2.3. Three days without Gianni (...but with Mayra and her herbs!)

Three days without Gianni

(July 1998)

- Tajète Redcèri.

Mayra sits on the bed, opens the catalogue and triumphantly places it before my eyes.

The photo shows a magnificent bush of Tagète Red Cherry, with opulent flowers of an intense dark cherry color. I reed in the catalog that this variety is distinguished by its continuous flowering from early summer until the first colds of autumn.

- It's really spectacular, I confirm.

- It's good for garden borders and balconies, it looks great everywhere. And then, Prinsy, it's very easy to grow: it's beautiful and suitable for everyone, even beginners.

- Approved, May: that will be our next order.

- Yes, I'll do it tomorrow morning, but then I also want to sow it. The seeds are put covered from March to April or directly in the ground at the end of April or beginning of May. Then you have to thin out the seedlings or transplant them with a space of fifteen to twenty centimeters between one plant and the other…

I interrupt her passionate stream of botanical consciousness with an ordinary objection.

- But the Tagètes is not a perennial plant: you don't like annual plants.

- No, it's not that I don't like them, it's that I get attached to them and I'm sorry that they die. But sometimes with the right climate they survive. Let's see what I can do with the greenhouse, maybe I can do it, like with the surfinias... Lots of them have survived.

- If you can't do it, Mayra, no one else can.

- Exaggerated.

- I'm not exaggerating at all.

I yawn.

- Are you sleepy? Do you want me to go?

- No, stay please. I'm not sleepy: it's just that this heat tires me, and then today I had a bit of trouble moving the citrus pots: Carlos had other things to do.

- You could have called me.

- Oh no, May, a little exercise does me good: I'm becoming a wimp, look here, there's no trace of abs left.

I lift up my pajama top and show what's left of my old turtles.

- What I see is not so bad, Prinsy…

- No way, I suck compared to before: I should go back to the gym, but in the end what do I go there for? I don't take pictures with Gianni anymore.

- But you do them with that other photographer, Guido.

- Yeah, but he almost always photographs me with my clothes on. I don't really need abs with him.

- Better this way, it wasn't okay for you to be naked in the photos.

- Mayra, I blurt out, I don't know how else to tell you: I wasn't naked. I never had Gianni photograph me naked, okay? In fact, more generally, Gianni never saw me naked.

- Eh but you only had your panties on. I saw the photos, you know?

- Of course! I was wearing underwear, it was a photoshoot for men's underwear! What the fuck.

- But why do you get angry, Prinsy?

- Sorry, I'm in a bad mood.

Mayra sighs.

- You're always in a bad mood, Manu.

- Not always, but often.

- Eh, very often.

She stands and motions for Bella to follow her.

- I put Bella out there and she has to do her thing. Yesterday she did it on the carpet.

- My fault: I forgot to take her out.

- You're distracted, Manu.

- Yes, you're right, I'm distracted.

She sighs again and leaves, followed by Bella.

Left alone, in the pleasant dim light of my room, I mull over the meaning of my discomfort. It’s not hard to understand where it comes from: it’s a confused sense of alarm generated by the fact that I haven’t received any phone calls from Gianni for three days. It was obvious that sooner or later he would get tired, given that I never answer him, but deep down I hoped that it would continue as a kind of game that somehow kept us in touch. I miss him a lot, but I can’t afford to let my guard down: I had done so, and suddenly I was punched in the face and it left me stunned for weeks. I knew I was in love with Gianni, but I didn’t imagine I could feel so bad about it. Even now I reject the idea of being able to suffer for a person who posed as a life teacher, extorting my respect and trust, only to then repay it with a vulgarity I didn’t think he was capable of. Truly, connecting Gianni with the idea of vulgarity was something unthinkable for me: he was so refined, cultured, ironic, elegant... And yet his proposal was of an unheard-of vulgarity, so much so that I felt like throwing up with indignation, shock and disgust. I would never be able to see him again after those words, I knew it well: and in fact not only did I never see him again, but I never communicated with him again. And yet, despite everything, those daily phone calls to which I didn't answer, those desperate messages on my answering machine, warmed my heart and made me feel him close to me again, in the only way unfortunately possible. After all, it's not true that I didn't communicate with him: I communicated in an all too eloquent way, through my silence.

Now why did he stop looking for me?

As they say, he must have come to terms with it and moved on, which confirms to me that he didn't really love me. I wonder how he could have faked it so well, how I fell for it like a salami, and also for what the hell reason he didn't take me to bed, since it wasn't anything serious; he himself says that he can only have sex with occasional adventures: well, it seems that I was nothing more, and then I don't understand why he, so to speak, spared me.

In the meantime I watched “The beautiful Antonio”, the old film starring Marcello Mastroianni and Claudia Cardinàle, and I understood a few things about Gianni. I mean, mostly I understood that he lied to me, because he didn't feel anything similar for me.

Mayra comes back with Bella. The sight of her comforts me: she does warm my heart, because I am absolutely certain of her affection.

- Can you give me one of your little massages? I ask her in the tone of a distressed puppy. That tone always has the effect of making her melt like butter, so I'm sure she'll answer in the affirmative.

- You sure are getting well-lived, you…

- You're absolutely right.

- While she goes to get the massage oil, I lie on the bed on my stomach, with my arms crossed under my forehead. Mayra returns and begins to massage me, starting as always from the shoulders.

- The neck is all stiff.

- Yes, I'm tense and nervous.

- Release yourself.

- They say relax, May.

- All right, then relax.

- Aren't you going to ask me why I'm so tense?

- No, because I already know.

- Oh yeah? And what do you know?

- That you miss sex.

- May, I'm sorry, but you didn't understand anything.

- No?

- No. You're making it too simple.

- Oh I'm making it simple. Why, how is it instead?

I snort impatiently.

- It's not sex that I miss. If that were the case, excuse me for pointing it out, I don't think I'd have much difficulty satisfying my needs.

- Of course not, because you're so cool. No woman would say no to you.

- Now let's not exaggerate, but let's say that it wouldn't be difficult for me to find a woman, or even more than one.

- Or even a man.

- Yeah, even.

- So what?

- And so you see that it's not like that.

- Then explain it to me.

- It's hard to explain. The thing is, sex in itself isn't much if it doesn't serve to communicate with a person. I'm not interested, I never was even interested as a boy.

- So you can't communicate in another way?

- No, Mayra, that's what you don't understand: what I lack is precisely this type of communication.

- Exactly: so you see that I was right, you lack sex.

- Yeah but damn, sex is for communication, not for sex! Does it take that long to figure that out?

- I understand, Manu, but if you want to communicate with sex you need sex. Does it take that long to figure that out?

- Oh man May, I just can't explain it. It's always the same: if you've never done these things, how can you understand them?

- I don't know, Prinsy, but if you explain it to me better maybe I'll understand.

I sigh.

- So Mayra, let it suffice for you to know that it is something so rare that I have only felt it with Antonia, although at times I felt I could also feel it with a couple of other people. But I have had true communication only with her. She is the only woman to whom I have given all of myself, body and soul.

- Only to her?

- Yes, only to her. With her I didn't pretend or act, I was always myself, even in bed. That's the problem: I was like that only with her.

- In short Prins, you're afraid it will never happen to you again with anyone else.

- Yes, that's right, Mayra. I'm afraid it will never happen to me again.

- I understand that. And you thought it would happen again with Janni.

- Yes, because he said he loved me. That night we spent together doing nothing, just hugging, I felt that we were communicating in a very deep way… I really deluded myself. But I was wrong: he closed the door in my face in the most brutal way, and now I feel terrible.

- Because you miss him, not the sex.

- It's not only that: I also feel bad because I'm worried. The result is that now I can't have sex with anyone, and you understand that it's really a little too soon at my age. In short, I'm trying to do without it, but I don't know if I'll be able to succeed, that's all.

- But you don't have to try at all, Manu! Mayra exclaims indignantly, giving me a powerful slap.

- Ouch! You're getting violent, May.

- Yes, excuse me, I get carried away by my enthusiasm.

- Of course, if you treat them like that, men…

- I don't treat them at all, the males: you are an exception. Have I done you harm?

- A little bit. Now massage me slowly and gently to make up for it, okay?

- The bottom?

- Of course: it's it you slapped.

- Okay. Is that okay?

Yes, it's really good: I'm getting excited again, in direct contradiction to my statements about the impossibility of having sex. But I stay lying on my stomach and I don't say anything to her: she won't notice anything.

- It's perfect, I tell her, Let's hope Carlos doesn't arrive.

- What does Carlos have to do with it?

- Eh, it does have something to do with it.

- I think he's right here.

Carlos' heavy footsteps can be heard on the gravel.

- Enough, let's continue another time.

- But why?

- That's fine, trust me.

I jump out of bed and quickly put on my T-shirt and jeans. When the doorknob turns I'm sitting looking the most innocent in the world on one of the two blue straw chairs in front of the coffee table, intent on leafing through a catalog with Mayra, sitting next to me.

- Hi guys, Carlos begins, what are you watching?

- The tajètes!, Mayra answers enthusiastically. I confirm with a convinced nod.

- Yes, Mayra has discovered a spectacular variety.

Carlos goes into the kitchen and gets a beer from the fridge, opens it and drinks it straight from the bottle, like a real man. Then he sits on the bed.

- How's it going with the new photographer?, he asks me.

- Fairly good, but not great. I mean, the photos Gianni took of me were much more particular, the fashion magazines preferred them. In short, I earn so-so.

- I still haven't understood what happened with Gianni.

- It's a little hard to explain, Carlos. We argued, he offended me.

- If he offended you, you did well to send him packing. But the point is that you earn less.

- Let's just say that's not the most unpleasant aspect of the matter, at least for me. Luckily I manage to eke out a living as Bruno's assistant and partner.

- Thank goodness, Prince: the nursery sells a little, but not enough.

Mayra, a little resentful, replies:

- Irmùn, you have to give me time! It's not like I can work miracles in a few months, huh.

- Don't worry, May: you're doing too much. It's not for us two that I'm worried, but for the Prince, who has to repay the loan to his family.

Mayra lowers her gaze for a moment, but immediately looks up again with determination.

- I have an idea.

- What's your idea, May? I ask her curiously.

- Here Prinsy, you know those plants that people smoke?

- Do you mean tobacco?

- What tobacco. I say those plants that after smoking you feel all strange.

Carlos and I look at each other in amazement.

- You mean cannabis? I venture, incredulous.

- You mean marijuana? Carlos echoes.

- Yes, I think that's what it's called. Come on Prins, there's no point in looking at me with those chicken eyes, it's not poison!

- Chicken eyes?!

- Yes, why? All round and looking like colored glass balls.

Carlos bursts out laughing.

- Mayra, I tell her angrily, chickens don't have blue eyes! And then chickens have eyes on the sides, not both in front, not to mention that the expression of chickens…

- Manu, listen, she interrupts me hastily, not at all interested in the chickens' expression, - Do you remember the book by that woman you gave me?

- Saint Hildegard?

- Yes, the one that an anju, who knows who he really was, told her the recipes for the plants at night. Well, she says that that herb is good for your health. So what's the harm in that?

I sigh, trying not to lose my patience. Carlos continues to laugh.

- Mayra, it's not a question of whether it's good or bad: it's il-le-gal. If they catch us they'll report us.

Mayra, surprisingly, shrugs, unimpressed.

- Legal doesn't mean right, Prinsy. The police and the judges usually condemn the innocent, not the guilty. So we just have to do it in secret.

- Mayra, what are you saying?

- Don't worry, Manu, I'll do it all. I know where to hide those plants: I hide them so well that you can't even find them. In fact, look, I won't even tell you where they are. So for you it's as if they're not there, okay?

- No, that's not okay at all! And even if it were, who do we sell them to? I don't know who to sell that stuff to!

Carlos suddenly stops laughing.

- Prince, I'll tell you, my sister's idea isn't bad at all, you know?

- What??

- Hanging out with Michelle, I've met a lot of people who are interested in "that stuff," as you call it. So, for me, it's a yes.

He swallows the last sip of beer, gets up from the bed and nods at me.

- See you later, I'm going to put the pots under cover: a storm is brewing.

I am left speechless. I mechanically return the greeting, get up and let myself fall back onto the bed.

- You two are crazy, I say.

But, thinking about it… if even Hildegard gives us her blessing…

Mayra watches from the window as Carlos walks away, pulls the curtain and sits on the chair next to the bed.

- Shall we look at a catalog?

- All right, let's look at a catalog.

My cell phone rings: I instinctively jump up and grab it, looking at the display.

- Prinsy, what's wrong with you? You look like you got bitten by a snake.

My heart twists with disappointment.

- It's Bruno, I say gloomily.

I press the button on my cell phone and prepare to listen to Bruno's ringing voice.

- Hello, Manuèl?

- Hello, Bruno.

- Do you want to come and see those little houses in Albugnano tomorrow?

- Okay: where do we meet?

- In front of my office at nine. Is that okay?

- Very good, Bruno: see you tomorrow.

- Hi, Manuèl!

Bruno hangs up. I put my cell phone down on the nightstand in desolation.

- And well?, Mayra asks, Aren't you happy that Bruno called you?

- But yes, of course I'm happy… It's just that…

- It's just that it's not Janni.

I nod yes.

Mayra, who obviously understands my state of mind, tries to distract me:

- Do you still want to talk, Manu?

- No, not now, May. That was an interesting conversation, but let's continue tomorrow.

- All right. So a slice of cake?

- Yes, thank you, that one.

- I'll bring it to you.

- You're fattening me up, May.

- Heh, it takes a lot to make you fat, with that little belly so smooth…

I smile palely and rest the back of my head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

My heart is heavy, I want to forget everything by sleeping.

- And anyway, Mayra is completely out of her mind!!!

 

2.2. Bodies under the sun (Is he a stalker?...)

(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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

2.1. The Rustic (What the fuck kind of voice does your girlfriend have?)

- 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.