Steal You Away (35 page)

Like a dog rose that had seeded itself among the rocks of a
quarry and grown without anyone tending it, without any gardener to water it, fertilise it or spray it with pesticides.

Flora herself was not aware of the worth of her body, or, if she was, punished it for sins never committed.

Erica’s body, by contrast, seemed to have adapted perfectly to the aesthetic parameters that were currently in fashion (narrow waist, round breasts, mandoline-shaped bottom), a body which, if she had lived at the beginning of the century, would have been plump and voluptuous, in accordance with the taste of that time, a body which was nourished by training in the gym, by creams and massages, which was constantly monitored, compared with the bodies of other women, a flag to be on every possible occasion.

Whereas Flora was beautiful and real, and Graziano was happy.

It was cold.

Very cold.

Too cold.

And walking was agony. Sharp stones jabbed the soles of her feet.

And it was raining. The freezing water streamed down her body and Flora was shivering, her teeth chattering.

And there was an awful smell.

It was a good thing Graziano was holding her hand.

That made her feel very safe.

Where were they going? Into hell?

All right, then. Hell it is. What’s the phrase, now?… I’ll follow
you even to the gates of hell
.

Hell or not, she was past caring by now.

She was aware of being naked (
you’re not naked, you’ve still
got your bra and knickers on
). No, she wasn’t naked, but if she had been she wouldn’t have cared.

She walked along with her eyes closed and sought in her mouth for the taste of kisses.

We kissed in the car, that I do remember
.

She half opened her eyes and looked around her.

Where was she?

In a mist.

And there was this horrible smell of rotten eggs, just like the smell in class when some idiot let off a stink bomb. And there were lots of cars. Some with their lights off. Others with their lights on but with their windows misted over and you couldn’t see inside. And there was a stereo blaring out music with a thumping bass. Suddenly she saw some kids in bathing costumes running, shouting and jostling each other among the cars.

Graziano was pulling her along.

Flora did her best to keep up with him, but her legs were stiff with cold. A figure loomed up in front of her, a man in a bathing robe, who watched her pass. To the left, on a hillock of bare earth, was an old abandoned farmhouse whose roof had fallen in. Its walls were bedaubed with spray-painted graffiti. Through the glassless windows she glimpsed the flicker of a fire with some black figures sitting round it. More music. Italian, this time. And the crying of a baby. And a cluster of people sheltering under beach umbrellas.

A clap of thunder echoed in the night.

Flora started.

Graziano moved closer to her and put his arm round her waist. ‘We’re almost there.’

She would have liked to ask him where, but her teeth were chattering so much she couldn’t talk.

They threaded their way between dripping wet tents, rubbish bags and picnic leftovers pulped by the rain.

And suddenly she felt something nice, and gasped. The water! The water under her feet was no longer icy but lukewarm, and the further they went the warmer it grew and that beneficent warmth rose up her legs.

‘How lovely!’ she murmured.

Now the sound of the waterfall was loud and there were lots of people, some in capes, others naked and she and Graziano
had to push their way through the bodies. She saw them look at her but didn’t mind, felt them brush against her but didn’t care.

The only thing that mattered was keeping close to Graziano.

As long as I do that I won’t get lost
…

Now the water flowing under her feet was very warm, as warm as that of her bath. They passed through another wall of people. Germans, by the sound of it.

And they found themselves in front of a small waterfall, and below it a series of pools, some larger, some smaller, which descended like terraces towards the bottom and further down broadened out into a dark lake. A powerful floodlight fixed to the walls of the farmhouse tinged the steam with yellow. At first Flora thought there was nobody in the pools, but that wasn’t the case, if you looked closely you could see a mass of black heads sticking out of the water.

‘Careful, it’s slippery.’

The rock was covered with a soft carpet of algae.

‘This is where it starts to get really nice …’ Graziano shouted to make himself heard above the noise of the waterfall.

Flora put one foot into the first pool. Then the other. It was marvellous. She tried to crouch down in that little natural basin, but Graziano pulled her away. ‘Come on. There are deeper ones, away from all this noise.’

Flora would have liked to say that this one was fine, but she followed him. They entered a larger pool, but it was full of people laughing raucously and smothering their faces and hair with mud and couples embracing. She felt legs, bellies, hands brush against her. They entered another pool, which was deep enough to swim in, but this one too was full of people (men) and they were singing: ‘No stockfish, landlord, it’s too bristly, give us veal or chicken any day.’

‘A bunch of poofs …’ said Graziano in disgust.

Oh, the poofs are here too
…

In the air, besides the sulphur and steam, there was a strange euphoria, a lewd, carnal sensuality, and Flora felt it and was on
the one hand frightened, on the other almost excited, like a lapdog surrounded by a pack of hounds.

In one pool she at last saw some blonde women, German perhaps, who climbed out of the water and jumped in again stark naked, each time to wild cheering and a round of applause. It was a group of youngsters wearing bathing costumes on their heads like hats.

‘Come on, keep going. This way.’

They began a slow arduous climb beside the the waterfall. There was a succession of huge slippery boulders and Flora had to use her hands and feet to clamber up. The noise of the water was deafening. She was still feeling dizzy and every step she took terrified her. She found herself in front of a smooth rockface with water cascading down it.

She’d never make it.

Why?

Why does Graziano want to go up there?

(
You know why
.)

One part of her brain which had lain low until now but which was lucid, active and able to solve the mysteries of the universe and her life, explained to her.

Because he wants to fuck you
.

The CV had been just an excuse.

And she had understood without being aware of it, right at the beginning, when she had seen him arrive with that bottle of whisky in his hand.

Well let’s fuck, then
… She suppressed a giggle.

Not even in her wildest fantasies had she imagined that it would happen like this, in such a squalid setting and with a guy like Graziano.

She had always known it was a step she was going to have to take. As soon as possible. Before her virginity became chronic and trapped her in a paralysing, embittered spinsterhood. Before her head started playing tricks with her. Before she began to feel scared.

But she had dreamed of a very different kind of lover. And a romantic affair, with a sensitive man (à la Harrison Ford) who
would charm her, whisper sweet nothings in her ear and swear his undying love in rhyming couplets.

And look what she had got, the seaside sex symbol, Mr Casanova, with his bleached hair and his earrings, the Valtour holiday village entertainer.

And she knew she meant nothing to Graziano. She was just another name on his endless list. A plastic container of food to be consumed and then discarded empty at the roadside.

But it didn’t matter.

No, it didn’t matter at all.

I’ll always be grateful to him for what he has done
.

He had put her on his list. Like so many others (beautiful, ugly, stupid, intelligent) who had spent the night with him, who had allowed this man’s member to enter their bodies. Women to whom sex was as natural as eating lunch or brushing their teeth. Women who really lived.

Normal women.

Because sex is normality
.

(
And aren’t you frightened?
)

Yes. Of course I am. I’m terrified. My legs are trembling so
much I can’t even climb
.

But she was convinced that taking that step would transform her.

Into what?

Into something else. At any rate, into something different from what she was now,

(
And what are you now?
)

Something abnormal
.

something more like other women.

And if there was no romance, no love, well, what the hell. That was okay too.

Yes, she must climb.

She steeled herself, placed one foot on a jutting rock and pulled herself up, but a jet of warm water hit her full in the face and for a moment she lost her hold and was about to slip (and if she had slipped, what a nasty fall it would have been) when, as if by magic,
Graziano grabbed her by the wrist and hoisted her up, like a doll, over the waterfall.

She found herself in a kind of boiling pond. The trees above it formed a leafy vault through which the glare of the floodlight filtered here and there.

It was deserted.

The water was quite deep and the current was strong, but at the sides there were some protruding boulders which she clung onto.

‘I knew it would be quiet here …’ said Graziano, contentedly, and taking her hand he led her into little bay where the water was calm. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s lovely.’ The cries of the bathers had vanished, drowned by the rush of the waterfall.

At last Flora could immerse herself wholly in the water and get warm. Graziano drew closer, put his arms round her waist and began to kiss her neck. Thrills of pleasure curled on the back of her head. She grasped his arms and noticed that his right biceps was encircled by a tattoo. A geometric pattern. He was muscular and strong. And with that long wet hair clinging to his head and the mud smeared over him he looked like a savage from New Guinea.

He’s so handsome
…

She pulled him, tugged him, punched him, dug her fingernails into his skin and avidly sought his mouth and sank her teeth into his lips, with her tongue she found his tongue, his palate, took it out and licked him and lay back ready on the beach.

And Graziano?

Graziano was ready too. You bet he was.

He had looked for Roscio and the others down by the pools, but there was such confusion that he hadn’t been able to see them. Perhaps they hadn’t even come.

I don’t really care. In fact, it’s better this way. They would have
spoiled it
.

He could have kicked himself for giving her the Spiderman. If he hadn’t, it would all have been better, more real. Even without that pill he would have got her to Saturnia. Flora had followed him through the pools without speaking, without resisting, without protesting, like a little dog following its master.

He held her tight, put his mouth close to her ear and sang softly: ‘O minha macona, o minha torcida, o minha flamenga, o minha capoeira, o minha maloka, o minha belezza, o minha vagabunda, o …’ He slipped off her bra and took her breasts in his hands. ‘… minha galera, o minha capoeira, o minha cahueira, o minha menina.’

He began to lick them and bite her nipples, he sank his face between them, smelling the odour of sulphurous mud.

He took off his trunks and led her where the water was deeper. They lay down on some submerged boulders.

He took her hand and put it on his cock.

She had it in her hand.

It was hard and big and soft-skinned.

She enjoyed the sensation of touching it. It was like holding an eel in her hand. She stroked it and the skin drew back, baring the tip.

What am I doing …?
But she stopped herself thinking about it.

She touched his testicles, played with them a little, then decided that this was it, the time had come, she was longing to do it, she must do it.

She slipped off her knickers and threw them onto a rock. She hugged him hard, feeling his erection press against her stomach, and whispered in his ear. ‘Graziano, please be gentle. I’ve never done it before.’

It was obvious.

Why hadn’t he realised?

What a fool he was! She was a virgin and he hadn’t realised. He, who’d had more women than he’d had Margherita pizzas, hadn’t realised. Those passionate yet clumsy kisses … He had put it down to the effect of the Spiderman but it was because she had never kissed anyone before.

He screwed up his face like a baboon.

He threaded his arm under her breast and pulled her onto the beach.

He lay her down.

It was a delicate operation, deflowering her. It required skill.

He looked into her eyes and saw in them an expectation and a fear that he had never seen in eyes of the old slappers he usually fucked on the Romagna riviera.

This is really fucking
… ‘Don’t worry, don’t wo …’ he said in a strangled voice, tossed back his hair and kneeled down in front of her. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

He opened her legs (she was trembling), took his cock in his right hand and found her vagina with his left, opened the lips (they were wet) and with a swift, precise movement slipped it a quarter of the way in.

It had slipped inside her.

Flora held her breath.

She dug her hands in the mud.

But the pain, the terrible, legendary, agonising pain she had so dreaded didn’t come.

No. It didn’t hurt. Flora, expectant, open-mouthed, held her breath.

The intruder inside her continued to advance.

‘I’m going to go on … Tell me if it hurts.’

Flora gasped and her breast rose and fell like a bellows. She panted, expecting the pain that didn’t come. She felt filled, certainly, and that pole of flesh now pressed inside her but without hurting her.