Trying Not To Love You

by Amabile Giusti

  Barbie was small and slim like Penny – an older and softer version of her, dreamier and more eccentric, with fantastically long hair, once blonde, now silvery. When she was young, they’d called her ‘Pocket Barbie’ because she was so slight and beautiful with her spectacular hair. Penny kissed Barbie on the forehead, careful not to wake her, then went through to her own room.

  ‘Room’ was a generous term for what was really nothing grander than a hole in the wall. Penny had given her grandma the larger room and taken this one, barely larger than a box. The bed could scarcely fit in and there was no place for a wardrobe; Penny had had to settle for a rack on which she hung her few things. She did at least have a window overlooking the fire escape and on to a side street – no epic panorama, but nonetheless a place where sunlight filtered through in the morning and crisp air in the evening, along with the occasional yowls of mating cats, which didn’t disturb her and actually helped her nod off. After the meaningless chatter and quarrelsome drunks of the bar, the straightforward calls of the animals outside seemed purifying, almost a kind of lullaby.

  Penny put on her pyjamas and flopped into bed. In the silence, just before falling asleep, she couldn’t help but think back to the tattooed guy on the landing. Did he really live in the attic? Did his head actually clear the ceiling up there, or did he have to stoop the whole time?

  She imagined this giant crawling on all fours to avoid hitting his forehead on the rafters and laughed to herself. Where had he come from, and why was he here? He was definitely out of place, more glaringly than a rock band at a classical music concert. He was mysterious, and as beautiful as a tiger or a fire-breathing dragon, or a lethal abyss in a breathtaking panorama.

  Penny fell asleep thinking of the man’s ice-cold eyes; she had the feeling he’d be able to kill someone without blinking.

  2

  MARCUS

  Francisca gets out of prison in exactly two months, and as soon as she’s free we’re getting out of this shithole. We haven’t seen each other in four years, what with me locked up in one place and her in another. God, I’ve missed her so fucking much.

  Meantime, I’ve found myself a job and a place to live that’s more of a dump than a home, nearly worse than prison, but who cares because it’s not gonna be for long. In two months we’ll take our things and move on.

  I’ve had other women since I got out – I don’t make a habit of saying no – but fucking is just fucking, and Francisca is a whole other thing. She has something the others don’t. She has those merciless eyes, those naughty ways – she’s basically me with a pussy.

  We didn’t kill the guy on purpose. It happened during a fist fight. When the other guy hits as hard as you do, you’re not gonna hold back, and if an asshole is about to slash your woman, how do you stop yourself from snapping his neck?

  We killed him, sure, but in a brawl. They provoked us – that bastard and his buddy, who only ended up in hospital because I didn’t get to finish him off too. That’s why we didn’t get a life sentence. Francisca got four years and I got six, but I got out early on account of my exemplary conduct.

  I know. Me? Exemplary conduct? I’ve never been exemplary at anything, though in prison I tried to behave myself. I respected the rules and avoided conflict. After all, it’s pretty easy to be left alone if you’re six-four and have the face of a killer.

  Not that I actually am a strangler, but I’m not gonna just sit there and take it either. If someone comes up to my woman when she’s leaving the bathroom and puts their hands all over her and then sticks a knife in her face and tries to make her fuck him or die, I’m sorry but that person does not deserve to live.

  Francisca had already started to beat the sack of shit before I got there. That asshole had no clue who he was messing with. His nose had already been smashed to a pulp when I joined in and started pounding him into the ground.

  Right now I work as a bouncer in a nightclub. They hired me in spite of my past – I did warn them, but apparently having a former convict as a security guard is cool. It’s a place where spoiled brats like to go, the kind who need to be set straight when they overdo it. These rich kids drink one beer too many, lose their tiny minds, and then become total assholes around women. I know I’m not one to judge – I’ve done all kinds of shit, but I’ve never messed with a woman like that, not ever, and I can’t stand the kids who won’t take their hands off a woman even after she says no. They can’t all defend themselves like Francisca, so I come to their defence, and usually all it takes is one look at me to make a kid shit bricks in his designer jeans.

  Sure, work sucks. I don’t get to go home before four in the morning and I don’t even have the cash to buy a car yet. If I had one, I wouldn’t be able to drive it anyway because they also took my licence. So I walk, whatever the weather. I like walking. After four years of small spaces it’s refreshing to move. I breathe all the air I want, and even if the neighbourhood is a sewer and a bore, it smells like roses and the beach compared to where I’ve just come from.

  I’ve moved into my new home, if you can even call it that. It’s just a shack on the top floor of a shitty building, but if I fix it up a little it’ll be decent enough. I’m good with tools; I can fix things. Meanwhile, it has a skylight, and while I fall asleep I can look up at the stars. It’s not about being romantic – even that word makes me sick – it’s about a simple physical need. After four years of staring at a concrete roof where nothing ever changed besides the damp spots and the spiders, I need to look at as many things as possible. I admit I chose this place for the skylight.

  It has all I need: a bed, a bathroom, a kitchen. The ceilings are low, and in one place I have to stoop so I don’t damage myself or the ceiling. I’ll put a punch bag in the corner. I like kicking and punching – I do it until I can feel my muscles melt like hot liquorice. In the meantime, I’ve been doing push-ups: one hundred, three hundred, five hundred. Then I go out and run miles under the open sky, and then finally I get ready. I have a shower and put on the black shirt, pants and leather jacket the club gave me – and I go to work.

  It’s packed every night, but on weekends it’s impossible. Sometimes I have to throw people out. Sometimes a girl will hit on me, but at work I can’t reciprocate, so then I’ll try to get away and we’ll do it in her beautiful car. Sometimes I don’t even know what they look like. In the darkness they all look cool, and then later, after hours of smoking and sweating, they turn out to be just average, but for a quickie they’re fine. If they’re drunk, on the other hand, then I let them go, even if they’re gorgeous. Zombies are not my thing.

  Francisca would understand – she never cared when I fucked other women. She’d just say, ‘Don’t worry, baby, it’s just your cock that’s having fun, not you.’

  And then, around dawn, I go home.

  Fortunately, the uniform the club gave me also includes a flashlight, otherwise I’d never be able to find my way back up the stairs to my apartment.

  This particular night, I climb a few flights and hear a gasp and a moan.

  I run faster and find myself in front of a girl. Never seen her before. She’s scared. She has the face of a woman getting strangled, but there’s no one around – she’s all alone, her keys are on the floor, she can’t see a thing and if she’s not crying yet, she’s just about to. She’s small and very thin, with short hair. She’s panting. I wait for her to go inside but she’s afraid of me. I can’t blame her, I’m a scary kinda guy, and even scarier if you know me – but I’m not mean to women, I repeat. If I’m not sure they really want me, I don’t touch women and I keep my zipper closed. But this one? I wouldn’t touch her if she knelt down and begged me. I have my standards. If it weren’t for her tolerable legs that I’d advise her not to shove under men’s noses if she wants to make it home at this hour, I’d think she was a man. Her hair is wet and messy, a little brown and a little pink. She looks like a fawn with no tits, but her legs don’t lie. I’ve seen thighs, and these are a woman’s thigh
s.

  I leave her at her front door and go upstairs. If you say you don’t need me, little girl, I’m outta here.

  The apartment is a total mess. I’ll get myself organised tomorrow. I’m not gonna be here for long, but I need to look settled for my parole officer. I need to play the part of someone who wants to be good and work and calm down, and not someone who can’t wait to leave. I take off my clothes, toss them on the tattered couch and don’t bother to put anything else on. I take a cold shower because there’s no hot water, then I lie down, still wet. Then I fall asleep and I don’t dream about a fucking thing.

  3

  In the morning, Penny woke up early after a deep sleep. She wasn’t due at work until after lunch, but sleeping late was not a luxury she could afford. A scene of devastation would greet her most mornings, as if a tornado had upended everything in the apartment. The disorder wasn’t because they’d been burgled or a hurricane had swept through – it was all caused by her grandma. The sweet and dreamy Barbie suffered from an inadequate supply of blood to the brain, and as a result had been struck by early onset dementia. Her current fixation was the kitchen: she was reliving the period when she had been a primary school teacher and had combined her twin passions – for children and the sweeter things in life – by preparing all manner of delicacies for her little ones. She had guided them along the journey of knowledge with no reproaches or beatings, encouraging them instead with exquisite heart-shaped chocolates and meringues packaged like sweets. Unfortunately, only her passion had survived from that time, and not her precision in following recipes. If she decided to bake cookies and couldn’t find flour, there was a risk she’d use talcum powder or even laundry detergent. She created mess in every corner, and Penny would get up early every morning to tidy it up, pretending first to taste her grandma’s delicacies and share some with the neighbours, and then cooking something that was actually edible before helping her grandma to wash and dress. After that, they would both play pretend, like kids who were best friends. So there was no time to sleep, though she’d only gone to bed that morning at five.

  In the afternoon, Penny’s second commitment awaited her: she worked at the library. The neighbourhood was known for its violence, and yet the library was always packed. Maybe it was the chance to spend time in a heated building, or the quiet and friendly atmosphere, or the pure and simple pleasure of reading a good book in peace, but the fact was that it was always full of people. The library was small but elegant, clean and uncluttered in style, with wooden floors and books with multicoloured spines, and Penny felt like Alice in Wonderland whenever she was there. It wouldn’t have surprised her one bit to see a white rabbit with a pocket watch slipping between the shelves. After the squalor of her night-time work, mixing drinks for drunk bikers or girls stoned to the dark roots of their dyed hair, all in a similar state of undress that revealed everything there was to reveal, the placid world of the library made her feel reborn.

  ‘Shall we head outside for a while?’ Penny asked her grandma, after brushing her hair for a long while and dusting it with the rose-scented powder that Barbie loved. ‘I still have a couple of hours – shall we go for a walk?’

  Her grandmother nodded happily. She loved to go out, but couldn’t do it alone. She had a limp and very quickly got tired, and there was always the risk that she’d grow confused and not know how to get home.

  Along with her grey coat, Penny pulled on her pink beanie, which had dried out over the few short hours she’d been home, and then took her grandma by the hand. It was no longer raining, but the air was still cool. They set off down the stairs, Barbie looking like a little girl with her mother.

  An obstacle presented itself on their way down, however – not in some metaphorical sense, but in the shape of a bag used for training, the kind favoured by boxers and kickboxers. Behind the bulky object, Penny had no difficulty in recognising the stranger she’d met the night before.

  Punch bag and man filled the entire tiny landing, making it impossible for Penny and her grandmother to pass without being flattened between the wall and the powerful mass of that body. He was way bigger than the bag, his head almost grazing the ceiling.

  ‘So how are we supposed to get past?’ asked Penny, annoyed.

  The guy placed the punch bag on the ground and pushed it as far as possible against the wall. She could see him better in the cold light of day. His broad shoulders were like those of a Greek statue, and his tattooed forearms popped out of a black sweater with the sleeves rolled up. He wore dark jeans and low Chelsea boots. Around his throat was a leather cord, the ends secured via a ring in the shape of some sort of creature, possibly a snake.

  Penny felt her cheeks flush and, in the pit of her stomach, the remote flutter of butterflies. The stranger looked at her, and Penny looked away. His eyes were extraordinary: a rare blend of grey and sea-green.

  Barbie whispered loudly in Penny’s ear, ‘What a handsome man!’ Her voice could easily have reached up to the top floor of the building.

  Penny’s grandmother never tried to hide it if she met a man she found attractive. She was outspoken and direct – at times as embarrassing as those people who blurt out absolutely every single thought in their head. Her husband had been a teacher too – a skinny guy with round glasses and the light build of a featherweight, so it would have made more sense if a man in the mould of an immortal Greek warrior weren’t exactly her type. In actual fact, however, Barbie’s ideal man was completely different to her husband in every way. Long before he ever came along, she had experienced a love she could never forget. He’d been a rude and rebellious boy – the sort to get his hands dirty, with calluses on his palms and muscles bulging from physical labour – and Barbie had been madly in love with him. It had ended badly, mostly because her parents, with their old-fashioned rules about class, had refused to let her see him – but Barbie, who now often forgot what she’d been doing the day before, still remembered that forbidden passion from her youth. His name had been John, like John Wayne, and according to her stories he’d even looked a little like him. Maybe that’s why, every time she came across a man who looked like a soldier, a cowboy or a boxer, she would smile at him and suddenly be sixteen years old all over again.

  Penny’s grandmother took the man’s hand and was able to slip comfortably through the small gap on the landing, but when it came to her own turn, Penny stopped, muttering under her breath.

  ‘You’re such a kind man!’ Barbie exclaimed. ‘What’s your name?’

  The guy smiled, and Penny thought it looked artificial and insincere. Smiles like that were always prone to hiding secrets.

  ‘Marcus,’ he replied, and then, turning to Penny, said more firmly, ‘If you’d like to pass by, we can all get on with our day.’

  ‘I’ll go when I feel like it. I’m not squeezing through just because you’re in a hurry!’ she shot back crossly. But her irritation, although authentic, could not completely quell the fluttering of those terrible butterflies in her belly.

  Damn hormones! You can study and read and think and be as civilised as you like, and then you’re suddenly no better than some monkey. Are we no better than the animals? Do our instincts really have to insist on responding to the biceps of some random caveman?

  Penny bit her tongue, unable to switch off her brain. She hated that she’d already imagined herself wrapped in those arms, which looked capable of inflicting pain more than caresses.

  With her grandma waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, happy as a pig in clover, Penny finally stepped forwards to pass him. Marcus moved back as far as he could to give her room, but nonetheless, Penny’s breast brushed against him. Once more, it seemed, he was right in front of her – practically on top of her, in fact. Those damn butterflies flew up to her throat. Was he wearing cologne? Maybe not – he just smelled clean, with the tiniest hint of sweat. His huge shadow seemed to shroud her completely, like an oak tree blocking out the sunlight. She barely reached up to his breastbone.
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br />   ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna touch you,’ he whispered, with a cold smile.

  Penny slipped away, still blushing. She wanted to slap herself. Not because of that one fleeting moment of contact, but because, secretly, her sick brain kept asking: Do you like him then?

  Not in a million years – a passing fantasy, that’s all it is! she answered in return. She hated novels with women who instantly lost the plot, like fate had pressed a button, all because some cool guy had happened to glance at them.

  A passing fantasy. That was true – in rational terms, at least. She had never once lost her head over some guy; in fact, she was still a virgin – by choice, and not for lack of prospects. All those drunk guys at work came on strong every night of the week, but Penny wanted something else: love with a capital L, like in the books. She fancied herself as Jane Eyre; not via some grumpy guy with a crazy wife in the attic, but by casting herself as the heroine of a great love story, strange and unforgettable, the kind that would knock her off her feet and, even if it ended badly, leave her changed forever. She had hoped that Grant might be that special person, but Grant was as crooked as a barrel of snakes, and violent with it.

  Since then, she had promised herself she would be more careful not to be trapped by lies and promises and other such demons. Demons like Grant, who would trick you with their elegant ways, but also demons like Marcus, who seemed designed to summon up the most primal part of yourself, the buried and secret part you didn’t even know you had.

  She raced to catch up with her grandma, and yet she couldn’t help but watch him climb the stairs, carrying the punch bag as if it were light and stuffed with flower petals, and once again her brain filled with daring questions that she had to tune out and refuse to answer.