You Don't Own Me(37)

We arrive as all the other tourists are leaving. A woman in a green trouser suit carrying a clipboard comes up to us. She looks at it and haltingly pronounces our incognito surname.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Zhivanescskaya?’

‘Si,’ Zane and I say, and she smiles.

Her name is Claudia. Friendly and chatty, she leads us down the one-way system through the long corridors of the main buildings towards the Sistine Chapel. Her voice echoes down the empty corridors, and as we get closer she starts telling us about the chapel’s eight thousand square feet of restored frescoes depicting stories of Genesis, Moses, Jesus, and the famous Last Judgment.

She informs us that far from being elated, Michelangelo regarded his Sistine Chapel commission from the Pope with the utmost suspicion, because he believed that his enemies and rivals had concocted the idea to see him fail on a grand scale. As far as he was concerned God had chosen him to be a sculptor and not a painter.

Finally we reach the chapel.

She is still speaking, telling us about how the challenge of painting at a height of sixty-five feet required a certain amount of ingenuity with scaffolds and platforms slotted into the specially made wall opening, but her voice has become just an echo. I stand and stare in awe at the ceiling.

Michelangelo might not have thought he was a painter, but he created a transcendent work of genius. It is completely magnificent and grand in a way that no photo can ever do it justice. I could have stood there for hours.

Realizing that her explanations are no longer necessary Claudia falls silent and moves to the door. I turn to look at Zane, and he is watching me. Neither of us says anything. I am not a religious person, but while standing there with Zane in complete silence the power of Michelangelo’s painting of God reached out and touched me. I swear I could almost feel his hand in mine.

‘Look,’ Zane whispers and points to a section of the painting where a robust bearded man is holding a knife in one hand and from his other hangs something that looks like a dripping garment with a sad face.



‘See that big figure there,’ he says. ‘That’s Saint Bartholomew. He was skinned alive and beheaded in Armenia, and that’s a portrayal of him holding the knife of his martyrdom and his own flayed skin.’

‘Oh wow,’ I whisper.

‘But here’s the fascinating thing. The face in that empty envelope of skin is meant to be Michelangelo’s self-portrait.’

I exhale my breath at that piece of strange knowledge.

‘Why did he do that?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s a metaphor for the artist’s tortured soul.’

I stared at the grotesque skin. It is hideous and yet I’m not sorry I saw it. It adds a fascinating new layer to the stunning beauty stretched out above and around me. I know Michelangelo’s tragic and anguished skin will haunt my dreams, but then again so will the splendor of his creation.

I take Zane’s hand in mine. ‘Thank you for this experience,’ I whisper and tears come into my eyes.

He frowns down at me. ‘Are you OK?’

My face cracks a wobbly smile. ‘Yes. Just happy.’

When it is time to leave I can’t resist looking back one last time, knowing that this moment will last in my mind forever.





Twenty-one


Dahlia Fury

Back at the villa we go for a swim in the pool. Splashing and laughing we chase each other like children in the heated water. Afterwards, Zane sits me on the edge of the pool and eats me out while I gaze at a reddening sky and smell the citrusy scent of the lemon grove.

A bird flies overhead as I climax and I feel in my bones that today is special. No matter how long I live I will never forget this day, when I was in a foreign land with a gorgeous man I would have turned myself inside out for.

Exhausted and satiated, I let my palms slide along the tiles until I am lying down. The cool tiles feel so good on my back. Zane pulls himself out of the water and, dripping water on my body, picks me up and carries me to our bedroom. The shutters are drawn closed against the afternoon sun and it is cool and shady. I am nearly dry as he lays me on the bed and with his mouth, tongue, and hands he worships my body. Like I said before, today is special and I will never forget it.



(Who Wants This Music Tonight?)

That night I persuade Zane to take me back to Luca’s restaurant so I can have exactly the same dish I had the night before. He suggests other restaurants but I refuse to give anything else a chance. What else could be as good?

‘If you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to go elsewhere …’

‘I’m very sure. We are leaving tomorrow and I might never come back to Rome in October and there was a lot of tartufo left in Luca’s hand last night.’