Steal You Away (36 page)

She was so busy searching for the pain that pleasure had been completely set aside.

She saw it in Graziano’s eyes.

He seemed possessed by the devil and was sighing and moving backwards and forwards faster and faster and more and more forcefully and he seized her by the hips and he was on top of her and Flora was underneath with that thing inside her. She closed her eyes. She clung to his back with her legs like a baby monkey and raised them to make it easier for him to enter.

Gasping breath in her ear.

He plunged into her. Right in.

Flora felt a stab of pleasure that blocked her carotid artery and made the back of her head tingle. And then another. And yet another. And if she let herself go, if she abandoned herself, she felt that now it was continuous, like a radioactive element pulsing pleasure in her bowels and her legs and running up her spine and into her throat.

‘Do you … like it?’ Graziano asked her, running his fingers through her hair, squeezing her throat.

‘Yes … Yes …’

‘It doesn’t hurt?’

‘Noooh …’

He rolled over onto his side and with that pole inside her she was lifted up and found herself on top of him. It was her turn to move now. But she didn’t know if she could. It was too big and it was right inside her. She felt it in her belly. Graziano put his hands on her breasts, but couldn’t restrain himself and squeezed them hard.

Another stab of pain that took her breath away.

He wanted her to stay like that, on top, in that embarrassing position, but she threw herself over and embraced him and kissed him on the neck and nibbled his ear.

She heard Graziano’s gasps getting faster and faster and faster and

and he can’t. He can’t do it inside. I haven’t got anything
.

She must tell him. But she didn’t want that wild madman to stop. She didn’t want him to take it out. ‘Graziano … you must be careful … I …’

He turned over again. And as he sought a new position, Flora tried to go along with him, but didn’t quite know how to move, what to do.

‘Gra …’

He had put her on her knees. Her hands in the mud. Her face in the mud. Her tits in her mouth. The rain on her back.

Like a bitch
…

And him digging the fingernails of one hand into her buttock and with the other trying to grasp one of her breasts which slipped away from him and he drove into her as if he could penetrate up to her throat. And …

He can’t take it out now
.

He had taken it out and perhaps was about to come and Flora thought she would die of disappointment. She sighed. But an explosive blast of heat surrounded her neck, continued up into her jaws and spread onto her temples and nostrils and ears.

‘Oh my God!’

He was touching her there, at the top of her vagina, and she realised that everything she had felt up to then had been chickenfeed. Child’s play. Nothing. That finger, on that spot, was capable of making her lose her senses and driving her crazy.

Then he opened her legs and she opened them wider and perhaps,
let’s hope
, he was going to put it back in.

And here Graziano made a mistake.

As he’d made a mistake in asking Erica to marry him, as he’d made a mistake in telling all his friends about it, as he’d made a
mistake in giving Flora the Spiderman, as he’d been making mistakes practically every day for forty-four years, and it’s not true what they say, that we learn from our mistakes, it’s not true at all, there are some people who never learn anything from their mistakes, they just keep on making them, convinced that they’re doing the right thing (or unaware of what they’re really doing), and to this kind of person life is usually cruel, but even that doesn’t mean anything, because these people survive their mistakes and live and grow and love and bring other human beings into the world and grow old and keep making mistakes.

That is their wretched destiny.

And that was the destiny of our sad stallion.

Who knows what went through his mind, who knows what he thought and how he organised it in his brain, that disastrous idea.

Graziano wanted more. He wanted to close the circle, he wanted to have his cake and eat it, he wanted to fish the moon from the well, he wanted to cut and thrust, he wanted his steer lassooed and branded, who knows what the hell he wanted, he wanted to deflower her fore and aft.

He wanted Flora Palmieri’s arse.

He parted her buttocks, spat on them and pushed his cock into that contracted star.

It was like a roof tile landing on your head.

Without warning.

The pain was as sudden as an electric shock and as sharp as a piece of broken glass. And it wasn’t where it should have been, it was …

Nooo! He’s
….

She twisted to the right and kicked out her left leg, catching Graziano on the Adam’s apple with her heel.

Graziano was flying backwards. Open-armed. Open-mouthed. Face up.

For an infinite length of time.

Then he plunged into that warm liquid. Hit his head against a rock. And came back to the surface.

Paralysed.

He was enveloped in a black cloud shot through with intermittent flashes of coloured light.

Why did she kick me?

The current pulled him towards the middle of the bend. He slid over algae-covered rocks like a drifting raft. His heels brushed along the slimy river-bed.

She must have hit him on one of those special points, one of those points that reduce a man to a mannequin, one of those points that only Japanese masters of martial arts ought to know.

How strange
…

He could think, but he couldn’t move. For example, he felt the cold rain on his face and realised that the warm current was carrying him towards the waterfall.

Flora cowered against a boulder.

Uncle Armando was floating in the middle of the river. It couldn’t be him. Uncle Armando lived in Naples. It was Graziano. But she kept seeing Uncle Armando’s belly appear like a little island among the sulphurous fumes and his nose cutting through the water like a shark’s fin.

And now the river was going to sweep Uncle Armando or whoever it was away.

Uncle Armando/Graziano struggled to raise his arm. ‘Flora … Flora … Help me …’

No, I won’t … No, I won’t …
’

(
Flora, that is not Uncle Armando
.) There, at last, was her mother speaking to her again.

He’s a pervert. He tried to
…

‘Flora, I can’t mo …’

(
He’s heading for the waterfall
…)

‘Help. Help.’

(
Hurry up. Get moving. Stop all this nonsense. Hurry
.)

Flora crawled into the water. She held on to the branches of the trees to stop herself being swept away. But a branch snapped off in her hand and she thrashed about and spluttered as she was borne along by the current. She tried to get back to the bank, but couldn’t. She turned and saw Graziano’s body drifting a couple of metres from the brink of the waterfall. He had got snagged on a boulder, but sooner or later the current would catch him again and carry him on, down into the abyss.

‘Flora? Flora? Where are you?’ Graziano spoke like a blind man who has lost his way. Mildly concerned but not terrified. ‘Flora?’

‘I’m comi …’ She swallowed two litres of that revolting water. She spluttered and struck out towards the middle again, flailing about with her arms, passed between two jutting crags and grabbed hold of a rock.

A metre away from Graziano. Three metres away from the waterfall.

Flora held out her arm, stretched and there was, oh God, there was, there were those cursed ten centimetres that prevented her from grabbing Graziano’s big toe which stuck out of the water.

I can’t lose him
…

‘Graziano! Graziano, stretch your foot out. I can’t reach it,’ she screamed, trying to make herself heard above the roar of the waterfall.

He was no longer answering (
He’s dead! He can’t be dead
) but then: ‘Flora?’

‘Yes! I’m here! How are you?’

‘Not too bad. I must have hit my head.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kick you! I’m terribly sorry.’

‘No, it’s me who should apologise. I was wrong…’

There they were, the two of them, on the brink of a waterfall with a relentless current, apologising to each other like two old ladies who’d forgotten to send each other Christmas cards.

‘Graziano, stretch out your foot.’

‘I’ll try.’

Flora reached out her arm. And Graziano reached out his foot. ‘I’ve got you! I’ve got you! Graziano, I’ve got you!’ Flora shouted, and she felt like laughing and shrieking with joy. She had caught his big toe and she was not going to let go. She took a firmer hold on the boulder and began to pull, and drew him towards her, wresting him away from the current and, when at last she held him, she hugged him and he hugged her.

And there were kisses.

In the early hours of 11th December the weather improved.

The Siberian front that had settled over the Mediterranean basin, bringing cold, wind and rain to the whole peninsula, including Ischiano Scalo, was driven away by a ridge of high pressure from Africa, which left the sky clear and ready to welcome back the fugitive sun.

At a quarter past eight in the morning Italo Miele was released from hospital.

With that bandaged nose and those two purple medallions round his eyes he looked like an old boxer who has taken a lot of hard punches before hitting the canvas.

His son and his wife came to fetch him. They put him in the 131 and drove him home.

At about the same time, Alima was sitting in a large room at Fiumicino airport along with a hundred or so other Nigerians. She was sitting on a bench with her arms folded, trying to get some sleep.

She had no idea when she would leave. No one bothers to
inform illegal immigrants about the details of their repatriation. But it was certain that sooner or later she would be put on a plane.

She would have liked a drink of hot milk. But there was a long queue at the drinks machine.

She was going to return to her village and see her three children again, that was the meagre consolation.

But what then?

She preferred not to think about it.

Lucia Palmieri was in her bed. Safe and sound.

Flora heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Mama, how are you?’

That night she’d dreamed about the silver-haired koalas again. They were carrying her mother’s body on their backs along a completely deserted Aurelia. On either side were rocks, cactuses, coyotes and rattlesnakes.

Flora had woken up certain that her mother was dead. She had jumped out of bed in a panic, dashed into the little bedroom, switched on the light but in fact …

‘Mama … I’m sorry. Yes, I know, it’s late … I expect you’re hungry, aren’t you? I’ll get you something to eat straight away …’

She had abandoned her. For one night her mother had not been at the centre of her thoughts.

She prepared the feeding bottle. Put it in her mouth. Emptied the bags. Combed her hair. And gave her a kiss.

Then she went to have a shower.

Her skin and hair were steeped in sulphur. She had to rinse herself several times to get rid of that unpleasant smell. When she had finished showering, she dried herself and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Her face was pale. There were rings round her eyes. But the eyes themselves were shining and alive as never before. She didn’t feel tired despite only having had a couple of hours’ sleep. And her drunkenness had worn off without leaving a hangover. She
spread moisturising cream over her body and discovered that she had painful scratches and bruises on her legs and back. It must have happened when the current had buffeted her about among the rocks above the waterfall. Her nipples were reddened, too. And the fleshy pads of her fingertips were numb.

She sat down on the stool.

She opened her legs and examined herself. Everything was normal there too, though a bit sore.

She sat there in the steam-filled bathroom, gazing at herself in the misted mirror.

Her mind kept showing the same pornographic film: Sex at the Spa.

The pools. The warmth. Graziano. The pond. The cold. The people. The music. The sex. The smell. The sex. The river. The sex. The kick. The fear. The waterfall. The sex. The warmth. The kisses.

A tangle of memories and emotions twined within her and when her mind got caught up in certain scenes, the embarrassment gave her goose pimples on her arms.

Whatever got into me?

Her body had reacted well, though. It hadn’t disintegrated. Hadn’t fallen to pieces. Hadn’t been transformed into an insect cocoon.

She touched her breasts, her legs, her stomach. Despite the bruises and scratches, her body seemed firmer, fuller, and those aches in her muscles showed that it was alive and responded well to such stimuli.

It was a body suited to sex.

In recent years she had wondered a million times whether, at the fateful moment, she would be able to have sexual intercourse, whether it wasn’t too late and whether her body and mind would be able to accept that intrusion or would reject it, whether her hands would be able to cling to a back, her lips to kiss strange lips.

She had succeeded.

She was pleased with herself.

In a parallel universe, Flora Palmieri, with that body and with
a different brain, might have been a different person. She might have made love for the first time at the age of thirteen, might have been given to the pleasures of the flesh and had a promiscuous sex life, might have attracted men in their thousands, might have used her body to make money, displayed her tits on the covers of magazines, been a famous porno star.

She would have given anything to own the video of the sex she’d had with Graziano and to be able to see it over and over again. To view herself in those positions. To observe the expressions on her face…

That’s enough. Stop it
.

She banished the images.

She cleaned her teeth, dried her hair and dressed. She put on a pair of black jeans (the ones she used for walking on the beach), her tennis shoes, a white cotton T-shirt and a black cardigan. She began to put hairgrips in her hair but then had second thoughts. She removed them and let it hang loose.

She went into the kitchen. She wound up the shutters, and a shaft of sun entered the room, warming her neck and shoulders. It was a fine, cold day. The sky was bluer than ever and a light breeze stirred the branches of the eucalyptus in the yard. A group of seagulls were standing like hens in the middle of the red earth of the ploughed field across the road. Finches and sparrows were twittering in the trees.

She made the coffee, warmed the milk and tiptoed into the dimly lit sitting room carrying breakfast on a tray.

Graziano was curled up on the sofa fast asleep. The blanket with the black-and-white lozenge pattern enwrapped him like a bag. Strewn untidily on the floor were his boots and clothes.

Flora sat down in the armchair.

Fausto Coppi was the best cyclist in the world. The fastest. But
above all the toughest. He never tired. He was a great rider. And
he never gave in. Never let up
.

Never
.

And you’re Fausto Coppi
.

Pietro pedalled, pedalled, pedalled. Mouth wide open. Face distorted with the effort. Heart pumping blood into his arteries. Midges in his eyes. Fire in his lungs.

They’re coming
.

The excruciating noise of the broken silencer.

Were they gaining ground?

Yes. Definitely
.

They were nearer.

He wanted to turn and look. But he couldn’t. If he had he would have lost his balance, and balance for a cyclist is everything, if you’re well balanced and keep the right position you never tire, and if he’d turned round he would have lost his balance and slowed down and that would have been the end. So he pedalled, hoping they’d never catch him.

(
Don’t think about them. Just go. You’re trying to beat the world
record. You’re not racing them. You’re racing the wind. You’re the
hare being chased by the greyhounds. All those two guys behind
you are doing is making you go faster. You’re the fastest little boy
in the world
.) That’s what the great Coppi was telling him.

‘Is this the best your crappy little scooter can do? Speed up! Speed up, for Christ’s sake!’ yelled Federico Pierini, hunched up behind Flame.

‘I am!’ shouted Flame, hunched up in turn over the handlebars of the Ciao. ‘Now we’ll get him. As soon as he slows down he’s had it.’

Flame was right, as soon as Dickhead started to flag they’d catch him. Where could he go? The road ran straight across the fields for more than five kilometres.

‘If only I’d known, I’d have brought my cousin’s souped-up Vespa. Then we’d really have had some fun,’ said Flame ruefully.

‘What about your gun? Did you bring your gun?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You stupid fool. We could have shot him from this range. Bam!’ Pierini guffawed.

They were getting closer.

And Pietro was beginning to tire.

He tried to keep his breathing regular, maintain his concentration and push rhythmically on the pedals, so as to turn into a human motor, fuse with the bike to create a perfect being made of flesh and heart and muscles and tubes and spokes and wheels. He tried not to think about anything. To keep his mind blank. To be pure coordination and will, but …

His cursed legs were beginning to stiffen and his mind to fill with ugly images.

You’re Fausto Coppi. You can’t slow down
.

He quickened his rhythm a little and the sound of the scooter grew fainter.

It was a futile race. On a never-ending road. Across cultivated fields. Against a scooter. When they finally caught up with him, he wouldn’t even have the strength to stand up.

(
I might as well stop
…)

Cyclists lose because they think victory has a meaning. Victory
doesn’t have a meaning. The aim is not victory. The aim is to
pedal
. Fausto Coppi was talking to him.
Pedal till you drop
.

The noise behind him increased again.

They were getting closer.

On the return journey from Saturnia Flora had driven.

Graziano hadn’t felt up to it. The bump on his head was large and painful. He had put his hand on her thigh and fallen asleep.

And Flora, with wet hair and wet clothes, had got behind the wheel, slithered her way up that muddy track and headed for Ischiano Scalo.

In silence.

A long trip, crowded with thoughts.

What’s going to happen after all this?

That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question that was being debated in her mind as she changed gear, accelerated, steered and braked, driving over hills, through woods and sleeping villages.

What’s going to happen after all this?

The answers were legion. There was a long succession of them, each popping up spontaneously, dangerous and not to be contemplated (travel, distant islands, country cottages, churches, childr …).

To answer the question rationally, Flora had told herself, she must think about who Graziano was and who she was.

Lucidly.

And Flora, at three o’clock in the morning, after what had happened to her, felt lucid and logical.

She had looked at Graziano asleep against the window and shaken her head.

No
.

They were too different to have a future together. Graziano would soon leave for the Valtour village and then go to some exotic country and have another thousand love affairs and forget about her. She would continue to live the life she had always lived and go to school and look after her mother and watch TV in the evening and go to bed early.

That was the situation and

(
Don’t kid yourself this man’s going to change just for your
sake
…)

so it was clear that the relationship couldn’t work.

It’s one of those what do you call them … One-night stands.
Try to see it that way. A sex thing
.

A
sex thing
. She couldn’t help smiling.

It was painful to admit, but that was the truth of it. And when
she had climbed up those rocks, though she’d been dazed and bewildered, she had kept saying it over and over to herself (
you’re
just another one on the list… and you’ve got to accept it
), so now she mustn’t start fantasising like some inexperienced young girl.

But I am inexperienced
.

It was dangerous to indulge in fantasies. Flora had hardened herself so as to resist the blows of life, but she suspected that she was still vulnerable to some knocks.

Graziano had served to make a woman of her.

And that was all.

I must be strong. As I’ve always been
.

(
You mustn’t see him again
.)

I know, I mustn’t see him again
.

(
Never again
.)

And yet when they had reached Ischiano Scalo and the sky was growing lighter, Flora had parked the car in front of the haberdasher’s and was about to wake Graziano and tell him she would walk home, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.

She had sat in the car for a quarter of an hour stretching out her hand towards Graziano and then withdrawing it and finally she had started up the engine and taken him home with her.

She had put him on the sofa.

That way, if he was still in pain, she could attend to him.

That’s what I’m best at
.

No, it couldn’t end like this.

That would be dreadful. She must speak to him one last time and explain to him how important that night had been to her, then she would part with him for good.

Like in the movies.

It’s a strange thing, suspension.

It’s the most serious punishment of all, but instead of locking you up in school day and night on bread and water they give you a week’s holiday.

Though of course it’s not much of a holiday, especially when your father has just told you he has no intention of going to speak to the teachers.

Pietro had racked his brains all night to find a solution. Asking his mother was pointless. He would get more response out of Zagor. But what if in the end nobody went?

The deputy headmistress would ring his home and if Papa answered on one of his bad days … it didn’t bear thinking about, and if Mama answered she would mutter a few long-drawn-out yeses and nos, swear on the heads of her children that she would go next day and then not go.

And those two would come back.

In a green Peugeot 205 with a Rome number plate.

The social assistants (a name which meant nothing but which scared him far more than drug dealer or wicked witch).