Читать книгу Mistress - The Italian way - Delilah Jay - Страница 8

He would not let me out of his arms - by phone, of course. I was the angel, the diva and his geisha, the one who made all his undreamt-of fantasies come true. Maybe I should mention at this point that Dottore wasn’t quite living on his own. By his - Italian - side there still was Bellarosa. She who, as he says, was never beautiful.

“Non era mai una bella donna”, he says.

No, she really wasn’t. I think that ugly women should absolutely have this BELLA in their name, for reasons of justice. She did however have something that fascinated him: money and power. And, in the manner of persons who have very much of those, she controlled him: constant phone calls and her comment about his visit to Berlin:

“What are you up to with Lili Marlene?”

Her imagination can stretch to ordinary affairs, but no further.

“Believe me, I am alone. Alone with you on the telephone, Bella. Yes, I love you! Only you!”

I hear him whispering, through the almost closed door of the suite. See myself as the “Blue Angel”. His sensitivity decreases in proportion with the increase of power and control. Erasing fantasies, provided they were there in the first place.

“No - I haven’t had sex with Bellarosa in six years,” he declares.

“Other women?” I ask with a chuckle, eyebrows raised, already not believing what he is about to say.

“She must not know - she would be so hurt. That’s

why she asked me to never tell her about it, if it should ever happen.”

“So why does she ask after me, then - Lili Marlene?” I want to know, provocatively.

“Is that her personal fantasy, stuck in the German war years?” I smirk.

“Cynic!” I think. Yes, I’d have made a damn good Lili Marlene! You need talent for that. Which I have. I HAVE SKILLS! That’s how my English lawyer assesses me, ironically, many years later. Later - much, much later.

Between now and later, there will be a number of exciting and stressful years. And I know how to utilize them, my skills!

“How come you don’t have children? Together or separately?” I am interested.

“Well, we tried once. It didn’t work. Bellarosa is ten years older than me,” Amos replies. He was in his early forties at the time.

“Even the best IVF specialist could not help us. I’ve been with Bellarosa for ten years now,” he says resentfully, with melancholy.

“She in the east wing - you in the west wing of the fully-staffed mansion house? Or the other way around?” I ask cheekily, chewing my drinking straw. Provocatively, sexy. Now I could understand all the better.

He contemplates my full lips, which I purse, slightly opened. Always aware of my full lips, of their impact.

“You are the woman, the lover, the girl, the whore, the angel, the Madonna, the mother in every conceivable variation for me, Aelita! My Aelitina, Aelitissima,” he vowed softly.

And I understood that Bellarosa represented an extension of the umbilical chord, without which he cannot survive. A mother-son relationship, business relationship, power relationship. The greatest form of dependence known in this galaxy. I had yet to find out where that got me, walking into the lioness’s den in the control room of Starship Enterprise, just like that!

“I’m a bitch, I’m a lover,

I’m a child, I’m a mother,

I’m a sinner, I’m a saint,

I do not feel ashamed.”

That’s exactly how I feel now.

“I’m your hell, I’m your dream,

I’m nothing in between,

I know you wouldn’t want it any other way!” sings Meredith Brooks straight from the choreography of my soul.

“... but you look at me like maybe I’m an angel underneath,

innocent and sweet ...,” she continues. ²)

Hey Amos - that’s Dottore’s real name - you Greek God of Love, have you forgotten that song already or did you never understand it? Maybe you didn’t realize what you were doing when you dedicated it to us, in our situation.

Bellarosa was old, unattractive, coarse, sarcastic, dominant, powerful in money and body - she didn’t understand him. Her laughter too loud. Men don’t like loud women. Too dominant. They don’t like dominant women either. If they did like them, it would be in a brothel, as Domina, but not in real life, by their side. The far side of

2) “The Bitch”, by Meredith Brooks

fifty is Bellarosa. A fading rose. An age where it no longer matters whether it’s “early” or “late” fifties. Whatever it is, it’s too late. I was the exact opposite: young, beautiful, slender, long-legged, elegant, blonde... and I understood his cock! With my spirit, my soul, my breasts, my experience, my longing, my lust. But most of all he adored my intelligence - wow!!! That’s what I needed more than anything, for screwing!

Two weeks later he came to Berlin again, during the ILA, the Internationale Luftfahrt Ausstellung. He tells me he wants to purchase a Hawker 1000 and is looking for the best the market has to offer. Purchase price: around eleven million US dollars. He gives me a list of names: current owners of this type of plane.

“Please would you ring them up for me?” he asks. “Of course I’ll pay the phone charges.”

How cheap is that, Dottore? I think. I too am at the ILA this time, I’m meeting with NetJets and handing back my laptop. At the fair, I run into a representative from Raytheon, manufacturers of the Hawker plane. We get talking and I ask about used Hawker 1000s.

“This isn’t by any chance to do with an Italian client, whose name starts with A and who comes from Ferrara?” the representative wants to know.

Small world! I’ll stay in contact with him. We can always share the commission, if I help him to stay in touch with Amos.

“He was at the fair with his pilot friend Antonio. He let him do all the talking. His eyes controlled the atmosphere.”

I think Amos was gauging the profits.

A short time later, the Raytheon representative warns me about Amos:

“I’ve spoken with a business partner in Monaco, he’s responsible for Southern Europe. Broker for private jets - you understand.”

Chris, the rep, shares his secrets with me.

“They all know him there - and of course his life partner, Bellarosa. Careful!” Chris hisses in my ear.

“Monte Carlo isn’t all that far from Beaulieu sur Mer. That’s where she has her villa by the sea. Everyone knows that this is Mafia! Do you understand?”

No. I don’t understand. Can’t, don’t want to. That was the second warning, both entirely unconnected. I call Federico again, the engineer at NetJets.

“Girl,” he says, “you are moving in very dangerous circles...!”

“I can’t back out anymore,” I think.

And if it is as dangerous as they say, then it doesn’t matter whether I continue or stop now... This is my best argument for not giving up Amos. My love, his love, the excellent sex. The game he plays with me - a game I enjoy very much. I don’t want to stop, can’t stop! Am carried away, entirely enmeshed by the force of his attraction. His love, his control, his power...

Aurelia witnessed those endless phone calls between Amos and me, the preparations for our meetings, trying to choose the right lingerie, shoes, dresses, the right nail varnish.

“Are you sure you want to wear this dress?” I hear her ask. “What lingerie are you taking? Let me see. Oh yes, that’s sexy enough.”

This time, she’s happy with my arrangements. She used to read the Tarot for me every morning, accompanied by cappuccino and many cigarettes. On the way to the stables. Going riding at nine in the morning. Aurelia was a witch - you could tell by the red hair! She used to be beautiful - very beautiful, she had many men. She slept with Robert de Niro while she was pregnant. That’s why her daughter Cornelia is the prettiest of all her children. Maybe all pregnant women should have lovers. Provided they are as exciting as Robert de Niro! Three cheers for trophy men! No - I’m not doing a review of all my affairs with important men... Not now. Later.

Aurelia thought that no better man ever loved me more than he did, and I think that too.

“Non hai conosciuto mai uno meglio di lui!” she kept saying. A superlative!

My name is Aelita - I am the Queen of Mars. Like in the Soviet silent movie of 1924, by the Russian filmmaker Yakov Protazanov. A movie based on the novella by Alexei Tolstoy. Queen Aelita and Amos. Amos, God of Love, and the Queen of Mars. Aelita, like the child prodigy Aelita Andre, the four-year-old artist from New Zealand. Aelita, standing in for Aphrodite, lover of Amos, my Amos and I. A special name, Aelita - a special destiny. Every woman, every girl named Aelita is someone very special. And I, in the vastness of all of space, in this great universe that belongs to him and me, I come upon the one man who was born for me. I am the only woman that exists for him on the Milky Way of love. I became Aelitina and Aelitissima - made smaller or larger, depending on his need - and was allowed to share a part of his life that no other woman had known before: I - the lover! Almost every week at the Baglioni Hotel in Bologna, close to Ferrara and so easy for me to reach from the airport. Where we almost always had the same love nest: number 222, what a number! It even encapsulates my birth date. And I was able to see him as soon as he crossed the street opposite, on foot. And when he left the room, I could taste him for a long time after. His eyes sparkled. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, depending on his mood. During orgasm they were blue - definitely - even when they were shut. I am sure of that. They turn green during times of great anger. Of fury. Uncertainty. And today I am convinced that nowadays they are only green. No more blue! The blue eyes were my prerogative. Mine and, of course, Feliciano’s. I could smell Amos’ scent in all the hotel corridors. Today, I can’t pick up his scent at all - he just doesn’t smell of anything anymore. I am no longer sensitive to his scent. No buzz anymore. Back on Sardinia, I could smell, taste, feel him. Out there, where he took the required jet flying lessons at the Italian flying school and met up with his Alitalia friend Antonio - his name similar to that of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the greatest of all the little princes. I was there to support him. I accompanied him, advised him. Amos and I had separate rooms in the beautiful hotel right on the seafront near Alghero. Because Bellarosa must not know. He’d been there with her before. And was completely terrorised by the possibility that the old owner might notice and he would look bad. Not only that: maybe they would inform Bellarosa. He’d been here with Bellarosa. With that old, ugly crow who, like I said before, had never ever been beautiful. Bellarosa: sharp and prickly like the thorns on a rose. Not rose coloured, not red. It’s her thorns that leave a red trace. Her trace of blood. But everyone loved her! Or her money? Only her money. Amos and I went to dinner in a third-class restaurant -the best one locally was where his co-pilots would go and they would of course recognize him, most of them were staying in our hotel. No cigarette after dinner - a drama for me! Those were the moments when I wished him gone. At least for the duration of one cigarette!

His discretion was absolute.

“I can’t risk it! Just wait, one day it’ll be OK. But not now. It’s bad timing. You have no idea what would happen if it would get out now - now of all times! The thing - I mean - the thing with you and me. A scandal!”

He puffs up like a male diva. Discretion for him and only for him. Even towards Antonio. The same Antonio who, at a later time, will play a small role in my life. But that’s much, much later. It seemed as though Amos didn’t even trust him completely. Even though they have known each other for such a long time, and so well.

“It’s better that nobody knows about us. That way, it’s a sweet secret for you and me only. Totally in love. You and me. Our sweet secret, Aelitina!”

His eyes, when he says these words, are full of longing, he is moved to tears - which he can do on command. For many years, Antonio and Amos have been joint owners of a company. This predates even Bellarosa. After his father’s death, it was Antonio who encouraged him to learn to fly. That was when he had his communications company - communications for those unable to communicate! He who himself is such a poor communicator, even during his interminable monologues! A silent movie company for contemporary pantomime. In the background, a publishing house concerning itself with the philosophies of the world. Psychologically illuminating, intellectual. Yes, this is where he met Bella, the rose. She was a client. Clients are easy prey for affairs: risk-free, verifiable, susceptible to blackmail. I remember my own sexual excursion with Dr Charly Schwarz. Not the Charly from Roald Dahl’s Chocolate Factory. Not a Johnny Depp. My Charly is a Chief Financial Officer. Mergers & Acquisitions. Fifty-seven percent acquisitions as opposed to ninety-nine percent mergers? Looking for the quick statutory consolidation. All branches. Trade, transition, banking, automotive, telecommunications. German, tall, powerful, attractive, client of my corporate past in one of the big international software companies I used to work for. Trading in Mühlheim, rising up through the ranks in Cologne, at the very top in Düsseldorf as CFO, raking it in throughout Germany during a planned mega insolvency. In the run-up, planned loss of share value.

“No, darling, you needn’t buy these shares, not at IPO and not later. Never!”

Says Charly the insider, forbidden Champagne prickling on my velvety-soft skin.

When the insolvency hit home across the German Republic, we were no longer acquainted. Sixty-nine salmon-pink roses delivered every Saturday to the Lüneburger Heide where I lived at the time. Every Saturday - sixty-nine, no other number delighted Charly more! Champagne coloured lingerie from La Perla.

“Are your breasts really this big?”

I hear his manly voice breathing through the telephone, establishing my “goods” with one terse question. “What are you doing now? Come on!” he demands. “Describe where your hand is! Do you use the right one or the left? Yes, that’s it!”

Moaning through my telephone, landline or mobile, as required. By him. Business trips. Luxury hotels. Me. He on top, me underneath. Practising my position. Perfectly played, right up to his orgasm. An old story. Reinvented again and again. My friend William always says:

“Most women sit on their capital - they just don’t realize it.”

He’s right. I put my capital to good use: between my lover’s legs! Nowadays just those of my God of Love, Amos. The only man there is. All the Charlies of this world, forgotten as though they never even existed. And quite probably, they didn’t.

“Come, Aelitina, come, fly out to me! To the South of France. I need you. Want you.”

Amos loves me eternally.

“I can’t without you,” he intones on the phone.

Here and now, Amos with me at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo - so easy to get to from the villa, where he is spending August with Bellarosa, at the Southern French Cape of her Good Hope. Bentleys, Rolls-Royce, Ferraris are vying for the best places of sun-drenched vanity outside of this hostelry of opulence. Me at night at Jimmy’s. Me in the mornings at the spa. Me at the pool. Me at Monte Carlo Beach Club. He between my legs. My mouth between his. In bed. In the shower. In the great outdoors. Dunes, beach, sand, it’s scratchy. In the car. On the car boot. Constantly. Always and everywhere. On Sardinia, in Berlin, Milano, London, Ferrara. He has never done anything like this before. I believe him.

“You are the first, the only, my girlfriend, lover, geisha, the one who understands me! You are forever,” he says.

Spellbound, exhilarated, drunk with lust. Laughing, I soak up the unforgettable magic of his words.

“You, only you,” I whisper.

Moan during sex into all eternity. At the Four Seasons in Milano - stopover. I’m waiting for you. Checking myself in the mirror - make-up, hair, perfume, lingerie, a dress. Precautionary measures again - again, separate suites. No financial expenditure was too great to ensure our sweet secret would remain just that. To maintain the perpetual thrill. Only the sheets could give us away now -our fragrance - the heat, the sweat! He bought me: with his love, his emotions or that which I believed, I wished for, I hoped. Addicted! Completely!! Because at this point in time, nothing is more attractive to me than his power, his control, that which I regard as love. So beautiful, so simple. I surrender, he wants me. And nothing in this world is hotter than surrendering to him, this attractive, intelligent, wealthy, international, emotional, demanding man. Using all my feminine wiles. Such a pleasure to see him dependent on me. Orgasmic!

That summer, I decided to go with Aurelia’s idea: he’s the best, he loves me, I want a baby! Naively, I ask her:

“How do I do that? Got him used to being careful - I don’t use contraception.”

Aurelia advises:

“Just don’t let him out again! You’ll see - you’ll be pregnant before you can count to three!”

She should know, she has three children.

“And how do I do that?” I ask Aurelia, uncertainly.

She laughs and says:

“I think you can manage that, don’t you?”

He was inside of me and I wouldn’t let him out. He loved it! Me, I’m imagining a baby.

“What are you up to?” Amos, my God of Love, asks me.

“I want your baby,” I say and am reminded of Romy Schneider in Sissi.

Yes! From now on, he never wanted to get out of me again... He couldn’t wait to come inside of me. To come into me. Just never get out again. Never ever get out. It will happen...

All worries and troublesome thoughts, from Bellarosa to the possibility that he might not support me, had gone overboard. Feeling no fear, no danger. No warning would have worked now. Never. There was only he and I. He even wrote our story - even named me by my original name in his book: Maria, who had his son. Aelita, the mother. I think of the stable in Bethlehem and of “Saint Joan of the Stockyards”. Brecht between virtue and greed. His story is Don Giovanni, told and interpreted by his son, whom he never saw. Never knew. In his story. Suddenly both men find each other. The son is a teenager by then and they spend all their time philosophizing about Don Giovanni. Amos’ book is published in late summer -just for a few people. So he says. Published by his “communications company”, the publishers of philosophy. Published as a special kind of silent movie. His love of art, philosophy, of himself - his second “Laurea” at over forty years of age - tired of all those many directorships and board meetings. Another luxury he allows himself. He needs new toys. Me. The Barbie of the modern age. Helicopter flying in Southampton. Then me again. It’s like a drug - more! Only the fantasy turns into reality - YOUR FANTASY... One day you don’t evade your trauma anymore. Not your emotionally impoverished mother. A harsh woman. Full of inner poverty. Incapable of showing emotions. Of witnessing, feeling, perceiving them in others. A poor communicator. Poor in every respect. Amos is the second-born, after the tragic death of the first daughter.

“A boy! What mother would not be happy?” Amos asks.

Amos, the man I, the Queen of Mars, chose as my God, my Amos, my lover, Amos. His mother gave him that name for the dead baby of her “patrone” - the family she worked for as a maid. Yes, in Italy maids have “patrone” - that’s owners. A life of serfdom. Who cares, as long as there is enough money! Amos is flying to the stars. With me! In a helicopter or a private jet. In his dreams, his fantasies. You dreamt of Petunia... you called me SORELLINA while you screwed me... little sister, and you told me about her. When she was so small and so innocent. Even today, you like young girls, just about eleven years old, that’s what you say. You talk about the daughter of a friend, regard her - eleven years old - as a perfectly mature, complete woman. You even know those sites on the Internet where you can find them, touch them. Is that your fantasy? You say that you love me like you love her, your sister. Petunia is so ill, poor woman. Always under medical care. Not even your mother can cope - that’s why she is forever on Procida, can’t bear to watch her child die. The only one with her is that dutiful fool of a clerk, a humpbacked pen-pusher at the local municipal offices... her husband. A good job for one like him. He, good enough for one like her - Petunia, his sister. A minimum of non-fertile womanhood, married under pretensions of love. However, perfectly capable of enjoying Dottore’s money now... if only it wasn’t for that little secret Petunia shares with him... And now I do, too. Would it have been better if he had kept quiet?

Amos could be this open only with me, could not imagine that I, the only person on the planet who ever was his true friend, would not be with him anymore. He wanted to live in the moment, no plans, no worries, no duties. And me, I believed in love. His love. If you love, you are always right. I loved. HIM.

“I’ve been looking for a suitable house for us for some time now,” he tells me.

“Just you and I. In Ferrara. I want you!”

And I want him. I trust him blindly, unconditionally, without safety net and mirrors. He waits for my wings to carry me heavenwards - I can’t imagine falling into the abyss. There isn’t one. Precluded - completely precluded.

Every Saturday he drives over to his mother’s for lunch.

“My mother is a good cook,” he says. “But her lasagne is dreadful. I was four when I came to Ferrara with my parents and two little sisters. From Molise, the smallest region of Italy. And one of the poorest.”

Nowadays everybody knows Molise, in-between Campagna on the Mediterranean side and the counties on Italy’s Adriatic side - due to the earthquake, where a school caved in and buried all those children under the rubble, thanks to the corrupt system of granting building permits. Building permits based on black favours, such as those Amos receives these days for his swimming pools on Ponza. Procured by the Gransignore in Carozza?

At least that’s what it said in all the papers in Italy. And not just there. A recorded phone call from the Gransignore to the local planning authority. The building permit was granted by someone in charge at that authority. Philosophia di Amos - that’s what he calls it, his company. The employee was arrested for the “favore”, the favour. The company receiving those building permits is one of Amos’ many enterprises. As the only “aministra-tore delegato” - the only managing director - of swimming pools on Ponza - he’s swimming right in the middle of all that corruption. There have never been swimming pools on the island’s densely built-up steep hillsides. Not with the Romans and not with the Greeks. But now! And rumours concerning the corrupt Gransignore in Carozza are reverberating across the entire country. Not much luck in this case, is there? The corruption will get in the way of political planning... or will it? After all, we’re in Italy...