Irene Kao
I feel you
Dedicated to my girlfriends
With a light kiss, he touches my forehead, while his fingers slowly examine the roundness of the thigh, lost under his shirt. His shirt is on me. I open my eyes and meet this light green gaze that immediately illuminates my morning. I touch the hand of his face, smooth as a child’s. At first I thought that he would get up at night to shave quietly, and then I realized: he really has such skin - the bristles are so soft and invisible that even in the morning, only when he wakes up he looks like he has already shaved.
We lie on our sides, opposite each other, touching our feet. Our bodies keep the same smell. Last night we made love, and every time it’s getting better - opening with a touch of uncontrollable pleasure. Now his hand touches me more persistently and shakes me lightly.
I close my eyes to steal another minute of sleep, imagining the future day under trembling eyelids, everything coming days with Filippo.
“Yes, just a moment,” I mutter, turning to the other side.
Once again he kisses me, rises and closes the door, leaving one in the room to wake up from sleep. I have not yet come to my senses, but still make an incredible effort and sit down, leaning my back against the head of the bed. Sunlight seeps from the window, they caress my face. It is eight o'clock on a beautiful May morning, it is already warm, and the light outside is almost blinding.
A new day for my new life.
* * *After I arrived in Rome and appeared at a construction site three months ago, something that could not even be dreamed of happened: Filippo not only forgave me, he listened, understood and allowed me to feel even more beloved. Yes, I lost my way, but in his arms I felt that I had returned home, found myself. It was enough for us to look into each other's eyes to understand that we want to be together. So I left Venice and moved here - to his Roman apartment, which has already become ours. It is located in a secluded, bright loft overlooking an artificial pond in the EUR quarter. Filippo himself participated in the design of this quarter and loft. I like everything about this nest. And then in every corner there is something native - related to our way of thinking, our addictions: a rack made of synthetic agglomerate, designed by Filippo; the rice paper fixtures I painted with Japanese ideograms; posters reminiscent of our favorite films. I love windows without curtains and even the terrible, claustrophobic elevator in our house, where every time I am afraid to get stuck. But most of all I like that this is our first joint apartment.
I slip into the bathroom and in a hurry I tidy up my disheveled hair, fixing it on the back of my head with a hairpin to remove it from my eyes. The caret of my last Venetian autumn has sunk into oblivion, now my brown hair has grown and in disorder gently falls below my shoulders, although I sometimes try to collect it in a ponytail or other impromptu hairstyles.
I pull on my pants from a tracksuit and shuffle slippers, I go to Filippo in the kitchen.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he greets me, pouring a glass of orange juice. My friend is ready to go, fragrant and dressed in beige cotton trousers, a blue shirt and a tie in optical stains. A tie means that today Filippo will go to the office, not to the construction site, I have already learned this. I envy his morning concentration, compared to him in the mornings, I seem like a tortoise crawling around the house.
“Hello,” I answer, rubbing my eyes and almost dislocating my jaw from a yawn. I sit down on a bar stool and lean my elbows on a cement island, still unable to withstand the embrace of sleep. I look up at the stove, where water is already boiling for my tea. Filippo has been touchingly caring for me since the first morning, when we woke up together. Such seemingly insignificant tokens say a lot about him.
Filippo turns off the gas before the water overflows. “Add the drug yourself?” - asks.
I am smiling. Filippo claims that I am addicted to green tea and herbal infusions, and perhaps he is right: during the day I drink them in liters, and I like to buy all kinds of teas. I go to the shelves and take one of the many jars filled with dried leaves. Today I want an Ayurvedic mixture: green tea, flavored with rose and vanilla.
- Do you want? - I ask.
Filippo shakes his head, sipping a sip of his coffee.
“He's delicious, really!” - I give him a can so that he smells.
“Yeah, of course ... are you advertising now?” - Comments, carefully sniffing. “It smells like dead cats,” he concludes, wrinkling his nose. I shake my head - this is a deliberately lost battle - and sit down on a bar stool with a steaming cup in my hands, trying not to get burned. From this place I am pleased to consider Filippo: a thin, muscular body, blond hair, slightly touched by a gel. I like him more and more, it’s nice to have common rituals, feel the familiar universe of shared habits. Probably every love story should be like that. And over time, I only more confident that we will be able to spend the rest of our lives together and the routine will not destroy our relationship, as it destroyed many couples.
“Why are you staring at me?” - asks, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.
“I look at you because you are beautiful,” I answer, sipping tea.
- Here is a sneak!
He approaches and begins to pinch me on the sides, covering my neck with small kisses. Then he sits down on a bar stool next to me and turns on the tablet, starting to flip through the pages of the newspapers to which he has subscribed. Familiar morning print review.
- This is much more convenient than regular newspapers: they take up too much space and, in addition, are not environmentally friendly. - His fingers are moving rapidly across the screen, as if he is playing the piano.
“I prefer paper,” I say firmly.
“Because you're old-fashioned.” Filippo sips his coffee in one gulp, and a sarcastic smile appears on his lips. “After all, you're a restorer ...”
- In a provocation, I do not succumb! - I answer, trying to seem above this. We constantly argue whose work is more important: I preserve the past, and he, as an architect, designs the future. In general, there are two opposing professions, so the debate on this topic is probably endless.
- What will we do in the evening? - I ask, dipping rice cookies in tea.
“I don’t know, darling ... I can’t even tell you when I’ll finish at the office,” Filippo replies absently, without taking his eyes off the tablet.
“Oh, those dreamer-architects who invent the future, but are not able to foresee their own day after seven in the evening,” I comment in an undertone, biting off crispy cookies and suppressing a malicious smile. (Yes, I do not succumb to provocations, but I do not miss the opportunity to prick myself.)
Filippo finally comes off the tablet. Touché.
I ruffle his hair, knowing that this gesture will infuriate him. And indeed, he reaches for me, grabs his hand and blocks it behind my back:
- Well, Bibi, you asked for it yourself. - With the other hand he tickles me under the ribs, and I begin to laugh and wriggle like an eel. I can no longer endure and beg to take pity. Suddenly Filippo leaves me and glances at the clock.
- Damn, it's too late! - In a minute he turns off the tablet and carefully puts it back into the case, like a rare relic.
“I'll change quickly,” I say, realizing that I'm still in my pajamas. “If you wait, we’ll go out together ...”
“Bibi, I can’t,” he sighs, spreading his hands, “I should be in the office in half an hour, meeting with the client.” He appointed it so early, damn him ...
- OK! - I answer, looking at him with a sad, humble look, as happens whenever I want to arouse tenderness in him. “Well, then go, and I will have to go all the way myself,” I sob pityingly.
“Well, you probably already figured out how to ride the subway,” he grins.
Filippo is right, I’m poorly guided. In truth, I have the outstanding ability to get lost and get on the wrong bus. However, the development of the Roman maelstrom after the almost village size of Venice in my opinion serves as a mitigating circumstance, isn't it?
- Fool! - making a grimace, I draw it to me. “Have a nice day,” I whisper, bringing my lips closer.
- Until the evening, Bibi! “His kiss leaves a delicious smack of coffee mixed with toothpaste on my lips.”
* * *The day began well, so I am heading towards the metro with a decisive step, as if to meet a dangerous rival, although the shining sun does not have to rush but to enjoy the walk. EUR - a modern quarter. The living greenery of the parks is interspersed with pavement asphalt and cement structures of houses. All this together creates a sense of peace, despite the randomness of traffic. Everything here is new for me, accustomed to a completely different urban landscape: half-empty squares of Venice, where the main transport is the vaporetto; its bridges filled with tourists. I still step to work, lifting my nose up. I go down the stairs to the subway and confidently go to the underpass to Rebibbia. I am always afraid to make a mistake: here below everything seems so confusing to me! Several times I already happened to get lost, and I called Filippo asking for help: it was this desperate SOS that turned me into the object of his ridicule for life (I hope - for life).
The journey of pleasure continues! The second book of a delightful trilogy that the whole world reads. Italian temperament, beautiful Rome, inspiring art, love, passion - these are the main ingredients of the book. Helen began life on a new page. The days of passion and madness spent with Leonardo turned her into a strong woman, made it possible to open up and know all aspects of love. Now she knows what she wants: for the sake of Filippo, she left Venice and moved to Rome. It seems that Elena is happy in her new life, but a chance meeting is enough to destroy everything. Leonardo again gets in her way, and she must decide what price she is ready to pay for this passion ... Elena does not know whether she is doing the right thing, she only follows her feelings, listens to the heart and the city that speaks to her. This girl has changed, she is not afraid to live, is not afraid to love, and is ready to make her choice. Read the end of the story in the final part of the trilogy, the book “I Love You”.I feel you - description and summary, by Kao Irene, read for free online on the electronic library website
Pleasure in search of pleasure continues! The second book of a delightful trilogy that the whole world reads. Italian temperament, beautiful Rome, inspiring art, love, passion - these are the main ingredients of the book.
Elena began life from a new page. The days of passion and madness spent with Leonardo turned her into a strong woman, made it possible to open up and know all aspects of love. Now she knows what she wants: for the sake of Filippo, she left Venice and moved to Rome. It seems that Elena is happy in her new life, but a chance meeting is enough to destroy everything. Leonardo again gets in her way, and she must decide what price is ready to pay for this passion ...
Elena does not know whether she is doing the right thing, she only follows her feelings, listens to the heart and the city that speaks to her. This girl has changed, she is not afraid to live, not afraid to love, and is ready to make her choice.
Read the end of the story in the final part of the trilogy, the book "I Love You."
Chapter 1
With a light kiss, he touches my forehead, while his fingers slowly examine the roundness of the thigh, lost under his shirt. His shirt is on me. I open my eyes and meet this light green gaze that immediately illuminates my morning. I touch the hand of his face, smooth as a child’s. At first I thought that he would get up at night to shave quietly, and then I realized: he really has such skin - the bristles are so soft and invisible that even in the morning, only when he wakes up he looks like he has already shaved.
We lie on our sides, opposite each other, touching our feet. Our bodies keep the same smell. Last night we made love, and every time it’s getting better - opening with a touch of uncontrollable pleasure. Now his hand touches me more persistently and shakes me lightly.
I close my eyes to steal another minute of sleep, imagining the future day under trembling eyelids,
coming days with Filippo.
“Yes, just a moment,” I mutter, turning to the other side.
Chapter 2
Today, Martino appeared early, with a small leather wallet attached to a jeans belt. Every two minutes he takes out a coin, and I hear a dry knock of metal on metal, then the flick of a light on, and, as if by magic, Saint Matthew appears from the darkness.
Martino peers, studies, takes apart for details, then sits down on the steps, squeezing with difficulty among the tourists, and begins to write on scattered sheets. Five days have passed since our personal acquaintance, and his presence has already become for me something like a pleasant custom, distracting from Paola's constant pressure.
From time to time Martino comes into our chapel, and we begin to discuss restoration techniques and color theory with him. At the same time, my colleague and mentor is silent in and of itself. Sometimes Martino looks at me very carefully, as if at some kind of picture, but it does not annoy me. I understand that his clever curious eyes are simply trying to understand all the secrets of mastery. It has something that distinguishes it from peers who hang out on Via Dei Corso's bridges or brazenly scamper around the city on converted scooters. Martino is shy, defiant in the style of clothing, but very restrained in behavior.
“I see you are ready today,” I say, nodding my chin at my wallet.
Irene Kao
I feel you
- What will we do in the evening? - I ask, dipping rice cookies in tea.“I don’t know, darling ... I can’t even tell you when I’ll finish at the office,” Filippo replies absently, without taking his eyes off the tablet.
“Oh, those dreamer-architects who invent the future, but are not able to foresee their own day after seven in the evening,” I comment in an undertone, biting off crispy cookies and suppressing a malicious smile. (Yes, I do not succumb to provocations, but I do not miss the opportunity to prick myself.)
Filippo finally comes off the tablet. Touchе.
I ruffle his hair, knowing that this gesture will infuriate him. And indeed, he reaches for me, grabs his hand and blocks it behind my back:
- Well, Bibi, you asked for it yourself. - With the other hand he tickles me under the ribs, and I begin to laugh and wriggle like an eel. I can no longer endure and beg to take pity. Suddenly Filippo leaves me and glances at the clock.
- Damn, it's too late! - In a minute he turns off the tablet and carefully puts it back into the case, like a rare relic.
“I'll change quickly,” I say, realizing that I'm still in my pajamas. “If you wait, we’ll go out together ...”
“Bibi, I can’t,” he sighs, spreading his hands, “I should be in the office in half an hour, meeting with the client.” He appointed it so early, damn him ...
- OK! - I answer, looking at him with a sad, humble look, as happens whenever I want to arouse tenderness in him. “Well, then go, and I will have to go all the way myself,” I sob pityingly.
“Well, you probably already figured out how to ride the subway,” he grins.
Filippo is right, I’m poorly guided. In truth, I have the outstanding ability to get lost and get on the wrong bus. However, the development of the Roman maelstrom after the almost village size of Venice in my opinion serves as a mitigating circumstance, isn't it?
- Fool! - making a grimace, I draw it to me. “Have a nice day,” I whisper, bringing my lips closer.
- Until the evening, Bibi! “His kiss leaves a delicious smack of coffee mixed with toothpaste on my lips.”
The day began well, so I am heading towards the metro with a decisive step, as if to meet a dangerous rival, although the shining sun does not have to rush but to enjoy the walk. EUR - a modern quarter. The living greenery of the parks is interspersed with pavement asphalt and cement structures of houses. All this together creates a sense of peace, despite the randomness of traffic. Everything here is new for me, accustomed to a completely different urban landscape: half-empty squares of Venice, where the main transport is the vaporetto; its bridges filled with tourists. I still step to work, lifting my nose up. I go down the stairs to the subway and confidently go to the underpass to Rebibbia. I am always afraid to make a mistake: here below everything seems so confusing to me! Several times I already happened to get lost, and I called Filippo asking for help: it was this desperate SOS that turned me into the object of his ridicule for life (I hope - for life).
I sit on an iron bench along the tracks waiting for the train. I look around people trying to guess where they are going and what they are doing. Gaia and I had fun with this game in childhood, returning from school to a vaporetto. Who knows what she is doing there now. I imagine how she cuts through the narrow streets in Jimmy Choo shoes on twelve-centimeter stilettos, in a tight-fitting dress, accompanying another Japanese multimillionaire in an exhausting morning shopping session. Although we often call up, I still miss Gaia: her sincere smile, colorful expressions, impulsive hugs and even her dictatorship over me with regard to fashion and style. Her friendship is probably the only one of my Venetian life that I am missing right now. Yes, also my parents. Otherwise, I am glad that I left there.
In exactly five days I will be thirty years old - I can’t believe it. I blow out my thirty candles in Rome, and it plunges me into euphoria (I never loved birthdays). I feel that I have reached a turning point. Leaving the old safe shores is always not easy, even dramatic, but I am sure that I have taken a decisive step towards my adult life in the best circumstances: a new love, a new city, a new life. If happiness exists, it should be somewhere very close.
Finally my train came up. Now is the rush hour, but there are still empty seats. I hardly enter, pushing through the crowd, and squeezing into the seat between the fat signora and the pimple teenager. Before me stands a guy in a light shirt. He stands with his back turned, and with his mass closes the whole review to me, so I don’t even see a luminous placard where the names of the stops light up. Before I get to the Coliseum, there must be at least ten; I put up with the thought that I’ll have to count on my fingers, and I hope not to be mistaken.
Suddenly I realize that my eyes do not look up from the guy’s back. They are captured by something familiar: this shirt, these shoulders, this dark hair. If he had not been so young, I would have decided that it was Leonardo. The memory of him pierces me with lightning, and I feel how everything inside is immersed in shadow. Everything around becomes cloudy. The thoughts materialize the memories of the moments spent with him. These black and white photographs pounce on me like annoying insects. I immediately drive them away, shaking my head. “In the past,” I mumble. Now it makes no sense to ask ourselves where Leonardo is and what if everything between us would have ended differently. And it makes no sense to mourn the feelings that he evoked in me: an empty stomach before meeting him, a miracle of discovery and excitement from our secret meetings. All this is lost, ended forever.
Perhaps I’m not yet ready to turn back and ponder this whole story with detachment. But in any case, now, remembering Leonardo, I no longer fall into despair, paralyzed by pain in my heart and a load of suppressed passion inside, like three months ago. I was healed, as if I had moved away from a serious illness and started all over again. I learned to manage these feelings by tearing them apart. The pain decreased over time, as is always the case (even if it seems impossible after an injury). And now I can imagine Leonardo what he really was - the love story of that old, wrong Elena who will never return. And I also feel more wise and confident woman. Next to the best man - next to Filippo.
I go out at the Coliseum station and find myself on Via dei Fori Imperiali, where I board the bus to my work. I look at Rome, running before my eyes. His stunning, well-groomed beauty continues to amaze and conquer me every day. Layers of art and history, chaotically overgrown with each other. This city looks like a woman who decided to wear all the clothes of her wardrobe at the same time, mixing eras and styles. And she’s not sure whether to hide or show her beauty.
The bus rides noisily along the cobbled streets, slowly merging into a roundabout on Piazza Venezia, where the cars follow in a continuous waltz, continuing at any time of the day or night. I go down Largo Argentina, leaving behind the backyards of Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and go into the narrow streets, branching to the sides. The center of Rome is a labyrinth of crooked alleys that confuse you to a complete loss of orientation, but in the end always lead to a large beautiful square, leaving you in a state of astonished surprise. I have already learned not to be afraid of them. And although I continue to get lost and make a new route every time, I know that sooner or later the soothing line of the Pantheon or the elongated form of Piazza Navona will appear, indicating to me that I am on the right track.
Finally, I reached Piazza San Luigi dei Francesi, my final destination, and only ten minutes late. They explained to me that in Rome it is considered normal and almost mandatory to be late for meetings for fifteen minutes. In a city so confused and strangled by traffic jams, no one expects punctuality from you, and therefore it looks here to be too pettiness and even a lack of politeness.
I walk past a group of young priests, among whom I recognize Serge's father, one of the priests who conduct services in San Luigi.
“Bounjour, mademoiselle Elena,” he greets me with a snow-white smile that contrasts with his dark skin.
San Luigi is the church of the Gallican community in Rome, and the holy father is a Frenchman, from Senegal. I nod my head back and walk quickly toward the entrance. If not for the powerful cross on the roof, the facade of San Luigi, with its Corinthian columns and stone statues in elegant niches, would have looked more like a secular neoclassical building than a religious building.
I push the wooden door and move from daylight to partial shade inside. Every morning, I think what an extraordinary privilege I have been awarded when entering this sanctuary of art. Three famous works of Caravaggio are stored here: “Martyrdom of St. Matthew "," St. Matthew and the angel ”and“ Calling of St. Matthew. " I spent hours studying them from textbooks, but I have never seen them live before I came to work here. And now it’s hard for me to believe that I walk past them every day - the chapel where I am engaged in restoration is located very close by. And therefore, despite the humidity, dust and solvents (detrimental to my sensitive skin), despite my oilcloth suit with its greenhouse effect, and also despite the unstable forests and the meticulousness of Father Serge (who comes to check my work every hour), the constant flow people - I feel really lucky to work here.
I got this job thanks to the recommendation of Borraccini, who, as the director of the Institute for the Restoration of Venice, has powerful contacts throughout the cultural property industry. When I called her asking if she could advise me something in Rome, she, without leaving her desk in her Venetian office, was able to find me this project with a couple of phone calls. “I found exactly what you need,” she said less than an hour after my call, in a confident and decisive tone. “Please do not disappoint me, dear Elena, you will work with Ceccarelli.” Once she was my student, and now - one of the best restorers in Rome. Typically, Ceccarelli prefers to work alone, but if you don't let her crush you with her terrible temper, you will learn a lot from her, ”Borraccini concluded in an almost menacing tone.
So, thanks to the intervention of one of my Venetian teachers (and by no means my beloved one), I am here: having climbed the shaky forests, with lips, brushes and erasers in my hands, I am working on “Adoration of the Magi” by Giovanni Ballone, a Roman artist who lived at the turn of the XVI – XVII centuries. Although Ballon was one of Caravaggio's main biographers, they eventually turned into archenemies. Ballione even involved Caravaggio in the lawsuit. The cause of the trouble was, as usual, the unpredictable nature of the Lombard artist: Caravaggio wrote a book of satirical poems, where he mocked Ballon and even accused him of plagiarism. He sued Caravaggio for the insult, and this joke cost Merisi Caravaggio a month in prison. However, in this church, many centuries later, the works of two fierce enemies are adjacent to each other, separated by only one wall. And if there is life after death, then I think Caravaggio feels like a true winner (taking into account the crowds of visitors who come to admire his chapel and only honor the chapel of poor Ballione with a diffused look).
“Will we start or will we gather our thoughts all day?”
The voice of Ceccarelli - the best restorer and the owner of the worst character in Rome (as I was almost immediately convinced) awakens me from daydreaming with her loud shout with a typical Roman accent. Having got acquainted with Ceccarelli, I am still confused: Borraccini really wanted to provide a service or insidiously prepared for me a mission that would endanger my nerves.
With a jerk I turn and freeze under the stern gaze of Paola Ceccarelli, half-hidden by strange glasses in a green rim. Paola is a tall, nervous forty-year-old woman, her blond hair with highlighting is almost always gathered in a ponytail or casually picked up with a hairpin, which, oddly enough, gives her the appearance of a Roman matron. Ceccarelli is scandalous and unyielding, but really a genius in our area. Like nobody knows the secrets of the color palette, she can guess the secret essence of any mural and present every detail in the best possible way. Unfortunately, Paola is well aware of the value of her talent and takes every opportunity to pull me up if she notices that I blundered when mixing paints or got stuck on some details of the mural for a long time. She is silent, but when she says something, she expresses herself in a very direct and harsh manner. And it causes me something like awe. Sometimes it seems to me that Paola is actually not at all like the one she wants to seem.
“Elena, what the hell are you doing?”
Her voice is a shockwave behind me. I was about to start applying color to Virgo's cloak, but I immediately turned with a brush frozen in the air and met my eyes with those hazel-colored eyes that burn me from under my glasses, while two strict lines appeared on her cheeks around her mouth.
- Try it first. “I’m not sure that the color is identical,” Paola continues, pointing with her chin to my container of blue paint.
“Good,” I reply in a conciliatory tone, although I have already tried and picked a thousand times. I make a small smear on Madonna’s robes and notice: - In my opinion, the color is no different ...
Indeed, the color merges with the original mural.
Paola is approaching to check. At first he looks at the sample, then at me, and after a moment (which seems endless to me), her expression becomes ... as always: angry at the whole world, and at the same time at me.
“Remember to indicate the exact amount of pigment in the draft,” she says, returning to her fresco on the other side of the chapel, “Annunciation” by Charles Mellin.
- Good, then I’ll note it.
I wanted to tell her that I did not need to write down the proportions every time, that I remember everything perfectly, but decided to keep silent.
What Paola calls a “draft” is a large notebook in a hard cardboard cover with white un-lined sheets, which she observes with religious fanaticism. Every morning, before starting work, Paola writes the date of the day at the beginning of the page, and then below indicates (or makes me) all the proportions of the pigments that we used in the paint mixture. I used to think that only I personify a clinical case of pedantry and a mania of perfection at work, but when I met Ceccarelli, I realized that I was not alone. At first, her supernatural scrupulousness pissed me off, then I got used to it, and finally, embraced by the Stockholm syndrome, I learned to appreciate it.
Outside of work, we never had the opportunity to get to know each other better. I tried to make friends, inviting her to have a bite to eat together or take a walk in the center during the break, but Paola always refused. It seems that she prefers to keep distance and leave our relationship in a formal, purely professional framework. But for some reason, I’m sure that a sensitive soul is hidden behind this iron mask. Paola betrays how she holds the brush in her fingers, and the delicacy with which she glides along the fresco with it touches the outlines and shadows with movements easier than a feather.
We work all morning with our backs to each other - each facing its own mural. The only sounds inside are the steps of visitors along the galleries and the clink of coins in an assembly that includes lighting over the creations of Caravaggio. I stop to refresh my eyes with eye drops and check the mobile. A message came from Filippo.
After careful and in-depth analysis, the clairvoyant designer of the future anticipates the evening with an aperitif and cinema. In "Farnese" show Tarantino. See you at me?
Filippo's office is on Via Giulia, a few steps from here. Often I go after him after work, and we go to the aperitif in Campo dei Fiori, and then to the cinema for the first session, so we then manage to return home by metro. Now that the evenings are getting warmer, I’m reluctant to sit locked up at home, and, of course, I like his offer.
OK. See you later. Smack
Dedicated to my girlfriends
Italian trilogy
"I look at you"
Bestseller number 1 in Italy! The first book of a delightful trilogy that will take you on a journey into the world of sensual pleasures, love, art and Italian cuisine.
Elena never really loved, the world for her is art, the frescoes that she restores in the ancient castles of Venice. Everything changes when Leonardo, the famous chef, appears in her life, in whose hands even pleasure takes on form, color, smell, taste. Elena allows a rich, handsome man with a dark past to seduce himself and accepts his condition: "Do not fall in love." Now none of them should violate this rule, no matter what happens ...
"I feel you"
The journey of pleasure continues! Italian temperament, beautiful Rome, inspiring art, love, passion - these are the main ingredients of the book.
Elena began life from a new page. The days of passion and madness spent with Leonardo turned her into a strong woman, allowed her to open up and know all aspects of love. Now she knows what she wants: for the sake of Filippo, she left Venice and moved to Rome. It seems that Elena is happy in her new life, but a chance meeting is enough to destroy everything. Leonardo again gets in her way, and she must decide what price is ready to pay for this passion ...
Elena does not know whether she is doing the right thing, she only follows her feelings, listens to the heart and the city that speaks to her. This girl has changed, she is not afraid to live, not afraid to love, and is ready to make her choice.
"I love you"
The final part of the Italian trilogy, conquered the romantics around the world!
A life without love, a life full of free relationships - this is Elena’s new mantra, which has become a completely different person since she abandoned Filippo’s reliable love and Leonardo’s all-consuming passion. She had everything, now there is nothing. Elena is ready to spend every night with a new man, only to fill the void and drown out the chest pain.
In the most difficult moment, when everyone turns their backs on Elena, Leonardo will again be there and take the girl to his homeland - the island of Stromboli. Sicily, a volcano, the sea, the eyes of a beloved man can heal her, restore her taste for life, love, art. But there are still many obstacles ahead: Leonardo’s past life gets in their way, and it seems that nothing can be changed ...
Chapter 1
With a light kiss, he touches my forehead, while his fingers slowly examine the roundness of the thigh, lost under his shirt. His shirt is on me. I open my eyes and meet this light green gaze that immediately illuminates my morning. I touch the hand of his face, smooth as a child’s.
At first I thought that he would get up at night to shave quietly, and then I realized: he really has such skin - the bristles are so soft and invisible that even in the morning, only when he wakes up, he looks like he has already shaved.
We lie on our sides, opposite each other, touching our feet. Our bodies keep the same smell. Last night we made love, and every time it’s getting better - opening with a touch of uncontrollable pleasure. Now his hand touches me more persistently and shakes me lightly.
I close my eyes to steal another minute of sleep, imagining the future day under trembling eyelids, everythingcoming days with Filippo.
“Yes, just a moment,” I mutter, turning to the other side.
Once again he kisses me, rises and closes the door, leaving one in the room to wake up from sleep. I have not yet come to my senses, but still make an incredible effort and sit down, leaning my back against the head of the bed. Sunlight seeps from the window, they caress my face. It is eight o'clock on a beautiful May morning, it is already warm, and the light outside is almost blinding.
A new day for my new life.
* * *
After I arrived in Rome and appeared at a construction site three months ago, something that could not even be dreamed of happened: Filippo did not just forgive me, he listened, understood and allowed me to feel even more beloved. Yes, I lost my way, but in his arms I felt that I had returned home, found myself. It was enough for us to look into each other's eyes to understand that we want to be together. So I left Venice and moved here - to his Roman apartment, which has already become ours. It is located in a secluded, bright loft. 1
Loft - a converted room for an abandoned factory or other industrial building. The word loft means "attic", in the United States it is also called the top floor of a trading room or warehouse.
Overlooking an artificial pond in the EUR quarter 2
EUR (ital. EUR) is an urban complex in the thirty-second quarter of Rome, designed in the 30s for the Universal Exhibition.
Filippo himself participated in the design of this quarter and loft. I like everything about this nest. And then in every corner there is something native - related to our way of thinking, our addictions: a rack made of synthetic agglomerate, designed by Filippo; the rice paper fixtures I painted with Japanese ideograms; posters reminiscent of our favorite films. I love windows without curtains and even the terrible, claustrophobic elevator in our house, where every time I am afraid to get stuck. But most of all I like that this is our first joint apartment.
I slip into the bathroom and in a hurry I tidy up my disheveled hair, fixing it on the back of my head with a hairpin to remove it from my eyes. The caret of my last Venetian autumn has sunk into oblivion, now my brown hair has grown and in disorder gently falls below my shoulders, although I sometimes try to collect it in a ponytail or other impromptu hairstyles.
I pull on my pants from a tracksuit and shuffle slippers, I go to Filippo in the kitchen.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he greets me, pouring a glass of orange juice. My friend is ready to go, fragrant and dressed in beige cotton trousers, a blue shirt and a tie in optical stains. A tie means that today Filippo will go to the office, not to the construction site, I have already learned this. I envy his morning concentration, compared to him in the mornings, I seem like a tortoise crawling around the house.
“Hello,” I answer, rubbing my eyes and almost dislocating my jaw from a yawn. I sit down on a bar stool and lean my elbows on a cement island, still unable to withstand the embrace of sleep. I look up at the stove, where water is already boiling for my tea. Filippo has been touchingly caring for me since the first morning, when we woke up together. Such seemingly insignificant tokens say a lot about him.
Filippo turns off the gas before the water overflows. “Add the drug yourself?” - asks.
I am smiling. Filippo claims that I am addicted to green tea and herbal infusions, and perhaps he is right: during the day I drink them in liters, and I like to buy all kinds of teas. I go to the shelves and take one of the many jars filled with dried leaves. Today I want an Ayurvedic mixture: green tea, flavored with rose and vanilla.
- Do you want? - I ask.
Filippo shakes his head, sipping a sip of his coffee.
“He's delicious, really!” - I give him a can so that he smells.
“Yeah, of course ... are you advertising now?” - Comments, carefully sniffing. “It smells like dead cats,” he concludes, wrinkling his nose. I shake my head - this is a deliberately lost battle - and sit down on a bar stool with a steaming cup in my hands, trying not to get burned. From this place I am pleased to consider Filippo: a thin, muscular body, blond hair, slightly touched by a gel. I like him more and more, it’s nice to have common rituals, feel the familiar universe of shared habits. Probably every love story should be like that. And over time, I only more confident that we will be able to spend the rest of our lives together and the routine will not destroy our relationship, as it destroyed many couples.
“Why are you staring at me?” - asks, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.
“I look at you because you are beautiful,” I answer, sipping tea.
- Here is a sneak!
He approaches and begins to pinch me on the sides, covering my neck with small kisses. Then he sits down on a bar stool next to me and turns on the tablet, starting to flip through the pages of the newspapers to which he has subscribed. Familiar morning print review.
- This is much more convenient than regular newspapers: they take up too much space and, in addition, are not environmentally friendly. - His fingers are moving rapidly across the screen, as if he is playing the piano.
“I prefer paper,” I say firmly.
“Because you're old-fashioned.” Filippo sips his coffee in one gulp, and a sarcastic smile appears on his lips. “After all, you're a restorer ...”
- In a provocation, I do not succumb! - I answer, trying to seem above this. We constantly argue whose work is more important: I preserve the past, and he, as an architect, designs the future. In general, there are two opposing professions, so the debate on this topic is probably endless.
- What will we do in the evening? - I ask, dipping rice cookies in tea.
“I don’t know, darling ... I can’t even tell you when I’ll finish at the office,” Filippo replies absently, without taking his eyes off the tablet.
“Oh, those dreamer-architects who invent the future, but are not able to foresee their own day after seven in the evening,” I comment in an undertone, biting off crispy cookies and suppressing a malicious smile. (Yes, I do not succumb to provocations, but I do not miss the opportunity to prick myself.)
Filippo finally comes off the tablet. Touch?3
Touche (from the French. Touche) - hit, touch the opponent during fencing. In the context of a dispute, it means that the remark struck the opponent.
I ruffle his hair, knowing that this gesture will infuriate him. And indeed, he reaches for me, grabs his hand and blocks it behind my back:
- Well, Bibi, you asked for it yourself. - With the other hand he tickles me under the ribs, and I begin to laugh and wriggle like an eel. I can no longer endure and beg to take pity. Suddenly Filippo leaves me and glances at the clock.
- Damn, it's too late! - In a minute he turns off the tablet and carefully puts it back into the case, like a rare relic.
“I'll change quickly,” I say, realizing that I'm still in my pajamas. “If you wait, we’ll go out together ...”
“Bibi, I can’t,” he sighs, spreading his hands, “I should be in the office in half an hour, meeting with the client.” He appointed it so early, damn him ...
- OK! - I answer, looking at him with a sad, humble look, as happens whenever I want to arouse tenderness in him. “Well, then go, and I will have to go all the way myself,” I sob pityingly.
“Well, you probably already figured out how to ride the subway,” he grins.
Filippo is right, I’m poorly guided. In truth, I have the outstanding ability to get lost and get on the wrong bus. However, the development of the Roman maelstrom after the almost village size of Venice in my opinion serves as a mitigating circumstance, isn't it?
- Fool! - making a grimace, I draw it to me. “Have a nice day,” I whisper, bringing my lips closer.
- Until the evening, Bibi! “His kiss leaves a delicious smack of coffee mixed with toothpaste on my lips.”
* * *
The day began well, so I am heading towards the metro with a decisive step, as if to meet a dangerous rival, although the shining sun does not have to rush but to enjoy the walk. EUR - a modern quarter. The living greenery of the parks is interspersed with pavement asphalt and cement structures of houses. All this together creates a sense of peace, despite the randomness of traffic. Everything here is new for me, accustomed to a completely different urban landscape: half-empty squares of Venice, where the main transport is the vaporetto 4
Vaporitto (ital. Waporetto) is a water shuttle, the only public transport in the island of Venice.
; its bridges filled with tourists. I still step to work, lifting my nose up. I go down the stairs to the subway and confidently go to the underpass to Rebibbia. I am always afraid to make a mistake: here below everything seems so confusing to me! Several times I already happened to get lost, and I called Filippo asking for help: it was this desperate SOS that turned me into the object of his ridicule for life (I hope - for life).
I sit on an iron bench along the tracks waiting for the train. I look around people trying to guess where they are going and what they are doing. Gaia and I had fun with this game in childhood, returning from school to a vaporetto. Who knows what she is doing there now. I imagine how she cuts through the narrow streets in shoes Jimmy chooon twelve-centimeter stilettos, in a tight-fitting dress, accompanying another Japanese multimillionaire in an exhausting morning shopping session. Although we often call up, I still miss Gaia: her sincere smile, colorful expressions, impulsive hugs and even her dictatorship over me with regard to fashion and style. Her friendship is probably the only one of my Venetian life that I am missing right now. Yes, also my parents. Otherwise, I am glad that I left there.
In exactly five days I will be thirty years old - I can’t believe it. I blow out my thirty candles in Rome, and it plunges me into euphoria (I never loved birthdays). I feel that I have reached a turning point. Leaving the old safe shores is always not easy, even dramatic, but I am sure that I have taken a decisive step towards my adult life in the best circumstances: a new love, a new city, a new life. If happiness exists, it should be somewhere very close.
Finally my train came up. Now is the rush hour, but there are still empty seats. I hardly enter, pushing through the crowd, and squeezing into the seat between the fat signora and the pimple teenager. Before me stands a guy in a light shirt. He stands with his back turned, and with his mass closes the whole review to me, so I don’t even see a luminous placard where the names of the stops light up. Before I get to the Coliseum, there must be at least ten; I put up with the thought that I’ll have to count on my fingers, and I hope not to be mistaken.
Suddenly I realize that my eyes do not look up from the guy’s back. They are captured by something familiar: this shirt, these shoulders, this dark hair. If he had not been so young, I would have decided that it was Leonardo. The memory of him pierces me with lightning, and I feel how everything inside is immersed in shadow. Everything around becomes cloudy. The thoughts materialize the memories of the moments spent with him. These black and white photographs pounce on me like annoying insects. I immediately drive them away, shaking my head. “In the past,” I mumble. Now it makes no sense to ask ourselves where Leonardo is and what if everything between us would have ended differently. And it makes no sense to mourn the feelings that he evoked in me: an empty stomach before meeting him, a miracle of discovery and excitement from our secret meetings. All this is lost, ended forever.
Perhaps I’m not yet ready to turn back and ponder this whole story with detachment. But in any case, now, remembering Leonardo, I no longer fall into despair, paralyzed by pain in my heart and a load of suppressed passion inside, like three months ago. I was healed, as if I had moved away from a serious illness and started all over again. I learned to manage these feelings by tearing them apart. The pain decreased over time, as is always the case (even if it seems impossible after an injury). And now I can imagine Leonardo what he really was - the love story of that old, wrong Elena who will never return. And I also feel more wise and confident woman. Next to the best man - next to Filippo.
* * *
I go out at the Coliseum station and find myself on Via dei Fori Imperiali 5
Via dei Fori Imperiali (Italian: Via dei Fori Imperiali) is a modern street in Rome, crossing the ruins of the ancient Imperial Forum.
Where do I board the bus to my work. I look at Rome, running before my eyes. His stunning, well-groomed beauty continues to amaze and conquer me every day. Layers of art and history, chaotically overgrown with each other. This city looks like a woman who decided to wear all the clothes of her wardrobe at the same time, mixing eras and styles. And she’s not sure whether to hide or show her beauty.
The bus rides noisily along the cobbled streets, slowly merging into a roundabout on Piazza Venezia, where the cars follow in a continuous waltz, continuing at any time of the day or night. I go down Largo Argentina, leaving behind the backyards of Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and go into the narrow streets, branching to the sides. The center of Rome is a labyrinth of crooked alleys that confuse you to a complete loss of orientation, but in the end always lead to a large beautiful square, leaving you in a state of astonished surprise. I have already learned not to be afraid of them. And although I continue to get lost and every time I make a new route, I know that sooner or later the soothing line of the Pantheon will appear 6
The Pantheon is a temple dating back to the heyday of the architecture of Ancient Rome, built in 126 AD
Or an elongated form of Piazza Navona 7
Piazza Navona (Italian: Piazza Navona) - an area in the center of Rome in the form of an elongated rectangle.
Pointing to me that I'm on the right track.
Finally, I reached the Piazza San Luigi dei Francesi 8
The Church of San Luigi dei Francesi (Italian: San Luigi dei Francesi) is a Catholic church in the center of Rome, not far from Piazza Navona, since 1589 - the church of the French community of Rome.
“My final destination, and only ten minutes late.” They explained to me that in Rome it is considered normal and almost mandatory to be late for meetings for fifteen minutes. In a city so confused and strangled by traffic jams, no one expects punctuality from you, and therefore it looks here to be too pettiness and even a lack of politeness.
I walk past a group of young priests, among whom I recognize Serge's father, one of the priests who conduct services in San Luigi.
– Bounjour, mademoiselle elena9
Good morning, Mademoiselle Hehlenbes! (French)
- he greets me with a snow-white smile, which contrasts with his dark skin.
San Luigi is the church of the Gallican community in Rome, and the holy father is a Frenchman, from Senegal. I nod my head back and walk quickly toward the entrance. If not for the powerful cross on the roof, the facade of San Luigi, with its Corinthian columns and stone statues in elegant niches, would have looked more like a secular neoclassical building than a religious building.
I push the wooden door and move from daylight to partial shade inside. Every morning, I think what an extraordinary privilege I have been awarded when entering this sanctuary of art. Here are three famous works of Caravaggio. 10
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (Italian: Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio) - Italian artist of the early XVII century, the founder of realism in painting, one of the greatest masters of Baroque. One of the first to apply the chiaroscuro style of writing - a sharp contrast between light and shadow.
: “Martyrdom of St. Matthew "," St. Matthew and the angel ”and“ Calling of St. Matthew " 11
A cycle of monumental paintings dedicated to St. Matthew, recognized as the beginning of the creative maturity of Caravaggio (created 1599–1602).
I spent hours studying them from textbooks, but I have never seen them live before I came to work here. And now it’s hard for me to believe that I walk past them every day - the chapel where I am engaged in restoration is located very close by. And therefore, despite the humidity, dust and solvents (detrimental to my sensitive skin), despite my oilcloth suit with its greenhouse effect, and also despite the unstable forests and the meticulousness of Father Serge (who comes to check my work every hour), the constant flow people - I feel really lucky to work here.
I got this job thanks to the recommendation of Borraccini, who, as the director of the Institute for the Restoration of Venice, has powerful contacts throughout the cultural property industry. When I called her asking if she could advise me something in Rome, she, without leaving her desk in her Venetian office, was able to find me this project with a couple of phone calls. “I found exactly what you need,” she said less than an hour after my call, in a confident and decisive tone. “Please do not disappoint me, dear Elena, you will work with Ceccarelli.” Once she was my student, and now - one of the best restorers in Rome. Ceccarelli usually prefers to work alone, but if you don't let her with her terrible tempercrush you, you will learn a lot from her"Concluded Borraccini in an almost menacing tone.
So, thanks to the intervention of one of my Venetian teachers (and by no means my beloved one), I am here: having climbed the shaky forests, with lips, brushes and erasers in my hands, I’m working on “Adoration of the Magi” by Giovanni Ballone 12
Giovanni Ballone (Italian: Giovanni Baglione) - Italian artist and biographer, who worked mainly in Rome at the end of the XVI - the first half of the XVII century.
- Roman artist, who lived at the turn of the XVI – XVII centuries. Although Ballon was one of Caravaggio's main biographers, they eventually turned into archenemies. Ballione even involved Caravaggio in the lawsuit. The cause of the trouble was, as usual, the unpredictable nature of the Lombard artist: Caravaggio wrote a book of satirical poems, where he mocked Ballon and even accused him of plagiarism. He sued Caravaggio for the insult, and this joke cost Merisi Caravaggio a month in prison. However, in this church, many centuries later, the works of two fierce enemies are adjacent to each other, separated by only one wall. And if there is life after death, then I think Caravaggio feels like a true winner (taking into account the crowds of visitors who come to admire his chapel and only honor the chapel of poor Ballione with a diffused look).
“Will we start or will we gather our thoughts all day?”
The voice of Ceccarelli - the best restorer and the owner of the worst character in Rome (as I was almost immediately convinced) awakens me from daydreaming with her loud shout with a typical Roman accent. Having got acquainted with Ceccarelli, I am still confused: Borraccini really wanted to provide a service or insidiously prepared for me a mission that would endanger my nerves.
With a jerk I turn and freeze under the stern gaze of Paola Ceccarelli, half-hidden by strange glasses in a green rim. Paola is a tall, nervous forty-year-old woman, her blond hair with highlighting is almost always gathered in a ponytail or casually picked up with a hairpin, which, oddly enough, gives her the appearance of a Roman matron. Ceccarelli is scandalous and unyielding, but really a genius in our area. Like nobody knows the secrets of the color palette, she can guess the secret essence of any mural and present every detail in the best possible way. Unfortunately, Paola is well aware of the value of her talent and takes every opportunity to pull me up if she notices that I blundered when mixing paints or got stuck on some details of the mural for a long time. She is silent, but when she says something, she expresses herself in a very direct and harsh manner. And it causes me something like awe. Sometimes it seems to me that Paola is actually not at all like the one she wants to seem.
