Daybreak

by Fabio Volo

At that very moment I felt like this life was not for me anymore. I felt like that vacuum cleaner: a heap of pieces I couldn’t put back together.

  A stupid incident like Saturday’s was enough to make me want to be somewhere else. I don’t recognize myself anymore: I was always smiling, upbeat, understanding; instead, now I am discovering certain behaviors I’m ashamed of. Sometimes, when we have a fight, I know he is right and that I am exaggerating and that I am just nagging, but I can’t help it: I can’t stand him anymore. Some mornings I wake up in a bad mood. I have to jump out of bed because it seems like even the covers are trying to imprison me. That’s never happened to me before. I fear I’m becoming a mean woman. I see in myself the same things I despised in my mother.

  I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to escape it. I don’t even know if I want to face all the difficulties, both emotional and practical, that a separation would entail. Not knowing what to do with myself drains all my energy and resolve. I wonder if I’ll have the strength to break the ties I built day after day. I don’t have the serenity to face what I would discover if I left.

  I would need someone who listens to me.

  January 29th

  I came back after a hard day at work. Ever since they put me in charge of marketing, everyone at the firm has started to notice me. The stupid malice of certain people leaves me speechless. Sometimes I feel like telling everybody off.

  Federica told me that Binetti was telling inappropriate jokes about me today. He was implying the boss and I had a thing. This is not the first time he’s done it.

  At dinner I wanted to vent to someone. I told Paolo what happened. I needed a friendly voice, someone to understand and reassure me. How many times do I listen to him talking about his problems at work? This evening it was my turn. Paolo didn’t even let me finish: “What do you want me to say?” And he began to tell me about his day, comparing my issues with his, and telling me that I shouldn’t be complaining, that my problems were nothing compared to what he had to go through every day.

  I didn’t say anything. I would have liked him to listen to me just once, and to say something nice. Even a silent hug would have been enough. I am the stupid one for feeling disappointed. That’s the way he is and he will never change.

  January 30th

  This morning Federica was completely upset when she came into the office. She told me she went out with this guy she’s been talking to for the last few days and that they made love. She told me she had never met anyone with such endurance. They started making love after dinner and around two in the morning she had to take a break. “When I went to the kitchen to get some water I was stumbling as if someone had unscrewed my legs. I got scared.”

  We laughed a lot. “Someone like him shouldn’t be allowed to roam freely. He should have some sort of distinguishing mark, like a T-shirt or a stamp on his arm.” I always laugh when she tells me about her adventures and the bond we have established is definitely one of the things that makes me happy to go to work.

  Today was a hard day, but the meeting went well. I did a good job: I delivered my presentation impeccably and I easily dealt with the issues and the unforeseen problems that arose. The launch of this new product is very important to us; that is why the boss decided to invest a great deal in advertising. We hired a new agency and from the start they proved to be extremely professional. I have to be honest: Federica was a big help. By now we’re very close; it only takes one glance for us to understand each other. When we left the meeting for a coffee break, she asked me if I noticed the way the agency’s copyeditor was looking at me.

  With all the problems and the stress from the meeting, the last thing I was thinking about was someone right in front of me …

  Actually, that’s not true—I remember very well the way he was looking at me that day during the meeting. I wonder why I lied to myself that evening, to my own journal. Maybe because I wanted to confirm the lie I told Federica: “I didn’t notice. Although I don’t think he was looking at me the way you think … He was seated right across from me, that’s all.”

  “You might be a good marketing director, but you’re clueless about this stuff … It’s better that way, maybe he’ll quit looking at you and he will start looking at me. I’m free tonight!” And she laughed.

  I went to the restroom and couldn’t help but notice that my hair was a mess. The meeting started again, and after having talked to Federica, I noticed that he was actually looking at me quite often and that he was smiling at me.

  He was a goodlooking guy, dark hair with a gray patch around his temples, and black eyes. His shirt, blazer, and tie were impeccable, without even the shadow of a wrinkle. At the end of the meeting he left with his other colleagues and he said good-bye to me last. He shook my hand, looking straight into my eyes. He made me feel funny. That look stayed with me for hours. For the whole day.

  Even that night, while I was driving home, I was thinking about it and I caught myself smiling for no reason. At the time I wasn’t used to being looked at in that way.

  February 2nd

  I know, they cost an arm and a leg, but I like them. Plus, I never buy anything for myself. I definitely won’t buy anything else for a while. I fell in love with them as soon as I saw them in the window, and I kept thinking about them. This morning, as I was stopped at the light, I saw a girl wearing a similar pair. I decided I was going to buy them. After work, I ran to the store and I bought them. When I got back home, I immediately tried them on. They looked great on me. I went to the other room, to Paolo, to show them off and to ask him if he liked them. First he reminded me that I have a whole closet full of shoes and boots and that I should stop wasting my money on them. Then he added that they looked too aggressive for me. I guess I’ll wear them when I go out without him.

  I came back to the bedroom and got undressed. What does he know about these things? As soon as he started talking about money, I ran away; if he had asked me how much they were, I probably would have lied. Actually, I would definitely have lied.

  I just turned to look at my shoes. My new décolleté are gorgeous. I did the right thing.

  February 3rd

  Federica really makes me laugh: today she came in the office wearing a blouse with a very low neckline, so much so that, at a certain point, I had to say something. She said she did it on purpose, because that morning she had woken up late and didn’t have time to do her hair. “At least men won’t notice because they’ll be looking somewhere else.”

  During the day I sometimes think about how that man was looking at me. I think about when we said good-bye. There will be another meeting in a few days.

  I was so afraid of that meeting that I didn’t even write about it in my journal. I kept fooling myself, pretending that the presence of that man didn’t change anything inside me.

  At the time I was blaming that look and that man for all the funny things I was feeling. Only later did I realize that my reaction was caused by the fact that I hadn’t felt desired for such a long time. At that moment in my life, just to feel like a woman, I had to wear stiletto heels, a blouse with a low neckline, and bright lipstick. Even today I sometimes wear all that stuff, but I have learned that they’re just accessories: I am a woman even in just flats and a pair of jeans, without makeup.

  February 5th

  Everything went well today. There won’t be other meetings, only the conference and the banquet in London with the people from headquarters. And that’s that.

  It has been one of the hardest jobs I have ever done. Over the last few days, as my thoughts would drift to him, I would smile but immediately think of something else. This morning, before going out, I found myself stuck in front of the closet, unsure about what to wear.

  At the meeting I tried very hard not to look at him, so as not to encourage him in any way, and especially so as not to have any crazy thoughts in my head. I want to avoid any embarrassing situations in the workplace. They have always made me feel uncomfortable. I know very wel
l the kind of man that doesn’t treat you professionally. I have met a lot of them: men that don’t look you in the face, don’t let you speak, and if you manage to get a word in, interrupt you before you’re finished—or after you’re done, they look at you, smiling, with an air of superiority mixed with compassion. Men that have a very simplistic equation in their heads: cute means that you’re dumb. The type that thinks that if you have a position of some responsibility, you must certainly have slept with someone. Like that idiot Binetti. He cannot accept the idea that I became an executive without having to pass through someone’s bed.

  But then why, in spite of my indifference, did he come to my office and do what he did?

  Even though I didn’t know anything about him then, the few times I met him were enough for me to understand that he wasn’t that kind of man; but I couldn’t tell if he was only trying to seduce me to gain the advantage in the negotiations.

  I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself, but I hoped his interest was sincere and not work related.

  During our meetings he would speak very little, with a warm voice. He was one of those men who doesn’t fear other people’s looks. He was very practical: the points he raised and the objections he made were always pertinent.

  During the break, while everyone else was having coffee in the lounge, I went to my desk to take care of a few things.

  “What kind of a break is it if you come here to write?”

  As I heard his voice behind me, I felt embarrassed. I felt my face getting hot.

  “I didn’t feel like having coffee; plus, it’s better I take care of this thing immediately, so we don’t waste any time.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you in the other room, then …”

  “Yes, okay, thanks.”

  He left and I had a hard time finishing what I was doing. I was distracted.

  For the rest of the meeting I tried to look confident and at ease, but I wasn’t. Luckily at that point I didn’t have to present anymore. But something was preventing me from relaxing. I didn’t even have to look up to know that he had his eyes on me.

  At the end of the meeting I noticed he was desperately trying to get closer to me. He said good-bye to me last and looked into my eyes. I looked down and quickly said bye. I felt safe.

  That evening, while leaving the office, I found a note in my coat pocket: he’d written down his name and his personal number. I felt a wave of heat. I immediately put it back in my pocket as if I had to hide it from someone. As if the mere fact of holding it in my hand made me guilty of something. Then I opened the desk drawer, the one I keep locked, and I threw it in. I was the only one in the office, and I still felt as if I were being watched. I locked the drawer and went home.

  February 6th

  This morning, as soon as I got to the office, I opened the drawer to check if it had really happened: the note was still there. I kept on looking at it, then I would put it away. The whole day it felt like I was keeping something alive locked inside there.

  I like that it is a handwritten note, not a business card with the last name crossed out, the way people usually do.

  I will never dial that number. I’m sure of that. I knew it from the start. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to tear it up … It is still there, in the drawer.

  I didn’t talk about it with anyone, not even Federica. I don’t know why I did that. I felt like I wasn’t being straight with her.

  I only told Paolo. At dinner, I told him the whole thing, saying it had happened to Federica.

  “He must be one of those men who do that all the time, like my brother: If they think there is a slim chance, they immediately go for it. He must have spared you because he saw you’re wearing a ring.”

  His words bothered me. Not because that’s what he thinks, but rather because maybe that man thought I was easy.

  I can’t wait for Monday to come, so I can go to the office and tear up that note.

  February 9th

  Today I received some good news from the office. I’m happy—they assigned me a project that I’ll work on with Federica.

  I tore up the note with his phone number on it. I must confess I thought about it before doing it, but then I realized it was the right thing to do. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

  Instead, I want to write about Paolo. He’s been acting different the past few days. Tonight, when he came back from work, he even kissed me. He never does that. It was so odd that I looked at him as if to say: “What’s up?” But he had already turned his attention to the fridge. At dinner, he was strange; he seemed distracted, but he was more affectionate than usual. I was afraid he had read my journal. But that’s impossible. He would never do something like that.

  Whenever I complain about Paolo, here in these pages, I always feel guilty afterward. I often want to erase everything, to reopen the journal and tear out the pages, but you can’t do that with journals, you can’t erase or tear out. That’s a rule of mine: Over the years I discovered that the things I was tempted to erase turned out to be, at a later time, the ones that were the truest. The idea that it could end up in someone else’s hands terrifies me. Paolo’s hands, the cleaning lady’s, someone else’s. No other object in this house is as valuable as these pages.

  February 10th

  Yesterday Paolo kissed me. This morning he told me that we’re having lunch at his mother’s on Sunday. I’m speechless. The kiss of Judas: Paolo knows perfectly well how much I dislike lunches at his mother’s.

  Today I left the office thinking about it and felt like going to the hairdresser to cut to my hair.

  I never like how I look when I leave the hairdresser. I always need to go home and fix my hair the way I like it. I can never do it in front of the hairdresser; I’m afraid of offending him. Today, however, I was very pleased with the cut; I thought I looked younger. Even though I don’t feel like going to his mother’s, and in spite of his Judas kiss, by the time I got home I had forgotten all about it. I wasn’t angry, and I wasn’t even sad. Later, though, as I was eating dinner with Paolo, that slight cheerfulness disappeared. I don’t know if it’s because of his silences, if it’s because of the fact that he hasn’t even noticed my new hairdo, but I’m feeling melancholic. And yet, this is not the first time he hasn’t noticed these changes.

  Who’s the blinder of the two? He can’t see; I can’t understand. I can’t understand why I still let him disappoint me. Will Paolo ever look me at me again the way he used to look at me when we first met?

  Lunches at my mother-in-law’s were pure torture. Every time it felt like an exam at school. Actually, worse than that. That day Paolo’s brother, Simone, was there too. At the time, he was almost forty, and he changed girlfriends every two months, and he was always ready and willing to criticize married people: “When you get married you don’t promise eternal love, but rather that you’ll stay together even after you don’t love each other anymore. Poor things … You’re afraid of being alone, aren’t you? You’re terrified by the idea of growing old alone. Actually, you’re already alone and you don’t even realize it.”

  At first, his attitude really bothered me and I would always react to his provocations. Even though he always spoke in a friendly and ironic way, I would still argue with him. I would defend marriage so aggressively that when I would jot down my intimate thoughts I would often wonder if I really believed the things I had written. Little by little, Simone was insinuating his doubts into my head. Sometimes I even thought I didn’t believe anymore in the words I would pronounce so fervently. In reality, they were just empty boxes.

  Now, after everything that’s happened, I see Simone in a different light. He seems so frightened by love that I almost feel sorry for him. However, there was one thing he did better than Paolo: freeing himself of his mother’s grip.

  She was a woman who exploited guilt and victimization. “I’ve always been alone since your father died. I never go out and nobody comes by to take me places with their car. I wanted to go v
isit your cousin Marina and see her newborn baby girl …”

  And Simone would say: “Mom, don’t you know that there’s public transportation? It’s a wonderful invention. You buy a ticket and the gentleman dressed in blue will take you exactly where you want to go. Imagine, there’s even such a thing as a taxi, and they’ll take you right to her front door, and the drivers will even say thank you as you’re getting out …”

  While Paolo would respond, “Mom, don’t worry, Elena and I will take you to Marina’s later—will that work?”

  Whenever something like that happened, I would give my husband the stinkeye, but he would look at me with a pathetic face, as if to say: “Poor Mom.”

  My mother-in-law was a woman who lived in the past, back when she had been a wife and a fulltime mother. She constantly retold anecdotes that by then I knew by heart; They were always the same ones and she sounded like a broken record. By contrast, whenever she talked about her husband, it was as if she were building a myth, and sentences would invariably start with an if: “If your father were still alive, this wouldn’t have happened” … “If your father were still here, he would have taken care of it” … “If your father had heard you say that, he would have set you straight”…

  I really disliked Paolo’s mother and I’d written it multiple times in my journal. She wouldn’t do anything to make herself loved. I hated how Paolo changed in her presence. He went back to being her baby, incapable of contradicting her, of saying no to any of her requests. Plus, I could never stand her habit of grabbing your arm and squeezing it whenever she was talking to you, as if she were afraid you would run away.