- So, what do you think?
- Are you telling me we came all these miles to come and see this… - I hesitate, not wanting to call it too derogatory - this building?
- Of course!
The rustic, or rather the ruin, stands in the center of the village, in an elevated position, on a sort of rocky platform surrounded by an indefinable vegetation made of brambles and bushes. I observe it in disbelief.
- It was worth it, wasn't it?
- In what sense was it worth it?
Bruno blurts out, impatiently:
- But what happened to your intuition? Don't you see the potential of this rustic house in the center of town?
- I don't doubt that it's in the center of town, Bruno, but which town?
- What, which one? The one where we are: Pàllare, in the province of Savona! Or did you happen to fall asleep halfway there?
- No, Bruno, I was wide awake: even if I had wanted to fall asleep, on your Galloper, with all those hairpin bends taken at eighty miles an hour, I wouldn't have succeeded.
- You were a bit nervous, huh?
- Eh, sometimes a little bit, yes.
- My Galloper… gallops! And I, as I already told you, was a motocross champion, and I was also a good rally driver.
- I noticed it, otherwise we would have ended up in a ravine.
- And then, haven't you seen what fantastic landscapes? From Ceva onwards, it's all woods that almost seem like you're in Canada! Conifer and chestnut woods, a mushroom hunter's paradise.
- Yes, that's true: I must admit that the landscape is beautiful, very green, at least in the Cuneo area; in the Ligurian area it is more barren. But let's get back to us: so we are in Pallare, in the province of Savona: and this should constitute a plus for the property?
- My boy, let me tell you, you've lost your edge: that certainly is a virtue. Pallare is half an hour's drive from Vado Ligure!
- Half an hour is not a very short time to get to the sea, eh! But I'll grant you, it can be an advantage. But is it enough to compensate for the disadvantages?
- What are the disadvantages?
- Bruno, damn it, there is nothing at all in this cottage and I don't think there ever was anything: I don't see any trace of any kind of system. There's no electricity, no drinking water, no connection to the sewer system...
- Septic tanks are still used here.
- Okay, so the septic tank is missing.
- And there is a spring a few steps away: the water is excellent.
- Come on, let's not joke: how do you wash yourself? Do you go get water with jugs and pour it into basins? Cold, too! It's not like having running water, eh!
- Once upon a time it was done like this: the water was heated on the putagè.
- Bruno, please stop dreaming about your grandmother's times and come to your senses. In short, absolutely everything is missing here and the farmhouse needs to be completely renovated.
- But boy, don't you understand that this is precisely the beauty of it? We are in the presence of a structure entirely made of local stone that has never undergone any alterations of any kind, that is, it is in its original state! A true rarity. It probably dates back to the eighteenth or nineteenth century, perhaps even earlier. A magnificent building could be made from it!
I sigh, trying not to lose my temper. I have become impatient and intolerant since I broke up with Gianni in that dramatic way. I loved that man and I trusted him: the separation was brutal, it burns like a wound that refuses to heal. I try to soothe it by filling my days with beautiful things and the affection that I fortunately have, with Carlos's friendship, with Mayra's thoughtful attentions, with Antonia and Martino's three-weekly visits, with visits to my family, with Bella's joyful presence. But I have a constant pain in my sternum, and if I remember correctly, behind the sternum is the heart. I miss Gianni terribly, but for no reason in the world would I go back to look for him after he offended me to death by trying to send me to bed with Aaron. I don't answer the phone when he tries to contact me, which happens almost every day. He leaves desperate messages on my answering machine: I listen to them and delete them, without ever answering. Sooner or later he will get tired, and that day, I already know, I will suffer like a dog. But my heart suffered a mortal wound when the man I loved tried to push me into the arms of another as if I were a street prostitute. It is not a question of wounded pride: by trying to send me to bed with another, Gianni proved that he did not love me at all, and that is what struck me deadly. I believed that he loved me, in a certain sense I took it for granted, and I lived lulled by this sweet trust, like a small child: discovering that it was not so was a shock for me. Therefore I will continue to suffer in silence, but no, I will not forgive him.
Not even Bruno's kindness can soothe the annoyance of living that I feel every day: I'm fond of him, but lately he has increasingly extravagant ideas about buildings and following him in his wanderings in search of "real estate opportunities" is becoming a burden, even if it distracts me. But it's not his fault, poor Bruno: the fact is that everything weighs on me, when I'm in this state of mind. I try to soften my tone of voice so as not to offend him and I answer calmly:
- Bruno, I agree: it could certainly be turned into a spectacular building. For example, these arcades could become a magnificent loggia, and the cross vaults of the central hall are of rare beauty.
- Oh look, I see you're finally thinking!
- Yes, but bear with me: how much would all this cost?
- Well, quite a bit of money, but you know perfectly well that I have low-cost Albanian workers, people who know what they're doing.
- And who would come to work all the way here? Sleeping where? Eating where? And at whose expense?
- Well, that's actually a small problem.
- No, it's not a small problem: it's a huge problem. Or do you think they have to go up and down from Castelnuovo to Pallare every single day? And who pays for the gas and the highway?
Finally Bruno's boldness begins to waver in the face of my simple common sense considerations. I can't understand how such a lucid and concrete man, capable of closing very profitable deals, can literally lose his head in front of certain buildings: he always tells me that you shouldn't fall in love with houses, but he's the first to do so. And it's difficult to make him give up these sudden and fatal infatuations. Besides, I can't blame him: I know well how difficult it is to give up a love.
- Bruno, - I continue gently - you know how grateful I am for what you are doing for me: just with the sale of the Berzano house I earned, thanks to you, more than I earn in two months with the nursery. But when you make a mistake I have to tell you.
- Am I wrong in what sense? - Bruno tries to pretend again, looking at the cross vaults with rapt eyes.
- I mean, you would never ever get your money back.
- It's cheap: I'll take it away for twenty million.
- Yes, but then you spend two hundred to renovate it, pay for food and lodging for your Albanians, ask for permits for all the connections, hoping they'll grant them, pay the urbanization charges and so on. In the end, how much should you sell it for, I don't say to make a profit, but to get your money back?
- I know… I should sell it a little expensive… but on the other hand it's half an hour from the sea.
- And that's where you're wrong: if it were half an hour from the sea, but with a view of the sea, then it might make sense to face such an expense; but here we are in the center of town and we see nothing but the houses of the town and a piece of woods. So the house, however beautiful it is, will never be worth the money you would spend on it.
Bruno hesitates.
- On top of that, it doesn't even have a parking lot - I insist, ruthlessly.
- But there's that beautiful clearing a short distance away, where we parked, and then there's never too many people here, not even in the summer.
- I know, but it's not like having a private parking lot. A respectable villa must have a private parking lot. And then, if there are no people even in the summer, it means that as a vacation spot it's not very popular, right?
I won the game, I can see it in his face: I feel a sense of relief, because I have saved my friend from a suicidal adventure, into which he would have thrown himself with the blind enthusiasm of lovers.
- I think you're right - he admits morosely.
- I think so.
- So what did we come all the way here to do? I just wasted your time…
I smile and pat him on the shoulder.
- Oh no, Bruno! Let's take it as a little vacation: I was very happy to accompany you on the trip.
- You've become my critical conscience, boy!
- That's a compliment I don't deserve. Let's just say I don't actually fall in love with houses, that's all.
- Already.
Bruno's cell phone rings.
- Excuse me a moment. Yes, Patrizia, what's up? But why are you calling me to tell me such stupid things? Did Mao and Pippo argue over the computer wires and get them tangled up? Who cares! Oh... did they short circuit? And call the electrician, right?
Bruno hangs up the phone in poor Patrizia's face, who is still protesting.
- Patrizia, saint right away - I comment with a smile.
- What a saint! She's a pain in the ass. Good girl though, eh: as a secretary there's nothing to say. Anyway, it's already noon: we have to get something to eat, I don't want you to go hungry too.
- Yes, eating something might be an idea.
- How about lunch at a service station on the Turin-Savona highway? I know one near Mondovì where you eat well and sit comfortably at the tables.
- Perfect: but then we have to get back on the road immediately, otherwise we risk finding the motorway restaurant already closed.
- It's not a problem: with my Galloper…
I hasten to deny everything I just said.
- There's no rush, Bruno: we'll get to Mondovì in an hour.
- Scared, huh?
- No, you're welcome. It's just that I like to travel slowly. And then I hate the Turin-Savona: it's not for nothing that they call it the "Highway of Death". You have to go slowly.
- Yes, I know: three of my friends died there, unfortunately. They're doubling it a little at a time, that damned highway, but they're not finished yet. Come on, let's go.
We return to the semi-grassy clearing where we parked. Before climbing aboard the Galloper I cast a last farewell glance at the ruin, which I will certainly never see again. I wasn't lying, however, when I told Bruno that it was a beautiful day: it was, all things considered, despite the inconclusiveness of the trip; I saw beautiful places, which I didn't know, and I relaxed in Bruno's company, listening to his incessant chatter that pleasantly deafened me for the entire outward journey, making me forget my melancholy. Now, however, my friend is silent, a little sulky: he had to give up one of his dreams of love and is visibly disappointed.
His good mood suddenly returns in front of a couple of excellent dishes that we ordered at the self-service restaurant of the autogrill, accompanied by a couple of draft beers: he chose a steak with chips, I opted for an eggplant parmigiana. While he eats with a good appetite, Bruno immediately starts to propose new business to me.
- I discovered a series of rustic houses, all with a piece of garden, just behind the Albugnano hill: what do you think?
- Wow, that's great: this could really be interesting, especially since your Albanian workers would be on site in five minutes.
- Indeed. As soon as you have a moment I'll show them to you: there are four of them, all attached like terraced houses, but the fourth is free on three sides, so almost independent. They need renovation, but the walls are sound. My intention is to renovate only the essentials, roof, systems and Piedmont yellow plaster made with Piea sand, which is yellow by nature, and then sell them as they are to someone who has little money but still wants to afford a small house with a garden on the hill: then they can finish it off comfortably, but already being able to afford to live there.
- Now that's a good idea. I'll be happy to see them.
Bruno, satisfied with my answer, makes a toast with his mug of beer: I return the gesture. We start eating and don't speak anymore.
It's already four in the afternoon when we come within sight of the highway toll booth. While Bruno pays the toll and sets off again, headed toward Castelnuovo, my cell phone rings. I glance at the display and don't answer.
- You're not answering? - Bruno asks me.
- No.
- And you don't turn it off?
- No.
- But why, excuse me?
Obviously I can't tell him the truth, which is that it's a way to keep a man who has made me suffer a lot on the grill. I decide to give him an explanation that might seem plausible to him.
- I had a fight with my girlfriend, so I let her call me without answering.
- Oh. Are you taking revenge?
- Yes.
- He cheated on you, huh?
- No, not exactly.
- What do you mean not exactly? Either he cheated on you or he didn't!
- She didn't do them to me. But she treated me very offensively, and I don't intend to forgive her.
Bruno pats me on the thigh.
- You're right, boy! That's how a real man behaves.
I smile: the definition of “real man”, applied to a homosexual relationship, is not the most appropriate. But after all, why not? A man can behave like a real man even with another man.
Finally the cell phone stops ringing. I hear the distinctive beep that announces the arrival of a message on the answering machine.
- She must have left you a message, that poor thing - comments Bruno.
- Maybe.
- But listen to him, right?
With a sigh I raise the phone to my ear and press the answering machine button. A melodramatic, breathless voice reaches me, cracked by anguish.
- Emmanuel… I really… I don't know how to apologize anymore. Answer me, please! Tell me something, let me hear your voice… You're making me feel like a dog… I beg you, call me back!
I'm hanging up.
Gianni was screaming so loudly that Bruno must have heard everything. I don't say anything. For a while Bruno doesn't speak either, but then he can't keep quiet.
- But do you know that your girlfriend has a faggot voice? - he blurts out.
I burst out laughing.
- I know, Bruno: I always tell him that he has a terrible voice.
- Really ugly, huh. He looks like a gay!
- You're right, Bruno, he really does look gay. He's quite masculine in his physical appearance, too.
- Really?... Oh well, there are those who like that type of woman. You know, the ones that look a bit like viados…
- Yes, I know. But my girlfriend is not like that: she is a refined type.
- A fine guy with that voice?
- Yes, very fine, although a little masculine.
- Anyway, you're driving that poor girl crazy: she was really desperate, you could tell.
- Too bad for her, she deserves it.
- You know how to treat women, don't you, Manuel?
- Actually, no, women have always stood me up. One of them even tried to kill me.
- Really?
- Yes, indeed.
- But what had you done to her that was so terrible?
- I had decided to leave her.
- And that's why she wanted to kill you? Was she crazy? Then I should have died at least ten times! I've taken and left at least twenty women: after a while they get boring to me, I can't stand them anymore.
- I have no luck with women. Between you and me, I'd better go gay.
Bruno, speechless, doesn't know what to reply. Then he mutters:
- Well, I don't know if it would be a good idea for you. Not that women are great, with a few exceptions, but they're better than men for sleeping with.
- I'm kidding. Obviously it's impossible for a straight person to become gay.
- Oh, that's what I meant. And try to make peace with that poor girl: she may have a faggot voice, but you can tell she cares about you.
I smile and pat his hand, which is resting on the gear lever.
- Thanks for the beautiful day, Bruno.
- You're welcome! Thanks to you, Manuelito.
He concentrates on driving, but after a few seconds he blurts out:
- Anyway, if you ever get the idea to become gay, don't count on me!
I laugh heartily.
Amused by his own joke, he bursts out laughing too.