“No, Mrs. Bonaventura. Tonight is a couples night, I just came to drop off the movie,” I answer with a smile.
She crosses her arms on her chest and makes a half grimace. “My God, Nic is so rude. He’s the one who turned out worse.”
I laugh. “But no, Nic is polite, don’t worry, he did actually ask me if I wanted to stay, but frankly I wouldn’t feel comfortable…”
For a second her eyes shine, but she glowers again. “If it weren’t for that brunette, you’d feel comfortable…”
I chuckle. “Mrs. Bonaventura, it’s fine, really. Anyway I had something to do this evening, so I’ll just take the film down and run.”
I don’t have anything at all to do, but Mrs. Bonaventura drops her shoulders and recognizes defeat. “Alright, they’re all already down there.”
I nod and head towards another room in this house I know very well. The movie room is small, there’s an enormous plasma TV and soft cream colored sofas. When I arrive the lights are already low and the four are chatting, completely stretched out on the sofas. “Ahem!”
“Olly!” Linda greets me, but everyone turns around. I don’t know the brunette, I’ve never seen her.
“Here’s the movie guys,” I say placing the dvd on the small table next to an enormous bowl of pop-corn. “How’s it going?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Marco asks me once again.
“No, really…” I look at him with my head tilted trying to transmit a mental message to not insist. “In fact I’m running off right now. Have a great evening!”
“Hey, stop where you are!” Nic jumps up. “You don’t go out that door until you tell me how it went with Andrea!”
“Well, really well, I have to say,” I answer smiling.
Nic bursts out laughing and looks at me mischievously. “Of course… I never doubted it!”
“What an idiot!” I reply lightly shaking my head.
“Is there something I missed?” Interrupts Linda sitting up. I believe I can see her ears perking up even under her loose hair.
Nic is about to say something, but I speak first, “Andrea is a good looking guy and this idiot is insinuating that I am happy with him because of that.” I redden slightly and cross my arms.
Nic laughs. “He’s a little more than a good looking guy. At school he was a legend. Unless he’s gone downhill in recent years…”
“He hasn’t gone downhill,” I answer a bit too quickly, and Nic, after a second of hesitation, laughs even louder.
In a certain sense, a sense already too familiar and friendly for my tastes, I feel sorry for Andrea because it almost seems as though he is successful in his life and his plans only because of his face. “Look, he’s good at his job, really! He fought to have this job and I think he’ll have a brilliant career.”
Nic’s still laughing. He’s really enjoying himself. “I don’t doubt it for a minute!”
“Well, is he really that good looking?” Linda asks looking at me.
“Yes,” Nic and I answer together.
“I don’t remember him very well…” Says Marco.
“But who are you talking about?” Asks the brunette, speaking for the first time since I arrived.
“One of my highschool classmates, I don’t think you know him… Andrea Colucci,” Nic answers distractedly, looking at me.
The brunette lets go with a scream, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a fifteen year old at a One Direction concert. “I don’t know him? You must be kidding! Who doesn’t know him? I died for him! And I haven’t seen him once since he came back…” She exclaims with a mournful air.
“Maybe because he was always in Milan for college...” I attempt to give her an explanation, but she treats me as though I hadn’t opened my mouth.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” Linda asks me in the meantime.
“Why should I have told you?” I answer shrugging my shoulders.
She shrugs hers. “I don’t know – you’re seeing someone like that and you don’t tell me anything?”
I laugh, a little bitterly to tell the truth. “Does it make any difference?”
“You!” The brunette jumps to her feet practically yelling. “You’re-seeing-Andrea-Colucci?”
She is definitely hyperventilating. In order to save her I hurry to clarify, “He’s my personal trainer!” And raise my hands as though I were being robbed.
The brunette remains with her mouth open for a few seconds, then blurts out, “He what?”
I’m about to repeat myself, but she’s still speaking, “I need a personal trainer too! Give me his number, I have to lose a few kilos too!” She says in a state of semi-exhaltation. Then I look at her waist, cinched by a belt that could easily be my bracelet and I raise an eyebrow without answering anything because, thank heavens, Nic stands up with a suddenly serious look on his face. “Excuse me? Maybe you’ve forgotten that I’m right here beside you?”
She looks at him with her eyes wide open. “Oh Nic, please! You and I aren’t together, we aren’t anything! We both know very well why we see each other, and Andrea Colucci has always been my dream!”
Linda, Marco and I remain silent. There is a cold pause, then Nic turns to me with a hard expression which I’ve never seen before in the six years I’ve known him. “You will not give her his number, that much is certain.”
I swallow. He adds, “If she wants it, she can go look for it.”
“Oh Nic, please!” She whines, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater.
He gives her a withering look. “Sara! Pull yourself together!”
She puffs like an eight-year-old who hasn’t received the presents she asked Santa Claus for. She looks at me a second, sits down and crosses her arms. Nic sits down again by her side, then Sara, clearly audible to all those present, says, “I don’t believe it! I’ve been after him for years. Me! I’m–after–him–for–years, and what does he do? He sets himself up in a job where he’ll only spend time with obese losers!”
And after this phrase a tomb-like silence falls over the room. Worse than the previous moment of chill. I can’t seem to move, or say anything. I almost can’t manage to breathe. Marco and Linda are as immobile as two statues of salt and Nic looks at her, still and quiet too, but I can’t seem to read the expression on his face. She, the lovely Sara, doesn’t seem aware of anything I think, and is still bemoaning her bad luck.
Only after a few minutes, or maybe only seconds that seem an eternity to me, do I get control of myself again. I clear my throat before speaking, “Well, have a good evening then.”
Linda and Marco say goodbye. Linda has a sad face that I’ve already seen several time before because of me, or better, because of how people sometimes treat me. Marco can’t seem to look me in the face.
Sara doesn’t even pretend to say goodbye, and Nic doesn’t look at me or say anything. He’s staring at her.
I leave. As I walk quickly towards the door of the house I only pray that I don’t meet Mrs. Bonaventura, because I’m afraid that if I hear even one kind word in my direction I might break down and cry… I’m almost there and about to open the door when a hand stops me and I whirl around. I find myself in front of Nic who regards me seriously. I look at him without speaking, because I really don’t know what I could say.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a little. I swallow to avoid crying and shrug my shoulders.
“I didn’t even ask her to come and apologize in person, because I don’t think she even realizes what she said.” He sighs. “She doesn’t realize what she says.”
I nod. Then, out of pure curiosity I ask, “Why do you go out with her then?
He looks at me without saying anything and I remain still, waiting for an answer that will never come, waiting for him to say what, in the end, I already know.
“Oh!” I exclaim finally, as though he had answered me and I had understood. “You know something Nic?” I say without being able to stop myself, “Someone like you – hand
some, intelligent and nice, could raise your standard a little.”
He says nothing, he just looks in my eyes and it seems as though I can almost hear the words, “Raise them how? Going out with a cow like you for example? To make conversation? But I don’t want to make conversation…”
I nod again, then free my arm from his grip. “I meant, you could go out with a pretty girl who has an ounce of…” And I tap my finger on my temple.
Nic tips back his head and inhales noisily, as though I had given him a mild slap. After a few seconds of silence he whispers, “There aren’t many of those.”
I look in his eyes and just say, “Ah. Well, have a good evening with Sara who doesn’t realize what she’s saying.”
He doesn’t respond and I push through the door and finally leave.
5.
Thursday morning I’m in the cafè working. Today it’s my turn to be behind the counter. I’ve worked here for four years, since before I finished college. In the beginning I only worked weekends, then over time I went to a couple of afternoons during the week and now every morning.
I like working at the cafè, even if the dream I have for my life is different. From an aesthetic standpoint it’s a charming place, with French décor, all in wood with tables of different sizes, styles and colors. The tables are set up in front of a large, long glass window which includes the entrance, composed of a glass door with a frame in dark wood. Opposite the door is a long, high counter, which I’m standing behind now. Behind me there are two coffee machines – one from the 1950’s and one modern one.
We have a mixed clientele. There are a lot of students, but also elderly people like Madame Barbieri, who is reading a newspaper perched on one of the tall multi-colored stools, each different from the other. Madame Barbieri always sits at the counter. Early in the morning there are also many people who come for breakfast before going to work. There are a lot of offices and two banks in the area. After nine o’clock the place empties a little and things are quieter.
The owner and cook, Leo, is in the kitchen. Leo worked for a long time in France and a year in America too, then he came back here ten years ago and opened this small and cozy cafè. Leo cooks fantastically – besides the fabulous croissants, he makes stupendous cakes, all different. Today, for example, we have a blueberry jam tart - my absolute favorite – and strawberry cheese-cake. Every so often when I arrive early, I help him, but he still hasn’t allowed me to make one on my own. He says I’m not ready yet.
I also have a co-worker, Rosalba, who is blond and thin. The story of my life – I’m always surrounded by thin blonds. Rosy and I take turns. When I’m behind the counter, she serves the tables and vice-versa. Rosy isn’t the top for friendliness, to be completely truthful, but she’s not mean either. Let’s say that there isn’t a great deal of feeling between us, but there is superficial courtesy. Sometimes she makes some comment I don’t like, but for most of the time we work together smoothly, without major problems. She’s a bit older than me, almost thirty – twenty-eight or twenty-nine I think – and this is the only life she has. She works here all day every day.
Madame Barbieri is reading my horoscope, as she does every morning. I’m completely sprawled out, with my elbows on the counter and my hands cupping my face and I don’t even pretend to be working because the moment of the horoscope is sacred – Leo knows this. We are laughing heartily about certain “unexpected payments” which should be coming my way before midnight, when I hear the entrance bell ring and see Nic come in. I raise my eyebrows and say hi - he comes up to the counter and sits by Madame Barbieri.
“Olly.”
“Nic.”
There’s a moment of embarrassed silence - the last time we saw each other the conversation wasn’t exactly the nicest we’ve ever had – but it’s quickly interrupted by Madame Barbieri. “Olivia dear, do you know this Prince of Darkness?”
I laugh. “Yes, he’s the brother of my best friend’s boyfriend.”
“Ah,” she says, starting to study him with a theatrical air. Nic looks at her and pulls a small, slightly embarrassed smile, while I chuckle to myself. Then he turns to me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with the smile still on my lips.
“I have to meet a friend and I thought I’d have him come here.”
I nod. “Do you want to order or are you going to wait for your friend?”
“I’ll wait,” he replies, half closing his eyes. It seems to me as though he’s studying me for some reason. I squint back at him.
“Olly?” Rosy calls me from two stools down and I go over to her, noting how she steals a glance at Nic.
“What.”
“Here’s the order from table three,” she says, passing me the slip. “Is that a friend of yours?” She then asks me in a low voice.
“More or less…”
“Is he free?” She asks, straightening her brown apron and her hair, which doesn’t need it.
“He’s always free, and always occupied… I wouldn’t know what to tell you. Why?”
“Because I was thinking… maybe you could give me his number,” she asks me sweetly. She’s not usually impolite, but she’s not this sticky-sweet either…
“I don’t have it,” I answer truthfully.
“Oh, then he’s not your friend…” And she says it as though she knew all along, as though it were obvious.
“Well, I did say, ‘more or less’…”
She glances at him again for a second, while flashing an idiotic smile she usually doesn’t have. But I imagine she does it just in case Nic turns around and notices her.
“You could ask him for it for me though…” She’s even batting her eyelashes now. No-one has explained to her that this doesn’t work with women?
“Yeah, I could,” I reply reluctantly. Not because I care, or out of jealousy. I never liked Nic that way. I think he’s nice and I think he’s good looking, but my heart has never beaten faster for him. It bugs me that, once again, I have to play the part of Cupid, of the intermediary, having to introduce this person to that and that to this, having to ask for a phone number for someone else, or put in a good word… I’m sick of it. I’d like it if someone would be an intermediary for me, at least once in my life. It’s as though I’m never the main character, as though I were always the prompter who’s hidden from the public and whispers lines from her dark hole, and without letting herself be noticed too much, thank you.
“Fine,” she says, lowering her voice. “Let me know something.” She turns, taking it for granted that I have to do her this favor when she’s never done one for me. On the contrary. She goes to clean table five, directly behind Nic, with a more upright posture than usual.
I puff and prepare table three’s order. I use this time to relax my face as fast as possible. I would never want – if I ask for his phone number for her with an overly sad expression – for him to think that I was jealous or something like that.
When I’m sufficiently calm, or at least sufficiently able to pretend, I go to Nic. “Hey, I don’t know if you’d call yourself ‘free’ or not, but you should know that my co-worker,” indicating Rosy on the other side of the cafè, “asked me to ask you for your phone number.”
“Ha. Imagine that.”
Nic and I turn around. Madame Barbieri pretends to have said nothing and to be totally absorbed in reading the paper. She keeps her white head bent over the pages (which she is clearly not reading!) and leafs through the pages with her bejeweled hands and red fingernails, wetting the index finger of her right hand in a gesture that always reminds me of my father.
I look at Nic. “So?”
He rotates towards Rosy and doesn’t even pretend not to be studying her. I see how his eyes run slowly over her, and I’m annoyed, unjustly, once again. No-one has ever looked at me like that. Finally he turns towards me smiling. “You can give it to her.”
“Yes, but I don’t have it…”
“Later I’ll give it to you, so you can give
it to her.”
“Ha.”
We eye Madame Barbieri. Still with her head bent, still pretending to read the paper.
“What happened to Sara who doesn’t realize what she’s saying?” I ask Nic as soon as soon as I understand that she has no intention of saying anything more than an enigmatic ‘ha’.
Nic, who was observing me, moves his gaze and looks towards the door. “We don’t go out anymore.”
“Oh!” I exclaim, sincerely surprised. “I’m sorry… since when?”
“Since Saturday night,” he says looking at me just for two seconds and then taking his mobile out of his pocket.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I can’t help but smile. “How long did you go out together?”
“Since Saturday night,” he answers without looking up from his phone.
A small, thin laugh. I turn to Madame Barbieri and, as I imagined, find her still extremely concentrated on the newspaper. I smile at both of them, even though neither of them are looking at me, and I smile so much that I think you can see my molars. I get a dishrag and wipe the counter. It’s clean but I want to do something while the two of them ignore me.
When I hear the bell on the door, I lift my head and thank heaven they’re ignoring me, because just like every other blessed time I see Andrea, for the first few seconds my heart stops and my breath catches in my throat. After the initial shock, my blood slowly starts circulating again. I take a couple of breaths without letting myself be noticed and repeat that which is now my mantra – that is, ‘Andrea is practically Linda’ – for a dozen times, and a little at a time I manage to regain control and remind myself that he’s so far out of my league that I can easily be normal. And it’s thanks to this secret mental exercise in the first few minutes that usually, the rest of the time, I can even be truly normal with him. It’s just that, every time, as soon as I see him I’m always blown away - it’s as though I didn’t recall his face perfectly, or how he appears in my memory and the impact of his beauty have softened a little.
Training in Love Page 4