If you can see the irony inherent in any given situation between two people, the particular form of the cosmic joke called life which they are given to perpetuate, they you will know to direct the scene.
The irony here was in bringing together two perfect people and not living to see the fruits of his work. Starting what might have been the best film of his life and leaving it to someone else to finish.
There was irony, too, that once upon a time he had been the strongest swimmer on the docks when he was Grigori's age, and here he was about to drown himself. Perhaps the greatest irony, though, was proving his critics right. After all these years; he was finally floundering, as they'd said he would, in over his head, vision gone, no sense of the real and the fantastic ... no sense, ultimately of life and death.
I do not want to die.
This single affirmation, pulsing through his veins was the clearest thing he had ever felt or known. Or was it very thing he had always known-the very force that had kept him going all along? The young man struggling to succeed, taking any work, any work at all.
He thought of Marie now, the young woman he had known in Livorno. With her jet-black hair and deep blue eyes and her pretty dresses, red and green and yellow. She would sneak down to the dock each day to watch him work. She was supposed to be at piano lessons. When he would take his break, she would be there behind the crates and they would kiss. She had a rag that she would use to wipe the sweat from his shirtless chest, her small hands arousing him with her delicate touch.
They did not ever speak a word, not once over the three months she came to him. He only learned her name one day by following her back to her aunt's house. She did not even speak Italian. It was Summer time and she was visiting from her home outside Paris. All this he learned from a neighbor. It was with her, perhaps, that he had first developed his fascination for love transcending language, for lust that needs no shared vocabulary to ignite.
Those fifteen minutes each day with her, for that one Summer, were in many ways the most precious times of his life. One could almost say he was lonely to lose her, but he had never had the sense of possession where she was concerned. He could no more miss a butterfly when it flitted away, as much as he'd enjoyed its splendid visit settled upon his finger.
Marie was like a butterfly in many ways. So many colors. Each dress bringning out something different in her eyes. She breathed the same air, but was not of it. She did not walk, she floated. Marie had a grace, all her own. Her kisses reflected this above all. Like any young man he did not appreciate what he had. There was no way to know then that these were ethereal kisses, fragile as Venetian glass, rare as diamonds.
Each one unique to a moment, reflecting a new understanding, a new passion. It was as if she could think about and mold each one and put something into it all its own. Like an artist with a canvas. The thing he never did was touch her in response. Only to put his hands on her waist, nothing more. His cock was hard always, and it was all he could do to make it through the rest of the day without masturbating after seeing her.
But it would never have been right to do anything about it with her. She came on her own, she rose to tiptoes on her own, she planted kisses on her own. This, too, had been an unspoken agreement between them, almost from the very moment he laid eyes on her in a small grocery near the waterfront. Their eyes had met, she had followed discretely and learned his place of employment. From then on, she came, once each day, an hour or two before his break.
Often she would bring him a little something to eat. Something her aunt had cooked or perhaps she herself. A bit of meat and gravy, some stewed fish, a spiced omelette. He would chew hungrily, trying in vain to savor. He wished to give no offense by plowing it down. She would never do anything but smile, though. It seemed there was nothing about him she was not capable of appreciating, at least not for that short amount of time each day.
He certainly appreciated her. The way she smelled, her slim body, long legs and above all her face, perfectly ovaled like a teardrop. He burned to make love to her. She would have been the first, too.
It wasn't as if nothing at all had happened between them, though. On their last day, the routine was broken. At the time he did not know he would never lay eyes on her again. As she wiped his chest and hands with the moist, white towel she always carried in her basket, he noted there was no food this time, only a small jug of wine, wrapped in wicker. He longed to ask her, but he hadn't the words, and besides, he could not get past the feel of the towel, on his hard stomach, dabbing at his nipples and lightly swabbing his neck.
She set the basket on a crate behind her, the one he'd placed their for her use. There were invariably hundreds of these at a time, stacked a dozen high, forming a series of walls, like a wooden maze about them. It was hardly the perfect protection from discovery, but it did afford a little chance for them to create a world just for two.
Giovanni would arrange them as best he could each time to make their secret place. She would laugh and clap her hands as he flexed his muscles for her and built her a new home every day. He would even provide her furniture, chairs and a makeshift table for the food basket.
More than anything their play was a state of mind. The perfect mix of her beautiful, delicate spirit-enough to make any man weep-and his own uncompromising vision. A vision that could turn crates into a mansion, and which would one day turn raw cinematic elements into some of the greatest stories ever told on the big screen.
He looked for the answer to the wine mystery in her kiss. It began with the usual proffering of lips. The kiss had lingered, though and instead of breaking off as she was wont to do after a few minutes, she began this time to nibble, sucking at his lower lip, making tiny dabs with her tongue. His hands clenched to fists. The strong cords of his muscles tightened with young desire. He was nearly overcome with the need to have her.
She stepped back and he feared it was over for the day. But there was something new in her smile that told him not to lose hope. Marie took the wine bottle and popped the cork. Her eyes never leaving his. Deep as the sea, and chalk blue as the sky. She flipped back her hair, the gesture inflaming him. Putting the bottle to her lips she drank, deep and full. Not a lady's sip, but the swallow of a whore. When she was done, she licked her lips and passed him the bottle.
He did likewise, wanting the burn of the sharp red wine in his belly. Under the beating sun, undiluted, it would go quickly to his head, but he didn't care. The woman already had him intoxicated. Giovanni handed the bottle back and by this time her strange smile had turned to a demonic glow.
"Hey, what's this?” He cried as she tipped the bottle, pouring the contents over his chest.
Marie tossed it, empty onto the ground. Her hands were behind her, unzipping the light blue dress. A moment later she pulled it over her head. He drew a sharp breath at the sight of her, stark naked. Her nipples were peaked, the loveliest shade of pink. She was clean-shaven between her legs. He could see her lips, the same shade of pink. His cock throbbed in his pants. He wanted to throw her over the crate, grab her ankles and spread her wide so he could sink himself to the hilt. He wanted to bury his face in that small, exquisite bosom. He wanted their bellies suctioned together. He wanted to fuck and fuck till they were both out of their minds. He wanted her screaming, loud enough for the whole dock to hear. He wanted her coming, harder than any woman had ever come in the history of lovemaking.
He wanted her owned, possessed, completely unable to ever bear another man's touch ... or child again. In short, he wanted everything, no compromise. What he got was a different sort of bliss, though every bit as fulfilling. Had he been wrong in thinking her the sweet virgin she was or had he merely brought this out in her himself?
Marie began with another kiss to his lips. A naked kiss, one that promised satisfaction. She was going to ease his ache today, finally, personally. She tasted of wine and lust and when he moved to put his hands in their familiar place on her hips, she moved them instead to her ass.
Taking his hand, not breaking the kiss, she showed him how she wanted to be spanked. He obliged with a sweet, timid thwack. Marie broke away, flush, panting, and frustrated. Turning herself about, she leaned forward, pushing her palms down on the crate. She was exposing her ass and cunt both.
Was it an invitation to fuck? Alas, he knew it was not. She wanted more of the punishment, more marks to match the red handprint. Several times she smacked him with the flat of his hand. Each time he saw more of the liquid, glistening at the crack of her shaved pussy. She made some slight moaning sounds, but these seemed to be as much in frustration as pleasure.
Looking over her shoulder, her hair damp with perspiration, she said a word in Italian. He did make it out at first, so amazed was he at the attempt. She said it twice more, pointing, and finally he understood. She was talking about his belt. It took him a moment to grasp the meaning, His face darkened as soon as he did.
"Per favore?” She begged, again using his language.
Incredible. His shy beauty wanted the sting of his belt on her ass. She wanted to be whipped like a slave. Giovanni opened his pants and took out his cock instead. Soaking in the sight of his lovely victim, naked, legs spread, bent over for him he began to stroke himself. He had intended simply to masturbate, but as he tightly clutched his member, the urge overcame him as it had her. The urge to cross the lines of propriety and normalcy.
Marie got her whipping. Five times, hard, he lashed at her pretty, soft ass, blazing red across her cheeks, kissing her with pain. She danced on her bare feet, though her palms never left the crate. Her discipline, her surrender was perfect. When the fifth and final mark had been imposed he seized her by the hair and pulled her to him. She knew at once what he wanted. One more kiss, searing and hot as a brand and down she went, all the way to her knees on the concrete.
Of her own volition, she put her hands behind her back, completing this picture of perfect subservience. For a few minutes he let her lick and kiss, getting used to the counters of his shaft. She swathed it thoroughly with her tongue, honoring every inch, top and bottom. She was not afraid to turn her head, to move her body to maximize his pleasure. Biting with her lips, she went up and down the vein on the underside, pausing to lap at his balls like he was some kind of god.
Finally he took her, twining his hands in her hair and driving himself deep. She did not gag. It was how she'd wanted it, not soft and beautiful but hard and commanding. She'd wanted, needed even, to be put in her place. To be treated like a slave, compelled to give pleasure, marked for the master's whim. No blow job had ever compared. Marie took him whole, and when it came time to explode himself, she never balked. She drank him down whole, taking his semen obediently down her throat.
His cock still fresh on her lips, she bent to kiss his feet. Marie pressed her lips to each shoe in turn and then rose to her feet. He wanted another kiss on the lips, but she refused him. Her face expressionless, she wiped off with the towel and put her dress back on. He could little but stand there, helpless, watching.
She did not bother with the basket or the bottle. She simply walked away, taking one final look at him and then turning her back. Forever. The next day, of course, she did not show and the next after that. His worst fears began to crystallize inside him. Finally, on the fourth day after work, he went to the neighbor of the aunt.
The woman told him Marie had gone back home to France for the start of school. Giovanni went from there to a bar, where he drank far too much for his own good. After that he lost his virginity to a yellow haired prostitute whose name he did not even remember.
Was it his imagination or was he seeing yellow now, the glimmer of a woman's golden hair? And beside her a man full of muscles with jet black hair? They hadn't come to rescue him, had they? That wasn't possible. No one rescued Giovanni Ambrosiano. No one ever caught him in trouble, in over his head.
"Leave me,” he gurgled, fighting with his remaining strength the hands that had come to clutch him. This was too much, to be made to rely on these young people, to be caught out as an old fool not even of capable of drowning himself properly. But they were too strong to fight. And they were right, too. Not that he wouldn't lash out at them soon as he had his lungs clear again.
Julie and Grigori hauled him into the boat, not the same one he'd come out in, but a similar one, small, efficient with an outboard motor. They laid his limp body down on the floor of the boat. One of them had his ear to his chest-they must have been checking to see if he was breathing.
"Get the hell off me,” he managed to say, proving he was very much alive.
"You're okay,” cried Julie, stating the obvious and employing far too much emotion in the process.
"Compared to what?” He wanted to know. They helped him to sit up and immediately he told them off. “You should not have interfered. I will not ever speak to you again. This is unforgivable. When we get back to shore, you will both pack your things and leave my sight."
He repeated the words in Dasklovian for Grigori. At once the big man looked to Julie, his face distraught. She took him in her arms. They returned in silence to the small dock built onto the beach. Giovanni refused their helping hands, choosing to walk under his own power to the bedroom.
To Frederica, who was waiting for him, understandably concerned, he said only, “We leave today. Pack everything. And make arrangements to purchase this house from the rental company. I want it destroyed, stone by stone."
Frederica knew better than to question him in such a mood. “Yes,” she whispered. “Maestro."
* * * *
Grigori had never known such defeat. Nor had he ever despised himself so much. What had possessed him to try and save the Great Director? How dare a man such as him, with no vision, no keenness of mind interfere with the processes of nature? Ambrosiano had understood, and he had known it was his time to die. Grigori should never have allowed Julie to drag him out on the boat to go after him. The Teacher's life was ruined now, he was a ghost, a shell of a man, denied the glory of self chosen death, forced to live without honor or glory.
He looked down at his hands, decrying the misery they had wrought in such a short lifetime. Julie was beside him in the boat, tied to the dock, but he might as well have been a million miles away. She was trying to touch, trying to console, but he could not bear human contact, least of all from one to whom his heart was so open.
These hands of his were a curse. He had touched his mother in childhood pleading for her life, he had prayed to God for her and she had died. He had clenched these same fists in anger and fear to protect himself against his father. He had loved Katyana with them, caressing her breasts and pussy, making her hum to the love of his cock. And then he had taken these hands into the army to kill. This won him praises, but he had not slept at night. The faces of those brought down by his trigger finger haunted him, and even now on occasion he saw them. In the honesty of the arena, against the bears, this was the only place his hands had felt at home.
Perhaps that was the answer. He must leave the world of humans. Back to the circus he must go, to perform. Passing himself as a mute, collecting a pittance and communicating only through the animals.
"No,” he told Julie with finality, pushing away her naked, tempting body. He was on his feet and without another word, he dove into the salt water. Her screams as his backdrop, he began to swim, as Ambrosiano had. Grigori had no idea what land might await him this way or if he had the strength to carry himself that far. It mattered not, though, for if he were to di
e out here, in the Maestro's place, he would at least be able to repay in part the debt he owed the man.
So, too, with his death, would end the jinx, the lingering pain he brought to everyone who had ever loved him. Julie might be sad or mad now but one day she would understand. One day, even, she would thank him. And always, forever, she would have her memories.
It was on Katyana that his mind settled. Pushing his muscles into the task he thought of her soft, abandoned sweetness, the way her skin had smelled of Summer flowers even in the bitterest of winter time. He thought of how kisses danced upon her ruby lips, always and only for him. He thought of her quick mind, her delightful wit and how he could never hope to keep up with her. In or out of the bedroom.
She was a wildcat for such a seemingly shy, bookish young woman. Every chance she had, she would sneak him to one love nest or another. Her favorite place was the barn of her uncle. Grigori would lie down for her on the hay, the stalks prickling his back side, enticing him deliciously to the pleasure awaiting his front side. She would practically drool over him, his erect shaft pointing straight to the vaulted ceiling.
Slowly she would remove her clothes, stripping item by item till her china white skin was fully under his purview. She would dip her fingers between her fine legs and show him how wet she was. He would tremble as she tasted herself, her angelic features lustful as any devil. Her favorite way to have him was just as he was, on his back. Grigori would brace himself as she leaped onto him, burying his cock deep inside her thirsty aperture. Her moans would come at once. Digging her nails into her chest she would move up and down a few times, slow and deliberate. This was to please her clit, to satisfy its boundless needs. After this she would ride him in earnest. Grigori would buck from underneath, sometimes holding her waist to keep her from flying off.
Captured!--On Film Page 11