I could see myself in their eyes. They all had the same emotionless expression, their heads rested heavily on their shoulders. They roamed around like lazy animals that had been kept captive for so long that they had lost their predatory instincts. If purgatory really existed, it would have been full of people like this. Every now and then we glanced into each others eyes, and I could read in them a reflection of my own sense of defeat. One of them lit up a cigarette, another one fiddled with his mobile phone, the most nervous ones walked round and round like mental patients. All eight of us – that’s right, I counted – stood there, frozen in space and time, we glanced at our watches obsessively, wondering how long we would spend on this pavement on via Ruggero Settimo, outside Zara’s.
It was a Saturday afternoon. The eight of us – all male, of course – were waiting for our wives, partners or girlfriends, who had ventured inside the shop where almost paranormal events occurred, here women disappeared for large amounts of time.
I observed with sadness the other men, while several girls wearing extremely short skirts and dizzyingly high heels walked the pavement – I wondered how on earth I had become a victim of this. I recollected the phantom of the man that I had been a couple of years ago and I felt emptiness pervade my stomach. After the longest thirty minutes of my life Maria exited the shop. She was holding a tiny bag containing something that I’m sure I would have taken less than one hundred and seventy seconds to buy. She was afflicted and she confessed to me that, as always, there wasn’t much of interest in there. I smiled a fake smile in reply to hers and I offered her my arm like an old man asking his lady for a romantic dance. Without saying a word, we headed towards Politeama. I felt like an inmate walking the Green Mile.
Yeah, those were hard times, I must admit. The first year with Maria had been almost perfect. When you have lived for seven years like an eternal Peter Pan, changing underwear and women with almost the same regularity, falling in love for real was a huge deal. Or at least, I saw it as a huge deal. Maria Librizzi was a very different kind of woman to those that I had met during the previous thirty-five years of my life. She had character, she was a good listener, and she was also good at saying whatever had to be said with extreme clarity and bluntness – I had learned to love those qualities. None of the small sacrifices had been a burden whatsoever for at least a year.
I really felt like a different person next to Maria. The questionable excesses of my previous life were a long forgotten memory and I didn’t miss them. One morning – I remember it well – I woke up with her lying on me. She was sleeping like a child, snoring very lightly. On a similar occasion, the old Fabrizio Corsaro would have woken up his occasional sleeping buddy to satisfy his punctual, glorious morning erection. Sometimes he would have even encouraged this occasional partner to get out of the house within a reasonable time.
That morning though, I had stared at her for almost an hour, as if I was trying to memorise every inch of her face. I had turned to look out of the window, the sky was clear and beautiful dominating the dome of the Cathedral in Palermo. I realised that only sixteen year olds could live like assholes without actually feeling like an asshole. If you’re twenty years older than sixteen, maybe it’s time to really live like a man. It may not even be such a bad thing.
*
The first year had been really exciting. I loved spending my life with her. I mean, I didn’t like all of her qualities – especially her passion for politics that had turned her into a revolutionary activist, but love had slowly worn down my cynicism and helped me tolerate this aspect of her. My job – I worked as a reporter – had begun to feel increasingly less like a burden. When I got out of the editorial office, the thought of going home and finding someone waiting for me would make up for the shittiest of days. Maria loved me – she didn’t lean on me to make up for an empty existence; she wasn’t trying to redeem past errors through our love affair; she didn’t annihilate herself upon the altar of love; she loved giving more than receiving. She was a perfect lover, that’s how I saw her.
I loved our walks in the countryside, the times we walked all the way up to the little town where I’d met her, when we’d visit her crazy uncle, Valentino Ambrosetti, who had remained alone after Maria had left the house. He was a northern giant and would spend most of his days talking about conspiracy theories, preparing and drinking strong liquors and making insanely large amounts of soup. He also owned eleven pedigree dogs that he had named after the Turin football team.
Everything was going well. That is, until something began to give. The first time I’d had an uneasy feeling was during an October night. Maria and I never really argued. It was a real miracle, considering that both of us were really strong characters. And yet, apart from some occasional sarcasm, our house had never seen a single plate fly. It was a few of my friends who lit the fuse.
Pippo Nocera, one of my co-workers at the editorial office, Marcello Mancuso, one of my high school mates – who had always wanted to become a well established solicitor to continue his family tradition but never really made it – and Salvo Morgano, an evergreen skilled striker in our own football team, still a slender man despite his beer belly.
They had insisted on playing poker that night. I had always found gambling to be as boring as bad sex. That night, however, for the first time in more than a year, I accepted their invitation to play. That was my first mistake. The second mistake was the one that I made when Maria told me that she didn’t feel well.
“Alright – I won’t leave you alone, I’ll tell the guys to meet here.”
She didn’t utter a word. That silence should have been a clear warning that the shit was about to hit the fan. My brother’s experience would have helped me to understand the terrible mistake that I was about to make – my brother had been married ever since I was a little child.
My friends came to my place armed with the worst intentions. The lounge quickly turned into a filthy place that stank like a fishing bay. They chugged whiskey like water, the ash tray was overflowing with cigarette butts, the air was so full of toxins from all the smoke that even the Marlboro Man would have struggled to breathe in there. It was a terrible night. Everything came to an end at two thirty in the morning, when Salvo, the only one who hadn’t drank any alcohol, offered to give the other two a lift. The other guys were talking loudly by the door, they were arguing about which team was the strongest between Trapattoni’s Juventus or Sacchi’s Milan.
When they had gone, I crept into the master bedroom, I noticed that Maria wasn’t asleep.
“Are you alright?”
“Did you open the windows? It stinks,” she answered, without looking at me.
“I know, I’m sorry—”
“Did you open them or not?”
“Of course I did,” I lied. I wanted it to end there. I didn’t like her tone. The Laphroaig and the smoke had triggered a devastating headache.
I slid under the blankets in my underwear.
“What are you doing?” She asked angrily.
“What do you think I’m doing?” I dared.
“You stink – go and wash yourself first.”
It was then that the thought began to take shape.
I got up and without uttering a word headed to the bathroom. From there, I heard her voice once again.
“I hope you tidied up the lounge, I’m not going to clean up after anyone.”
I looked at my reflection in the mirror incredulously. Was the guy with grey sideburns and white hairs on his chest really me? Yeah, it seemed it was. Fabrizio Corsaro. I rinsed my face and forced myself to remain silent. The thought was becoming clearer and clearer in my mind.
I went back to the bedroom. She was waiting for an answer, she didn’t get it.
I silently slid under the blanket once again; the alcohol was torturing my temples with painful beats.
“Enough is enough,” she hissed and rolled over.
Yes, I know. It was the most trivial of arguments between a couple. Something most people would forget about. After her comment though, I looked at her, and the thought became crystal clear.
That side of the bed had once belonged to me. That night I remembered for the first time how comfortable that side was.