I remember that you woke up, or perhaps you’d been awake all night; I was awake all night, hating you deeply, have I told you that? I spent the whole night hating you deeply; it’s so foolish and vulgar, hatred. But that’s how it was, foolish and vulgar, and I hated you and at the same time wanted to hug you tight as though trying to reassure myself, at every moment, that you were still there next to me. In the middle of the night I was hugging you, how is that possible? You were in bed with your back to me—how could I be hugging you, after everything? But I was hugging you, my arm around your chest, a hug that was gentle and firm, because I sensed that there was something getting away from me. It’s always possible to lose what you don’t have, it’s always possible to move further away, the unlimited possibility of loss. I sensed this and much more, because deep down we always sense these things. In the middle of all this I told you I was just lying there, but it’s not true, I was lying there and there was extreme rage and resentment and a desire that you should leave, and, at the same time, the fear of your leaving, of your finally getting up and leaving. The whole night, my arm was around you in your unmoving sleep, as if I didn’t exist. I stayed there, the whole night as if I didn’t exist, my arm cinched tight around your chest in an attempt to prevent that last link from coming apart. I should have sent you away the moment you approached silently, lay down on my bed, as though I weren’t a part of it, lay down on my bed, turned onto your side and fell asleep, saying nothing to me. How could you have slept, just like that, so simply? As if nothing had happened—how can somebody sleep like that? I should have sent you away, from the first moment, but no. For some reason. The whole night spent with your back to me, and me hugging you in that last link of ours. Awake. All night long.
But then the day broke, because every day it breaks, the first rays of sun on the bed and the remains of the night in the bed. You got up in silence, always silence, since the day before, since our trip to the rental place and the night that came after. I should have sent you away, I should have hated you and sent you away. But no. I just lay there, under the sheet, clinging to the sheet the same way I had wrapped around your body not long before, I clung to the sheet with a hug, a kind of salvation, even knowing that it was just a sheet, as unanchored as me, a sheet that can’t even be a plank of wood, or a rope.
You got up in silence, put on your clothes, picked up the backpack that you’d left on the floor and I’d put on the chair. And now I think about these little details, after everything, that day and that night, and after what came later. After everything, I’d seen your backpack open on the floor of the bedroom, and I had closed it and put it on the chair—how is that possible, I think now, I should have thrown it in the trash, should have burned it, something to destroy you, however small, but no. I took such care, an automatic gesture, such care.
But now I’m lost, where was I? Your backpack. Yes, you got up, put on your clothes, picked up your backpack and left. I remember my reaction when I saw you leaving the room. After everything, you simply picked up your things and left, just like that, saying nothing, no goodbyes, no explanations. At the time I thought I would never have such strength, such resentment, such a terrible desire to do you harm, to get to you, make you suffer. And at that moment I might have been capable of anything, anything that hurt, anything excruciating. I might have been capable of the most extraordinary things.
You got up, put on your clothes and left. I clung to the sheet, which I was now dragging across the bed, across the bedroom floor, and I followed you, asking something, but you left in silence and I called to you, following you to the door, the sheet dragging along the floor of the hallway, of the dining room. I was wrapped up in the sheet, like a bride, a sheet dragging along the hallway, through the dining room, like a naked bride and with all the expectation of a bride, begging you to love me, to say something, or even if you didn’t love me to stay, even when you stood at the door, your hand turning the door handle in a movement that seemed to go on forever. And now, as I write to you and think of that image, that last image, your hand turning the door handle and me behind you, I see at once that I’m trying to give all this a more dramatic color than it had in reality, even in slightly poor taste, perhaps, like a bride, honestly, what could be more dramatic and tasteless, but I also think, Isn’t that how goodbyes ought to be? Me behind you, wrapped in the sheet, like a ghostly bride begging something of you, isn’t that how suffering ought to be, pathetic, dramatic, in extremely poor taste? Isn’t that how anything extreme ought to be?
But it was not, as you know. The moment when things happen never takes on the importance it should. Only much later, when time has passed and life has passed and everything has passed. In the moment, it’s the opposite, it’s all so quick, so simple, without making a scene, which is how the most extraordinary things happen.
Then you got up, put on your clothes, picked up your backpack and left. There. Simple. Without looking at me, or addressing a word to me. And I stayed there, lying in bed. Looking at your body and your movements that were now so unreal, so distant, movements that were unknown. I stayed there, unmoving, silent, looking at your body and then at the absence of your body, at the space created that had been occupied by the thing that once was you and the space you occupied, in my room, in my bed. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t cry, didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t beg you not to go. I just stayed there, unmoving, silent, lying on the bed, while you put on your clothes, picked up your backpack and left.
A.
III
A recently separated man needs a woman who has at least a minimal amount of understanding. A woman to be with him at times when he’s most sociable, and who will leave him alone when solitude becomes indispensable again. But women understand only what matters to them, he thought as he hung up the phone. And the need to cancel their plans for that day was something Fabiane wasn’t remotely interested in understanding. Her response was to make the most wide-ranging recriminations. It was the second time he’d canceled on her, it’s true, but tomorrow, tomorrow night, without fail, he’d said on the phone. She had accepted after a protracted reluctance.
“Fine, tomorrow night, but if you cancel one more time, just one, I swear it’s over. If there still really is anything between us.”
“I won’t cancel, I promise, today really was something unexpected that came up.”
“Right, and Saturday, too, looks like your life is full of unexpected things just coming up.”
“No, Saturday it was because Manuela had the flu, there was no way I could have taken her, I’ve explained that already.”
“Right, and so now you’re using your daughter as your excuse for everything.”
Beautiful women tend to be more complicated, perhaps because their beauty has made things too easy for them, given them a lot of options and little need to face reality. Beautiful women tend to be self-centered and childish, he thought, they never escape from the role of little princess and expect that the man, as their subject, or as a father who will deny them nothing, is going to spoil them and demand nothing in return, just because they are beautiful. Fabiane, he thought, was an extremely beautiful woman.
After he hung up, he gathered the papers on the desk, picked up his things and went out. He had decided to leave work early that day. Not because he had any particularly pressing commitment, which was what he had told Fabiane, but just the need to be alone, to go for a walk after the long weekend with the girl, after seeing his ex-wife—he was exhausted, despite having done nothing. He had used what was left of Sunday just to walk around the apartment with no clear objective in mind. And now, the whole day he had been unable to concentrate, all that paperwork on the desk awaiting his attention, the e-mails, the phone calls he hadn’t made to people who had rung him, only Fabiane, the crucial call just to cancel. He wouldn’t be in the mood to meet up for dinner, to drink, to listen to Fabiane’s endless conversation, her complaints, troubles with the
boss, troubles with her mother, troubles with her sister, in short, Fabiane’s troubles. She wanted to change everything, she’d say, a different life. She’d say the life she had was nothing like what she’d dreamed of—she wanted to leave her job, have a life that was calmer, children. Fabiane wanted two children, a happy marriage, a nicely decorated apartment, a husband well set up financially. He had commented, just to warn her, that he had a daughter already, that he had no intention of having more, that he was very far from being a good parent, besides which he’d just gotten separated, the whole thing was really stressful, he’d been looking for an apartment, moving, establishing a new routine. She looked at him angrily, got to her feet, annoyed, and left in a fury. Was that what he got for being honest? Honesty never did anyone any good, he thought. He’d been right to cancel, better that way, a bit of peace and quiet that night.
On the way home he thought of stopping by the video rental place. It hadn’t been even a month since he’d moved and he didn’t yet know the neighborhood shops very well, but he remembered the rental place nearby that he’d seen the other day, when he had strayed from his usual routine in search of a drugstore. Manuela only used a particular kind of sunblock that was especially for three-year-olds. His ex-wife insisted he use that one, she’d called and told him so first thing in the morning. But sunblock is all the same, he replied, already getting ready to take the girl to the beach, and if the one I’ve got works on me, why wouldn’t it work on her? He’d tried to argue, but his ex-wife was tenacious. He could have not bought it, could have just pretended; the girl, however, gave him a penetrating look, she knew his lies, all his little tricks, he thought. A three-year-old child understands everything. And before they went to the beach, the two of them sought out a drugstore together. He was thinking that the separation had only caused more trouble for him—the girl, who had previously been her mother’s responsibility, at least as far as everyday matters were concerned, to whom he just gave the odd affectionate caress when he got home from the office, had now become a visible, insistent being in his life. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have separated, he thought, not because his relationship with his ex-wife was a good one (it hadn’t been for years, not since the pregnancy), but he had never thought of separating, maybe because he felt guilty, yes, because it had been he who’d become more distant, ever since the pregnancy. Now his daughter was his on weekends, he was on his own with the task of distracting a child.
Before the separation everything had seemed easier, and even if it didn’t make him happy, even if he had sometimes felt like leaving, he had never given it any serious thought, there was always something preventing him. Until the moment when his wife said it was over. What’s over, he asked, not entirely understanding. The marriage, love, everything, she said. Everything had been over for some time. He kept looking at her, trying to understand, how was this possible, how was it possible that things should be over just like that, from one moment to the next? After all, they had a house, a life, a daughter. But his wife would not be intimidated, she looked at him with contempt, and he was the one who’d had to leave. So that’s how it was, from one day to the next, his wife decided it was over and he was the one who’d had to leave, leave everything, find someplace new to live as quickly as possible, she insisted on it as she strode about the living room. That same woman who not long before had said she loved him, hadn’t she? Recollections muddled in his memory. He even asked if she had someone else, but no, she said no, she said she was just tired, tired of him, that he never did anything for anyone, tired of his selfishness, of his absence, she said all this and many other things, the things women say when they’re angry.
He said nothing, just took his belongings and moved to the guest room, then to the new apartment. A small apartment, but with a nice view of the mountain, the first one he found (the truth was he didn’t have the patience to go on looking). He moved right away, bought a few pieces of furniture, just the essentials. And he realized then that there was no going back. He went to collect the remainder of his things from his house, his ex-house. His ex-wife was waiting for him with everything already packed up, labeled, she had always been so perfect, so efficient, even in this. He could have fought with her, but he didn’t feel he had the energy for what would probably end up being an endless argument, with his wife saying the blame lay with him, that he’d ruined her life and their child’s. Women can be extremely cruel when they want to be. He took his things and left. He considered asking after Manuela, where she was, since she hadn’t come to say goodbye to her father, but he ended up not asking anything. His ex-wife, who seemed able to read his thoughts, remarked: Don’t worry, Manu can spend weekends with you, it’ll be good for her, for both of you. She said this before she closed the door and disappeared.
Things happened without his having any control, he thought. There was always someone deciding things for him. The wedding had been an idea of his ex-wife’s—she’d so insisted that he ended up accepting; then the child, without a question or a warning. Did he by any chance want one, did he even agree? No, nothing, she’d just gotten herself pregnant. The need for a new job, all those changes, then the separation. This was what the last few years had been like, an unfurling of things happening against his wishes.
But it would be different from now on, he thought, as he drove to the rental place. It had been months since he’d watched a movie, since he’d been to the movie theater. He had woken up that morning with this thought, and felt something had changed without his noticing, and he felt glad that he had canceled his date, that he was on his way to the rental place instead, that he had the evening and all night ahead of him. Everything awaited him. Something so simple.
The place was empty. He registered as a member, gave his new address, the phone number he didn’t yet know by heart, he listed his ex-wife as his emergency contact, one of those automatic responses. Then he crossed her name out. Emergency contact: NONE, he wrote in capital letters. He wanted to say it aloud, right there, none. But he said nothing. He handed the form to the attendant and went to look for a movie. He looked carefully at the cases, one by one, paying no attention to the title or the director, as though he were looking for something specific, something very important; the attendant came over to him, and asked:
“Are you looking for any movie in particular, sir?”
He gave a start, quickly put the case he was holding back on the shelf. He replied very quietly, practically a murmur:
“Right, I am, yes, I mean, no, not something in particular, I’m just browsing.”
“If you need any help, just ask.”
“Of course, I will, yes, thank you.”
It bothered him, first that he’d been called “sir”—he was, after all, still a young man—and second that he’d been offered help. It was an unwanted approach. He went on looking, not completely sure what he was looking for, or why he was there. He went past the horror section, the adventure section, and focused on the comedies, then the dramas. He examined each cover quickly, one by one, and put it back in its place. He felt the attendant watching him curiously from behind the counter; he avoided catching his eye so as not to be asked any more questions. He ended up choosing five movies, which had nothing in common but the photo on the cover: always a young man with strong features and a blond actress. He paid for them and left as quickly as he could, his head down as though running away, as though afraid that someone would discover a secret even he didn’t know.
On the drive back home, the happiness from going to the rental place was replaced by a certain anxiety, that everything had become urgent. A fear that things might fly out of his control once again. He tried to calm down. When he reached his building, he drove in, still hurrying, parked the car and went straight to the mailbox, opened it tentatively, a few moments of fear that he might be mistaken, then immediately the feeling of relief—no, the letter was there. He took his correspondence and put it all in the bag with the movies, p
ushed the button for the elevator. A few other people stood waiting next to him; with a nod he greeted the neighbor he’d chatted with before. As he waited, with the movies and mail in his bag, he felt revived, happy to have the whole night ahead of him, without any obstacles, just him. First he’d look at the mail, he thought, trying to give this idea an air of indifference, of mere accident, then he’d turn on the TV and watch a movie, any one of them. But he was lying, there was no indifference, no mere accident. Once in the elevator, standing in silence, he realized that for the first time in a long while, there was something really touching him, reaching him.
JANUARY 22
My darling,
The day dawned cloudy, a summer’s day but strangely cold and humid, a humidity that got right into your bones. I slept and woke up freezing to death, the duvet had fallen off the side of the bed, and I had been freezing the whole night but not enough to wake up. I woke up late this morning, dragged myself to the bathroom, turned on the water and looked at myself in the mirror, my face increasingly unrecognizable in the reflection. I took a shower, standing in the hot water. I’d give anything to have a bathtub—you know that, how many times have I told you I’d give anything for a bathtub to lie in for hours and hours in the hot water—have I told you that before? All the pleasure of soaking in hot water. I always think about people who die like that, in the bath. It’s a romantic death, don’t you think? Not the business of slitting your wrists, which seems an appalling violence, and I’m someone who’s always been so afraid of violence, as you know, right? So not slitting wrists, then, with all that blood, the blood, I was always so scared of blood, there are people who faint at the sight of it, streaming out of the body, flowing, why should that be? Perhaps because it’s an emblem, a sign, a sign that there’s something inside the body, something living and pulsing and streaming, a whole independent life inside the body, a secret life, like a foreign body.
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