‘Mmm… mmm …’ I moan, looking around for help. No one seems to notice. As I writhe in my chair, distraught, Cristoforo takes my hand.
‘Don’t be nervous. Swallow! You’ll see how wonderful it tastes.’
Wonderful my foot! He’d better be some kind of sexual athlete after this ordeal.
But despite all my instincts, I must obey. I feel the slimy morsel pass through my guts, and immediately grab a glass of water to wash the sensation away. Bad idea. Perhaps I am overreacting, but the consistency of this sushi is so unpleasant, I feel like I might actually die of disgust.
‘Now be honest. It’s something else, isn’t it? ‘
I don’t know where I find the strength, but I nod. I’m not confident that I can speak without retching just yet. It is also plausible that I have been struck dumb by the trauma.
‘Wasabi is known to some by the name namida. Do you know what that means?’
‘No,’ I croak, trying to resume normal breathing.
‘It means tear.’
‘I can believe it!’ I exclaim. It certainly makes me want to cry.
‘And it is said to have aphrodisiac properties,’ he adds, swallowing another roll in one bite. Without batting an eyelid, for God’s sake! I still am undecided whether or not to call the poison control centre.
Still, it seems like he’s really making an effort, so I guess I should grin and bear it. I resign myself and finish the dish, resolutely avoiding the wasabi, and trying to ignore my growing sense of nausea.
After an hour or so, I feel like I’m starting to hallucinate, and I can’t remember a word of our conversation. I could have told him about that time I made a complete prat of myself trying to play Cleopatra at a kids’ talent competition on holiday, and I wouldn’t remember it. At his suggestion, I drank a fair amount of wine, which he said would counter the effects of wasabi, but now I just feel drunk. While I wait for him to finish eating, I try and imagine that I am an old and weather-beaten Japanese fisherman waiting for a legendary twenty-kilo trout to swim up the river. Do they even have trout in Japan? That’s a question I am poorly prepared for. All my knowledge of fishing comes from the cartoons I saw as a child.
‘Shall we go?’ my knight in shining armour finally asks.
He looks relaxed and confident. If I had to guess, I’d say he was expecting tonight to end with a bang. And when all’s said and done, he’s not wrong. The only thing that makes this gastronomic experience bearable to me is the thought of having conquered him after all these years.
Hallelujah! Finally we’re on the move.
I didn’t say all that out loud, did I? I can’t be entirely sure. I’ll stop drinking now, I promise.
The fresh evening air gives me some relief and clears my mind. It’s only Thursday, but the street is still crowded with people enjoying themselves in quaint little bars. We left the car parked up about ten minutes walk away, which is probably a good thing. I need to walk off some of this alcohol.
As we walk, in silence, a slightly rustic-looking guy approaches. He is short and well built, with a round face and piercing black eyes.
‘Good evening, handsome gentlemen. Does the gentleman want to give a song to this beautiful woman by his side?’ he asks with a broad smile full of meaning.
‘Now is not the time, my good man, thank you.’
‘It is always time for love. My name is Gennaro. And I sing with my heart in my hands! Let yourself be enchanted. Trust me!’
Without waiting for an answer, Gennaro begins to strum a tune on his guitar, occasionally emitting strange whimpering noises.
‘Is he singing yet?’ I whisper doubtfully.
‘I’m waiting for inspiration, Madam! The words come to me like this, through feeling!’
And sure enough, after about ten slightly shaky bars, he begins to sing a few words.
Love, love, is inside of me
Believe me, he is not for you
Seas, mountains and land I crossed
To say: I want you so, with all my breath
And after declaiming this poem, or song, or whatever it is, half in Italian and half in Neapolitan, he does a little bow and extends his hand, asking explicitly for a contribution for his performance. To be honest, I quite enjoyed the show, so I go to take out my purse. Cristoforo, however, blocks me.
‘Don’t encourage this nonsense, my dear,’ he admonishes me.
‘Nonsense? Does it seem trivial to you, sir? Have you never experienced the feeling, the blood and the sweat? Passion?’
‘It seems to me that you suggested my woman leave me to take up with you.’
Now hang on a minute! My woman! Wow, let’s not get carried away!
‘Can you blame me? With a beautiful figure of a woman like this! I tried!’ says Gennaro with a wink. I like him, I’ve decided.
‘Well, your attempt failed,’ Cristoforo retorts, pulling me by the hand.
‘In that case, do you want to buy six pairs of socks?’ Gennaro calls after us as we walk away. ‘Genuine Scottish wool!’
His request goes unanswered.
‘We could have bought some. Socks are always useful,’ I observe, looking back over my shoulder. Gennaro has disappeared.
‘You’re too kind. I’m sure they weren’t genuine. Now, it’s time I took you home.’
He says the last sentence with a note of urgency that sends shivers down my spine. Finally it’s time to have some fun.
The journey home is a blur of incoherent thoughts. What do I do now? Should I invite him in boldly or wait for him to make the first move? But in the event, I needn’t have worried, because, a few meters away from my house, Cristoforo lightly touches my hand. And no, I’m not imagining it. He wants to take this further. He took me out with that exact intention. Well? So what? It was what I wanted too, but… why can’t I enjoy the feel of his touch? It doesn’t make sparks fly the way I thought it would.
Okay, maybe I should try kissing him, I think. It occurs to me that I don’t know yet if he knows how to kiss or not.
‘Professor…,’ I begin, uncertainly.
‘Hey, I told you to call me Cristoforo.’
‘Maybe I like calling you professor…,’ I say suggestively, and damn him, the image of Teo pushes its way arrogantly into my mind. He would have understood immediately.
‘What for? There is no need for formality between us.’ This is the downside of dating a very precise university professor. He will insist on the literal meanings of words… but still, he’s an adult, he should understand when a woman is flirting with him, shouldn’t he?
‘I mean…’ I stutter, trying to explain.
‘I really admire your work, Sara,’ he confesses, releasing my hand. Strangely, I feel relieved, but my stomach begins to rebel. Perhaps the sushi is taking its revenge.
‘Thanks, I’m flattered.’
‘I’m not flattering you, it’s true,’ he says, pulling up outside my door. Well, here we are!
‘I…admire you too,’ I reply, keeping my eyes lowered. I’m undecided, I can’t launch myself. Fortunately I don’t have time to wallow in doubt for long, because he reaches out to brush my hair away from my face. And for some strange reason that I can’t understand, Gennaro’s song echoes in my ears.
Love, love, is inside of me
Believe me, he is not for you
Seas, mountains and land I crossed
To say: I want you so, with all my breath
It doesn’t make any sense! My instinct is to pull away, but no! I’ve waited too long to give up now. It’s just nerves. Yes, that’s it. Nerves. As his face approaches, I am ready to give myself, in every sense of the word.
I welcome his lips to mine and prepare for bliss.
Is it normal that his tongue is so slimy? And why is it producing so much saliva? A sudden movement in my stomach causes me momentary me alarm, but I lower my head and pray that it’s only a moment. But it isn’t a moment. His thick and stifling tongue suffocates me and drops of saliva tri
ckle down my chin. This is the worst kiss of my life. Nothing like with…
Oh God!
The gurgling in my stomach intensifies and invades my oesophagus. I push Cristoforo back, hoping I can somehow stem the flood, but in vain. Sushi, wasabi and wine have all rebelled at once and reclaimed their freedom. What happens next is a blur, but when I regain lucidity, I realise that I have freed the contents of my stomach directly onto his custom-made shoes. And his upholstery. And his trousers. And all up the windows. In short, it’s a disaster worthy of a exorcism.
‘I… I’m sorry,’ I mumble in a broken voice, still retching enough to make me wince.
I’m a little unclear on what happens next. I only know that I find myself ejected from the car, dishevelled, smelly and… alone.
The squeal of tires and the roar of the engine are the first sounds I am aware of.
Wow. Dumped in under two seconds. I know that I should be furious, but all I feel is relief. That’s not good. It’s not good at all. He kissed me and I thought of something else. He touched me and I wished that…
Don’t panic! I’m still under the influence of alcohol.
I comfort myself with this thought as I go inside. I absolutely have to take a shower. It’s going to be a long and lonely night.
21
Teo
If just one month ago somebody had told me that I would be going inside a university of my own free will, I would have told him he had a screw loose. Having my balls crushed in a vice would have sounded like more fun. Anything would have been better than sitting through a boring lesson with a load of boring students.
And yet here I am, at eight o’clock on a Friday morning, patiently waiting for my semiotics lecture to begin.
Last night I was like a caged tiger. Yesterday was the evening Sara had a date and my blood boiled at the thought of it. More than once, I was tempted to scour the streets of Naples, but it would have been useless: I had no idea who she was with, or where she was going, so I resigned myself to pacing my bedroom floor. Not because I care about her, I should stress. My problem is, that I can’t tolerate the fact that that woman has probably had sex while I went without. It is not socially acceptable. I’m the one who never has an empty bed. Not her. Definitely not her.
I have to know. I took a front row seat because I want to take a good look at her: if she comes in with a goofy smile on that stupid face, then I’ll know that someone, yesterday, has given her something to smile about. And I’ll smash his teeth in!
The thought springs from my treacherous brain before I can stop it. Why do I care who she goes to bed with? She can work her way through the whole faculty, as far as I’m concerned, I still wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole. But the thought of it ruined my night.
‘What did she do? You’re the one who shouted out her name while you were with someone else.’ The angel on my right shoulder tries reason with me.
‘That woman is responsible for all your troubles! You have to find a way to get back at her!’ The little devil on the left shoulder encourages my anger. Not that I need any encouragement. The lack of sex, frustration and the feeling of not being in control of my own life are creating a explosive mix that I can feel is going to make me do something stupid.
Fifteen minutes go by and still no sign of her. I shift in my chair, imagining her recovering from last night’s performance and hating her from the depths of my being.
‘I think the lecture is cancelled,’ says the brunette next to me. She takes the opportunity to look at me with some interest, but she’s a bit too young for me.
I pretend not to understand. What happened to the old Teo? He has been banished somewhere far away and out of reach.
The door opens wide and the students’ hopes fade: but the figure that emerges is Eleonora, Sara’s colleague, the one who tried to seduce her. Now why is it her? I would like to ask her, but she immediately begins to project the slides on the screen, and all that remains for me is to wait, patiently, for the end of the lecture that seems take place in slow motion.
When it finally drags to a close, I wait for the other students to leave before approaching Eleonora.
‘Um, hi,’ I greet her. What is the correct way to greet a rival? Hang on, rival for what? Why does my brain keep coming out with this nonsense?
The woman glares and doesn’t answer me.
‘My intentions are good,’ I insist.
‘Sorry, I don’t believe you.’
‘Come on, it isn’t my fault she gave you the elbow. Evidently you misinterpreted the signals.’
Her briefcase snaps shut a little too vigorously
‘I knew perfectly well that she wasn’t attracted to me, but I had to try something to stop her from making the biggest mistake of her life.’
I am instantly alert. ‘What mistake? The date? Do you know who she was with?’
My vehemence makes her suspicious, and she narrows her eyes into slits and scans me like a metal detector. ‘What does it matter to you?’
‘What makes you think it does matter to me?’ I reply defensively.
‘You don’t fool me. You’re jealous as hell.’
‘Don’t talk bollocks!’
‘Hmm… is it bollocks? I can’t blame you, I’m jealous too. But I suppose you have a better chance than me. Although, if she spent last night having hot, steamy sex with him, like I think she did…’
‘With who?’ I ask, leaning over the desk, my voice coming out rather louder than I had intended. Eleonora gives a sly grin.
‘I thought so. In this love square, there is me, you, Sara and… Professor Costa.’
Now, I know I ought to have suspected, but I never seriously considered the possibility that it was him. My subconscious had ruled him out, unable even to imagine it, because… well…
‘He’s an old fogey!’ I exclaim.
‘Don’t exaggerate. He’s not that old,’ she points out, as a raging fire consumes my brain.
‘She can’t like him! He’s exploiting her!’
It is true that Sara told me she was interested in that dusty old coffin dodger and I even gave her some advice, but I never thought it would come to anything.
‘I couldn’t agree more, but the fact is that yesterday they went on a date and today neither is in the faculty. And since two and two adds up to four …’
I can’t hang around here talking. I set off furiously for the door, my mind made up.
‘I hope you have more luck than me,’ I hear behind my back, but I don’t think too much about it. My car is waiting for me. I have to go to Sara’s house. How could she just hop straight it to bed with him, after spending her own idea of a perfect evening with me?
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ warns the voice of reason, somewhere in a distant part of my brain. But when did I ever listen to the voice of reason?
‘Shut up and let me destroy the old bastard!’ I shout at myself, my voice echoing inside the car. I think I must have racked up about thirty speeding fines in the twenty minutes it takes me to reach her apartment building. I find the door left conveniently open, and head for the stairs. Because obviously I don’t know which apartment is hers. And, equally obviously, it turns out that she lives on the top floor. I scale six flights of stairs, before finally, breathless and more than a little sweaty, I see her name on the door. I jab furiously at the doorbell, and don’t stop until I hear the sound of the lock.
The door swings open and a dishevelled Sara wearing a ridiculously oversized sweatshirt that reaches to her knees stands in the doorway. Her hair is like a bird’s nest, and her face looks like she hasn’t slept a wink. It takes her a couple of seconds to focus, but when she does, she seems to wake up completely.
‘What are you doing here?’ she mumbles, bewildered.
‘Where is he?’ I burst out, pushing my way through the door without permission. I throw my jacket on the first chair I see. The house looks like a bomb site. They must have been busy tonight! Rationality has now abandoned me, beca
use I begin to open doors, looking for the bedroom.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I didn’t say you could come in!’ she reproaches me, in her usual sour tone.
I open the last door and find the bedroom, turned upside down. No trace of him. He must have already left. Just like I do with the women I spend the night with, in short. The idea makes my blood run cold.
‘Did you have fun yesterday?’ I ask, clenching my fists.
‘None of your business,’ she says icily, turning her back on me.
I grab her by the wrists, and we tumble against a wall. She’s so small and soft, and I can feel myself losing control.
‘Answer me,’ I whisper hoarsely. Her fierce gaze, however, does not waver.
‘A very pleasant evening.’
Is she provoking me?
‘How pleasant? ‘
The reaction comes, as expected. Her tiny hands free themselves from my grip and push hard on my chest, repelling me.
‘I repeat. None of your business. What right do you have to burst into my house and make demands like a jealous boyfriend?’
The word has the power to make me recoil spontaneously. ‘I am not a jealous boyfriend.’
‘Damn right. I wouldn’t want a boyfriend like you.’
‘Why not?’
‘What do you mean why not? Do you want to be my boyfriend?’
What the… ‘Of course not! Where did you get a ridiculous idea like that?’
‘Then why the hell are we standing in the middle of my bedroom, shouting at one another?’
The sudden awareness of being with her, here, now, so close, maddens me. The scent of her, that permeates everything, her ridiculous and disheveled appearance, my anger and wounded pride. I lose all contact with reality
‘Is he so much better than me?’ I ask quietly, and as I ask the question I feel an unmistakable pang of jealousy, which I try to fool myself is just wounded pride. Stupidly, because it is not wounded pride. It’s just jealousy. Appalling, ridiculous, overbearing jealousy. I’m totally fucked now.
Not My Type Page 14