by Anna Chillon
He let me rip it out of his hand with a joyful leap, hugging it to my chest. “I’m not thinking anything, I’ve still got to open it.”
I ripped the bow off the wooden box and opened it, so happily.
“Wow!” Inside it was full of all kinds of bracelets: plastic, cloth and leather, with rhinestones and pendants, vintage and exotic ones. The bottom drawer was crammed with scarves of various colors.
So many lovely things, a whole jewellery box.
“Thank you! How beautiful! So many! Thank you!” I jumped on him throwing my arms around his neck, covering him with kisses.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Euphoric, I immediately tried on a leather strap bracelet decorated with engravings and tiny studs.
“Look it’s lovely!”
“Giada, wait, I told you. It's not a simple gift in itself.” I looked at him benevolently, my mouth still smiling from ear to ear.
He slid the bracelet a little down on my wrist and made it stick firmly. He pressed it slightly looking at me with those deep brown eyes and making me suspicious. The smile on my face began to get smaller.
As he put a scarf around my neck, wrapping it in tightly, I looked into the casket: all the bracelets were worn with wide straps and were made not to slip down my arms but to stick to them. Bracelets and anklets.
I shivered.
“They’re for... covering the marks,” I guessed.
He stroked the first one and slipped one onto the other wrist. “With summer approaching, you can’t carry on wearing long sleeves.”
“But the marks have gone,” I said, lost.
“Yes the ones from last week are almost gone, baby. They’re not for those.”
“Oh.”
Did it mean that according to his plan I’d have new ones? I looked down at my wrists, imagining them red and scratched again.
He placed a lock of hair behind my ear. “What’s that face for? Aren’t you pleased?”
“I like them a lot,” I said dryly.
Give flowers like everyone else, no?
He put his palms on my lower back and pulled me to him. “So what is it? Don’t you want to be tied up anymore?”
I looked at him trying to figure out what he expected me to answer.
“Yes I do,” I admitted hesitantly. I knew as I made that confession, that although it was the truth it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. “Not always, though.”
“You won’t always be tied up, but we know that when you have your wrists imprisoned you’re not capable of being good, you pull and tug, that’s why I’ll have to use thick bonds and knots that are strong enough.”
If I hadn’t been able to be good it was only his fault for doing dirty things to me.
“But I can try.” I must have appeared like a little girl who’d just discovered that her medicine was a bit too bitter, but she knew she had to take it anyway, despite all the loopholes she could try to find.
“Sure. And if you can’t you won’t have to worry, you can put all the bracelets you want on and no one will notice. OK?”
“Mh-mh.” I rifled through the jewellery, now understanding its real meaning. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, hen,” he replied.
For most articles the tag was still attached. I already had the feeling that each of them would end up on my bulletin board, among those from the most significant experiences of my life.
Vincent lifted me under the armpits and sat me down on the kitchen island. He was about to say something when he saw my cup in the sink still encrusted with a base of coffee and sugar.
“How many spoons of sugar did you put in your coffee?”
I raised my eyebrows studying his expression.
“The truth,” he urged.
I lifted my chin, taking the most insidious route. “However many I fancied.”
“And that would be?”
“Three,” I answered courageously.
“Oh yes?”
“Yeah.” About going to look for what I shouldn’t...
I saw him take a thin red scarf from my new chest, fold it in half, and twist it as much as possible, until there was no trace of softness. With each end wrapped in his fists, he stretched it a few times, testing its sturdiness in front of my eyes.
As I stared dumbly at him, my eyelids closed flat, my body relaxed, surrendering to the expectant trembling that passed through it.
I would not run away. I hadn’t been able to do that on that first night and I wouldn’t try to do it today.
The minutes passed very slowly that day, dragging like lazy snails, hours fled away on my thoughts. I was put to the test and held by tormenting ties.
And that night I had to wear three wrist bracelets.
Chapter 9
Early evening we went to Vincent's house so that he could change into something suitable to go out in. I walked across his garden and into his home for the first time.
I was immediately attacked by the smell of plastic and varnished wood, typical of brand new furniture. In fact it wasn’t new, but it was certainly not well used, modern choices that contrasted pleasantly with the old-fashioned building.
On the ground floor I realized that Vincent had knocked down walls to create a larger, airy space with a high ceiling. Shiny terracotta floors matched the fireplace that was in the centre of the room, where the fire was set on the ground, or rather on a flat iron plate on the ground. Not even that seemed to have been used much. Probably in winter he preferred to turn on the radiators that decorated the walls with original strange rectangular shapes.
The white, black and above all grey of the square sofas, table and armchairs, perfectly matched the rug in the centre of the room... black and blue. The first one I chose at the shop.
“Hey, you stole the rug!”
“What?” He put the keys on the shelf trying to figure out what I was referring to. “Oh, that one. It's much better in my house, don’t you think?”
“What a bastard! That's why you didn’t want me to buy it, you wanted it for yourself.”
“What are you complaining about? The one I got for you cost much more and Adele loves it.”
“Remember I gave blood for that carpet,” I muttered.
“No, sugar, that's not true. You gave blood for me.”
Oh. Right.
With that phrase he calmed me down and led me meekly to a leather armchair in dazzling white. He pressed my shoulder to make me sit down. “Wait for me here.”
That's when his mobile rang.
“Hello.” Vincent responded as he walked toward what I guessed was the kitchenette. “Don’t leave me hanging...” he chuckled with sensual politeness. “Fantastic, we need to celebrate. What have I got to do with it? You were great...”
Try as I might, I couldn’t hear the last few words, I just saw him coming back as he put the mobile in his pocket.
“A friend?” I inquired with a voice that if it’d been liquid, would’ve corroded his ears.
“Exactly,” he replied absently, opening the envelopes he had found in the mailbox.
“A special friend?”
“I know what you want to hear.” He stabbed the bills on the shelf at the entrance. “Before the interrogation: I haven’t fucked anyone else since last Saturday.”
A whole week of fidelity? Heartening.
“And before me? How long without doing it?”
“About a day,” he replied without thinking, calmly meeting my gaze.
I stood up. “You’ve got a girlfriend and came to bed with me? What am I, are a filler?” Zoe and I called the girls who were with guys obviously in love with another person ‘fillers.’
With a firm hand on my shoulder he pushed me down, Making me sit back on the armchair. “Calm down. I’m not in a relationship, apart from the kind that a single man can have with someone like an escort. It was just casual sex. I was waiting for a long weekend in the company of a small provocative pest, I didn’t think I would’ve resist
ed without venting beforehand.”
So should I be angry or flattered? I couldn’t decide.
“Well, you didn’t resist anyway,” I said pertly.
“I’d underestimated you.”
What did I expect? That he was a chaste bachelor? I didn’t even want a chaste bachelor. I wanted to be turned inside out like a sock and if Vincent was competent in the matter, it certainly wasn’t thanks to a chaste life. The sooner I accepted it, the better it would be. I would’ve just preferred that with his ‘friend’ he’d use a different tone other than that of a kitten, all purring and talons.
I’d known Vincent for a long time and I was used to having him in my life, but it was obvious that I knew very little about who he really was and what he was up to. A big part of him was still a mystery to me.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, can you wait for me here?” He asked.
“Won’t you let me see the rest of the house?”
“No. I want you to stay here, I won’t be long. The time it takes for a quick shower. Are you able to sit still until I get back?”
In the most poised position, I slid my sandals off by rubbing my feet on the soft, rarely trampled carpet. “You're asking too much.”
“I know, but I’m counting on the fact that you no longer want to disobey today.”
The desire to disobey was insidious in my DNA, the desire to be punished a little less.
“You’ll understand. To sneeze without putting your hand in front of your mouth is already disobeying.”
“No, it's worse: it's rudeness.”
“Fantastic” back chat. “I'll try to remember that.”
“Right answer.” He began to undo his shirt as he climbed the stairs. Gradually, he disappeared from my sight leaving me alone.
Sitting still, I was more aware of the slight tremor in my hands, an inevitable consequence of the prolonged and vigorous sexual act I had been subjected to that afternoon. Even the tremor in my legs didn’t dare leave me. I tried to stabilize them by crossing them.
Three minutes or so was the time I managed to wait biting my thumbnail before I got up from the chair. Three doors and some stairs gave access to places I absolutely had to see. The first door, as I had imagined, led to the kitchenette, the second to a bathroom, and the third to the cellar.
I heard the roar of the upstairs shower in less than a minute, presumably I had some time to run up and have a peek before he turned it off and dried. He wouldn’t notice a thing.
I carried my sandals and walked bare foot up the wooden steps, hoping the creak couldn’t be heard from the shower. The bathroom door was closed to, only a draught of air passed. Again in this case, there were three doors upstairs: one bathroom and two rooms. The first was a very large bedroom with two large wardrobes that was obviously used as a storage room, the second was his room.
Rather than being a room, it seemed more like a bed put into a library. Two walls were occupied by black wooden bookcases, full of volumes and CDs. A desk housed a notebook plus loads of other stuff, and a glass door gave access to the balcony. I couldn’t miss the bed with the headboard and the pedestal in iron bars that might have looked like those of a prison or a health institute if they hadn’t had a decorative knot halfway. What struck me, however, was the picture that hung over it: it was almost the size of the whole wall and, at that moment, I realized it was the only picture in the whole house. Vincent was a photographer, yet none of his shots were on display; no calendar or thermometer or other object hung on the wall apart from that picture.
And it was damn scary.
It showed the scene of a demon with a powerful human form, long horns, claws and tail, fiercely intent on having a minute young girl with childish features. I deduced it could’ve been a nymph due to the flowers in her hair and the ivy branch she was wearing to cover, or rather to reveal herself. The being dominated her by holding her arms bound in her own floral branches. She was stranded on a rock by that monster, two or maybe three times larger, her head thrown back in a trance, or perhaps near death. It was difficult to determine if it was an expression of ecstasy or anxiety. Of course it was only tears that streaked her face.
The water was still raging in the shower and I was standing at the foot of the bed looking at what I shouldn’t have been, breathing slowly. It wasn’t a simple print, but an original painting on canvas with two initials. Undoubtedly Vincent didn’t want me to see it because he knew what I would think.
He's the demon.
What else could I think?
It hadn’t all happened by chance: who knew how long he’d had this painting like this at the head of his bed, his nights, his dreams, in his unconsciousness. And I, who should have run away from this figure, couldn’t tear my eyes away, fascinated, terrified by all its implicit meanings... premeditation, deviation, darkness. My feet were cemented to the floor, I had to lean over a moment from dizziness. My fingers touched the floor, holding me up.
Suddenly absolute silence thundered in my ears: Vincent was out of the shower. As soon as I could, I flew downstairs bare foot, I didn’t want to find out what that disobedience would’ve cost me. I landed on the armchair where he’d put me, gripping the bracelets to calm my trembling arms, now worse than before.
I put my sandals back on and remained sitting there until he came down calmly, buttoning his cuffs. Black jacket over slate grey shirt.
I sighed.
When I was getting ready, I’d done everything I could to look a bit more grown-up, but with him in a dark suit it was even more unattainable. His hair was damp, raven black like the freshly trimmed goatee, and he emanated a sophisticated, inebriating masculine aftershave, which declared “I know my thing.”
My subtle vanilla perfume said: “It doesn’t look like it, but I'm in deep shit.”
He saw something in my eyes that made him smile. Admiration perhaps, seasoned by a tiny dose of panic.
He put his wallet in his pocket and we went out. I didn’t ask where we were going and he didn’t mention it, he hadn’t spoken about it all day. I was curious: anywhere would’ve been a surprise to me and any stinking hole would’ve been fine in his company.
In the car I remembered his request to keep my legs slightly apart with my hands beside my hips. Belted up, sticking to the back of the seat, I got used to it, without him having to repeat it. That night I was wearing a dark tartan mini skirt and a dark green top. One of his scarves masked in part the lack of bra and, of course, I wore some of his bracelets with gorgeous stones in malachite. It was a bit chilly, but I put up with it because I wanted him to find me desirable and provocative.
Touch me, you have free access to anything you want, I thought.
As if he’d read my mind, the back of his hand fell on the inside of my thigh, but never came to touch my groin. He kept it there for a moment, then moved up to my neck. I pushed against it with my cheek and he pinched it gently between two knuckles, before changing gear.
Many crossroads later, we reached the restaurant Vincent had chosen which turned out to belong to the Trastevere hotel group, very chic. The polished concrete floor reflected our steps. The tablecloths and armchairs were black, the contrasting plates dotted with silver edges, and the glasses rose on vertiginously long stems. Almost all tables were for two guests, some occupied by one person. An unusual silence reigned.
“We could go to a pizzeria,” I said after taking a seat.
“I wanted you to taste a few dishes. Would you prefer a pizza?”
“No.”I rolled a lock of hair around my finger, playing with it, “I don’t know, it seems expensive.”
“I'm not a rich man, but I can allow myself some meals out without worrying, if that makes you feel better. Here we’re not risking running into anyone who knows us. It’s a place dedicated to business people or travellers... like us.”
“Are we travellers? Where are we heading?”
“Anywhere this story leads us, sugar.” He winked at me and I felt incredibly lucky bec
ause, hell, he was soo seductive. My classmates wouldn’t have noticed him because he wasn’t in their league, but the few women at that restaurant had turned their heads when he passed by. Yet, incredibly, this man had taken me out to dinner, just me.
“I've never been to a place like this,” I remarked, undoing the elaborately folded napkin.
Vincent did the same. “...You OK?”
“It’s very elegant, but it's strange. I think I'm the youngest here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No not at all. Actually, it's exciting.” I tightened my lips, tasting the strawberry gloss, while my knees moved rhythmically, hidden under the table.
“What’s that look for?” He enquired, glancing at me with one eye, the other one on the wine list. “Why do I have the impression that you want to get up and run around the tables?”
I was euphoric and he seemed to have noticed. “Maybe I will.”
He smiled. “Do you want to play tonight?”
“Me? Always.” Yes, I really wanted to provoke him, despite the famous saying about the sleeping dogs.
A young waiter with spiky hair approached. Vincent ordered for me, indeed for us, tuna in mint and parsley sauce, artichokes giudia and mostaccioli biscuits accompanied by a sweet desert wine from Puglia. I would have preferred the maritozzi muffins with cream that I’d seen on the sweet trolley, but he was uncompromising, so I accepted his choice.
Wine was served to Vincent. He sniffed it, swilling it in the glass, decided it was good and poured half a glass for me.
“Drink it slowly. I'm not going to get you too drunk,” he added as the waiter moved over to the other tables.
I smoothed my hair over one shoulder, leaning my head a bit to that side. “I thought men liked to get women drunk to make them uninhibited.”
“Not in my case.” He leaned forward slightly to put the glass on the table and changed the tone of voice. “All I need to do is say, open your legs, sugar” he said softly. Words like that spoken in public sounded obscene.
My thighs squeezed together at the thought.
“How presumptuous!” I smiled into the glass and blushed a little while savouring that strong, aromatic juice.