(July 1998)
- Jump, little one! Nothing's going to happen to you, Uncle Michael is here to catch you.
Martino, after a moment's hesitation, lets himself fall into the pool, promptly welcomed by my brother, who grabs him by the waist and supports him, while the child screams, laughs and spits.
Michael heads out to sea, toward the deep end of the pool, with Martino clinging to his shoulders.
My mother places the Agatha Christie mystery novel she is reading on her knees and watches the scene.
- They look great together, right? - she asks me smiling.
I nod without answering.
We are sitting on two deck chairs at the edge of our villa's pool: I let myself be persuaded, I don't even know why, to attend one of my son's first baths. I left Bella at the greenhouse in the company of Mayra and Carlos, with whom she is very happy, and dragged myself to my parents' house very reluctantly, already imagining that I would spend an embarrassing afternoon. On top of everything, I'm not in a good mood at all: the wound left in my soul by Gianni is struggling to heal; I think it's the astonishment and shock that are preventing me, there's no other explanation: usually, when I understand that a person has made fun of me, I completely remove him or her from my thoughts; I don't understand why I can't forget this skilled pretender.
And here I am, sitting at the edge of the pool under a providential umbrella (the sun is beating down hard today). Of course I am “uncle Manu”, and of course Martino ignores me, completely absorbed in his relationship with the other uncle. Luckily there is no one else, because it would be very difficult for me to hide the discomfort I feel; I would like to be anywhere else on the planet at this moment: if there were guests, I would make my way out in English style. My mother would turn around to look for me: “But where has Emmanuel gone?” Oops, disappeared.
My mother, yes: this dear woman is a big enigma to me. My brother knows the truth, so there is no problem with him, but she, at least in theory, knows nothing about it: I watch her out of the corner of my eye, amazed by the apparent naturalness with which she accepts Martino's presence at the villa. All this is incomprehensible to me. I am convinced that my mother knows much more than she wants to show, but that she has decided that the wisest thing to do is to play this comedy of errors, a sort of Menander script in which she has reserved a role for me too: she is convinced that I, in some way, "must" have something to do with this child, while not letting any suspicion slip about my relationship with him. She seems to take it for granted that, if Michael is the little one's godfather, I cannot avoid being his putative uncle. This, in a way, helps me, because I don't have to hide my frequenting Antonia's house too much, but it also makes me seriously embarrassed, because I don't believe for a moment that my mother would feel this need towards the son of a stranger. In any case, I pretend nothing has happened (what else could I do?) and I give a fake smile to the pool, with the air of appreciating the scene that is taking place before my eyes.
- Did you put sunscreen on the baby? - my mother asks Michael.
- Yes, of course: with the skin he has, if I don't put on full-protection cream he peels like a pepper.
Today my mother is wearing an elegant turquoise one-piece bathing suit, which highlights her slim and still almost perfect figure, and her eyes are protected by a pair of designer sunglasses, with rather large lenses, which look great on her. On her head, over her well-combed blond hair gathered with a clip at the nape of her neck, she wears a large straw hat that protects her from the sun (her skin is delicate like mine). My mother is still very beautiful. As for me, I opted for a pair of very modest military green cotton bathing trunks, almost knee-length; I don't feel like acting "the sexy one" in front of my son, and then I don't feel like acting sexy in general anymore: I did it with Michelle because she liked me that way, I did it as a joke because Gianni asked me to, but now Michelle is gone, Gianni is no longer here, at least physically, and my new photographer doesn't feel the need to portray me half-naked, so the matter is closed. Let's say that, occasionally, I enjoy doing it a bit with Mayra, especially during her frequent massages, but it's a kind of good-natured joke between us, that neither of us takes seriously, and that in any case helps to cheer me up a bit. I reflect on the fact that I really like having her put her hands on me and I'm not embarrassed: it's rather strange, given that I don't feel any physical attraction for her; but in the end it's fine like this: it's a sensual but innocent contact, which not even the jealous Carlos finds anything to object to anymore. Every now and then he suddenly throws open the door of the bedroom next to the office, convinced he'd catch us in the act, but he's always disappointed: nothing forbidden ever happens between me and his sister. Besides, I was forced to explain to him that my heart is currently occupied by a middle-aged man, which didn't fail to surprise and disconcert him. I assured him that the story is over and that I'm trying to forget him, but he left shaking his head, not very convinced. Unfortunately Carlos knows me well.
- Don't those thick, long shorts keep you warm? - my mother asks.
- No, Mom, they're fine. Of course, they take a while to dry when I bathe.
- They look like the shorts of an old man, honey, not a twenty-year-old. At your age, and with the body you have, you should wear short, tight briefs, like your brother.
- No, thanks, Mom.
- You've been so serious lately... And to think that damned Dalmasso woman still insists she saw you practically naked in a magazine! She says you were just wearing a kind of completely transparent plastic jumpsuit, you could see everything.
- She's crazy, Mom: it wasn't me, I told you at least ten times. And then, what kind of clothing is a transparent plastic jumpsuit? She must have dreamed it.
- Yeah, I know, it's absurd: even you would look ridiculous in a plastic jumpsuit, even if anything looks good on your body. I mean, what kind of photographer would take pictures like that? He would have to be a pervert, a depraved person, a…
- A gay, mom.
- Well, yes, maybe a gay: but only a madman would put himself in the hands of a gay photographer with nothing on or almost nothing on, unless…
- Unless he was gay too.
- Exactly: and that's certainly not your case.
- Oh no.
- So it wasn't you.
My mother's syllogism is full of holes, but I'm careful not to tell her that.
- Dalmasso is very annoyed that I don't believe her, you know? She's made a point of honor. She said she'll look for that damned magazine and show me the photos. She doesn't know where she put it anymore, otherwise she would have done it already.
I'm sweating coldly: I trust in my guardian angel, who will surely have hidden that magazine at the bottom of a chest, under a pile of rags. I try to joke about it.
- Well, Mom, if you find it, show it to me too: I'm really curious to meet my double.
My mother laughs and changes the subject.
- Anyway, darling, don't you think Michael was born to be a father?
- Yes, absolutely.
- And to think that she has no children. Luckily Laura is still young and seems to have recovered well. The doctors are very optimistic.
I say nothing. I have never had the slightest faith in the optimism of doctors in cases like this. In my opinion they have not the faintest idea of the exact nature of the disease they are dealing with, so their optimism and their pessimism are worth as much as a roll of the dice. I simply wish Laura all the luck in the world in my heart.
- The baby is beautiful, isn't it?
- Yes, it's very nice.
- There's something about him that reminds me of you when you were little, you know? Not in the way he acts, no. He's much more serious: you were a sweetheart, but a real goofball, always with your head in the clouds, and you were always laughing.
- An idiot, in short.
- No, what are you saying? Not an idiot, a sweet child. He almost never laughs: he is a curious, observant and attentive child. He must be very intelligent.
- Yes, I think so too. Sometimes I get embarrassed.
- In any case, I am very surprised by your brother's fair play: I always knew he was a strong and rational boy, but I never thought he could remain on such good terms with his ex-wife.
- Not ex yet, mom: they haven't officially separated.
- Yes, but it's as if they were: they live in two different houses and each has his own life. And yet Michael wanted to stay in touch with her, even though it's clear that she betrayed him almost immediately, because the baby was born too soon.
- Yeah.
- I don't know, there's something that escapes me: I don't understand how he managed to forgive her so quickly. I'm not surprised by your brother's nobility of soul, because I know he's a boy with a superior mind, but it seems to me that he's getting a little too attached to that child who isn't his son, don't you think?
- Yes mom, he actually behaves no more and no less than if he were her father.
- Okay, Antonia asked him to be her godfather, but Michael is crazy about that little one. Mind you, I like the kid a lot too, but I find it… weird, well, pretty weird.
- I can't blame you, Mom.
Michael's voice comes from the pool:
- Hey, Emmanuel, are you going to throw us the ball?
I get up, go get a red rubber ball leaning against the wall of the cabin and throw it to my brother, who uses it to play with Martino, but also to teach him to swim; the child holds on to the ball with his little hands and learns to float without realizing it and without any worries. He's smart, my brother.
- You jump in too - Michael tells me.
- I don't feel like it - I begin, but then I let myself be attracted by that inviting blue, I take a swing and dive head first. I reach the two with a few strokes, raising a few splashes: Martino immediately protests, screaming.
- Are you afraid of a little water? - I say to him laughing.
- Ug-ly Unkl! - Martino exclaims.
- No, come on, not ugly - Michael corrects him - if anything, bad.
- Of course, very bad: I spray poison! - I say in a cavernous voice, widening my eyes. Then I completely immerse my head and resurface with my mouth full of water, spraying it in Martino's face. Of course the child reacts with an indignant shriek and hits me in the face.
- Ug-ly! Ug-ly!
I laugh and walk away from the couple, making a few strokes to the edge of the pool.
“What a stupid son I've made,” I mutter to myself, shaking my hair to dry it a bit.
My mother, who has been observing the scene, smiles amusedly. I go back to sit on my deck chair.
- Of course he'll dislike you, darling, - she tells me - if you play such stupid pranks on him.
- Oh well, Mom: I'll get over it - I reply, moving the deckchair in the sun to dry myself better. To tell the truth, my son and I dislike each other.
Suddenly my cell phone, which had been left on the table under the umbrella, rings.
- Emmanuel, aren't you answering?
- No, Mom, I don't want to be disturbed: let it ring. Sooner or later it will stop.
After about fifteen rings the caller gives up, but the beep of the answering machine can be clearly heard.
- I think he left you a message on your answering machine, darling.
I get up huffing, reach the beach umbrella and pick up the phone. I already know perfectly well who it is and my impatience is only simulated: in reality my heart is pounding. I always have a secret fear of listening to the last message, the farewell one: so I hesitate. In the end I press the button and listen to the message while walking around the beach umbrella so as not to arouse the suspicion of my mother, who would find it rather strange to see me walking away to listen to the message in secret.
Unfortunately, Gianni is clearly confused and screams so loudly that it is difficult to silence his voice, even though I keep my cell phone glued to my ear.
- Emmanuel, my love, why don't you ever answer me? You understand, don't you, that you're driving me to despair? Oh, I know you do it to punish me, and you're right, because I deserved it, but you have to give me the chance to explain yourself... You have to, do you understand? Everyone deserves a second chance, and I can't live if you don't give it to me. Please, I beg you, I implore you, my dear puppy, answer me!
I hang up, pretending to be completely indifferent. My brother and the child, busy playing in the pool, can't have heard anything, but my mother was quite close to me and I fear that something might have reached her ear. I sit back in my seat, pretending nothing happened. She remains silent for a while, then asks me:
- Is everything okay, darling?
- Yes, Mom, why?
- I don't know, it seemed to me that the phone call upset you.
- Who, me? But I didn't say a word. I just listened: if anything, it was he who was upset.
And here it is, the usual outburst of a perfect imbecile. I blush, but fortunately the blush can be attributed to the sun.
- He? - my mother inevitably asks.
- Yes, it was a man.
My mother is silent, not knowing how to formulate the next question. Then she gathers her thoughts and tries:
- I'm starting to understand why you didn't want to answer him: he must be a terrible nuisance.
- More or less.
- Is he a stalker?
- Let's say that in a certain sense it is.
- Look, stalking is a crime: if you want, you can report him.
- But no, Mom, that's not the case.
- I mean, I didn't hear much, but the tone he was using… My God… was pathetic.
- Indeed this man is a very melodramatic subject.
- For goodness sake, darling, don't give him any rope: guys like that can be dangerous.
- But in fact I didn't answer him, Mom: more than that...
- And you did very well. But look at the kind of people there are around…
She shakes her head and, fortunately, goes back to reading “Evil Under The Sun”, a title that seems very appropriate to the circumstances.
I lean back with a sigh of relief and close my eyes, absentmindedly listening to the voices of Michael and my son playing in the pool and taking stock of the situation.
There are three good news: the first, that Gianni called me; the second, that he didn't say goodbye; the third, that sooner or later this day will end.