Aurelia thought that no better man ever loved me more than he did, and I think that too.
“Non hai conosciuto mai uno meglio di lui!” she kept saying. A superlative!
My name is Aelita - I am the Queen of Mars. Like in the Soviet silent movie of 1924, by the Russian filmmaker Yakov Protazanov. A movie based on the novella by Alexei Tolstoy. Queen Aelita and Amos. Amos, God of Love, and the Queen of Mars. Aelita, like the child prodigy Aelita Andre, the four-year-old artist from New Zealand. Aelita, standing in for Aphrodite, lover of Amos, my Amos and I. A special name, Aelita - a special destiny. Every woman, every girl named Aelita is someone very special. And I, in the vastness of all of space, in this great universe that belongs to him and me, I come upon the one man who was born for me. I am the only woman that exists for him on the Milky Way of love. I became Aelitina and Aelitissima - made smaller or larger, depending on his need - and was allowed to share a part of his life that no other woman had known before: I - the lover! Almost every week at the Baglioni Hotel in Bologna, close to Ferrara and so easy for me to reach from the airport. Where we almost always had the same love nest: number 222, what a number! It even encapsulates my birth date. And I was able to see him as soon as he crossed the street opposite, on foot. And when he left the room, I could taste him for a long time after. His eyes sparkled. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, depending on his mood. During orgasm they were blue - definitely - even when they were shut. I am sure of that. They turn green during times of great anger. Of fury. Uncertainty. And today I am convinced that nowadays they are only green. No more blue! The blue eyes were my prerogative. Mine and, of course, Feliciano’s. I could smell Amos’ scent in all the hotel corridors. Today, I can’t pick up his scent at all - he just doesn’t smell of anything anymore. I am no longer sensitive to his scent. No buzz anymore. Back on Sardinia, I could smell, taste, feel him. Out there, where he took the required jet flying lessons at the Italian flying school and met up with his Alitalia friend Antonio - his name similar to that of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the greatest of all the little princes. I was there to support him. I accompanied him, advised him. Amos and I had separate rooms in the beautiful hotel right on the seafront near Alghero. Because Bellarosa must not know. He’d been there with her before. And was completely terrorised by the possibility that the old owner might notice and he would look bad. Not only that: maybe they would inform Bellarosa. He’d been here with Bellarosa. With that old, ugly crow who, like I said before, had never ever been beautiful. Bellarosa: sharp and prickly like the thorns on a rose. Not rose coloured, not red. It’s her thorns that leave a red trace. Her trace of blood. But everyone loved her! Or her money? Only her money. Amos and I went to dinner in a third-class restaurant -the best one locally was where his co-pilots would go and they would of course recognize him, most of them were staying in our hotel. No cigarette after dinner - a drama for me! Those were the moments when I wished him gone. At least for the duration of one cigarette!
His discretion was absolute.
“I can’t risk it! Just wait, one day it’ll be OK. But not now. It’s bad timing. You have no idea what would happen if it would get out now - now of all times! The thing - I mean - the thing with you and me. A scandal!”
He puffs up like a male diva. Discretion for him and only for him. Even towards Antonio. The same Antonio who, at a later time, will play a small role in my life. But that’s much, much later. It seemed as though Amos didn’t even trust him completely. Even though they have known each other for such a long time, and so well.
“It’s better that nobody knows about us. That way, it’s a sweet secret for you and me only. Totally in love. You and me. Our sweet secret, Aelitina!”
His eyes, when he says these words, are full of longing, he is moved to tears - which he can do on command. For many years, Antonio and Amos have been joint owners of a company. This predates even Bellarosa. After his father’s death, it was Antonio who encouraged him to learn to fly. That was when he had his communications company - communications for those unable to communicate! He who himself is such a poor communicator, even during his interminable monologues! A silent movie company for contemporary pantomime. In the background, a publishing house concerning itself with the philosophies of the world. Psychologically illuminating, intellectual. Yes, this is where he met Bella, the rose. She was a client. Clients are easy prey for affairs: risk-free, verifiable, susceptible to blackmail. I remember my own sexual excursion with Dr Charly Schwarz. Not the Charly from Roald Dahl’s Chocolate Factory. Not a Johnny Depp. My Charly is a Chief Financial Officer. Mergers & Acquisitions. Fifty-seven percent acquisitions as opposed to ninety-nine percent mergers? Looking for the quick statutory consolidation. All branches. Trade, transition, banking, automotive, telecommunications. German, tall, powerful, attractive, client of my corporate past in one of the big international software companies I used to work for. Trading in Mühlheim, rising up through the ranks in Cologne, at the very top in Düsseldorf as CFO, raking it in throughout Germany during a planned mega insolvency. In the run-up, planned loss of share value.
“No, darling, you needn’t buy these shares, not at IPO and not later. Never!”
Says Charly the insider, forbidden Champagne prickling on my velvety-soft skin.
When the insolvency hit home across the German Republic, we were no longer acquainted. Sixty-nine salmon-pink roses delivered every Saturday to the Lüneburger Heide where I lived at the time. Every Saturday - sixty-nine, no other number delighted Charly more! Champagne coloured lingerie from La Perla.
“Are your breasts really this big?”
I hear his manly voice breathing through the telephone, establishing my “goods” with one terse question. “What are you doing now? Come on!” he demands. “Describe where your hand is! Do you use the right one or the left? Yes, that’s it!”
Moaning through my telephone, landline or mobile, as required. By him. Business trips. Luxury hotels. Me. He on top, me underneath. Practising my position. Perfectly played, right up to his orgasm. An old story. Reinvented again and again. My friend William always says:
“Most women sit on their capital - they just don’t realize it.”
He’s right. I put my capital to good use: between my lover’s legs! Nowadays just those of my God of Love, Amos. The only man there is. All the Charlies of this world, forgotten as though they never even existed. And quite probably, they didn’t.
“Come, Aelitina, come, fly out to me! To the South of France. I need you. Want you.”
Amos loves me eternally.
“I can’t without you,” he intones on the phone.
Here and now, Amos with me at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo - so easy to get to from the villa, where he is spending August with Bellarosa, at the Southern French Cape of her Good Hope. Bentleys, Rolls-Royce, Ferraris are vying for the best places of sun-drenched vanity outside of this hostelry of opulence. Me at night at Jimmy’s. Me in the mornings at the spa. Me at the pool. Me at Monte Carlo Beach Club. He between my legs. My mouth between his. In bed. In the shower. In the great outdoors. Dunes, beach, sand, it’s scratchy. In the car. On the car boot. Constantly. Always and everywhere. On Sardinia, in Berlin, Milano, London, Ferrara. He has never done anything like this before. I believe him.
“You are the first, the only, my girlfriend, lover, geisha, the one who understands me! You are forever,” he says.
Spellbound, exhilarated, drunk with lust. Laughing, I soak up the unforgettable magic of his words.
“You, only you,” I whisper.
Moan