After swearing our conversation wasn’t over, Sebastian left for his meeting.
I’m sitting in the hotel room watching the sun curl around an angry cloud, promising more rain to come.
He’ll be gone for several hours. I’m surprised he left me unsupervised. Even allowed me to go anywhere I like—as long as it’s inside the hotel. Eat something, buy something from the boutique, and just charge it to the room.
Christ, I feel like a child. I don’t even have a dollar to buy myself a cup of coffee.
I look around the large living room and realize there isn’t a telephone in here, not even on the desk. I get up and search the bedroom. There are phone jacks, but no phone. I snort, remembering how on our way up here, we’d passed a housekeeper’s cart. I’d noticed the two telephones with their cords wrapped around them on top of a stack of towels. I’d thought it was strange, but it hadn’t really registered then that he probably had the hotel remove the phones before we arrived.
I shake my head. All that sweet talk. All that lovemaking. More Scafoni bullshit. But he made a mistake, leaving me here.
He unpacked the overnight bag before he left. I go to the closet and open the door. Like the obsessive neat freak he is, I see he’s hung up our things. A suit for him, a pair of jeans, a dress for me. Our shoes are neatly lined up on the floor, mine next to his like we’re just a normal couple. Like we’re here on some lovers’ getaway.
Is that what he thinks this is? Is he pretending that’s what we are?
I reach into the pockets of his suit jacket as well as the dress slacks but come up empty. His jeans, though, turn up a wad of bills. Not a huge amount, about €90. Not enough to do anything significant, but something.
It’s not like him to stuff bills into his pocket. Maybe he did it when we stopped for gas and he bought himself a cup of coffee and me a bottle of water. I take the money, put on the raincoat Sebastian had the presence of mind to bring for me because I hadn’t packed one, and head downstairs.
In the lobby, I see a telephone. I start for it but then stop, remembering it’s the middle of the night at home. I can’t call yet, but I will. I have no idea what I’ll say, but I will call.
I bypass the restaurant and the gift shop and step outside, hesitating on the stairs of the beautiful hotel, knowing I’m breaking his rule.
What am I even doing? Running away?
I shake my head and turn back, even take a step back inside the hotel entrance, but I can’t. I can’t just give in. Give up.
And so, without thinking about where I’m going or what I’m doing, if I’m coming back before he gets back or if I’m disappearing, I walk out of the hotel and into the beautiful city not seeing a thing, too deep in thought.
One thing I can’t stop thinking about is how I know that no matter what happens to me, my sisters will continue this tradition when it comes their turn. They will dress their daughters, my nieces, in those rotting, yellowing sheaths and put them on those horrible blocks to be looked over, judged, touched by the next Scafoni bastard. Put there for him to take his pick. Like we’re not human. Like we’re animals.
I guess we are to them.
My thoughts jump back to what just happened between us. To him talking to me like he did, holding me like he did. Making love to me. It’s the only time I’ve been made love to.
The first time I had sex, the only time before Sebastian, the boy and I were both sixteen. Kids. Neither of us knew what we were doing, and the only reason I did it at all was because I needed him to rip through that thin sliver of flesh that marked me a virgin.
It didn’t feel good. In fact, I remember it hurt, but I gritted my teeth and tried to block out his wet, panting breath at my ear. He’d used a condom, and he’d come quickly with a little grunt. I remember I wanted him off me as soon as it was over.
It’s very different with Sebastian. I want sex with Sebastian. And it’s not just my body betraying me. It’s me wanting to be close to him.
And this is what scares me the most.
I give a violent shake of my head. It’s so out of place that the people passing me stop and stare. I only half meet their eyes but hug the coat to myself and walk on.
I can’t think about that. I can’t think about him making love to me. Touching me gently or roughly. I can’t think about what he said, that he watches me sleep. that I curl into him, that he cocoons me. Shelters me. I know that already, and I can’t go there.
But then again, maybe it’s my dependence on him that makes this so strange. That confuses my feelings so completely.
I think about my Aunt Libby and wonder, for the first time, if she wasn’t heartbroken when she came home. If she didn’t kill herself because of missing her Scafoni master. Because maybe this is what they do. Maybe we become so helplessly dependent on them that we think we love them.
I wander around for a while, not sure where I’m going, and only notice I’m out of the center when I realize the streets aren’t as busy here and the shops are local shops, markets and a dentist, a beauty salon. A run-down antique shop stuffed so full that the faces of the dolls smashed against the window watch me creepily as I walk by.
When the rain starts back up, I duck into one of the shops and use Sebastian’s money to buy an umbrella. Back outside, I watch people rush by, some with giant umbrellas, some on bikes, and tourists dragging their oversize suitcases along uneven, rain-soaked streets. I listen to their complaints about the weather and I think they should be grateful. They’re free. How we take simple freedoms for granted. How I did.
A car drives too fast to make the traffic light, splashing water on my legs. I look up, mentally curse the driver, and realize why there are so many people with suitcases here.
I’m at the Verona train station.
When the light changes, I cross the street, avoiding the bigger puddles, and run under the cover of the overhanging roof of the station, shaking out my umbrella and closing it before walking inside. It’s busy here and loud with people waiting out of the rain.
I reach into my pocket, feeling the stack of bills, and read the schedule boards. There’s a train leaving for Rome in thirty minutes, and a ticket will cost me €65.
I walk toward the counter. I even get in line. But there’s a part of me that wonders what I’m doing. What I will do. Where will I go? Home? How? With what money? What passport? Besides, my parents won’t want me back. Given what I’ve learned, I wouldn’t put it past them to return me to the Scafoni family.
The line moves, and it’s my turn. I take out my wad of borrowed bills. “Rome, please. One-way.”
What am I doing?
The woman says something I don’t understand between the noise around me, my own thoughts, and her accent, but she points to the screen displaying the amount I owe.
I push my money into the little tray under the glass. A few minutes later, she spins it around. I take my change and my ticket and step out of the line. Someone bumps into me, or truly, I bump into them because I’m not paying attention.
“I’m sorry.”
The man barely gives me a sideways glance and carries on talking into his cell phone, rushing to his train.
I head to the turnstiles. I’m just following those ahead of me. I have no identification. No passport. No nothing. Just a little more than €20 in my pocket and my train ticket.
A crowd of people rushes past me. They’re panicked, like they’re about to miss their train, and I step aside to let them pass.
I have half an hour, so I walk across the station to the coffee shop and order an espresso at the bar. I stand with the locals and take the tiny cup of thick black liquid and sip it. It’s too strong. I try again but put the cup down and look at the check under the cup for what I owe. I reach into my pocket and pull out the handful of coins from the umbrella purchase. I’m rifling through them, turning each one over to see what’s what when an arm slides around my waist.
I shift my gaze to the fingers that curl around me, and I’m not sure if I’m surprised.
I look up at him.
He’s not looking at me.
Before I’ve made sense of my coins, Sebastian drops three on the counter and picks up the train ticket next to my coffee cup. I watch him read it and realize that drumbeat is my heart pumping blood loudly in my ears. He reads the ticket, crumples it in his fist, and shoves it into his jacket pocket.
When he finally looks at me, his eyes are dark. He doesn’t speak, not a word, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s that when he’s truly angry, he’s quiet. He’s thinking. Planning the best mode of attack.
“Finish your coffee.”
“I-I’m finished.”
He picks up my tiny espresso cup, hands it to me. My hands shake when I take it from him. I don’t think he blinks while I force down the too dark coffee.
When I’m finished, he nods, takes the cup, and puts it back onto its saucer.
I expect we’ll leave right away, but we don’t. We stand at the bar, my back to it while he faces it, his arm now around my front, fingers still gripping my waist. He’s watching me, and I’m watching the people move around us, most rushing, some strolling, stopping for coffee, sitting at a table to eat something.
The noise of the station fades into the background, the announcements, the rain, the chatter. Sebastian takes a deep breath in, and I turn to him.
“I don’t understand you,” he says.
I stare back at him. I want to ask what he doesn’t understand. I want to ask how he found me. I want to ask how angry he is.
No, not that last one. I can see that. It’s in the tightening of his chiseled jaw. In the hardening of his full lips.
Lips that kissed me gently and spoke sweetly just a few hours ago.
Gentleness and sweetness that I rejected.
“You prefer me to be rough with you? Is that it?” His fingers dig into my skin. “You choose to draw a line between us?”
“It’s not a choice. None of this has ever been a choice for me.”
His eyes scan my face, narrow a little.
“I can be rough with you, if that’s what you want,” he says quietly. Calmly. “What you need.”
I swallow. I know he means it.
Without another word, he shifts his grip to my hand, fist on fist, squeezing so hard my fingernails cut into my skin. He picks up my umbrella—I’d forgotten it—and like this, not quite hand in hand, we walk out of the station and into the rain, to the line of waiting taxis. He opens the back door of the first one and gestures for me to get in. I do. He follows and gives the driver an address in Italian.
About ten minutes later, ten minutes where he doesn’t speak a single word, ten minutes where I feel his anger throbbing like a separate entity in the car, we pull up to a shop. It looks like men’s shoes.
He gives the driver some instruction before opening the door of the taxi, not bothering with the umbrella as he drags me out with him. In the distance, I can see blue skies, but here, rain is pouring down.
A bell rings over the door as we enter, opera music playing softly, the faint scent of a cigar having been smoked recently filtered by that of leather and expensive cologne. The older man who is reading the paper behind his desk looks up at Sebastian, smiles in recognition, stands.
Sebastian speaks a few words to him. His tone is clipped.
The man’s smile turns into a nod and a quick glance at me. He disappears behind a curtain.
Sebastian is still squeezing my fist, and his hand feels hot.
A few minutes later, the man reappears with a thin cord of leather about three feet long. Sebastian releases my hand, takes it, wraps it around his fist and tests its strength.
When I look up at the old man, he quickly looks away. Sebastian says something to him, tucks the cord into his pocket, hands him some bills, and, a few minutes later, we’re in the taxi again and heading back into the center of Verona and to our hotel. By the time we arrive the rain has turned into a drizzle, but the city is drenched, even the sunlight is a dampened yellow.
Sebastian pays the driver. We leave the umbrella when we walk back into the hotel and at the front desk, he asks for the key. They still use the old-fashioned ones you turn in when you leave. We head up to our suite and, once inside, he finally releases me.
I step away, look at the crescent indents my fingernails carved into my palm, look back at him. “Are you going to talk to me?”
He takes off his jacket, hangs it up, takes that corded-up leather out of the pocket and sets it on the table beside the door along with the room key with its red tassel hanging from it.
“Take off your jacket and hang it up.”
I do as he says and hang it beside his. He looks me over.
“Your shoes too.”
I look down, slide off the shoes which have tracked dirt into the room, and instantly lose two inches.
“Let’s go into the bedroom.”
“Why?” I’m cautious. He’s not going to just let this go.
“Because I said so.”
When I don’t move, he comes to me. I expect him to grip my arm and make me go. But instead his fingertips are gentle at my low back. I walk into the bedroom with him.
He goes to the full-length mirror against the far wall, moves a chair to clear a large space, then turns to me.
“Come here.”
I do. I stand with my back to the mirror facing him. He looks at me again, at the buttons of my dress. I’m still when he begins to undo them, one by one, taking care not to touch my skin when he does.
“What are you going to do?” I ask quietly because he will punish me. I know it.
He meets my eyes, then shifts his gaze back to the buttons, unbuttoning each one carefully, taking his time until the dress is undone to just below my waist. He pushes it open a little, just enough to glimpse the swell of my breasts in my lace bra. Leaving me there, he walks into the living room and returns with the leather cord.
“Do I need to tie you?”
I look at it, unsure what he’s planning. Is he going to tie me up with it?
“What are you going to do?” I ask again.
“Do I need to tie you?” he repeats.
I slowly, uncertainly, shake my head no.
“Good.”
He reaches out, pushes the hair that rain stuck to my forehead away, looks at me and for a minute, I regret what I did. I regret rejecting him. I regret running off.
“I wasn’t going to get on the train.” I wasn’t. It’s true.
“I know.” He touches my cheek like he’s wiping something off, then meets my eyes again. “Turn around.”
“You don’t have to punish me.”
But he does. And he will. His silence tells me so.
“Why?” I ask. I feel myself begin to tremble. Feel the heat of tears building behind my eyes.
“Turn around, Helena. Do as I say. It’s important you do as I say.”
I turn slowly so I’m facing the mirror. I don’t look at us, not right away. Instead, I look at the reflection of the window, see how the shadows are growing long outside as evening slowly descends. I must have been gone for hours.
It’s when I feel his hands on me that I watch him. They’re on my shoulders, and he squeezes them, rubs them. Wraps his big hands around them. I want to lean into him, I want to take back what I said and lean into his powerful chest and let him hold me. Not punish me.
But his fingers take hold of my open dress and slowly, gently, so carefully, drag it over my shoulders, not off, only halfway down my arms. He does the same with the straps of my bra. His hands burn my skin as he collects my hair and lifts the mass of it to set it over my shoulder before kissing it.
His lips are soft against my skin.
“You’re perfect,” he says to my reflection.
I turn my head, my cheek almost touches his. The scruff of his jaw is rough. He’s warm. I almost turn around, but he must sense it and he shakes his head a little. His hands are on my arms, rubbing them.
“I’m going to punish you, Helena.”
My tears begin to fall like the rain of the afternoon.
I nod my head. I know he’s going to punish me. And I know it’s going to be bad. Not like before. Not like when he used his belt. This will be worse because it means more now.
“And I don’t want you to fight me. I don’t want to tie you. It’s important.”
I nod again, stupidly, and his hands come to the tops of my shoulders. He puts a little pressure on them.
“Kneel.”
There’s a moment of panic, but he’s behind me, pressing against me, arms around me holding me to him. One hand covers one breast and squeezes it, weighs it, while the other slips under my dress, fingertips sliding into my panties, just touching my clit. I watch us like this, my lips slightly parted.
This is what I look like when I want.
“Kneel, Helena.”
I nod. I don’t want to disappoint him.
He draws his hand out of my panties. It’s back on my shoulder, and I kneel. He arranges my hair again, over my shoulder to expose my back, pushing my head forward a little so I’m kneeling, head bowed, like a penitent seeking forgiveness before a god.
He kisses my shoulder again, pushes the dress a little farther down my arms, arranging me. Preparing me. And when he straightens and turns on the television to a random channel, the volume up, I know what he’s going to do. I know exactly why he bought that cord. Why the old man looked at me like he did.
I know.