"Hello, gorgeous."
A silky voice—smooth as dark honey—made me jump. I nearly dropped my glass of Scotch. I spun around: on the couch, carved almost out of shadow, lounged a feminine silhouette. Long legs, a deliberate pose, the posture of someone who knows exactly what effect she has on others.
"What are you doing in my room? You a VIP passenger too?"
She laughed. Her laugh was a crystalline gurgle, like water sliding over polished stones.
"Relax," she said. "I'm only here to please you. My name is Allu. I'm a Succubus, and I can do anything you desire."
She rose slowly, letting the light slide over her curves, and my throat went dry. Snow-white skin, reddish-blonde hair crowned by two sinuous horns curling from her forehead—jewels completed by eyes like storm-torn oceans.
Her lips, red and full, looked ready to promise any madness. Every inch of her was a summons. I felt my blood quicken, my temples pulse.
"What is it?" she asked, tilting her head with feline ease. "Aren't you coming to feel how warm I am?"
My unconscious was already galloping toward her, but my conscience threw a lasso around it.
"Well," I said, gripping the glass like a weapon, "you're offering all this fine bounty for free? What do you want in return?"
Allu smiled. No suspicious canines—just a perfect line of advertisement-worthy teeth.
"The first round is free, gorgeous. The value of your obol lets you enjoy my attention. Then, if you want more… once we dock, you can always come back."
The temptation in the sight of her large, soft breasts was a blade pressed to my throat. And yet, from somewhere deep in my mind, Alberto Angela warned me in his impeccable tone:
"The Greeks spoke of Lamiae and Empusae," he lectured professionally, "creatures that seduced young men to feed on their flesh. The Japanese told stories of the Yuki-onna, pale and merciless, roaming the snows in search of victims to freeze. In Northern Europe they were called Alfur, Elver, Alvefolk, Elfen…"
While my brain futilely explained why I should decline her offer, Allu was already swaying closer. She took the glass from my hand, drank a sip, then grabbed my face and sealed her lips to mine. A hot, intoxicating kiss that hurled me back to buried memories of youth, when desire was a wild animal. Before I completely plunged into that memory, I sensed Alberto shaking his head, disappointed in my weakness.
It was May 12th, 1985—I remember it like yesterday. A sticky heat, air so thick it stole your breath. People walked around in T-shirts, and I, wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses, was waiting in the parish bar for the match that could crown Verona's first championship title.
Second-to-last match day. Bagnoli's team only needed a draw against Atalanta on their turf to bring home the tricolore. Unthinkable: three years earlier we were in Serie B, and now we were fighting for the championship.
I sat with friends, a bottle of chinotto clasped in my hands, while the waitress weaved through tables collecting orders.
Then, in the 16th minute, the cold shower: Perico scored with a header off a cross from Donadoni! In a burst of anger I hit the bottle, knocking it over. Chinotto exploded in dark splashes, soaking the canary-yellow dress of a girl who happened to walk by at that very second.
The stains bloomed across the fabric like Rorschach tests, and the furious look she shot me promised imminent lynching.
I jumped to my feet, embarrassed, trying to save face."—Everything okay?—"
What an idiot. "Everything okay"!?
She glared."—Does this look okay to you? Who's going to get these stains out of my dress?—"
I tore my gaze away from the match—now painful to follow—and looked her in the eyes. Green, fierce, beautiful. Long dark-brown hair, teased and curled like the fashion demanded. I would never forget that contrast: the ferocity in her eyes and the wild beauty behind it.
And then, like an invisible orchestra starting up, Stevie Wonder echoed in my ears: I Just Called to Say I Love You. One of my favorite songs, still charting less than a year after release. It was the heartbeat I didn't dare confess.
"—I can make it right—" I said, grasping at anything.
"—How?—"
I tried to summon charm."—First, by apologizing. Then, if you want, I can have my butler Alfred take care of your dress. He's a wizard with stains.—"
She looked at me skeptically."—Your butler?—"
I tried to play it for laughs."—He's the only one who knows my true identity.—"
"—Which is?—"
I puffed my chest."—I am… BATMAN!—"
Behind me, Gianni burst out laughing, my ears burning red all the way to the tips. Even Stevie Wonder, if he could, would have shot me a disappointed glare. I wanted to disappear, commit seppuku right there, and return to suffering through the match.
And yet, something happened. Her eyes lit up, as if a magnetic storm erupted behind her pupils. And she smiled. A real smile. She, the only one in my entire life, found that line funny. The only one. No one before or after ever laughed at something like that. But she did.
"—So you're offering me a cedrata and a cleaned dress to make up for it?—" she asked, with a spark of complicity.
"—Absolutely—" I said, heartened. "—But let's go to another bar. Can't breathe in here.—"
"—Truth be told, I was about to leave. I hate soccer.—"
"—What a coincidence, me too—" I lied shamelessly.
"—Clara—" she said.
"—Rodolfo—."
I opened the door for her and led her to a nearby café, leaving my friends to enjoy a match which, they told me the next day, ended in the tie scored by Elkjaer six minutes into the second half—securing the championship. But it wasn't that important.
If I were sure the memory had truly happened that way, I would live off that certainty today. But this time, when I made the Batman joke, Clara didn't laugh. She dimmed. Her gaze turned gray, and rising to her feet, she turned her back to me.
"—Is something wrong?—" I asked faintly.
She didn't turn."—Your joke sucks. I'm leaving. This place is hell.—"
She strode toward the same door I was sure I had opened for her moments earlier.
"—Wait, Clara! That's not how it went!—" I shouted, but my voice had no sound.
Around me, the bar melted. Patrons, bottles, tables—everything sagged and warped like surrealist clocks. Time froze, perspectives collapsed. Everything smeared together like clumsy brushstrokes on a three-dimensional canvas where even I seemed forcibly embedded.
Panic clutched my throat. I fought my way out of the collapsing nightmare, reaching for the only thing that mattered. With a desperate lunge I caught her hand, turned her toward me.
"—That's not how it went!—" I yelled—
—but it wasn't Clara anymore.
It was Allu. Her face twisted into a vampiric smile.
I screamed, shoving the succubus away. I found myself naked, sprawled on the rug before the fireplace. The dying embers cast orange light, spreading thick shadows across the room.
"What the hell did you do to me!?" I gasped.
Allu didn't answer. She crawled toward me with predatory slowness, breasts bare, wings draped over her perfect backside.
"No!" she shrieked—and her voice warped into something shrill and grotesque, a paradox spilling from that divine body. "You interrupted my meal! And I want it. I want your delicious memory. And I will have it."
She lunged at me, grabbed my member with violence, trying to drag me back into her. Panic jolted me alive: I kicked her away, sending her sprawling.
I heard her snarl in the dark, then moan seductively, trying once more to spark my desire. Trying to hypnotize me—but the enchantment was shattered.
"It won't work anymore, you wretch! You won't have it!" I shouted, with a fury I never thought I possessed.
Never in my life had I imagined speaking to a woman like that. But inside me something terrifying had ignited. Pure rage. A resolve I had never known.
Allu screamed back. A high, inhuman shriek that froze my blood. Then she fled, darting through the door, which slammed shut behind her.
I stayed there, panting. My heart slowly found its rhythm again. The embers dimmed like my libido.
"What a night…" I sighed.
And I regretted it. Regretted going that far, risking betraying the only woman I ever loved. For one moment, I had been a step away from losing the most precious memory I had.