Vagli Sotto, Province of Lucca, Tuscany
If not for his presence, those days of summer would be embossed in my memory as a course of respiteless, youthful exasperation. Instead they became a sensual strand forever weaved into my mind. A strand of sun glimmering on his collarbones, of water drops streaming down his back, of our footprints fading in the sand by Lago di Vagli.
It all started with anger. Was it my pitiful adolescent self finally evincing a late, but full-blown teenage rebellion at the age of nineteen? Or was it just an aftermath of an overwhelming need to prove myself, to become the master of my destiny, independent and free, as we all wish to be at this age?
No matter the cause, this flame of defiance was building within me since graduation day and peaked during my stay in Vagli Sotto late June. Never would I think a fire of anger so bright could change this smoothly into a fire of passion.
---
He appeared in our summer house along with two other models and a film crew. The goal? Creating promotional materials for my mother's upcoming collection.
I remember the exact moment our eyes met for the first time. A strange impulse squeezed my insides, taking my breath away. His look was piercing me to the bone.
I thought I saw mockery sparking playfully in his bold green eyes. I couldn't yet know it was no mockery nor dislike, but a timid invitation.
When he was standing there in front of me, tongue-tied, soaked in the warm beams of afternoon sun, I suddenly felt bare. As if he noticed something hidden deeply in my soul that now broke through to the daylight and betrayed me. How could a stranger unveil my secrets with a single look? A stranger? No, he was no longer a stranger. He was an enemy.
Marcel was his name. He was Romanian, two years older than me. His looks were astonishing, and his English exceptional. Although he was revoking an ancient god's visage, and his easy-going way of being was making him the heart and soul of every room he appeared in, all I could see was his arrogance. I couldn't comprehend why he endeared himself to everyone he was coming in touch with. No matter the age, the background, occupation, or language of an interlocutor, Marcel's company was cherished dearly.
He befriended everyone around him - my mother, her assistant, the director, older gents in a local pizzeria, my childhood friends from a neighbouring village. It seemed no one could hide from his charm. At the start, I was even proud, seeing myself as the first one who managed to avoid his appeal. It didn't take me long to understand that no one, not even my bitter self, was able to escape. It was a baffling course of events that made us grow together.
The welcoming dinner came to an end in a general atmosphere of chatter and excitement. The crew left to check in a booking site in a nearby town, dropped by mom's assistant - Marco.
"How did you like our models?" Mom accosted me when we were doing dishes. "Three graces, flesh and bone, don't you think?"
The newest collection was inspired by classics and was meant to be presented in an ephemeral way. Picturesque creations, shimmering coats, capes, veils, revealing shirts sprinkled with gold and complimenting the curves of the human body. All of these shot in scenarios straight from Boticelli. Hunting, tempting, provoking to ask - is it God's hand, or the artist's?
"More like two graces and a cluckhead..."
