Daybreak

by Fabio Volo

  “There’s no reason to apologize,” he told me.

  We remained silent a bit longer, while all I wanted was to eliminate any distance between us. I wanted to be hugged, caressed. I wanted to be kissed on the lips, slowly, gently, for a long time. I wanted to smell his scent, feel the warmth of his skin; I wanted to be picked up and taken to bed. I was exhausted. I was quiet, to give him the opportunity and the space to ask me to stay. But he kept quiet, too.

  “Can’t we pretend none of this happened?”

  He didn’t answer me. The man I had fallen in love with, the only one that had ever really known who I was, wasn’t there any longer. In that kitchen there was another person whom I didn’t know and who seemed to know nothing about me, about what I needed in that moment. And yet, all he had to do was extend his hand, give me a smile, and I would have immediately understood that he was still there. But his hands kept grabbing the edge of the sink.

  “I should get going,” I said.

  I was expecting a reaction. I was expecting to hear him say: “No, don’t go, stay here.” He didn’t say anything.

  “This is absurd—I don’t recognize you anymore. How can you be so detached, cold, indifferent?”

  I got up, put the glass down on the table, and left.

  Before leaving that kitchen I turned around and told him: “If you don’t stop me now, you’ll lose me forever.”

  As soon as I got in the car I regretted those words. I turned the car around and I could see him standing by the front door, leaning against the wall. We looked at each other a few seconds. I accelerated, causing the gravel to crackle under the car’s tires. I looked at him in the rearview mirror and prayed to God he would stop me. I was moving slowly and at a certain point I saw him take a step forward. I thought he was going to stop me; instead, he turned around and went inside. My stomach began to hurt; I felt like I was going to throw up. I drove past the open gate and the car took me back home.

  July 29th

  Ten days have passed since I drove through that gate, since I looked at him through the rearview mirror hoping that he would stop me. We haven’t spoken in those ten days. I got home after a drive I remembered nothing about, parked, and stayed in the car for at least a few hours. I couldn’t even remember the details of what had happened. I was confused. When it got dark, I went up to my apartment. I hoped Paolo wouldn’t be home. I didn’t have the strength to face him, too. I walked in and found him sitting on the couch, watching TV. I went straight to the bathroom; I wanted to wash my face and try to get ahold of myself. I told him I was going to bed because I wasn’t feeling well. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment: He didn’t seem angry—actually, he talked to me as if our argument had never happened. I lay down on the bed; I was exhausted; I felt feverish. After fifteen minutes Paolo brought me a cup of tea—it was a sweet gesture on his part. I had a sip and fell asleep.

  The following days were very tough. I didn’t go to work; I had a fever. Paolo thought I had gotten sick because of our fight. He took care of me and was very kind and attentive, while all I wanted was to be left alone. His presence disturbed my sorrow and forced me to hide what I was really feeling. For ten days I was in shock. I wouldn’t speak; I didn’t know what to do. I was tempted many times to send him a message, to call him, to ask him for an explanation, a clarification. I lost weight, I wouldn’t eat, I wasn’t sleeping well. Everything seemed extremely difficult: walking, talking, not talking, lifting a spoonful of soup to my mouth—everything seemed like a daunting task. My stomach was in knots, my head felt heavy, and sometimes I had trouble breathing. Even my bones ached. Paolo’s attentions were very demanding: Sometimes even being loved is tiring, especially the way he does it.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, but I didn’t care too much. I didn’t feel any ties, not even with the objects of the house; everything was indifferent. I had lost everything.

  I never thought, not even for a second, to call Carla and apologize, to patch things up and ask for help.

  August 8th

  I feel like I’m doomed to be lonely, and I don’t like it. At this point in my life I didn’t think I would find myself in this situation; I had hoped for something different. Maybe at my age I should stop looking for answers from the outside and start looking inside myself. I can’t live alone, and I can’t seem to manage to hang on to a man. I find myself at home with a husband I don’t want, who often makes me think I have wasted my years, living with him a life based on duties, needs, and never on desires. We almost never talk and then, when we do, it’s only about mundane things, because when there’s no desire left in a relationship, there’s nothing left to talk about.

  Tonight I feel extremely nostalgic. I’m overwhelmed by the memories of when I was little. I can see my grandmother’s sweet smile, the tenderness she displayed in everything she did. She seemed so happy, serene, and yet her life had been a lot tougher than mine, harder, and more painful. I wonder why I can’t be more like her. Sometimes I feel like she can see me, like she’s looking down on me from somewhere, telling me to cheer up, that everything will be okay. I wonder if the tendency to escape to faraway memories every time I hurt is a way of escaping. Or rather, if the times I remember hide inside a seed I carry within me, that I haven’t cultivated yet, but have simply abandoned. I’m tired. I feel like what I do is never right, never enough. My future with Paolo doesn’t exist anymore, and the future I had imagined with another man has been swept away. The darkness and the shadows of the night are retiring, making room for daybreak. I’d like for something similar to happen in my life.

  It took me almost a month to reorganize my thoughts and to start taking the first steps in this new life. The first thing I did was call Carla.

  “Hi, Carla.”

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going well, thanks.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No, what’s up?”

  “I wanted to say hello and see how you’re doing. What are you up to?”

  “I’m taking care of a few things, then I need to go get some groceries.”

  She remained silent. I think she was waiting for me to say something.

  “Actually, I called you to apologize.” I waited for her response, to gauge how mad she was at me, but she wouldn’t speak, as if I had to add something else. “I wanted to apologize and to tell you I’m sorry.”

  Silence.

  “… I was a real asshole.” More silence. “… An asshole and an idiot, I didn’t really mean the things I said, I was completely out of my mind … Say something, please.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Whatever’s on your mind.”

  “I agree you behaved like an asshole, that you were out of your mind, and that you didn’t really mean the things you said.”

  She wasn’t mad at me anymore and I was happy about it.

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “I don’t know—you really hurt me.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “I went through a very difficult few days thinking about what you had told me.”

  “You know I really didn’t mean the things I said.”

  “But some of them were true.”

  “I wasn’t myself that day. I’m sorry.” Silence. “If you don’t forgive me I’m going to get in the car and drive all the way there.”

  “I’d say I don’t forgive you so I can see you … I really want to see you.”

  “Me too.”

  She still didn’t know how things had ended between him and me.

  “I have to tell you something that will please you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You were right—I shouldn’t have gone to see him. We haven’t talked or seen each other since that day.”

  She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then: “It doesn’t really please me to hear that I was right. How are you doing now?”

  “B
etter, but I’ve been in pretty bad shape, and that’s why I didn’t call you right away.”

  “Do you want to get together?”

  “No, thanks—,first I have to take care of a few things.”

  We talked for over an hour and I told her everything. I asked her to tell me everything she thought, because now I felt ready to accept her words. In her opinion, I wasn’t ready for a man like that, I wasn’t ready for his needs, and he probably wasn’t ready for mine. Even though there was a strong attraction, a close affinity and understanding, we weren’t really a good fit.

  “But how could he end our story just like that? He didn’t even try to show me he cared about me. Now I’m not even sure he ever cared about us.”

  “I think he did care about you—otherwise he wouldn’t have been so attentive, affectionate, and kind during your encounters. Maybe he wasn’t ready to take the next step and you pointed it out to him. It should have happened organically, but instead you let your fears take over.”

  “It’s true, but he could have simply said so, he could have made it clear, and I would have waited.”

  “You brought out your ghosts, and he reacted by doing the same with his.”

  “I’ve been a dumb-shit.”

  “No, you haven’t—it’s just that you couldn’t manage the situation in a rational way. I can tell you that when you were with him I saw a new woman that I really liked. A beautiful, courageous woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to ask for it.”

  “Yeah, but that woman doesn’t exist anymore, she existed because of him, and she left when he did. When it was over between us I felt as if a wave had swept away everything. My body as well. Lately I’m not only suffering because I lost him but also because I lost that woman. She possessed a lot of things I liked; most of all, she knew how to love in a way I’ve never been able to. Now I’m stuck back in the life I had before, incapable of experiencing emotions as intense as those. I feel overwhelmed by the idea of having to start from scratch. I know that in time I will be able to do without him, even though it hurts at the moment. Doing without her, however, will be a lot more difficult.”

  “I’m not with you on this one. The woman he showed you does not exist only as a reflection of him—she’s inside you, she is you. No one can change you into something you’re not; they change you by bringing out a part of you that you didn’t know you had. You change by becoming someone you already were.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but how could he see that person in the first place?”

  “I believe he must have guessed it, but it was you who chose to take the risk. For the first time since I’ve known you you’ve chosen to embrace an encounter. I’m not talking only about the fact that you physically went to his place, but I also mean that it was the first time you took a step toward another person.”

  “One step too many, I would say.”

  Carla was right, but at that point I didn’t know how to find that woman without him, how to get back in touch with her. She had left something behind: a wake, a smell, an echo. She had forced me to reconsider my life, rethink it, discover parts of me I didn’t know.

  Carla’s words were a big help, but they couldn’t undo the pain I was still feeling. It was stupid and absurd, I knew it was wrong and that I shouldn’t do it, but I knew if he came calling I would have immediately run to him.

  August 10th

  Tonight, when I got back from the office, Paolo was in the kitchen cooking. On the table there were two glasses of wine and, in the center, a bunch of long-stem roses. I asked him what the occasion was, and he answered that we didn’t need any particular reason to celebrate. The roses were very beautiful, but instead of making me happy I experienced the opposite, a slight sense of suffocation. It lasted a few seconds, the time it took for a smile to come to my face, then I thanked him and the sense of suffocation turned into a melancholy mixed with sadness.

  At dinner I didn’t speak much, unlike him—he was a gushing river: I had never seen him like that. Before coffee, he handed me a piece of paper that was a reservation for a vacation at Sharm el Sheikh. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t even know if I was happy.

  “Aren’t you glad we’re going to Egypt? I managed to get my vacation time in September, like yours.”

  The news surprised me so much that I wasn’t able to say anything other than thank you; then I immediately started doing the dishes.

  August 11th

  Yesterday, before I fell asleep, I thought about that morning when I had a fever and Paolo put his hand on my forehead. His touch woke me up. If that gesture had been made by the man I loved, I would have been deeply moved. At that moment, instead, it felt as if it had been done by a brother. I realized that the time has come, it can’t wait any longer, I can’t postpone it anymore because I don’t have the strength to reinvent a woman I’m not every day—or a man who isn’t there. The man who until not so long ago was at the center of my life, who somehow seemed to give it a meaning, has become the least of my interests; the story to which I had given all of myself, to the point that I turned into a hollow shell, doesn’t exist anymore; all of this can’t be liberation; it can’t be happiness. I don’t feel free, but rather emptied, without strength. I know for a fact that nothing will happen between us again.

  I need to find the words and the right way to leave him. The woman I am can’t make him happy, and he can’t make me a happy woman. We have to find our respective happiness somewhere else.

  That evening, after writing those words, I got out of bed and went to sit down on the couch next to Paolo, who was watching TV. Every now and then, without him noticing, I would turn in his direction and stare at him. He didn’t have a clue about what I was going to tell him. We were about to separate, and this time it would be for good. I was looking for a way to do it. I kept thinking that every minute that passed was a minute left on this side of the line: before the separation, after the separation. I was about to hurt him and I couldn’t find the right way to begin. I didn’t know what to do; I couldn’t find any solutions that weren’t painful; no matter what I was going to say, he would be hurt and I was really sorry about that. It was true that I didn’t love him anymore, but I never wanted to hurt him. I was looking at him, at his profile, his hands, his wrists, his arms, maybe that would be the last time I saw him so up close. I was feeling a sense of boundless tenderness. How did we get to that point? I had seen so much life in that man: mine, his, ours together. I got up and went to the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to cry but couldn’t—maybe I felt more like shouting. I washed my face and went back to the other room, to the couch.

  “Paolo, we need to talk.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We need to talk about us.”

  He was about to say something, but he looked into my eyes and stopped. We sat there in silence for a few seconds. He had realized what it was about, I was sure of it, and he turned back to look at the TV.

  “Paolo.”

  He turned up the volume.

  “Paolo!”

  I grabbed the remote out of his hands and turned it off. “Listen to me … Please.”

  “I don’t want to hear what you have to say. Things will get better, they already are. You’ll see that going to Sharm will do us some good.”

  “Paolo, I’m not going to Egypt.”

  “What do you mean you’re not coming? We already bought the tickets.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Elena, I’m doing my best, I’ve been trying to show you lately … Give me time.”

  “It’s too late, Paolo—there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “It’s not too late, you’re just in a rush; it’s not something we can fix in a few days, these things need time. Trust me.”

  “I’ve noticed that you’ve been more attentive, but it’s too late.”

  “Are you in love with someone else?”

  “Stop it.”

  “If there’s another man you need to tell
me.”

  “There’s no other man.”

  “You swear?”

  “Paolo, please.”

  “Why aren’t you swearing?”

  “The issue is not whether there’s another man, the issue is that we ourselves aren’t there anymore. Please, let me go.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Please, it’s very hard for me, too.”

  “Then don’t do it, if it’s that hard.”

  I remained silent.

  “Let’s give it some time. If in a few months you still feel the same way, I won’t stop you, I promise. I’m only asking you for a few more months …”

  “I gave our story all the time I had, I did everything I could.”

  “We can still change.”

  “We are not discussing whether or not we’re separating; I’ve already decided that. I’m only trying to figure out with you how we’re going to go about it.”

  He moved, putting some space between us. “I don’t agree, it’s you who …”

  “Paolo, don’t raise your voice and don’t start blaming me.”

  “Actually, I’m going to: It’s your fault.”

  “I want the chance to live a happy life. If believing it’s my fault makes you feel better, then fine. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to blame you.”

  “I don’t want us to separate. What did I ever do to you? Why do you hate me?”