The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

Mauro, it sounded like, “Just do your damn job, the Italian…”, and his smile broke out again. His perfectly aligned teeth lit up his dark face. Mauro on the other hand was growing even paler. He thought he was a professional and now he was just some poor guy from the provinces doing a shitty job to earn enough to buy himself a flight back to Italy.

Return to Italy. Why not?

Mauro still had some contacts there. Friendships which could still prove useful.

Trevor’s exhibition could well be the right occasion. The Canadian was a generous man; he would surely lend him some money, and could maybe offer him some sort of decent job like preparing the catalogue for his next show.

Mauro felt it would be worth trying. It was just that he wasn’t quite ready to confront his father in sack cloth and ashes and having to apologize.

In London, I have no regular boyfriend.

From time to time I go with a younger man, probably the poorest of all those I serve at the restaurant. It’s not a complicated relationship, free of future commitments which might tie me down. I don’t even know what he does for a living, it’s of no matter to me. All I do is watch his taut muscles, his sculpted arms when he undresses. Naked, he is splendid. Next to him I know I look so plain.

5

Trevor had agreed to meet Mauro in a small cafe not far from the art gallery. The decor was all green marble, from ceiling to floor, absorbing the heat of the sun outside and muffling the sound of steps.

“New shoes?” Mauro asked.

“How did you guess?”

The two sat down at a table facing the street. The sound of the traffic outside reached them, noisy but also familiar.

“You look good,” Trevor said.

“So so. I could be worse. To be honest, I’ve lost everything, my house, my clothes, all my prints and the photographic equipment which had cost me a small fortune. But I’m not about to call it a day.”

“That’s a healthy attitude.”

Mauro tried to smile, but he had to force himself. Trevor’s reassuring words didn’t help him feel any better. Starting all over again was too painful a thought, and he just couldn’t do so on his own.

“I need your help, Trevor. I’m not asking for money, just help.”

“Is that why you asked to see me?”

“Yes,” Mauro confessed.

Trevor remained silent, sipping his coffee and listening to the sound of the cars hooting away outside as they stewed in a traffic jam.

“I’m not sure I can be of assistance,” Trevor finally said. “The exhibition has just come to an end and in a few days I am leaving for Canada.”

“Exactly. That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Mauro interrupted him. There was a hopeful ray of light inside his eyes.

“Let me go with you,” he continued. “In Canada we could do great things together.”

“Are you serious about this?”

“Definitely,” Mauro continued. “You and I together, like in the old days.”

Trevor closed his eyes, as if reflecting about what his friend had just said. But when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was hard, almost full of bitterness, and Mauro had to hold his breath. Before he even realized what was happening, the other’s fist flew into his face, throwing him to the ground.

A young woman at a nearby table screamed. Quickly various other customers came to Mauro’s rescue, helping him back onto his feet. He indicated to the others not to worry, that what had happened was unimportant, just as Trevor walked out of the bar.

He now stood alone just outside the door, waiting for Mauro to join him. He had a black eye but it wasn’t too painful.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he screamed. “They say I should call the police.”

But Trevor had no wish to talk. He knew it was better to surrender to all this noise outside. Noise is an abstract concept, it has a thousand faces but weighs nothing. Words were like stones and Mauro kept on questioning him. What a hypocrite.

“I know you fucked my wife,” Trevor said. And the quietness of his voice could not conceal his anger. Some words are heavier than others.

A second punch caught Mauro on the nose.

I don’t like love stories. And I don’t like poetry. Poets are stupid creatures who insist in ordering life into rhymes and embellishing it. But life is nowhere as beautiful as they want to make you think it is.

Life is like prose: it does not bother itself with nobility. It feeds on your fragility, it takes all your mistakes into account and throws them back in your face when you least expect it.

My own life is no exception. It’s both foul and wild, as my comfort grows and feeds me, until I am full. Life has the face of a cannibal.

6

Trevor pulled a cigarette out of the packet.

This is the last one and then I’m giving up, he thought to himself. And then changed his mind. He had never been particularly concerned about his health, so why do so now? He knew the risks as his mother had died of cancer. But he was not afraid of death. It was like an old friend, and when the time came he would be ready to face it. The thought of dying did not disturb him. The thought of arriving at whatever gates with his clothes and hair reeking of tobacco smoke had a definite sense of irony.

But his soul already reeked of memories and things past, to the point of pain.

It was almost summer but Trevor missed the snow. White snow surrounding houses and filling the roads. Snow covering Kate’s face and concealing her features.

Kate, his wife. A woman who had once betrayed him and that he could not yet find in himself to forgive.

Trevor felt angry that he had not seen any snow for over a year now. Which was also the last occasion he had seen Kate and the child.

He really had to stop thinking about her, and all the days they had once spent together. As he still did every damn hour of the day!

Trevor had met Kate in a small art gallery. She was there to acquire a painting and Trevor could not help himself observing her, wondering why she had chosen that particular image. Even more so here, in an area the tourist guides to Toronto seldom listed. But she didn’t look like a tourist, more like a regular from Trevor’s circle of friends. Trevor’s acquaintances were mostly painters too, the sort of artists who had to take on two and sometimes three jobs just to afford the canvas and brushes.

Kate, on the other hand, did not appear to have any financial problems. In fact, she had acquired a painting. One of his. But why that one? It was a picture of two lovers in embrace, a strong, sensual image.

Sexual.

She didn’t seem to be that sort of woman. There was a severe, almost aristocratic demeanour about her, and an arrogant and determined look in her eyes which fascinated Trevor.

It was as if Kate could read his mind.

“I like it because I enjoy love stories,” she said. “And all love stories have a strong erotic charge.”