Training in Love (17 page)

I
look at the floor in front of me while I hear the conversation with the
deliveryman. Andrea doesn’t speak, but when he clears his throat, I look up and
see my mother arrive with the open boxes of pizza. “I’ve already cut them up.” She
sets the boxes on the coffee table. “Shall I bring you something to drink?”

I
don’t answer. Andrea, when he takes in the situation, asks, “Is there any Coke?”

“Sure.
Olly?”

“Me
too,” I reply hurriedly, staring at my pizza.

My
mother, or whoever has taken her place this afternoon, comes back a little later
with the drinks and some napkins, she tell us to enjoy ourselves and then
drifts away.

I
start the movie again and we see the rest in silence. Dulling the embarrassment
in the escapades of Bridget Jones.

Andrea
speaks again only when he sees me put in the first of the cartoons. “No, I’m
begging! Cartoons no!”

I
turn from my half bent position in front of the DVD player, and can’t resist
smiling at him while I start
Sleeping Beauty
.

When
Beauty and the Beast
is also over, it is really very late. “That’s
enough Olly, please, I’m begging… I’ll do anything you want… Enough…”

I’m
tired too, but I can’t give in. “Andrea… I’m terribly sorry, but see, you still
have to do everything I want this week…”

“I
can’t do anymore…”

I,
unmoved, put in the last movie on the list,
Legends of the Fall
, and
return to my place on the sofa. I’ll never admit it, but I can’t take anymore.
Anyway, I tell him with a voice already drowsy with sleep, “If you fall asleep,
I’ll start the movie from the beginning.” And then, to my great dismay, I don’t
even make it to the death of the younger brother.

I
awaken with the rising sun which falls on my face from the window of the living
room, lying on the sofa with a light blanket on me. Andrea is no longer there
and I didn’t put the blanket on by myself. The TV is on and on the screen is
the initial image of the DVD, as though it had finished and returned to the
start. I half-close my eyes – I’m betting the scoundrel waited like a ferret
until I slept and then left. I smile in any case. He can’t escape from what
I’ve prepared for this evening.

***

In the
evening we meet in front of the cafè at eight sharp. This evening I want to go
with my car because I don’t want him to have the opportunity to escape.

“Where
are we going?” He asks me as soon as he sits down, with some difficulty, in the
passenger seat of my car, a yellow Fiat Cinquecento.

“Surprise!”
I tell him, gloating.

“My
God… and it’s only Monday…”

I
laugh. This evening he is particularly handsome. He’s wearing blue jeans and a
shirt in light blue, almost like his eyes. He has shaved his face and has a
little gel in his hair. He still has that nice perfume of mint.

When
I start the car, he says, all seriousness, “Listen Olly, I want to tell you
something before the evening begins.”

“Should
I be worried?” I ask him while I leave the parking lot.

“No.
That is, you won’t like it, but I want to tell you anyway.”

“Fine,”
I mutter to myself.

“About
the conversation concerning your mother…”

I
stiffen immediately, but I don’t respond and don’t try to stop him.  I look
straight ahead, preparing to endure it stoically.

“What
I was trying to say yesterday evening was that…” He sighs. “I think your mother
was making an effort. I think you should try to meet her half way.”

I
turn to look at him wide-eyed, but then quickly look back at the road. “You’re
a psychologist now, fine…”

He
makes a face. “Don’t act like a baby.”

His
comment infuriates me. “I’m not a baby!” The traffic light in front of me turns
red and I can stop and turn towards him. “You want to know why she was so nice
yesterday?”

He
doesn’t speak and I take it as consent. “Because I’m losing weight and you are…
beautiful.”

He
rolls his shoulders, looking at me. “And so?”

“What
do you mean ‘and so’?” I look at him, dumbfounded. “Don’t you understand, Mr. I
Know Everything, that the only thing that interests her is appearances? Your
image, your exterior? If you were butt-ugly, I don’t think she would have been
so nice yesterday!” I conclude, thinking to have emerged victorious from this
verbal battle.

He
makes a click with his lips and then puckers them. “I don’t know…”

I
regard him open-mouthed, but the sound of a car horn wakes me and I look at the
traffic light. With rapid movements and a little jerk I take off, barking,
“What ‘don’t you know’?”

“This
is your take on everything. But is it really like that? Have you ever spoken
with her?”

I
close my mouth as I drive. I don’t answer because the truth is that I have
never really spoken to her.

“You’d
do well to speak to her, instead of carrying around all this resentment. Maybe
things aren’t exactly as you see them.”

I
remain silent all the rest of the ride, ruminating on this and getting angry
with him for this verbal affront he’s just carried out so casually, too
casually.

When
I park outside the building where I usually go Monday night – a center which,
on Mondays, organizes literary evenings – I turn off the car but don’t get out.
I turn towards him and, considerably calmer, I ask him, “Explain to me why,
despite this being my Week of Power, we’re still talking about me.”

He
smiles and shrugs.

“It’s
your turn. If we have to talk about someone’s mother, it’s yours…”

He
gives a half laugh and my car is so small I smell the scent of his toothpaste.
“What do you want to know?”

I
lift a shoulder. “Anything. What is she like?”

He
looks straight ahead, with a smile still on his lips, completely relaxed, as
though we could stay in this car all night. “She’s a beautiful woman, inside
and out. The best mother in the world.”

“Oh
that figures…” I comment sarcastically.

He
turns to me with a light laugh, I roll my eyes up and finally get out of the
Cinquecento.

He
walks beside me as I head towards the entrance of the building. “But you know
something? I think that if you asked my sister the same question, you wouldn’t
get the same answer.”

I
look up at him, we walk slowly, side by side. “Really?”

He
nods, looking away briefly. “Maybe it’s true that sons are more attached to
their mothers…”

“Or
maybe mothers unconsciously expect more from their daughters…”

He
looks at me, raising his eyebrows while I push the door of the center open with
my head turned towards him. “Maybe…” I hear him murmur.

Once
inside, I look around and recognize some of the faces present. We’re more or
less always the same people on Monday. By now we all know each other and decide
the theme of the evening together. Over the course of the event, there are
those that read other people’s works, those that read their own and then we all
comment on them as a group. Tonight’s theme was supposed to be the Gothic
novel, but I requested a small change in light of Andrea’s presence and I moved
the gothic novel theme to next week and next week’s to today – Hermetic poetry.

When
I turn to Andrea to see his first reactions, I see that he is particularly
happy. “This is nice…” He says looking around.

The
center is, in fact, really nice. On the walls of the main room, where the
evening meeting will be held, there are bookshelves in wood which reach the
ceiling, overflowing with books. On a side of the structure there is a bar
area, with all the tables and chairs scattered around, and on the opposite side
of the bar area is a small wooden stage equipped with a microphone and a
spotlight on the microphone. I look around and, as for all the poetry evenings,
most of the people are dressed in black.

Andrea
notices the stage. “Will there be a concert?”

“Um,
no.” And I smile at him, terribly sweetly if I say so myself.

Andrea
cocks his head to one side and looks diffident. “It can’t be a pleasant thing,
I’m deluding myself, right?”

I
laugh. “You’ll like it, don’t worry.”

He
looks around again and I see the room with his eyes, then I see him inside this
place in the middle of these people and, how would you say it, he looks like a
fish out of water. I think he’s a head taller than all the other men present,
without mentioning his physical proportions.

We’re
about to sit at a table in the center of the room when I hear a nasal voice
call me, “Olivia?” I turn and coming towards me I see Giacomo, a skinny guy
with brown hair worn long and black rimmed glasses. “Hi Giacomo.”

Giacomo
isn’t bad, he’s a good guy. It’s just that… let’s say that we don’t have the
same sense of humor and apart from literature, we have nothing in common. We
often have differing opinions about literature too, but speaking with him about
the subject is always interesting, as it is with everyone here.

Giacomo
looks Andrea up and down. “Is he a friend of yours?” He asks looking up to
regard Andrea.

“Yes.
Andrea, meet Giacomo. Giacomo, this is Andrea.”

The
two men shake hands and I see Andrea smile.

“What
will you read this evening Giacomo?” I ask him, “Something of yours, or by
someone else?”

“Something
of mine,” he answers, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

I
nod smiling. Giacomo makes a gesture with his head towards Andrea. “And him? Is
he a poet or a spectator?” He asks me as though Andrea couldn’t understand the question
and answer on his own. Probably not to be nasty, only out of shyness.

“Oh,
a poet!” I answer readily. I was waiting for this moment. I hear Andrea, who is
at my side, stiffen and turn towards me.

“So
you’ll read something of yours?” Says Giacomo with shining eyes, looking first
at me then Andrea.

I
hold in a laugh and manage to answer, more or less seriously, “Yes, yes, he’ll
read something of his. But not right away, it’s the first time he’s come here.
It’d be nicer to let the room warm up to its usual level, don’t you think?”

Andrea
is immobile, and quiet, but I can feel the vibration of anger and the weight of
his eyes on me.

Giacomo
nods vigorously. “Absolutely! Absolutely!” He finally turns to Andrea and
speaks to him directly, “Well, see you later! I’ll be curious to hear you and
find out what you think of the others.”

Andrea
answers making a face and as soon as Giacomo turns away, he grabs me forcibly
by the arm. “Ow!”

He’s
practically expelling smoke from his ears and nose. He drags me to the nearby
table   and makes me sit as though I were a rag doll, then he takes a chair and
moves in very close, putting his face a centimeter from mine and whispering furiously,
“What’s this all about? I’m not reading any poetry!”

I
snicker and even have the courage to pat him on the hand affectionately. I
answer whispering too, “Don’t worry. Hermetic poetry usually means few and
incomprehensible words. So invent something at the time – you’ll do fine. With
a little luck they won’t notice that you’re not a real poet.” Andrea’s eyes are
haunted. “Or at most you’ll be lousy… But poets are sensitive people, no-one
will make you feel uncomfortable if they don’t like you.”

He
breathes in hard and exhales noisily. He repeats this breathing two or three
times before speaking. “Olly, you don’t understand,” he tell me slowly with a
voice I’ve never heard before. “I will not get up on that stage and I won’t
recite any poetry!”

I
look him in the eye and say slowly, without losing my cool, “Oh yes, you will…”
Then I smile, to lighten the atmosphere. “Listen to some of the poetry and then
copy their style. You’ll see, it won’t be difficult.”

Andrea
turns towards the stage, not speaking to me for the rest of the night. He
writes on his phone and listens to the others as they go on stage. I believe
I’ve made him really angry this time… It’s better like this, better to cool off
our relationship. He hasn’t got any sense of humor, I wouldn’t have said so,
but he’s really as rigid as a piece of wood, and… he has no sense of humor.

“Andrea,”
we hear called from the microphone. Both he and I, evidently lost in our
thoughts, jump in our chairs as though burned. Giacomo is on the stage and
addressing him with a smile. “If you want to let us hear something of yours, we
would all be happy.”

I
look at him out of the corner of my eye and see him swallow. Maybe this evening
I overdid it, maybe… He sets the telephone on the table and shoots me a look.
He doesn’t seem angry anymore, he seems indifferent. I swallow and he wheels
around towards Giacomo, reaching him on the stage with two easy strides.

“How
many will you have us listen to?” Giacomo asks him, and he answers calmly and
confidently, “Just one, just one. I write very slowly.”