Sisters in Sin

by Primula Bond

  Now I felt slightly sick.

  ‘And he is a very talented artist, both in oil and in glass.’ Signora Martelli bulldozed my thoughts and tapped a huge frame on her desk with one long red fingernail. It showed a stony-faced young man in a university gown and mortar board, looking like every other surly graduate who wishes his parents would stop taking bloody photos and bugger off so he can go party with his mates. ‘He used to work for the company until he started to get commissions for his frescoes but then he gave it all up – but enough about him. Why don’t you come to Murano this afternoon and we can itemise your order?’

  As we made arrangements for me to go over to the island, I felt relief at the normality of talking business and also that, if Carlo Martelli did exist, large as life and twice as hairy, then so did everyone else from last night’s scenario. All those strange sights and sounds and voices and commands and punishments and Natalia’s fingers, oh, her sweet little fingers, were, after all, totally real. They weren’t the figment of some feverish dream.

  And yet, and yet. I was still distracted when I left the meeting in Signora Martelli’s glittering little shop near San Marco. I should have been glad to get back to normal, get on with what I did best, doing business and making money. So why could I not shake off this disorientation? Hadn’t I had a lucky escape from that holy hellhole? Why, when I had eventually found my way back to the Danieli last night and stumbled up to my swagger bedroom, safe from the clouds of mind-bending incense, the gloomy chanting of sins and the vicious thwack of the cat o’nine tails – why did I feel as if I’d been cast out?

  I shut my iPad and opened my guidebook listlessly to read about historical visitors to Venice. Casanova, who was having sex with two sisters, both nuns … Lord Byron, whose lover threw herself into the Grand Canal when he dumped her. Georges Sand, who stayed in the Danieli and went off with the doctor who tended her sick lover. What made me smile eventually was the hilarious statistic that in the mid-seventeenth century there were as many nuns in Venice as there were prostitutes … What on earth kind of city was this?

  I glanced around the famous caffe. In the winter the clientele in here were mostly understated, elegant Italians, women with perfectly pinned chignons and silk scarves artfully tied round their necks, men with cashmere sweaters over their shoulders in a way no Englishman could ever carry off. I tried to imagine the place seething with the gaudy courtesans of old in their tight bodices, huge skirts, breasts bulging as they lounged on the knees of groping men in wigs and breeches, all the debauchery these gilded walls had seen. Everything was mirrored, with lights burning like torches in gold lamps, and in the air the aroma of hot chocolate was mixed with sweet Marsala.

  The windows were steamed up. I rubbed at the glass to stare out at the misty piazza. People were stepping in single file across the duckboards set up above the acqua alta that once again had swirled in from the lagoon.

  I looked at my watch. I had better visit another supplier or two before I went over to Murano.

  A flurry of femininity erupted in the corner of my eye. A group of about six nuns in long black habits, their faces framed and minimised by squares of white starch, whisked through a painted panel in the wall beside me, whispering and tittering behind their hands. Surely any kind of communication was forbidden, certainly any kind of hilarity? But no one else glanced up. Groups of twittering nuns must be quite common around here.

  But what surely wasn’t so common was how young these all were! My heart clattered in my chest as I instinctively scanned the group for Natalia, even though I was fairly sure these sisters were dressed differently. I hadn’t really been able to see the other nuns in the smoky dark chapel last night, let alone gauge their ages, but I had supposed them to be around my age or older. These girls were fresh-faced and slim, barely out of school. Younger even than Natalia. Anyway, she wasn’t amongst them. I shrank back in my seat, embarrassed by my blatant eagerness.

  Get over it, Jennifer. You’ve got work to do.

  Even so, there was a chance one of them might recognise me. But their wide wimples blocked out the world. They only had shining, excited eyes for each other, and in seconds the door had closed softly behind them.

  I drained my glass of entrails-simmering sambuca and without thinking dashed outside before the nuns were swallowed up in the throng of the chilly square. To my right was the baroque swell of San Marco, its golden facade, buttresses, domes and arches all swooping and soaring like an amazing wedding cake. To my left was the colonnaded end of the square, leading to more shops and hotels, and that’s where I saw those black and white figures again. They were like little chess pieces. And they looked as if they were playing hopscotch like a bunch of schoolgirls. But closer up I realised they were dancing from foot to foot because they had no stockings or shoes on. Either a punishment, or a requirement, or just sensible when the rest of us were getting wet feet in the high tide.

  At some kind of signal they all turned and filed out of the square, heads bowed, holding their skirts tantalisingly high over slim white – and bare – legs as they splashed delicately through the greenish-grey waters of the Adriatic. As I followed behind, keeping to the edge of the streets where it was slightly dryer, I thought I must still be hallucinating: not only did these girls seem virtually to be walking on water, but they all had gold tattoos, in a motif I couldn’t make out at this distance, winding up one delicate ankle.

  I doggedly followed until I realised we had reached the narrow alleyway with the crumbling wall, the dry trailing ivy and the little door, and was so engrossed in my thoughts that I jumped when one of the nuns stopped and put her hand on my arm.

  ‘You look lost.’ I could feel the heat of her skin through my suede coat. ‘And you look exhausted, Sister.’ She had glittering black eyes, a warm, round face, and a strong Italian accent.

  At the word ‘Sister’ I almost collapsed and let her pull me closer to her. The others glided up and gazed at me. Was it the starch of their veils making them incline their heads stiffly, like ducks, or was it some kind of holy deportment drummed into them?

  ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ another one asked.

  ‘You’re not supposed to talk, are you?’ I asked faintly. ‘You’re supposed to be silent.’

  There was that ripple of amusement again.

  ‘We’re from Santa Monica Convent. We have different clothing, you see? Black habits, not grey, with these big wimples. The Sisters in here are silent. We are allowed to speak, but we are not really allowed to see. We do the sewing for Santa Maria and we bring them supplies. Also this morning we are visiting for a retreat with Father Luca.’

  They closed ranks, pushing me as part of their shoal along the narrow street and up to the door. I froze. What did I think I was doing here? And what kind of reception was I going to get if I went inside?

  ‘You didn’t say what the problem was,’ the nun said softly as I tried to back away.

  ‘Problem?’

  They all gathered round me, those pretty heads tilted patiently. I looked up at the looming building behind the wall, the big cross glinting on the roof, the ivy, the little door. Heard that angelic singing again.

  ‘I want to go inside. I need to. There’s someone, a Sister, I want to see. But they won’t let outsiders in, and they certainly won’t allow me anywhere near. They think I will lead her astray.’

  ‘Well, you are a woman of the world, we can all see that. You are a terrible danger to them.’

  ‘I just want to see her. OK, just speak to her. Sister Benedicta. I want to help her.’ I blinked back surprising tears. ‘Please, Sisters. Can you smuggle me in with you?’

  They gazed at me beadily, like a flock of blackbirds, then all nodded in unison. One of them took a folded habit and veil out of a bag. Of course. They’d been sewing. Another one pulled my jacket off. I stood still, helpless, while little hands whisked efficiently under my skirt to unhook my stockings and roll them quickly down, dragged off my boots.

  �
��You must have bare feet.’

  And all at once I was one of them, trussed up in my own big, stiff wimple and the heavy black dress bulky over my own clothes. My jacket and shoes were in a bag hidden under a pile of honey-smelling candles. The gardener opened the gate and we glided into the building. I couldn’t see a thing, blinkered as I was on either side and keeping my eyes down, but I still stalled, heart beating with fear, when we reached the dank-smelling parlour.

  ‘Sister Perpetua here wishes to make confession before retreat. We know Father Luca is busy, and also Mother Superior. Is it possible she can make it to someone else, perhaps through the special Sisters in Sin grille? I know it’s for those who have transgressed most horribly and most recently. Perhaps Sister Benedicta has come out of solitary?’

  I had no idea who my saviour was speaking to, or how she knew Natalia was being punished, but I kept my head right down as we padded on our bare feet over the polished floor of the chapel. All I could hear was the faint singing somewhere behind me, then warm hands pushed me down on to my knees in front of an arched grille, and suddenly I was alone.

  There was a rustle of skirts on the other side of the grille and an impatient sigh.

  ‘Sister Perpetua? I am Sister Benedicta. I will hear your confession, but you know I cannot speak further.’

  My head swam. All I’d had was sambuca and coffee and Signora Martelli’s silly little hard biscotti for breakfast, and now all the incense was making me feel peculiar.

  ‘Is that you, Natalia?’ I croaked.

  There was a gasp. I strained to see through the grille. I could make out a shape, the oval pepperpot shape of her head and veil, but that was all. I put my hands on the cold iron mesh.

  ‘Natalia, it’s me. Jennifer. The Santa Monica sisters smuggled me in. I want to see you. After yesterday – are you all right? Have I got you into trouble? Are you in pain after that beating? I feel so lost out here. I want to touch you so much, Natalia.’ I swallowed. ‘Tell me if you don’t want this, and I’ll go away.’

  ‘Stop, Jennifer. This is all wrong. So wrong.’ It was a whisper, but I could feel it shivering on my cheek. She was right up close on the other side. ‘I feel the same, but it’s wicked. I’m no good.’

  ‘Nor am I. That’s why we need to be together. Away from –’

  It all became so clear to me as I uttered the words. I needed to get her away, not just from Carlo and his mother, Natalia’s unforgiving family, my work, my empty love life, Hazel, but away from the whole world.

  ‘You want to come in here, with me? With only the Sisters, in silence, for ever?’

  Her breath was warm. I blew through the grille, and she blew back. I could drink it. Literally. Today it smelt strongly of a very sweet, very intoxicating wine.

  ‘For ever, for now, who knows? Just that, darling, I want to get in there with you. After yesterday, the way it felt when you, you, touched me, remember? In the chapel?’

  There was a pause. ‘When I put my fingers in you?’

  Oh God. My knees trembled as I tried to stay upright.

  ‘I want to do it to you, but in private, just us, I want to do the same thing, and much much more, so that you know how it feels, very gently, I want to kiss you and I want to put my fingers inside you and feel how warm and soft and wet you are in there.’

  Again, that head-swimming thing, my voice saying things I didn’t know it wanted to say.

  ‘Oh God, Jennifer! You’re so lovely, so wicked! Turning me on just saying those things!’

  ‘So let me in and I’ll show you, darling. I’ll kiss you first, then I’ll lick you with my tongue, and then I’ll stroke you, I’ll take off everything you’re wearing little by little and I’ll kiss you on your neck, on your gorgeous breasts, I want to see them and then I want to kiss them, then everything will lead to that special place between your lovely legs.’

  ‘I knew it.’ She gave a long, shivering sigh. ‘You are too dangerous, Jennifer. This is sinful. I will go to hell for this.’

  ‘So let me in, somehow, and if you don’t want me to do it I’ll go. Immediately. And you’ll never see me again. I just want to know if you’re all right before I go back to London.’

  There was a long pause. My heart thumped dully in my chest. There was another rustle of skirts. She was standing up. She was leaving. She would shut me out of her life any minute now. And then to my amazement there was a rush of dusty air and the wall between us opened. Just like that. Like a door. And there she was, my little Natalia, her heart-shaped face, blue eyes blazing, lips wet with excitement, all the more innocent and beautiful framed with the grey veil.

  She pulled me through into a kind of tiny dark cell then along a pitch-black corridor and into another tiny cell, and locked the door behind us.

  She looked at me. At the huge wimple like one of those cones you put on dogs to stop them biting. The black habit. My bare feet. She bit her lip and smiled.

  ‘Sister Perpetua,’ she whispered. ‘You are a very naughty nun!’

  We put our hands over our mouths and giggled. Then Natalia staggered slightly, and fell back on to the narrow iron bed.

  ‘Are you ill, sweetie?’

  Natalia’s long eyelashes fluttered and she half opened her eyes. The corner of her mouth lifted. ‘Been fasting, Jennifer. To purge myself.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. They’ve been brainwashing you!’

  I pulled the borrowed habit and veil off me, and threw them both to the floor.

  ‘Impure thoughts about you, Jennifer,’ said Natalia softly. ‘Wicked. Evil. And all that flagellation has done me no good at all, because here come those thoughts all over again.’

  I held my breath. Natalia’s eyes were wide open now, blue as sapphires, and full of tears. My body went hot as I stared down at her. Something about the look of innocence hiding all that sin, something about the helpless way she lay there, something about the way it made me feel so strong. I smoothed my hand over her face. My body was weak as water. Natalia didn’t move, but we were both panting, mouths open. The tip of Natalia’s little pink tongue was resting on her teeth, bubbles of saliva on her pale lips. Feathery wisps of hair stuck out of the white cap.

  I couldn’t stand it. I plucked at the veil and wrenched it off her.

  ‘I want to see your hair, Sister!’

  Natalia flinched as if she’d been stung, scrabbling to cover her head, and I saw why. Apart from one or two strands the golden hair had been hacked crudely into a crew cut, even shorter than yesterday. Another punishment. I lifted Natalia’s hands away from her face.

  ‘It’s still beautiful. You’re still beautiful.’

  But I was feeling less gentle now. Maybe it was the brutal haircut making her look harder. I pushed the young nun back on to the hard bed, trapping her hands up above her head. Natalia resisted and wriggled underneath me, her blue eyes flashing, and in the strange hushed atmosphere we found ourselves in, so cold, so dark, so silent, so far away from everything as if we had rushed down a long dark tunnel, I understood that flash. I could feel it in response, nipping at my insides. I was inside a convent now, supposedly sacred, but here was the snakebite of temptation.

  Natalia let out a long, harsh breath, as if it was her last. We stopped wrestling, and she went very still. I could sense Natalia, the nun, her warm body underneath me. But she was invisible. Not the curve of her breasts. Not the swell of her bottom. Nothing at all under that heavy habit.

  I felt tight like a violin string. Bones and skin vibrating like flies’ wings. Everything inside me was loosening. But I knew I had to be careful. Whatever Natalia had done with Carlo, my guess was that she had never had sex with another woman. And I was damned if I was going to let on that I was a lesbian virgin, too! I rested my mouth on Natalia’s, softly, and pressed a little, waiting for her to push me off or screech, but still she lay there quietly.

  ‘I want you, Natalia! Even just speaking to you just then turned me on. I want you so much!’

  In answer
she twined her fingers in my long hair and pulled my head down, crushed my mouth, opened her lips softly, as if she was breathing me in. That lovely smell of sweet wine, and something else, mints? I rolled on to my side, so that we were face to face, arms tight around each other, my bare legs tangled with the nun’s heavy skirt, kicking between her woollen stockings.

  Natalia’s cool white hands were already up under my shirt, stroking up my hot skin, under my bra strap, pressing my breasts, but I couldn’t feel any part of her body. I fumbled with her habit but all I found was endless buttons and folds and hooks and swathes of material, and I started to tear at it.

  ‘Stop, cara, stop. Don’t rip it!’ Natalia batted me away. ‘I can’t go back into prayers in tatters!’

  ‘So don’t go back in there.’ I felt as if a bucket of cold water had splattered over me. I let go and rolled on to my back. I was shivering with excitement and frustration and fury. A pulse was throbbing between my legs, fire flickering through that sore place. ‘Come away with me.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to stay in here with me? Which is it to be?’

  I screwed my eyes up furiously. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’

  There was a pause. ‘Open your eyes. Watch me, Jenni.’

  Natalia was kneeling above me, and I saw that with her pale fingers my little nun was undoing her buttons. Tossing aside the bib that covered her front, the apron, exposing more buttons round her neck.

  ‘Let me do these ones.’ I knelt up behind and undid the endless tiny buttons down the back, and pulled her dress down, then unlaced the undershirt, and underneath that were surgical-looking linen bandages, binding and flattening my darling’s chest.

  Natalia turned round to face me. We were both shaking now. My knees were buckling. My pussy was weeping into my knickers. I took hold of the hideous bandages and forced myself to take it slow. The nun’s mouth was open, her white teeth biting into her lip, as I unwound the cruel covering. It occurred to me that Carlo must do this, every time she visits him, and get a massive hard-on. My own breasts bulged and swelled with excitement and then I whipped away the last bandage and there they were, Natalia’s breasts, firm and pale and soft, her nipples slowly changing colour from pale pink to an urgent, dark, red.