20
AMBRA
If I let him hold my hand it is just to keep him under control. He's stupid if he thinks I need to be so close to him.
Liar!
I ignore the naughty voice in my head, I don’t like being a victim of my own thoughts. I realized that if I go along with Krum, I can avoid feeling the skin of my wrists burn and can keep all my hair on my head. If I only try to let go of his fingers, I’d feel him tighten even more, just because he tries to impose. I know perfectly well that he doesn’t care about me and that all he does is just to satisfy his whims. He wants everything and blah, blah, blah.
He wants me as you want another glass of champagne, or a new shirt to buy in a store. He’s only guided by the need to get what he wants and all because I deny myself to him. If I had given into him from the first day, of course, he’d have stopped playing with me right away. But he is that way, he needs to conquer his space, control his preys, dominate them inside and out.
And he succeeds.
If I recall the feelings I had experienced last night, sleeping on his warm chest, and this morning, quivering under him, I feel myself sinking into the abyss of shame. I had wished he would have made the bomb of desire explode inside. It was horrible to have to control myself in the bathroom while I was stimulating him. Unable to control myself while, I myself, was stimulated by him. I Was feigning. It was just to give him the coupe of grace at the right moment. Yet part of me was not acting, really giving into the desire to feel him on me, perfectly embedded in my body that. If it wasn’t for my stubbornness, he would have let go and he would have been able to do all those dirty things he says.
Even listening to him speaking, hearing his voice promising what he would do to me, was the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me.
Krum insisted on having breakfast in the kitchen. I asked him why not with the others, but he didn’t answer. Sometimes it’s like talking to a wall. He is a wall. A wall of muscles impossible to ignore. He forced me to eat the usual croissant, all of it, and this time I didn’t complain, because he is right when he says that food mustn’t be wasted. In my mind I think about his obsession with food, hoping to investigate his past; certainly he must not have had a easy childhood . He also prepared me coffee and I didn’t complain when he dragged me out of the kitchen without any delicacy; Even though he literally dragged me, because he had heard voices coming and the fact he held me by hand relieved every fear.
When we pass the hall - now baptized by me "the one with the dome" -, we head to a door that I’ve never noticed because surrounded by a decorative frame. It looks like a kind of secret-non-secret passage.
Anxiety comes over me when everything is pitch dark.
“Krum,” I cling to his back and instinctively hold on to his other hand.
“Hush, in a few steps, I'll turn on the light.”
My hands leave his and seek his forearms. They are so impressive and solid.
“I'm not so sure I want to see this area of the…”
“Wing of the five senses,” he completes my answer. After a tic, the light turns on and I look around dazed.
I don’t suffer from claustrophobia, but the corridor in which we are is really gloomy, unlit, narrow, long and stone made. We seem to be going through one of those walls that act as a trap, where the walls from one moment to the other contract to crush you.
“Calm down," he assures me again. Calm down, with Krum? In such a place? If I were to calm down, I’d officially declare myself a masochist. “When they built the Temple, they also thought about some secret passages. At that time every structure like this had basements. This tunnel is not very long; it leads to a staircase that goes down into the underground. The secret passage exit was walled in. It was there,” he indicates a small access that was visibly sealed.
“There are no mice, are there?”
I could die of heart attack, just for that. Krum laughs, his face is shining under an old lamp hanging from the ceiling.
“Would you be afraid of a tiny mouse?"
“Why, are there any?” I ask, worried. I’d prefer a thousand Krum rather than jumping to skip a mouse.
“When you're with me, you don’t have to be afraid of anything.”
We keep walking and I don’t waste time to reply, teasing him.
“I mustn’t be afraid of anything, but I should be afraid of you, right?”
I see a small railing that surrounds a hole in the ground. Krum looks at me intensely.
“You must be afraid of me.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not a nice person.”
I don’t like his answer at all. He says that I must feel safe with him and then comes out with these phrases that sound like a warning. It seems he wants to tell me stay away. And I am staying away. Surely I am.
We go down the spiral staircase, I get dizzy, light becomes dimmer and dimmer. As we go down into the underground, it gets colder and our sight is compromised by the coming darkness. I take a tighter grip on Krum's hand, trying not to stumble on the tiny steps.
When we finally reach the basement, Krum moves back and switches on the light. We are in a very small, square room, almost more asphyxiating than the previous corridor. The walls are made of black stone, the floor is rough, there is a huge armored door in heavy steel. I observe everything with much curiosity, although there isn’t much to see. My attention is captured by a small remote control placed on the wall, right near the door. I suppose that a code should be entered to go in.
“Do you want to lock me in there?” my voice echoes in the little room. “Is it a sort of sophisticated jail?”
“You like it, don’t you?”
“What?”
“The idea that I can lock you up somewhere and keep you only for me.”
He has such an irritating face! I let out a laugh and cross my arms . He goes toward the remote control, but before typing the code, he puts his arm around me with and covers my eyes with one hand holding me tight to his chest.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Should I give you the code of your prison?”
“What?” I yell aloud. But when he uncovers my eyes, the door is already open, and what I have before me is certainly a prison where I’d like to spend a lot of time. “Oh, my God,” I sigh.
My fingers intertwine to his again and my feet walk forward stimulated by the vision. I can’t close my mouth, I'm stunned.
“I told you I was gonna show you something unique.”
“Oh, Krum. Is it all true?”
“It's all true.”
The room is huge. The roof isn’t very high and the depth creates a strange imbalance between height and width. Even here the walls are entirely of rough stone, but the floor is in wood and is decorated with colorful Persian carpets. There is a wall full of shelves in which books of evident prestige are arranged in perfect size and order. There are wooden tables on which ancient objects are exposed. On the other side, there are glass window cases full of stones and crystals, armor, swords and, in the bottom, placed on the wall, in all its extraordinary beauty, there is one of the masterpieces never seen before, but already recognizable to my eyes, because of the unmistakable style.
I go into ecstasy to the big picture with unambiguous representations. I feel Krum's eyes on me and I let him touch me with his eyes. I allow him to hold my hand and this time not to try to calm him down, but because I am pleased that he is taking me to this room.
We stop at a couple of feet from the big picture and I raise my head to admire it in its entirety. He seems to be so used to the surroundings. It's obvious or he wouldn’t be staring at me with that enthusiasm. He'll just be glad to see my expression.
“Krum, I cannot believe it, this is… it is…”
He hugs me from behind and whispers in my ear: “It's a Picasso.”
“It isn’t possible!”
“The Father bought it.”
“Where?” I ask.
“If you are thinking of the hypothesis that most of the collection items that are here arrived illegally, the answer is yes.”
That yes vibrates on the lobe of my ear.
“Oh.”
The presence of Krum is embellishing the experience. I'm enraptured.
“I've always loved Picasso,” he whispers in my ear, rocking me with his arms around my belly.
“Explain this picture to me!”
“I'm sure an art student like you can explain it better.”
“How do you know that I’ve studied art?”
“I know all about you,” he almost crushes me.
I take a note of this detail in my head. Why should he know all about me?
“You explain it. I want to hear your point of view. There is not always an official interpretation of art. Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder.”
“As in real life.”
“And isn’t it true that life is art?”
“Life is not art. It’s your way of living that makes life precious itself.”
I'm amazed by the power of his words. I nod, still staring at the picture slightly lit by a spotlight.
“Then?” I insist. “Show me what your eyes see.”
He sighs, warming my neck and let my head rest on his chest, relaxing in his arms.
“Let's see… Bright colors are a demand for color in the painter's existence. They are so strong because they are absent outside the picture, absent in his life. The artist is shouting out his need to see a world with different eyes. The blond woman represents a spotlight in that confused mix of colors, is in evidence because she recalls certainty. The marked lines of black, covering her asymmetrical body, seem to imprison her figure, to imprison her inside the same frame, not to let her disappear in the colors. The other figure must be a man, but with Picasso you never know. I see him as a man. The man who stands apart. For him the brushstrokes are lighter, less intense, as if he was less important than the woman. He doesn’t have marked edges like the other. He is there, but only to contemplate her presence.”
“He looks angry,” I add.
“Yes. He keeps his fists closed,” he continues, gently speaking to my ear. “The woman knows and goes to meet him, as if she wants to win his trust. It looks like she is telling him…”
“No problem, I'm here for you,” I continue in his place.
“Yes, that's exactly what he says. He has his face split, which is the mirror of his soul, she holds out her hand, but he remains aside, as if he wanted…”
“To protect her from himself.”
“To protect her from himself.”
We remain motionless for an infinite amount of time. I caress his forearms uncovered by his rolled sleeves.
I've put aside every shred of hate I feel for him and I’ve, only temporarily, welcomed the extraordinary version that he’s giving me.
Looking at the picture better, I confirm his interpretation and I recognize that it’s exactly what I’d have given it myself. For a moment I feel like that abstract woman trying to go to Krum, but I cannot say it aloud because I'm afraid he will hold his fists tight like the portrayed protagonist, while I'm so good at the moment, that I'm afraid to ruin it.
“It's very beautiful. You can’t find it in books.”
“It's yours,” he says.
“What?” I stare at him bewildered.
“Everything in here belongs to the Sect. Many items have also been bought by your father. He was a coin collector.”
“I know but…”
“When you’ll be a member of the Sect, these objects will also belong to you.”
I am astounded.
“What’s the matter?” he asks curiously. “Are you preparing a list of questions in your head?”
“Actually yes.”
“Later. Now I want to show you something else,” he leads me to the glass case where several stones are exposed. “I know there are priceless objects in here, but the collection of gems, crystals and minerals is my favorite.”
“Do you like stones?” I laugh at him.
“Don’t call them stones! Each gem has its own soul. Each specimen stores deep meanings. It is a modest collection, not really very important, though there are priceless gems. Look at this,” he opens the case and pulls out a ball with a not very circular shape. It’s dark orange, almost brown with golden tints. He holds the stone near my eye and says: “It has the same color of your eyes.”
“What's its name?”
“Amber.”
My mother has several amber jewels, but I have never seen the stone in its natural beauty.
I randomly pick up a dark stone from the shelf and I put it near Krum's eye. It has a cut different than the Amber and it's all black.
“Mmh, this has the color of your eyes.”
“The Black Onyx? My eyes aren’t so dark!”
“Yes, they are.”
He touches the onyx that I hold in my hands, but he doesn’t take it away. It seems more an excuse to touch me again.
“Onyx doesn’t have the color of my eyes, it has the color of my soul.”
That should disturb me, but I have no doubt that he is black inside.
“It's a beautiful color, anyway.”
He slightly smiles and that simple, but rare gesture, warms me inside and vibrates on my skin. I hear the voice of my unconscious invoking a new smile and I agree with the inner voice that, he wants it.
He puts both stones in the display and begins to point to all those that draw my attention: Amethyst, Topaz, Fluorite, Moonstone, Obsidian, Snowflake Obsidian, Crisocolla, Cerussite, Siderite and many others. How can he recognize them all and remember their names is really amazing. I'm fascinated by his culture. I didn’t expect a man like him to know so many things and possess a great passion for art.
“Look at this,” he points to a glass display on a table, where an aged yellow sheet lays.
“What is it?”
“It's a handwritten draft. It’s The Infinite by Giacomo Leopardi.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. You don’t know what I had to do to find the seller.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Better.”
“Oh, God!”
“Much of the stuff here, I personally went to get on behalf of the Father, actually it was for the Sect.”
“Did you know my father?”
“Have you started with the questions?”
“You said that if I came with you to the wing of the five senses you would have answered me.”
He grins a witty smirk, puts his hands in his pocket, raises his chin and, with a particularly malicious air, says: “This isn’t the wing of the five senses.”
“Ah no?”
“No, no.”
“When are you taking me there?”
“I wouldn’t be so impatient if I were you, or maybe you've already understood and you can’t wait.”
His allusions don’t give me curiosity but excitement.
I sigh and he throws his eyes on my lips and my tongue automatically licks them.
“Ambra…”
“Yes?”
“If you choose to come with me into the wings of the five senses, there's no turning back.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's a game and every game has its own rules.”
I sigh, I feel my chest trembling, I lower my eyes, but I immediately feel his fingers on my chin requiring my visual contact.
I grant it and I can read in his eyes a particular hunger. It looks like he wants something from me.
“Are you coming with me?” he insists.
“Actually, we’ve already made an agreement,” I remind him.
“I just want you to be sure.”
“Since when do you care about my opinion?”
“Since forever. But when it doesn’t coincide with my own, I find it difficult to accept it and I have to impose it.”
“You are selfish!”
“You don’t know how much.”
“Well, I am more than you.”
“I know.”
I didn't notice that he has practically swooped on me.
“Krum,” I reject him, opening my palms on his chest, which are going to melt his shirt as they are so hot.
“Moya!” he whispers.
I look at him demanding the translation.
“Let’s go,” he repeats as before.
Something tells me it doesn’t mean let's go.