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.