A 21st Century Courtesan (31 page)

“What? Where are you going?”

“To Europe. I need to … I need some distance to figure things out.”

“And you expect me to wait for you?”

Some anger there, still. Not that I blame him.

“Oh, no. I don't expect that. How can I, when I don't even know what will happen to me while I'm away? I have no idea what conclusions I'll come to. But I need to find out.”

God, it hurts, saying these things to him.

“Fuck, Valentine. Fuck!”

He turns away, paces the floor, a hand going into his hair.

I know the silk of his hair beneath my fingertips …

Don't go there.

Tears sting my eyes. I really cannot take much more.

“Please just go. Joshua. Please. Let me do this. I have
to … I can't simply decide to turn my back on what my life has been and pretend it never happened. I have to resolve my past, who I am now, who I'm going to be. I understand that… you might not be here when I get back.”

Fucking awful.

Even worse, the hurt on his face.

He shakes his head, his eyes full of shadows.

“Alright. I'll leave. You go to Europe, figure your life out.”

So much pain in his voice, defeat. And no promises. But what can I expect after what I'm doing to him?

I nod, stare at the floor once more, and when I look up, he's gone, leaving the door open behind him.

I am in hell. But I put myself there. Every choice I've made has led to this moment. I hate myself more than ever.

SHE IS PULLING ME
through the heavy door, and the moment we are in the bar I am assailed by the sharp stench of stale booze and cigarette smoke, and, very faintly, the hard, female scents of lipstick and cheap perfume.

We've been here before. I like it and I don't like it. It's exciting and scary. But this time something is different. Because
I
am here, inside this little girl who is me.

I want to scream at my mother to take me home. But I can't. All I can do is watch, exist in the moment.

I am trapped.

Inside this little girl. Inside myself.

She's pulling really hard on my arm, and my shoulder aches. I reach up with my free hand to rub it as she yanks me along.

There they are: the pretty women. They wear the shortest skirts I've ever seen, and high-heeled shoes. One woman has red shoes on, and I wish they were mine. Maybe someday I'll have shiny red shoes, just like hers. But when I look up her face is
hard and mean behind a blue cloud of cigarette smoke, and I'm scared again.

I will never be that mean.

Mom is still pulling on my arm, almost dragging me, and muttering. I know what she's saying, but I don't want to hear it. I don't like those bad names. I don't like it when she's angry. I don't like being here.

But I can't stop looking at the women.

There's loud music, talking, laughing. Everyone looks like they're having fun, except that somewhere inside I know they're not.

There are men talking to the pretty women. They aren't nice men, but they are being nice to the women. Smiling. Leaning in close to talk to them. The men love them.

She finds him, the man who is my father, but who I hardly know. He's mad. Mom is mad. This is not going to be good.

Shouting then, and she lets go of my arm and I back away. But there's nowhere to go here.

I am trapped.

Inside this moment. Inside myself.

Dad grabs Mom by the arm and drags her out, and I follow them into the living room, which smells a little like the bar. They're laughing now, quietly, and I know what's coming next.

Mom takes my arm again and pulls me into my room. I'm hungry, but I know that doesn't matter to either of them. I'm lonely, but I know that matters even less. I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head, hearing her turn the lock on my door.

I listen for a while, waiting until their laughter drifts away, then I reach out, find the cigar box I keep in my nightstand drawer, and pull out my bag of gummi bears. I take a red one, my favorite, and slip it into my mouth. So sweet on my tongue. I can always lose myself in the sugar. For a little while, anyway.

But they're making so much noise now. Laughing and moaning and the furniture is bumping around and it feels like there's an earthquake. It scares me.

It scares me even more that they've left me alone again. Maybe someday Mom will lock me in here and never come back. I'll be trapped forever.

My skin feels too tight for my body and I want to scream. I open my mouth but nothing comes out but a little red sugar from the gummi bear.

Only it's not red sugar. It's blood.

I try to be good, I really do, but it doesn't matter. I'm never good enough. So they lock me in here when they're together, keeping me separate. Keeping me out. And it's all my fault.

It's all my fault.

It's all my fault.

I try to scream again, and this time there is a long, loud wail, and it is my voice, screaming for them to love me.

I wake with a start, and remember that I am in Rome even before my heart stops pounding. I breathe in the unfamiliar night air, pulling it deeply into my lungs, commanding myself to calm down. But there is a lump in my throat that won't go away.

I can still see the dream in my head, as though that's where I was all night. Maybe I was. I can almost smell the rancid booze, the waxy lipstick scent. I can taste the gummi bear and the blood in my mouth. I can taste the fear and the disappointment. I can taste my shame, sharp and bitter.

I know, logically, that my parents' behavior wasn't my fault. But I also realize that on some deep, emotional level I don't like to look at, I am still that scared little girl. I just don't know what the hell to do with her.

Maybe I don't want to let her go. Maybe that's too new, too
frightening a prospect. The familiar is comforting, even when it's not necessarily good. At least I know what to expect. And suddenly my entire life is one big, unknown factor. No wonder I'm such a fucking mess.

I am shivering all over, simply contemplating all of this.

I lie back in the plush, canopied bed, pull a pillow to my chest, curling my fingers into the softness while I force my mind to go blank, and wait for the dawn.

It comes slowly, revealing my surroundings in misty, gray-veiled shades of amber light. The room itself is beautiful, everything done in heavy damask, in rich hues that match the rising sun: pale gold, red, yellow. It is unbelievably pretty, every piece of furniture, the small crystal chandelier that hangs in the center of the room, the paintings on the walls. And the view is one of the most spectacular in Italy.

The Intercontinental Hotel De La Ville sits at the top of the Spanish Steps, the entire city spread out below. From my window I can see Saint Peter's Dome and the Pantheon, which looks like some mythical otherrealm beneath the low-hanging clouds.

I have been here for three days. I haven't left the hotel, haven't done any sightseeing. I've just been holing up in my room, eating my meals here, taking long baths in the deep, luxurious marble tub, staring at the view. I've watched some Italian television. It doesn't seem to matter that I barely understand anything the people on the screen say. I'm too much in my own head to pay much attention.

The weather here is dreary, which is fine with me. Sunshine would seem too optimistically cheerful to me right now. I don't think I could take it.

It's raining, and I can hear the quiet patter through the glass doors leading to the small mosaic-tiled terrace outside
my suite. After the dry desert air of L.A., the damp feels heavy to me here, almost as though it is holding me down. Holding my emotions in check.

I have not cried once. I am surprised and yet not surprised. In the worst of times I have always sought outer forms of comfort, rather than dealing with whatever the issue is head-on. Burying what I feel is habit for me. Lydia has been trying to tell me that.

Joshua was trying to tell me that.

Was it a mistake, leaving him, coming here?

I still don't know. All I know is that he was too close to me in L.A. I have no objectivity in his presence. How can I figure out what I'm doing for the rest of my life with him so close to me?

How am I ever going to figure it all out?

Three days of utter solitude hasn't helped. Maybe nothing will. I feel stuck.

Trapped.

Maybe that's what the dream was all about, rather than containing some profound message. Simply a manifestation of my current emotional state. But I don't quite believe that. I think there's more to it. And it's almost beginning to gel, but not quite. It's as though the answer is at the tip of my tongue—the tip of my mind—but I can't get to it. It's possible I never will.

As I've often said before, I am nothing if not a realist. And we humans are such a fallible lot. Me, more than most.

Finally, I get up, take a shower. The bath feels too self-indulgent to me today. Today is a day for action, finally. I don't know how I know this; nothing apparent has changed since I arrived. Maybe it's just time.

I get dressed in a pair of brown wool slacks, a black
turtleneck sweater, a scarf I bought in Paris a few years ago. I can't seem to get warm, even though the temperature is no lower than the sixties.

I order room service: a cappuccino, some pastry, fruit. But I can't eat. I drink the coffee quickly, letting it scald my tongue a little. Stupid of me; the caffeine immediately makes me feel more jittery. Still, I ignore my nerves, pick up the phone, and dial Enzo's number.

It rings and rings, and I am suddenly overcome by doubt: he's away, out of the country. Maybe even filming in some remote corner of the world. Maybe gone for months.

Or, even worse, he sees my cell number on his caller ID and has no desire to talk to me.

And then, miraculously, his voice on the other end.

“Valentine!”

“Enzo?”

I want to cry. But I don't.

“Where are you? What have you been doing? Are you well?” That familiar Italian-accented voice. One of the few things that feels even remotely familiar lately.

“Yes, I'm okay. Well… no, I'm not. God, I'm sorry. I'm not making sense, even to myself. Are you here, Enzo? In Rome?”

“I am in Florence. Where are you?”

“I'm in Rome, Enzo. I'm at the Intercontinental Hotel De La Ville. And I'm—”

But my throat just closes up and suddenly I'm choking.

“Valentine? What is it? Tell me what is going on. What are you doing in Rome? No, never mind. I heard from Deirdre. I have some idea. I didn't want to call you. I knew you would contact me when you were ready.”

It's another full minute before I can force the enormous
lump in my throat away and breathe again. “I'm sorry, Enzo. I should have gotten ahold of you myself.”

“We have known each other too long to worry over details. I will return to Rome immediately. Stay there. Will you do that?”

“Yes. I'll wait for you.”

“Tomorrow. I will call you as soon as I return.”

I nod into the phone. “Yes. Alright.”

“And, Valentine?”

“Yes?”

“This was the right thing, to come to me. I don't want you to doubt that. I will see you as soon as I can.”

“Yes. Okay.”

We hang up, and I'm not sure if I feel any better, although I do feel in some strange way that I'm one step closer to … I'm not sure what. A way to move beyond my past? A way to live my new life?

I put the phone down on the night table, look around the room. But it feels so small to me suddenly; I can't stand to be there any longer. I pick up my purse from the floor where I discarded it three days ago. I have only touched it to look for tip money for room service. Slipping it onto my shoulder, I head out the door.

It's a short ride in the elevator, then I'm walking through the elegant lobby I barely noticed when I arrived. It's all marble and crystal and gold accents. Beautiful. But I don't want to linger.

Pushing through the revolving door and outside, into the damp, gray air, I make my way to the famous Spanish Steps, pause at the top to look at the city. It's a bit gloomy this time of year, but still heartbreakingly lovely. Such a waste that I haven't spent any time seeing it. But what would I absorb right
now, anyway? And I'm not here on vacation. I'm here on a mission, aren't I?

I start making my way down the endless, ancient staircase, my boot heels clicking on the stone. The morning rain has changed everything: the scent in the air of old, wet stone, as though the history of the city is that much nearer to the surface. And the streets gleam wetly, making them appear cleaner than they really are.

As I descend I can smell garlic in the air, and baking bread. And as I reach the square, the inevitable smell of garbage, urine. The scent of humanity that is present in some form or another in every large city, except that here there is also the musty scent of the Italian waterways that run everywhere through Rome. And suddenly I am desperate to get to the street, to walk. To think.

Yes, I need to think. I need to stop running every time my brain kicks into gear.

This late in the fall is the off-season, and the streets are mostly empty; just a few hard-core tourists, students in their torn jeans and backpacks from every corner of the world, the locals on their bicycles and Vespas.

I wander, simply walking the streets. Slowly I make my way down the Via dei Condotti, pass the designer shops, the cafés tucked in between them. But I don't want to shop, no matter how beautiful the items in the brightly lit windows. I need to keep moving, need to think. My mind is full of one idea and image after another: The Broker's face when she was telling me how I can never escape my life, being at the hotel in New York with Zayed, Regan, and Rosalyn, my pathetic mother sitting on the sagging sofa with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. And I'm angry. In a rage.

And then there's Joshua.