Training in Love (7 page)

“Yes,
they will. The library isn’t a shop, the clientele tends to always be the same
and after a while you learn the tastes of everyone,” I answer, and now am short
of oxygen.

Andrea
stays quiet, but after a little says, “No, it doesn’t make sense, I’m sorry.
You said you’re good at it. You have to be able to give advice to strangers… And
then, don’t you know me a little after we’ve seen each other three times a week
for three weeks?”

I
puff. “Alright then. I would suggest…” I think for a second while I observe
him. What would someone like Andrea like? Certainly not love stories, I’d
venture he has enough sticky-sweet serenades in real life… Someone that
methodical, rational… At the very least they like mysteries. To use your mind
to discover who is the murderer or something like that. And then, men typically
like mysteries or fantasy. “I’d recommend the
Millennium Trilogy
by
Stieg Larsson.”

Andrea
nods. “Anyway, now I don’t have time to read. I have to focus on my thesis if I
want to finish quickly.”

“So
what did you ask me for?” I reply more acidly than I’d have liked.

“Just
because - I wanted to see what you’d tell me.”

I
blow out theatrically and give him a dark look. “Did you have to pick this
point to do it? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m short on oxygen at the
moment…”

Andrea
gives a short laugh. “That’s ok, you should set a pace that allows you to
speak.”

“This
pace doesn’t allow me to speak. I’m about to die and you don’t even notice.”

“Always
so positive and sunny…” He mutters. “Anyway, we’ve finished for today, let’s go
back walking.”

“Oh!
Thank you God! I knew you existed!” I cry, letting myself fall on the lawn
beside the track.

Andrea
runs up beside me. “What are you doing? I said we’ll go back to the cars
walking… I didn’t say you could lie down.”

“What
a slave driver!” I grumble aloud so I’ll be heard. There’s not any satisfaction
in insulting him if he doesn’t hear it.

When
we get back to the beginning of the path I feel my heart beating in my legs. I
tell Andrea and he tells me that it’s normal, that it’s my circulation that has
been reactivated.

“Let’s
do some stretching.”

I
nod, but I stop immediately when he puts a hand on my thigh. “What are you
doing?” I ask in a shrill voice.

“Stretching.”

“But…
what… you do yours and I’ll do mine!” I tell him, taking a step back and
removing myself from his grasp.

He
takes a step forward and tries to put his hand back where it was. “I’ll show
you how to place your legs.”

“Show
me from where you are!” I exclaim, desperate, taking another step back.

“I
only wanted to put you in position and push to stretch the muscles well…”

“I’ll
stretch them by myself! Just show me how to do it and I’ll do it!”

Andrea
looks me in the face, and I have to say that he seems really, truly perplexed.
In fact he nears me again putting out his hand.

“Don’t
touch me!” I yell, now completely alarmed.

He
freezes instantly and looks me in the eyes, in silence, then he finally takes a
step back. And without saying anything, he starts doing the stretching exercises
that – as I said – I can easily copy from half a meter away.

He
doesn’t say anything until the end. He seems lost in his thoughts. I don’t
disturb him. I too am lost in my own thoughts. Most of all, I can’t wait to
take a look at the interesting little book.

After
a decidedly pleasant workout, we say our goodbyes a little coldly. That is, I
say goodbye normally, he is cold. I can’t believe it’s because of the
stretching…

When
I see his blond head recede behind the wheel of his car, I sigh and turn on my
engine too.

6.

After
my shower, I lie on the couch at home to read
The Answer is not in the
Fridge
. I am finishing it when my mother puts her key in the lock, three
hours later. The time has flown. Otherwise I wouldn’t have let myself be caught
lying on the couch reading. I have let my hair hang over the armrest. It’s very
long, practically halfway down my back and it bothers me sometimes when I’m
lying down and have to turn my head - it gets stuck and pulls. It is a light
chestnut and is essentially the only thing I like about myself – my only source
of pride. It’s wavy, natural ringlets, and lots of them – luminous and soft.
Even the color, being part of the scale of browns, I like. I have light brown
eyes. Once, coming close to the mirror one of those rare times when I put on
make-up, I saw little flakes of yellow sprinkled here and there in the iris.
Linda always says that my eyes are beautiful, but Linda is my best friend; her
vision is clouded by affection. I don’t like much else. Of the contours of my
face I only see the enormous cheeks and double chin, while my body… Well,
better forget about that right away. In general, when I look at myself in the mirror
I try, as much as possible, to look only at my hair. And anyway, I look at
myself in the mirror very little.

As
usual, my mother’s steps put me in a state of agitation. I feel my stomach
contract. Now she’ll say something  and normally it won’t be anything pleasant.
I swallow.

“What
are you doing?” She asks, in fact, with a tired voice.

I
don’t get up from my place, but she must see my hair dangling from the couch.
“I’m reading a book.”

She
makes a low sound, and then I hear her say quietly, “Imagine that…”

I
swallow again and pretend not to hear.

“Did
you make something for dinner?” She asks me, coming closer.

“No,
the time flew by… and I didn’t notice… what time is it?”

“It’s
past eight,” she answers looking at her watch and finally entering my field of
vision.

“Why,
haven’t you eaten?” I ask surprised. Usually she arrives even later than today
and has always already eaten out.

She
shakes her head.

My
mother had me pretty early, at twenty-two, so now she’s a woman of forty-seven
but she looks at least ten years younger. She really cares about her
appearance. Physically she’s in great shape - slim, more or less as tall as me
– that is, around a meter seventy – a honey blonde (dyed obviously). She always
dresses well, because of the job she has too, and wears a lot of makeup. She’s
what they call a career woman and she’s been one since I was eight, when my
father left us. My memories of that time are hazy. I felt so bad that I think
I’ve blocked out things. I don’t even remember what my mother was like very
well, but she was certainly at home more and smiled more. I was happy until he
left. And I believe my mother was too, until he left.

“Shall
we get a pizza?” I suggest without thinking. Experience has taught me nothing
evidently. No, it’s not like that… It’s that it would be so nice to have a
normal mom - one to whom you could easily say, “Shall we get a pizza?”, when
she comes home late from work or one who I could sit at the table with and chat
normally with while eating - that occasionally, ridiculously, I try anyway.

“Suggest
something that could help you lose a couple of grams no, huh?”

As
I was saying.

She
looks at me, looks at the book I have in my hand which I closed, putting my index
finger in and keeping the cover turned downwards, she sighs and goes away.
“I’ll see what’s in the fridge.”

I
hear her moving and touching things – the sound of plastic and steps, the sound
of cupboards opening and closing. “There’s some pastrami, and… also a little
arugula, and… yes, there are also a couple of cherry tomatoes,” she shouts from
the kitchen.

“Whew,
dinner is saved,” I answer, but too quietly for her to hear.

I
breathe deeply and look at the book I have in my hand, half-closed. This book
is small but contains some great truths. It also has some exercises to do at
the end of each chapter. I read ahead out of curiosity, but when I’ve finished
all of it, I’ll go back and re-read it from the beginning, doing all the
exercises as well. At the same time I’ll start with Andrea’s photocopies too. I
look for something to use as a bookmark, but don’t find anything. I take it in
my room and put the first thing I find between the pages. Then I make the
effort to go downstairs again. Once I’m in the kitchen I stare at my plate,
already prepared and at my place, and I realize that I don’t want to eat this
stuff. Not so much because it’s dietetic, but because it’s prepared by my
mother and done with one and only one objective. I suddenly realize that if I
eat this, afterwards I’ll go to look for something a lot worse than a pizza,
just as I do every Sunday without even being aware of it. I take my plate and
slowly take off the pastrami and put it away, trying to stay calm because I
already know that a battle will follow.  I push the bowl of salad towards my
mother, who has now raised her head with an air of astonishment but says
nothing.

I
look directly in her eyes and gather my strength. “I’m getting a pizza.” And this
is the absolute first time that I’ve done something like that. Usually I put up
with what she says in silence – I eat everything that she gives me or puts in
front of me because I don’t have the courage to eat something vaguely high
calorie in her presence. Usually I swallow my pride in silence, because even
though I try to be indifferent and not let her get to me, in reality she hurts
me every time, with every phrase, every look. Then I go to console myself with
other food, when she’s not looking, when she’s not there. But one of the things
that Andrea’s book says, is to do away with food prohibitions. Food has to be
something normal, not prohibited, otherwise it just becomes more appetizing and
inviting. Luckily I’ve kept my plan to lose weight a secret from her. She would
never understand, right now, why I’m getting a pizza.

“Do
you think that’s the case?” She asks me aggressively. “Aren’t you fat enough
for your tastes?”

I
don’t answer, but I don’t lower my gaze either. She puts her fork down on the
plate and leans back in her chair. “No one will ever want you if you continue
like this. Men don’t like whales.” She speaks slowly, as though she were
speaking with a person who’s a little simple. “Or if someone ever wants you, it
will be to use you for something, but you’ll be cheated on constantly, with
girls who are slimmer and prettier. In case you haven’t noticed, others make
some effort to look a little decent.” She pauses, but I still don’t answer. “Or
do you want to remain alone for the rest of your days?” She pauses again. “What
will you do at, I don’t know, say forty…? Will you read books alone until late
at night?”

Certainly
it’s hard to get a pizza after a conversation like that, but I want to change,
and you don’t change if you continue to do the same things and always react in
the same way. “Better a book than bad company,” I reply after having swallowed.
“And that’s as true today as it will be in twenty years.”

She’s
angry, maybe also because I’ve never dared to answer back before now. “You
can’t know what you’ll want in twenty years! You can’t know!” She cries
bitterly. “You’ll be sorry, you’ll be sorry about all this time wasted!” She
predicts, her mouth twisted horribly.

I
could say a lot of things in this moment, I could really hurt her if I wanted
to. But for today I’ve done enough. One step at a time.

I
take the number of the pizzeria here on the corner and I phone. I do it so
often when she’s not here, but this evening I feel as though it’s the first
time. I feel as though I’m being spied upon while I do something…
dirty
.
My mother observes me in silence for the whole time. She doesn’t even eat, she
just stares at me. When I finish phoning, I sit at the table and meet her gaze
on purpose, displaying an external calm, while inside a storm is raging.

She
continues to stare at me and we stay like that for a few painful seconds, after
which she sighs and picks up her fork. Her voice seems tired when she says, “Well,
ok… do what you want. I give up. Enough. I’ve had enough of trying to help you.
It’s like tilting at windmills.”

I
take a deep breath without being noticed as soon as she bends her head towards
her plate. At the end of this sort of battle I realize something – I really
don’t feel like pizza now – and Andrea’s book says that you can eat anything
you like, as long as you are hungry and stop when you’re full. It says to
listen to your stomach. My poor stomach… I’ve always overloaded him. I used him
in the worst ways, I’ve never thought about him, never taken care of him. But
starting today, starting now, I want to listen to him and take care of him, and
he’s telling me that he doesn’t feel like having pizza anymore. He doesn’t feel
like having anything, to tell the truth. I hope, however, that when it arrives
my mother is already in her room. I have to make it disappear somehow, but she
mustn’t find out otherwise she’ll think she’s won, in spite of everything.

***

The
following Saturday morning I meet Linda to have breakfast together at a cafè downtown.
I haven’t crossed paths with my mother since Thursday evening and already I’m
anxious about tomorrow. I may just invent something to stay out of the house
the whole day.

In
these two trial days I’ve continued to listen to my stomach and am slowly
becoming aware that he hardly ever feels like anything, unfortunately. It’s
really difficult – not so much listening to him as obeying what he says. I
never realized it – it’s crazy.

Yesterday
afternoon, for example, Elenina had some of her classmates over to play after
homework, as often happens on Friday. And usually, when we have her friends
over, we eat bread with Nutella as a snack because it’s as though it were a
sort of party. Usually I participate actively without even thinking, but
yesterday, before preparing my part, I asked myself if I really felt like it.
Right away I realized that no, I was not at all hungry, but spreading their
slices of bread… Smelling the perfume of the Nutella in my nostrils… Anyway, in
the end I ate a sandwich too even though I didn’t really want it. It’s really
difficult.

Then
yesterday evening, I stayed up late looking at the photos of when I was a
little girl. The exercises at the end of the first chapter are about childhood.
You should ask your parents about your eating habits when you were little and
about their interpersonal relationship – but this is definitely not do-able. I have
no intention of asking my mother anything about anything regarding the subjects
of food, and my father... who sees him? He calls me on my birthday, which is
several months off. The most I can do is look at the  pictures and try to
remember. And ask Linda.

When
the waitress arrives I order a cappuccino and a piece of apple tart. Linda, who
I found already seated at a table when I arrived, gives me a questioning look
and asks hesitantly, “But… the diet?”

I
smile, because I feel like explaining it to Linda. “It’s part of the program. I
have to get rid of the sense of prohibiting certain foods.”

Linda
nods and I add, “I wanted to talk to you just about this, among other things.
This book that Andrea gave me… I really love it. The one I told you about on
the phone.” She nods again and I continue, “One of the exercises is about
childhood, and I wanted to ask you, since we’ve known each other all our lives,
what you remember about how I was?”

“When
you were little?” She asks me, “But ‘how you were’ in what sense?”

“In
the sense of, do you remember how I was regarding food? Did I overeat? Did I
have strange habits? Stuff like that.”

Linda
thinks about it for a minute, concentrating as she always does. It’s one of the
things about Linda that you remember, that she gives you her complete attention
and she always takes you seriously.

In
the meantime the waitress arrives with our orders.

“I…
don’t remember anything in particular, or strange,” says Linda once the
waitress has gone. She takes sip of her cappuccino and furrows her brow. “I
don’t remember anything…”

“Was
I fat?”

“When
we were children… no, you weren’t.” She is silent while she breaks off a piece
of croissant. “You weren’t a stick, no, but you weren’t excessive either… you
looked fine to me.”

I
nod and pick up my cappuccino. “I didn’t think so either when I was looking at
the photos last night. But I still felt enormous and the kids at school teased
me.”

“Hmm,
yes, but in elementary school…” Linda huffs raising an eyebrow. “Kids are
idiots sometimes and they make things up or latch on to everything. They teased
me about my nose, when I have a perfectly normal nose.”

“Wow!”
I exclaim as though struck by lightning, “It’s true, I had completely forgotten
that they teased you about your nose!” I look at it as though I didn’t know it
perfectly well. “And then, it’s perfectly normal… Straight too…”

She
rolls her eyes, “I told you. Teasing in elementary school doesn’t count and
from an objective point of view, you were fine. It began in junior high. There
I saw that something was changing, and then at the beginning of high school you
gained a lot. That I remember.” She pauses, wrinkling her brow, “But you know
something? I have never seen you overeat. You’ve always eaten in a normal way… Like
me.”