by Fabio Volo
I dropped off the groceries and went for a walk. It had been a long time since I took a trip alone to a foreign city. When I was younger, I did it all the time. The first time was right after high school. I went to London. I wanted to improve my English—what I had learned in school was useless. It was my first experience abroad. I had to rely only on myself. I remember I was scared, but that feeling was accompanied by a sensation I had never experienced before: the smell of freedom. A personal challenge, a mystery to be explored, as if at the bottom of that experience something was waiting for me, a line of darkness I needed to cross. Something that would have turned me into a man. Those were my coming-of-age years, when I felt that I had to do something.
There’s a Hindu proverb that says, “There’s nothing noble about being better than someone else. True nobility is to be better than your previous self.”
That was basically the reason why I was in New York.
The trip to London had been one of the most important in my life. I remember I landed in Heathrow at noon, after my plane had stopped in Switzerland because of an engine problem. Come to think of it, it must have been that particular episode that caused my fear of flying. Anyway, I had arrived in London at noon and, by four in the afternoon, I had already found a job: dishwasher in a restaurant near Liverpool Station. It was a Friday. I was supposed to start work on Monday. I had almost three days of vacation.
At first, I felt a sense of enthusiasm and focus that helped me overcome the initial difficulties, but later I began to feel very miserable. I would cry every day, but I didn’t want to go home. I felt lonely, vulnerable, lost in a world that didn’t seem to notice me and didn’t seem to care. Ever since I was little I have always felt like someone who had sneaked into a party uninvited. But in London that feeling made me want to earn my own spot. I wanted to belong. At the time, I felt miserable because, while my friends were at the sea, carefree, enjoying their usual life far from any risk, I felt like the loneliest man in the world. I often wondered why I had made such a stupid decision, I kept telling myself that I was punishing myself and that instead I should have started to enjoy life a bit.
“Why don’t you go home and go to the sea with your friends, and leave this place behind?”
Those voices. Ulysses’ sirens. Later, I understood that overcoming those difficulties had a huge importance, facing those problems and solving them had been crucial.
When I called my mother I would tell her I was doing well and not to worry about anything. But then I would call my grandma and confess how hard it was, barely holding my tears. She would beg me to come back. When she would tell me that, I couldn’t help but cry as she repeated my name on the phone. “Giacomo, Giacomo, Giacomo, come now.” I would stop crying and I would tell her that I loved her and then she would start crying.
There is something that has always amused me about my grandma. Every time I called her she would thank me, “Thanks… for calling me.”
Bye, grandma.
From that sad time in London I remember one day in particular. It was July; it was raining. I was walking in the rain and I was crying. I wandered around the city I despised for its continuous rain, its language, the faces of people who never looked at me, those people who, if I pronounced a word differently, would tell me they didn’t understand, laughing in my face. Lost in those thoughts I came to an intersection and before crossing, I checked to see if any cars were coming. I did it the usual way: looking left first. Nobody was coming, so I started walking: on my right a cab came out of nowhere and stopped a few inches in front of me. I jumped back without saying anything. The driver cursed at me then left. I was on the sidewalk, crying and shaking. I stood there in the rain crying for at least twenty minutes. Then I went back to my room and went to bed. I woke up the following day.
I rented a room in a house with other people. I lived in my room and never left it other than to go to the bathroom. In order to avoid having to ask my mother for money I did everything I could to spend as little as possible. During the day I would try to eat at work. I would steal something form the walk-in fridge. Another guy who worked there, Duke, did the same thing. He was from Africa, and sometimes, when he managed to make a cheese sandwich, he would make an extra one for me, and he would hide it behind the milk jug.
Duke’s camaraderie in the work place gave me the strength to overcome that difficult time. It helped me survive. Little by little I took my own life back. I began to speak and understand English. Then Kelly arrived. She was a waitress at the restaurant where I washed dishes. She was blonde, with fair eyes, and she didn’t even look English. There was no courtship, neither on my part nor on hers. One night she invited me to a party. I went and in the end we kissed, we made love, and we stayed together until I went back to Italy, about a month later. I don’t know if it was because I understood English very little, but I don’t even remember how we got together. It had happened in a natural way. We fell into that story. It was an outdoor party. They projected psychedelic images on a huge white screen as big as the entire house. She handed me a pill before going in. It was my first time. After the party, which ended around ten in the morning, we went back to her place and I slept there. The bed in her room was too small, one of those attached to the wall, so we slept on the floor, on a blanket, in the room where the couch was. However, I remember I slept well, maybe because I was really tired. To this day, I still don’t know what that pill was. I only remember that I loved everyone that evening. I loved the entire world and I would have hugged it continuously, so hard that the equator would have left a mark on my stomach.
We made love on the blanket; it was unforgettable. We didn’t say anything about us to the people at work, so our relationship, at those hours, was based on clandestine encounters, looks, and coded messages. When I would peel potatoes I would often carve one in the shape of a heart. She would laugh. English woman are not used to Latin romanticism. We have them at a disadvantage.
The strange thing about our relationship was that we courted each other only later. When we were already together. I know, it’s strange, but also very intriguing and it all came naturally. Kelly always smiled, and I would fall in love with her every day between dirty pots, dishes that needed drying, and vegetables that had to be chopped.
There was no email yet. The only addresses we had were those of our places, and a few months after I went back to Italy we lost touch. Later she moved to Australia. It was many years ago and although I have a hard time remembering her face, when I think of her I always feel a strong affection and a great melancholy. I would like to see her again, even though we might not even recognize each other.
Another thing I remember about her is that she often took me to a cemetery and we would sit on a bench and chat, as if we were at the park. She said that was her favorite place in London. At first I though that was an absurd situation, later I realized that place had a magical and seductive atmosphere. Every time I would return to London I always took a walk through that cemetery. Thanks to Kelly, I wouldn’t cry anymore when I’d call my grandma.
After my experience in London I often traveled by myself. Always for a couple of months, more or less. I would look for a job and I would rent some hole in the wall to sleep in. I often spent my summer vacations in a city abroad: Paris, Madrid, Prague, Berlin. I always felt the adrenaline of the adventure but without the fear and the tears of London. I studied and worked in the summer. Sometimes, in winter, I would take on small jobs to help out my mother. I would arrive in a city without knowing much about it. Full of curiosity. Curious to discover the face of people I was about to meet, to imagine the house I was about to live in, the girl I was about to make love to. That’s because, sooner or later, I would have made love to somebody. When you travel alone, you always get laid. Life had become my favorite book, my own movie to watch, the most beautiful story to tell. Life is the most powerful drug in the world.
Every time, before leaving, I would ask everyone to come visit me, because I thought
it would make me feel less lonely. During the first days, before making any friends, I would call everyone on the phone; I lived abroad, but I kept myself tied to life at home, like a kite. But as soon as I met someone and started to speak the language, I would begin a different life, a new one, separate from the one at home. At that point I didn’t want anyone to come visit me. If friends came to visit, after a couple of days, I was happy to see them go, because hanging out with them was like returning to my old life, the one I was taking a break from. Later, I learned to leave without saying anything to anyone. Also because it would happen that way, after talking to everyone about it, when it was finally time to leave, I felt as if I had already been away for a while. I would live the emotions of the future by speaking of them, so that the present turned into the past. Basically, I would arrive late to my own life.
That day in New York I went back to Michela’s at seven to start cooking dinner. She was going to be late. When she arrived I put on the pasta water and the sauce was almost ready. Silvia and I had chosen the menu over the phone. I asked for her opinion and she suggested something simple, “nothing too fancy.” In addition to pasta I also prepared some pinzimonio, a salad, a few bruschette with tomato and basil. I had already opened the wine because it was one of those that needed to breathe. We drank some immediately, as we tried the bruschette. A small aperitif: tomato, basil, and kisses that tasted like wine. On the counter, in front of the window, there was the vase with the flowers I had bought. I had also lit a few candles I had found around the house. From the kitchen window you could see the house across the street. One of those typical Manhattan buildings made of red bricks with a fire escape just like those in the movies.
The small speakers in my computer were playing a list of songs I had prepared especially for that evening. Just the two of us, and the rest of the world was outside. Everything was perfect. Michela lay down on the couch for a moment. She was tired. I would lean over the couch and pour wine from my mouth into hers. I even gave her a quick foot massage. Then she went to take a shower. By herself, I had to watch the stove. She came back wearing a summer dress, comfortable but still sexy. The kind of dress where all you need to do is slide the straps over and it falls down to her feet. I couldn’t wait.
I had her taste the sauce with a wooden spoon then I kissed her. I wanted to taste all the flavors of the world on her lips.
“You know what I miss about my house in Italy?”
“What?”
“My bathtub. Usually, after work I would take a nice bath before dinner. It’s something I’ve been doing for years.”
She picked up her wine glass.
“How beautiful, music I don’t know playing in my new house…”
“Do you want to put on your music?”
“No. I like listening to music I don’t know. When I’m at someone’s place I always feel like it sounds better. Tonight, instead, it’s unknown music but it’s still my house… Who is this?”
“I made us our own play-list. It’s completely new: Sam Cooke, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, Bonnie Raitt, Stan Getz, James Elmore, Dave Brubeck.”
“I shall remember you as the boyfriend who played the best music.”
“Given the choice, I’d rather be the one you had more fun in the sack with. You know I’m a caveman.”
“Well, we’ll see, you have some fierce competition.”
“I’ll try my best. And how about you, what do you want to be remembered for?”
“As the one who made you see yourself as the most handsome. Or the sexiest of them all.”
“You are on the right track, but you also have some fierce competition.”
“How does it feel to be my boyfriend?”
“So far, so good.”
“I think marriages should have an expiration date, too.”
“To be renewed every nine days?”
“No, nine days is too short. Let’s say after a few years, I don’t know, five maybe, like a temporary contract. At the end of the five years, if we still love each other and we feel like it, we can renew it. Otherwise, bye-bye. That way one is more careful and doesn’t forget certain things.”
That evening I asked her what she liked about me. Well, I found out she liked a bunch of things.
“Your sweetness. The fact that you don’t hide it, that you don’t pretend you’re different, more confident, but rather you seem honest, sincere. Although it’s too early to tell. Plus you are romantic, despite the fact that you’ve had many affairs but few love stories, as you said.”
“I’ve been forced not to be, I told you.”
“I like the way you looked at me on the tram, it made me feel caressed, never invaded or threatened. Well, you read my journal… I liked you for the way you talked to me that day at the café, and for the way you told me you were sorry I was leaving. For your gaze, the curiosity it communicates. For the gestures you make and how you move your hands when you’re talking to me. The way you move your hands is sexy. I like your neck, the shape of your head and your lips. And also your teeth. You smell clean, like laundry hanging to dry.”
I remained silent for a bit, thinking about what I liked about her. In addition to all the things I already knew, since the beginning I felt that she was going to make me feel different. I was going to be exactly who I wanted to be at that moment in my life. But I didn’t tell her.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked me.
“About the trophies won by the people I’ve been with.”
“Who gets the one for the woman who made you suffer the most?”
“Camilla, actually no, maybe Laura. How about you?”
“Attilio. He cheated on me with my best friend.”
“Let’s not talk about that. Monica: ‘best ass and wild sex.’”
“Who the hell is this Monica? I maybe lack the best ass, but I’ll try my best to outdo her when it comes to the second part. Paolo first in the category ‘I believe he’s the one.’ And I’d believed it for a while.”
“Silvia, first in the category ‘let’s stay friends.’ Laura, it goes without saying, first in the category ‘first time.’”
“The same one who also won the ‘suffering’ category? You were unlucky from the start.”
“Yes. But that’s because I was fifteen. Let’s say Laura as a teenager, and Camilla as an adult.”
“The first time doesn’t really count, but if you want to consider it, mine was Veronello.”
“Veronello? What kind of name is that? How can you fuck someone named Veronello? And it was your first time to boot…”
“It was a combination of his grandparents’ names, Veronica and Antonello. Or at least I think so, I’m not sure.”
“He also takes the category for absurd names, doesn’t he?”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? For heaven’s sake, who else did you go out with, Mickey Mouse?”
“It was in middle school, but we didn’t make love. Does it still count?”
“Let’s say it does, just because I’m curious to know what his name was.”
“Amarildo.”
“Yeah, right… Piss off. You’re pulling my leg. Who the hell would name someone Amarildo?”
“I swear. Amarildo Cocci.”
“Amarildo and Veronello. Where were they born, Disney World? They could have an act in the circus or at a disco. Ladies and gentlemen, our guests tonight are the fabulous Veronello and Amarildo! Let’s give them a round of applause. You definitely win in the category for ‘the best collection of horrible names.’”
“So you want to be the best sex, right?”
“Right.”
“For now, you’re at the top of the list in the category of ‘foreplay and kisses.’ Happy?”
“Okay, but who are the contenders for ‘best sex?’”
“Well, you would have to do better than Veronica.”
“Veronello’s grandma?”
“No, another one, but this is a story fo
r another time.”
“What do you mean for another time?”
“I’m kidding. This pasta is good. I’ll say you’re at the top of the category, with the possibility of first place, ‘music, food, and foreplay.’”
“Well, that’s not bad… You’re first in the category ‘I don’t know what you’re doing to me, but I like it.’ And also for the category ‘unbelievably sexy woman.’ And ‘most comfortable home.’”
“Fuck the comfortable home, come on, I don’t want that. But if you want to stay here, without going back to the hotel, you can, because I’ll be going to Boston quite often over the next few days.”
“Ah, thanks, you’re inviting me over because you know you won’t be there.”
“Of course, otherwise how is anyone supposed to put up with you?”
“Fuck you.”
“You should know better than to include me in the category ‘comfortable house.’”
“You take planes as often as I take the tram.”
“If I could postpone the trips, I’d happily do so, but there have been many changes in the company and its headquarters are in Boston. Many boring meetings.”
“Are they hiring?”
“You’re joking, but for people who know English and Italian it wouldn’t be too hard to find a job in my line of work, you know?”
“If we didn’t already know that we’re going to break up in a few days, I’d think about it. But I wouldn’t want to go to Boston every week. I don’t like flying that much.”
“Are you afraid of dying or are you afraid of flying?”
“I’m afraid of dying while flying. Although until a few years ago I wasn’t afraid of dying, but things are rather different lately. Truthfully, it’s not like I’m afraid of dying, it’s rather that it would bother me a lot. It bothers me that one day I won’t be around anymore. I don’t like the idea of going away. It’s not fear; it’s just a nuisance. Death is bullshit. I’d give me life not death.”
“Once I thought I was going to die. I had a close call.”
“An accident?”
