Venera Dreams Read online

Xandra handed Camille an envelope: two train tickets to Villa Santa Mariagiovanna, a small port city in the south of Italy. They were taking the 13:45 train the next day. Camille had no idea why they were heading there, but she was thrilled at the idea of a mysterious adventure in the company of her equally mysterious lover. Besides, there was nothing and no-one else waiting for her.

  Camille was surprised by the seeming revelation that Xandra had money, or at least access to it somehow. She had booked them on a sleeper car for the overnight leg from Milan to their destination, which, despite the crampedness, felt luxurious after weeks at the hostel. Meals were included with the fare, and, since Xandra still exhibited no desire to ingest anything, Camille indulged in double portions, even if overeating usually made her a little sick to her stomach.

  In their compartment, Camille went to bed feeling ill and bloated. Xandra tucked her in with solicitous tenderness and rubbed a viscous tincture on the Frenchwoman’s belly and face. Camille almost vomited at the concoction’s reek: a too pungent blend of brine and vermilion overpowered by rot and decay. The stink of rot, Camille realized, could be caused by her own nausea and not by the tincture itself, but she was beginning to have trouble distinguishing sensations. Soon, she started sweating, erupting in fever, and it became difficult to think or to make sense of things.

  When she woke in the morning, her fever broken, Camille struggled with odd memories of the past night.

  Xandra was already up and dressed, staring out at the sea from their window, her bag packed.

  Camille had had strange dreams — or perhaps waking delusions. Most vividly she’d imagined Xandra naked, her body covered in glowing fishlike sigils, vermilion in colour. She was chanting in a language Camille could not recognize. One word was repeated more than any other: nayadaga. Xandra paused to sip from a burgundy-coloured bottle. She swished the liquid around in her mouth and spat it out into her hand. She brought her wet hand down between her legs, rubbing and fingering herself to orgasm. A dark orange mist seeped out from Xandra’s cunt; the mist took a shape and solidified into a floating creature, undeniably female, that seemed a cross between a fish, a human, and something else Camille could not begin to identify. Again, Xandra repeated nayadaga, this time with reverential awe; Camille softly echoed the syllables, understanding as she intoned the word that this was the creature’s name. At the sound of Camille’s voice, both Nayadaga and Xandra looked at Camille with fury. From Nayadaga’s gills spewed a burnt-orange substance that Camille, in her dream-logic, understood to be the essence of the goddess Nayadaga herself. Camille then lost consciousness, her mind adrift in delusions too bizarre to accurately recollect or describe to herself.

  But looking at Xandra now in the light of day, all traces of the fever dissipated, the nighttime episode seemed so absurd. Yes, Xandra was odd and more than a little mysterious, but Camille was also aware of vermilion’s reputed hallucinogenic properties; she easily dismissed her memories as the result of the fever and the vermilion ointment.

  Camille rose and cuddled next to Xandra. Xandra stretched out her arm so that Camille could rest her head on her shoulder. They squeezed each other. Camille breathed in her lover’s aroma and let herself be infected by Xandra’s serenity.

  The train pulled into the Villa Santa Mariagiovanna station at 8 a.m. They spent the morning walking by the port, until Camille got hungry. Camille used her last few euros to buy some lunch: macaroni with slices of spicy sausage, chunks of ricotta cheese, diced bright-red tomatoes, and hot green peppers — everything dripping with garlicflavoured olive oil. It was the most delicious meal Camille had enjoyed in years. As usual, Xandra simply watched her eat.

  Camille was now completely broke. She tried to explain this to Xandra, but the other woman curtly shushed her, as if it were of no import. Camille reminded herself that this was an adventure, reminded herself to roll with whatever would happen.

  Villa Santa Mariagiovanna lacked the romance so characteristic of Italy. A small grey, business-like port where the shore and the town itself were entirely given over to commerce, to big ships loading and unloading their wares, to trucks carrying cargo to and from the boats. Beyond, the vibrant blue of the sea and the lush greenery of Sicily beckoned. Camille had never before come this far south in Italy. The mere idea of Sicily thrilled her. She broke the customary silence and tried to ask Xandra if that’s where they were heading. Xandra seemed to make no effort to try to understand or respond to Camille’s half-French, half-mangled-Italian query.

  After lunch, Xandra dragged Camille through the grey streets of Villa Santa Mariagiovanna, until they reached an alley of some sort, with overflowing dumpsters that reeked of rotting fish. Xandra knocked on a nondescript wooden door; an old man answered, and he looked upon the Veneran woman with unashamed adoration. The two spoke in the Veneran dialect, but Camille thought she detected a few words that sounded utterly alien, much like the words Xandra had intoned during Camille’s dream or delusion that night on the train. The old man stepped aside to let the two young women in. As Xandra crossed the threshold, with the Frenchwoman right behind her, Camille noticed, above the doorway, a small dark-orange statuette nailed to the wall. Camille squinted to get a better look and gasped with unexpected fear: she was certain she had recognized Nayadaga. How much of Camille’s nighttime vision had in fact been hallucination? What had really happened on the train?

  Xandra reacted to Camille’s disquiet. At first, Camille thought she read anger in Xandra’s features, but perhaps she had been mistaken. Xandra took her hand between the two of hers and squeezed it reassuringly. When she smiled at Camille, there was only concern and tenderness on her face. Still, Camille trembled a bit, unable to shake a chill of dread.

  The old man led them to a small room with a cot no bigger than a child’s bed. The door shut, Xandra removed her own clothes and enfolded the worried Camille into her arms. The proximity of Xandra and her briny odour finally soothed Camille’s anxiety. Xandra’s permanent dampness soaked into Camille’s clothes. The two women exchanged a grin at this recurring incident. Camille made to slip out of her clothes, but Xandra grabbed her wrists to stop her. Instead, the naked Xandra slowly removed Camille’s clothes herself.

  Sex between the two women was never genital, and barely reciprocal. Xandra would passively lie there, with her legs and mouth firmly closed, letting Camille caress, lick, kiss, and otherwise have her way with her body. Occasionally, Xandra would utter strange, almost inhuman moans in what Camille assumed to be pleasure. The unique taste and scent of Xandra’s flesh were intoxicating to Camille, providing a high more blissful than any orgasm she’d ever experienced before, with boys or by herself.

  Camille swooned when now, for the first time, Xandra began to nibble on Camille’s breasts with her sharp teeth, when she slid her rough tongue on her flesh, when she reached between Camille’s legs with her moist hand to slip two wet, spongy, slippery fingers into Camille’s own wetness.

  Camille came immediately, screaming her orgasm, and promptly fell asleep on the tiny, cramped cot.

  Camille woke shortly after sunset to find tiny, blood-red bite marks all over her body. Xandra avoided her gaze but firmly took hold of Camille’s hand when the old man led the two women to a small pier, concealed beneath a bigger pier. From that secret location, they boarded a vehicle stranger than anything Camille had ever seen. Camille surmised that it was a sort of submarine, but, instead of metal, it was made out of a transparent, spongy substance. Its overall shape — that of a giant fish — was firm, but the hull was warm and soft and subtly yielding to the touch, as if it were organic, fleshly; the more she probed at it, the more it reminded her of Xandra’s flesh.

  Xandra took off her shoes before boarding and indicated that Camille should do the same. They got aboard through the vessel’s open, gaping mouth, as if they were willingly sacrificing themselves by walking into the belly of an enormous marine creature. At that moment, Camille grew convinced that the ship was indeed alive.

&n
bsp; The submarine was crewed entirely by women, all of whom bore an unmistakable family resemblance to Xandra. The interior of the vessel, and all the women aboard, smelled of the same distinctive briny aroma as Xandra herself.

  They lost no time and quickly set off and submerged into the darkness of the Mediterranean at night.

  In total darkness, Camille lost track of time and direction. But before long something glowed in the distance — a vermilion glow sparkling with other colours too otherworldly to name. The fishlike vessel approached the source of light: it seemed alive, but gigantic — bigger than a large city. It pulsed, shimmered, undulated, and erupted in multicoloured tendrils, like the underbelly of a leviathan squid or jellyfish.

  As they drew even nearer, Camille grew increasingly confused by the nature of what she was seeing. At times, it appeared to be nothing more than rock — the underside of a large island, perhaps — but always there remained at least an afterimage of the pulsating, colourful tendrils.

  As one, many of the women on board uttered the same word: “Venera.”

  The submarine navigated into the underbelly of the great city-state, following a stony labyrinth, until it emerged into a lush, underground cavern, lit with the glow of leaves and moss of iridescent vermilion.

  The cavern was so big that Camille could not see its limits. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds of women were gathered here. Each of them naked; each of them resembling Xandra to an alarming degree; their bodies decorated with the same sort of glowing vermilion fish tattoos as Xandra’s had been on the train during what Camille had believed to be a dream or delusion. The intensity of their collective briny aroma almost caused Camille to faint, but she pushed herself to stay conscious, refusing to abandon herself to that scent, which she associated perhaps too closely with pleasure and comfort.

  The ground beneath her bare feet was covered in thick, iridescent spongy moss. It was a strangely soothing sensation.

  By reflex, Camille reached out to take Xandra’s hand, but she clasped only emptiness. The women were all crowded close to each other, but they had left a wide berth around Camille. She scanned the gathering but could not locate Xandra anywhere.

  An older woman separated herself from the throng and approached Camille. To her surprise and relief, the woman addressed her in French. She was direct: “Do you love and trust Xandra with all your heart?”

  Camille had not known what to expect, but she hadn’t expected this. It took her a moment to collect herself, but she didn’t pause to think: “Yes. Yes, I do. More than I ever believed I could love or trust anyone.”

  The woman lowered her eyes with a thin and somewhat ominous smile.

  Camille heard a splash behind her. She turned to see Xandra climbing out of the water, also naked, also covered in the same fish sigils as the others.

  Xandra came to stand next to Camille, grabbing her hand fiercely, her large, moist eyes radiant despite their darkness.

  The woman spoke again. “Xandra loves you, Camille. She is willing to submit to anything the goddess demands to be with you. Will you, too, surrender yourself to Nayadaga in honour of your love?”

  This was a wedding. Xandra had brought her here to get married. Camille had never idealized marriage, had never thought much about it, really, but suddenly she felt herself melt at the strange, compelling romanticism of this moment and of all the other moments with Xandra that had led her here, to this place, this time, this life-changing event. “I would do anything to make Xandra happy. To love Xandra.”

  The woman replied: “I will ask you again; but know that the goddess will exact a price from each of you to bless this love. Once you have formally agreed, there is no turning back, no possibility of refusing the goddess her due. Will you, Camille, surrender to Nayadaga in honour of your love for Xandra?”

  “Yes, I will. Yes. Yes!”

  Camille felt Xandra’s hand squeeze hers tighter.

  The woman addressed Xandra in the Veneran dialect. In response, Xandra turned to her bride, fixing her large, inhuman eyes on Camille’s until the Frenchwoman felt utterly submissive and compliant to the will of her lover. Xandra then removed Camille’s clothes. The officiator gestured, and another woman appeared, carrying a burnt-orange ewer, which she gave to Xandra, who dipped her fingers into it. When she brought them out, the tips of her fingers glowed with vermilion ichor, which Xandra used to cover Camille’s body with the same fishlike sigils all these women bore.

  The congregation began chanting. The chant grew louder and louder, until it rumbled like thunder. They were intoning a single name: Nayadaga.

  Vermilion smoke seeped out from between the legs of every woman save the wedding couple. The fish goddess materialized from the smoke and took solid shape, a hundredfold larger than she had appeared on the train.

  The two brides stood facing each other, their hands clasped. Camille breathed deeply; she felt the damp, smoky essence of the goddess Nayadaga seep into her. Camille’s bones seemed to lose their solidity, adopting a malleability that held the promise of profound transformation.

  AT THE WORLD TREE HOTEL

  For the past five days, as the cruise ship Venusian languorously travelled the Mediterranean from Barcelona to Venera, the weather had been perfect: bright blue skies tempered by the occasional white cloud with not a hint of rain; never dipping below fifteen degrees centigrade at night, never going above 25 in the daytime; a steady breeze that carried the mesmerizing aroma of the sea. Jana had worked on her tan, sipping vermilion-tinged cocktails, which gave her deliciously vivid erotic daydreams, while Dean snapped away at the aquatic horizon with the camera she’d recently given him for his birthday.

  But this morning, now that the boat is docking at the port of Venera, the rain pours down in dense sheets, rendering the legendary city-state all but invisible. The precipitation is accompanied by an unseasonal damp chill that lodges itself in Jana’s bones. She shivers, even under the double protection of sweater and raincoat. She’s not sure their luggage is rainproof enough to withstand such intense weather. She clutches Dean’s arm, rubs her cheek on his shoulder. The smell of him chases away some of her agitation — having imbibed vermilion nonstop for five days her sense of smell is now animalistic — but she’s still disappointed: she had looked forward to witnessing firsthand the celebrated sea view of the Venera cityscape. How often will she get to sail into what is reputed to be the most strangely beautiful metropolis on Earth? The weather is bound to clear up, though, and then maybe they can book a boat tour around the archipelago and get a good eyeful of the cityscape as seen from the sea.

  At the exit of the boat, someone is waiting for them. A sturdy man with a crew cut dressed in a formal uniform that sits uncomfortably on his rough frame holds a sign with Dean’s name. Next to the man is an enclosed two-wheel cart; after vigorously shaking Dean’s hand and kissing Jana’s, the latter in a manner that manages to be both brash and polite, he introduces himself — Carlo — and tucks away their luggage safely in his impermeable conveyance.

  He motions for them to follow him, and they venture into the raindarkened metropolis. Jana can barely see more than two arms’ length anywhere around her. She holds on tightly to Dean as they zigzag into the unknown. To Jana’s surprise, Dean is sure-footed, easily keeping pace with Carlo, who, even laden with the cart, navigates the narrow claustrophobic streets with a dancer’s grace, belying her first impression of the bulky hotel employee. Then Dean surprises her even further when he starts to shout to Carlo through the percussive din of the rain, and the two men engage in a boisterous exchange punctuated with roars and laughter.

  Besides her native English, Jana can barely squeak by in Spanish and French; to her Toronto ears Dean and Carlo are speaking something close to Italian, but tinged with Arabic, French, and Spanish. It must be Veneran, a language few people learn outside the archipelago itself. Jana and Dean have been together for nearly two years now — their second anniversary will occur here in Venera, and Jana suspects that the entire trip
, paid for by Dean, is an elaborate setup for a marriage proposal — but she still doesn’t really know much about his past, and now that he’s displaying familiarity with mysterious, glamorous Venera she’s more curious than ever — and more drawn to him.

  Without Jana having noticed that they ever passed through a doorway or any kind of threshold, the three of them are now standing at the desk of the World Tree Hotel, its green and rust-red logo — depicting Yggdrasil, the World Tree of Norse myth — embossed on the front panel so realistically that it is as if the tree’s roots reach into the soil underneath the hotel’s marble floor.

  Jana is drenched to the bone, shivering in spite of the heat. The heavy, confining layers of raincoat and sweater suffocate her. She removes them, hungry for air. Even her shirt and bra are uncomfortably damp, but she feels a moment of relief. Suddenly it’s all too much: the incomprehensible Veneran language, the confusing organic architecture, the oppressive clamminess of the air, the pungent odours, the lobby filled only with men. Their palpable masculinity assails her senses, as if some primordial pheromone receptor had just been kickstarted — perhaps another side-effect of vermilion? Dean had warned her not to overdo it with the cocktails. She had never tasted the notorious Veneran psychotropic spice before. Without realizing she’s doing it aloud, she moans, and all those male eyes turn toward her, intensifying her sense of being trapped, surrounded, surveilled. She shivers violently, a penetrating cold icing through her veins.

  Dean cries, “Jana …” He steps toward her, but as he moves he is transformed into a grotesque caricature of himself, half-tree, half-wolfman. The entire lobby and all in it are also transmogrified into something otherworldly, so otherworldly that she cannot distinguish what is alive from what is not.

  She closes her eyes. Hands grab at her. At first, they feel like rough bark scraping against the skin of her arms. But she hears Dean’s voice, repeating her name gently. Then she recognizes the grip. Dean’s hands. Not soft like a woman’s, but softer than bark. Firm masculine hands. She opens her eyes, and there he is, holding her. The lobby is back as it was. But she is still cold and shivering. And weakened.