Another long read from the Prague diaries.
And to say, ‘You’re very nice?”
‘Sei molto sympatico.’
‘And to say, ‘Would you like to do something tonight?’
‘Vuoi fare qualcosa stasera?’
‘Good. Hah! Have you seen this bit?’
You have (a) beautiful
‘Hai gli occhi belli,’ say I. You have beautiful eyes. ‘Posso ballare con te?’ Can I dance with you?
She blinks. ‘Sono qui con il mio ragazzo.’
I’m here with my boyfriend.
‘You don’t have a boyfriend.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s better than, ‘Non mi interessa.’
The first needle is in under the skin. It’s only a matter of time before she takes my fingernails.
This is the first time I ask Viola to dance. She reclines on the little divan in my studio, idly twirling paint brushes in her hands; her gleaming sweep of auburn hair is shocking against her white shoulders. It isn’t human hair, or it shouldn’t be. I touched it once, it is more like the glassy hair of a mermaid. She tosses the brush into a corner and smooths her lilac skirt down over her thighs. Viola is hyper-feminine, given to antiquated styles and luscious silks and chiffon. She likes to cinch in her waist, full skirts rustling about her knees. She is the only woman I know apart from Mona – who has been forcibly ripped from the past and shoved into the present and doesn’t really count – who wears stockings. Her make-up is applied with an artist’s hand. Long, sweeping eye-black, cheeks flawless and rosy from her little Moroccan pots of powder and rouge. She rises and picks up her bag. When she is not busy being a muse she works in a gallery, and I have made her late. I am glad the reason she is late is because we were teaching each other one of the most beautiful languages in the world. She trips past me with her swaying gait, her perfume rolling over me in a heady wave where I am sitting pretending to be absorbed in Italian grammar. The door closes behind her with a dull click, like a full stop.
I whisper against the palm of my hand, ‘Sono innamorata di te.’
I am in love with you.
I remember all this, painfully clear, as I smoke in the bath that evening. Suddenly I am an adult, but I do not want adulthood, with its loss and its terror of loss, and responsibilities and exit wounds. My mouth becomes dry, and I resolve to go and talk to Mona first thing in the morning, because I’m overwhelmed and Mona is a cocktail mix of helpful contradictions and employs the kind of hard-headed, practical values particular to whores and long-lived bohemians who have survived the razor’s edge. I wipe the steam from the bathroom window and look at the stars beginning to freckle the long evening sky. My heart feels weighted, steadily developing a little tumour of lead.
Mona lives in a well-off part of town and I always feel just a little degraded, despite myself, when I walk through it. People sometimes stop and look at me, they are dressed in neat and sober navy and winter grey; work suits for people who go to offices with coffees and pastries clutched in their hands, grease seeping through paper bags. My clothes are ugly, and they look at me as though I were an exotic but dirty animal let loose from someone’s private collection; a pet baboon with an unexpected freedom and mischief in its head. How Mona must make them tremble! She opens her door in a silk and velvet kimono decorated with peacocks, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She exhales, and I watch the smoke tumble past my shoulder like a spirit released into the street.
‘You sounded dreadful on the telephone, Dearheart.’ Mona calls everyone Dearheart, or My Darkling. She wrinkles her nose at my abject appearance and motions me inside.