by Anna Chillon
Niccolò kept my wrists pressed against my breasts, imprisoned me in a solid way, but without hurting me. “Can I let you go now?”
I lowered my shoulders, drinking tears. “…Yes.”
He did it gradually until he’d let me go completely. When I lifted my head and found Vincent in front of me, I felt as if I’d been hit, suddenly aware that not even my anger could suppress what I felt for him. A weakness he didn’t have any qualms of taking advantage of. Shit, it really hurt.
I got some momentum, lurching for the stairs, but this time they were both ready. One grabbed me by the jumper and the other, who was closer, grabbed my arm, getting his foot stamped on in return.
“Oh no, Giada, like that you’ll make me angry too.” Niccolò, losing his respect for me, squeezed tight to hurt me on purpose.
I screamed and Vincent didn’t like it. “Leave her to me.”
“No!” I yelled again with a hysterical voice. “I just want to leave!”
“You're not going anywhere,” Vincent said, categorically.
I felt Niccolò’s chest growing patiently with a sigh. “And where do you want to go?”
I elbowed him, pointlessly trying to get him off.
I was more agitated by the anger than by the conviction that I really could get rid of those two. If they wanted to keep me there, there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop them physically. It was a lost cause.
“Away. Far away from him,” I admitted, exhausted.
“I have a better idea. Here’s what we’ll do: let's get out of here, let's get rid of the boogie man and go upstairs, you and I. Do you want to see where I paint, sweetie?”
My outburst had exhausted me, consuming all the energy I had, leaving only enough for tears. Little by little, I resisted less, remaining helpless in his arms.
“Yes? ...Do you want to?”
I lowered my head in what should have looked like a nod. Not that I had any choice.
“Well, let's go.” Niccolò let me steady myself on my legs, but before letting me go he took my hand to make sure I didn’t try to escape again.
Vincent was... hurt; I understood that even behind that angry air and behind his obvious need to take me aside and give me a talking to. He didn’t like to see me keeping away from him and going off with his friend. It made him suffer, and yet he was willing let me go, rather than let me roam around the city upset with nowhere to go.
“I'll bring her back to you later.” Niccolò narrowed his eyes.
“No!” I jumped.
He picked up my backpack. “No, relax, sweetie. No boogie man if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t want him there,” and I said it looking straight into his furious face.
***
It was so difficult to go up those steps, hand in hand with a man I didn’t really trust much. Feeling like his hostage, when I really wanted not to have had that quarrel and be hand in hand with Vincent.
Instead, he simply followed behind us and stopped at the threshold of his studio; he didn’t go in, he was watching us climb up. It took superhuman effort to ignore him.
“Here we are in my humble little kingdom” Niccolò invited me to go in.
I wouldn’t have called him humble: eccentric if anything. He let me go only after he pushed me in, turned the key in the lock and put the bunch in his pocket.
His studio was similar in size to Vincent’s, very spacious; it was, however, brighter, with large windows, and decidedly more chaotic and colorful. Tiles, tripods, computers, a fridge, a huge table, clothes thrown on chairs, books, pillow cases, even a single bed, all arranged according to an approximate criterion. In the middle, a plastic sheet placed under the paintings he was working on, protecting the floor from paint splashes.
“Do you want a drop of water?” He stretched out a white, immaculate cloth handkerchief, still warm from his pocket, in contact with his leg.
I needed it, so I accepted, wiping my cheeks and blowing my nose. I had calmed down, but the tears kept on coming.
He filled a glass from the sink in the loo, giving it to me all wet. He sat on the stool in front of the picture he was working on, or rather he leaned on it. He seemed too big for that stool. He was much bulkier than Vincent, especially at the top of his chest, but his figure was nothing compared with Simon’s muscles, all harmoniously developed; he looked more like he worked out a lot at the gym. No beard, medium length hair and his left ear pierced. Better looking than Vincent, not as beautiful as Simon. I made all these conclusions in an instant.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” He asked.
I shrugged and stuck my lower lip out refusing to answer.
“As you please,” he continued disinterested, almost as if he had asked that question only out of courtesy. He took a brush from the table next to it, which was covered in all sorts of colors and instruments, and rinsed it in a container.
He let me walk through that new, strange environment. A place that, being the creative refuge of an artist, attracted me, distracting me from my thoughts. He’d guessed that would be the case, this was the reason he’d won me over on the stairs with his proposal.
“You know, I wouldn’t mind having you as a subject for a painting,” he considered at one point.
He caught me unawares; I should have been flattered and part of me was, but another part, knowing the subject of his paintings, was frightened. I couldn’t help myself wonder if he was being serious or if he was just looking for a way to win me over. I remembered too well how he’d looked at me at the exhibition and even better how a few moments before I was captivated by his fierce strength.
I walked past some un-finished paintings, rubbing my arm that was holding the glass. I stopped in front of the mattress. “Is it the fashion to keep a bed in the studio in these parts?.” I looked at the crumpled sheets with distrust.
“What is it?” Niccolò glanced at me. “Are you frightened that I might suddenly attack you and make you mine on that bed?”
He smiled at me without showing me whether he was joking or not. He was having fun. But I wasn’t so amused, I lowered my eyes, hugging my shoulders, shivering. I knew from experience that a man with certain ideas in his head had no scruples.
The silence was articulate.
“Is that what Vincent did?” He asked more seriously, with no hesitation about asking such an indiscreet question.
I turned with the excuse of looking for somewhere to put my glass. I wanted to avoid him scrutinizing me. “No. That is... maybe...” I bit my lips for fear of saying the wrong thing. “It's that... if I say yes it seems I didn’t want to. If I say no... it's a lie.”
“I understand.” Fortunate that he understood, because I didn’t understand anything at all. “Anyway I sleep on that bed when I stay in the studio overnight. I don’t use it to turn into one of my demons and rape poor defenseless fairies.”
I knew it was directed more or less at Vincent, there was no doubt about that.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I'm used to worse insinuations. If there's something I've learned over the years, it's not to care about anyone else's judgment, even when it comes from people I care about. I had to get away and stay in Barcelona for quite some time before realizing that. You can live for others and give up what you are, or you can live for yourself. Being in the middle doesn’t work, it makes you and those who love you unhappy.”
“I wish I could do that.”
“Years of uninterrupted practice, sweetie. You’ll get there too.” He threw two tubes across the room and managed to get only one into the bin. I went to retrieve the missing one and binned it as Niccolò got back to preparing his work surface.
Maybe he wasn’t that bad after all. It was reassuring to be able to talk to someone without fear of causing a disaster and being put in the stocks. I had a desperate need because there was nobody else I could talk to. Even Vincent wasn’t on my side anymore.
I blinked to fight off another wave of t
ears and broke down. “I travelled miles to come here and found him... with a woman.” I wiped the corner of my eyes with my handkerchief.
“Was he intimate with her?” He asked absently, rubbing another brush in a rag.
“He was photographing her.”
“So he was working, then.”
His nonchalance annoyed me. “That's not the point. He told me that I should never have come, he basically kicked me out as if I was bothering him. And in the meantime, that other girl was completely naked in his studio.”
“Could there be another explanation for his reaction? A matter of timing, maybe. Your situation is delicate, and difficult to manage in public.”
Timing? Of course, his concept of timing was ‘everything Vincent wants, when Vincent wants it.’
“But he makes me kneel in front of him in public when it's convenient for him!”
Seeing his eyes light up with craving like they did at the evening of the show, I immediately regretted having bought that memory up.
He put his brushes down and leaned on the stool in a comfortable position.
“You were very pretty on your knees: he wanted me to admire you. We males are stupid boastful beasts, we like to have beautiful things and to proudly show them off.”
So I was exhibited as an object. Vincent had not been worried about the risk, he knew he would have Niccolò’s complete approval. “So what was your excuse?”
“For enjoying it, do you mean?” He smiled as with his fingers entwined in his lap, twiddling his thumbs, assessing what to say that didn’t betray the predator lurking in his eyes. “You should know that I'm engaged to a beautiful woman.”
“Woman?”
“Of course, she's thirty-five years old and takes care of disabled kids. This fantastic creature - you can admire in some of my paintings - in our relationship often has a role, how should I say... submissive. I'm sure you are old enough to understand what that is and to understand what my tastes are. So you can imagine how much I appreciate a beautiful young girl at my feet, as I think you can appreciate a good looking guy having a shower. Without taking away from anything that I really want.”
“And you want her?” I said.
“Yes. Her.”
“I thought...”
“I know what you thought, but Vincent didn’t bring you to me because I collect eighteen year old girls. He didn’t need my approval.”
Mortified, I leant forward and folded the handkerchief between my fingers. The truth was that no one had forced me to obey at the exhibition, yet I had done it out of my own spontaneous will. “Sometimes even we females are stupid animals. We like to be looked at and then we accuse those who take advantage of it.”
“What a lot of wisdom in that head.” He smiled, took a black chalk and started sliding it over the canvas. From that point I didn’t see what he was drawing, I just followed the quick movements of his wrist, one moment fluid, then shaky. I approached and realized that it was a scene of three with two vampires; the one he was drawing looked like a female. On the side of the picture, attached to the stand, there were three photographs of an incredibly sensual girl.
“Are those Vincent’s shots?”
“Yup. Beautiful, aren’t they?” He paused for a moment to admire them. “You would need to have photographs taken in this style if you agree to model for me.”
“Naked?”
“And tied up.”
I laughed stupidly to disguise embarrassment. “I don’t think my parents would like to see me in a painting like that.”
“Oh, sweetie, I think the painting will be the least of the things they won’t appreciate.”
How could I say he was wrong.
“Never mind, he’s never going to photograph me, I never want to see him again,” The pain became acute, filling my eyes again. I turned away from those photos, wandering aimlessly about the room looking for a corner where I’d be out of the way.
Niccolò started to make circles with the chalk. “Oh, I don’t think it's true that you don’t want to see him.”
In fact it wasn’t at all. “Well, I’ll pretend it is and that I don’t care about him anymore.”
“It's a real shame, because he can’t pretend with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I asked him if he’d gone mad, he told me he was totally, but at the same time he’d never been so lucid. He knows he's hurting you, but he can’t avoid it because he unable to pretend when he's with you. He said that you are the only person he can totally be himself with.”
I plonked down on the first thing I found available, that was the bed. That revelation was a cheap shot that didn’t help me at all. I was only eighteen and in my first relationship, free of any responsibilities, I deserved a simple relationship with someone as weak as I was, I didn’t know how to deal with such a thing. Especially not with such a man.
What I felt was so powerful that it could push me to do anything for him, to accept everything from him, so I would have to really fight against myself more strenuously if I wanted to keep some pride. When I said I wanted an overwhelming relationship, I imagined something exciting and joyful. I actually got something too far above that, to the point of being shocking and painful. Yet, even so, until that afternoon I wouldn’t have given up even one minute spent with him.
My eyes flicked from right to left, chasing those incoherent thoughts.
“You seem tired,” Niccolò remarked. “Why don’t you rest a while before you go?”
“I can go?”
He pulled the keys out of his pocket by throwing them on the table next to the color palette. “Certainly, if that's what you want.”
I wasn’t sure. “Maybe I'll just stay another five minutes if you don’t mind.”
He didn’t answer, he just smiled and neither of us said anything.
I was watching him work, hypnotized by the ability of his hands as they juggled on the canvas like ballet dancers on a stage. At one point I leant onto my side, continuing to watch him, I blinked my eyes a couple of times before I let them close.
Crying was incredibly tiring.
Oddly I was sleeping very peacefully when Niccolò took off my shoes, put my legs onto the bed and covered me.
***
As I woke up, not long after, I opened my still burning eyes and the first thing I noticed as I came to my senses was Niccolo’s shameless betrayal.
He had let the boogie man in, and left me alone with him. A revolving chair had been dragged to the bed, where Vincent was sitting waiting for me to wake up. His ankle was resting on his knee, his elbow on his arm and he was rubbing his knuckles meditatively across his lips.
I turned straight over to the other side, facing the wall with my back to him. I clutched Niccolò's handkerchief in my hand, wet with tears
“You have to listen to me,” he started, putting his foot on the ground and leaning forward.
“Go away,” I replied, secretly hoping he wouldn’t.
“It’s been a busy day.”
“That’s not an excuse.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it was impossible, it came out all wobbly. “I've never treated you badly.”
“No, you’re too sweet and kind, you never could.” I heard him stand up and walk around the studio, he moved a picture.
“What am I going to do with you?”
This was an answer I couldn’t give him and it was lost in the air hanging between us.
“What’s wrong with the seascapes?” I deliberately asked the question my Dad had asked him.
“As I said to Aron, they don’t sell, and I need money.”
I took that answer as if he was taking me for a ride. He owned a house, had no one to keep apart from himself. “But how much do you need?”
“Quite a lot. Don’t you think I’d prefer to go around the world taking pictures? Do you think I’d work all the time if I could reduce my income? You shouldn’t be offended: they’re just photographs.”
“You touched her.
”
“I put her in pose.” He carried on wandering between the paintings. “It was true what I told you. After you I haven’t been to bed with anyone else.”
“Why not?” I could’ve even believed him, but I felt so sorry for myself that I found it difficult to believe that he could prefer me to women of that caliber. “I got a good look at her: she was beautiful. I can’t expect to be able to compete with actresses and models.”
“Beautiful? If you think that’s what’s important, then you should go out with Simon instead of insisting on wasting your time with me.” Vincent went into the toilet and came out shortly afterwards. The bed sank beneath his weight as he lay down behind me. One arm raised above my head and placed a mirror in front of my face.
My eyes and nose were red.
“Maybe you've never looked at yourself properly.” He put one hand on my ear, holding my head against the pillow so I couldn’t look away. “Do you see this mouth? How full it is and at the same time delicate? These green, lively eyes, with long long lashes, full of mischief? Your hair captures the light sending iridescent reflections. “He touched my cheekbones.” This is the point in which the turmoil of feelings that I can cause in you emerges. All together, you’re as harmonious as a freshly blossomed flower. You are such a sincere and fresh beauty that it’s disarming.”
He was certainly exaggerating, but I listened to every word, staring at my reflection. I could see his fingers disappear from the mirror’s reflection and move down the silhouette of my body, with slight pressure on top of the blanket. “We don’t even need to talk about this, you just need to sense what I feel and you need to feel lucky to be able to touch yourself how and whenever you want. But here comes the best bit.” He moved up, pulled my alice band back, putting his hands through my hair at the temples. “We can’t see the best bit, it's all in here. But you don’t realize it. You are so naïve to think that Barbie Superstar can attract me more than you can. I'm a man, Giada, I’ve had enough experience to want more than just a nice ass. And with that I don’t mean that yours isn’t spectacular.”