Daybreak

by Fabio Volo

  To me, she’s never been kind. She always criticized everything: the way I cooked, the groceries I bought, where I shopped, how I would clean, how I would dress.

  That day, as soon as we sat down at the table, she said: “Don’t you ever iron his shirts? He’s always wearing T-shirts and sweaters! He looks good in shirts … Paolo, do you want me to buy a couple of them from the shop downstairs?”

  “No, mom, I already have enough shirts, and the cleaning lady irons them; Elena doesn’t iron them. You know that she’s at work the whole day,” he tried to tell her.

  “I used to work, too, but we couldn’t afford a maid. I had to take care of everything and your father was very particular about his shirts being ironed properly, otherwise he’d make a scene, do you remember? Ah, speaking of the shop downstairs, I bought you and your brother some underwear that was on sale. They’re made with a beautiful cotton …”

  “Mom, will you stop buying me underwear!” Simone exclaimed. “I’ve told you many times I don’t want them.”

  “Shut up, you! Nothing’s ever good enough for you.” She got up from the table, went in the other room, and came back with two bags.

  “Do you want me to put them on now, while we’re eating? Would that make you happy?” Paolo’s brother mocked her, throwing his bag on the couch. Sometimes Simone really made me laugh.

  Paolo, by contrast, after having said thank you, diligently inspected his underwear, front and back, then turned to me and asked: “Do you like them?” I sadly nodded yes, and he folded them, put them back in the bag, and placed it by the front door, so as not to forget them.

  As we ate my mother-in-law kept talking about the cousin who had recently become a mom, but wasn’t married.

  “But, Mom, why would you care whether or not they get married? The only thing that matters is that they’re happy. What difference does it make?”

  “Of course, Simone, everything is always fine in your eyes. According to you, only stupid people get married. I don’t understand, now that they have a baby girl, why they don’t get married. If it’s true, as you say, that it makes no difference, then why don’t they do it?”

  “Why don’t you let them be, the poor things. Look at her sister, who got married when she was twenty-five and is now a depressed tub of lard. Her only worry is what to feed her children, who in turn are already two small tubs of lard themselves.”

  “What does that have to do with marriage?”

  “Eh, right, right, it has nothing to do with marriage …”

  “You’ll see, as soon as you find the right girl, you’ll change your mind, too, and get married immediately, in a hurry.”

  “You can bet on it, Mom.”

  “Oh well, of course, as long as you keep going out with that kind of woman …”

  “ ‘That kind of woman,’ what do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean, don’t make me say it, today, a Sunday, but you know what I mean. Plus, even the pope said so this morning during his Angelus: if you’re not married, you’re not a family.”

  “Right, good, drag the pope into this. That’s the way. What does he know about marriage? Has he ever been married? If getting married were the only thing you needed to make a family, we would have solved all the world’s problems. As for the women I go out with, you must understand that if a woman refuses to become a wife or a mother, that doesn’t mean she’s a whore.”

  “Simone, it’s Sunday and we’re at the table. If your father were here, you wouldn’t talk like that.”

  That Sunday, as it had been on all Sundays his brother was there, Paolo and I barely spoke, since Simone and his mother argued the whole time. We had coffee, and we ate the ice cream cake we had brought. After lunch, as usual, I pretended I wanted to help with the dishes, but she stopped me. I didn’t insist. Simone smoked, as his mother was telling him he should quit, or that he should at least buy regular cigarettes instead of rolling his own.

  “Sooner or later I’ll tell her this isn’t tobacco …” he whispered to me and winked.

  I only wanted to go back home as soon as possible. Before leaving, Paolo went to the bathroom and when he came out, his mother invariably asked him the same question she’d asked every time since I met her: “Did you turn off the light in the bathroom?” As soon as you stepped out of a room, she would make sure all the lights had been turned off.

  In front of the elevator, as we were waiting for my mother-in-law, Simone threw his underwear bag to Paolo. “Why don’t you wear mine, too? They’re made with beautiful cotton.”

  “But we’re taking mom to Marina’s. If she sees you gave me your underwear, she’ll be disappointed.”

  “You cheer her up, you’re good at that. So long, sad ones.” He climbed down two steps, then turned to look at me. “That haircut looks good on you.”

  Paolo looked at me. “Ah, that’s right … You look good.”

  February 16th

  It’s all set: In a week we’re celebrating the success of the London project. There will be a meeting, then an aperitif and dinner. We’ll be back the following day. I’m very happy about this trip; I hope I’ll have a little time to see the sights. I haven’t been to London in a long time. Federica and I already devised an escape plan for before the aperitif. We also compiled a list of stores we absolutely need to visit.

  Paolo just came into the room and asked me in a resentful tone what in the world I have to write in my journal every evening. “That you’re a boring husband,” I answered. He smiled.

  I asked him if he wanted to come with me to London. Today I was thinking about it and it seemed like a good idea. A change in our surroundings would do us good. He said he would have liked to, if nothing else just to stop me from wasting my money in all those shops, but his job wouldn’t allow any time off. I insisted, but he wouldn’t change his mind.

  Maybe it’s for the best.

  He really is a boring husband.

  February 17th

  This evening we went to dinner with Giovanni and Anna. Out of all the couples we know, they’re the ones I like the best. They look beautiful together. They’re friendly, cheerful, and they always have something funny or interesting to talk about. I don’t think they fake it. They look like they really love each other. She told us that a month ago she had enrolled in a tango class. She was enthusiastic about it. She said that it’s almost like a drug, she can’t go without it, she has a lot of fun, and her teacher told her she was already getting very good.

  She and Giovanni are going to Argentina for two weeks. We have joked a lot about the prospect of him dancing the tango, because that really isn’t his thing. We laughed about his lack of coordination, remembering one New Year’s Eve when we teared up with laughter watching him on the dance floor.

  Argentina was Giovanni’s idea. While we were at the table, he told us jokingly: “I signed her up for an intensive course, so during the day I can be alone and walk around looking for Argentine girls to hook up with.”

  Anna smiled and said she wasn’t worried since Giovanni couldn’t compete with Argentine men, who, in her opinion, were natural born lovers, just like Cubans.

  Paolo asked her how she knew that.

  “When I was living at my old place I had an Argentine neighbor and, at night, when he was making love, it sounded as if someone were playing soccer in a broom closet. One night I was in the elevator with a girl who was going to his apartment. I looked at her as you look at someone who has the winning lottery ticket in her pocket and still doesn’t know it.”

  But seriously, Giovanni’s presence really moved me. While we were sitting at the table, he was holding her hand, caressing her head, kissing her. I always notice the way he looks at her when she speaks. I’m almost jealous of her. My relationship with Paolo doesn’t include public displays of affection. Not even private ones, actually.

  I even wore the dress I bought Saturday, and I tried to look as cute as possible. By now I don’t even know if I’m doing it for Paolo or
for myself. I like the idea of people paying me compliments in his presence. This evening I received a lot of them. He didn’t say anything about it.

  While we were driving home, we didn’t say a word. The only thing Paolo said was that Argentina sounded dangerous and that “those two” needed to be careful. In the silence of the car ride I suddenly had the same feeling that I had the other day at the office. Silvia had received a bunch of flowers and when the deliveryman had left I was very curious to find out to whom they were addressed. She recently got engaged and her fiancé surprises her with these things. Sometimes he even comes to pick her up from the office so she doesn’t have to take the bus. I’m a little ashamed to write this down, but I had hoped those flowers were for me. It’s been years since Paolo has bought me flowers, save the usual mimosa branch on Women’s Day. Naturally, I can’t ask my husband to send me roses. It’s something that should come from him. The problem is that I can’t expect a trip to Argentina, either, but, unlike the roses, this is my fault. When was the last time I did something new? Something that really interested me, that interested us? It probably wouldn’t be tango lessons, but I could find something more my style. That was why, at a certain point, I told him: “We could take a little trip, too … maybe for Easter, somewhere closer than Argentina …” I was almost ashamed of it as I said it; I felt a sort of unease. Then I added: “Are you really sure you don’t want to come to London?” Without turning toward me, his eyes fixed on the road, he answered: “I can’t come to London, I have too much work to do. However, a trip later on sounds good … Why not? Not at Easter, though, that’s a busy time for me, but we could go immediately after.”

  As soon as said that, both of us knew we were never taking that trip. It’s never the right time for us. However, we’ve become very good at pretending it’s not one of the usual lies. For a few seconds, I think, we genuinely believe it and we even feel a small echo of those emotions we just announced and will never experience.

  Some days, however, everything drains me, even the things we haven’t done. At this point, it’s already a lot that I get to go to London next week.

  I spoke to Carla on the phone the day before I left. “What postcard … If I see something cute I’ll buy it for you.”

  “I want a postcard; I haven’t received one in a long time. Then, if you also see something cute, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Trust me. And what kind of postcard do you want—one with a picture of the Queen of England, of Lady Di, of Charles and Camilla?”

  “I’d like one with a view of London.”

  Carla was the only one who’d ask for something like a postcard.

  During that conversation, we talked about him, the man who had looked at me. I didn’t like returning to that topic; however, I couldn’t help confessing to Carla that I hoped I wasn’t going to find myself in an embarrassing situation. She told me not to worry and that instead I should think about what clothes to bring; actually, she also reminded me to bring my new shoes. I had already though about it, but Paolo’s words had popped into my head: “You should take them with you; if you don’t wear them on this sort of occasion, when else are you going to wear them?”

  “I don’t want to look too aggressive. Maybe the others will be wearing normal shoes, and I’ll show up in stilettos. I knew I was never going to wear them, I wasted my money, Paolo was right.”

  “ ‘Paolo was right’ is something you should never say. Plus, what do you care what other people do? Listen to me, trust me: pack those shoes, as well.”

  February 23rd

  London is beautiful. As soon as the meetings were over, Federica and I ran out to do some shopping. I bought a skirt, a top, a pair of shoes, and I also got a few nice things for the house. I could have spent a lot more, but I was good and didn’t go overboard. Besides going to the Liberty store, where I had been before, I fell in love with this other store called Anthropologie, on Regent Street, and also with the restaurant where we had tea: Ottolenghi, in Notting Hill. Then we went back to the hotel for the aperitif and dinner. It was a lot of fun; it didn’t even feel like work.

  During the aperitif at the bar, he didn’t even look at me or pay me much attention; we exchanged a few quick words, and I mostly kept to myself. I thought he was upset that I never called him. Anyway, he didn’t mention the note.

  I felt silly for having given so much weight to his looks. At dinner I stared at him much more than he had ever stared at me. When we locked eyes, he would smile and send me a toast from the other side of the table. Then he would go back to talking to other people. When I would catch him looking at me, it gave me a certain pleasure. When I would see him talking to other women, I would almost feel jealous.

  Then it happened: I turned to look at him and he was staring at me with a different look on his face, profound. At that moment he made me feel chosen, as if he had decided that I had to be his. I felt desired, completely desired. I looked away and didn’t turn in his direction for the rest of dinner.

  Later, we moved to the bar. He kept the party going: He made us laugh a lot and in the end he had won everyone over, the men and the women. I realized that it certainly wasn’t difficult for him to seduce women.

  I don’t need to reread the pages describing my trip to London: I remember everything as if it were yesterday. I was in front of the door to my room when I heard the second elevator opening and then his voice: “Good night, Elena.”

  I was embarrassed, but hearing him call my name was a pleasant surprise.

  “Don’t be scared; I’m not stalking you. My room is right next to yours, so I have to pass it.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  Actually, I was.

  He came close to me. Very close. So much so that my nose filled with his smell. I had had a few drinks and maybe that’s why I was experiencing a bit of vertigo. He came even closer. My head started to spin.

  “Sorry that I came up at the same time as you, if it seems like I’m following you … Actually, it’s not just a coincidence: I did it on purpose because I wanted to tell you something.”

  At that point I was afraid that by looking into my eyes from that distance he would be able to tell I wanted it, too.

  “I wanted to congratulate you on how you executed the project. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to work with you again soon.” Then, in a delicate move, he brushed my hair out of my face. “Good night.” And he headed toward his room.

  As we were both facing our doors, we looked at each other one last time.

  “You look very good in those shoes.”

  I said, “Thanks,” and quickly ran inside. I closed the door and pressed my back against it. My legs were shaking. My knees gave out and I slid slowly down to the floor. After a few seconds, I thought I heard his steps coming back toward my room. I put my ear to the door. I was in the dark, with my eyes shut, listening to every little noise. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweaty. I remained still, in that position, for a few minutes—then I went to lie on the bed.

  I was really agitated. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding, but it wasn’t just my heart. My whole body was shaking, turned on, alive, vibrant.

  I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. Slowly, I calmed down and fell asleep.

  When I awoke the following morning, I felt very far away from what had happened the night before, as if I had dreamt the whole thing. I promised myself I was never going to drink again. Then I called Carla.

  “Tell me you just got back to your room after you made sure nobody saw you come out of his. Tell me you spent the whole night with him, and that now you’re so hungry you could eat the whole breakfast buffet …”

  “Carla! I just woke up alone in my room, sorry to disappoint you. There was a close call though …”

  “Did he make a pass at you?”

  “No, not explicitly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not explicitly’?”

  “At dinner, he looked at me in a way that gave me goose bumps, then i
n the hallway he said good night standing very close to me.”

  “Did he kiss you?”

  “No, he headed back to his room.”

  “Men aren’t the gentlemen they used to be.”

  “Better that way, last night there was a moment when I could have said yes. I had had a few drinks and I was very close to screwing up and making my life difficult.”

  “Who knows? Maybe you’d feel much better now.”

  “I don’t think so—at this point, my life seems to be messy enough. That’s the last thing I need.”

  “You know what? Yesterday I was thinking about you with him and I imagined you were going to be happy.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No, no, I gave it a lot of thought and I believe that in the end, it would do you a lot of good.”

  “Anything to make Paolo’s life miserable and you …”

  “That’s true. Did you wear your new shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the black dress or the red one?”

  “The red one.”

  “Good. Listen, when are you going to come visit me for a weekend? I have a lot of things to tell you.”

  “This week I’ll see how the new projects are going and I’ll let you know. I can’t wait. I need to spend some time with you; this is a strange period for me.”

  After the call, I went down to the lobby. Paolo hadn’t called; he hadn’t even sent me a text to ask how the meeting and the dinner went. When I entered the breakfast room, he was sitting there by himself.

  I headed for the buffet, wondering whether I should sit at a table by myself or join him. I put two slices of bread in one of those rotating toasters and stared at them as they disappeared into the machine: After a few seconds, they dropped down the slide, already toasted. I put them back in, just to buy some time. They came out practically charred. I turned around and he was standing behind me.