It appeared as if Lisa could read his thoughts as she lowered herself down and unfastened his trousers. Trevor pulled her dress off, took hold of her waist and pulled her towards him, not that Lisa was unaware of his desires. He kissed her. And took her, like that, still standing, her back pushed hard against the naked wall. Trevor ached to bite her lips, her neck, her breasts, but she stopped him just in time.
“Not that way. It would leave marks.’
So Trevor increased the rhythm of his thrusting. Systematically ploughing into her until Lisa began to pant harder and harder, and her voice turned into a silent scream.
Some time later, Lisa’s clothes crumpled like tissue on the floor. She picked them up and dressed again. She adjusted her hair and her make-up until she was satisfied with her restored appearance.
“How are you?”
Trevor looked at her in amazement. There was no longer a single trace in her of the unstoppable, violent lust that had earlier transformed her childlike face.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
“Very good. I think I heard Federico’s voice. He must be outside.”
“Better join him, then.”
Lisa walked out of the room into the gallery and threw herself into Federico’s arms, passionately embracing him, with convincing enthusiasm. Trevor observed them from a distance. No, there was nothing to worry about. Federico only had eyes for Lisa, and was unaware of anything else. Trevor came forward.
“Hi, Federico.”
“Hello, there. I was about to ask Lisa where she’d hidden you.”
“Nowhere. I was just waiting for you.”
Federico put his hand forward. His handshake was warm and honest, which made Trevor uneasy. He liked Federico; he was a good man. He’d built the art gallery from nothing into a genuine international attraction, and it hadn’t gone to his head. He’d stayed the same, just a few more wrinkles, and a much younger fiancée.
“Trevor has a present for you,” Lisa announced triumphantly. And quickly turned back towards the Canadian man. “Come on, don’t be shy.”
Trevor just then remembered the small parcel he was holding in his hands. He had wrapped it clumsily, and with some reluctance he handed it over to Federico.
“He did it for you. It was my idea,” Lisa said. Excited by the young woman’s revelation, Federico moved forward and took hold of the present, examined it closely. It was a small acrylic on paper sketch, drawn quickly but with much precision. Maybe a portrait of Lisa, or at any rate of a woman much like her. No, it was actually her in the picture, lying fully naked between two men, two faceless bodies mounting her, blending with her in a flurry of colours.
Federico looked at the picture and went pale. He turned to his friend.
“Is it a fantasy of yours?” he asked.
Trevor made a face, almost repressing a smile, not that he had any reason to be cheerful. He looked at Lisa and felt the sudden urge to slap her around, and was sorry he had not done so earlier.
“No, it’s her fantasy,” he said, and walked away.
I’ve been in London one week. Maxim has found me a place to stay and a job so that I can pay the rent.
I try and believe that London is just another stage on the road, another step in my waltz with the cosmos and not the ideal place to drop my anchor. Because there is something about this city that fascinates me, but at the same time also mines my spirit and slows my concentration.
Maybe London happens to be the capital of the Republic of Dreams. Here, every street is like a trick of the mind behind which hides a blind alley.
This city is a wonderful mess; first he leads me to seek the impossible and then it hurts me because I cannot grasp it.
I’m in London to learn the writer’s trade. But for now, I work as a waitress.
I keep on telling myself I must be patient, that things will be better tomorrow, but once again it’s all a terrible mess.
The worst thing of all is that I had never dreamed of becoming a writer, even when I was a child. Then, all I wanted to be was an astronaut.
4
A woman’s body can be drawn or framed, but it always retains its own standards of individual beauty. The beauty Mauro sought to explore had first crossed his path just after his twelfth birthday when his mother had bought him his first camera, a Kodak Instamatic. The Kodak had quickly become his favourite toy, a toy which had gradually become a hobby and later a genuine vocation. He was self-taught, learning all he could through his own means, and was proud of the fact. He worked hard and was always on the move, as travel was at the root of his photographic education. He’d met Trevor in Toronto and managed to convince him to follow him back to Italy to set up a photographic and art studio where they could both confront the beauty of women against the beauty of Rome’s ancient ruins.
But the project never saw the light of day.
Caught between the thousand or so problems of his divorce and a dangerous attraction to alcohol, the Canadian man had just proved unable to get his act together. Mauro had never forgiven him. He’d abandoned him there in Italy, surrounded by his paranoia, and had flown to London, a city he thought would be ideal to bring his own dreams to life
And then the whole world had collapsed around him, as fate had intervened, and he was now in a mess, with the devil on his tail and desperately in need of money.
Mauro had initially thought of packing up and leaving. It was a strong temptation to go home, see his parents again.
He instinctively knew this was a time for reflection. What he basically needed was some sort of order in his life, to sort things out. Maybe some place where he could eat whenever he wished, sleep eight hours a night without others making a fuss, without squatters in all corners.
He wanted to stay warm beneath the old flannel bed cover. He wanted to smell espresso coffee and see a breakfast table all made up and ready.
Mauro also desired many other things. Harmony. Equilibrium. And a form of serenity he had sought for a long time now and could somehow not seize. And assuredly not here in the bleakness of Holloway. Nor between these four old walls.
Returning home was an alluring thought, but going back as a loser was another kettle of fish altogether. For Mauro it would mean once again having to face the stern gaze of his father, the envious disapproval, the criticism.
He knew that his old man expected this. He knew the bastard would laugh out aloud about his travails and dreams.
Mauro’s father was a simple man. He wasn’t an artist, had never worked in Switzerland, nor was he a sculptor.
Mauro had once invented those lies in order to be noticed, to carve himself an aura of some sort. But Mauro’s father understood nothing about art.
He was a butcher. He spent his whole days between dead cows and pigs, and was satisfied with his lot, because it was real work, honest and reliable. A job his son had total contempt for.
Many years before, the old man had once brought Mauro to the back of the shop in a vain attempt to teach him about his trade. Under Mauro’s firm gaze, he had begun skilfully cleaning up a lamb for the slaughter, even though the animal was struggling wildly.
“It’s not enough to wear a set of overalls. You must also cover your face and your neck in case they bite you, which would be very painful,” he explained.
Mauro nodded and pretended to understand. But he just couldn’t fathom the reason for such dedication, and watched the whole scene with disgust, until the time came for him to try.
“Be brave, there’s nothing to afraid about. Hunger is frightening. But once you’ve learned a trade you’ll never be hungry again.”
His father was right. Maybe he should have listened to him better. And now, he had drifted off that straight and narrow road and was sorry for himself like a sobbing woman. And without even being aware of it, he was fleeing from one part of the world to another. Always further from home. Always further from a way of life he could neither understand or love.