Flora took a swig.
How sweet it is. Too sweet.
‘Feel better?’
‘Yes.’ The limoncino had spread over the walls of her stomach, restoring a bit of warmth to her body.
‘Just a minute.’ Graziano turned the heater full on, took his coat from the back seat and handed it to her.
Flora was about to say no, she didn’t need it, when he moved closer and began to tuck it round her like a blanket and she held her breath and he moved even closer and she retreated sideways and pressed against the door hoping it would open and he stretched out his hand and clasped the back of her head and she was being pulled forward and smelled that smell of limoncino, cigarettes, perfume, mint and closed her eyes and all at once …
Her lips were attached to Graziano’s.
Oh my goodness, he’s kissing me …
He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was …
She opened her eyes. And he was there with his eyes closed, an inch away, that huge tanned face.
She tried to push him away. But it was no good, he was an octopus clinging to her mouth.
She breathed through her nose.
He’s kissing you! You’ve fallen for it.
She closed her eyes. Graziano’s lips on hers. They were soft, incredibly soft, and that nice smell of limoncino and cigarettes and mint was now a taste in Graziano’s mouth and in hers. Graziano’s tongue was trying to enter her mouth so Flora opened it a little further, just enough to let that slippery thing enter and then she felt it touch her own and a shiver ran down her spine and it was nice, so nice, so she opened her mouth wide and the long tongue began to explore it and play with her own tongue. Flora took a deep breath and he pulled her violently towards him and she let him squeeze her, and her hands, without her telling them to, began to run through Graziano’s hair, to ruffle it.
This … This … This … is the thing … to do … This is … how … to live … life … Kiss … ing … It’s the easiest … thing … in the world. Because kiss … ing is right … Because in life you … need to … kiss … And I … like kissing … And … it’s not true … that it’s wrong … to do it … It’s right … to do it because it’s … nice … It’s the most … beautiful thing in the world … And … it’s right to do it.
Suddenly Flora was overwhelmed by it all, she felt her legs melt and her feet boil and her hands tingle and her breathing catch as if she had been punched in the stomach. She felt she was dying and gently flopped down, like a puppet, with her face on Graziano’s chest and in his smell.
84
Even a few kilometres short of the baths of Saturnia the atmosphere changes.
Any traveller who drove along that road and didn’t know that there were hot springs in the neighbourhood would find it, at the very least, disconcerting.
Suddenly the downward slope and the bends come to an end, the oak wood vanishes, the road levels out and as far as the eye can see there are green fields, as green as the green of Ireland with all its shades and variations – perhaps it is that beneficent warmth, the water and the mixture of chemical elements from the depths of the earth that make the grass so luxuriant. And if all this were not enough to surprise the inattentive traveller, the mist that rises from the irrigation ditches that run parallel to the road certainly ought to arouse his curiosity. Now and again these gases drift up from the ditches, forming frayed banks barely half a metre high which cross the carriageway and spread like a sea of cream over the fields, making them resemble clouds seen from above. In the whiteness you catch glimpses of a fruit tree, a fence, half a sheep. It is almost as if someone had passed this way with one of those machines for creating mist on film sets.
And if even that were not enough, there would still be the smell. The inattentive traveller would certainly notice that. He could hardly help it. ‘What’s that terrible stink?’ He would tighten his nostrils and look accusingly at his wife. ‘I told you not to have that leek soup, you can never digest it,’ but she would look at him equally accusingly and the inattentive traveller would say, ‘Hey, it wasn’t me.’ Then both would turn towards Zeus, the boxer dog curled up on the back seat. ‘Zeus, you’re disgusting! What have you been eating?’ Had Zeus been able to speak he would certainly have defended himself and said it was nothing to do with him, but the Lord in his inscrutable wisdom has decreed that animals (except parrots and mynah birds, which repeat words without understanding their meaning) should not possess this faculty, so all poor Zeus could do would be to wag his tail, pleased with the unexpected attention that his owners were giving him.
But suddenly the mist at the side of the road would lift, thicken and invade the surrounding woods, as if the source of the mist were there, and among the gases they would glimpse the corner of an old stone farmhouse.
Then the wife might say: ‘There must be a fertiliser factory there, or maybe they’re burning something chemical.’ And they would still be in the dark. But when at last they came to the road sign which says in big letters, WELCOME TO THE SPA OF SATURNIA, they would finally understand and proceed more serenely on their journey.
85
At night the sulphurous fumes give the place an eerie atmosphere, and if in addition, as that night, the wind is whistling, the wolves howling, the rain beating down on the countryside and lightning is striking to right and left, you really feel as if you’ve reached the threshold of hell.
Graziano slowed down, switched off the stereo and turned onto the rough track that cuts through the woods and leads down towards the valley and the waterfall.
Flora was asleep, huddled up on her seat.
The track had turned into a quagmire full of puddles and stones. Graziano drove carefully. There’s nothing worse for the suspension and sump. He braked, but the car continued its slow, inexorable descent through the mud. The headlights made the mist shine like the gas of a neon. One more tricky bend, but beyond it lay the car park and the waterfall. Graziano changed down and steered, but his car kept slithering straight on (I don’t even want to think about how we get out of here) and finally came to a stop, right on the edge of the road.
He reversed a little way and found himself, without knowing how, with the bonnet pointing at the clearing.
The mist beyond was tinged with red, green and blue, and dark silhouettes could be seen moving in the haze.
It was as if a discotheque had taken root in the woods.
It’s full of people.
He drove on down in first gear. The car park, which was on a slope, was full of vehicles parked untidily one next to the other.
Car horns. Music. Voices.
On one side there were two big tourist coaches.
What the hell’s happened? Is somebody having a party?
Graziano, who hadn’t been here for a long time, didn’t know that the spa was always this crowded nowadays, like most of the places of any charm or interest in our beautiful peninsula.
He parked as best he could behind a coach with a Siena numberplate. He stripped down to his bathing trunks.
All that remained was to wake Flora.
He called her name without eliciting any response. She was dead to the world. He shook her and finally managed to get her to mumble a few words.
‘Flora, I’ve brought you to a nice place. It’s a surprise. Look,’ said Graziano, in the most enthusiastic tone that he could manage.
Flora struggled to raise her head, looked for a moment at that colourful glare and slumped back. ‘Lovely … Where … are we?’
‘At Saturnia. For a bathe.’
‘No … No … I’m cold.’
‘The water’s warm …’
‘I haven’t got a swimsuit. You go. I’ll stay in the car.’ She seized his hand, pulled him towards her, gave him a rather clumsy kiss and fell back again, senseless.
‘Come on, you’ll like it, you’ll see. You’ll feel better if you get out.’
No reaction.
Okay, if that’s the way it’s got to be.
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He switched on the overhead light and began to undress her. He took off her coat. Pulled off her shoes. It was like dealing with a child who is sleeping too soundly to be able to help when its mother puts on its pyjamas. He sat her up and, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped off her skirt and tights. Underneath she was wearing plain white cotton knickers.
Her legs were long and shapely. Really beautiful. Legs that would be perfect for high heels and suspenders.
Graziano was beginning to enjoy himself and his breathing grew fitful.
He took off her jumper. Underneath she had a pearl-coloured silk blouse buttoned right up to the collar.
Go on, then …
He began to undo them one by one, starting from the bottom. Flora muttered something, seemingly annoyed, but then her head lolled over. Her stomach was flat, without a trace of flab, and as white as milk. By the time he reached her bosom, his pulse had quickened and he could hear the blood throbbing in his ears. He took a deep breath and undid the last button, opening her blouse.
He was amazed.
Her breasts were incredibly big, straining at the bra. Two round, enticing mozzarellas. For a moment he was tempted to pull them out to view them in all their splendour, to squeeze them, lick their nipples. But he forbade himself to do so. It was strange, but inside him, hidden away somewhere, was a moral man (with a peculiar morality of his own) who every now and then came up to the surface.
Finally, he loosened her hair, which, as he had guessed, was a red cascade.
He looked at her.
She sat there, in bra and knickers, asleep, looking incredibly beautiful.
Perhaps she’s even more beautiful than Erica.
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.
86
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.