by Melissa P.
All of a sudden I turned around, as if I had unexpectedly realized something, some mystery till then beyond my grasp. “I don’t love you,” I murmured, almost to myself.
I didn’t even have time to think it.
He slowly turned, opened his eyes, and asked, “What the fuck did you say?”
I looked at him for a moment, my face set, motionless, and in a louder voice I said, “I don’t love you.”
He frowned, drawing his eyebrows closer together. Then he shouted, “Who the fuck ever asked you to?”
We remained silent, and he again turned his back to me. I heard a car door close and then a couple’s muted laughter. Daniele turned toward them and, annoyed, said, “What the fuck do these people want? Why don’t they screw somewhere else and leave me in peace?”
“Don’t they have the right to screw where they want?” I said, studying the sheen of the clear polish on my fingernails.
“Listen, babe, you don’t have to tell me what other people can or can’t do. I decide, only me. I’ve decided for you too, and I’ll always decide.”
While he was speaking, I turned away, annoyed, and lay down on the wet towel. He shook my shoulders angrily and emitted some indecipherable sounds through clenched teeth. I didn’t move; every muscle in my body was still.
“You can’t treat me like this!” he screamed. “You can’t not give a damn about me. When I talk, you have to listen, you can’t turn away. Understand?”
Then I suddenly turned and grabbed his wrists. They felt weak in my hands. I pitied him; my heart was aching.
“I would listen to you for hours on end,” I said softly, “if only you spoke to me, if only you let me.”
I saw and felt his body go slack. His eyes squeezed tight, then looked downward.
He burst into tears and covered his face with his hands, ashamed. Once again he curled up on the towel, and once again, with his legs folded, he resembled a defenceless, innocent child.
I gave him a kiss on the cheek, folded my towel quietly and carefully, gathered up all my things, and slowly headed toward the couple. They were locked in an embrace, nuzzling each other’s necks, smelling each other’s scent. I stood watching them for a moment, and amidst the low roar of the waves I heard a whispered “I love you”.
They escorted me back home. I thanked them, apologizing for the interruption, but they were reassuring, insisting they were happy to help me.
Just now, Diary, as I was writing to you, I felt guilty. I left him on the damp beach weeping bitter, pitiful tears; I deserted him like a coward. He might even get sick. But I did it all for him, as well as me. He has often left me in tears, and rather than hug me he has sent me away with his mockery. So it isn’t such a tragedy for him to be left alone. Nor is it for me.
30 April 2001
I’m happy, happy, happy! It hasn’t happened the way it should, and yet I’m happy. No one ever calls me, no one comes looking for me, and yet I’m oozing joy from every pore, I’m impossibly content. I’ve banished all my paranoias. No more do I anxiously wait for his phone call; no more do I suffer the anguish of having him on top of me, wriggling all over without giving a damn about my body and me. No more do I have to lie to my mother when, after I return home, she asks me where I’ve been. Like clockwork I would reply with just any old story: downtown to have a beer, the cinema, the theatre. Before going to sleep I would let my imagination run wild and think of what I would’ve done if I had really gone to those places. I would’ve amused myself, certainly, would’ve met people, would’ve had a life that wasn’t just school, home, and sex with Daniele. And now I want this other life, it doesn’t matter what it takes, now I want someone who is interesting to Melissa. The solitude might destroy me, but I don’t find that frightening. I am my own best friend, I couldn’t ever betray myself, never abandon myself. But maybe I could hurt myself, yes, just maybe I could do that. Not because I would enjoy doing it, but because I want to punish myself somehow. Yet how does a girl like me love and punish herself at the same time? It’s a contradiction, Diary, I do realize. But never have love and hate been so close, so complicit, so deep inside me.
7 July 2001
12:38 am
Today I saw him again. And once again – for the last time, I hope – he abused my feelings. He started it all, as always, and finished it the same way. I’m stupid, Diary, I shouldn’t ever have let him get near me again.
5 August 2001
It’s finished, forever. And I’m delighted to say that I’m not finished, in fact I’m starting my life over again.
11 September 2001
3:25 pm
Maybe Daniele is watching the same images on TV, the same ones as me.
28 September 2001
9:10 am
School started a little while ago, and already the air is thick with strikes, demonstrations, and meetings over the usual issues. Already I’m imagining the reddened faces of the politicians when they clash with the protesters. The first assembly of the year will begin in a few hours, and the issue is globalization. Right now I’m sitting in a classroom during a period with a substitute teacher; behind me sit some of my schoolmates gabbing about the speaker who will lead this morning’s meeting. They say he’s not only very smart but good-looking, with an angelic face. When one girl says she’s much less interested in the intellect than in the face, they burst into giggles. They’re the same girls who went around talking trash about me a few months ago, saying I’d given it up to some guy who wasn’t my boyfriend. I’d confided in one of them, told her everything about Daniele, and she’d hugged me, uttering an “I’m so sorry” that was obviously hypocritical.
“What’s so funny? Wouldn’t you let a guy like that bang you?” asks the girl who expressed more interest in the face.
“No, I’d rather rape him,” answers another with a laugh.
“What about you, Melissa?” she asks. “What would you do?”
I turned around and told them I don’t know him, and therefore I don’t feel like doing anything. Now I hear them laughing, and their laughter blends with the shrill, metallic sound of the bell that signals the end of the hour.
4:35 pm
Perched on the platform built for the assembly, I didn’t care about the demolished Customs building or the torched McDonald’s, even though I’d been chosen to write a report on the event. I was seated in the centre of the long table; on either side of me were the representatives of the opposing sides. The guy with the angelic face sat next to me, gnawing on a pen in the most obscene way. And while the confirmed rightist engaged with the tenacious leftist, my eyes studied the blue pen wedged between his teeth.
“Write down my name among the participants,” he said at a certain point, his face bent over a slip of paper filled with notes.
“What is your name?” I asked tactfully.
“Roberto,” he said, although this time he looked at me, surprised that I didn’t already know it.
He stood up to speak. His speech was strong and compelling. I watched him as he moved with self-confidence, holding the microphone and the pen. The extremely attentive audience smiled at his ironic quips, which he made at just the right moments. He’s a law student, I thought, which explains his rhetorical skills. Every so often he would turn to look at me. Somewhat mischievously, although in the most unaffected manner, I started unbuttoning my blouse from the neck down, revealing the white swell of my breasts. Perhaps he noticed my gesture. At any rate, he began to turn more frequently, and with a mixture of curiosity and slight embarrassment he started making eyes at me, or at least so I thought. After finishing his speech, he sat down again and stuck the pen back in his mouth, ignoring the applause that was directed at him. Then he turned toward me – I had meanwhile gone back to writing my report – and said, “I don’t recall your name.”
I felt like playing. “I still haven’t told you,” I replied.
He lifted his head a bit and said, “Right …”
I smiled and watched hi
m resume taking notes, pleased that he might be waiting for me to tell him my name.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” he asked, scrutinizing my face.
I beamed. “Melissa,” I said.
“Mmmm … Your name is the Greek for ‘bee’. Do you like honey?”
“Too sweet,” I replied. “I prefer stronger tastes.”
He shook his head, smiled, and each of us continued writing on our own. After a while he stood up to smoke a cigarette, and I saw him laugh and gesture excitedly to another guy (who was also quite handsome). At times he would glance at me and smile, letting the cigarette dangle from his mouth. From a distance he appeared thinner, and his hair seemed soft and scented, bronze-coloured ringlets that fell gently on his face. He stood leaning against the streetlight, shifting all his weight to one hip, which he seemed to be holding up with the hand in his trouser pocket. A green-checked shirt flounced out, disarranged, and round glasses completed his intellectual look. I’d seen his friend a few times outside of school, handing out leaflets. He invariably had a small cigar in his mouth, lit or not.
When the meeting ended, I was gathering the sheets of paper scattered on the table – I had to submit them with my report – and Roberto returned. He squeezed my hand and said goodbye with a broad smile.
“Arrivederci, comrade!”
I started laughing and confessed that I liked being called comrade, it’s amusing.
“Come, come!” said the assistant principal, clapping his hands. “What are you doing there chattering away? Do you not see that the assembly has ended?”
Today I’m happy. I had this lovely encounter and hope it doesn’t end here. You know, Diary, I truly persevere if I want to achieve something. Now I want his phone number, and I’m sure I’ll manage to get it. After his number I’ll want what you already know – namely, to inhabit his thoughts. But before that happens you know what I must do.
10 October 2001
5:15 pm
It’s a wet, melancholy day. The sky is grey, the sun a faded smear. This morning there was some light rain, but now a few flashes of lightning would be enough to unleash a downpour. Still, the weather doesn’t make a difference to me: I’m very happy.
Stationed at the school entrance were the usual vultures wanting to sell you books or to persuade you with leaflets, undeterred even by the rain. Roberto’s friend was there, a cigar in his mouth, wearing a green raincoat and handing out red flyers, a smile stamped on his face. When he approached to give me one as well, I stared at him, flabbergasted, since I didn’t know what to do, how to act. I mumbled a timid thanks and dragged my heels, thinking that a golden opportunity like this wouldn’t happen again. I wrote my number on the flyer, turned around, and handed it back to him.
“Why are you returning it? Why don’t you just throw it away like everybody else?” he asked me, smiling.
“No, I want you to give it to Roberto,” I said.
Bewildered, he protested, “But Roberto has hundreds of these.”
I bit my lip. “Roberto will be interested in what’s written on the back.”
“Ah, I understand.” He seemed even more bewildered. “Don’t worry, I’ll see him later, and he’ll get it.”
“Grazie!” I’d have preferred to give him a loud kiss on the cheek.
As I was leaving, I heard someone call me. I turned, and it was him, breaking into a run.
“I forgot,” he panted, “my name’s Pino, pleased to meet you. You’re Melissa, right?”
“Yes, Melissa. I see you couldn’t wait to read the back of the flyer.”
“Well … What of it?” he said, smiling. “Curiosity is a sign of intelligence. Are you curious?”
I closed my eyes and said, “Immensely.”
“You see, then you’re intelligent.”
My ego appeased, sated with happiness, I said goodbye and headed toward the piazza in front of the school, a hangout that was now half-empty because of the nasty weather. I didn’t start the scooter right away. The traffic at that hour is terrible, even on a motorino. A few minutes later my phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Ummm … Ciao, it’s Roberto.”
“Whoa! … Ciao.”
“You surprised me, you know?”
“I like to take chances. You could have not called me. I ran the risk of getting a door slammed in my face.”
“You did the right thing. I would’ve come to ask after you one of these days. Except that … you know… my girlfriend goes to the same school.”
“So you’re taken.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t matter to me either.”
“Tell me, what made you look for me?”
“What would make you come looking for me?”
“I asked you first.”
“I want to get to know you better, spend some time with you.”
Silence.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“Same here. As long as you know the premise: I’m already committed.”
“I don’t really believe in commitments. They end when you stop believing in them.”
“Feel like meeting up tomorrow morning?”
“No, not tomorrow, I have school. Let’s meet Friday – the day of the strike. Where?”
“In front of the university cafeteria at 10:30.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Ciao, then, till Friday.”
“Till Friday. Un bacio.”
14 October 2001
5:30 pm
As usual I arrived incredibly early. The weather has been the same for four days, an incredible monotony.
From the cafeteria came the smell of garlic, and from where I stood I could hear the cooks making a racket with the pots and bad-mouthing some co-workers. A few students passed by and winked at me; I pretended not to see them. I was more attentive to the cooks’ conversation than my thoughts. I was calm, not in the least nervous; I let myself be swept away by the external world, and I didn’t pay much attention to me.
He arrived in his yellow car, wrapped up in the most exaggerated way, with an enormous scarf covering half his face, leaving only his glasses uncovered.
“So I won’t be recognized, you know how it is … my girlfriend. We’ll use the back roads,” he said once I’d got into the car. “It’ll take a bit longer, but at least there won’t be any risk.”
The rain beat harder on the windscreen; I thought it might shatter. We were headed for his summer home on the slopes of Etna, outside the city. The brown, withered branches of the trees tore tiny cracks in the cloudy sky; flocks of birds flew laboriously through the dense rainfall, yearning to reach some warmer place. I too wanted to soar in order to reach a warmer spot. Yet I felt no yearning: it seemed as if I were leaving home to start a new job that was far from exciting – a dutiful, laborious job.
“Open the glove compartment. There should be some CDs.”
I found a couple and chose Carlos Santana.
We talked about my school and his university, then about us.
“I don’t want you to think badly of me,” I said.
“Are you joking? That would be like thinking badly of myself. We’re both doing the same thing, in the same way. For me it might be even more dishonourable, since I’m spoken for. But you see, she – ”
“Doesn’t give you any,” I interrupted with a smile.
“Exactly,” he said with the same smile.
He entered a narrow, badly paved road and stopped before a huge green gate. He climbed out of the car and opened the gate. When he got back inside, I noticed the face of Che Guevara printed on his drenched T-shirt.
“Fuck!” he complained. “It’s still autumn, but the weather is already so lousy.” Then he turned to me and asked, “Aren’t you a little excited?”
I closed my lips so tightly that I wrinkled my chin. I shook my head and after a brief pause said, “No, not at all.”
To reach the door I covered my head with
my bag. Running in the rain, we laughed non-stop, like two idiots.
The house was completely dark. When I entered, I felt an icy cold. I groped my way in the pitch darkness; he was evidently used to it. He was familiar with every corner and therefore walked with a certain confidence. I planted myself in a spot where there seemed to be more light and made out a couch, where I placed my bag.
Roberto came up from behind, turned me around, and kissed me, thrusting his entire tongue into my mouth. I found this kiss a bit repulsive; it wasn’t at all like Daniele’s. He was swapping spit with me, letting it trickle from our lips. I backed off tactfully, without revealing my disgust, and wiped my mouth with the palm of my hand. He took me by the same hand and led me into the bedroom, which was just as dark and just as cold.
“Can’t you switch on the light?” I asked while he was kissing my neck.
“No, I like it better like this.”
He left me on the huge bed, knelt down, and removed his shoes. I was neither excited nor impassive. I felt I was doing everything just to please him.
He undressed me as if I were a mannequin in a window display, the way a fast, detached shop assistant strips the dummy and leaves it bare.
He was shocked to see my stockings. “You’re wearing thigh-highs?” he asked.
“Yes, always,” I replied.
“You filthy pig!” he roared.
I was embarrassed by his comment, so out of place, but I was even more struck by his transformation from a polite, well-bred young man to a coarse, vulgar beast. His eyes were flaming, ravenous, his hands rummaged around beneath my blouse, inside my panties.
“Do you want me to keep them on?” I asked to comply with his wishes.
“Definitely, leave them, you’re dirtier like this.”
My cheeks flushed again, but now I felt my fireplace start to blaze, and reality gradually receded. Passion was getting the upper hand.