that destroyed everything: furniture, clothes, all his photographic equipment.
In his mind, he could picture Paul naked and dripping with water, running out to the street below. The crowd surrounding him screaming in terror.
“It’s your stop,” the old woman said.
Mauro stared at her, still dazed.
“Via Alessandrini,” the elderly woman repeated, with a strong Bologna regional accent.
The coach braked suddenly. A fat, sweating man was holding on for dear life to the metal bar above his head. Mauro picked up his backpack and made his way towards the exit.
“You’re scared of living. You can’t write if you’re scared of living.” There is kindness in his smile, but I recognise a hint of reproach in his voice. I try to change the conversation.
“I don’t like this restaurant. It’s like a huge barn full of strangers. I’m disorientated.”
This time Maxim openly laughs. I call for the waiter and order a steak, all the time keeping my thoughts to myself. There are so many people scattered across the room but I don’t know any of them. Maxim has been here before . . . He points out a well-known actor to me, a regular here who appears to have the bad habit of eating with his elbows on the table.
“We’re not so different, you know, you and me,” he says.
The waiter arrives with the steak.
“You’re right, Maxim. You’re quite right.”
I place my elbows on the table and begin to eat.
4
Trevor was woken up by the noise of a bus braking suddenly on the street outside. He tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. His eyes focused on the Florentine-styled wallpaper covering the apartment’s walls. He found the design distasteful. It made him want to wake up somewhere else, or at any rate far from here.
He made an effort and got up. There was no way he could sleep again, he had too many things to do, too many appointments he could not afford to miss out on. He took a striped cotton shirt and a pair of jeans from the cupboard. No jacket.
Trevor was already inside the taxi when he realised he had forgotten something. He asked the cab driver to wait and ran up the stairs. He took the packet he had left on the armchair and returned to the car. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to nine and he was already late. Patience: she would wait for him.
The taxi dropped Trevor off on Via Alessandrini, just by the art gallery. Lisa came towards him and invited him in. There was no one else around, not one customer. He always felt strangely uncomfortable with her around.
“Something wrong?” Trevor asked, feeling sweaty under his collar.
“Yes, the air conditioning is not working.”
“So I see.”
Ignoring the Canadian’s discomfort, Lisa led him down the art gallery’s main aisle. Where Trevor’s paintings had originally been, there were now just empty spaces on the walls.
“It went rather well,” Lisa said. “The public was curious about your work. The brutally tortured bodies of beautiful women . . . I’m still unsure myself whether you love women or hate them.” As if she was demanding an answer, Lisa’s hand took hold of Trevor’s and guided it towards her breast.
“Don’t be silly. Federico could arrive at any moment.”
“Would that worry you?” She smiled and led him into a side room. “Federico wouldn’t find us here,” she assured him.
Trevor tried to remember where the light switch was and recalled when he had been here before. He did know this room, had been here on the opening evening of the exhibition when one of his paintings had been hanging on the wall there. He’d sold that particular one for a sizeable amount, and there now was just an empty space on the wall. An emptiness that gave Trevor confidence, almost urging him to act on what was happening. He moved closer to Lisa. Today she wore a flower print dress and high heels, highlighting the lean curves of her youthful body. Trevor ran his hand across the thin material of the dress and felt the gentle rustle of the undergarment she must be wearing. She moved back slightly, rolled her stockings down to her ankles and expertly slipped them off. She held her legs wide apart and offered herself to Trevor’s gaze.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
Yes, he wanted her. He wanted to tear her clothes away and explore every inch of her body. He wanted to touch that soft skin toned from all the hours spent swimming. He wanted to move his lips hard against hers and listen to her voice speaking to him from within, hoarse, dirty. He wanted it all and he wanted it now.
It appeared as if Lisa could read his thoughts as she lowered herself down and unfastened his trousers. Trevor pulled her dress off, took hold of her waist and pulled her towards him, not that Lisa was unaware of his desires. He kissed her. And took her, like that, still standing, her b
ack pushed hard against the naked wall. Trevor ached to bite her lips, her neck, her breasts, but she stopped him just in time.
“Not that way. It would leave marks.’
So Trevor increased the rhythm of his thrusting. Systematically ploughing into her until Lisa began to pant harder and harder, and her voice turned into a silent scream.
Some time later, Lisa’s clothes crumpled like tissue on the floor. She picked them up and dressed again. She adjusted her hair and her make-up until she was satisfied with her restored appearance.
“How are you?”
Trevor looked at her in amazement. There was no longer a single trace in her of the unstoppable, violent lust that had earlier transformed her childlike face.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
“Very good. I think I heard Federico’s voice. He must be outside.”
“Better join him, then.”
Lisa walked out of the room into the gallery and threw herself into Federico’s arms, passionately embracing him, with convincing enthusiasm. Trevor observed them from a distance. No, there was nothing to worry about. Federico only had eyes for Lisa, and was unaware of anything else. Trevor came forward.
“Hi, Federico.”
“Hello, there. I was about to ask Lisa where she’d hidden you.”
“Nowhere. I was just waiting for you.”
Federico put his hand forward. His handshake was warm and honest, which made Trevor uneasy. He liked Federico; he was a good man. He’d built the art gallery from nothing into a genuine international attraction, and it hadn’t gone to his head. He’d stayed the same, just a few more wrinkles, and a much younger fiancée.
“Trevor has a present for you,” Lisa announced triumphantly. And quickly turned back towards the Canadian man. “Come on, don’t be shy.”
Trevor just then remembered the small parcel he was holding in his hands. He had wrapped it clumsily, and with some reluctance he handed it over to Federico.
“He did it for you. It was my idea,” Lisa said. Excited by the young woman’s revelation, Federico moved forward and took hold of the present, examined it closely. It was a small acrylic on paper sketch, drawn quickly but with much precision. Maybe a portrait of Lisa, or at any rate of a woman much like her. No, it was actually her in the picture, lying fully naked between two men, two faceless bodies mounting her, blending with her in a flurry of colours.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 55