by Edoardo Nesi
— Thank you for coming back, Vezzosi. Thank you so much. I was completely lost here. Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We need you, right away.
He took Cesare by the arm and led him to the group of workers, to whom he was introduced as Mr. Vezzosi, the man who had designed the factory, and everyone greeted him immediately, calling him sir, and Cesare suddenly found himself faced with a rather inconsequential dispute — a banal misunderstanding between the steelworkers and the carpenters which he resolved in an instant, and the minute he saw the workers going off in three separate directions to carry out their duties, Cesare felt a sense of pride that he hadn’t felt for a long time.
And then he smiled, and told himself that he hadn’t smiled in a long, long time.
A COOL MORNING
IT IS A COOL NOVEMBER MORNING when Arianna walks into a grocery store and sees Ivo buying a handful of truffles. She moves closer to greet him, he sees her and his face lights up. He embraces her and kisses her on both cheeks — they are cool from the wind — and his right hand brushes against her waist for a second.
He holds the biggest of the truffles under her nose, and when she smells its rotten, irresistible strength, Arianna starts laughing and says she cannot understand how people can eat those things. Then she asks someone to serve her and gets distracted, and only when she has finished does she realize that Ivo is still standing next to the checkout, chatting idly with the shopkeeper — asking over and over whether those truffles really are from Alba. She wonders for a second whether Ivo might be somehow waiting for her, because he suddenly cuts the conversation short when he sees her moving closer to the cashier.
Arianna has two full bags, and he offers to help her take them to the car because his hands are free: he only bought the truffles! They leave the shop together, and when they get to her car, Arianna can’t find her keys. They aren’t in her bag or in her coat pockets, and it starts raining. Ivo, shopping bags in hand, offers to take her home, if she’d like, or — he adds, faced with her silence and a helpless look — at least to give her some shelter.
Then the rain begins to pour and the decision is made for them. Laughing, they take refuge in Ivo’s car — a blue Mercedes Pagoda whose interior still smells of leather. Ivo turns to place the bags on the backseat and the rain starts beating down like a drum on the roof of the car and the water streams down the windows and suddenly they can’t see anything. It is as if the outside world has disappeared and only they were left.
Arianna senses the intimacy of the moment and moves immediately to break it: she strokes the dashboard and compliments him on the car. Ivo thanks her and says that, thankfully, work is going well. Then he compliments her on the brown velvet jacket she is wearing under her trench coat and starts telling her all about velvet. He explains that no one really knows its origins, and everything they know about it comes from art and literature, but everyone agrees that the most beautiful velvets in history were made during the Renaissance in Lucca, Florence, and Venice, and how there were many types of it: cut velvet, patterned velvet, ferronerie velvet, curly velvet, brocaded velvet, ciselé velvet, but the most beautiful was velluto allucciolato, a velvet that took its name from fireflies because it had a double weft and one of them was made with a bouclé streaked with the finest thread of gold, which shone in the light of the candles. Then he tells her, passionately, about how during the Renaissance velvet was made from silk, and it was dyed red using ladybugs, which were immersed in boiling water and then dried in the sun, and it was dyed blue with indigo, which takes its name from India. Arianna listens to him without saying a word, her eyes bright, and Ivo asks her to imagine the sumptuous elegance of those Florentine women dressed in silk velvet, the only fabric in the world that can be both shiny and opaque.
— Just imagine a great ball at Palazzo Vecchio, Arianna. In the Salone dei Cinquecento. Lorenzo the Magnificent sitting on the throne wearing a vest of velluto allucciolato and admiring the greatest Italian masterpiece of all time, perhaps the only real one: the idea that life is worth living only if it’s ennobled by art, by paintings, sculptures, songs, poetry…
The heavy rain and the smell of the truffles hit Arianna as she looks ahead in the sudden silence, then Ivo whispers that she is so beautiful, and that he has always had a soft spot for her, ever since they were at school, and Arianna smiles and turns and looks at him — she just looks at him and says nothing, then the smile disappears from her face and she doesn’t know what to say or do, and Ivo draws close and kisses her, very slowly, on lips that immediately open, as if by reflex, and she closes her eyes and their tongues touch. They kiss for a long time, slowly, then he touches her breast over her clothes and she startles, and his hand quickly enters her cleavage and slips knowingly toward her bra, and Arianna quivers because she hasn’t been touched like that in years — not with that desire, that hunger — and she feels her nipples grow hard between his fingers, then Ivo’s hand suddenly moves away and reaches between her legs, it lifts her dress and moves upward until it gets to her underwear, and in a moment — truly a moment, the length of a breath — he moves it aside and his finger slips inside her, and she is wet, so very wet, and for a moment she is ashamed to reveal herself so wet, but then he starts to move his finger and doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop, and after a while her back starts to arch, and when she feels another finger enter inside her, she feels as if she is rising, soaring, and she breathes in deeply, breathes out, moans, and comes, squeezing her legs tight and holding Ivo’s hand inside her for a few precious seconds, before slowly opening them again. They hadn’t stopped kissing, not even for an instant, and it is still raining hard, and he starts to stroke her there again and she feels everything starting again, the ascent, faster this time, and Arianna comes again, with a startle and a sound she has never heard leave her mouth: it is a yelp, both defeated and victorious and unnecessarily smothered, and it really doesn’t matter that it’s morning and the car is parked right in the middle of the city, it doesn’t matter at all, and then she breaks away from his hands and from his mouth and leans on the door of the Pagoda. She looks at him in the eye for a brief moment and then moves close to him, strokes him, gives him a brief, feather-light kiss on the lips, and then bends toward his trousers. She opens his fly and touches his hardened penis, and begins what Ivo will remember as the best blow job of his life — he who had already received his fair share of blow jobs and would receive many more in the future.
Barrocciai closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, but then he thinks how he must remember everything, every tiny detail, and so he forces himself to open them again. He strokes her hair with his right hand while he uses his left to turn the lever on the seat in order to recline it, and some time passes, though Ivo cannot say how long, then she gives a faint sigh, and when she draws a perfect arabesque with her tongue he can resist no longer and comes inside her beautiful mouth, exhaling a long prehistoric grunt as Arianna continues and doesn’t stop until he is completely finished, then she sits up and looks ahead, and at that very moment it stops raining.
SHE WOULD NEVER FORGET
LATER, AT HOME, Arianna could barely remember a thing. Not how it started, nor what had made her decide to do what she had done. She could only remember minor details: the white-and-blue pattern of his underpants, the smell of those leather seats, the scent of the truffles, the sound of the rain on the car’s canvas roof. She wondered if other details would come back to her in the future, but in her heart she knew they wouldn’t. And yet she would never forget what had happened, no matter how many years she still had to live.
Having never been unfaithful to her husband, and having never even imagined betraying him, Arianna did not know how she was supposed to feel. She was somewhat concerned someone might have seen her get into Ivo’s car and then leave it twenty minutes later, all disheveled. However, it was highly unlikely. No one had dared go out in that downpour. The rain had been her accomplice: it had emptied the streets and turned the car windows into impenetrabl
e screens.
It had happened, she told herself, and it would never happen again — of this, at least, she was certain. And she didn’t cry and didn’t feel lost or wounded or empty or shattered or, even marginally, a whore — she only felt slightly surprised that one of her few fantasies had become a reality.
Arianna took a long shower, but not even for a split second did she think that a shower was necessary to cleanse her of what she had done. She just sat on the floor and, for ten minutes or so, let the water hit her back and head and shoulders and stream down her body, without a thought in her head. Every so often she smiled. Then she dried herself, put on her gray Champion sweatsuit, and started to prepare Vittorio’s lunch.
Ivo was both enthusiastic and troubled. A blow job from Arianna had been a dream of his since high school, and the sheer thought of it had led him to exhaust himself for years with long and extremely detailed wanks, but he kept seeing her getting slowly out of the Pagoda with the tiny ladder in her stockings that had occurred during that wild frenzy, and seemed to him like a wound. A wound he had caused.
He imagined her despairing, crying on the sofa and staring at the blank screen of the television, unable to restart her life after that first infidelity. Because Ivo was certain of that. Arianna had never cheated on Cesare. Never. And yet, how to explain the speed with which it happened, the decision that led her to bend over him and take him in her mouth, the way in which she had carried it out without the slightest hesitation and, more than anything, the total absence of any reaction after, apart from that fleeting smile? She hadn’t even said goodbye. Not a word.
He wondered what had happened. Whether he should call her, speak to her, or see her, or not. What was best? Should he make it plain, right away, that what had passed had been nothing more than a moment of madness, or should he try to see her again and try to fuck her and then maybe start an affair? Because he really, truly liked Arianna…And what about her? What did she want to do? Why did she give herself like that? Did she do it on purpose? Had he fallen into a trap? What if she wouldn’t leave him alone and started calling day and night? What if she told poor Cesare everything and they got divorced, and she got it into her head that she would marry him? Because no one would agree to such madness! He never wanted to marry anyone; he was already married to his business! And so? What was best? To disappear, of course. It was better just to disappear. Arianna would understand. And if she didn’t understand, he would explain everything at the right time, if needed. He would be kind, but firm. Of course, he said to himself, if he wasn’t meeting with Cesare right after lunch, everything would be easier. Much, much easier.
THE INFINITE ABSURDITIES LOVE CAN DRIVE A MAN TO COMMIT
— Ivo, Vezzosi started, entering the office and sitting down on the black armchair right in front of Barrocciai’s large rosewood desk. Shut the door. I owe you an explanation.
In his uneasiness, Ivo misunderstood and thought Cesare wanted an explanation from him, so he went pale and stood up. As he grasped the door handle, he wondered for a second if he shouldn’t start to run down the corridor and throw himself down the steel staircase to the factory floor, where Carmine and the other workers could defend him. He told himself he had to remain calm at all costs. He took a deep breath, exhaled, shut the door, and turned slowly toward the desk. He sat back down and, memorizing the exact position of the letter opener, leaned forward to prop up his elbows on the desk, then he put his hands together and rested his mouth on them pensively.
— I’m sorry, Cesare, an explanation for what? I don’t understand.
— You know very well…
Ivo gripped the side of the desk as hard as he could with both hands, as if he were strong enough to throw it at Cesare before making a run for it.
— It’s very good of you to say that, however…and I do appreciate it a lot. But I also feel it’s my duty to tell you about something personal that has happened to me over the last few months…Something that nearly ruined my life…Seriously…And I want to give you an explanation. No, I owe you an explanation.
— Are there problems on the site, Cesare?
— No, it’s all running smoothly now, don’t worry about the site. It will all be ready very soon…I just need to ask you a question, and you need to answer honestly. As a friend.
Was he playing with him? Cesare wasn’t as ebullient as usual. He looked worn out, tired. He had bags under his eyes. Ivo let go of the desk and leaned back into the armchair, as if to distance himself as much as possible from the matter, regardless of what it might be.
— As a real friend…
— Of course, Cesare…
Then Ivo changed his position again: this time he leaned forward and slowly placed his hands on the chair’s armrests, with a gesture that could be seen as an attempt to get closer to Cesare and whatever he was about to ask him, but was actually a way of ensuring he could stand up faster if he needed to escape.
— So, I’ve been having an affair, okay? With someone younger than me. Beautiful…Well, I think she’s beautiful. Not drop-dead gorgeous, you understand…but she is fine, believe me. And she drove me wild, pure sex…Before you ask me, you don’t know her. She’s a simple girl, has a beauty salon…She’s a hairdresser basically…And everything has always gone really well, no problems at all…You know, one of those perfect relationships where she never breaks your balls and such. Until one evening, as I’m taking her home, I joke and ask her if she has a boyfriend, and when she tells me she does, well, Ivo, I lose it. Totally. Completely. I went out of my mind, and I had a very hard time…Really, really hard.
Ivo loosened his grip on the armrests.
— I know that it doesn’t make sense for me to feel bad because she has a boyfriend, and you should know that I had even told her to get a boyfriend. And then I’m married…I have a family, a wife and a son, and I have my work. I have a life…I know, I know all of that…
— Exactly, Cesare…
— Yeah, yeah…Even though, Ivo, let’s be honest, my son was an accident. I wasn’t married, I wasn’t much more than a kid myself, and it was the only time in my life, the only fucking time, I came and did not go and piss before fucking her again…You get me? Anyway, I started to suffer real bad because of this girl, okay? Real bad. Real real bad. And for a while. For a long while.
— For how long?
— A long time, Ivo. Months.
— Months?
— Months. I’ve had a nervous breakdown, Ivo…I lost it completely. You were always abroad, but you must have noticed that you didn’t hear from me…Ivo, I don’t know how long I’ve been in my office in the dark, sitting next to the telephone. Of course the building wasn’t getting anywhere. It’s lucky Citarella was there, and thank God you called in your Sicilian friend…He must be one hell of a guy. I’d like to meet him…
— I’m sorry, Cesare, but I knew you had a nervous breakdown because of work…Citarella told me that. And I never said anything to you because I didn’t want you to get even more worried…You know, I actually felt guilty for giving you such a big project and then disappearing…
Cesare shook his head without saying a word.
— Okay. So tell me, what happened then? This hairdresser gets herself a boyfriend and you lose it, right?
— Yes, Ivo, that’s it.
— But why?
— What do you mean, why? Because she hadn’t told me anything about any boyfriend, and I didn’t think it possible that she’d need one. That she, my Historic Baby Doll, would need another man…I always thought I was enough for her. She had me, for fuck’s sake…Why did she go and find herself someone else? So, I went mad. I thought I was finished, understand? Washed up at forty-three. I blamed it on the fact I’m losing my hair…
— But where? You aren’t losing it.
— Yeah, I am, Ivo…If you look closely at my temples…
— I can’t see anything…So then what happened?
— What happened then is that…Well, we saw each
other less and less, and so I even took her on holiday.
— On holiday?
— Yeah, to France. But it didn’t work out and we broke up for good…But even though I feel a bit better now, I’m still not perfectly okay. The way the nervous breakdown came on, it could always come back.
— No, it won’t come back.
— But I really miss her, Ivo…I really do. Every day…You can’t imagine how much.
— You miss screwing her.
— Yes, of course, but it’s not just that…I don’t know, Ivo…Suddenly I don’t understand anything about my life anymore. Nobody knows this, of course, apart from Citarella…But then there are other problems. Things aren’t good at home, either…with Arianna. She doesn’t suspect anything, of course, but some days I just can’t bear to have her near me, Ivo. I just can’t. And it’s not her fault, poor thing…Ah, she said to say hi. Even my tennis is down the sink…
Ivo had already heard a few rumors: after many months without playing because of his tennis elbow, Cesare had started again a few months ago, but he was losing to everyone. Not just to those in the Third Category, who were now wiping the floor with him, but also to many of the unranked players he had easily beaten just a year ago. He played in the evening, inside the air domes, almost in secret, against kids, and lost every time. At the top table, Ivo had heard that the shrunken man who had taken to the court for those matches looked absolutely nothing like the Beast: he was always late, unshaven, out of breath, thin. He had even started to look a lot like his father. Once he had even walked onto the court wearing a pink Lacoste shirt.
