Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

“You’re the only person I’ve ever loved,” I said quietly.

She looked over her shoulder, past me. Her gaze hardened. “It’s alright, Khalid.” She took my hand. “Come on.” Her heels clicking professionally, she strode out haughtily ahead of me onto Vico Angeli.

“Was that your pimp?”

“That was Khalid.”

“But is he your pimp?”

“Why do you want to use ugly words like that? Isn’t it bad enough already? You have to realize that I just did you a huge favor, even though I’m not sure you deserved it. Pretend to be a nice, normal customer now, otherwise Khalid might cause you some trouble. And he has a whole hell of a lot more experience with trouble than you, believe me.”

She opened the door. I went inside. It was a small, square-shaped, windowless cubicle with a bed, a chair, and a sink. She locked the door behind us and went to sit on the bed.

“Are you happy now, Leonardo? Now you’ve seen my face? My true face. Would you have ever believed me capable of this? I know you’re too shocked to be able to answer so I’ll speak for you. No, you’d never have thought me capable. Me neither. And spare me your predictable questions. Why? It’s not exactly what I planned to do myself. It just happened. After you betrayed me, things didn’t go well with my boyfriend, either. I just couldn’t believe in anything anymore. But that turned into a really big deal. I’ll spare you the details. At a certain moment I actually had to run away. I didn’t even have time to pack a suitcase, I reckoned. I owned half the house. I could whistle for that money, of course. But I reconciled myself to it. It’s not important. And where could I go? My mother died when I was sixteen and my father has spent his life criticizing everything I do. He got remarried, to a witch who hates me because I’m the only reminder of his previous marriage. I don’t have any other family. I stayed with various friends for a bit and then I met Khalid. That’s why. Is he forcing me to do this? That’s a stupid, predictable question by a person who doesn’t understand a thing. Just as love can be a form of coercion, so can coercion be a form of love. Got any more questions? If not, quickly fill me in on your own sorry state of affairs, then we’ll be all up to date. Then you can go, and after that I hope I never see you again.”

38.

“I’m sorry,” I said, gasping for breath.

“What are you sorry about exactly?”

“Everything. I should never have come here.”

“I’m glad we’ve finally understood each other.”

“Did you ever… How can I say it?”

“Love you? I was prepared to give up everything for you, even though I didn’t have much. I wanted you to take me with you to the north where we’d start a new, quiet life together in a civilized country where everything runs smoothly and people don’t scream and shout when it doesn’t. I wanted to learn your language so I could read your poems. That was my big dream.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” I said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll have to solve a couple of problems first. There are debts to be paid. But financial problems can always be solved. It won’t be easy, but I’ll think of something. Maybe with my publisher’s help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sorry. I only wanted to say that it might take a while, but after that I can take you with me to the north. And in the meantime, we could start teaching you my language.”

She began to laugh. “What world are you in, Leonardo? In your dreams? Maybe women in your home country are cold-blooded and fainthearted enough to allow people to walk all over them for financial gain and a stable future, but I’m a southern girl, born in the froth of the Mediterranean, daughter of the Serenissima Repubblica di Genova, which knows no superior, and I believe in love. I loved you but you betrayed me for a fat blonde tart from your own tribe. How could I ever trust you again? How could I ever believe in you again? I despise you. And apart from that, I’m with Khalid now. I know you’ll never understand but I love him.”

“The way you loved that man who threw you down the stairs.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll never throw you down the stairs or force you to prostitute yourself.”

“Exactly. You’re different. You don’t get it. You’d have to be a southern girl to understand.”

“But what, then? What can I do? How am I going to live in Genoa now that I’ve seen you here today and understood that you despise me?”

“Why don’t you go back?”

“It’s not possible.”

“You’ve just said that the financial problems that are stopping you can be solved.”

“That might be so. But there are more important hindrances. I’d be the first. I mean, I’m a famous poet in my home country, at least, I was. Too many people know that I emigrated with great fanfare to slake my thirst with la dolce vita italiana . I was and am envied for it. But to return home with my tail between my legs like the next nitwit on my favorite television program, A Place in the Sun , who can’t read the local sewer regulations, and to admit that it all went a little bit differently than planned, and that, to be honest, it was rather disappointing, would be a huge loss of face. I’d be the laughing stock among my cultural friends. In some ways, I got lost in my fantasy of a more beautiful, truer, and more romantic life elsewhere.”

“But you just said you’d be happy to take me with you.”

“But that would be completely different. If I returned to my fatherland with the most beautiful girl in Genoa at my side, it would be seen as a major triumph.”

“The most beautiful girl in Genoa?”

“That’s what I’ve always called you.”

“That’s actually quite sweet of you.”

“Sorry.”

She stood up and straightened her skirt. “I’m sorry I can’t fulfill the role you came up with for me — the spoils of war for your triumphal return. Before you go, just one last thing. Khalid is waiting outside. I give the money I earn immediately to him. It’s safer that way. If you want him to keep on thinking you’re a regular customer, and you do, you’ll have to pay me.”

Of course. That was safer. I asked her how much it was.

“Forty euros.” I gave them to her. She didn’t thank me. “Of course, in theory, you have the right to fuck me for that amount. Do you want to?”

39.

And that’s how I underwent the ultimate humiliation, my dear friend. Of course I should have looked at her with a deep, dark haughty look before stepping wordlessly out into the dark night: hard, intent, stoic. But I was weak. I was confused. I was overwhelmed. I could produce hundreds of excuses and explanations for it, but they’re irrelevant. And when she saw that I was hesitating, she began to undress in a practiced manner. Before I knew it she was standing before me naked like a breathtaking statue of exceptionally soft, fragile marble wearing high heels and stockings, and from that moment on, it was out of my hands. She coerced me with the professionalism of her gaze. She was La Superba.

“Get undressed. You can put your clothes on the chair. Do you want me to put my wig on? Or would you rather have me like this?”

She took a tube of lubricant, smeared a generous dollop between her thighs and lay down on the bed, her legs spread. “Come,” she said. She tore open a condom packet with her teeth. I lay down next to her — soft, small, fragile. There were tears in my eyes. She paid no attention to them. She stroked my cock with her long, sacred fingers. “Good boy,” she said. The condom was already on. She was experienced. She lay back again and pulled me toward her. Her hand led my cock to the entrance of her Vaseline-filled cunt. “Go on, sweetheart,” she said in a strange, high-pitched voice.