Daybreak

by Fabio Volo

  Carla’s always been a source of inspiration to me. I think she’s so beautiful because she’s a courageous person, someone who can just jump into things. I’m thinking about her story with Alberto. She left everything she knew, her house in Milan, her job, her friends, and she went to live with him in a suburb in Forlì. Even when her story with Alberto was over, I never heard her complain or regret her choice.

  “Why don’t you go back to Milan? What are you doing here?”

  “It isn’t time yet.”

  “What are you waiting for? For Alberto to come back to you?”

  “No, I know he’ll never come back.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that I feel now’s not the time to leave. Anyway, even if Alberto came back, I wouldn’t want him anymore.”

  “You’re strange.”

  “Let’s talk about this man with the magnetic eyes instead.”

  “There’s isn’t much to say …”

  “Come on, I want to know everything. You’re never interested in anyone. You don’t even notice other men … I won’t let you change the subject, not over my dead body.”

  It’s true I was never interested in anyone, unlike Carla, not even when I was a little girl. I always admired her freedom and the courage she had in doing what she thought was right, ignoring what other people might say. That’s the one quality I really envied in her. If she met someone she liked, she didn’t think twice about it: She’d even sleep with him on the first night. I’ve never been interested in anyone, not even the handsome ones, the ones everyone liked. I never liked handsome men. How many evenings I’ve spent talking about it with my girlfriends. They teased me, they called me “Saint Maria Goretti,” they told me to let go, to enjoy life, but I was never interested in sleeping with someone I didn’t care about. It didn’t make me feel good. On the contrary.

  When I met Paolo, my girlfriends didn’t understand what I saw in him. “You wouldn’t sleep with that one, but you end up with someone like Paolo, what do you see in him?”

  When they saw that we were getting serious, they stopped with those kinds of remarks. I remember I kept defending him from their attacks.

  “Can’t you see he’s lazy? He never wants to do anything.”

  “He’s not hyperactive. He’s a mellow guy.”

  “But do you guys at least make love?”

  “Yes. Not all the time. Fortunately, he’s not one of those men obsessed with sex. He’s mellow.”

  For a while they had nicknamed him “the mellow one” because I kept defending him using that word. I can’t really explain what I saw in him; I just liked him. Period. I don’t know why. If he hadn’t let himself go like that, I’d still like him. I didn’t like what he had become.

  “So, are you going to tell me about this mystery man, or what? You’ve been avoiding the subject the whole night, keeping your answers vague.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to say.”

  “Elena, I know you very well, you can’t fool me with these answers. You want me to believe you don’t think about him anymore?”

  “No. I mean yes, sometimes I think about him. But I know I shouldn’t.”

  “You’re so boring with your shoulds and shouldn’ts! You’ve been like that your whole life. For once, do what you feel like doing. Aren’t you curious to find out how this man got inside your head just by looking at you?”

  “Of course I’m curious—otherwise I wouldn’t have walked up those stairs, but it won’t go any further than curiosity. Even though I’m very intrigued, I’m still a married woman.”

  “You’re so boring.”

  “I know—and anyway, I’d never cheat on Paolo.”

  “Well, having coffee and chatting isn’t cheating.”

  “I can’t risk it.”

  “Are you afraid he’s going to bite you?”

  “Why are you laughing … ? I meant that I don’t trust myself around him.”

  “That’s even funnier. You’d go to his place and try your best not to like him, you’d try to find as many faults as possible. Then, if you still liked him, you’d run away like you did on the staircase, and you’d never go back. Like you always do.”

  “Like I always do? But I’ve never run away from anyone because of Paolo.”

  “I’m not talking about men, I mean in general. You like giving things up, you like sacrificing yourself. You know that.”

  “Will you give it a rest?”

  For many years now Carla’s argued that I give things up in order to acquire credit. She thinks I sacrifice myself for someone else so the other person feels like they owe me.

  “If I were you, at this point in my life, I would let go. I’d allow myself the luxury of trying. You’ve always done what other people thought was right. Allow yourself a few mistakes: When you leave room for mistakes you leave room to grow.”

  “Listen to you … But if I already know it’s a mistake, why would I do it?”

  “The mistake itself doesn’t matter, what matters is what we become after that mistake, the mark it leaves on us, how it changes us. Maybe you’ll be a better person for it. Who knows? Come on, Elena, for once in your life do something even though it makes no sense.”

  “What can I learn from something I already know makes no sense?”

  “It’s not like we do things in life merely because they serve a purpose. It’s all a game … When you used to play, when you were young, did you need to know the purpose of it?”

  “It’s better to avoid that sort of bullshit.”

  “Your problem is that you always have to understand everything. You keep thinking and rethinking about something until you destroy it. For you, understanding has always been more important than feeling.”

  “Yes, and most of the time I don’t even understand much.”

  “Do something for yourself for once. Maybe you’ll see that it makes sense after all. You were like this when you were little, too. You’ve never had any doubts, or problems with your identity. Even before you knew who you were, you already knew what you wanted. As if someone else had chosen it for you.”

  She was completely right about that. I’ve always known what I’ve wanted from life. Which school to attend, which university, what kind of man to marry … even the color of the couch. I’ve never changed the idea I’ve had of myself.

  “For once, give yourself a chance to explore a different side of yourself, forget who you think you are, and see what happens.”

  It’s true: I’ve always tried not to let anyone down. And at that point in my life I had the impression that, in the end, it didn’t make that much of a difference.

  “Let’s play a game, Elena: If you could do anything with your life, without any limitations, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. What about you?”

  “That’s not how it works. It’s your turn now, I’ll go next.”

  “To tell you the truth, right now, I’d like to have those things you talk about. I’d like to wake up one morning and say, ‘Enough, it’s my turn now,’ but then I wouldn’t know what to do, I don’t quite understand what the enough refers to … eh, yes, laugh at me, but that’s the truth.”

  “I’m not laughing; I’m smiling.”

  “I’d like to try something new, something intense. Even if just once.”

  “What would you do? Would you go to him?”

  “I don’t know—the truth is that I was very excited that day and I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t turned around. But I think it would be too much for me. Let’s say that for now I’d be happy just to take a day off and do whatever I wanted, without any duties or obligations. I’d do something other people wouldn’t expect from me, like staying in bed instead of getting up and going to work, or getting in the car and driving all the way to the sea, without thinking about anything. I have the overwhelming desire to feel goose bumps all over my skin, but I’m afraid of the consequences
… Quit laughing.”

  “I laugh because I love you and you make me laugh.”

  “This is no laughing matter—it’s pretty tragic.”

  At that point, it was her turn to say what she would do, but we were interrupted by a phone call. It was Anna, calling from Argentina, and she was very happy. She had just finished dancing with an eighty-year-old tanguero.

  That night I went to bed happy. I hadn’t felt that good in a long time.

  March 21st

  It’s strange writing in my journal in the morning. The thing is that I’ve been awake since six. I went down to the kitchen and made coffee. Carla’s still asleep. Everything is calm here, quiet, and a beautiful light is coming through the window. I like this kitchen. There are many colorful cups and bowls. I like the painting hanging on the wall and I also like the clock over the window. Talking to Carla did me good and made me think about many things. She’s been my best friend since high school and I think she’ll stay that way. She’s a wonderful person, very special, unique. The thing I’ve always liked about her is her trust in the world, in life, and in people. There are many things I envy in her: her courage, her strength, and her ability to listen and to be honest about what she thinks. I also envy her culinary skills, and above all her talent for playing the piano. I took a few private lessons as a little girl, too, because I was mesmerized whenever I saw her play, but then I stopped. Last night, when we got home, she played a bit for me. Carla is a beautiful woman, even though lately she’s let herself go, but whenever she plays the piano her face his transformed. She becomes even more beautiful.

  I remember that once she told me that music is one of the most important things in her life, and that it has always helped her to overcome difficult moments. It gives her strength and protects her.

  “Protects you from what?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know … but it knows what it is,” she answered.

  This morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, a hundred strange ideas popped into my head. I feel like I’m not really the way I say I am, like I didn’t have the courage to choose myself. Sometimes I feel like my insecurities prevent me from listening to the true me.

  However, this wasn’t the first thing I thought about as soon as I awoke. My thought was for him. The stairs I climbed only halfway, the breakfast we shared in London, and the time we spoke in the hotel hallway.

  I didn’t think of my husband, but of another man. That’s never happened to me before. I wonder why this man is so often in my thoughts.

  Not only do I keep thinking about everything that’s happened, but I also have fantasies. I’ve never written about them before, because the mere thought of him touching and kissing me is frightening. This man shattered my certainties and makes me feel something that’s hard to define, something I’ve never known before. Earlier, as I was putting on the coffee, I asked myself whether Paolo and I ever truly loved each other. We rarely fight; we’ve never had any big arguments. Paolo isn’t jealous and he’s never been jealous, and maybe I would have liked it if he had been. At least that would have made me feel strongly about something.

  Maybe I should ask myself how we have been loving each other.

  In fact, it’s as if we fell in love with an idea, a lifestyle that the other offered. Maybe we mistook tenderness for love. I’ve never felt desired by Paolo and I never truly desired him. Perhaps that’s why I married him. I could have remained as I was without running the risk of discovering my shortcomings.

  But love and marriage—are they like this for everyone? Is this really all there is? Sometimes it seems too little. When was the last time we were excited to do something together? Why did I start asking all these questions?

  Actually, I’ve been thinking about these things for a long time, but only lately I’ve found the courage to write them down.

  What am I really missing?

  That morning, when Carla woke up, I read her that page from my journal over breakfast. We laughed a lot at my expense.

  I looked at her but I couldn’t tell if she was happy. I knew for a fact that she was still suffering from her story with Alberto, but I could never really see her pain. She was very good at hiding it. That’s why, that morning, I asked her: “Carla, are you happy?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know, I don’t look particularly cheerful, but that’s because I have my own idea of happiness.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “In my opinion, happiness does not mean being free of sorrow. My kind of happiness also leaves some room for melancholy and for my own weaknesses.”

  “Can I tell you what I really think, or are you going to get offended?”

  “You must tell me what you think.”

  “I agree with what you’re saying, but sometimes I think that you use theories to justify the fact that you have a small corner of the world all to yourself, where nothing and no one can really hurt you.”

  She looked at me without saying anything, as if I had hit the nail on the head.

  “… But that’s just my impression, I may be wrong.”

  At that point Carla smiled. “You’re right, I know that, but it’s okay for now—I’m not ready to take on any more risks. I need time.”

  I poured her some more tea. “I decided I’m going to make some changes.”

  “What?”

  “I decided that I need to wake up. First, I’m going to take a day off and go to the seaside. Then I think I’m going to come visit you more often, and we’ll take weekend trips together. I also want to enroll in a cooking class, and I want to start going back to the gym.”

  “What gotten into you?”

  “It’s just that I thought that maybe I get more tired doing nothing than if I had something to do. Maybe I’m lazy because I’m fed up with the struggles I don’t take on. Certainly, I’m wasting a lot of energy on putting up with what I don’t like and trying to think about something else.”

  “You make me feel like I should be doing something, too …”

  “I also reflected on what we said yesterday about mistakes, and I realized that you were right. How did you put it?”

  “When you leave room for mistakes you leave room to grow.”

  “Right, that was it: If I make mistakes, that means I’ll grow, too …”

  “Elena, you’re scaring me … What did you drink this morning?”

  I spent the whole day being strangely cheerful. I don’t what had come over me.

  I didn’t want to go back to Milan the following day. I was happy with Carla.

  The next day, as I was returning home, I sent him a message: “Sorry about the other day. There was no urgent phone call. I simply couldn’t go through with it. I just couldn’t do it. I hope you’ll forgive me. Elena.”

  He answered me immediately: “Now you know where I live. If one day you feel like you can do it, call me.”

  “I get off work early tomorrow afternoon. If you want we can get a coffee …”

  I waited a while before sending that last message, and when I finally did send it, I was ashamed. I felt like I had been too forward.

  “I won’t be free tomorrow till after four.”

  “I’ll call you when I leave the office.”

  March 22nd

  I just got home and I’m dead tired. I took a shower and I can’t wait to go to bed. Paolo came to pick me up at the station, and as soon as he saw me, he asked me how it was and if Carla was well.

  I didn’t feel like talking. When I got in the car, he kissed me on the mouth. He never does that, so I got worried. I even asked him, maybe because I felt guilty, to what I owed that kiss. And he said: “What do you mean, ‘To what do I owe that kiss?’ To the fact that you’re my wife!”

  I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep anytime soon. I’m nervous. After all, it’s just a coffee, but I know very well that the coffee isn’t the issue.

  March 23rd

  I’m sitting in front
of this blank page, trying to collect my memories and my emotions. I realize that it’s difficult for me to write down what happened this afternoon …

  Reading now, after so long, what I wrote that day makes me feel the same emotions all over again.

  When I entered the building that afternoon, he was waiting for me in front of the elevator, holding the door open.

  “I’d rather take the stairs, the elevator makes me nervous …”

  “Well, I’d say the stairs aren’t much better, judging from what happened last time you were here.”

  I forced a smile.

  “Come on, let’s go up—this is why I came downstairs. Nothing will happen with me here. I had the mechanic look at it this morning.”

  He smiled.

  I trusted him and walked in.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m well.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Actually, today I look horrible, but thank you.”

  I was afraid he could hear my heart beating. At that moment I thought that if he had pushed me against the wall and started kissing me, I wouldn’t have resisted him. I couldn’t look at him, and I couldn’t talk. The elevator doors opened, and he waited for me to exit.

  “Second door on the right.”

  I started walking and suddenly I felt his hands on my hips. He pulled me toward him. Our bodies were touching slightly. I felt his warmth and his breath on my neck. He turned me around and looked into my eyes. He brushed my hair from my face the way he did in the hotel in London. Without taking his eyes from mine, he gently pushed me against the wall and kissed me.

  It wasn’t forceful. It was very sweet. I immediately understood that it was pointless to resist; it was too late. I had been fighting a battle I never really intended to win. I kissed him back. His lips were soft and his kisses tasted good. I felt his hand between my thighs, he was touching me where no man had touched me for months, where for years no one besides my husband had touched me. My legs were shaking. He was gentle and at the same time strong, firm.