As I take a shower myself while Espe plunders my Aspelund wardrobe, I review the reasons for my tirade against Alessandra Persiano, since I’m already beginning to fear the moment when—once my post-screaming-fight excitement subsides (that typically fleeting confidence destined to crumble to dust over the course of no more than four, maximum five hours)—I’ll be overwhelmed by the knowledge that our affair is now irremediably finished, in the aftermath of the charming compliments I saw fit to bestow on her.
In the angel’s absence, I’m on a first-name basis with myself.
First of all, don’t feel guilty. Sure, you flew off the handle and told her go fuck herself. There’s really nothing surprising about that, you behaved like a human being. In fact, you want to know what I think? It was about time. Because if there’s one mistake you’ve made, especially lately, it was agreeing to abide by this sort of romantic standby state in which she, with glaring impunity, accorded herself the unilateral right of rescission at any moment of her choosing. Don’t you think that in a lion-vs.-lamb arrangement like this one you were bound to get fed up sooner or later? It’s just a good thing you still have some small shred of personal dignity.
Second, did you hear how she was treating you? “Don’t shout,” “Let’s not talk about this right now,” “I need to focus on the trial”: who the hell does she think she is to talk to you like that? Fuck her, you did the right thing, absolutely.
Third, the fact that she hung up on you proves—leaving aside any questions about her complete lack of manners—that she didn’t know what to say. Because it’s obvious that if someone has a point to make, they don’t run away from the argument: they argue. Too easy to think you can get away with just hanging up. Far, far too easy.
Fourth (and here we come to the point that’s got you most upset): okay, it’s over, so what? The irreparable can actually be a great source of relief, if you look at it from a different point of view. You’ll suffer for a while, sure, you’ll have your year or so of self-pity and pissing and moaning, and when you’re done complaining you’ll make peace with yourself and you’ll start your life over. I’m not saying it will be easy. But we’re also not talking about moving mountains. Alessandra isn’t indispensable. You don’t need her to go on living. There, say the name: Alessandra Persiano. Say it again. Repeat it until it becomes the mark of a woman no better or worse than any other. Can you see how the edge of drama and tragedy is already blunted?
Fifth (and here we’re taking a step back, or actually, a step down): free yourself of your miserable little fear of loneliness. Stop clutching feverishly at broken relationships. Cut it out. You’re absolutely fine without a woman at your side, okay?
Eh, I say. Okay.
Bah.
As long as I’m at it, I try to come up with a preview of the evening that lies ahead of us. And so I close my eyes, bow my head, flatten my hands against the walls of the shower, abandoning myself to the cleansing force of the gushing water, and I mentally jot down a quick treatment and outline.
Jennifer Lopez’s apartment is bound to be one of those places where every room is a different color. As soon as we walk in, we’ll be handed Martini. I’ll look around for an ashtray in which to discard my olive pit without finding one. The table will be set in an ocher-yellow lunch nook, lit—and I’m not sure that’s the right term—by a few guttering candles about to give up the ghost. A subtle, pungent scent of incense will be in the air, designed to create—along with the partial darkness—that fake mystical atmosphere that as soon as you recognize it you think: “Okay, tonight I’m getting laid.”
Next to the window there’ll be a little corner den with a small desk, an iMac, and a Billy bookshelf displaying the spines of the entire library of la Repubblica. One wall will probably feature a Kandinsky poster. The lady of the house will probably have put on a Brian Eno CD that no one likes (especially not her or her girlfriend) but which is a must for these kinds of dinners. We’ll eat sushi, sashimi, and skewers whose flavor will be impossible for me to figure out. I won’t like any of it because I don’t like Japanese food.
Jennifer Lopez (and since I haven’t yet met her, I’m going to have to just stick with the original, her namesake) will probably have loosened her long blonde-chestnut hair over a T-shirt that’s not even tight but still sufficiently snug to accommodate her curves in a way that can’t be ignored. She’ll have full lips and will laugh at anything you say. She, as the lady of the house, will be the one to make sure everything’s ready and will bring the food to the table. Espe will no doubt follow her on her frequent trips to the adjoining kitchen, helping her with every task and investing everything he’s got into the objective of ending the evening sprawled between her legs.
Anna Karenina will certainly wear a pageboy cut, light makeup, and a black sheath dress that gives an embarrassing prominence to her, ehm, balcony. She’ll display a detached, meditative interest in me. She’ll put on an attitude of open indifference to her friend’s obliging hyperactivity, taking it for granted that she will take care of everything. She won’t bother to take a single dish to the table and she’ll loiter listlessly between the dining room, the kitchen, and, from time to time, the bathroom, with the nonchalance of someone who feels very much at home. This openly avowed layabout ethic will make me dislike her, and I’ll speak to her only in monsyllabic grunts, especially at first. She’ll look me up and down as if to say: “Well, just take a look at this asshole,” and by so doing she’ll immediately drive up my stock quotations, because there’s nothing like rudeness to stir the flame of a woman who’s already interested in you. During dinner we’ll bicker constantly over any and all subjects while Espe and Jennifer Lopez cheerfully get drunk, methodically preparing for the ensuing diversions.
Later, Anna Karenina will ask me to see her home. I’ll pretend to resist but make it abundantly clear that my implicit consent is unmistakable. As soon as we’re in the car we’ll stop being so argumentative. When we get to her place she’ll ask me if I want to come up for one last glass. I’ll point out to her that she’s just committed one of the most persistent film clichés of the past thirty years and she’ll reply: You imbecile, you’re the one who’s writing the screenplay; and I’ll say: Ah, right, that’s true; and she’ll say: Well, what are you going to do, you coming up or not coming up? And I’ll say: Are you kidding? There’s nothing I like better than clichés.
At this point I abandon the story, I turn off the water, I step out of the shower, I put on my bathrobe, and I go into the bedroom, where I find Espe, who is once again dressed in his cologne-reeking clothing and is standing with his shoulders slightly bowed.
“Well?” I ask, briskly drying my hair and massaging my scalp with the hood of my bathrobe.
He doesn’t answer. The look on his face.
“Hey. What on earth’s wrong?”
“Those sluts called me,” he slowly enunciates. “Dinner is off.”
“What? We were just about to leave.”
“Yeah.”
“But why?”
“I can’t even remember the excuse, that’s how ridiculous it was.”
“That’s nuts.”
“The part I found most humiliating is that they wanted your cell phone number.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, it couldn’t be any clearer. The one they wanted was you. One of them had to give right of way to the other, and neither of them was willing to yield.”
I hold up my forefinger, like I’m trying to orient myself.
“So you’re saying that . . .”
“If one was for you, the other was for me.”
“Well, of course,” I say. I look at Espe and I fall silent, drawing the obvious conclusions along with him.
“Am I that unattractive, Vince’?” he asks me, depressed.
“What are you talking about? All you do is pick up girls.”
“The decline has begun, Vince’. I’ve suspected it for some time now. I’ve never been flunked so resoundingly. These are very clear signs.”
“Hey, cut it out now, okay? I’m already complaining all the time, and I’m not looking for competition. As for those two, they’re just ignorant bumpkins, and it’s not worth wasting another word on the subject.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
In the moments of silence that ensue, I sense the urgency of goading my old friend into doing something before he relapses into his depression.
“You know what we’re going to do now, you and me? We’re going to go out anyway.”
His face lights up.
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Let’s go have some fun. And those two harpies can go fuck themselves.”
“Oh, now that’s the Espe I know.”
“Come on, get ready,” he says, galvanized.
“Okay.”
I pull some clean underwear and socks out of the drawer of the Leksvik dresser, and then I have a moment of, how to put this, hesitation.
“Ah, Espe.”
“What.”
“You didn’t by any chance give them my cell number?”
“Of course not.”
“Thanks. You’re a pal.”