uncommon, not that many others had noticed. He, however, quickly acknowledged the fact and transformed my eyes into heavy metal. He said I had the eyes of an owl, because I am always checking who is around me, memorizing their gestures, their voice, their expression, until I think I know them intimately, even to the extent of unveiling their weak spots.
A particularity common to all predators, I think.
Photographs. I have a house full of them, pinned to the wall, stuck with adhesive tape to the mirrors. Everywhere it’s my face, on my own or with friends. Here we are, Danila and me, at the Carnival a few years back. She is dressed as a witch, and I am wearing a clown’s three-pointed hat. It must be quite late in the day, because in the photo Danila’s eyes are red. Whereas my eyes seem fixed on a distant point, my lips frozen by what looks more like a grimace than a smile.
Who knows if owls, of all feathered creatures, conceal their wrinkles beneath their deep stare?
I can’t stand in the same place for more than half an hour. It’s always been this way, ever since I was a small child I’ve had this urge to burn off energy any way I could.
Is that what consumes me inside?
Year after year, my waist narrows, my cheekbones get sharper, the dark zones beneath my eyes go hyperactive, pale brown shade changing to pale violet. The brains sucks energy from the body, and slowly it will begin to disappear.
I’m becoming transparent, Maxim. Now you can look inside of me and use all the small details I have provided you with to bring your imagination to life. Even when I ask you for a way out, because I can’t join you in London, or in New Orleans, this city you like so much. I keep on asking you because we are wasting so much time, and I don’t know what to answer, I don’t know what to say. This is also the truth, even if I talk to you of Toronto, although it is a lie, another dead end.
You dislike Canada, Maxim. It’s too cold there.
I walk alone through the city for almost an hour. It’s raining and my boots trace deep patterns in the mud. I quicken my pace, flinging my legs ahead as if I were participating in a military parade, if only to warm myself. It’s strange, I’ve never felt cold before at this time of year. To tell the truth, I’m seldom cold and am always wearing the same sweatshirt under my leather jacket, even in the midst of winter. Yet, today I can’t help shivering, and it’s already March.
I reach the area of older buildings in the historic part of town and ring the bell several times. The door finally opens. Trevor looks at me without saying a word. I am soaked to the bone and just can’t stop myself from trembling. Trevor does not invite me in, and neither does he order me to stay put. He just keeps on looking at me with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his upper lip frozen in a sneer. I know that expression, that face well. It’s my face superimposed over Trevor’s features. The face of someone with definitive goals in life, and the sheer ambition to reach them.
“Come inside,” he says. Trevor speaks good Italian, although he has a distinct foreign accent.
Trevor’s apartment is always untidy. His television sets are stacked up in all four corners of the room like sacred stones in an Indian ritual. Rising above it all is a smell of paint and solvents, tobacco and perspiration, which doesn’t seem to bother him. His attention is fully focused on my hands now beginning to unbutton my faded shirt. A piece of clothing that has seen better days, as has Trevor. He has talent, he could be a great painter, but he just isn’t. The pictures he paints have no inner strength, no meaning. Trevor is no longer able to make art talk, ever since the day he recycled himself as an illustrator of children’s books. This compromise has greatly helped his finances, but it destroyed him as an artist. He could have been a wonderful painter, and now he will never be one. Yet, Trevor keeps on dreaming, believing that a trip to Italy, an exhibition and a hovel rented out on the cheap will help revive his spirit. Trevor thinks I can be his muse, and this dream sustains him. Basically if you are thirty-eight years old in 2003 and the critics haven’t had a kind word for you since 1996, you have a desperate need to dream. Trevor is finished, and he is not aware of it. Trevor is a dead man walking.
His shoulders surprise me. I would never have thought Trevor had such large shoulders. Now I understand why his jackets fit him so badly, either too large or sleeves too short. I haven’t yet seen him naked, or tasted his mouth for the first time. He probably tastes of whisky which he drinks regularly, too often and too strong. Trevor takes me into his arms and pulls me towards him, allowing his hand to caress my breast, my hip, and he does all this so silently, not even allowing himself a sigh. He is cold, detached. He knows me well and and doesn’t trust me. He is aware of the fact that I seldom do anything without a reason and is probably wondering why I am here ever since I arrived.
He pulls my shirt away, then my bra, caresses the curve of my back with his fingers, which makes me shiver. Never before have I been touched with such tenderness.
His eyes are wide open and gazing at me. They are pale green and it almost looks as if he is about to start crying.
Because it’s now happening.
But Trevor hasn’t the time to consider things long enough as my own hands are already exploring him, moving up and down his thighs until I reach his groin. I can’t help myself from touching him, kissing him, losing myself inside his smell, letting my tongue draw a thousand arabesques across his body. I watch Trevor’s eyes soften, the green become more intense, and I feel him swallow.
Everything is in the right place. Trevor’s trousers are on the floor, my legs straddle his body. I feel him lifting me by the waist and furiously entering me. His hands grip mine and pin me back, allowing me no movement that could disrupt our precarious equilibrium. Trevor brushes some strands of hair away from my face. He wants to look at my face, and he will keep on doing so all the while as he moves inside me. Our bodies are perfectly embedded in each other. Trevor plunges deeper into me, and I do my best not to scream out aloud. But I must, as he watches me. Trevor wants it all, the white skin of my breasts reddening beneath his bites, the taut muscles of my stomach as he drills into me. Every spasm, every emotion betrays me. This is truly the only way to know another: carnally.
Trevor seeks total control. Good, because so do I.
I want to capture all of him, how he moves, how he walks, how many times he brushes his teeth before he goes to bed. I want to steal his most intimate thoughts. I want to experience his sadness and make it mine, binding myself to that ironic smile of disenchantment that crosses his lips.
I want his English accent.
I want to know the reasons for his divorce, the true reasons, not the ones he tells everyone else.
I want his ash-blond hair between my thighs.
I want to devour him. Digest him.
This desire is so strong, so obvious, that it can be read all over my face. Trevor is not surprised, because he has no reason to doubt me.
My face is his face, my will is his will.
I should maybe have warned him, prepared him for this. Too late, now. Too late to hold all this at bay. Trevor is so overwhelmed by the love I have in store for him that he attempts to struggle free; he is upset and ready to lie to save himself. But the equilibrium is now broken. My hands are free, finally able to touch Trevor’s hair, while my tongue chases him, hunting him, hungry for his saliva. Our sweat mingles, cancelling out all forms of friction, we are so totally dishevelled, a total mess. To let oneself go in such a way is a benediction. Our hands wander all over, clumsily, awkwardly. To each of my caresses, Trevor answers with a moan. He’s not quite ready for this, not yet, but he knows that my madness is rising. But I am in control of him. Of his breath. It’s a death rattle. Long, unending.
Morning catches us in the throes of an embrace and confused.
Trevor moves his face closer to my breast, and his unshaven skin brushes against me. Under the bed covers I feel his legs solidly fastened to mine, a position made even more uncomfortable by the white streamlets of sperm still leaking from my cunt.
Have we slept like this all night?
Chaotically clutching one another, with our legs squeezed together higgledy-piggledy. I smile. Our bodies, in such ridiculous embrace, are an insult to the art of perspective.
“What are you thinking of?” Trevor asks, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m thinking of the book I want to write,” I answer.
“Is it that important?”
