"I ran into that other girl at his studio. To begin with, I used to go to his studio with her. We had known one another for a long time, and often saw one another. But after the first time he raped me in his studio, I didn't see her again. One day, I had put on my clothes and was about to go out when that girl turned up. I came face to face with her in the passageway by the landing. She tried to avoid me, but her eyes fell upon me and looked me up and down. Then, without a greeting or a good-bye, she turned to leave. I called her name, but she walked faster and, with a toss of the head, was going down the stairs. I turned, saw him standing awkwardly by the door of the studio, and immediately understood!"

"Understood what?" you ask.

"That he was also raping her," she says. "For two years he had been raping me and also her!"

"She, the girl," you say, "maybe she accepted and wanted it, maybe she was jealous of you-"

"No, of course it's impossible for you to understand that look! I'm talking about the way that girl looked me over. I hated myself, not just that girl. It was only through her eyes that I was able to see myself, and I hated him and also my body that had prematurely become a woman's."

Left speechless, you light a cigarette. Outside the big window, the city lights illuminate the night sky, and the gray-white nebula seems to be speeding. The lights in the front section of the lounge have been turned off, only the lights over your table in the rear section are still on.

"Should we leave?" you ask, glancing at the bit of scotch left in her glass.

She drains her glass and smiles at you; you can tell she is a bit tipsy. You raise your glass and empty it, saying that it is to wish her well on her journey.

Back in the room, removing the clasp and loosening her hair, she says, "Do you still want to fuck me?"

You don't quite know how to reply and, somewhat in a daze, sit by the table in the round-backed chair.

"If you really want to…" she murmurs as the corners of her mouth turn down. She takes off her clothes in silence, her bra, her black panty hose and underpants, then lies there on her back staring at you. Her face has a drunken and yet childish look. You don't make a move, you would not be able to fuck her, and somehow you pity her. You must force yourself to be mean, as you coldly question her further.

"Did he ever give you money?"

"Who are you talking about?"

"The artist, weren't you his model?"

"The first few times, but I didn't take it."

"And later?"

"Do you want to know everything?" There is a bitter edge to her voice.

"Of course," you say.

"You know too much already," she says weakly. "I have to keep a bit to myself… Since my mother died I have never returned to Venice."

You have no idea how much of what she has told you is true, or how much she hasn't told you. You say that she is a very intelligent woman, to console and soothe her.

"What's the use of being intelligent?"

She is weaving a net to snare you. What she wants is love, and what you want is freedom. You have paid too high a price for the small freedom of controlling your own freedom, but it is really hard for you to leave her. She compels you, not just to enter her physically, but also to enter deep into the secret recesses of her mind. You look at her voluptuous body, but she gets up and abruptly turns to you.

"Just sit there and don't move! Just sit there and talk."

"Until morning?" you ask.

"As long as you've got something to say, say it, I'm listening!"

Her voice is commanding, yet imploring and radiating loveliness, intangible softness. You say you want to feel her reactions, otherwise you would be talking to a vacuum, you would not know when she had fallen asleep, and would feel let down.

"All right, you take off your clothes, too! Just make love with your eyes!"

Chuckling to herself, she props a pillow behind her back against the headboard and, legs crossed, sits facing you. You take off your clothes but are unsure about going across to her.

"Just sit in the chair, don't come near!" she commands.

You obey, and you confront one another naked.

"I want to look at you and feel you like this," she says.

You say that this is like exposing yourself to her.

"What's wrong with that? A man's body is sexy in the same way, don't feel so aggrieved." At this, her lips curl up and she looks wickedly pleased with herself.

"Revenge? Compensation? Is that what you want?" You say this to mock her, this must be what she wants.

"No, don't think so badly of me…" Her voice suddenly seems to be wrapped in a layer of downy feathers. "You're very gentle," she says with sadness in her voice. "You're an idealist, you're still living in dreams, your own dreams."

You say no. You only live in this instant of time, you no longer believe in lies about the future. You need to be able to live in reality.

"Have you never used violence on a woman?"

You think for a while, then say no. Of course, sex and violence are inevitably linked, but that's another matter. The other party has to be willing and accepting. You have never raped anyone. You ask her whether the men she has had were rough.

"Not necessarily… It's best if you talked about something else."

She turns away and leans on the pillow. You can't see her expression. You say that you have experienced the feeling of being raped, of being raped by the political authorities, and it has clogged up your heart. You can understand her, and can understand the anxiety, frustration, and oppression that she can't rid herself of. Rape is not a sex game. It was the same for you, and it was only long afterward, after obtaining the freedom to speak out, that you realized it had been a form of rape. You had been subjected to the will of others, had to make confessions, had to say what others wanted you to say. It was crucial to protect your inner mind, your faith in your inner mind, otherwise you would have been crushed.

"I'm terribly lonely," she says.

You say you understand her, want to go over to comfort her, but are afraid she might wrongly think that you just want to use her.

"No, you don't understand, it's impossible for a man to understand…" Her voice is tinged with sadness.

You can't help saying that you love her, that, at least at this instant in time, you have really fallen in love with her.

"Don't say that it is love. It's so easy saying it, every man can blurt it out."

"Then what shall I say?"

"Say whatever you like…"

"What if I say you're a prostitute?" you ask.

"Who craves excitement and carnal lust?" she says miserably.

She says she is not a sex object. She hopes she will live in your heart, genuinely communicate with your inner heart, and not simply be used by you. She knows that it's hard, almost futile, but she still hopes that it will be like this.