THE BLARE OF the busker’s trombone infiltrates Jessica’s dreams, the reel of jumbled images welling up from her subconscious. Jessica opens her eyes and grasps that she is in Colombano’s arms. She has lain there all night; his powerful embrace has imprisoned her. Unable to sleep, Jessica swallowed salty tears, hoping the man’s drumbeat heart would stop, that the boozy, foul carcass that trapped her would turn from warm to cold, that Colombano would die and she could finally make her escape. At some point during the night, the pain exploded in her knees, legs, and toes, and she lay there, paralyzed and sobbing in place as he pulled her closer and ran his fingers through her sweaty hair. In the end, Jessica surrendered, because her entire body gave up. She slipped into some sort of intermediate state between sleeping and waking, a surreal torpor. She watched herself from the French balcony, peering through the curtains like an angel admiring the beauty of the romantic scene in the room but confused by her inconsolably sad face.
“Zesika.”
It’s the ugliest voice in the world. Jessica starts. She feels her heart skip a beat; the revulsion swells inside her. She can still hear the men’s laughter, feel the blows on her bare buttocks. Colombano in her, more unrelenting and rougher than ever before.
“Zesika.”
“What, honey?” Jessica whispers. The words escape her mouth of their own volition, mementos of a time that now feels light-years away. A tear rolls down her cheek. She senses the stickiness of the semen on her thigh.
“You’re not angry, are you?” The grip tightens, giving Jessica a clue as to how she’d better answer.
“Is . . . is that man still here?”
“Matteo?” Colombano chuckles, gives Jessica a peck on the cheek, and rolls out of bed. Now Jessica is free, but she still can’t move. “I told you he wouldn’t touch you.”
Jessica whimpers.
“Well, did he?”
Jessica hears Colombano traipse into the bathroom. A vile tinkling fills the apartment and Colombano groans as his bladder voids into the toilet. Jessica shuts her eyes; she doesn’t know what to say. She can’t remember. Maybe he didn’t touch her. Maybe he just watched. Ultimately it makes no difference.
“No,” Jessica says softly, her eyes on the wall.
“Would you have wanted him to?” Colombano flushes the toilet. “Would you?” he asks again as he returns to the bedroom. The water stops running; the plumbing squeals shrilly.
“I—”
“That’s not my thing; I don’t like sharing. I don’t mind if someone wants to watch, but sharing is another matter altogether.” Jessica feels the mattress on the iron bed sink under Colombano’s weight. “But I can make an exception if you want.”
Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. “No.”
“No. That’s what you said yesterday, princess. And even so, we made love more passionately than ever. Sometimes it’s nice being wrong, isn’t it?” Laughter.
Jessica feels a pain in her abdomen.
“I can call Matteo right now.”
“No.”
“But I want to be honest with you. I would never share anything I truly loved with Matteo. You’re a fun girl, Zesika. But I’ve come to see there’s no future for us. You’re immature. Just a child.”
Jessica sobs; Colombano lowers a hand to her shoulder. “Honesty can be brutal, my child. But one day you’ll thank me for being that. Brutally honest.”
“You’re . . . ,” Jessica says, but the tears constrict her throat and turn the words into a wet wheeze.
Now Colombano bends over her and brings his lips to the base of her ear. “As a matter of fact,” he says at almost a whisper, “I suggest we make love one last time for old times’ sake. Then I’ll go to rehearsals. And by the time I get back, you’ll have packed up your things and gone on your way. Off on that amazing adventure you’re supposed to be on right now.”
“I’ll go.” Jessica pushes herself up to sitting. She can hear the blood rushing in her ears.
“I know you will. But before that, a proper goodbye.”
Jessica feels coarse fingers on her arms and writhes free. “Don’t touch me!” she shrieks, voice trembling, and pops up out of bed. Colombano stares at her in amusement. Jessica can’t look him in the eye; she focuses on the enormous tattoos that adorn his brawny torso.
“Come on. I’ll be late for rehearsal,” Colombano says, wiping the smile from his face. Jessica registers that her breathing has grown shallow. A murmur of voices carries in from outside, mingling with the rataplan of the outboard motors of boats bobbing in the canal. Jessica turns, yanks open the curtains, and is on the verge of screaming for help when Colombano grabs her hair, jerks her back into the apartment so hard, her scalp feels like it’s being ripped off. Then the back of her head thunks against the wooden floor and fingers wrap around her throat. Colombano’s long, greasy hair licks her face, and Jessica’s nostrils fill with the stench of sweat mingled with alcohol and aftershave.
“L’inverno,” Colombano says, spittle spraying from between the white teeth.
Winter.