Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  As a teenager, I envied people like Vincenzo. His parents bought him an Alfa Romeo when he got his driver’s license and they took him shopping in Milan when he needed a new pair of jeans. But I wouldn’t trade places with him today. He spends his days in a grey office trying to revive a dying business while his father accuses him of destroying the empire he inherited. To admire someone jealously and then, years later, feel only pity.

  “I’d like to move away too, but I can’t. There’s no one to take over for me.”

  “At least you have a job. There are tons of people who can’t find work at all.”

  I only half-believed what I’d just said. Having a job isn’t everything, I know that well enough. But in Italy today, it’s a privilege. And a well-paid job is nearly unthinkable. Giuliano told me that his cousin, a police officer, makes €1500 a month, barely enough to cover rent and groceries. And he’s a policeman, cavalo. A respectable career, the last I heard.

  People turn out in droves to find work as day labourers, clerks, or cashiers. Only one or two positions are available. So ninety-eight people return home empty-handed to comb the Internet, looking for a job they’re overqualified for. They have doctorates in psychology, master’s degrees in environmental science, diplomas in literature or art; the only available positions are for bakers, baristas, or ushers. And they consider themselves lucky when they get the job.

  My parents are right. The future is elsewhere.

  •

  Back home, I make myself another coffee to go with my toast and quince jam. I pick up the newspaper my father’s left on the dining-room table: nothing but articles about the recession, an unstable government, a vulnerable European Union. Another family drama makes headlines. There’s one every week. Murders and suicides on account of the economic crisis, people feeling trapped in their dead-end lives. The new No Future, without the punk music in the background. Just a tremendous roar, a rumble of discontent and rage. It’s time to pack my bags.

  * * *

  58.Pistachio and hazelnut ice cream

  Pain on the Faces Around Us

  the plane is packed; the flight’s been overbooked. Some seats, like mine, were assigned twice. The other guy holding a boarding pass for 13B was travelling with his wife and two children. Their group was too big to move, so I ended up in first class, where there are always empty seats. The advantages of travelling solo.

  I was given a warm lemon-scented washcloth and a glass of champagne. I’m waiting for the dinner service: quail with plum sauce and baby potatoes, served with a salad of young shoots. I’ve never eaten quail before. This is how every first time should be—high above the earth, far from home, from everything you know. With nothing to lose, since everything’s already up in the air.

  •

  The lady to my left has been crying since we took off. I wish I knew why she’s so upset, but it isn’t polite to stick your nose in other people’s sadness. Or their happiness, for that matter. Maybe they are tears of joy. Or maybe it’s just allergies. Either way, it’s none of my business.

  That’s why people keep blowing themselves up in the middle of Beirut, why ordinary teenagers overdose on their parents’ antidepressants, and why September 11 has become a proper noun. Because we think that pain on the faces around us doesn’t concern us.

  •

  The quail was overcooked and the red wine tasted like turpentine. I left my mini-bottle three-quarters full. My grief-stricken neighbour asked if she could finish it. She downed it almost in one go and then began to pour her heart out to me, barely even stopping to breathe.

  •

  Carlo, that’s his name. We met in a bar in Bologna where he works, he kept giving me spritz and prosecco all night. I went home with him after his shift, and we talked until the sun came up and fell asleep cuddling. He didn’t even try to kiss me, just held me. In the morning he went to get croissants and we spent the whole day together walking through the graffiti-covered porticoes downtown. His English is as bad as my Italian, so we didn’t talk much. We held hands and had lasagna at a trattoria and then he called the bar and said he couldn’t come in to work. He wanted to bring me to the sea, so we took his car and drove to Viareggio. One of his uncles has a summer home there and he lent it to us for the week. We made love the second night. It was a first for me—I mean, I wasn’t a virgin but making love, not just having sex—I don’t think I’d ever done that before. And once we started we couldn’t stop. That’s all we did all week. When Sunday rolled around we had to go back to Bologna. Carlo couldn’t fake the flu any longer and my vacation was almost over. He drove me to the airport this morning, promised me we’ll see each other again and until then we’ll Skype every day. I’m positive he’s going to forget about me. And I’ve got my life, after all. There’s my husband, Stéphane, and my two kids. I went away for two weeks to recharge my batteries. It isn’t easy, you know, being a mother and a wife, a good employee, a whiz in the kitchen, a cleaning lady, and I don’t know what else. It’s complicated enough just being yourself, imagine being all those things at once. I wanted to do my own silly Eat, Pray, Love and I screwed everything up. What do you think I should do? Should I tell my husband? I don’t know how he’d take it. We stopped having sex ages ago, and I don’t even know if he’s looked elsewhere. The worst part is that I’m not sure it would actually bother me if he had. I don’t think I’d care. I don’t think I love him anymore. I think I’m in love with Carlo, but he’s the one I left behind and Stéphane’s the one I’m going back to. I’m heading in the wrong direction. My mother always told me to listen to my heart, but what do I do now? What would you do?

  •

  She looks at me, pleading, eyes full of hope. Hope that I’ll have the solution. I want to give her a thoughtful answer, but only hollow sounds come out of my mouth.

  She asks the flight attendant for a glass of cognac, then picks up a magazine and pretends to read it, turning the pages loudly. The seconds tick by. Since I still haven’t come up with anything clever to say, I don’t say anything. It looks like I couldn’t care less about her story, when really it’s just the opposite. I bet I’d be able to make amends if I could offer some comforting words. But somehow I can’t.

  She never told me her name.

  She talked about Stéphane and Carlo, but I never found out her name. Now she’s stopped looking at me. My silence has obviously insulted her. She slips in her earbuds, puts the blue cotton mask over her eyes, and folds herself into the solitude of her broken heart. I failed. My mistakes will stay where they are, in the comfortable bed of my guilty conscience.

  •

  I don’t know if I’ve ever made love myself. Probably not, or I’d remember. Yet I was always sure that I loved the girls I dated. Some more than others. Beginner’s love. I loved Sandra. But maybe not as much as I loved Marica. Who knows? It’s tough to measure. Maybe it was just because I was younger; back then, I thought my love was bigger.

  Marica. She was in Genoa, I was in Carpi. One of us took the train to the other every weekend. I kept all my tickets. Over fifty return trips. Two and a half years of teenage passion. I don’t remember why we broke up. We just grew up, I guess.

  It’s strange, but I didn’t come across the box of train tickets when I cleaned out the garage. Some memories fade on their own. No need to try to forget.

  •

  We touched down early, as if the pilot had really put the pedal to the floor in an effort to make up for the chaos of the trip. No line at customs. The border guard greets me with almost a smile.

  “How long are you here for?”

  “As long as possible.”

  “Employment?”

  “I work in a movie theatre.”

  “Your declaration card says that you’re bringing in perishable items. What, exactly?”

  “Vacuum-packed Parmesan cheese.”

  “You know t
hey sell cheese at IGA.”

  “Aged thirty-six months, I doubt it.”

  He scribbles unintelligibly on my card before handing it back and motioning me forward.

  •

  I get through the final checkpoints without a problem, despite the slight uneasiness that must be written on my face. I can’t help it; I panic every time I see the guards choosing people to frisk based on some unknown criteria. I worry that they’ll find something suspect in my features, my posture, or my appearance, though I’ve got nothing to hide.

  As far as I know, you can’t get sent to jail for breaking a girl’s heart. I’m not a criminal running from the airport authorities.

  But that’s not enough to convince me. I keep worrying that I’ve done something wrong. It doesn’t take much to make me feel guilty.

  •

  This is what they would have found had they opened my suitcases:

  No colours. My wardrobe consists almost exclusively of black, grey, brown, and navy.

  Long pants. I don’t wear shorts; I don’t like my calves. Guys can have complexes, too.

  Two tubes of toothpaste, three mini-bottles of mouthwash, and a pack of dental floss. I’m always terrified I have bad breath.

  Unscented soap. I have sensitive skin. Not very manly, but that’s how it is.

  Dozens of CDs. I’m old school. I buy albums because I like reading the liner notes. I go over the lyrics, credits, and acknowledgements as I’m listening the first time through.

  A pair of shoes with the soles worn through. I do a lot of walking, and I don’t have enough money to buy new shoes.

  Cotton bandages for my ankle. A nagging soccer injury. The long pants are also to hide that. Never show your weaknesses.

  An old woolly teddy bear—for good luck. That isn’t too manly, either, but I can’t help carrying it around with me.

  The box from my grandmother. I doubt I’m transporting something illicit, or that Luisa is trying to use me to smuggle drugs into Canada.

  A smaller box. A gift. For a girl I just met, a girl I’m very excited to see again.

  Tiny Bombs

  taxis are lined up outside arrivals. I head towards the nearest one; my suitcase is cutting off circulation to my fingers.

  “Sorry, sir, I can’t take you. You have to go to the car at the front of the line.”

  I’d forgotten. There’s an order to things here, a logic, common courtesy. The taxis are arranged in single file and they operate on a first-in, first-out basis. The drivers respect the rules and don’t try to steal clients from each other. People politely wait for the bus, one behind the other, and there’s no jostling when it finally arrives. Men go in the men’s bathrooms, women in the women’s. In the supermarkets, cashiers greet you with a smile and ask if you found everything you wanted. When I first came to Canada, it really struck me; I wasn’t used to good manners. It strikes me again today.

  The taxi is blasting Haitian radio and the driver has to yell above the announcers’ voices. He looks like a ghost talking to himself. Frustrated, he rips out the earpiece of his hands-free device. Was he talking to his wife, his friend, his mother? Now he’s talking to me, asking me for the sixth time where I’m going. I smile. I’ve missed this: order juxtaposed against gentle confusion, all types and colours mingling together, the proximity to difference. Montreal. There aren’t any Haitians in Italy. And we don’t like the Pakistanis, Chinese, and Tunisians who come to stay. I love this taxi driver, this city. Because they both bring me closer to a girl I love, too.

  •

  The apartment isn’t locked. I knock, two short raps. No answer. So I walk in. An acrid smell hits me between the eyes.

  “Hello?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Fabio. And you?”

  “Serena.”

  “Oh, I must have the wrong address.”

  “You’re looking for Manue?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you’re in the right place. She lives here. I’m her best friend.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  “So you’re the legendary Fabio!”

  “Legendary?”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you. She’s right, you aren’t tough on the eyes.”

  “Uh, thanks…”

  “Don’t just stand in the doorway. Come on in. We can chat.”

  •

  There’s something crude about this girl. Or dishonest. I can’t tell which. How she keeps flicking her head back to brush away the hair that’s constantly falling in her eyes, how she stares at my mouth when I talk, her long, pink nails, her cleavage. I’m surprised that she and Manue are such good friends.

  “Want something to drink, Fabio?”

  “I’m not sure. When will Manue be back?”

  “No idea. I don’t know where she is.”

  “Do you live here, too?”

  “No, no. It’s just for one night. My cat got sprayed by a skunk.”

  There aren’t any skunks in Italy, either. But you can find plenty of girls like Serena. I’ve always avoided them. I hope Manue won’t be too long.

  •

  “Hey handsome, your beer’s empty. Want me to get you another?”

  “No thanks. I’m tired from the flight and I don’t want to overdo it.”

  “That’s right! Poor baby, you must be exhausted with the time difference and everything. You want a massage?”

  “That’s nice, but no thanks.”

  “Come on, you need to relax. You look tense. It’ll help you perk up for when Manue gets back.”

  “I’d really rather not.”

  But she doesn’t listen. Her bright pink nails dig into my shoulders and her touch isn’t light. I’m not convinced she’s relieving the tension, more like she’s adding to it. She’s planting tiny bombs under my skin and they’re about to explode.

  “Oof, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

  “I’m OK.”

  “You should take off your t-shirt. It’ll be better for the massage.”

  “I’d rather keep it on.”

  “Aw, little Fabio’s so modest! Well if you don’t mind, I’m going to take mine off.”

  And she’s down to her bra. There’s an imitation diamond in her bellybutton. Her tan doesn’t look all that natural. I’ll go to the bathroom—maybe that will give her time to realize how completely ridiculous she’s being.

  •

  Cavolo. Now her pants are off.

  “Trying to get a tan?”

  “Haha, you’re so funny! No, I want to fuck. I want you. And I know you want me, too.”

  “I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m here for Manue. It’s her I’m waiting for.”

  “Manue, Manue. Forget her, she’s way too complicated. You’ll see—with me, it’s always simple, easy. Good sex, all the time. Take off your pants, gorgeous. I’m gonna blow you like you’ve never been blown before.”

  Why is it that ever since I met Manue, women keep telling me to take off my pants and they’ll give me the best blowjob of my life? Her knack for getting into absurd situations must be contagious.

  “Get dressed, Serena. I’m not interested. I don’t think Manue would like it if she saw you like this.”

  “Oh come on, we’re just having a little fun!”

  “I’m not having any fun at the moment.”

  “Well that’s because we haven’t gotten started yet.”

  Am I getting raped? How can I stop this girl from unbuckling my belt and taking off my jeans? I don’t want to hit her. Aiuto!59

  •

  “It’s not what you think.”

  She’s funny, this Serena. It’s exactly what Manue thinks, actually. But I need her to understand that I’ve got nothing to do with it.

  “It wasn’t me, it wa
s her!”

  “Whoa! Stop squabbling like toddlers in daycare. First of all, how did you get in?”

  “You gave me a key.”

  “Why are you here already, Fabio?”

  “My flight was early and there was no line at customs, so I got in sooner than I expected.”

  “OK, now tell me what exactly you’re doing half-naked in my living room.”

  “Nothing! I was just trying to explain to your friend that I am not interested in having sex with her.”

  “Liar! You were dying to get some. I could see it in your eyes.”

  Bitch. She’s going to turn this on me.

  “Sei proprio una puttana! Te l’ho detto, che non volevo far niente con te!”

  “¿Quieres que juguemos a mandarnos a comer mierda en otra lengua? Bueno! Eres un guevon, malparido! Yo no sé qué fue lo que Manue te vio.”

  “Probabilmente la stessa cosa che ci trovi, tu. Non parlo spagnolo, però, lo capisco. Non sono uno stronzo. Mi dispiace, ma sei tu la cattiva nella storia.”

  “Hijo de puta. Manipulador. Marica. Gordo asqueroso.”

  “La smetti di urlare, isterica?”

  “Pobre bobo. Mejor me voy de aquí.”60

  Manue turns and heads to her room, closing the door behind her. I couldn’t have screwed up my homecoming any worse.

  * * *

  59.Help!

  60. “You’re a real whore! I said I wasn’t interested!”

  “You want to start giving me shit in another language? Two can play at that game! You’re an ass. I don’t know what Manue sees in you.”

  “Probably the same thing you do. I don’t speak Spanish, but I can understand it. I’m not an ass. You’re the jerk in this story.”

  “You son of a bitch. You manipulating bastard, you pig!”

  “Are you done with all the drama?”

  “You’re an idiot. I’m leaving!”