With Giorgia

Twenty years later, again in your city.

There is traffic, I’ll be late. I obey the orders from the tiny woman hidden in the GPS navigator. I call her Jole. I imagine her as a fat countrywoman. Three inches tall. I imagine that when the navigator is switched off, she keeps busy in there preparing ravioli and apple pies. I cannot do without her help. After being away twenty years, I don’t remember, I can’t orient myself. I recognize the occasional building facade, but I do not know where to turn when it’s time.

Bars and shops have changed. Some are macerated in time as a fruit in alcohol, with bruised signs while I remember them brand new, others have completely changed. Chinese takeaways, the usual chains that did not exist then and now are everywhere. Only the thick cobbled pavement of the center streets, which seems to stubbornly resist the advent of motor vehicles, has not changed. The wheels of my car press on the stone with a vibrating purr. Trrrrr, trrrrr.
A parking place comes free right in front of the address you gave me. I turn off the engine, close my eyes, try to relax the tense chest muscles that refuse to let the air slip smoothly in my lungs.

Nine forty-four. Lets meet at half past nine, you said. Don’t see you on the street.

You are not there yet,  you’re not there anymore? You must be late, too. Otherwise you would have called. The door is closed. Wait for me on the street, do not ring, I will come out. Your instructions were clear.

I get out of the car. Cool, almost cold, autumn begins to bite. I’ve got a heavy coat on, too heavy in fact for this evening. I keep it open. Were I still smoking, this would be the perfect time.

The door opens letting out two, five, eight people. And another small group. Then twenty more. Looks like the end of the school day. Maybe it is the exit of a school. An evening lesson. A conference, a concert. What is this building? I am about to approach close enough to read the brass plate, when I see you coming out.

You keep your chin down while looking at me. A quiet smile, as if we had met yesterday. Yet, your eyes shimmer. You still have that red line along the lower eyelids, the chronic infection that gave you a constant itching and a look impossible to forget.

You’re with a friend. A woman with black hair, also in her forties. When you and I were together we couldn’t even imagine that we would one day get to the age of forty. But here we are: just an average bunch in their forties. Fortyish faces, fortyish dresses, quieter, less lithe and energetic. We already carry, not yet visible, like an undiagnosed illness, a beginning of grotesqueness and unfitness to face the world which will grow dramatically and eventually will take all of us.

Your friend has long legs, skinny, sheathed in dark jeans, with knees that stick out like the knots of wood in a tree trunk, and high-heeled boots. The two of you advance together, in sync, your shoulders touch. Surely you have been friends since long ago. She looks at me with a smirk. She is evaluating. You two have talked about me, no doubt. You told her that twenty years ago we were lovers, and that after a long oblivion, exactly twenty years during which we had no contact, Sunday I just materialized on the phone. I wanted to see you right away; tonight. No, not a dinner at your place. Let’s go out. The two of us. With your partner between us, I said, how could I pursue you?
I still feel her eyes on me, notice a smile of appreciation. Well, really, she sees me as an interesting man; such is the power of your descriptions and stories. Who knows what you told her, Giorgia. Maybe about that time we had sex in the bathroom of an airport. No wonder she is eyeing me like that. Almost intimidated. She looks at me, but she sees the character in your stories. What she knows overwrites what she sees. I do not like meeting anyone who has heard of me. It makes me nervous. But now it does not bother me too much. At the moment I have other things to make me nervous.

You introduce us. “Tosca, this is Dario.”
”Hello Tosca.” “Hi Dario”.
Silence. Smiles. She looks at you as if to ask permission. Then she says to me, “You look like a character in a movie that was on just yesterday. Have you seen it? About the Mexican Mafia. Whats was he called? Manolo. Yes, you look like Manolo.”
”Manolo?” We both say. I notice a glimpse of worry in your eyes. You did talk. You talked a lot, no doubt.
“Yes, Manolo”, she repeats, frustrated because we do not know the movie. “The Pusher”, she adds, as to conclusively clarify this issue.

“I feel honored,” I reply. Honoured to look like an actor, I mean, but it didn’t came out well. She understands honoured to look like a pusher and moves back with a nervous start.
Again, she turns to you.

“Well, Giorgia, I have to go. I must say that I envy you. Every so often I ‘d like someone to come and take me, too, at the end of prayers”. She gives me a smile, a bit tired. I follow her with my eyes as she leaves at high speed. How long ago was the last time a woman with legs so long showed interest in me?

I’m back to you. “Prayers?”

“Yes. Three times a week we gather to pray.” You say that in a neutral tone, a matter of fact, as if the Giorgia I knew had not done anything but join hands and lift up her eyes to heaven. Instead, the Giorgia I knew had always rejected every form of human association with aristocratic disdain: religious, political, or by simple affinity, liquidating them all as weakness. The mere sight of two girls walking hand in hand elicited a mocking smile. They think they can avoid the evil of life, you would say. They do not know that we are all alone, whether we like it or not. Aphorisms from a twenty years old. Time has softened you, Giorgia. Inadvertently I raise an eyebrow, letting you know that never in my life had I been tempted to place the words Giorgia and prayer in the same sentence. I look at you again, I linger on your eyes that start to resemble those I remember in your mother, and in a flash, something unexpected happens. I see moments of our life together, you out of the water at the beach, shivering and laughing, you painting a sleeping cat in watercolor, bowing your head and crying, lifting the collar of your funny neon blue coat while snowflakes stick on your lashes, on your lips – one of my favorite things – and I’m thinking that your whole life has been nothing but a long prayer.

You seem almost to read my mind. Or maybe you just know where I’m going with my reasoning. I don’t think I have changed much. Perhaps time has not softened me enough.

You seem to think there is a need to clarify. “It’s not a church. Just a rented place where we meet. We believe in repetition, constant prayer. We repeat a sentence. We do it whenever we can. Praying”.

“I understand,” I say. And for once I really do understand.

You are beautiful. Dressed all in black, except for a filmy scarf with blue patterns hanging untied as you used to then. You’ve gained thirty pounds, like me. Never mind. We were two twigs. Indeed, now that  your broad and maternal face, your full breasts and lips do not clash with a skinny body, everything makes perfect sense. I realize that when we met you were somehow a sketch, while now you are complete. I realize that when twenty we have to think we are complete, as a self-defense, since we have no way to predict the abyss of changes that still lies ahead. Strange, I think, to invest all that energy into something so temporary. But we all did it. We are such stuff as dreams, he said. Soon a morning will have forgotten us. “Well, let’s not not stay here and freeze to death,” you say giving me a real punch on the shoulder as you did then. “Let’s go get drunk.” You take my hand, lengthen your stride through the alleys until we see a tiny bar. Walls covered with bottles, barrels as tables. Have I been here? Yes. No. Maybe.

We sit down. A young barman crouches in front of us leaning against your leg, resting his head on your shoulder. A doggy welcome, I think. You take care of it, you tell him. Red wine, a bite. I nod my agreement silently. I’m sure he was in bed with you quite recently. Never mind. I am no longer your official boyfriend. That’s now the business of… “What’s the name of your partner again?” “Oscar”. Yes, that is Oscar’s business now. The thing with the bartender. And so am I.

“Why?” You ask with a sweet and resolute expression, then wait still.

I swallow and shake my head. I can’t talk. If I said what little I know about why I’m here, it would become a lie. A sure misunderstanding, like the one about the pusher.

I shrug my shoulders. I know you understand that I could not resist it, that is enough.

You take my hands, explore with your fingers the whole surface, with an expression that seems to say: ah, yes, right, now I remember. This is the index, here’s the middle finger, this is the back of the hand, this is the soft palm. You always said that you would not have any children, never. Yet, you are a mother. What I would not give to be your son. My heart sinks just thinking that I have already been born and can never now be your child.

We do little talking. I do not even know what your job is. If you have told me, I do not recall. That’s Okay. I’m glad we are not not wasting time telling everything what has happened to us in the meantime. Twenty years is a long time, rich with episodes that can fill an evening like this. We both know that these trifling details are not the point. True, they can be deciphered; but that is a lengthy job, too much for an evening. I did tell you about my job, while looking at your ankle boots with a little heel. I design shoes, bags. Things like that.
“How did you end up doing this?”
I have two versions of the story. One involves casualty; the other, the inevitable.
I do not have time to pull off either story. My gaze is fixed on your eyes. Suddenly you’re crying. Sobbing with your mouth open, overwhelmed. I am, too, even if I do not cry. You see now, I can not help thinking, you see now that to leave me was a mistake? You take my face in your hands, kiss me with passion while the boy brings two red wines and a platter. I respond to your kiss; tastes like tears.

We drink. And we kiss. And we kiss again. And we drink. I lose all sense of time. Now it must be long after. We find ourselves outside, clutching each other. I am pushing you against the door in the corner of a porch. I hear you panting. This is what we have planned since the beginning?

Steps approach. A couple. He clears his throat. They have to get in right here through the door where we are standing.

We detach. You brush back your hair with your hand. I step back. We continue to walk.
We spent more tears than words, exchanged more kisses than information. We were dramatic enough for today. It’s time to exchange a few words. A normal conversation. But we lack the practice, we do not know where to start.

We do a few paces along the deserted street. “How strange seeing you embrace religion…”

You shake your head. “It’s not religion, it’s prayer. I’ve learned its value. It changes you,” you answer back in a low voice.

I nod. You stop suddenly, forcing me to turn and stare at you: you look me straight in the eyes.

“And you, Dario? What have you learnt?”

I realize that despite it is Giorgia who stands in front of me; Giorgia who is able to guess concealed intentions, who understands the hidden meaning in the direction of the flight of a sparrow, who can read the blink of an eye, twenty years are a long time. The labyrinth of choices from then to now simply can not be explained. We were together two years, you and me. That feels like a huge portion of my life. In comparison, the twenty that came after feel like a whisper. We didn’t meet to talk about the three or four events in this whisper.

I look up. Quick clouds clear, leaving uncovered fragments of sky. Stars, moon.

“I learned that the Moon is a predator.”
“A predator?”

“It feeds on living things. Plants, animals. Men. When we die, our energy reaches it and it devours it. So it grows. It needs to grow”.
“That’s what I always thought,” You reply softly. Coming from anyone else that would be a joke, a grotesque reply. But you, Giorgia, you are entitled to many exceptions. It’s just that I feel like a fool talking to another fool. Is this the culmination of our twenty years without one another, one of us praying constantly and the other believing that the Moon devours us? Of the two things that age and suffering can bring, dullness and delusion, we are both inclined to the latter. Thank goodness, I say.

I try to change topic.
“I wrote a book, you know?” You laugh with your eyes, and say nothing.
“You are one of the main characters. I called you Giorgia.”

You laugh. “Giorgia? Why?”

“The name’s right for you. On paper you are Giorgia”.

“Okay. Giorgia. Sounds good. I ‘m already getting used to it”.

“I made you die young”.

You touch my cheek. “Then you have extended my life”.

We look at each other. What do I do, should I invite you into the car? Bring you to a hotel? Leave your partner alone for tonight?

No. Suddenly it is no longer possible to pursue a contact through sex. We got saturated by barely touching. We came to our senses.
It’s something else that we came here for. We touched again, that’s enough. This must be enough.
Hands in hands, we talk for a while, half an hour maybe. We say simple things. We say goodbye. You do not want me to walk you home. I give you a kiss on the forehead. Get into the car. I turn to look at you, you’re already gone. Everything so fast.

___

Just the time to leave, to make two turns in the narrow streets, to begin to feel warm air blowing from the fan toward me, and the phone rings. It’s not you. It’s the voice of Ingrid.
She is in the mood to joke. Starts off with the same phrase with which I invariably greet her every time I call.

“Guess where I am and what I’m doing”.
I turn down the heating, it is starting to get too hot.

“You’re home,” I promptly reply. “Alone. And you’re bored. You have tried to call someone else, but you got no response. Then you tried with me”. 
Short silence. I am already in the ring road. I launch the car into full speed. I really need a coffee now, I think, I have too much wine into my body. There is a motorway cafe, I pull over.
“How do you do that?” She says finally, stunned. I always catch her out with such silly things.

I enter the cafe. Whisper coffee to the barista.

“That is easy, Ingrid. You’ve never called me. Never, never once. I am the one always calling you. I play my part – the rejected lover. Only your boredom, and the fact that someone else was not at home…”

She interrupts me:
“And you? Where are you and what are you doing?”

“Swallowing an espresso, just… Mmm, just at this very moment”.

She doesn’t answer. She is waiting.

“There is also the question of the sixth sense,” I continue. “Have you wondered why you called me just now? For the first time in your life, it is you calling your heartbroken lover. It’s almost midnight; and you do not seem to have anything urgent to tell me. It must be because of your sixth sense, there is no other explanation”.

“I don’t follow. What you mean?”

“Sixth Sense. Obviously you realized what I just did”.

“Oh yeah? And what did you do? Besides coffee”.

“I did what you suggested.”

“I gave you a lot of suggestions”.

“Well, one in particular”.

“Come on. You have to explain, now. I’m stupid, you know it”.
“I tried to distract myself from my obsession with you. I went looking for another woman”.

“Really? Bravo!” Ingrid exclaims, suddenly excited. For a long time she has been pushing me to seek other adventures, maybe wanting to free me from my illness for her, perhaps she is tired of my sticky worshipping.

“Who? How did it go? Is she still there with you?” She asks, irrationally lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone.

I’m back in the car. Start the engine. The speaker reconnects to the call immediately, without hesitation. Good.
“I told you about Giorgia, right?”

“That girl you were with when you were young”.

Her voice has changed. Her enthusiasm has given way to a thoughtful interest.

“Yes”.
”The girl you loved”.

“Yes”.

“That you loved seriously”.

“Yes”.

“That cheated on you all the time”.

“Yes, her”.

Long silence. “But this is not what you should have…”

“What did you say, Ingrid ? I did not get it, I can’t hear”.

More silence. Indecipherable noises. The communication is increasingly disrupted.

“I had suggested something completely different. It’s just sex that you had to come after”.

” And who says I have not come after sex?”

” But not with one you love. It has to be someone that you do not care about”.

“What does it change?”

” It’s just that… You… you have to love me…”

“Can’t hear, Ingrid. Anyway, let me check if I understand. Here is the perfect agreement between us:-

You continue to refuse me. I continue to worship you. Some unimportant girl occasionally entertains me saving you a bothersome sexual involvement. Our friendship is nourished by the fact that I want it to be more than a friendship. I follow you like a hungry dog, you hold me at bay while enjoying my adoring energy. And so we keep up a beautiful spiral of unhealthy obsession and addiction. Is that it? Did I understand it well, Ingrid?”
Silence. “Ingrid?” She must have hung up. Or maybe the line is broken, who knows.
Turn right in fifty meters, says Jole. Jerk, jerk, I whisper.
At this time there is no one on the street. I really am the only jerk around, Jole. You and me. You make ravioli, I do as women say. All of them. No, I’m not talking about you.You, it’s fine that you tell me what to do. I’m talking about the tall, slim ones. No, I speak of myself.
Does this thing have a name, Ingrid? Idiocy. Yeah. Stupid at twenty, unforgivable at forty. Sadomasochism, I think then. Disease. Neurosis. Desperate search for unconditional love, I think again.

One minute past midnight. It’s my birthday. I’m forty. Tinged with its usual smile, the voice of Jole says: Forty years now. Please grow. I do not think any more. I just dart into the deserted highway. Another hour of driving before I get home. Dead tired.
I whisper between my teeth: Thank you Giorgia. An hour with you and I can already see clearly.


Then I laugh. In twenty years time I will remember this too, as a kind of idyll. I laugh whole heartedly, insanely, I can’t stop. There is nothing to laugh about, but I laugh all the same.