by Fabio Volo
At a certain point I couldn’t take it anymore and called him.
“Hi, how’s it going?”
“It’s going well, happy to hear your voice.”
I wanted to tell him, “If you wanted to hear my voice you could have called,” but instead, I said, “You fell off the face of the earth.”
“You told me you were busy, I was waiting for you to call me, and now that you did I’m happy. I want to see you.”
“Me too. When will you be back?”
“In a week, the work here never ends.”
“Are you tired?”
“Exhausted. Tonight I even have to go to a bachelor party for a friend who lives nearby. That will do me in. I’m too old for these things.”
“A bachelor party with strippers?”
“No, I think it’s going to be a regular dinner.”
“Maybe by the end of the night someone will get naked anyway.”
“Maybe.” I heard him laugh. Then he added: “I can’t wait to get back.”
I was happy to hear we were close once again. All the weight of the last few days had disappeared. I immediately felt light, happy, and stupid for all the things I had thought.
“I’d like to spend a whole day with you, like we did that Sunday. I want to cuddle, I want to be in your arms, even without making love.”
“Why without making love?”
“No, I meant that we don’t have to make love.”
I didn’t know why I had said such a stupid thing, but that’s how I felt at the time.
“The next time we see each other, we can decide whether or not to make love, although I think I already know what I’ll want,” he told me in an ironic voice. We both laughed.
Around noon I felt like taking a walk and went downtown to do some window-shopping. I was looking for him among the people, and I thought I saw him—I felt his hands reach out to caress me through the crowd. I walked into a shop to buy something with him in mind. I was happy to walk around holding in my hands that elegant bag with cloth handles. I’m superficial, I know, but I discovered I like to be like that, too. When I got home I took a bath; that evening Paolo was coming home late, so I prepared dinner without rushing. As I was cooking I sent him a message: “Have fun tonight, but not too much. I miss you. Kisses.” Then I kept checking my phone. He wasn’t responding. I sent him another message: “What happened to you? I’ll be home alone for another hour. Call if you want.”
The hour passed, Paolo came home, and he still hadn’t called. At dinner I kept thinking about his bachelor party and imagined him exchanging smiles and looks with other women, the way he had done with me in London. My blood was boiling. Paolo was talking to me, but I wasn’t listening, I was somewhere else.
“Anyway, this job of yours is killing you,” he told me at a certain point.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, it’s only that you’ve been distracted, tired, and quiet lately. It was better when you we were working less … You made less, but at least you were more present.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
I went to the bathroom, and as I walked through the living room, I grabbed my phone and saw there were no messages. In the bathroom I tried to understand why he wasn’t texting me. I wrote him: “I put in on vibrate. If you want you can text me. I miss you.” An hour later he still hadn’t answered. I was thinking that before sitting down for dinner, before leaving the phone in his jacket, he would have checked his messages. After waiting a while I gave him a call to see if his phone was off … Maybe there was no reception in the restaurant. It rang. I suddenly grew very anxious again.
“You’ve been tidying up the kitchen for over an hour now … Do you really need to mop the floors? Can’t you wait for the cleaning lady to do it tomorrow?” Paolo asked me.
“I want to do it myself, and I want to do it now,” I attacked him. “You keep watching TV as you always do, and don’t worry about me.”
“Do whatever you want.”
When I finished putting everything away I went to my room to write. I kept checking my phone. It was almost midnight. Sooner or later he would leave the restaurant and check his phone. He had to write me something.
July 18th, 3:00 a.m.
Did he get tired of me? Of us? Of our game?
I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t calm down. At first I got out of bed and went into the bathroom with my phone. Still no answer.
I started pestering him with texts.
1:48 a.m.
“I’m still up. Are you there?”
Still nothing.
While Paolo was sleeping and with the door between us, I snapped a few erotic photos, the kind he likes. I sent them to him.
2:03 a.m.
“Don’t you feel like playing with me anymore?”
Still no answer. I called him again. The phone kept ringing. I let it ring for a while. I was afraid Paolo could hear me but there was no danger since he didn’t pick up.
2:20 a.m.
“Answer me when you get this. I’m getting worried.”
2:51 a.m.
“Tell me you’re all right, even an okay will do. Otherwise I won’t be able to fall asleep.”
3:03 a.m.
“Did I do something? Why aren’t you answering?”
That night the anxiety and the agitation had completely clouded my mind; I had lost control. I fell asleep around five and woke up at eight. I immediately checked my phone: Nothing, no sign of life.
I thought about all the possible scenarios: “Last night he was already asleep, but if that was the case he would have been up by now and he would have answered me.” “He got in late last night, he was drunk, he fell asleep without even getting undressed and didn’t check his phone.” “He went home with some woman he met at the party.” “He lost his phone.” “Someone stole it at the restaurant …”
Around noon I went out for a walk and tried calling him again. This time, after a few rings, he answered unexpectedly, so much so that he caught me unprepared.
“Hello?”
I tried to stay calm, and not to let my anxiety and my anger get the better of me.
“Hi … How’s it going?”
“It’s going well.”
“And the restoration?”
“It’s going.”
“How was the party?”
“It went well.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yes.”
“Did you drink a lot?”
“A bit … Not too much, though.”
“Are you tired? Did you get in late?”
“Yes, I’m tired, but I didn’t get in too late. At a certain point I came back home.”
The conversation was becoming increasingly difficult for me. It sounded like a one-way interview.
“You sound strange … Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“So, what’s wrong then?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not true that nothing’s wrong—you’re cold, distant, you’re not talking, you give me single-word answers …”
“I’m not mad, it’s just that I don’t like to receive a thousand calls and a thousand texts. If I don’t answer, that means I can’t at that moment. When I check my phone and see a message or a missed call, I’ll get back to you. There’s no need to send me a thousand texts.”
“Sorry, I got worried. You disappeared; I thought that something might have happened.”
“What were you so worried about? I told you I had a lot of things to do and that I was going to a party.”
“All you needed to do was tell me everything was okay and that we would talk another time. It wouldn’t have taken that much, just a text, instead of disappearing like that.”
“I didn’t disappear, it’s just that I’m not used to being shadowed like that.”
“I’m sorry y
ou felt that way. That wasn’t my intention.”
Silence on the other end.
“Look, I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to be overbearing, or shadow you, as you put it. I just felt like talking to you.”
“Elena, has something changed between us?”
This time it was my turn to be silent. I couldn’t tell him everything over the phone and confess I realized I had crossed the line. And so I lied, again: “No, nothing has changed. I just wanted to hear your voice and to see how you were doing, then I started to worry. Maybe I got carried away a bit because I want to see you and I didn’t like the fact that I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye before you left.”
“I see. Let’s change the subject.”
“Do you feel like seeing me, or have I changed your mind?”
“I do feeling like seeing you but I can’t now. We’ll get together when I get back.”
“As soon as you tell me to come, I’ll be there, even if I have to quit my job.”
Over the phone I could tell I had made him smile.
“All right. I have to go now, though—we’ll talk again later, bye.”
“Bye, talk to you later.”
July 18th, 2:00 p.m.
I keep repeating his words in my head, and I try to recall his tone, the length of his pauses, and to interpret every little shade of meaning. Every time I go over them they change.
I have to be careful or else I’ll ruin everything. I can’t manage this relationship anymore. I feel like everything I say or do is wrong, and the more I try to make up for it, the more I make things worse. I’m not sure about anything anymore; even now I would like to apologize to him, tell him I’m sorry I behaved that way. I would like to tell him I lied to him more than once over the past few days, while I’ve never done so before. Certainly texts don’t help to communicate, because they can be read in different ways; sometimes not even the phone is good enough, for you can’t see facial expressions. If I had him here in front of me, I wouldn’t even have to explain myself: He would understand in a second, like he always does.
And what if I wasn’t the only one lying? Maybe he’s with another woman, maybe the one we made love with together. Maybe she’s his woman, and I was the gift for her. Maybe every weekend he takes her to Tuscany. She might live in another city and they see each other only on the weekends, while I’m stuck at home with Paolo. Maybe the beauty case was hers. And yet that Sunday, when we spent the whole day together, he didn’t receive any strange phone calls. I would have noticed. Actually, he never received any phone calls at all. And that’s even stranger.
My head is bombarded by thoughts, most of which are meaningless.
I miss him. I try to imagine our next encounter: I’ll walk through that door, we’ll embrace, we’ll make love, and everything will go back to the way it was. We won’t even need to speak.
Two hours have passed since our last conversation. I thought he was going to call me. Maybe he will. I have to stay calm and to not give in to my fear. I’ll go for a walk.
July 18th, 5:00 p.m.
Five hours have passed. I held the cell phone in my hand the whole time I walked, out of fear of not hearing it ring. He didn’t call.
Maybe at the end of our last conversation he was just being nice in order to calm me down and prevent me from making another scene. At this point I really don’t know what to think. Last night I went overboard with my texts, but I apologized for it.
So why isn’t he calling?
Even after thinking about it for so long, I couldn’t help myself and sent him an artfully causal text: “How’s it going? How’s the restoration coming? Kisses.” Then I started counting the seconds, the minutes, the eternities, all over again. I couldn’t call him again, or send him another text. All I could do was wait.
He answered ten minutes later: “Yes, everything’s fine. Thanks.”
He kept being stingy with his words, as he had the last time we spoke, and this made me even more anxious. I wrote him: “Next time we talk I have to tell you something.” He didn’t answer that one. I waited two difficult hours, walking around the house like a crazy woman, a caged animal. I couldn’t go out for another walk. I tried to take a bath, but after five minutes I got out of the tub: I couldn’t relax and soaking in water made me feel like I was suffocating. Finally, before dinner, he sent me a text: “Can you talk?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
With the excuse of having forgotten to buy a few things from the market, I went out again. I called him.
“Hello.”
“Hi. Sorry I didn’t answer immediately, it’s just that I’m always worried when I write you after office hours and on the weekends.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not dangerous. If it were, I’d let you know. How’s it going?”
“It’s going well—this time we might have managed to solve a problem we’ve been having with the roof. It rained earlier, but luckily it stopped soon after. What were you doing?”
“Nothing interesting. I got some groceries and other stuff for the house, then took a nice relaxing bath.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Earlier you wrote: ‘Next time we talk I need to tell you something.’ ”
“Nothing, it wasn’t important. I wanted to apologize for last night.”
“Let’s not talk about it, we’ve already put it behind us. Let’s talk about the next time we’ll see each other.”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know, as soon as I can get back.”
At that point, without even thinking about what I was saying, I suggested: “If you can’t come up here I’ll come down there.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? Tomorrow morning I’ll get in the car and drive down there.”
“How are you going to pull that off?”
“Let me worry about that. I’ll think about it and put things in motion.”
Silence on the other end.
“No, better not. It’s a disaster over here and I wouldn’t have time to be with you.”
“But that’s not a problem, I’m independent. You do what you need to do and when you’re done, in the evening, we’ll see each other. I can get Monday off.”
More silence.
“Did you pass out?”
“No, I was thinking about what you just said. It would be nice but I think it’s best we don’t—it’s not an ideal situation.”
“Ah …”
“Things are a bit complicated here, I’m with my brother.”
“Are you embarrassed by being seen with a woman? Or do you have another one and I’m too late to the party?”
Another brief silence.
“Yes, there is a woman: I share her with my brother and tonight it’s my turn to sleep with her … So theoretically I should be free.”
I laughed. “So I’m coming then?”
“Seriously now, I would like to see you, but we have a lot of work to do and I wouldn’t have much time for you. It makes no sense having you drive all the way down here. Anyway, I should be back in a few days, maybe even Thursday.”
“Whatever you say, but don’t worry about me.”
“It’s better if we see each other on Thursday.”
“Okay …”
“Bye, Elena, I’ll call you tomorrow, my brother’s calling me.”
“Bye.”
Those days I couldn’t do anything right. After that phone call I started wandering around the house a bit upset. I should have remained alone and tried to relax.
“What’s up? Are you nervous?” Paolo asked me.
“It’s work stuff, leave me alone.”
“I shouldn’t tell you what sort of week I’ve had then. Look, what do you want to bring to my mother’s tomorrow at lunch? Should I go get the usual ice cream cake, or should I get pastries? I’ve been craving cream puffs.”
“Get whatever you
want, I’m not going tomorrow.”
“What do you mean you’re not going? You know how my mother is about these things; she’ll start asking me if you’re mad at her.”
“Too bad, tell her whatever you want.”
“Come on, we won’t stay too long. We’ll have a quick bite then we’ll come home. You know she really cares about this stuff.”
“Look, Paolo, I’m sorry if your mother will be offended, though I don’t think she cares too much about seeing me. Anyway, I’m not coming. Period. I don’t want to fight.”
“Do whatever you want; there’s no sense arguing with you. I’m sorry to say it, but she’s right when she says you’re a difficult person.”
At that point I felt as if a gas tank had exploded in my stomach, setting my stomach, face, and entire body on fire. I lost control.
“Paolo, look me in the eye and listen to me carefully: I don’t give a damn about what your mother says or thinks. I can’t stand her; I never could. I’ve never been happy about having lunch at her place, not even once. It’s always been a chore for me. She and all her fucking bullshit: ‘Don’t you ever feed my son? He’s all skin and bones. Here, sweetie, eat.’ ‘How many layers do you put in your lasagna? Why do you buy readymade béchamel?’ ‘Why do you buy jam from the store when you can make it yourself? It’s not hard. Even you can make it. I made you two different kinds, fig and peach.’ Most of the time I throw them out because they’re disgusting. Yes, Paolo, you mother’s fig jam sucks. I’m sorry it pains you, but it’s not edible. It tastes like burnt rubber. If I have to come to your mother’s tomorrow I swear I’ll tell her everything. Everything! The way she controls you through guilt trips, or how she fills your stomach with anything she can get her hands on. And you, at your age, still can’t tell her to stop. You still haven’t managed to make her treat you like a man and not a child, incapable of buying even your own underwear. Paolo, your mother still buys your underweaaaaar! And you never question anything, not even when it comes to us. How can you pretend everything’s fine? How can you lie to yourself and avoid facing reality? I can’t stand your mother or our marriage any longer!”
