Training in Love

by Manuela Pigna

  “I didn’t want to pass judgement about anything, I just wanted to say-”

  “Or maybe now that you’ve seen her,” I interrupt him rudely, still speaking low but with an unmistakable touch of bitterness, “You like her and have softened right away. Now that you’ve seen that she’s a beautiful woman, thin and blond-”

  I stop myself suddenly because one of his hands is on my face. With his palm he takes my cheek and passes his thumb under my chin, arriving at the other cheek. His face is very close. His look is furious and when he speaks, his voice is just above a murmur, but still seems lethal. “You don’t know anything about what I like or don’t like in a woman.”

  Now it’s my turn to swallow.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have made that comment, but you, for your part, shouldn’t allow yourself to make insinuations about my behavior, thinking that I’m so stupid that I’d change opinion about someone on the basis of their physical appearance.”

  I swallow again, staring at him close-mouthed.

  We remain like that and I see him open his mouth, but I won’t find out what he was going to say because we hear the doorbell and the immediate commotion in the kitchen, the sound of quick steps, the voice of my mother, “Guys, the pizza is here.”

  Andrea and I jerk apart and turn around. My mother is looking at us with her mouth open. But as soon as we notice, she closes her mouth and runs to open the door.

  I look at the floor in front of me while I hear the conversation with the deliveryman. Andrea doesn’t speak, but when he clears his throat, I look up and see my mother arrive with the open boxes of pizza. “I’ve already cut them up.” She sets the boxes on the coffee table. “Shall I bring you something to drink?”

  I don’t answer. Andrea, when he takes in the situation, asks, “Is there any Coke?”

  “Sure. Olly?”

  “Me too,” I reply hurriedly, staring at my pizza.

  My mother, or whoever has taken her place this afternoon, comes back a little later with the drinks and some napkins, she tell us to enjoy ourselves and then drifts away.

  I start the movie again and we see the rest in silence. Dulling the embarrassment in the escapades of Bridget Jones.

  Andrea speaks again only when he sees me put in the first of the cartoons. “No, I’m begging! Cartoons no!”

  I turn from my half bent position in front of the DVD player, and can’t resist smiling at him while I start Sleeping Beauty.

  When Beauty and the Beast is also over, it is really very late. “That’s enough Olly, please, I’m begging… I’ll do anything you want… Enough…”

  I’m tired too, but I can’t give in. “Andrea… I’m terribly sorry, but see, you still have to do everything I want this week…”

  “I can’t do anymore…”

  I, unmoved, put in the last movie on the list, Legends of the Fall, and return to my place on the sofa. I’ll never admit it, but I can’t take anymore. Anyway, I tell him with a voice already drowsy with sleep, “If you fall asleep, I’ll start the movie from the beginning.” And then, to my great dismay, I don’t even make it to the death of the younger brother.

  I awaken with the rising sun which falls on my face from the window of the living room, lying on the sofa with a light blanket on me. Andrea is no longer there and I didn’t put the blanket on by myself. The TV is on and on the screen is the initial image of the DVD, as though it had finished and returned to the start. I half-close my eyes – I’m betting the scoundrel waited like a ferret until I slept and then left. I smile in any case. He can’t escape from what I’ve prepared for this evening.

  ***

  In the evening we meet in front of the cafè at eight sharp. This evening I want to go with my car because I don’t want him to have the opportunity to escape.

  “Where are we going?” He asks me as soon as he sits down, with some difficulty, in the passenger seat of my car, a yellow Fiat Cinquecento.

  “Surprise!” I tell him, gloating.

  “My God… and it’s only Monday…”

  I laugh. This evening he is particularly handsome. He’s wearing blue jeans and a shirt in light blue, almost like his eyes. He has shaved his face and has a little gel in his hair. He still has that nice perfume of mint.

  When I start the car, he says, all seriousness, “Listen Olly, I want to tell you something before the evening begins.”

  “Should I be worried?” I ask him while I leave the parking lot.

  “No. That is, you won’t like it, but I want to tell you anyway.”

  “Fine,” I mutter to myself.

  “About the conversation concerning your mother…”

  I stiffen immediately, but I don’t respond and don’t try to stop him. I look straight ahead, preparing to endure it stoically.

  “What I was trying to say yesterday evening was that…” He sighs. “I think your mother was making an effort. I think you should try to meet her half way.”

  I turn to look at him wide-eyed, but then quickly look back at the road. “You’re a psychologist now, fine…”

  He makes a face. “Don’t act like a baby.”

  His comment infuriates me. “I’m not a baby!” The traffic light in front of me turns red and I can stop and turn towards him. “You want to know why she was so nice yesterday?”

  He doesn’t speak and I take it as consent. “Because I’m losing weight and you are… beautiful.”

  He rolls his shoulders, looking at me. “And so?”

  “What do you mean ‘and so’?” I look at him, dumbfounded. “Don’t you understand, Mr. I Know Everything, that the only thing that interests her is appearances? Your image, your exterior? If you were butt-ugly, I don’t think she would have been so nice yesterday!” I conclude, thinking to have emerged victorious from this verbal battle.

  He makes a click with his lips and then puckers them. “I don’t know…”

  I regard him open-mouthed, but the sound of a car horn wakes me and I look at the traffic light. With rapid movements and a little jerk I take off, barking, “What ‘don’t you know’?”

  “This is your take on everything. But is it really like that? Have you ever spoken with her?”

  I close my mouth as I drive. I don’t answer because the truth is that I have never really spoken to her.

  “You’d do well to speak to her, instead of carrying around all this resentment. Maybe things aren’t exactly as you see them.”

  I remain silent all the rest of the ride, ruminating on this and getting angry with him for this verbal affront he’s just carried out so casually, too casually.

  When I park outside the building where I usually go Monday night – a center which, on Mondays, organizes literary evenings – I turn off the car but don’t get out. I turn towards him and, considerably calmer, I ask him, “Explain to me why, despite this being my Week of Power, we’re still talking about me.”

  He smiles and shrugs.

  “It’s your turn. If we have to talk about someone’s mother, it’s yours…”

  He gives a half laugh and my car is so small I smell the scent of his toothpaste. “What do you want to know?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Anything. What is she like?”

  He looks straight ahead, with a smile still on his lips, completely relaxed, as though we could stay in this car all night. “She’s a beautiful woman, inside and out. The best mother in the world.”

  “Oh that figures…” I comment sarcastically.

  He turns to me with a light laugh, I roll my eyes up and finally get out of the Cinquecento.

  He walks beside me as I head towards the entrance of the building. “But you know something? I think that if you asked my sister the same question, you wouldn’t get the same answer.”

  I look up at him, we walk slowly, side by side. “Really?”

  He nods, looking away briefly. “Maybe it’s true that sons are more attached to their mothers…”

  “Or maybe mothers unconsciously expect more from their dau
ghters…”

  He looks at me, raising his eyebrows while I push the door of the center open with my head turned towards him. “Maybe…” I hear him murmur.

  Once inside, I look around and recognize some of the faces present. We’re more or less always the same people on Monday. By now we all know each other and decide the theme of the evening together. Over the course of the event, there are those that read other people’s works, those that read their own and then we all comment on them as a group. Tonight’s theme was supposed to be the Gothic novel, but I requested a small change in light of Andrea’s presence and I moved the gothic novel theme to next week and next week’s to today – Hermetic poetry.

  When I turn to Andrea to see his first reactions, I see that he is particularly happy. “This is nice…” He says looking around.

  The center is, in fact, really nice. On the walls of the main room, where the evening meeting will be held, there are bookshelves in wood which reach the ceiling, overflowing with books. On a side of the structure there is a bar area, with all the tables and chairs scattered around, and on the opposite side of the bar area is a small wooden stage equipped with a microphone and a spotlight on the microphone. I look around and, as for all the poetry evenings, most of the people are dressed in black.

  Andrea notices the stage. “Will there be a concert?”

  “Um, no.” And I smile at him, terribly sweetly if I say so myself.

  Andrea cocks his head to one side and looks diffident. “It can’t be a pleasant thing, I’m deluding myself, right?”

  I laugh. “You’ll like it, don’t worry.”

  He looks around again and I see the room with his eyes, then I see him inside this place in the middle of these people and, how would you say it, he looks like a fish out of water. I think he’s a head taller than all the other men present, without mentioning his physical proportions.

  We’re about to sit at a table in the center of the room when I hear a nasal voice call me, “Olivia?” I turn and coming towards me I see Giacomo, a skinny guy with brown hair worn long and black rimmed glasses. “Hi Giacomo.”

  Giacomo isn’t bad, he’s a good guy. It’s just that… let’s say that we don’t have the same sense of humor and apart from literature, we have nothing in common. We often have differing opinions about literature too, but speaking with him about the subject is always interesting, as it is with everyone here.

  Giacomo looks Andrea up and down. “Is he a friend of yours?” He asks looking up to regard Andrea.

  “Yes. Andrea, meet Giacomo. Giacomo, this is Andrea.”

  The two men shake hands and I see Andrea smile.

  “What will you read this evening Giacomo?” I ask him, “Something of yours, or by someone else?”

  “Something of mine,” he answers, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

  I nod smiling. Giacomo makes a gesture with his head towards Andrea. “And him? Is he a poet or a spectator?” He asks me as though Andrea couldn’t understand the question and answer on his own. Probably not to be nasty, only out of shyness.

  “Oh, a poet!” I answer readily. I was waiting for this moment. I hear Andrea, who is at my side, stiffen and turn towards me.

  “So you’ll read something of yours?” Says Giacomo with shining eyes, looking first at me then Andrea.

  I hold in a laugh and manage to answer, more or less seriously, “Yes, yes, he’ll read something of his. But not right away, it’s the first time he’s come here. It’d be nicer to let the room warm up to its usual level, don’t you think?”

  Andrea is immobile, and quiet, but I can feel the vibration of anger and the weight of his eyes on me.

  Giacomo nods vigorously. “Absolutely! Absolutely!” He finally turns to Andrea and speaks to him directly, “Well, see you later! I’ll be curious to hear you and find out what you think of the others.”

  Andrea answers making a face and as soon as Giacomo turns away, he grabs me forcibly by the arm. “Ow!”

  He’s practically expelling smoke from his ears and nose. He drags me to the nearby table and makes me sit as though I were a rag doll, then he takes a chair and moves in very close, putting his face a centimeter from mine and whispering furiously, “What’s this all about? I’m not reading any poetry!”

  I snicker and even have the courage to pat him on the hand affectionately. I answer whispering too, “Don’t worry. Hermetic poetry usually means few and incomprehensible words. So invent something at the time – you’ll do fine. With a little luck they won’t notice that you’re not a real poet.” Andrea’s eyes are haunted. “Or at most you’ll be lousy… But poets are sensitive people, no-one will make you feel uncomfortable if they don’t like you.”

  He breathes in hard and exhales noisily. He repeats this breathing two or three times before speaking. “Olly, you don’t understand,” he tell me slowly with a voice I’ve never heard before. “I will not get up on that stage and I won’t recite any poetry!”

  I look him in the eye and say slowly, without losing my cool, “Oh yes, you will…” Then I smile, to lighten the atmosphere. “Listen to some of the poetry and then copy their style. You’ll see, it won’t be difficult.”

  Andrea turns towards the stage, not speaking to me for the rest of the night. He writes on his phone and listens to the others as they go on stage. I believe I’ve made him really angry this time… It’s better like this, better to cool off our relationship. He hasn’t got any sense of humor, I wouldn’t have said so, but he’s really as rigid as a piece of wood, and… he has no sense of humor.

  “Andrea,” we hear called from the microphone. Both he and I, evidently lost in our thoughts, jump in our chairs as though burned. Giacomo is on the stage and addressing him with a smile. “If you want to let us hear something of yours, we would all be happy.”

  I look at him out of the corner of my eye and see him swallow. Maybe this evening I overdid it, maybe… He sets the telephone on the table and shoots me a look. He doesn’t seem angry anymore, he seems indifferent. I swallow and he wheels around towards Giacomo, reaching him on the stage with two easy strides.

  “How many will you have us listen to?” Giacomo asks him, and he answers calmly and confidently, “Just one, just one. I write very slowly.”

  I feel like laughing and cover my mouth with my hand, trying to diffuse the sound that has risen in my throat. Luckily there’s classical music in the background and the other tables are a ways away.

  “What is it called?” Giacomo asks him.

  “It’s called ‘You’.”

  No, I can’t help it. I’m laughing, silently, but I’m laughing. I just hope that from the outside it looks like I’m smiling at my poet friend to encourage him.

  “Please, then,” concludes Giacomo, leaving the microphone in his hand.

  Andrea turns towards me and stares. “You who are,” he says in a loud and very clear voice as he’s heard the other poets do. “Pale light,” he pauses for effect – this too as he’s just seen done. I smile, holding in a giggle. “You are,” with another pause. “Sweet thorns,” pause. The smile freezes on my face. “Vulnerable strength,” another pause. “Unresolved torment,” my smile disappears. “You are,” I force myself not to turn away and keep holding his gaze. “Suffering beauty.”

  For an instant no-one speaks. There is absolute silence, then Andrea says, “Um, it’s finished.”

  And everyone applauds. He looks at me, as Giacomo joins him on the stage, and smiles triumphantly. I don’t smile back.

  After having exchanged pleasantries with Giacomo, he returns to our table.

  “Aren’t you going to compliment me?”

  I glare at him and he raises an eyebrow with an expression of false surprise. “Didn’t you like it?”

  At that point I raise an eyebrow too and look at him condescendingly, like one of my elementary school teachers. “Oh it was nice, too bad that you were completely off the theme.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn
’t Hermetic at all.”

  He smiles, satisfied. “The others liked it, they gave me a ton of applause.”

  I look at him coldly. “They applauded because of your pretty face, which evidently paves the way for you even here, and then, as I told you, poets are sensitive people.”

  His smile disappears. “Sshh.” He turns to the stage. “Let me hear the others.”

  13.

  “Where are we?” Andrea asks me when we park in front of a very stately building in the center of town.

  “You’ll find out in a minute,” I say with a giggle. He huffs.

  The workout today went well, even if we hardly spoke at all. Yesterday evening was a little embarrassing. When he asked me what was the program for today, I told him to meet me in front of the cafè around six-thirty. I don’t want to give him the minimum chance of escaping today either. For this reason we’re going with my car.

  Before the small wooden door with an antique air about it, I ring the doorbell and we wait.

  “Are we in your car tomorrow?” He asks me in a colorless voice. “Because if we’re in your car, I’ll start preparing myself psychologically starting now.”

  I laugh. “Tomorrow we’re in Nic’s car.”

  He jerks around at me, surprised. He parts his lips to say something, but the little door opens and we climb the stairs to the first floor where a heavy, black door opens almost simultaneously and the smiling face of Madame Barbieri appears.

  “Madame Barbieri!” Exclaims Andrea with surprise.

  We go in. Madame Barbieri and I exchange a conspiratorial smile and greet each other silently.

  “Hello Apollo dear, the dinner is already ready, come in.”

  Andrea looks at the time. It’s not even six-thirty. “Tell me we’re not going to have dinner now…” He whispers in my ear while we follow Madame Barbieri down a long corridor which leads to a living room of ample dimensions with a gigantic fireplace (not lit obviously) and very classic furnishings. On the side of the room opposite the fireplace is a table already set for three.