Many months have passed since Gianni and Emmanuel met at Bar Paradiso (see "Paradise Bar"), and the two are now a stable, albeit clandestine, couple.
Gianni has decided to organize a major exhibition of his best photos in Milan and wants Emmanuel to be present at the opening. But some photos portray Emmanuel as a model, and Massimiliano, Gianni's partner, a famous painter, will also be there... How can Emmanuel not be recognized?
Gianni has an idea: he dyes the boy's hair red, puts glasses on him, and dresses him like a slightly nerdy college student.
From now on, he will no longer be Emmanuel, but Christian, Gianni's secretary.
- Hello, beautiful people!
Maurizia Ajroldi di Robbiate enters the exhibition with a radiant smile on her re-made lips and the Milan Cathedral on her head (one of the hats she's famous for), clad in a skin-tight candy pink dress, accompanied by a pair of blue-haired boys and followed by a small flock of paparazzi. The onlookers applaud: the sight of the surreal noblewoman, well-known in the Milanese area, always inspires joy and good humor.
Massimiliano approaches her and kisses her hand with a small bow.
- Countess, what a pleasure.
The pleasure is all mine, dear Cattaneo: you know I've never missed one of your shows.
- This, actually, isn't mine, but my partner Gianni Gandolfini's. He's a photographer, not a painter. It's his first exhibition: he's not a stage animal like me; he doesn't like showing off his art. But he's good, you'll see.
- The invitation comes from you, my dear, and you are absolutely guaranteed. But where is our Gandolfino?
- I'll introduce him to you right away.
Massimiliano takes a few steps toward the buffet in the dining room, where Gianni and I are sitting. Today, he's dressed with the refined, slightly 19th-century elegance that characterizes him at his best: a magnificent navy blue linen jacket over a stunning multicolored paisley-patterned brocade waistcoat, a crisp white shirt slightly open at the chest, and pearl gray trousers. An almost invisible diamond sparkles in his left earlobe. He's beautiful, like something out of a Van Dyck painting, but he doesn't show off, despite being the star of the evening: he stands discreetly aside, letting others gaze at him. I, who have to play the role of the insignificant secretary we'd agreed upon, have opted for a nondescript dark blue wool cardigan over a white shirt, cream corduroy trousers, and prim, mouse-colored loafers. I'm wearing round glasses, without any prescription whatsoever, just to complete the effect. And of course, as expected, my hair is dyed a dark Titian red, similar to my son's, slicked back with gel and tied in a pathetic ponytail at the nape of my neck. I feel decidedly ugly in this disguise, but Gianni's eyes light up when he looks at me: the complicity that binds us in this moment excites him, and besides, he really likes me in this nerdy guise.
"You have no idea how much you make my blood boil looking like that," he whispers in my ear as I sip my cocktail. "I'd eat you alive." He takes advantage of the situation to give me a little bite on the neck, without being noticed. I laugh.
We're busy being served the signature drink prepared for the occasion by an elegant waiter: Gianni spared no expense in setting up his exhibition and asked the catering service to create a custom cocktail for the occasion, inspired by the theme of the exhibition and the colors of his works. They named it "Yellow Absinthe Neck," I don't understand why.
Massimiliano ignores me completely and takes Gianni by the arm.
- Come, what are you doing here? he whispers. The countess has arrived.
- I'm coming, says Gianni, quickly taking a sip of his cocktail. He turns his back on me and follows Massimiliano.
I watch them walk away: Massimiliano has the typical winning attitude of established artists, moving with ease and absolute mastery of the situation, as if he were the protagonist of the exhibition. Gianni, on the other hand, retains a kind of underlying shyness, the same one that occasionally emerges with me too: Massimiliano is undoubtedly the dominant element of the couple. I think to myself that, despite his corpulent build and his now thinning, gray, and rather long hair, he is still a very interesting man. He is dressed in a seemingly casual, but in reality very refined, style, that characteristic semi-informal style of successful men who have nothing to prove to anyone. The dark blue shirt is by Trussardi, as I deduce from the greyhound logo embroidered on one corner of the collar, severe and elegant, contrasting with the light, unstructured Armani jacket, the jeans, and the slightly boyish sneakers. Around his neck hangs a pair of very expensive and exclusive Epos Bronte 3 glasses with dark blue satin frames, which he displays coquettishly. Gianni, on the other hand, only wears glasses when we're looking at photos on the computer in his study: his eyesight is still good. Neither of them looks gay: they resemble, respectively, a decadent dandy, too bored to think about sex, and a Brianza industrialist who preys on young girls.
Meanwhile, the countess continues to assume various extravagant poses for the paparazzi, alternately jutting her breasts and bottom forward and backward.
- These rascals, she modulates in a slightly croaky contralto voice, they follow me wherever I go. After all, what do you want? It's my destiny: the ephemeral is my kingdom, and nothing is more apparent than the ephemeral. Guys, follow me, I'm going to look at the photographs: that's why we're here, isn't it?
The Countess advances toward the central hall, which houses photographs of the church of Merate: I appear in almost all of them, in the guise of Apollo or the Archangel Gabriel. Gianni and Massimiliano accompany her on her tour.
- But this painting... or is it a photo?, asks Ajroldi, stopping in front of "Apollo in a Gothic Church," which portrays me life-size between two columns of the church in Merate.
- It's a photo, Countess, explains Gianni, but appropriately retouched, so that it looks like an oil painting.
- Well, Gandolfini, congratulations: not just for the technique, but also for the subject, the idea, everything. But who is the model?
- He's a country boy, a shy and reserved type.
- This guy absolutely has to be at my parties. I absolutely want him at the villa and at Amnesie too, ab-so-lu-tely!
- I don't think that's possible, Gianni smiles, It's not suitable for your parties, Countess.
- Don't be kidding, Gandolfini! This boy is stardust: I'll convert him with a couple of lines of coke, the country boy. Isn't he here?"
- No, he didn't want to come.
- Outrageous! You should have forced him.
- In any case, Countess, Massimiliano intervenes annoyed, allow me to tell you that your enthusiasm is excessive: passable body, in fact quite well made, but take a closer look at the subject's face.
- I'm observing him, Cattaneo: so, what should I notice?
- The expression, Countess.
The countess squints to see better and focuses on the face of the "subject" (myself).
- Well, yes, it seems to me that he has an expression a little bit...
- A little bit?, Massimiliano urges.
- A little bit like...
Massimiliano explodes:
- And say it, Countess! Like an idiot!
The noblewoman hesitates, looking now at Gianni and now at Massimiliano; then she smiles:
- I wouldn't say like an idiot: I'd rather say like a tender absent-minded.
- What absent-minded?, Massimiliano blurts out again. He has the look of a boiled fish. Imbecile, completely imbecile!"
- Massy... Gianni tries to intervene.
- Forget it, Gianni, I know you want to defend your work and I understand. But this boy has a complete lack of intelligence in his eyes, admit it. "Void of Intellect," that's what you should have titled the painting.
- Massy, Gianni replies firmly, the void was intentional: he was meant to embody Apollo, and his gaze was meant to express the gods' indifference to human affairs. It's not me who needs to remind you of Montale's lines: "I knew nothing, except the prodigy revealed by divine Indifference: it was the statue in the midday drowsiness, and the cloud, and the high-soaring falcon."
Massimiliano bursts into a hearty laugh.
- Even the display of classical culture! Well done, that's what we needed! But it doesn't work with me, Giannino, you know: this guy doesn't have the divine indifference of the gods in his eyes, he has an absolute emptiness in his brain. A pneumatic void, at most a few cobwebs.
The Countess takes the opportunity to remind those present of her artistic roots.
- I love Montale: and how could I not, since I am his humble disciple? "No one can stop you; you must fly with your own wings..."
Massimiliano gallantly kisses her hand.
- Exquisite verses, Countess.
- Speaking of exquisite, let's go see what this wonderful buffet has to offer... Oh, I see our Marta's here! Excuse me, everyone, I can't help but adore her.
The Countess walks away quickly towards "our Marta".
There's a stormy atmosphere between Massimiliano and Gianni: they stare at each other for a few seconds without saying anything. From my corner, I can see everything and follow the developments with some apprehension.
- Darling, Massimiliano hisses, I have a few words to say to you in private.
- Whenever you want, Gianni replies coldly.
- Right away.
- Okay, then in the other room.
The other room is near the door where I stand, unseen, hidden by a gigantic and providential Ficus Benjamina tree. I decide there's no point in being discreet: I want to understand something more, to understand the situation I've gotten myself into. So I lean against the wall with apparent nonchalance, sipping my cocktail, and listen to their bickering. It's not difficult for me to do so, because they're talking animatedly, loudly, and with the door open.