by Anna Premoli
“Bertha, in all honesty your mother seems very different from mine, and your folks seems like nice people. You’re a nice family”.
“You should have seen us a couple of years ago. When I got my degree, our relationship was decidedly less idyllic...”
“So what happened?” I ask, suddenly curious.
“We sat around a table and talked it out. It took a long time, but we were totally straight with each other. And I must admit that since then, we have finally begun to understand each other: I understand them, and they understand me. It wasn’t very pleasant but it was extremely productive.”
It might have been productive for them, but I doubt that my parents would be capable of anything similar. They have no interest in actually looking at themselves; from their point of view, the only person who is ever wrong is me and only me.
“What is it, don’t you believe me?” he asks, misinterpreting my doubtful expression.
“No, I was just thinking that what worked for you probably wouldn’t help me much. Me and my family are so used to not communicating we wouldn’t know where to start. A talent for knowing how to listen doesn’t exactly run in the family...” I say, shaking my head.
Ari looks at me and smiles.
“You don’t say? And there I was thinking I’d chosen such a sweet, easygoing girl...” he mocks me.
“While we’re on the subject, let me, as a sincere friend, tell you one thing: Ariberto Castelli, when it comes to women, you have shitty taste.”
He bursts out laughing until he’s almost in tears.
“You can’t offend the birthday boy!” he exclaims, pretending to be hurt.
“Your birthday isn’t until tomorrow! You don’t have some weird custom here in Piedmont that birthdays last for a week, do you?”
“I don’t know about Piedmont, but when I was little I used to try and make it last all month,” he confesses.
“So you are saying you’ve improved…”
“Yes, I have improved a little bit over the years – other people not being willing to let me spread my birthday out over a whole month has helped too,” he laughs.
“You don’t say...” I respond, finding myself smiling too.
“Of course, it would be nice if at least my girlfriend was nice to me,” he adds with a challenging glint in his eyes. For a moment I don’t know what to answer.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” I remind him. I was afraid sooner or later Ari would come out with such a word, but was hoping for a little more time. I thought he was waiting for our graduation to pass.
“Oh aren’t you? And why not?” he asks with a naturalness I’m not buying at all.
“Because, as I’m sure you’ll remember, seeing as we talked about it, you and I are a little bit different.” That’s the euphemism of the century, but tomorrow is his birthday and I want to be kind.
“That’s rubbish. The more time passes, the more convinced I am that we are actually very, very similar. Apart, of course, for your passion for sticking bits of metal through parts of your body that I think should be left in peace.”
“Ari...” I exclaim, sighing.
“Giada,” he replays, imitating my tone.
“You’re not funny, you know.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
Great, he’s being stubborn too. From bad to worse.
“I don’t feel ready. I’ve only just gotten out of one relationship. Right now I have nothing to give,” I confess, lowering my eyes. There’s an accusing edge in my voice, and Ariberto senses it loud and clear before I can suppress it. I thought we’d agreed to give each other time. I thought we had a deal.
“I know you’ve just come out of a very long relationship, and I can understand your confusion, even your disappointment. But, if you don’t mind me saying so, I have the feeling you’re using your previous story to protect yourself.”
I’m not kidding, next time I want to fall in love with a total moron...
As soon as I realize what has been going through my stupid head, though, an expression of pure panic appears on my face and I pretty much stop breathing.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks worriedly, coming closer and touching my face.
By now, total panic has taken possession of me. In the space of a few moments I’ve realized that I am bound to this person much more than is good for me, much more than I thought possible. It could be mortally dangerous to have those kind of feelings for anyone, but even more so for Ariberto.
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I confess finally. “Ari, we made a deal: you were supposed to give me all the time I needed...” I remind him yet again. I don’t know how else to say it. I feel impotent and dramatically close to tears. And I never cry.
For a moment he says nothing.
“I know, Giada. I remember what I told you at the beginning. But I’m struggling too. You’re not the only one who is finding this tough.” His voice too sounds much less sure of itself than usual and his eyes... ah, those damn eyes! It doesn’t matter whether this thing of always being sincere, even in situations when other people would clam up, is the result of a well-studied strategy or is just the way he is around me. I grab his face and pull him closer until his forehead is touching mine.
“I know.”
He takes a deep breath and caresses my cheek.
“So, where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know, Ari. Really, I don’t know how to behave. But I never make promises I can’t keep.”
“That sounds fair to me,” he agrees, kissing me. It’s an obvious attempt at persuasion. Part of me almost hopes it will work. “At least promise me you’ll think about it? About us two actually being a couple?”
“I promise, Bertha.”
“Great. Now come over here and forget about all these problems, family-related and otherwise”.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking me to see the rice?” I tease him, because I’m much more interested in him than I am in some stupid field.
“Later, Ms. Spikes, later...” he murmurs, bringing his mouth to mine to shut me up.
And, for once, I have no objections at all.
*
That night, Ariberto slips into my room shortly after midnight – meaning it’s now his birthday – only to creep out again at six in the morning. I’m sure the sleep deprivation is visible on my face at breakfast a few hours later. Edoardo gives me a look that makes it clear he understands perfectly what went on last night. I blush in spite of myself, but I don’t actually feel guilty: after all, I owe Ari at least one memorable birthday, or not?
After breakfast, there is a magnificent trip to the countryside with the whole Castelli family, complete with picnic. No stuck-up lunch with silver tableware and great-grandmama’s crockery but dozens of sandwiches with the most bizarre range of fillings, as per the birthday boy’s request, and a series of cakes which are as delicious as they are tiny.
When we are back in the car heading in the direction of Milan, I feel both relieved and sad it’s over. The experience was strangely normal and pleasant. In fact, all the Castellis were much more down to earth than I had expected. I don’t know why I’d imagined they wouldn’t be, but that’s just the way I am – always busy imagining catastrophic scenarios.
“So, was it as awful as you imagined?” Ariberto ask me, a satisfied smile on his face.
“No, actually, it wasn’t,” I’m forced to admit.
Once they’d realized I was a bit uncomfortable talking about myself and even more uncomfortable discussing us, his family did their best to put me at my ease and let me enjoy myself. Which I did, a lot.
He doesn’t know it, but the idea of this happy family portrait sort of had me spinning out. I’m not the kind of girl who goes in for family outings. I’m not the type of girl people present to their parents as though it was perfectly normal. I’m not and don’t want to be anyone’s official girlfriend. I was for a long time, and the experience di
dn’t exactly do me a lot of good. Relationships don’t necessarily need to be labeled, as I realized after so many years with Fil. What matters is that you’re happy. It is already so difficult to make a relationship between two people work, so I can’t see the point in piling on expectations and promises that won’t be kept.
My gaze follows Ari’s hand as it grips the steering wheel. He squeezes it the way he squeezes me – as if he didn’t want to let it go.
Each of us is the way we are, and as much as we might try, we can never completely change. I can’t become Miss Cheerful just the same way Ari can’t help being a bit clingy. I say this with all possible affection. In a way, it’s funny that a person who looks as perfect as he does has the same insecurities as everyone else and tries to control them by always keeping you close at hand. He does it a lot in the office: he’ll reach out to hold me for even a few seconds, as if he needs to recharge himself. Or while we’re at home, doing the most banal things, like cooking – with one hand he’ll be stirring the risotto while his free arm is wrapped around my waist, pulling me to him. He needs contact.
It’s a pity my nature is pretty much the opposite. It’s nothing personal, it’s just the way I am – sometimes I even want to run away from myself. I don’t like feeling trapped, or boxed in by other people’s expectations.
My relationship with Fil lasted as long as it did thanks to the immense freedom each of us always had to live our lives and chase our dreams. I’m only realising it now, but it’s as if from a certain point onwards I had walked alone, without the help of anyone else. And now that Ari is asking me to walk together, with him helping me and me helping him, I don’t even know where I’m supposed to start. I’m not used to it and I don’t really know if it’s even what I want. If it’s something that you learn, maybe I’ve left it too late to start learning it?
Ari’s at the end of his tether. You can see it in his eyes and in the way he moves. He wants me to decide for once and for all that I’m with him – on his terms – or to say goodbye to this relationship. Which I think works much better than the official one with Filippo did, if I have to tell the truth.
I, on the other hand, don’t see any need to change things. It’s not like if I start calling him my boyfriend, it will mean that things will automatically go to the next level. Ari ought to understand better than anyone what I’m like and what my fears are – but right now he’s struggling with his own.
The journey goes by in relative silence, because each of us is afraid of spoiling such a beautiful day. Sometimes our eyes meet and each time it’s intense. Or rather, each time, he’s intense.
When he pulls up in front of my house, I stop him before he can get out of the car.
“Ari, wait a minute.”
He scrutinizes me, ready for an argument.
“Don’t stay over tonight,” I say.
At first his expression is incredulous, but then he realizes the state I’ve gotten myself into and how confused I’m feeling. People usually flip out because something bad happens to them, but I am already a mess at the best of times, and a weekend as full of laughter as this one has had the strange effect of making me feel uncomfortable. I need distance – physical and emotional – to understand what I really want.
“Are you serious?”
“Ari, try to understand...”
“Understand what? That we’ve had a really nice couple of days?”
“Exactly. It was a wonderful weekend, let’s try not to spoil it.”
“You’re the one spoiling it.”
“It wasn’t me who asked you to choose,” I remind him with annoyance.
At that point, Ari’s face grows angry.
“You’ve had plenty of time to decide what you think,” he says, in a hurt voice, “and in the meantime you’ve practically been living with me. Come on, Giada, you and me are practically breathing the same air, night and day, and now I’m the bad guy because I’m asking you to accept it and act accordingly? Listen, if worst comes to worst you can always dump me. It’s not like we’re getting married or anything, we’d just be calling things by their proper name.”
Out there is a world full of people who never feel the need to get married, who stay together for decades without actually living together, who need to keep their respective spaces and autonomy. And then there are people like Ariberto, who wants everything right away and to hell with the rest. Ari gives so much, but he wants to be repaid with the same coin. His way of loving – and I use the word deliberately, even though neither of us has yet dared to pronounce it – is all-encompassing, the kind that can overwhelm you if you’re not prepared for such an intense feeling. And I don’t feel like I’m in a moment of my life when I’m ready for something that intense. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of being so involved with a person.
“You make it sound easy but you know as well as I do that things are complicated between us.”
“You’re complicated, I’m just trying to simplify everything. Do you want to be with me or not? I’m sorry but there’s no middle ground.”
But there is. A lot of it. And the fact that Ari doesn’t want to accept it makes me furious.
“Do you know what the problem is, Ariberto Castelli? It’s that things don’t always go the way you want them to! So, if you don’t mind, I’ll carry on living the way I’ve always done, and it certainly won’t be you who tells me how I should or shouldn’t live my life!”
Satisfied that I’ve had the last word, I open the car door and rush off. Only to then have to go back and get my suitcase out of the boot. Not quite the triumphal exit I’d been planning on making.
Behind me, Ari’s car loudly accelerates away.
Typical, men: when they don’t know how to make people understand them, they just press down on the accelerator.
Chapter 14
My mother is one of those people who really struggle to leave the place they’re from. Sort of, ‘yes, Paris might be wonderful and yes, New York isn’t so bad, but nothing is as good as Veneto’. In truth it’s less that she doesn’t like other places than that she doesn’t like traveling. She gets tired, she gets bored, she starts sweating, and a thousand other silly annoyances. Anyway, whatever her excuses are, the fact remains that my mother has only set foot in Milan five times all the time I’ve been here at university. And only ever if she had some other commitment she could justify her visit with. That’s why her phone call last night, when she informed me in a solemn voice that she was coming to Milan with the sole purpose of meeting me and having lunch with me, put the fear of God into me.
Yes, this is a really shitty period. Ari being pissed off and my mother on her way to speak to me are more than I can bear, even in my darkest moments.
Ariberto, who is probably waiting for me to make my decision, is barely speaking to me. I raise my head and look at him for a few seconds while he works with concentration: his face, usually so serene, is broken up by a kind of V-shaped frown between his eyebrows.
“Ahem,” I cough, to get his attention. He raises his head and gives me a cold look. He’s definitely pissed off. “My mother is in Milan today, so I have to go and have lunch with her,” I inform him. Not that I need to justify my movements, but having lunch together has become a pleasant habit lately so I’m just explaining myself, even though I hate doing it.
He doesn’t say anything and merely stares at me with gloomy eyes. Apparently he has decided to give up his Mister Smile act for the time being. What a shame, just as I was getting used to constantly being around someone who was always in a good mood...
“Good for you,” he says in a voice which sounds indifferent but which I suspect contains a fair dose of dear old sarcasm. This stuff never goes out of fashion with me.
If he were actually my boyfriend – if things between us were official – I would feel obliged to extend the invitation, but luckily for him, things between us are in deadlock. He doesn’t know it, but I’m doing him a big favour by allowing him to avoid my mot
her. The only drawback is that he doesn’t seem to see it the same way, because his expression gets even darker.
“It’s much better like this, Gargy...” I say.
“Gargy?” he asks irritably.
“Yes – right now you look like a cross between Heathcliff and Gargamel from the Smurfs, and seeing as I’ve never been much for romantic heroes, I’m going for Gargamel,” I explain, in the hope of eliciting at least a hint of a smile. But there’s nothing. He must have just got up on the wrong side of the bed today. “Right, well, I’ll be off then...”
I have precisely zero desire to have lunch with my mother, but the atmosphere in the office is not particularly enticing either, so it looks like I’m trapped between the frying pan and the fire.
Still no response from Ari.
“Right, well I’ll be off then,” I repeat, and then set off towards the exit because this is really getting ridiculous.
*
My mother and I have been sitting absolutely stock still for over five minutes, pretending to study the menu. Silence can be fine when you’re with people you’re comfortable with, but my mother is definitely not ‘people I’m comfortable with’. With her, neither silence nor conversation is ever meant to make you feel comfortable.
“I think I’ll have a tuna carpaccio,” she informs me in a surprisingly formal tone, raising her green eyes to look at me.
If it weren’t for my sudden changes of hair colour and the way I dress, the resemblance between us would be very obvious. Like today, for example, since my hair is oddly similar to hers and I’m wearing one of those business suits. It’s a kind of uniform in the consulting world but my mother probably thinks is the smartest thing she’s seen me in since my confirmation.
“You look... well, Giada,” she tells me, unable to hide her amazement.
Not knowing what to say, I go back to talking about food. “I think I’ll have the Caesar Salad.”
“Of course, you would have looked even nicer if you’d worn a silk blouse...” she adds, going back to what she’s best at: criticising me all the bloody time.
