by Anna Premoli
Go to the country club? My mother ought to know that I absolutely detest places like that. Apart from anything else, I’d have to pull a suitable dress out of mothballs for the occasion, as I doubt they would let me in with ripped jeans.
“No thanks. I’ll make myself a sandwich at home,” I mumble in annoyance.
“Really Giada, this afternoon we must have a little chat about your attitude. You almost never come to see us, and when you do, you don’t even bother to call and tell us? We would have been waiting for you, if only we’d known that you would were planning on honouring us with your presence...” she says reproachfully. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m afraid this time she’s right. But the fact that she’s right for once doesn’t mean that I’m enough of a masochist to wait for her until the afternoon. What she calls ‘little chats’ are generally a very painful experience for both of us, and avoiding it with all my strength is the least I can do.
“I’ll be going out soon,” I say. “I’m going to see Fil.”
From the other end of the phone line I can hear a very obvious grumble of annoyance. Yes, my mother and my boyfriend never really got on, and the certainty that she would never like him had made Filippo seem increasingly attractive in my eyes. I don’t mind admitting it.
“Do as you like,” she says eventually. She’s been repeating that for years now. The hostility between us peaked while I was at high school and the distance between us that university allowed helped us in a certain way, although it never led to any real intimacy. We are just too different. My mother is one of those people who can only approve of those who behave just like them and who share exactly the same values. Not to mention that she tends to judge people on the basis of their bank account. I don’t care if you’re the son of a Chinese miner or if you comes from generations of wealthy industrialists. If you’re a dickhead, you’re a dickhead whatever your pedigree.
“Will we be seeing you for dinner?” she asks me in a formal voice.
“I don’t think so. Maybe tomorrow at breakfast.”
“I don’t know why you bothered coming back at all...” she says finally. To be honest, sometimes neither do I.
*
As per usual, Fil is busy rehearsing with his group. The bass player sees me before my boyfriend does and raises his hand in greeting. “Well look who it is! Hey Giada!”
Filippo looks up from what he’s doing and stares at me in surprise.
“What’s going on? Has there been a radioactive leak in Milan or something?” he says, joking as usual - but the slightly polemical way he says it doesn’t entirely escape me.
“Ha ha, idiot. No, I came of my own accord, without being forced by any potential environmental disasters,” I say, pretending not to hear the implicit criticism. “Finally I’ve got a bit of time.” And between the end of semester exams, the internship and my thesis, I certainly haven’t had much of that lately. “Of course, you could always live dangerously and come and see me for once...”
It’s the oldest story in the book for us: Fil hates Milan, I hate the provinces, and it’s hard to find a compromise. Not wishing to waste any more time repeating the same things over and over again, I go over to him and plant a loud kiss on his lips. As has been the case for a while, the kiss is short and almost fraternal. I try to reassure myself by telling myself that Fil doesn’t want to put on a show in front of his friends, but to honest he used to kiss and grope me even in the middle of town. Lately, though, he doesn’t seem too interested even when we’re alone.
No need to stand on tiptoe or stretch my head up to reach his lips: Fil isn’t particularly tall, but he’s still a good four inches taller than me. He’s obsessed with going to the gym and with tattoos, though, so under his close-fitting shirt you can see his sculpted physique. His blond hair is almost shaved at the sides, while a long tuft falls over his blue eyes. He’s a good-looking guy, if you’re into the bad boy genre. Which I have always been. Not to mention that physically we suit each other perfectly. We have a similar style.
Fil doesn’t answer but completely changes the subject. “Me and the boys have got some amazing news!” he exclaims happily. “They’ve chosen us for a summer tour of Japan! Apparently cover bands, even unknowns like us, are a really big deal over there. They’re even going to pay us!”
“That’s great news!”
About a year ago, Fil and the boys found a manager who had made promises upon promises. It looks like he’s finally decided to come through with some of them. Good for the guys.
“We’ll be there for around two months,” he informs me. “From late June to late August.”
My expression suddenly changes. “Hmm... You do remember that I’m supposed to be graduating in mid-July, right?”
Filippo suddenly becomes serious. “Fuck, you’re right, I’d forgotten! I’m really sorry, Giada, but this is our big chance. Is there any way you could graduate in, I don’t know, October?”
Completely perplexed, I blink several times in surprise. Is he kidding? “No, I can’t, Fil,” I reply in an annoyed voice.
“Well then make sure you get a decent film of it. Anyway, you know that I would have been a fish out of water at something like that...”
If that’s true, it’s only because over the last five years he has never done anything, not made even the smallest gesture, to meet my new life halfway. He remained stubbornly in his own world and didn’t even throw me a rope. The truth, I suspect, is that Fil just doesn’t understand my interest in the economy. He probably thinks that it’s all a caprice, but it’s a subject that has always fascinated me, and it would fascinate me even if I weren’t the daughter of an industrialist and if I hadn’t been hearing about this stuff my whole life. I love music too, but I only play in an all-woman group that meets once a month. About twice a year we book an evening in some dark club that’s only borderline legal and let out all our accumulated tensions before going back to our everyday lives: me to university, Silvia, our singer, to her practice as a lawyer, Elisa to her life as an interior architect and the drummer, Elena, to teaching at the nursery school.
“Come on, let’s forget about the graduation - let me hear some stuff,” I propose, then I sit down in a chair of the old theatre they use as a rehearsal space and try to chase away difficult thoughts. But it isn’t easy. I can only pretend so much. Whenever I return to Verona, I have the distinct impression of disappointing everybody I care about in one fell swoop: my parents, by repeatedly proving how different I am from them, and Fil, who has never considered me entirely part of his world. They are all so diffident with me, but that’s because none of them know how to get beneath the surface and ask what I’m really like.
It really is true that you sometimes feel terribly alone even when you are surrounded by other people...
*
On Sunday evening I find myself sitting in the train with my head full of thoughts. The weekend has been horrible, while if I’d stayed in Milan to prepare my thesis, I would have been fine. They won’t be seeing me again for a while, I promise myself disconsolately.
I managed to quarrel with Fil yet again on Saturday night - so badly that we both went back to our own homes to sleep, despite the fact that our sex life is now more or less a mirage - and today at lunch I finally managed the task of infuriating my mother, who doesn’t appreciate my extreme frankness. She thinks it’s rudeness. For over twenty years my father has been trying to play the peacemaker between us, and today’s lunch was yet another example. To be honest, I think the truth might be that he’s just weak-willed, and I would have much more respect for him if he actually sided with one of us now and again, even with her. It’s important to take a position in life.
I’m about to write an SOS message to Lavinia when another message appears on my screen.
Weekend all OK?
I wonder if he’s just being polite or whether he’s actually become a mind-reader or something.
Absolutely awful, thanks. What about yours?
; I could have lied like I do almost everyone, even Lavinia and Alessandra, who I love so much that I try not to continually unload my frustrations and dissatisfactions onto them, but for some strange reason I decided not to with Ariberto. Interesting.
Footie with the lads. We won. What more could I ask for? :-)
Ah you lucky men with your basic needs. Sometimes I would just love to be a simple, easy-to-please person.
I’m almost starting to envy you ...
Do you want to talk about it?
You’re not turning sentimental in your old age, are you Bertha?
Almost without my realizing it, I’ve started smiling again for the first time in several hours. Ari seems to have an almost healing effect on me. I should start paying him as a therapist. He’d deserve every penny.
Ok, I can tell that the answer is no. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me... See you tomorrow morning.
Have a good night, Bertha.
The next day I’m almost happy to be back in the office. God knows what the trade unionists would think of someone who’s desperate to start working and who isn’t even being paid overtime – what horror!
“Morning,” says Ari, greeting me with a smile and sitting down in his place. It’s ten to eight and I’ve been here for a while already. Well, at least I’ve read all the newspapers.
“I can feel that spring is on the way. It’s been like that since I was a kid. I find myself awake at six o’clock staring at the ceiling, and then I get up. And then, since life hasn’t been that great lately, I come to work. Sad, eh?” I say, only half-joking.
“Can I confess something to you?” he asks me conspiratorially, coming closer. “I’ve been awake since six too. I forgot to pull down the blinds last night. But this morning I went for a run to use up the time.”
“God, Bertha, you’re so disgustingly sporty...” I say, pretending to be disgusted.
“Horrible, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got so many faults, I honestly can’t decide which one is worst. All that’s left is for you to tell me that you stop to help old ladies cross the road and the picture will be complete.”
A strange expression appears on his face.
“Oh my God, you do!” I exclaim triumphantly, laughing like mad.
“Only at really dangerous crossings!” he says. “I leave the others alone.”
“Bertha, your niceness is starting to be a problem,” I say, shaking my head. “Do you realise that you’re making me look like Cruelia De Mon?”
“Why, aren’t you?” he jokes. “Don’t deprive me of all my certainties...”
Ah, his certainties. And what about my certainties?
For a moment we stare at each other from around our monitors. The light from the neon lamps is annoying, but Ari continues to hold my gaze undaunted. A strange feeling blooms in my stomach and goes up my body until it fills my chest completely. It is something that feels worryingly similar to happiness. Happiness and I have always had a complicated relationship: I have flashes of it from time to time - just enough so that I can find everything bearable - but this devastating feeling of uncertainty, of possibility, feels dangerous. I hope with all of my heart that it has less to do with Ariberto and more to do with the fact that spring is on the way, bringing with it sunny days and crisp air. The alternative would be seriously worrying.
Chapter 6
We all have our own way of releasing our accumulated tensions. Some of us kill ourselves in the gym lifting weights, others participate in every marathon going, others still bake cakes that will probably never be eaten because nowadays everyone’s gluten intolerant, and then there are people like me who play in a band. Jumping on stage with a bass in hand is incredibly liberating.
Let’s face it, me and the other Wooden Girls are not exactly rising stars in the panorama of Italian music, but we go put our hearts into it and we have fun, which is a rare commodity these days.
I am the youngest member of the group and the only one who is still a student. Three years ago their bass player had to leave because she was moving to Sweden for work and when I saw their advert pinned to the wall of various alternative clubs, I jumped at the opportunity. They must have liked me, or maybe they just recognised someone who desperately needed to get away from everything and everyone.
For me, that’s what music is: the freedom to be myself, with no need for labels. We don’t play a specific genre, we just play what we like, when we like, and it feels priceless. Of course, in the depths of our hearts we are rockers and we play more or less competent covers of groups that are both very famous or completely unknown. But that’s the beauty of being free.
When we’re lucky, we play one night a month, and when things are really going well, they actually pay us. But we don’t do it for the few euros they give us – which to be honest aren’t usually enough to even cover the money for the petrol it takes to get us there. No, gigging helps us to switch off and to remember that our life is not just obligations and rules, it’s also spontaneity. It might sound silly, but being spontaneous is so difficult today that a lot of people no longer know how to do it. I don’t know if they offer courses to help you feel at peace with yourself, but if they don’t, they really ought to.
Tonight we find ourselves in a dark club near the town of Opera which you may not have heard of because - let’s face it - there wouldn’t have been much to say. But now things are about to change, because we’re about to go on stage.
In the front row there are already Lavinia, Sebastiano and Alessandra, who always come to our gigs. I appreciate their support more than I can say. Yes, I’m not great at saying things when they’re actually important.
A big smile on her face, Vinny waves to me while Ale gives me a thumbs up. Seb, being Seb, looks around him uneasily, but the fact that he’s here is the only thing that matters.
I bend down to check that the strap of my bass isn’t twisted and when I straighten up again I almost have a heart attack. If I wasn’t 100% certain that I hadn’t drunk a drop of alcohol or done any shrooms, I’d think it was a mirage.
“Shiiiiiiit...” I whisper, turning nervously towards Silvia, who must have noticed too and is staring in surprise. There aren’t usually a lot of people wearing Hugo Boss suits at our gigs. I mean, sure, people are free to dress however they like, but I’m wearing a black leather jacket covered with studs and a rather short black skirt with a pair of heavy biker boots. My makeup is thick and dark, my lips a fiery red that matches my bass. Until a minute ago, the smartest piece of clothing in here was probably a pair of designer jeans or something.
I’m pretending not to see him, but out of the corner of my eye I observe Ariberto as he makes his way between the tables. God, he came to this dingy local hole dressed in his work clothes... What the hell was going through his head? And above all, how the hell did he know I was playing here? Because for sure that I never told him.
Okay, I might have mentioned that I sometimes play in a group with some other women, but I’m absolutely certain that I never mentioned my concert tonight. The way I rushed out of the office a little ahead of time must have made him suspicious.
I give Vinny and Ale, who pretend not to understand, a dirty look. They’ve noticed who’s on his way over towards them. Honestly, you can’t trust anybody these days!
“Friend of yours?” asks Silvia with a laugh, after Ariberto has taken a seat next to Ale.
“He’s a colleague...”
“He’s cute.”
He’s more than cute, and we both know it, even if he isn’t my type. And that should be pretty obvious too. At least he’s now taking off his tie and putting it in his pocket, but the overall effect hasn’t improved at all. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it’s even worse – he looks like he’s just walked off the catwalk at a fashion show.
“He must be curious...”
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, Silvia or myself.
Elisa comes over. “Hey, have you two se
en that guy up front?”
“Yes – it’s Ariberto. A colleague of mine,” I say with some agitation.
“If I had known there were guys like that in the finance sector, I would have changed faculty,” laughs Elisa.
“Girls...” I say with a serious expression. Which is not like me, I realize. Also because I realise that everyone here has a boyfriend, so it’s obvious that their comments are harmless. Apart from anything else, I have a boyfriend too, and I don’t understand why all of a sudden the fact that someone makes remarks about how handsome Ariberto is supposed to be - ok, not just supposed to be, how handsome he is – annoys me so much. I would like to remain totally indifferent to the fact of his being here, but unfortunately it looks like I’m just too damn sensitive.
“Don’t worry Giada, we’re just messing with you,” says Silvia, looking at me in amazement. “By the way, he’s... trying to get your attention?”
Unwillingly I turn around and see Ari smiling at me and waving. And before I can stop it, my right arm rises in reply.
I hate my stupid arm.
Like a perfect idiot, I watch him as he gets up and walks towards the bar, and then he comes back with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. He looks completely at ease among my friends. I’ve always been the type of person who struggles to make friends with people, partly because I’m not exactly Little Miss Sunshine and partly because I’m just not very outgoing. I know, I know – sometimes you’d hardly be able to tell, the way I act cocky and have such a sharp tongue, but those are just defensive weapons. I’m profoundly envious of the nonchalance with which Ari relates to others and his ability to put people at ease and make them open up and relax.
“So, are we ready to go on?” asks Elisa, turning her attention back to the music. I should do the same.
“Yeah!” replies Silvia. “Let’s do this!”
Our first song is a cover of Lonely Day by System of a Down, then we continue with a very simplified version of Numb by Linkin Park before moving on to Blondie’s One Way or Another.
