Not My Type

by Anna Zarlenga

  ‘Sure! Thanks!’ I say, relieved.

  ‘You must no longer give him private interviews in your study…’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be more careful.’

  ‘And also… I would like you to come out with me on Friday night.’

  My jaw falls in amazement. Could it be that, underneath it all, the professor is like any other man and he is jealous? Perhaps I should be thanking that lame-brain Teo, after all.

  ‘Pardon?’ I stutter.

  ‘I will be attending a gala dinner on Friday night. There will be lots of important people. Actors, producers, journalists. The editor of the semiotics magazine will also be there, and I’d like you to discuss the article you are writing with him …’

  Damn, it’s not a real date, but … wait a minute! Does he want to recognise the fruit of my labours? This is even better!

  ‘Of course we will present it as my work, as agreed.’

  ‘Of course,’ I mutter, feeling all my expectations collapse around me.

  ‘Very well. I’ll pick you up around eight. Oh, and it’s black tie, please,’ he says, taking his leave.

  Left alone with my thoughts, all of the emotions that I kept inside burst forth unison: stress, anger, expectation, disappointment. I feel attacked from every angle. A cretin that keeps putting me in embarrassing situations, a man who he doesn’t notice me except as his personal archive and my total lack of suitable cocktail dresses. The picture of a total loser.

  13

  Teo

  Why am I so nervous? The woman must have hypnotised me, or maybe there was something in the macarons, like the prosecco at the wedding. For the past two days my mind keeps returning to the hour we spent together and, I have to admit, I enjoy remembering our conversations. Tormenting and infuriating her gives me a perverse pleasure, but at the same time it makes me uneasy: it’s not normal.

  I don’t interact with plain women. Or at least I didn’t use to. For some time now, however, the only significant interaction I have had is with a girl I once would never even have considered. I’m not even kidding.

  ‘Just a bet with myself,’ I say in a rather high-pitched voice, trying to convince myself.

  ‘Are you talking to yourself now?’

  My father saunters into my office, as usual, without even knocking. And right when I was babbling away, of course. Another thing to convince him that I’m totally unstable.

  ‘It’s an annoying habit of mine. Conversations with myself are usually the most interesting and stimulating.’

  Except for conversations with…

  Stop thinking about it, I snap at myself. If I could slap my own face, believe me, I would. I decide against it, however, on account of the stern-faced witness in the room. I don’t want him to have me sectioned. And he would too.

  ‘Very droll. I hope you will remain in high spirits for tonight.’

  Tonight? What is tonight?

  My face must display my bewilderment clearly because my father proceeds to clarify, with an extremely discouraged expression on his face.

  ‘The gala evening, the one in which we participate every year, don’t you remember?’

  I don’t remember, because I always do my best to remove unpleasant things from my mind, and the gala is one of them. It’s a event that takes place once a year and celebrates, let’s say, those personalities who have distinguished themselves in various ways in the city. There are dignitaries from the world of culture and show business, entrepreneurs and leading professionals, some politicians and some athletes. And then there is us, or rather… there is my father.

  To be honest, I have nothing in common with all those stiff intellectuals. I am just a beautiful shell, I have never deceived myself to the contrary. I don’t enjoy discussing foreign policy or economics, philosophy and the like. I don’t understand anything about football and the only music that I know is what I hear when I happen to turn on the radio.

  I don’t have a favourite singer or a favourite program. I am culturally useless and I don’t make a secret of it, nor am I at all embarrassed about it.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll come,’ I announce, already knowing that there will be a battle to convince me of the contrary.

  ‘You have to come. One day you will be inheriting this company.’

  Sore point. ‘As late as possible, I hope. Anyway, I thought you were going to disinherit me?’

  ‘I would have, but you went back to your studies, didn’t you? I can give you the benefit of the doubt .’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I reply. Hell, considering the way that I’m blowing my second chance, I should be afraid of being disinherited for real. Sooner or later he will find out that I’m wasting this opportunity, too.

  ‘This evening is very important, you know. It means a lot to me. Being invited is an honour, it shows that our work means something. Every year we receive an acknowledgment of our activities and this year is no exception.’

  ‘As if I gave a monkey’s about all that…’

  ‘You should – one day it will be your company.’

  I meditate a little before pulling out the sentence. ‘And what if I wanted to do something else?’

  ‘What would you like to do? Or rather… what else could you do, since you’ve done nothing for thirty-two years? ‘

  It’s a completely valid point. I’m not even offended. I’m good for nothing and I’ll just have to try not to let the company go bankrupt. How, I’ve no idea.

  As for right now, there’s nothing for it but to resign myself to participating in this reception.

  ‘All right. What time does the torment begin?’ I agree. Perhaps there’ll be some cougar there I can convince to show me her cave of wonders. I’ll be her pied piper.

  ‘Around eight o’clock. Don’t disappoint me.’

  I spread my arms and smile at him. ‘Hey. You know I’ll make an entrance.’

  *

  As I knew it would be, the evening is deadly boring. I’m standing over by the buffet, with an overwhelming desire to get drunk. Too bad you can’t get drunk on alcohol-free cocktails. Bad alcohol-free cocktails, to be precise. Stifling yet another yawn, I throw the concoction behind a plant, which will surely wither before midnight. The hall is full. I see journalists, editors, directors, a couple of actors, and a few people who are big in the arts and fashion. There are even some faces I don’t know, men with beards and deadly serious expressions, like they’re meditating on who knows what transcendental truth. I’ve only just arrived and already I can’t wait for dinner to finish, so the torture will be over and we can all go home.

  When I came in, I noticed an interesting woman who caught my eye and winked at me. I know her, her name is Antonia… also known as ‘the mouth of fire’ just between us friends. I’d like to find out why…

  I turn around to locate her, perhaps I could have a private demonstration of her talents. I can’t seem to find her though. I guess someone else got in there first. My eyes come to rest on the crowd of people over by the entrance, and in particular on a man I could swear I’ve seen before: tall, in his forties, with bushy black hair and a substantial beard.

  Wait, isn’t that…?

  In the distance, a tall man in a truly unfortunate grey suit is waving. ‘Professor Costa! He made it!’

  That’s who he is, one of the professors in my faculty, that stuffed shirt that Sara is in love with. I’m surprised by a sudden bitter feeling in the pit of my stomach, doubtless caused by that disgusting cocktail. Or maybe even by Sara. Thoughts of her plague me at every opportunity. In fact, it appears it has now escalated to the point of making me hallucinate, because as I look, it almost seems to me that I see her, wearing a black dress that looks halfway decent, and made up like an actual woman.

  I rub my eyes in an attempt to banish the illusion: the only thing missing was having visions!

  Rubbing doesn’t work, because the image remains, just a few meters away from me and, looking closer, I realise that it’s not an illusio
n at all: Sara is really here, dressed up to the nines. The dress highlights her figure for once, which of course is very different to my tastes, but I have to admit that she has chosen almost well. She is also wearing make-up and no glasses.

  And as she doesn’t appear to be squinting like a mole, I can only assume she must be wearing contact lenses.

  When I suggested them to her, she didn’t listen.

  Now she is wearing them after all. For who? For this professor? Because she’s here with him, right? Why? And why does it bother me so much?

  The plan, of course, I remember. Yes. I have to make her fall in love with me, right? To get her to pass my exam and then drop her, right? That’s why I’m so annoyed. The professor is an obstacle to my plan. God, and to think I was the one who offered to help her ensnare him! I never thought she could really do it. Sara is just not the type that men go for. At least I didn’t think she was…

  Judging by how the pair of them are smiling at one another, it would seem that events have taken an undesirable turn. If this guy shags her, I can wave goodbye to that exam. I have to do it first. My loins come alive at the thought. No, I’m not well. I have a fever, a thirst for revenge, and it has some very peculiar symptoms. I don’t like her. So why do I suddenly feel so nervous?

  ‘I see you’re on form tonight,’ Antonia whispers in my ear, rubbing casually against me.

  ‘I always am, baby,’ I reply, slipping one arm around her slender waist. Her proximity, however, irritates me. Beyond belief.

  Excusing myself, I detach myself from her and go out into the garden.

  I need air.

  ‘Honey…’ She tries follow me, but I block her with a shake of my head. Antonia shrugs and returns to the party, looking for a new distraction. I take a deep breath and reflect. Why am I so pissed off? She’s just a stupid bet I made with myself, nothing more.

  The sound of footsteps startles me, and I retreat into a dark corner to hide myself. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.

  ‘Professor, what a wonderful place.’

  Shit, this is a conspiracy! What are they doing, following me?

  ‘I’m very excited, Dr. Doria. This is such an exclusive occasion! And I’m here representing the faculty and our research activity. I am so pleased that you were able to present my work.’

  Even in the dark, I can see Sara’s expression change.

  ‘Professor, you see… I was wondering…’

  What is she going to do now? Throw herself at him?

  ‘Yes?’ he encourages her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  I can’t bear to watch my plans ruined like this

  ‘Well, I was thinking… I’m glad I helped to write the article, but… since I wrote it… couldn’t you at least name me? As a reviewer, collaborator, I don’t know …’

  What? That son of a… Sara wrote an article and he’s taking the credit? He’s even lazier than I am!

  ‘Doctor, I am grateful for the help you have given me and I assure you that you will be rewarded adequately. On another occasion, I mean.’

  Here we go. Now she’s going to kick him. Because that’s what she does when she’s not happy and even in the dark I can tell that she is not.’

  ‘Sure. I understand,’ she replies instead. What? No kneeball?

  The professor smiles at her, satisfied. ‘Good. Did you notice they have some actors here tonight?’

  ‘I know! It really is a wonderful evening and I’m very grateful to you for inviting me. Sometimes I think I spend too much time concentrating on studying and research. I hardly ever get the chance to do something like this.’

  ‘Semiotics is a subject that tends to isolate us somewhat from others, my dear. But don’t worry. I’m sure we will have occasion to deepen our… social interactions.’

  He says it in a somewhat suggestive tone that I don’t like at all. Apparently he thinks he can ruin my perfect plan.

  ‘Professor Costa! Here you are, we’ve been looking all over. The editor of ‘The Traces of Man’ has arrived, and is asking to talk to you.’

  I notice with relief that the Little Professor straightens up and walks away with scarcely a word of goodbye.

  Sara is about to follow him, but I can’t resist.

  ‘Hey, finally a dress that does justice to those melons!’ I exclaim, emerging from the shadows.

  Sara jumps and turns round, looking at me as if I were a freak of nature.

  ‘Let me get this straight, have you started following me now?’

  ‘Steady on, love. You’re not as important as you think you are. I would never dream of following you.’

  She takes the hit with her usual indifference. ‘Ok. So? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Weren’t you the one who keeps boasting about being a genius? Don’t you remember my company? Don’t you remember what my family does?’

  She thinks for a few seconds. ‘Oh, right. The production company.’

  ‘Exactly. Apparently I have relatives who’ve amounted to something, unlike me,’ I say with a hint of mockery. Or bitterness. Or something. I don’t know what it is.

  ‘Well, if you focused more on important things and less on what’s going on below your waist, perhaps you would amount to something,’ she suggests, bored, turning to leave.

  I cannot allow her to have the last word. I grab her hand, preparing myself to parry a slap.

  But it doesn’t come. She remains motionless, with her back to me.

  I hear her sigh.

  ‘Can you tell me why you’re tormenting me, Teo? It is obvious that we are not compatible in any way, yet for one reason or another for the past few weeks we’ve done nothing but bump into one another.’

  ‘Just bad luck.’

  ‘Extremely bad luck, I would say.’

  ‘You’re pretty without your glasses,’ I let slip. I’m just implementing the plan, right? I’m courting her and then I’m blackmailing her. And I repeat it like a mantra because I’m not quite sure I believe it any more.

  She’s not impressed. Why would she be? Her heart is as hard as a piece of flint.

  ‘If you’re trying to soften me up, you should know that I won’t change my mind. I don’t want to see you, on any occasion, accidental or premeditated. Now let go of my hand, please.’

  ‘Like hell I will! I… want to see you again.’

  Here we go. I feel like Judas. In a very remote corner of my consciousness, something very like guilt raises its head, but I bury it quickly. All’s fair in university and war.

  ‘You’re a terrible actor,’ she says, turning round at last.

  ‘So, you’re not fooled by me, but you let yourself be taken in by that scruffy old tramp?’

  She can’t hide her surprise. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I heard your conversation. He’s exploiting you. You write articles and he takes the credit.’

  ‘Ok, passing over the fact that you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations, not to mention that my affairs are none of your business…’

  ‘You just mentioned it,’ I point out with a smile.

  ‘And don’t act like a smart-arse! You’re no different, hanging around me just to pass the exam.’

  Will I ever get her to give up? She’s a harder nut to crack than I could ever have imagined

  Stop staring at her lips, Teo!

  I won’t kiss her. Not voluntarily. I want to hear her beg!

  ‘The difference between me and him is that I admit I’m an arsehole, while he hides behind his mask of respectability,’ I force myself to let go of her hand. I absolutely have to put distance between us.

  Throw the stone and then move away: that’s the technique to them fall at your feet.

  ‘The difference between you and him is that he has a brain. And that is an organ that interests me far more than anything you have to offer.’

  Before I can stop myself, I hear myself mutter, ‘Because you’ve never been lucky enough to try…’

  �
�Stop it, please. You’re becoming repetitive and boring and… damn it!’

  She flaps her hands and spins around in a frenzy.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘A moth!’ she exclaims, waving. And looking closer, I see a tiny insect hovering around her.

  Maybe he can’t help himself.

  Sara gives a little leap, and then and suddenly leans over, her hand over one eye.

  ‘Shit! My contact lens!’ she hisses agitatedly. ‘Come here! Do something! Help me take it out!’

  ‘You want me to put my finger in your eye?’ I ask doubtfully.

  ‘If you hadn’t stopped me, I’d be inside now and none of this would have happened. So yes, I authorise you to put your finger in my eye. In fact, I command you.’

  Taking her by the shoulders, I help her up and peer at her face: her right eye is red.

  ‘Look up and try not to panic,’ I whisper, in a lower voice than I had meant. I support her head with one hand and with the other I do what she asked me. It takes a few seconds, but I emerge victorious with the lens on my finger.

  ‘What should we do with it?’

  ‘Let’s throw it away. I swear I will never wear lenses again, they’re not for me. They make me want to tear out my eyes.’

  While we are still in the same position, the lens slips from my finger and I instinctively bend down to pick it up.

  Unfortunately, Sara has the same idea, and our heads collide.

  ‘You are trying to kill me!’ she accuses me, half kneeling on the dark path.

  ‘Your head is harder than mine, so you must be trying to kill me!’ I retort, more or less in the same position.

  ‘Considering that your head is empty, it does actually seem more logical that mine would break yours…’

  The phrase makes me laugh and to my surprise she joins in. A spontaneous laugh on both sides, for the first time.

  And then the catastrophe happens.

  I try to counter instinct, but I can’t: her mouth is a few inches from mine and I can’t let myself miss this opportunity. I must do it, I feel like I don’t I have a choice.