by Anna Premoli
He shrugs and starts drinking, gulping down half a pint of water in a few seconds. I’d like to be able to say that his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like that doesn’t have an effect on me, but it’s incredibly sexy. Right, well it looks like it’s official, then: apparently, I feel some kind of physical attraction towards men in posh sportswear... It’s the sportswear that does it, of course – it’s absolutely nothing to do with Ariberto.
“Your modesty is unrivalled,” I comment.
“I’ve never claimed that I was modest,” he replies with a laugh. “Anyway, why all in black?” he asks me suddenly, changing the subject.
To tell the truth I would have rather carried on bickering about his faults instead of shifting the conversation to me. “Excuse me?” I say, pretending not to understand.
“Why are you always dressing in dark colours nowadays? And why’s your hair black?” He seems genuinely curious. There’s no judgment in his eyes, only a certain interest.
Almost without realizing it, I raise a hand to the ponytail I’ve tied my hair up in for the occasion. “Black’s just a colour like any other...” I say. “Anyway, it makes you look thinner...”
But Ari shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. You divide your life up into phases: there was the red phase, when you were more lively than usual, and before that there was the I-don’t-know-what-colour phase...”
I immediately understand what colour he’s referring to.
“It was supposed to be blue, but the old colour underneath ended up making it look weird. If it’s any help, I didn’t know what colour hair I had at the time myself.”
“So you admit it then!” he laughs.
I imagine that for someone with that thick head of hair and those ringlets that are so perfect that almost look fake, it must be difficult to understand this wanting to constantly change yourself. I’ll bet Ariberto Castelli never woke up one morning and didn’t recognize the face looking back at him from the mirror.
An annoying little voice in my head suggests to me that it’s not really a question of your external appearance, but of how you feel inside. It is a good job that I don’t have the slightest intention of starting to psychoanalyse myself, especially not on a tennis court just minutes from the start of the next game. I might be a bit of a weirdo – from every point of view – but I still want to win.
“I’m not admitting a damn thing, Bertha, and I’d be grateful if you could focus on the matter at hand, because we have finally discovered something about you that I don’t dislike...” I can’t seem to help provoking him. It’s great fun, mainly because he doesn’t get offended like the majority of the world’s population. And for someone like me, who grew up in a family that has touchiness in its DNA, that’s a novelty.
He gives me a blinding smile, revealing a set of teeth so perfect that he ought to have a shrine built to his dentist, then rises from his chair and grabs his racket.
“Come on then, what are you waiting for?”
What I’m waiting for is to stop smiling like a bloody lunatic. I’ve never smiled so much in my life. It feels really strange for me to be using some of these facial muscles...
*
Late in the afternoon we have three victories behind us and we are among the finalists of the tournament. All modesty aside, it isn’t actually particularly surprising: Ari has improved game after game, just like I have. The more we’ve played, the more I felt that old sensation of enjoyment and hunger for victory flowing through my veins. Towards the middle of the second game the fear disappeared completely, leaving only a desire to smash the ball over the net. Of course, tomorrow I won’t even be able to get out of bed, since I haven’t practiced any sport other than snoozing on the sofa for so long that I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but right now I don’t care: my muscles are tired but perfectly capable of facing our final challenge against none other than Iris and Marco.
Marco Biancardi is the head of the entire tax shelter office, as well as one of the partners, and he is a sort of deity in M&K. The question at this point is not so much whether we will be able to beat them, but whether it would be a good idea to. I mean, they’re the top brass. We’d be risking a diplomatic incident.
“So what do we do?” I ask Ariberto quietly, putting my mouth close to his ear.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is it a good idea to try and beat your boss? And your boss’s boss?”
Ariberto bursts out laughing. “I’ve no idea if it’s a good idea, and to be honest, I don’t care”.
I blink in surprise. This is another one to make a note of in my mental list of “people who surprise me.” I was convinced that folks like him just had a natural proclivity for hardcore brown-nosing, especially towards their bosses.
“You don’t care?” I repeat, still amazed. “Really?”
“No,” he confirms, giving me an amused look. My face must sufficiently bear witness to what is going through my mind. “I hate people who give up without trying,” he explains.
As it happens, I hate them too.
“And to hell with the consequences…” I mumble in shock.
“Exactly. To hell with the consequences.”
A strange energy flows between us for a moment which I don’t know how to interpret. Pre-match agitation? His big brown eyes stare at me with unreadable expression. If nothing else, at least he’s not smiling for once. When he’s in the mood, Mr Always-Relaxed here is capable of great intensity.
“So, are you ready to play?” asks Marco, causing both of us to jump with surprise. We were, um, distracted for a moment there.
Marco is the boss of Iris, who is our boss, so for us he is a sort of super-boss with whom we have exchanged very few words during our time in the company so far. As in four: good morning and good evening.
“Very ready,” says Ari.
“By the way, I watched your last game: nice play, Ariberto,” comments Marco. “Really, some incredible drop shots.”
Ari shrugs. “Anything to avoid having to run,” he jokes.
“And you too, Giada – great serves...”.
“Can I use the same joke?” I reply. “Anything to avoid having to run.”
“Okay, well, I want a proper game! Focused and attentive, eh...” And with a wink he goes off to retrieve Iris, who is busy chatting with some colleagues.
“Marco wants to win,” I murmur quietly to Ari.
“Of course he does. But what matters is if he manages to.” And I think that means we can consider the gauntlet well and truly thrown down.
*
After a hard-fought first set which ends with our victory at the tie-break, the second is just as challenging. Both couples manage good serves and win games until, when we’re at 5-5, Iris gives us the golden opportunity we need to power into the lead.
My very first tennis teacher used to say that in tennis, like in life, it’s often just a matter of waiting for the right moment to attack; there’s no sense taking unnecessary risks. At the time his words seemed ridiculous, but today – in life even more than in tennis – I find that unnecessary risks are to be avoided at all costs.
Iris messes up a service, committing a double foul, putting her in the uncomfortable position of having to serve defensively. And as always happens in critical moments like that, she messes up her first serve. It’s textbook stuff.
I breathe in, try to concentrate and squeeze the racket particularly tightly as I prepare to respond to her second service. I can’t go wrong...
But she manages it better than I had anticipated, and the ball, once it has touched the ground, bounces towards me much faster than I would have expected. Taken by surprise, I can barely move enough to send the ball back, but it’s nothing like the masterful shot that I was hoping for. Marco can’t hold back a satisfied smile as he hits my ball, giving it a clear topspin that makes it extremely dangerous. I know it and so does Ariberto, who in a nanosecond finds himself having to choose between letting the ball pass – a much sa
fer move – or risking it. I watch almost enchanted as he tilts his racket and makes a gazelle-like jump in the direction of the ball, slicing his racket through the air. The ball falls to the ground just on the other side of the net.
Wow, that was one of the most impressive bits of tennis I’ve ever seen!
The jump he made has sent Ariberto sprawling to the ground, but never mind. He got the result!
“Bertha, you’re a bloody genius!” I exclaim triumphantly, running over to him.
Ari laughs as he gets himself up from the red earth. Feeling very magnanimous – after all he has just scored an absolutely extraordinary point – I reach out to help him to his feet. Yes, I realise that his size and mine are pretty unevenly matched, but it’s the thought that counts. I hope that he realises that too and doesn’t pull me down with him.
He peers at me with a strange expression from under those long eyelashes, but then decides to grab my hand.
“Only because it’s your turn to serve...” he explains hurriedly, sounding much more agitated than normal, after his hand wraps around mine.
For a brief instant, my memory rushes to that night at the club when he grabbed my hand and dragged me off to dance. There had been a weird electricity between us that time too. Now that I think about it, that bloody electricity reappears unsolicited every time he touches me, even if it’s completely by accident. It is getting so ridiculous that I should probably invent a new adjective to describe it: “ridiculous” doesn’t do it justice.
“Beautiful!” says Marco, coming over to the net and handing him the ball for the service.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t actually planned that way…” he admits.
“Bertha! Don’t tell them it was a happy accident!” I say mockingly. “We need them to think that we are deadly dangerous!”
“Why, aren’t you?” asks Iris with a hint of annoyance. It’s clear that she doesn’t like losing either. Well she can get in line, because she’s not the only high-flying ego on this court.
“So shall we finish off this game?” I whisper in Ari’s ear as we move away from the net to take our places.
There’s only one more game left. Four points. And it’s Ariberto’s turn to serve. If Ivaniševic ´ was able to win at Wimbledon by relying only on his serves, we should have every chance.
Ari gets in three aces in a row, demonstrating powerful mental control and bringing us up to 40-0. Iris’s expression, if possible, has gotten even more annoyed: there’s no doubt about it – she is pissed off.
The most sensible thing would be not to win the game this brutally because our bosses might hold it against us, but they can go to hell, I think, as diplomatic as usual. I’ve never been one for pleasing people and I’m not planning on starting today. The beauty of having what others define as ‘a shitty character’ is that you’re authorized to be yourself at all times. Especially the most difficult ones.
“Serve”, I say to Ari, passing him the ball.
He bursts out laughing at my determined expression. “Yes Ma’am,” he replies with a wink, and then sends the ball streaking towards Iris at the speed of light.
This time she isn’t wrong-footed by the bounce and responds just as violently, sending the ball flying back towards me. I don’t have much time to think or even to remind myself that my backhand shot has never been my best, so my reaction is more instinctive than anything else. And this time there’s nothing technical about it, it’s pure luck: I manage to send the ball flying back in a line so precise and so powerful that it hits the intersection of the baselines. I could have tried to do that a billion times and I’d never have succeeded!
“I can’t believe it...” comments Ari, bursting out laughing. And to tell the truth, neither can I.
“Bertha, we won!” I shout, unable to contain my enthusiasm, then start leaping up and down like a lunatic, perfectly aware that I’m losing credibility with each jump. But right now, who cares? We did it! We won!
I am so over the moon that I throw my arms around the neck of poor Ariberto, who, completely unprepared for my moment of joy, grabs hold of me. Yes, I can get pretty intense when I put my mind to it.
“You do realise that they’re going to have us cleaning the toilets for the next few months, don’t you?” he asks me with a smile.
I burst out laughing. “You might actually be right, Bertha...”
“I’m always right, Ms. Spikes.”
“I’ll let you believe that for today because I’m feeling magnanimous and because that was a really impressive shot,” I confess, still breathing hard. I hope that it’s because of all the matches we’ve played today and not because Ariberto is still holding me tightly. And speaking of this little detail, perhaps I ought to remove my arms from him. Yes, I definitely ought to.
Certain that I’m blushing in spite of myself, I take my arms from around his neck and step back. He doesn’t do anything to stop me, and for a moment I’m overcome with a sensation that almost feels like disappointment.
From now on, I have to maintain a safe distance from him. Maybe even a bit more than a safe distance, just to avoid the risk of any weirdly ambiguous sensations or strange responses from my body. It is the lack of physical affection that’s getting to me: no one embraces me anymore except for Lavinia and Alessandra, and while I love their hugs, they only do the job up to a certain point. And even though Ariberto Castelli is totally wrong for a girl like me, he is, unfortunately, very attractive. I mean, good for him and all that, but my life would be easier right now if he were a bit less easy on the eye. Whether I like it or not, it’s obvious that he’s stirred up my hormones. What I don’t understand, though, is why it should have been him. Am I that desperate? Me, who I’ve always considered special and capable of great depth and not just shallow physical attraction? But what if Ariberto’s physicality is only one of the pieces of this complicated jigsaw?
Sure, he’s tall, with sculpted shoulders, a handsome face and nice eyes and nice hair. But it shouldn’t matter, because I’ve never been one for swooning in front of a beautiful body. Quite the opposite, I have always been in search of substance, of character. I have always loved people who struggle against the system, who have so much anger in them that they manage to change things, people who don’t care about what other people tell them is right or wrong, and who act without any fear of the consequences. In a nutshell, all my life I have always been attracted to the people I wanted to be, and Ariberto Castelli wouldn’t know rebellion it he walked into it. He is the living personification of a system that I’ve always hated – the emblem of a life that could never satisfy me, he is the worst thing there can be for someone as perpetually dissatisfied as me. I don’t think he has ever been bothered by anything in his whole life, whereas it happens to me all the time.
I’m sure Ariberto has character in his own way, but there is a natural and constant good humour about him that makes me feel sick. No one who is in their right mind can possible smile all the time the way he does, it isn’t healthy. So he has to stay on his side of the court and I have to stay on mine. Physically and metaphorically speaking.
“Well I can’t say I like losing, but, wow... what a game!” says Marco, arriving with Iris in tow.
“Yes,” she echoes frostily. Her enthusiasm is palpable.
“Luck was on our side this time,” says Ari diplomatically. It was certainly on mine, but I reckon Ariberto could have quite happily managed for the two of us.
“Until the next match, then,” says Marco as he heads off towards the locker rooms. At the last minute, though, he seems to change his mind, and comes walking back towards us. “I was just thinking, Iris, what do you say if we take these two to Amsterdam with us next week?”
She stares at him in surprise. “But interns never come on business trips...” she stammers, unsure as to what to say.
“Not usually, but they’ve earned it. Guys, pack a bag,” he says with a satisfied expression, then heads off again.
Ari and I exchange a
look of joy. So we’re not going to be sent to clean the toilets after all? Amsterdam, here we come!
Chapter 4
Even though it’s still practically dawn, the day seems destined to become gloomy and wet - one of those days that you dream of spending in the warmth of your bed, forgetting about the world outside. What with the getting up at five o’clock to catch a flight at seven, this should be called a crime against humanity, not a business trip.
We have just boarded the plane and we are waiting to receive the green light to set off. I immediately took possession of the window seat because I love looking outside while I’m flying, so Ari will just have to settle for the seat next to me. I’m still pretty surprised it was me who got to it first – I don’t usually give my best this early in the morning.
My eyes still puffy with sleepiness, I yawn and turn to the window. There is that annoying mist typical of Milanese winters which prevents you from seeing much of the runway. I really hope the weather is better in Amsterdam. Not that Holland is famous for its sunshine, but it’s hard to imagine that it can be any worse than here.
Us interns are travelling in Economy, while Iris and Marco are seated comfortably in Business. Lucky them. I would love to be able to recline my backrest but the woman sitting behind me looks like she might get nasty if I even try.
“What the hell are they doing?” asks Ariberto as he takes his seat after putting his jacket and bag in the overhead locker with painstaking care. In fact, now that he points it out to me, from the window I can see two men hammering at one of the plane’s wheels.
“I guess they’re making sure the wheel doesn’t come off,” I say with a chuckle, then I lean forward and start looking for the usual in-flight magazine. They’re always full of ideas for great to go on vacation, if you have the time and the money. “Look, do you mind if I take your magazine? They don’t seem to have given me one.” It annoys me to have to ask him for a favour, but a flight spent sitting next to him is going to be so boring that I’m desperately going to need some reading matter.
