16
AMBRA
If I could punish myself for the extraordinary feelings I'm experiencing, I’d do it. My body is crying out. I hear it; it’s screaming. It begs to be abandoned to this insane call. Krum is always able to take my breath away with a glance, with a gesture and now, with his smell that is flooding me completely. I don’t want to turn around. What I feel in my stomach, is already too much without him catching my glance. I try to ignore him, he should get tired of me sooner or later. I can’t believe he has so much energy to waste on me.
“Did you hear what I told you?” Here he is, he seemed normal. Now the real Krum is back: authoritarian, irritating, hard and at the same time he shows such a thrilling cold heartedness. God, no. I can’t admit that I thought he’s exciting.
That's what your body thinks.
My body, not my head. The head always comes first. Logic, that's normal. He and I aren’t normal, we could never be. We are a continuous clash, two strings of the same rope; now broken.
I gather the courage I own when I'm in his presence. At least I have to recognize it, he pulls out the most undaunted part of me and makes me feel like a woman.
You're complicating things with your thoughts.
I turn and pant, annoyed, hoping that my behavior gives him the answer he is waiting for.
“I am not dancing with you.”
His eyes are always full of a penetrating darkness. Sometimes I'm afraid that by looking at him too much, I can be sucked in by his brutality. But I like to run the risk and I don’t avoid his eyes.
His fingers run over his uncultured beard and I imagine them still on my hair as he was caressing me out there and confusing me leading me to believe he was a comfort.
“What did you do to your hand?” I ask, noting he has new cuts. They weren’t there earlier.
“Nothing,” he answers, hiding his hand in his pocket. “I’m asking you for the last time, actually no, I am not asking you at all,” he bursts out and takes me by hand. By hand? Why not my hair or my wrist? “You’re dancing with me.”
“Hey, I don’t…”
I try to resist, but his fingers win this strange tangle. He drags me to the center of the room, carefully dodging the people around. I see men’s eyes on me, but then they look down suddenly and something tells me that Krum is showing his destructive strength. That's it He is stunning everyone who looks at me and I, automatically, relax and feel protected.
We reach a less crowded area and, with his usual tactlessness, turns me and drags me to his body. I literally hit him. I bumped his hard chest, I hope not to feel it again as it happened out there, or I'll stop controlling myself and I'll show him that I'm just an emotional young girl.
His hand continues to hold mine, I feel the other on my back, demanding, dominant, icy. He pulls on me more, as if it was possible to unite us.
I feel sick.
“It wasn’t difficult, was it? You're not so bad when you aren’t naughty.” I feel his breath on my forehead, he's too close, it's all too much.
“You're stepping on my toes,” I reproach him. If he does it again, I think I'll lose a big toe.
“I don’t know how to dance.”
I noticed that he never apologizes, even when it should be automatic and informal.
“If you can’t dance, why did you force me to do it?”
“I don’t know. And I didn’t force you.”
Eh?
He takes his hand from my back and gently puts his fingers on my chin, pulling it up and forcing me to look at him. These little gestures, so apparently normal, are extraordinary actions, miracles if made by Krum. I am always afraid he'll hurt me.
I fulfil his request and not because he expects it. I'm more determined to examine this new way of acting than to avoid it.
He puts his hand behind my back and pulls me again, exerting an even more firm pressure than before. I feel something inside me exploding like an electric shock that invades me internally, right down there.
I don’t want to experience these feelings and I don’t want to call them by their name.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“I don’t understand you.”
“There is nothing to understand. I always do what I want, That's all.”
“Without considering what others want?”
We don’t take our eyes off of each other for one second.
I like it.
“I never care about others.” Now he looks at my lips and I look down embarrassed. I feel his fingers touching my chin again bringing me back to him.
“I want you to look at me.”
He started with his want again. If he repeats this word, I'll leave him right here. We spin round ourselves simulating dance steps. Well, more than a dance it’s a sort of swaying out of pace. It’s just... to feel each other.
I am deeply embarrassed because every movement causes a random rubbing of my body on his. He notices the blush that invades my cheeks and the triumphant smile printed on his face makes me feel defeated. He realizes that I'm going to protest, fleeing away and he anticipates me by holding me back. His hand moves up my back, stinging every fragment of uncovered skin that shivers at his touch. I hope he doesn’t realize it.
I feel his fingers surround my neck and pull on it, to draw my face to his chest.
I cannot believe I'm dancing a slow dance with my kidnapper, with the man who has excited my nights, with the same man who says he hates me, who maltreats me and then looks for me and keeps me close to him as if I were the most precious thing in this world.
That's how he makes me feel: precious.
I feel his jaw rubbing on my hair, I guess he is smelling me. I do the same and I am inebriated by his strong scent, so intense and exciting.
I recognize the notes of the song playing. It's Salted Wound by Sia. Part of the text couldn’t be more appropriate for the moment. It seems sung specifically for him:
Tell her on how you feel,
Give her every say she needs to hear
Give your heart, and say come take it
And she will see you're a good man
And then it seems to continue for me:
Yes, you can do it
Don't break
Yeah, you'll pull through it,
You're safe
He drags my hand to his chest and keeps it imprisoned there, as he looks for my eyes again and I look back at him.
“This dress looks good on you,” he breaks the silence.
“Apparently everyone likes it.”
“The idea was that I had to be the one who liked it.”
I feel like I'm burning up. Something flows down, deep down.
“I cannot accept these gifts." I bow my head and I again find his fingers requiring visual contact, lifting my chin.
“Is it important that I always look at you?”
“It’s necessary.”
“Why?”
“Because I need it.”
I sigh and my chest presses on his. I let go of his hand and I bring it to his chest, then I do the same with the other. He is breathing energetically. He opens his lips, I feel him stiffening up against me. I put both hands on his pectorals and coddle them, going under his jacket and searching for his shirt.
I imagine his muscular and perfect body, but what I want to do is to make him believe that all that is happening is only the result of his many desires.
“You know…” I try to be sensual and malicious at the same time. “You are a handsome man, you have a great body.” His eyes are bright, shining and they’re the nicest thing I've ever seen. I'm going to give him one of my shots and I hope to put him out. “But you are not my type. I wouldn’t stay with a man like you even under torture.” I hold his head with one hand and I get on my tip toes to reach his ear. “You said you hate me, well, that's reciprocal. You may give gifts, you may be kind, you may play the real man, but in my eyes you’ll always be darkness in person and you’ll never have my respect, you’ll never get my consideration but only contempt and the grudge I have nurtured for you all these years.”
His head escapes from my grip and he looks at me incredulous. His eyes have lost the shine they had. He grinds his jaw and holds my hip tight, grabbing my flesh in a furious pinch.
“You're hurting me,” I say calmly. Oh, gosh, I must have exaggerated and now he will be angry.
“You are hurting me,” he bursts out so loud that the people in our vicinity look at us on the track. He doesn’t seem to care. He also clasps my other hand. My hips are burning under his grip. I will get more bruises.
“I'm starting to get my revenge then,” I say evilly. “I want to hurt you, too!”
He blinks his eyes incredulous. I'm really enjoying to see him disoriented by my words. It's powerful to hurt with a sentence and it's cowardly to do it by force.
“What are you doing?” he asks chanting. He is incredulous.
“What do you mean?”
“What are you doing to me? Why are you doing this to me? Why are you like this?”
He suddenly drops the hold of my hand and rejects me; I stumble back. He looks like one who has just seen a ghost. He leaves and disappears in the crowd.
I feel deprived of a fundamental part of my body. I could never have thought I would have felt so guilty. Just with him.
You hurt him, he deserved it.
I stand in the middle of the room like an idiot for an undefined period of time. I wonder why my considerations are so important for him. Maybe…
He wants your forgiveness.
He’ll never have it.
I don’t have the time to understand how stupid I am, when I hear Leonardo's voice breaking into my thoughts.
“Dinner is ready, Will you sit with me?” His tone is mischievous. My eyes are looking for Krum. I don’t want to be alone with him. I prefer Krum.
You're sick!
“Sure, I'm starving.” I follow him. He’s holding his hand on my back, at the same point where Krum's hand had been until recently. I feel violated and forced, again.
We reach the big table where a few people are sitting. It’s clear the tables were organized according to the importance of the guests. The fact that I have to sit next to Leonardo, makes me uncomfortable. Before I sit down I realize Krum has come back. He has the usual rigid posture and his eyes are two black balls full of hatred that I feel in the air; hatred totally turned on me.
Our eyes meet and he moves away proudly, sitting at another table, where I see Oscar and other men. I don’t know why, but I try to be sure Ivanka isn’t there.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Leonardo says before settling down, “this is Ambra Livori, the daughter of one of our most esteemed friends, Alberto Livori.”
At the table astonishing comments are said. People present here compliment me for my father's fame, for his impeccable correctness. I want to laugh with bitterness, but I just nod and thank them for the praise.
Dinner goes on normally, every now and then someone asks me how family affairs are going and I realize I'm totally extraneous to the background of the empire that my father has created. Some ladies know my mother and I'm not surprised, just as Leonardo's continuous clarifications begin to send me clear signals.
“Ambra is still very young, but soon she is going to lead the Livori’s industries. Don’t you think that new generations are a breath of fresh air in the obsolete mechanisms of the old economic theories?”
A very boring debate on industrial theories begins. Only now I am realizing why my father insisted that I study economics instead of art history. I try to nod, hoping not to look stupid. I say my opinion about the subjects I'm not ignorant in and I see Leonardo brightening up when I make my considerations on the concept of power.
“I think power is not in the hands of the person who says he has it, but who uses it being unnoticed. Power is in the hands of the person who leads the mechanisms of our market as he pleases, breaking into the system as a ghost that contaminates everything, absorbs it, and simply gets what he wants. Power is in the hands of the person who conquers it. Keeping power is certainly more challenging than entering a system. Power is in the hands of the person who becomes the system.”
“It's correct. That's exactly what I think,” Leonardo whispers only to me. He looks at me as if my words are exciting him.
I turn my eyes away from him who remains looking at me intrusively. My eyes rotate in space, but they are magnetized by Krum, who is staring at me with hatred in his eyes.
It is hate, of course.
What if it is jealousy?
Krum jealous of me? Why should he be?
The conversation is animated. It focuses on capitalism and new publishing technologies. The people at this table are clearly too "old" for my taste and I start listing the advantages of digital publishing.
Between one entree and the other, Leonardo murmurs congratulations, while I, automatically, always look for Krum’s eyes at the other table, with his inflexible and irritating posture. Irritating because it’s like he is controlling me.
“I am really happy you’re here, Ambra,” Leonardo says. “We speak the same language, which is the same as the Sect.” He adds the latter information in a really low voice, and I realize that the Sect theme must remain secret. After all, the Sect is secret.
“I'm happy to know that somehow we understand each other,” I reply. “I hope this is the case for other issues as well.”
I bring a morsel of pie to my mouth and Leonardo leads his thumb to my lips. I feel his fingers pressing removing a piece of whip cream. I shiver because I don’t like it.
“You've become a really interesting woman,” he whispers, staring at my mouth. I feel uncomfortable and, once again, I automatically look for Krum as if I wanted to ask for his support; his intervention. God, I'm ashamed of myself.
I see Krum pushing his chair back and he stands up. He leaves the table and I hope he comes to me, to get me out of this embarrassing situation, but I see him leaving the room and so leaving me. I bring my attention back to Leonardo.
“When can we talk about…” I was going to say Sect, “the issue?”
“I'm very busy, but if you want, I’ll find time. Maybe we can go to dinner alone, just me and you, or I can ask to prepare something here. Whatever you like.” He is trying to make me comfortable. He looks like a very youthful and reassuring guy, but something suggests that he is not at all. “Be sure, Ambra, you can have a normal life. I just want to be sure you don’t go blabbering out what your father and I have built with so much sacrifice.”
It annoys me to hear him speak of my father and on behalf of my father. Daddy in the letter seemed sorry and regretful. He was warning me. he wanted me to keep my eyes open; for me to fake.
“Sure. I'm not stupid. I understand perfectly. I hope to win your trust,” I say cunningly, pretending.
I bring the glass of champagne to my lips and Leonardo's invading eyes are down my neckline.
I want Krum. Where the hell is he?!
“Dinner was really good,” I say. “Thank you,” I get up and say to the guests: “With your permission I'm going out for a breath of air.”
Ladies greet me cordially, as well as men who give me a little too much consideration. When I leave the table and go away, I head to Oscar, who doesn’t see me coming, because he is sitting with his back facing me. I put my hands on his shoulders saying.
“Hello,” he raises his head and gives me a smile.
“Hello.”
He stands up and leaves his guests, who don't do anything but whisper annoying phrases about my body.
“Where is Krum?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, he just got up,” he puts his hand on my side and gives a disapproving look to a guy commenting on my dress. “Let's go, otherwise they’ll never stop it.”
We go out into the garden and Oscar lights a cigarette. He offers me one but I refuse.
“Can I know what you did to Krum?” His question amazes me.
“Why? Did he tell you something?”
“No, but I know him well and I can figure out what goes through his head even before he does.”
“Have you been friends for a long time?”
“Since we were kids.” He sees I cover my arms with my hands. “Are you cold?” I smile. Why can’t Krum be as sweet as he is?
“A little, but I’d like to go to rest. In a moment I'll go in…”
“Wait!” He keeps the cigarette in his mouth and begins to take off his jacket. The smoke blows on his face; he winces, and mumbles: “Take it,” he gives it to me.
“Thanks.” I wrap myself in Oscar’s jacket and then I see he totally changes expression.
Something tells me he's here.
I don’t need to see him because I feel him take off the jacket. I turn around and look badly at him, very badly.
“She doesn’t need your jacket,” Krum bursts, throwing it at Oscar.
“It's cold, leave it to her,” Oscar insists, throwing the jacket back.
“She doesn’t need it because she's going back to her room.” Then he stares at me and says: “Right, princess?”
“It was what I was going to do, but now that you demand it, I’m not tired anymore and I want to stay here. Go away!”
He clutches his fists, looks at me as if he was searching his mind for the most insulting phrase perfect for a bitch like me. But he doesn’t answer.
“Say bye to Oscar,” he orders. “We are leaving.”
“We are leaving?” The plural disturbs me.
“Yes, we are. Me and you. Do you have something to complain about?”
My throat burns, and that burning slides down to my stomach, causing my guts to turnover. Me and you.
How strange it sounds on his lips.
“Leonardo said that…”
“Pritikhvam!”
“Stop speaking Bulgarian. I don’t understand you!”
“He said shut up,” Oscar translates.
“Mind your own business,” Krum attacks him.
“You could also give her some room to breathe,” continues Oscar, putting a hand on my side.
“Take that hand off,” Krum says gritting his teeth. I'm shocked. He's so strange, so crazy and unreasonable.
“Hey!” I snort pushing him away. “I don’t belong to you. You can't tell me what I can and what I can't do and you can't say it even to others. Oscar is kind to me. You can’t treat him like shit either.”
“Do I treat you like shit?” he asks confused. I understand why he behaves this way. He drank, I smell whiskey on his breath.
“Certainly you can’t say that you treat her well,” Oscar intervenes. I feel strong because I have his support.
“I've had enough of you, Oscar,” Krum points his finger at him, then turns to me and offers me his hand with the wounded knuckles. “Let’s go!”
I cross my arms and step back. My pout should be enough, but maybe it's better to pronounce my thoughts aloud.
“I'm not coming with you.”
“I just want to take you to your room,” he says calmly.
He continues to stretch out his hand toward me. I look at Oscar and with a nod of his head he suggests I follow him. Maybe I shouldn’t go against him, maybe it's better to do as he says. Leonardo promised me that I’d have lived a normal life, I should just be patient.
“Okay,” I puff. I greet Oscar with an imperceptible good night that he exchanges, and follow Krum, whose hand slips along his side defeated. I don’t let him take my hand again.
We pass the first hallway in a dead silence. Some guests are making noise in the big entrance. We pass through it, faking smiles. I see Krum snorting when a man approaches me and greets me kissing my cheeks. He was one of the gentlemen with whom I had conversation all evening and I thought it was polite to return a warm greeting. I don’t know who these people are and maybe it has nothing to do with Leonardo's plans, so I act like I’d do in any other context.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ambra,” says the man. “I had great esteem for your father. He was a very modern person…”
“See you, Mr. Bianchi,” Krum snarls. Intimating the man to stop talking. What a rude guy! He clings to my side and I try to move away, but he keeps me close when we take the stairs.
“Was it necessary to be so rude? That guy was just greeting me.”
“He was drooling, you want to say.”
“What’s your problem?” I snap, perhaps too loud, stopping on the stairs.
“You have problems, you don’t realize how they look at you!”
“So? What do you care about it?”
“I cannot always be there, I cannot protect you at all times.”
I am wordless. His rudeness and arrogance are aimed at protecting me? From what?
“Why should you protect me?” I ask abruptly, walking again.
“Because I'm your guardian. It's my job.”
“That man was just greeting me,” I repeat. “You're ridiculous if you think of protecting me even from a malicious look.”
We get to the corridor of the floor where my room is, he comes up from behind. I prefer it. It makes me feel searched for. He takes a stride and stands in front of me.
“Is it normal for you that they look at you that way?”
“What do you want? What do you care about it?” I try to pass him, but he blocks me.
“You’re bothering me, damn it,” he snarls and then he closes his mouth as if he has realized he said nonsense. And he did.
“W-why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has it now become your favorite answer? There are other ways to avoid the truth.”
“It's the truth,” he replies annoyed as he looks in his pocket for the key to my room. “I don’t really know. It makes me mad and that’s all.” He turns and I, I... oh my god! I feel a strange force pushing me to touch him. But I refrain, because it’s not sweet bewilderment what his gestures and thoughts emanate, it's just the twisted mind of a sadist who can’t wait to strike.
He opens the door of my room and pulls me in, locking it behind him. I turn to him and with pretentious admiration, I say: “You can go now. You brought me to my room, your work is done!”
He takes off his jacket and tosses it onto a chair at the end of the room. I open my eyes. I feel my legs give in and I feel weak. I am weak.
“What are you doing?” I mumble.
“I’m staying here to sleep.”