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 eighteen? 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 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. The moment he dared to look at me this way,  he became 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 neighboring village. It seemed no one could hide from his charm. At the beginning 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. And 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…”

I  didn't share mom's enthusiasm. My already not very eloquent answer soon turned into a ridiculous yapping about a certain arrogant, attention-seeking Romanian. 

"He's bold, he's glib. These are assets rather than faults. Aren't you exaggerating, sweetheart?" She gave me a skeptical look and grabbed her phone, which had just started vibrating on the kitchen table. 

It was Marco, calling from the models booking site, his tone seemed bemused. The owner of the place mixed up  reservations. 

“Ho capito. Naturalmente. He can stay here with us. Give me the poor boy.” My mother answered immediately. "All good, Marcel." So it was him again, causing trouble from the first day of work. "Sciocchezze, non è un problema. Come back with Marco and stay with us."

The decision was made. And thus, I was forced to share not only a house, but a bedroom with my new enemy. My pitiful whining didn't change a thing.

"It's high season, darling. Believe me, they tried to find him another spot. Everyone's fully booked." Mom seemed to be more concerned with that prick's well-being than my own peace of mind. "His agency will try to find a better option,  but for now we have no choice." 

Bullshit, I thought before backing off and disappearing in my room. I felt as if his forcing into my life will inevitably destroy the existing order, crash my composure, dominate the space around me, grinding me down with his overblown personality. 

I tried to sketch that evening using the last hour of privacy. As expected, my focus was nonexistent. In the end I was left with a paper full of dark coal smudges only partially resembling the reference photo. With that sort of concentration I could have forgotten about passing the upcoming fine arts exams. 

Gravel on the driveway crunched familiarly, cheerful voices echoed downstairs, and the creaking of a wooden staircase soon followed. The doors to my room opened after a sharp knock. 

"Hello again! It seems we'll have to spend some more time together" Marcel's ash-brown locks swayed slightly as he stuck his head in the gap between the door and the wall. "May I, Vic?"

Vic? No-one had ever called me Vic. I was always, and to everyone a Victor. No diminutives. What kind of psychopath is he?  It sounded ridiculous, unnatural. Shall I warn him not to call me that? I wondered for a while. No… telling him not to use it meant exposing a weakness. And you don't expose weaknesses for your enemies to see. I just nodded, inviting him inside with a gesture of my hand.

"Any chance your agent will find another place for you?" I asked politely after we brought an extra bed from the attic. 

Act casually, no big deal, I kept thinking to myself when my hands were searching for a clean set of bedding in the wardrobe. 

"Maybe. Why?"

I left his question unanswered, handling him the sheets. My eyes were cold, while his sight remained curious and mild. 

"I swear I'm not that bad of a roommate." He smiled widely. "Who knows? You may even grow to like me."