by Anna Premoli
At the beginning of September, our internship period will have officially concluded and our professional paths will separate. Part of me is sad about it, but to be honest, it’s better this way: M&K offered to let me stay with them as well, but after a period of business consulting I want to try something else – I want to get a bit closer to the world of accounting. In addition, I don’t think the idea of working with Ari is a particularly good one: he’s a distraction I can’t resist. I need to have a change of scenery before we end up getting caught in compromising positions. My boyfriend has this crazy idea that sooner or later we will be ready to set up on our own and that doing it together would be a cool idea, but that feels a little bit premature at the moment. As always, Ari is planning everything while I’m terrified about what I’ll do tomorrow. But one way or another we compensate for each other. As Lavinia says, the blend of the two of us produces two relatively normal people. Relatively. Because I’m aware of all my quirks and I want to keep them: they’re what brought me to Ari, so I can’t help but be grateful to them.
Even if I did look pretty weird with my hair dyed black. But like hell I’m ever going to admit that to Ariberto...
“One thing at a time: right now, I’m just thinking about graduating. I’ll start thinkin about what I’m going to do tomorrow... tomorrow,” I reply with the utmost diplomacy.
“Giada Borghi?” a university employee calls. I guess it’s my turn.
“I’m here!” I reply, finally starting to feel enthusiastic about the event.
“We can start, if you are ready,” he informs me.
“Come on, Bertha, let’s go and give all this a fitting conclusion.”
And, hand in hand, we set off.
Epilogue
Three months later
“Giada, I don’t think I’m going to make it...” murmurs Ari in a voice that sounds like someone on death row. In fact, someone on death row would probably use a more dignified voice than the one my boyfriend’s using right now.
“Excuse me, wasn’t this your idea?” I remind him with a laugh.
“Sometimes I have really bad ideas,” he admits in an agonised voice.
It’s taken him a while but in the end he’s come round to my thinking, then.
I watch him squirming anxiously in the chair, ready to flee at the first useful opportunity. Men...
“So guys, have you decided what tattoo you fancy?” asks the man completely covered with tribal designs from head to toe, appearing next to us. Ari turns an even whiter shade of pale, if that’s possible. In fact, his complexion is bordering on green right now. I don’t really understand how he can be thinking of going through with it. When it comes to planes and needles, the man in my life isn’t exactly Richard the Lionheart...
“It’s not for me, it’s for this young gentleman here,” I explain, pointing to Ari. I turn to him and murmur magnanimously, “Bertha, we’re still in time to leave, if you want...”
I came with him, but only to make sure he came back alive. It seems I actually do care a lot about this statuesque physique and the weird brain that hides under those brown curls. Yes, weird, because I can’t think of another adjective that quite captures the idea. I mean, he fell in love with me, didn’t he?
The idea of getting a tattoo of our intertwined initials is as proof of his love is, in my humble opinion, a bit much a for someone who almost faints every time he has a blood test done. And I mean literally almost faints - he confessed the nurses make him lie down and hold his hand the way you do with children.
And I refuse to comment on how romantic the gesture is, because it’s the type of thing that’s sickly sweet enough to make you throw up. Only someone like Ari would have come up with something as ludicrous.
“We are not leaving,” he states, trying to steel his nerve. In fact, his voice actually sounds pretty convincing – it’s the eyes that give it away: pure terror.
“Ari, be reasonable: I know you love me. I don’t need you to tattoo our initials on your body somewhere. I’m serious. Even if I were the most needy woman in the world, I would still be a hundred per cent sure of what you feel for me.”
“The big questions is, do you love me the same way?” he asks me with a hint of desperation in his voice.
In all honesty, I’d thought we’d got past our initial insecurities and that there were no more doubts between us, but apparently these three idyllic months haven’t been enough to dispel all his fears.
And I do mean idyllic – so idyllic that it’s practically ludicrous. Before meeting Ariberto Castelli I had a reputation for being hard-nosed, straight-talking and unromantic. Not anymore, apparently.
I blink and look at him while a range of emotions dance across his face. Until now, Ari had never brought up the subject. I thought he was convinced that I felt about him the same way he feels about me, even if I do demonstrate it in my own way. You don’t just stop being mean and sarcastic because you fall in love. The love is the same, it’s just the way you show it that’s a bit different. I’ve never written people poems or slashed my wrists before and I’ve got no intention of starting now. And love songs have always made me a bit queasy. I like my music rock – hard, pure rock, of course. But I smile so much while I look at Ari that I seriously start to worry I’m going to get wrinkles around my mouth. Ah well, there are worse things, I suppose. Hopefully they’ll invent some miracle cream for when we are old.
I was genuinely convinced my boyfriend had no worries about us whatsoever, but it seems I was wrong: somewhere in that beautiful noggin of his, neuron number one is transmitting wrong signals to neuron number two. We need to intervene.
“Get up,” I say in a peremptory voice.
“What?” he asks, a confused expression on his face.
“I said get up! You can do it later. It’s my turn now.”
“But I didn’t want you to get tattooed! I only asked you to come with me because I needed a bit of moral support...”
I grab him by his cashmere designer sweater and pull him out of the chair. He might have the size but I’ve got the determination. “You can prove your courage later, I’m going to do it now.” I turn to the tattoo artist, ignoring Ariberto’s agitated face. “I would like an intertwined A and G, if you don’t mind.”
“Giada...”
“Take a deep breath. Bertha. It’s just a tattoo,” I reply reassuringly while I point to the place I’ve chosen for this weird demonstration of affection: right above my ankle.
If someone had told me at the beginning of the year that I would have ended up doing something this ridiculous out of love – and doing it with relative peace of mind - I would have told them to do less drugs, or at the very least to change pusher, because there is a limit to everything. Or rather, to everything except my determination to make Ari understand that he is The One. With a capital ‘O’.
I mean, sure, some other person who was less smiley and less bloody perfect would probably have suited me fine too, but you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with. It happens for reasons so mysterious there’s no point even trying to understand them.
He is cheerful while I’m almost always grumpy. He is simple and straightforward while I am like a road full of sharp bends. But we go together for the same reasons that gourmets have decided strawberries go together with balsamic vinegar, or cheese with pears, or sweet with sour.
Personally speaking, I’m still a bit doubtful about all these combinations, but plenty of people who seem to know what they’re talking about say they’re amazing, so I guess we must be too. A real exotic combination, temperamentally speaking.
And I was the first one to think it wasn’t possible - I was practically our main enemy. Sometimes even I screw up...
So, if he loves me - and God does he - and I love him – and damn I do - all that remains for me is to convince Ari who, poor man, I put through the torments of hell. At a level that is not even really subconscious, my boyfriend still doubts the way he feels about me is fully
reciprocated. And while at the beginning he didn’t care much about which of the two of us was more into the other, lately he must have been wondering about it a lot.
“A little thing like that?” the tattoo artist asks me, handing me a sheet of paper upon which he’s drawn a rather good sketch of our entwined initials.
“Perfect,” I confirm as I place my foot on the table in front of me. The tattoo artist inserts a fresh needle and immediately gets to work.
“You’re crazy,” murmurs Ari, who can’t take his eyes off my foot and the needle. The terror is still there, but there’s a lot of curiosity too. “Completely crazy.”
“You’d better not dump me anytime soon, or I’ll sue you for moral damages,” I mutter while the hum of the machine slowly accompanies the birth of my new tattoo. It isn’t my first, but I’m not all that crazy about having ink done. I much prefer piercings, which might look like a bigger deal but in reality aren’t, actually: if you want, you wear it, if you get tired of it, you take it out. Tattoos, on the other hand, have a presumption of being there forever that jars with my philosophy of life. But Ari needed a big gesture, so here I am. Looks like I’ll have a new tattoo soon. Much, much bigger than the other two.
My boyfriend sits down next to me and continues to hold my hand the whole time. I would reassure him the pain isn’t actually all that bad, but the warmth of his hand is so pleasant that I decide not to mention it. And once it’s finished, the tattoo looks really beautiful.
“I’d say we’re done,” the tattoo artist proclaims. “Not bad, eh?”
“Not bad at all,” I reply with a smile.
“So, it’s your turn next, right?” he asks, turning to asks Ari.
“Sure,” says Mister perfection, trying not to display any hesitation.
“Ari...” I say, trying one last time to make him reason.
“If you did it, I can do it too,” he insists in a very serious voice. He’s probabily busy trying not to faint in front of me. He sits in the chair I’ve just left and pulls up his trousers to reveal the same piece of skin I’ve just had tattooed. “Same place. Exactly the same tattoo.”
I shake my head but sit down and grab Ari’s hand in mine, which he crushes as he usually does in times of stress.
“So, are you two celebrating something important?” asks the tattoo artist as he begins to work under Ari’s horrified gaze. His face is hilarious, but not a sound comes out of his mouth. He certainly has a fair bit of willpower.
“A new life,” I reply, remaining vague.
“Living together,” Ari informs him. He seems very proud of it. “Which is a really big deal for someone like her.”
Once upon a time I would have been pretty annoyed by his decision to go around blabbing about our private business to perfect strangers, but the rules have changed, which is why I smile at Ari with an expression on my face that must look pretty stupid. But I’m trying not to be too hard on myself – I’ve learned to accept both me and us. Which might not sound like much, but it’s been a slow and complicated job. And if I’m being honest, I’m ready to admit that I probably wouldn’t have been able to make that inner journey under my own steam. Ari gave me the strength I needed to look inside, to admit I didn’t like myself the way I was, and to choose to be a different person. First of all for myself, and then also for him. I reckon he’s secretly aspiring to being made a saint, even if he does have his own bad side. Like, for example, this need for grand gestures. And big words. And for sharing everything. Yes, Ariberto Castelli can be a bit clingy sometimes, but he more than makes up for it with his other qualities.
“I love you,” he whispers, continuing to hold my hand way too tight. But that’s the way he is: disgustingly saccharine. And I love him anyway, despite all that.
I smile at him to reassure him and fiddle with his hair. “From now on you’ll have to either hang on to me or look for other girlfriends whose first name starts with a ‘G’. Genevieve would be a good start, don’t you think?”
“Or even Gertrude,” he replies, going along with the joke.
“Right! Or Greta!”
“And why not something classy, like Gianfilippa?”
If nothing else, this messing around is making him forget about the needle and the hum of the machine.
I stare at him critically. “Really, Bertha? A Gianfilippa?”
He shrugs imperceptibly. “Well, why a Genevieve, then?”
We both burst out laughing.
“You could always just go for a Giulia,” I say. “There are tons of them, and they’re usually pretty hot.”
“What kind of rule is that? If your name is Giulia, you’re bound to be hot?”
“Absolutely. It’ll be easier for me, though, I’ve got a lot more choice: the world is full of Alessandros, Albertos, Anselmos...”
“Anselmo?!” he asks, staring at me in disbelief with those big eyes of his. He must have been Bambi in a past life. “Would you really go out with an Anselmo?”
“Are you seriously asking me that? You? Ariberto Castelli?”
Give me another thirty years and I might just manage to stop teasing him about his name. Well, maybe...
“Ariberto is better than Anselmo,” he states with conviction.
“Oh no it isn’t! Ariberto is really weird. I mean I love you, but come on...” I shut up as soon as I see the sickly-sweet expression on Ariberto’s face.
“Did you say you love me? Really?” he asks with a smile. He looks like an idiot, but he’s my idiot, so I’m quite happy to overlook the fact.
“Yes, you idiot.”
“Say it again ...” he pleads. He has a strategy for all this. And what’s more, it’s a strategy that actually works!
“God, Bertha,” I mutter, “it’s hard to believe that before I met you, I actually had a backbone ...”
“Totally overrated.”
“What, me or having a backbone?”
“The second, of course. It’s impossible to overrate you,” he answers, half-serious.
I try not to react, but I’m still amazed that Ariberto Castelli has a sense of humour. Who would have thought that a few months ago? “Bertha, you should give up this idea of opening your own tax consultancy and launch yourself as a self-help guru or something,” I suggest.
Until recently, I genuinely thought I was a bit of a hard nut, but either I never really was or, more probably, Ariberto just has a gift for wrapping me around his little finger. Despite his visceral love for expensive shirts. Despite the fact that he still occasionally wears his the-washing-machine’s-backed-up-again trousers at home. And despite the fact that my mother calls more to speak to him than to speak to me. Apparently I mumble and grunt and Ari speaks clearly and politely. Those are my mother’s words, not mine.
What my mother seems to have forgotten with surprising ease is that I am the product of her genetic heritage, so if she has any complaints about me, she should write herself an angry letter. But in any case, I’m trying not to get too worked up about my parents these days: it annoys me to admit it, but part of the friction between us had more to do with me than it did with them. They’re never going to be the kind of parents I would like, but to be honest I will never be the daughter they dreamed of having either, so I’d say we’re even.
“Just because I finally made you realise how stupid it was to pay two lots of rent if we are always together?”
He makes it all sound so simple, as if living together were just a matter of sharing the costs, but I’m not falling for it. Perhaps I do still have a bit of backbone after all.
“And speaking of good ideas, when are you going to admit that opening a business together could be a brilliant idea?” he insists.
“You only think it’s a brilliant idea because you want to be the boss and get to have sex with me on your desk...” I say accusingly.
“No, that’s not it, I’d offer you a 50-50 partnership. Though of course, I am a little bit interested in the sex on the desk,” he admits, laughing at my
embarrassment.
The tattoo artist raises his head and looks at us with an amused expression.
“Just carry on as if I weren’t here...”
Shit! For a moment I had completely forgotten we had an audience!
“So, is it a deal?” insists Ari, who looks completely at ease now, despite the needle.
Men... Just mention sex on a desk, and suddenly all the other problems in the world disappear in a puff of smoke as if by magic.
“We’ll talk about it when we both have a bit more experience,” I reply. The idea of setting up on our own is anything but stupid, but I don’t want Ari getting even more swell-headed than he already is. What he doesn’t know - because I preferred not to tell him - is that I actually was desperate to go and live with him. What, does he really think he’s the only one capable of using strategy to get his own way, the fool?
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
“Bertha, you take everything as a yes. Even all the flipping ‘no’s I’ve scattered across your path.”
“And that’s exactly why you love me,” he says proudly, giving me a dazzling smile.
“You know something? You might actually be right...” I am surprised to hear myself admitting. And then I lean over and kiss him and to hell with everything else.
For me, learning how to be happy took a long time. Some people are just naturally gifted with happiness - they’re born with the great gift of knowing how to truly enjoy even the small things – and then there are human beings like me who tend to sabotage their chances of being happy because they feel inadequate. To learn to seek happiness I needed to go through various phases: accepting myself, accepting my failings and the weaknesses of my parents, becoming aware that happiness is often a conscious choice...
Good and bad things happen to everyone, but it’s us who make the difference. I mean, I totally agree that we need to look for happiness within us and not in other people, but sometimes other people help you to understand what you truly need. A single example can be worth a thousand words.