Читать книгу Mistress - The Italian way - Delilah Jay - Страница 12

Here I am: riding every day, practising Jiu-Jitsu for self-defence and because I’m scared of being mugged -smoke too much, wear designer clothes, travel around Europe on business, am fluent in German, English and Italian, have intermediate proficiency in Latin - especially important for fellatio - can cook, swim, ride, read & write, am charming, arrogant, efficient, emotional, in love, beautiful, humorous, strong, hysterical, feminine, blonde with an ample bosom, am envied, hated, loved and admired and am THE lover! Has anyone ever really looked at this word, heard it, understood it? L O V E R -the one who is loved and who loves. Interchangeable in English and Italian: AMANTE or LOVER. Wives, girlfriends, mothers, sisters, daughters become instantly forgettable!!! They cease to exist in this frenzy of ecstasy! In all these orgasmic flights of fancy! There is only one - the lover, mistress! Me!

Aurelia has cancer. The diagnosis came fast and surprising from the Charité. Cancer of the tongue. Half of her tongue needs to be removed. It’s August - all the Italians are on holiday.

“I don’t want to disturb my family, don’t want to talk with the children. Not a word about my illness, to nobody, promise me!”

She bewitches me.

“I can’t do that!”

We drive to Verona and Aurelia does not come back. She has an operation, then her family learns about the lung cancer. She was in a terrible state and the worst was that she was completely at the mercy of her family. They all criticised her to the end.

“She had too many men,” says Flavio, the ex-husband - he should know, considering his career as a playboy in the provinces.

“Walked away from her family, left the children for others to raise,” says Aurelia’s friend Valentina.

“And she drank too much. A bottle of Vecchia Romagna hardly got her through an evening!”

Doesn’t sound credible to me, who lived side by side with her for half a year.

“Not to mention all those many cigarettes... ” Valentina continues although nobody asks.

I remember how we met: clutching a boring cocktail at one of those Berlin-Fasanenstrasse receptions. We chatted about art, literature, then quickly and abundantly about men, and we made fun of the Germans. Their idea of living. Of sex, eroticism, food, drink, generosity, elegance. We had an instant rapport, a kind of spiritual kinship. Then we met again at a private viewing in a Spandau loft. Her brother and her son were there and in the evening we went to dinner.

Both men had the hots for me, which Aurelia regarded with delight, wanting the “vittoria” - the victory - to fall to her son, wanting to see her brother lose this challenge. In fact, nothing came of it for either of them. Today Pietro, her brother, is by her discriminating side. He’s a surgeon, which means nothing. However, he is a family member and as such he has the power to decide what’s going to happen with Aurelia now.

“She’s staying with us, with her family. Here in Italy. I will perform the operation.”

And so it ended, our glamorous, lovely, close, oblivi-ous-to-everything friendship. Tarot cards in the morning with cappuccino and cigarettes, then riding, back for lunch, art, galleries, going out, socializing, discussing Italy... Verona, Ferrara, Robert de Niro, Briatore, Eros Ramaz-zotti, Luciano Pavarotti and Nicoletta, the invention of marriage, our illusions about men, sexual ecstasies, the transience of youth and beauty and... HIM. SHE knew him, Amos, my prince, spoke with him on the phone every day when I was or wanted to be out of reach, absorbed his charm and passed it to me, unfiltered. He induced the same state of trance in her as in me: TRUST! Which created Aurelia’s conviction that there was, or had ever been, no one better in my life. I trusted these words and everything else she said to me, and I believed. I even believed that I wanted a child. Thank you, Aurelia!

Aurelia dies in Verona the following January.

I wake up every morning and all I can think of is you, Amos! I dream, laugh, cry in Italian. I want you, need you - have only one more wish: to finally fall pregnant! You’re in the Caribbean with Bellarosa. I cannot reach you!

The last time we met was in England. Somewhere near Southampton, where Amos is taking helicopter flying lessons. The Little Prince! The heliport belongs to his friend, who owns a British chewing gum and lollipop manufacturing business, a market leader, and who represents a big Italian helicopter brand in England.

“You’re flying high above my head and you’re excited like a little kid flying his model plane for the first time!” I call out to him, laughing.

“Kamikaze!”

We were staying in a hotel with four stars and Amos the helicopter crash pilot kept apologising for them.

“What a restaurant! And this is supposed to be Italian? The English have no idea! Not about food and not about anything else, either!”

He is so annoyed, he is beyond being able to enjoy the moment with me.

“This restaurant has no business calling itself Italian. Let’s go to bed, quickly, Aelitina,” Amos whispers in my ear.

“Quick, I can’t stand it anymore!”

“Anything here you want to make a fuss about or criticise, too?” I ask him while he licks Mousse au Chocolat off my breasts.

“Oh no, Aelita, never,” he groans, in ecstatic bliss.

“You are my chocolate praline, Aelitina, Aelitissima!”

“I really want a child,” I say, defiantly.

“Yes, Aelitina, me too. I don’t know if we can.”

“I don’t just want one - two...” I groan.

“Yes, three, oh please! I’m coming!” Amos screams into my ear.

I wake up, he’s still on me, in me!

“Didn’t you just explain to me - on the way here - that you keep being reminded of me so much - on the way to the heliport - when you’re passing through all that REAL countryside with cows and horses... yes, the horses made you think of me...” I prompt Amos.

In the seconds in-between him reporting to Bellarosa

- where he was with whom -, or the other members of the board, or his secretary. Oh, what was it he said, so nicely:

“I bought a telephone for my secretary that can send text messages from the office. Then I won’t have to listen to her voice anymore. The last one left me in tears, and all the others keep starting to snivel as soon as I bawl them out.”

“Poor you! They treat you so badly,” I say, understandingly.

Still was, then. I feel sorry for him when he loses his temper, when he gets upset, bursts into tears because he’s upset about believing he’s not a real man, not comprehending what he might mean by that, here and now, but learning all about it later... Not having any real, true, proper friends - imagine that!

“Non so se sono un uomo vero!” - I don’t know whether I’m a real man.

“Are you a man or a mouse?” they ask in England.

His tears. I get to see the gentleness in him. Oh yes, I want him. Can’t imagine anyone else, ever. Only him. He and I. Not the powerful controller. See only his gentle side, the one he currently offers me. He smiles almost shyly, cries, shows his fragility, philosophizes. That’s the Amos I know. The one I love.

That night he called me HIS geisha. I was proud, intellectual, randy and tireless. My head between his legs, his cock voraciously in my mouth. “La Passionata” - passion, passione. Is there an equivalent German term? If there is, I don’t know it. My body as perfect as his. He cried - as always: bemoaning his own present, his past and his future. Crying because he had no friends, no one who could understand him - only ME. I’ve been hearing this for over a year by now!

“Do you love me?” I ask.

“Yes. Aelita, I love you. I want you. Just you.”

Am I just the psychologist? I’d prefer the lover... Completely forgetting about the phone calls and vows to Bellarosa... She no longer exists for me. Forgotten about, entirely!

As always, we spent every waking moment screwing -day, night, morning.

“I’ll take you to the station.” He smiled happily and I went to Watford, to the office. In the car, his hand, searching unerringly, sneaks up my thighs that I’ve opened in readiness. As ever. His hand inside of me, a last chance to keep my scent with him a while longer.

My trip to Watford turns out to be not particularly exciting. Officially, I’ve just returned from visiting clients or potential clients in Switzerland. Nobody ever checks these things anyway. It’s my nature: a gambler, always skating on thin ice, always searching for new challenges, the ultimate thrill. Thank God I’m allowed to smoke on the train! And there is coffee! My vices that I almost don’t want to give up. Every time, they stand between Amos and me. The sun is shining - a rare treat in England, and I travel, dreaming of my next time with HIM - not a clue that this will be a long time in coming.