The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

translated by Maxim Jakubowski

Force of will is just a question of practice.

You need a bit of training, but you learn to struggle, and you can become whatever you want to be.

When I look at myself in the mirror, my image does not correspond with the image I have of myself. So, I change it. I adopt multiple personalities. They merge and alternate.

It’s a dance with the cosmos which can last whole days and nights. Night is my baptism. I close my eyes and when I wake up I have a brand new skin.

1

“What’s happening to you?”

Mauro’s voice made me jump; it’s so typical of him to always arrive on the scene silently. “Hurry up. We’ve lost too much time already,” he continues. And throws a stack of photographs onto the table. I pick them up, look at one, then another, and then all of them.

“They look fine,” I say. But the truth is I know all too well how bad they happen to be.

“Of course. To anyone who’s not an expert, the photos will look good,” Mauro continued. “But both you and I know this is not your real face,” he concluded, pointing a finger towards one of the photographs as the light of the sun shining violently through the curtains obliged me to look away.

“At any rate, you’re done with your anger for now, I trust? Where is all the wickedness? Not in this photograph, my dear. Nor here…”

“I have several other projects to finish before I can focus on the book…” That was how Maxim advised me that the publication of the book had slipped to November.

He reiterated that I had to be patient and enjoy the wait.

For him, it’s easy. He talks about writing, he thinks like a writer. In his books, Maxim tells stories of things that appear to belong to a whole different world, a world so different from mine, a bigger and more dangerous world. Maybe that’s what brings us together, so intimately.

Maxim says I have talent, as if talent was just the act of writing a simple story in a minor mode. My stories pleased him and now his American publisher will be publishing one of them.

My stories in America, it’s hard to believe.

I just can’t believe that Mauro has refused to give me the photos.

At home, I look at myself yet again in the mirror and concur that Mauro is right. This is not my true face, just a passable imitation. If my friend Danila was here, she would realise it too. Danila isn’t easily fooled, she would soon notice that I have lost my metallic eyes.

Danila says I have metallic eyes, grey eyes that sometimes turn green, and sometimes dark blue. It’s fairly uncommon, not that many others had noticed. He, however, quickly acknowledged the fact and transformed my eyes into heavy metal. He said I had the eyes of an owl, because I am always checking who is around me, memorizing their gestures, their voice, their expression, until I think I know them intimately, even to the extent of unveiling their weak spots.

A particularity common to all predators, I think.

Photographs. I have a house full of them, pinned to the wall, stuck with adhesive tape to the mirrors. Everywhere it’s my face, on my own or with friends. Here we are, Danila and me, at the Carnival a few years back. She is dressed as a witch, and I am wearing a clown’s three-pointed hat. It must be quite late in the day, because in the photo Danila’s eyes are red. Whereas my eyes seem fixed on a distant point, my lips frozen by what looks more like a grimace than a smile.

Who knows if owls, of all feathered creatures, conceal their wrinkles beneath their deep stare?

I can’t stand in the same place for more than half an hour. It’s always been this way, ever since I was a small child I’ve had this urge to burn off energy any way I could.

Is that what consumes me inside?

Year after year, my waist narrows, my cheekbones get sharper, the dark zones beneath my eyes go hyperactive, pale brown shade changing to pale violet. The brains sucks energy from the body, and slowly it will begin to disappear.

I’m becoming transparent, Maxim. Now you can look inside of me and use all the small details I have provided you with to bring your imagination to life. Even when I ask you for a way out, because I can’t join you in London, or in New Orleans, this city you like so much. I keep on asking you because we are wasting so much time, and I don’t know what to answer, I don’t know what to say. This is also the truth, even if I talk to you of Toronto, although it is a lie, another dead end.

You dislike Canada, Maxim. It’s too cold there.

I walk alone through the city for almost an hour. It’s raining and my boots trace deep patterns in the mud. I quicken my pace, flinging my legs ahead as if I were participating in a military parade, if only to warm myself. It’s strange, I’ve never felt cold before at this time of year. To tell the truth, I’m seldom cold and am always wearing the same sweatshirt under my leather jacket, even in the midst of winter. Yet, today I can’t help shivering, and it’s already March.

I reach the area of older buildings in the historic part of town and ring the bell several times. The door finally opens. Trevor looks at me without saying a word. I am soaked to the bone and just can’t stop myself from trembling. Trevor does not invite me in, and neither does he order me to stay put. He just keeps on looking at me with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his upper lip frozen in a sneer. I know that expression, that face well. It’s my face superimposed over Trevor’s features. The face of someone with definitive goals in life, and the sheer ambition to reach them.

“Come inside,” he says. Trevor speaks good Italian, although he has a distinct foreign accent.

Trevor’s apartment is always untidy. His television sets are stacked up in all four corners of the room like sacred stones in an Indian ritual. Rising above it all is a smell of paint and solvents, tobacco and perspiration, which doesn’t seem to bother him. His attention is fully focused on my hands now beginning to unbutton my faded shirt. A piece of clothing that has seen better days, as has Trevor. He has talent, he could be a great painter, but he just isn’t. The pictures he paints have no inner strength, no meaning. Trevor is no longer able to make art talk, ever since the day he recycled himself as an illustrator of children’s books. This compromise has greatly helped his finances, but it destroyed him as an artist. He could have been a wonderful painter, and now he will never be one. Yet, Trevor keeps on dreaming, believing that a trip to Italy, an exhibition and a hovel rented out on the cheap will help revive his spirit. Trevor thinks I can be his muse, and this dream sustains him. Basically if you are thirty-eight years old in 2003 and the critics haven’t had a kind word for you since 1996, you have a desperate need to dream. Trevor is finished, and he is not aware of it. Trevor is a dead man walking.

His shoulders surprise me. I would never have thought Trevor had such large shoulders. Now I understand why his jackets fit him so badly, either too large or sleeves too short. I haven’t yet seen him naked, or tasted his mouth for the first time. He probably tastes of whisky which he drinks regularly, too often and too strong. Trevor takes me into his arms and pulls me towards him, allowing his hand to caress my breast, my hip, and he does all this so silently, not even allowing himself a sigh. He is cold, detached. He knows me well and and doesn’t trust me. He is aware of the fact that I seldom do anything without a reason and is probably wondering why I am here ever since I arrived.

He pulls my shirt away, then my bra, caresses the curve of my back with his fingers, which makes me shiver. Never before have I been touched with such tenderness.

His eyes are wide open and gazing at me. They are pale green and it almost looks as if he is about to start crying.

Because it’s now happening.

But Trevor hasn’t the time to consider things long enough as my own hands are already exploring him, moving up and down his thighs until I reach his groin. I can’t help myself from touching him, kissing him, losing myself inside his smell, letting my tongue draw a thousand arabesques across his body. I watch Trevor’s eyes soften, the green become more intense, and I feel him swallow.

Everything is in the right place. Trevor’s trousers are on the floor, my legs straddle his body. I feel him lifting me by the waist and furiously entering me. His hands grip mine and pin me back, allowing me no movement that could disrupt our precarious equilibrium. Trevor brushes some strands of hair away from my face. He wants to look at my face, and he will keep on doing so all the while as he moves inside me. Our bodies are perfectly embedded in each other. Trevor plunges deeper into me, and I do my best not to scream out aloud. But I must, as he watches me. Trevor wants it all, the white skin of my breasts reddening beneath his bites, the taut muscles of my stomach as he drills into me. Every spasm, every emotion betrays me. This is truly the only way to know another: carnally.

Trevor seeks total control. Good, because so do I.

I want to capture all of him, how he moves, how he walks, how many times he brushes his teeth before he goes to bed. I want to steal his most intimate thoughts. I want to experience his sadness and make it mine, binding myself to that ironic smile of disenchantment that crosses his lips.

I want his English accent.

I want to know the reasons for his divorce, the true reasons, not the ones he tells everyone else.

I want his ash-blond hair between my thighs.

I want to devour him. Digest him.

This desire is so strong, so obvious, that it can be read all over my face. Trevor is not surprised, because he has no reason to doubt me.

My face is his face, my will is his will.

I should maybe have warned him, prepared him for this. Too late, now. Too late to hold all this at bay. Trevor is so overwhelmed by the love I have in store for him that he attempts to struggle free; he is upset and ready to lie to save himself. But the equilibrium is now broken. My hands are free, finally able to touch Trevor’s hair, while my tongue chases him, hunting him, hungry for his saliva. Our sweat mingles, cancelling out all forms of friction, we are so totally dishevelled, a total mess. To let oneself go in such a way is a benediction. Our hands wander all over, clumsily, awkwardly. To each of my caresses, Trevor answers with a moan. He’s not quite ready for this, not yet, but he knows that my madness is rising. But I am in control of him. Of his breath. It’s a death rattle. Long, unending.

Morning catches us in the throes of an embrace and confused.

Trevor moves his face closer to my breast, and his unshaven skin brushes against me. Under the bed covers I feel his legs solidly fastened to mine, a position made even more uncomfortable by the white streamlets of sperm still leaking from my cunt.

Have we slept like this all night?

Chaotically clutching one another, with our legs squeezed together higgledy-piggledy. I smile. Our bodies, in such ridiculous embrace, are an insult to the art of perspective.

“What are you thinking of?” Trevor asks, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m thinking of the book I want to write,” I answer.

“Is it that important?”

“Yes.”

“More important than me?”

I remain silent and kiss him. His mouth is both small and fleshy, like the mouth of a child. As a matter of fact, Trevor is no longer Trevor. He’s just a fifteen-year-old who does not understand the meaning of words like failure and frustration. He’s a shy high school boy with cauliflower ears who will never get used to wearing spectacles.

Trevor is no longer the man whose face is so close to mine. He is another who looks like me, but is so much weaker.

“I’d better go, now.”

“Stay a little.”

“I can’t, Trevor. I have things to do.”

I quickly slip on my sweatshirt and my jeans. I walk towards the window and note with satisfaction that it isn’t raining any more. My hair is dank with sweat, and brushing my fingers through the strands fails to revive them.

I miss my things, my house. I want to listen to my phone messages and check on my electronic mail. But Trevor takes me into his arms, holds me against those broad shoulders that make me feel both small and gracious in comparison. I have taken a decision, now is the right time.

“I will not be going to Toronto with you,” I say to him.

Trevor’s embrace tightens, becomes more insistent.

“You know all too well that my son lives there. I can’t abandon him. He’s only two years old; he needs me. You just can’t ask me to stay here forever…”

“Actually, I wasn’t asking you to.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you must return to Canada, Trevor. There’s nothing here for you, neither fame nor fortune.”

I move away. Trevor is attractive, but I no longer want him.

“So, what about this night? Why did you come here and stay the night?” he keeps on asking me.

“To fully understand that this was the right thing to do. To take control again, Trevor.”

I concentrated and stared straight at the door.

“And if you do manage to leave, it will mean once and for all that I control you, Trevor,” I said in one breath.

Trevor’s only reaction was a feeble laugh, but there was no joy in it. Right now his shoulders were so much less imposing. Hate is such a sterile emotion, so empty and impractical. Unless you have the means to avenge yourself.

“So, you’ll be going to New Orleans with Maxim, will you?”

“Yes.”

Trevor’s voice is already full of resignation.

“Will you sleep with him?”

I remain motionless and silent.

“Will you go to bed?”

On my way out, I am cheered by the fact that the rain hasn’t broadened the streets, that the night wind hasn’t blown the manhole covers away. The mild air brushes against me harmlessly. I’ve stopped shivering. I hurry along, and should be home in an hour or so. Of course, one day I should learn to drive, but for now I have no need for it. My independence will not be threatened by a spring storm. And of course there are so many advantages to travelling by foot, small occasions when you can meet people along the road. I see a photographer’s sign and walk into the shop. I speak to the owner, a quiet, pleasant man in his fifties.

Photographs. I have a house full of them, but always want more. I just can’t resist the temptation of a midday snap. Four flashes in quick succession, four small stamp format images and it’s done. Now I wait for the film to dry, thinking back to what Danila said, all the chatter about my metallic eyes, owls, birds of prey, predators of all ilk.

Danila is mistaken when she confuses me with an owl. Owls are creatures of habit, and their rhythms always remain the same, sleeping by day, hunting at night, or so it goes. I’m a coldblooded animal. I assess the dangers ahead, analyse them. I pretend to be dead, defenceless, and all the time I am observing. I evaluate the adversary, extrapolate his movements, determine what his weak points are. Then I devour him. Assimilate him.

I take over everything I can from him and can then imitate him. It’s a natural talent of mine. Like being ambidextrous or owning iridescent eyes of an indeterminate colour, capable of changing according to the light or the darkness.

I take the photograph and look at myself.

My face is no longer my face. There is no longer any trace of youthful fury, or unrestrained and improductive ambition.

There is no longer any evidence of passion.

All excesses have been polished away.

My eyes are not the colour of grey metal. Now, they are gems, limpid green emeralds, sharp and defined.

I meet Maxim at the Hotel Diplomatic. I have brought with me a copy of the Chet Baker biography, the present I had bought for him. It will keep him company when he takes the plane that will return him to London. Maxim always talks of London. He’s both in love with and a prisoner of that city. In his books, he writes with infinite subtlety and in excessive detail, chapter after chapter, of places, because he has been everywhere, and knows that nothing compares to home.

Maxim will travel again, I know. But he will always return home. He does this time after time because his dance with the cosmos is complete. Mine has barely begun.

“You have nothing to lose,” he says.

It’s true. I can pack my cases at any time, without leaving anything behind, neither a true friend, nor an unforgettable lover. My life is so pitiful, barely a speck in the sky. But today the sky is greyer than usual. The sky is a dark cloak that hides important things from view.

2

The young woman’s fingers were caressing his chest. The sort of caress that awakens you.

“You’re very pretty for your age,” he said.

Her name was Lisa.

In the darkness of the room, Trevor admired her white skin and the small, firm breasts peeping out of her lacy bra. Lisa allowed herself to be examined, displaying no embarrassment. She continued to brush his skin with a light touch. She seemed at ease, much more so than Trevor. She now began licking his chest and his stomach with the expertise of a professional. Trevor closed his eyes. Lisa’s face buried itself between his legs. The heat from her tongue penetrated his veins, warming his body and senses. Clinging to her, Trevor began moaning. He took hold of her head, pulling her sharply against his stomach. Trevor was excited, but also annoyed by the assurance Lisa displayed beneath the sheets.

Love. Sex. Lust.

What do you call a blow job on a first date?

“I’ll call you a cab.”

Trevor moved to the bathroom and began running the water. Once it was hot enough, he stirred it firmly with his extended fingers. Small bubbles of air remained stuck to the hair on his arms. Blame it on the chlorine, he thought.

“The taxi has arrived,” Lisa shouted out from where she was standing at the door.

“Do you want me to see you off?”

“It ain’t necessary. See you tomorrow.”

Trevor has hung a copy of the poster from his exhibition on the bathroom wall. A successful show, although it might be his last. With these paintings he has finally confronted the heart of his carnal, lascivious work. A landscape of imaginary bodies, men and women obscenely linked by love and death. Arms and legs, loose and akimbo, initially together and then parcelled off like pieces of meat in a mad and murderous sequence. Not bad for someone who for years has only displayed children’s book illustrations in public. With painting after painting, Trevor has given life to a snuff movie of his very own, a defiant answer to all those who had accused him of no longer being alternative and cool.

For the time being, Trevor is satisfied. Tomorrow, he will have to decide what to do about his art and his own life. Right now, all he wants is a coffee and a cold shower. But first he must shave.

That beard was definitely not a good idea, even from a purely aesthetic point of view.

Trevor takes the razor and applies an abundant quantity of foam to his cheeks. With the beard on, he betrays his forty-odd years and how much he has grown older.

Trevor hates growing older. Or wiser.

In Toronto, Trevor works for a large publishing house, and enjoys a good professional reputation. But he no longer wishes to be involved in children’s books. Designing book covers is just a job, and it doesn’t make him feel much like an artist. On the contrary, the money has changed him; it makes him feel cheap, like a character in a B movie. He no longer wears the rough woollen sweaters he once liked so much, but a suit and tie, as they fit so much better into his new life. A life full of weaknesses and compromises. And it is all those compromises that he has made that now make him feel so old inside. The young kid who pretended to be Superman, has turned into an adult like Clark Kent, a tired Clark Kent. But if Clark Kent is none other than Superman with a pair of glasses, Trevor simply remains Trevor. With or without a beard. Which is why, today, with the help of a cheap disposable plastic razor bought at the nearest supermarket, he begins to shave with fast, steady strokes. And his old face emerges through the thick white foam, just like in that short film he recalls watching some years back [10]. In which a man kept on shaving his face and never stopping until his whole features became a mask of blood. Trevor slides the blade up and down, covering every square inch of his skin, but by the time he has finished, there is not even a scratch. Just his smooth, shiny face. How banal!

I want Los Angeles. A city I have only ever seen in films, a city whose images are bathed in an incredible array of colours. Art and spectacle. Beaches and indolence. Rum and cocaine.

I don’t know that face of America, but I know I could learn to love it. Maxim, on the other hand, only loves New Orleans.

We both agree to meet in New York.

America is a territory that both dilates and shrinks at the same time. Maybe New York is the capital of the republic of dreams. Maybe New York is the territory and I am the map. Maxim is late. Maybe even he has managed to lose himself within the stretch marks of this country.

I wait, and the waiting appeases me. I kill the time, creating Chinese shadows with the light shining through the windows of the forty fourth floor of the skyscraper. Like in a novel where all the characters are beautiful, rich, famous and fly away into the sky.

Without ever falling back down to earth.

3

No one apologised to Mauro for the fire. Not his roommate who accidentally started it, or the British authorities who because of a series of legal mix-ups failed to initiate a proper enquiry.

As a matter of fact, Mauro reflected, the British bureaucracy turned out in the end to be no more efficient than the Italian one. A lot of talk, but there always appeared to be some obstacle when it came to move into action.

He’d gone to London in the hope of making it as a photographer and setting up his own studio, one with black and white walls, a magical space he could share with just his cat. But that pipe dream was now defunct.

“It’s because of the fire. It’s all because of that damn fire,” he kept on repeating between his clenched teeth.

At first, in London, Mauro had acted like a proper tourist: he’d visited the City, taken walks by the Thames and gotten drunk in almost every Covent Garden bar, effortlessly wasting his money. He had then decided to pack his bags and move outside the centre of town.

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.

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.

London, Manchester, Glasgow: Mauro was acquainted with a lot of people and was ready to take on any job to widen the distance between the life he had chosen and the one his father would have wanted for him. So when a little-known stroke magazine asked him to work in the hardcore field, Mauro set his pride aside and accepted.

Porno shoot.

Group sex full of thrusting and violence.

Porno shoot.

Four whores being mounted by a black stud.

“It’s not a problem,” Mauro had said.

The next day as he reported for the job, his liver hurt.

The premises had been furnished in superficial luxury. The furniture and varied knick knacks were in ersatz hi-tech style long overtaken by the whims of fashion.

Such unnecessary details, he thought as they all knew the only place they would be focusing on would be the bed. The bed was to be the main protagonist in this comedy, not all the shoddy details.

Mauro had slowly set out all his equipment, although he was aware that the others were impatient to get on with things. It was almost as if all they wanted was to have it all done with quickly so they could all go home.

Mauro no longer had a place of his own and was in no hurry. The four heavily made-up young women were already sprawled across the bed. Mauro ordered them to undress and spread their legs across the bed cover for some test shots. In reality he had no genuine need for these, but it was the first time he had been involved in a job like this and he needed more time to get the hang of things.

To find the right light? No. Maybe to get used to their shaven and open cunts, and be able to take these damn photos without being physically affected himself.

Mauro was nervous. Both nervous and also excited by what he could see. His erection was pressing against the tight zip of his leather trousers, as he suggested the black man strip, hoping that the sight of a naked man would temper his spirits.

Off came the shirt and tie, and then trousers and underpants. Yes, he could keep his gold chains on. A black naked stallion, with gold chains, quite a sight! Above all, his cock was huge. And the black guy’s penis was thick and hard, as if an instant confirmation of the urban legend about black men’s sexual superiority. This, together with the minimalist environment of the set and the pale skin of his future preys on the bed, brought the whole scene to life, in Mauro’s mind.

And the fucking was like a cocktail of movement and choreography. So much more different and arousing than the spineless groping and vulgarity he had first seen in the second-rate Italian porn films of his youth, featuring Moana, Luana and company.

The black man had no need to pretend; he knew he was the one in charge. And the way he held open the women’s gaping cunts just as he was about to impale them with his monstrous cock was all the evidence needed. He didn’t penetrate them, he broke them open, and as ever with a wide smile and gleaming white teeth.

Mauro’s hands were sweaty. Hypnotized by the spectacle he had stopped taking photographs and, right now, just watched the action, and the black guy’s radiant smile, the game of submission and power that was unfolding in front of his eyes. And the black man looked back at him. With a sneer across his face, he muttered something to Mauro, it sounded like, “Just do your damn job, the Italian…”, and his smile broke out again. His perfectly aligned teeth lit up his dark face. Mauro on the other hand was growing even paler. He thought he was a professional and now he was just some poor guy from the provinces doing a shitty job to earn enough to buy himself a flight back to Italy.

Return to Italy. Why not?

Mauro still had some contacts there. Friendships which could still prove useful.

Trevor’s exhibition could well be the right occasion. The Canadian was a generous man; he would surely lend him some money, and could maybe offer him some sort of decent job like preparing the catalogue for his next show.

Mauro felt it would be worth trying. It was just that he wasn’t quite ready to confront his father in sack cloth and ashes and having to apologize.

In London, I have no regular boyfriend.

From time to time I go with a younger man, probably the poorest of all those I serve at the restaurant. It’s not a complicated relationship, free of future commitments which might tie me down. I don’t even know what he does for a living, it’s of no matter to me. All I do is watch his taut muscles, his sculpted arms when he undresses. Naked, he is splendid. Next to him I know I look so plain.

5

Trevor had agreed to meet Mauro in a small café not far from the art gallery. The decor was all green marble, from ceiling to floor, absorbing the heat of the sun outside and muffling the sound of steps.

“New shoes?” Mauro asked.

“How did you guess?”

The two sat down at a table facing the street. The sound of the traffic outside reached them, noisy but also familiar.

“You look good,” Trevor said.

“So so. I could be worse. To be honest, I’ve lost everything, my house, my clothes, all my prints and the photographic equipment which had cost me a small fortune. But I’m not about to call it a day.”

“That’s a healthy attitude.”

Mauro tried to smile, but he had to force himself. Trevor’s reassuring words didn’t help him feel any better. Starting all over again was too painful a thought, and he just couldn’t do so on his own.

“I need your help, Trevor. I’m not asking for money, just help.”

“Is that why you asked to see me?”

“Yes,” Mauro confessed.

Trevor remained silent, sipping his coffee and listening to the sound of the cars hooting away outside as they stewed in a traffic jam.

“I’m not sure I can be of assistance,” Trevor finally said. “The exhibition has just come to an end and in a few days I am leaving for Canada.”

“Exactly. That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Mauro interrupted him. There was a hopeful ray of light inside his eyes.

“Let me go with you,” he continued. “In Canada we could do great things together.”

“Are you serious about this?”

“Definitely,” Mauro continued. “You and I together, like in the old days.”

Trevor closed his eyes, as if reflecting about what his friend had just said. But when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was hard, almost full of bitterness, and Mauro had to hold his breath. Before he even realized what was happening, the other’s fist flew into his face, throwing him to the ground.

A young woman at a nearby table screamed. Quickly various other customers came to Mauro’s rescue, helping him back onto his feet. He indicated to the others not to worry, that what had happened was unimportant, just as Trevor walked out of the bar.

He now stood alone just outside the door, waiting for Mauro to join him. He had a black eye but it wasn’t too painful.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he screamed. “They say I should call the police.”

But Trevor had no wish to talk. He knew it was better to surrender to all this noise outside. Noise is an abstract concept, it has a thousand faces but weighs nothing. Words were like stones and Mauro kept on questioning him. What a hypocrite.

“I know you fucked my wife,” Trevor said. And the quietness of his voice could not conceal his anger. Some words are heavier than others.

A second punch caught Mauro on the nose.

I don’t like love stories. And I don’t like poetry. Poets are stupid creatures who insist in ordering life into rhymes and embellishing it. But life is nowhere as beautiful as they want to make you think it is.

Life is like prose: it does not bother itself with nobility. It feeds on your fragility, it takes all your mistakes into account and throws them back in your face when you least expect it.

My own life is no exception. It’s both foul and wild, as my comfort grows and feeds me, until I am full. Life has the face of a cannibal.

6

Trevor pulled a cigarette out of the packet.

This is the last one and then I’m giving up, he thought to himself. And then changed his mind. He had never been particularly concerned about his health, so why do so now? He knew the risks as his mother had died of cancer. But he was not afraid of death. It was like an old friend, and when the time came he would be ready to face it. The thought of dying did not disturb him. The thought of arriving at whatever gates with his clothes and hair reeking of tobacco smoke had a definite sense of irony.

But his soul already reeked of memories and things past, to the point of pain.

It was almost summer but Trevor missed the snow. White snow surrounding houses and filling the roads. Snow covering Kate’s face and concealing her features.

Kate, his wife. A woman who had once betrayed him and that he could not yet find in himself to forgive.

Trevor felt angry that he had not seen any snow for over a year now. Which was also the last occasion he had seen Kate and the child.

He really had to stop thinking about her, and all the days they had once spent together. As he still did every damn hour of the day!

Trevor had met Kate in a small art gallery. She was there to acquire a painting and Trevor could not help himself observing her, wondering why she had chosen that particular image. Even more so here, in an area the tourist guides to Toronto seldom listed. But she didn’t look like a tourist, more like a regular from Trevor’s circle of friends. Trevor’s acquaintances were mostly painters too, the sort of artists who had to take on two and sometimes three jobs just to afford the canvas and brushes.

Kate, on the other hand, did not appear to have any financial problems. In fact, she had acquired a painting. One of his. But why that one? It was a picture of two lovers in embrace, a strong, sensual image.

Sexual.

She didn’t seem to be that sort of woman. There was a severe, almost aristocratic demeanour about her, and an arrogant and determined look in her eyes which fascinated Trevor.

It was as if Kate could read his mind.

“I like it because I enjoy love stories,” she said. “And all love stories have a strong erotic charge.”

“And this one does?” Trevor teased her.

Kate blushed imperceptibly.

“I just love this,” she explained. And there was a smoothness in her voice, enough to have Trevor fantasising about the two of them in a bed, naked and clutching each other, like the lovers in the painting.

Trevor craved to hear those words of hers again, but in private, whispered to him as he caressed her breasts and stomach.

Kate had somehow recognised his lust.

She accepted Trevor’s invitation and followed him to his flat.

She slowly took her clothes off and went to lie on the bed. He watched her. He touched her with his fingers, finding exquisite pleasure in this initial contact. He delicately slid his hand between her thighs. She was wet, but it was a few more minutes before Trevor was free to slip his fingers inside her, extracting a soft moan out of her.

“I love it. I love it. Do it. Do it.”

Trevor moved on top of her. He pulled her up by the waist and entered her, taking no precautions. This was no longer the 80s, when nights had been wild and daring, but Trevor was still usually careful. With Kate he had no compunction mounting her raw.

He wanted to feel her. He wanted to fill her to the brim, and own her body and soul.

Kate was never more beautiful, so much his, than in that moment. She had now forsaken her pride and had given herself to him fully.

Trevor knew he now owned Kate and he finally complied with her wish. “Faster and harder,” she begged him.

Trevor fulfilled her request with animal rage. He took her face between his hands and kissed her. Swallowing her cries, as if he were afraid to let them escape through the apartment’s windows.

“I did not want it to happen… Not this way,” Kate said, rising from the bed. But Trevor thought differently. This was surely the way it should happen, both matter of fact and lustfully.

“Don’t go. Stay.”

Trevor’s request surprised Kate.

But that’s how love ambushes you. It creeps up to your shoulders, and stabs you in the back, leaving you wounded and bleeding on the ground.

To have punched that bastard Mauro in the face wasn’t enough to heal the wound. It was no more than the foolish reaction of a child who’s had his toy stolen by another. But that toy had been his and Trevor could not accept having lost it. Even though he had been the one to push Kate into the arms of his friend, he was now the one seeking a divorce.

What did he expect? That he should always be ready to forgive her fragility, her angers and her silences without reacting? Without a word of protest?

Trevor had just signed the documents, and he was convinced he was doing the right thing.

He wanted to bid goodbye to this spiritless life, and its troubles that sapped his strength over and over. He wanted to break up this failing marriage into a thousand pieces. But the thought right now of that small white band on Kate’s finger where the wedding band had been had a strange effect on him. No way did it provide him with that sense of power or freedom it should have done.

All Trevor now felt was so much more empty than before and the knowledge of this scared him to death.

I’m walking down Charing Cross Road. It’s already getting dark when a drunkard stops me. He takes hold of my arm and asks me for small change. His nails are filthy and there is alcohol on his breath. I pull away from him and mutter a few words in Italian, pretending not to understand his language. As I walk away, the drunkard shouts after me. Something about my being a “stuck up Italian cunt who should go back to her own country”. I’m not sure whether this is a threat or just a suggestion.

7

Ever since I was small, I have believed my father was a hero. Like in a Marvel comic. For me he was the brave protagonist of a thousand adventures. He was my father, the invulnerable.

I admired him for his strength of will, for his habit of undervaluing danger which I thought was an extraordinary gift, almost as good as walking on water. My father was never scared, even when we experienced an earthquake. It was the earthquake we went through in the 1980s which shook all Italy and when whole buildings collapsed. I remember that day well and am unlikely to ever forget it. I was just a small girl, staying in her little room. when the first major tremor happened. The light went out and the glass in the windows shattered as if hit by a missile. I slumped to the ground, closed my eyes and began to pray.

That was the moment my father walked in. He took me in his arms, and carried me down five flights of stairs, dodging the fallen masonry and broken glass.

I still had my eyes closed. I only opened them again once we were all gathered together in the street outside. With eyes now open wide and full of tears we saw how badly the whole area had been struck. Whole families just standing there and discovering the rubble of a palazzo which had just lost its whole front.

The walls of my house had cracked open like chalk and we all shed tears. All of us with the exception of my father who was attempting to maintain the morale of the people by saying, “Nothing to worry about, a bit of plaster and it’ll look even better than before.”

It feels incredible, but he was right, as we found out in time.

My father was a courageous man. He did not tolerate obstacles or limits to one’s achievements, particularly so when it came to his own family.

He’d already suffered one heart attack, but still, every morning, I’d see him sitting at the table having his coffee, with a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, even though the doctors had expressly forbidden him to smoke. At first, I’d pretended to ignore him, but one day I’d finally lost my patience and asked him why he was being so obstinate. He replied that it was all because of the heart attack.

So he then explained to me why it was the heart attack’s fault. It had taken him to the very gates of death, but not far enough to reach his destination. That knowledge that he had escaped death’s clutches had made him stronger, and now he believed he was immortal, like God.

I’m sure that if God’s heart had been as damaged as my father’s he would have resisted the temptation to smoke a cigarette every ten minutes or so. But Dad was too enamoured with his dreams of power to think of that, and the second heart attack took him by surprise. One sad December day, his heart stopped and he died. Just like that. He died and was buried like any old wretch.

I inherited very little from my father, heredity wise. Just moral standards I could pass on to posterity.

All I borrowed from him was a taste for smoking. I light a cigarette and I feel invincible, as if I were smoking a piece of God himself, having compressed and rolled the tobacco inside the thin paper, and indulging without a filter. It’s a feeling of omnipotence which gets even stronger, depending on the circumstances; for example, every time I find myself at Marconi airport, returning from a long trip.

I set my feet down on the ground and I feel like a goddess. Strong and powerful. Full of courage and good sentiments, because yet again the plane hasn’t crashed and I am still alive. So I light myself a cigarette and it’s the best one of the day.

“You’re not allowed to smoke here,” a hostess shouts at me. She gestures at me with her arm. “You must go over to the bar.”

“Thanks a lot,” I respond. And turn back towards Mauro who’s come to pick me up from the airport. “What a cow…”

Mauro half smiles as we make our way to the bar. He’d likely smile more but his face is still bruised and painful.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened? Who did this to you?” I ask him.

“Trevor…” he whispers.

“Trevor?”

“Yes, him.” Mauro shrugs his shoulders and looks sad. “I was sure he hadn’t found out.”

“Oh, come on…”

“I’m serious. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“You should have thought of that before. Why in hell did you go to bed with his wife?”

“His ex-wife,” Mauro corrected me.

“Ex-wife,” I repeated after him, incredulous. “Correct. So that was OK with your conscience.”

Mauro was silent for a few seconds.

“It never occurred to me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“Trevor. I was always trying to understand his side of the argument, but he’s the one who gave up on Kate. He didn’t make the slightest effort to hold on to his marriage. He was too busy acting the part of the doomed artist…”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said angrily. “He has more talent than the two of us put together. It’s just that Trevor hasn’t broken through yet. Just a question of luck.” My words caused Mauro to fall silent. He looked at me with his wide, nutmeg-coloured eyes, took my hand firmly into his to calm me down.

“Fine, you know better. Trevor is a genius and I’m a piece of shit. But for now let’s make peace and have some coffee.”

We sat down at the airport bar and ordered a couple of coffees and a plate of snacks. I was starving and ate almost all of them, but it wasn’t enough. With hungry eyes I began staring at the warm pastries behind the counter. Mauro couldn’t help smiling at me.

“You haven’t changed at least,” he said. “You still have the appetite of a wolf.”

“You’re wrong. I have changed,” I replied.

“Is that why you’ve returned to Bologna?”

“I was missing spaghetti and tomato sauce.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. You try eating fish and chips seven days a week and tell me if I’m wrong. It’s better here. Even the airport coffee is delicious.” All the while sipping a tar-coloured espresso and pretending to be ecstatic.

“You can tell me,” Mauro insisted. “Did you come back for Trevor? I know he rang you…”

“We just exchanged gossip. Nothing more.”

Mauro’s gaze was fixed on me. I knew he was studying me.

“In England, things were not as I expected,” I confessed to him. “I managed to publish a couple of short stories in a anthology, then nothing more.” As I was talking, I spilt some coffee on my sleeve. Impassive, I wiped the stain dry with a tissue.

“I’ve been offered a job as an editor in Turin. Correcting and improving manuscripts. It’s well paid and I’ve said yes,” I said resolutely.

But Mauro did not approve of my decision.

“It sounds dubious to me. You went to England to write a book and now you’re content to read other people’s books. It’s a pity. After everything you’ve achieved…”

“Actually, I haven’t done that much,” I replied.

“Does that apply to Trevor too?”

Mauro was beginning to get on my nerves. This was becoming more of an interrogation than a conversation.

“Why bring Trevor into it? He’s a closed chapter,” I said.

“I don’t believe you. You go all pale every time I mention his name.”

Sunk. Mauro has caught me out and now my appetite has gone. I can barely breathe in and that’s a damn effort.

“Did he tell you that he’s returning to Canada?”

Go fuck yourself, Mauro. Just shut up.

I’ve tried everything not to have to think about of him and have no intention of doing so now. All I want to look at is the fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling and burning my eyes. I want to stop the tears from running on my face. I want a cigarette but no one here is smoking and I’m losing my mind.

Trevor. Every time Mauro says his name, an invisible hand takes a grip of my shoulder and drags me down a well of memories.

“I want to get out of this bloody place.”

I’m losing my balance. I’m screaming out in pain.

Trevor’s name steals my lucidity and my concentration.

I’m hurting like a dog. And, like a dog, I still feed on the scraps of that night.

“What are you thinking of?” Trevor asks, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m thinking of the book I wish to write,” I tell him.

“Is it that important?”

“It is.”

“More important than me?”

His question hung in the air and stayed there. Like a hook which I could hang myself on if only my hands could reach it. But I didn’t. I knew that hook could not support my weight and I would fall heavily to the ground.

Trevor was asking me how important he was to me. He asked with his eyes lowered and this angered me. I hated it when he did that. I hated Trevor and I hated his eyes when they negligently shifted downwards and avoided me. It made me feel like taking a hold of his face and yelling at him to stop. But on this occasion I controlled myself, but it was to be the last time. It’s his fault, it’s all his fault.

I know that expression, that face. It’s my face superimposed over Trevor’s face. The face of someone with a definite goal and enough ambition to achieve it. But ambition on its own is not enough. Trevor’s eyes betray his insecurity. It will not help him to keep his eyes lowered and hidden behind his eyelids. I know those eyes, because I know Trevor and the doubts that assail him. He is like me. I know that for him too every day starts the same way. I imagine him looking at himself in the mirror and wondering, looking for something inside, a reason to forge ahead with the day or not. I see him, as he blames himself for being so stubborn, reaching wildly for something he should have taken hold of firmly when he was twenty years old, and that now appears like a mirage in the distance.

Because I see Trevor every time he surrenders.

I see him and I see my own face, like a reflection in the mirror. Everything he feels, I feel too.

I recognize myself in his weakness, in the daily temptation to give up, to fuck once and for all with art and this journey that exhausts me. Like him I am scared, and just want to be normal again, and at peace with myself. To return to the days when everything was so much more spontaneous, and there were no goal posts to reach, and to manage to say “I love you” and to be able to live with that.

Yes, Trevor. I must confess I want to say I love you.

Such a simple thing, isn’t it?

To say I love you, and that I love you so much that I will not be able to write another word for the rest of my life, because this love is so strong and so intense that it drains all my energy.

Yes, Trevor. This love makes me weak. And it makes you weak. Maybe you didn’t know, but that’s the way things are.

If I now say I love you, I won’t save your life. All I will provide you with is a pretext to accept it, to become content with what you have, even though that’s still not enough to be happy. For folks like us, happiness is inappropriate. For folks like us, happiness is a state of unthinkable boredom. Surely we are not ready to set our pride aside and give up the fight. We lack the courage to accept our fate and to love each other for what we truly are.

We’re two losers, Trevor. Two beautiful losers who were lucky enough to meet each other and recognize ourselves, as if our reflections were seeking one another. But you are you and I am me, and we will know how to benefit from the occasion.

It’s better to pretend not to notice, to cover our faces with masks, to start wearing another character.

It’s easier to smash the mirror.

8

My eyes are red and clouded with tears. I can barely see, but on the other hand all my other senses feel stronger, more acute, and sharpen my perception of reality.

The memory of that night now feels less painful, now that the din of the airport has brought me back to the present.

The nauseating smell of this place, a blend of sweat and disinfectant, invades my nostrils and almost makes me sick. I try to get a hold of myself and wipe my face with my sleeve. Now it’s no longer stained by the coffee but also my make-up.

“I didn’t go to bed with Maxim,” I tell Mauro. “I lied to Trevor.”

“I’d assumed that.”

“I wanted to,” I continued. “I wanted to move away from myself in order to be free and live my dream life. But life is not as beautiful as I thought it was.”

Mauro and I walk towards the exit. I finally manage to light a cigarette and the first mouthful of smoke is wonderful. Even Mauro gives in and indulges in a Marlboro.

“You still love him,” he tells me. “That’s why you’ve come back. To stop him catching that plane that will take him home.”

I listen to Mauro’s words in silence. He looks as if he’s waiting for me to say something. An apology, maybe a clever fairy tale I could just there and then pull out of my head, just like a magician pulls the traditional rabbit out of his hat. But this time, there’s no way out, I’ve exhausted my stock of lies and self justification. There are no more white rabbits or thunderous applause ahead of me, just weariness.

Here we are, I thought. My dance with the cosmos ends here. I’ve reached the finishing line, cut the ribbon, but I’ve only won the consolation prize: a job as an editor and a failed photographer who thinks he can act as my confessor. Was it worth sacrificing everything, even Trevor, for such a meagre bounty?

“And what if he doesn’t want to stay?” I ask Mauro, my voice a thin fillet of sound. “As a matter of fact there’s little to keep him here, not even me.”

Mauro shrugs.

“Trevor is alone, as you are. And when you’re on your own, one place is as good as another.”

“How would you know that?” I tease him. But his response is quite serious.

“There is no place where happiness is automatically guaranteed.” He looked around, watched all the people wandering around between the announcements of arrivals and departures. “Some of them still believe, but soon enough they will realize they’ve made a mistake,” he said.

I nodded. All this fascinating crowd of nomads, all anxious to explore other worlds, just like a swarm of flies.

Mauro had won. I no longer wished to escape.

“Shall I take you straight home or to Trevor’s?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet. Give me just a minute.”

I walked away from him and went back inside. The airport crowds made me dizzy as I watched the people rushing from one end to the other. Some were worried they were running late, others furious because their flight had been cancelled. Another was complaining because his luggage had been lost and it reminded me of Trevor’s first day here in Bologna when he had created such an uproar over his suitcase going missing. I recalled his reddening face, the nasal voice hurling insults at the airline clerk, and how much Mauro had been laughing as he explained to me that this unlikeable quarrelsome person was a friend of his.

And this is how love catches you by surprise. With a rude gesture. It runs into you, without even asking whether it’s right to cross your path. With no reason. Without even thinking of what it will do to you.