Someone’s knocking on the door of the old fishmonger’s shop. Again. Has the handsome climatologist returned? Sprained his ankle walking his bike in that dreadful heat? Typical questions a scribbler likes to pose. But apart from a bad headache (too much excitement) on top of the stomachache and the broken elbow, everything’s fine with Apollo. Nor can that be an aunt rapping, no matter how testosteronic her biceps; this is the energetic, imperious hammering of an impatient (maybe even violent) hominid. Daphne, however, goes to open the door without concern, and does not seem at all surprised to find the mechanic who fixed her bike. The burly one with the prizefighter’s nose.
Yes, it’s him, although he’s not wearing the usual overalls with the Japanese logo on the back. He’s dressed in very tight pale-blue jeans and a tight red T-shirt that clings to knots of bulging muscles that look carved in wood (a bodybuilder, is my guess). On his feet, a pair of oversized gym shoes, like a kid might wear. She barely has time to take in these details, though, because he immediately grabs her head, as if taking possession of the thing he came for (it was clear he hadn’t come for the conversation). She lets him take her mouth without hesitation, as if fearful of crossing him. She also allows his hard, rough hands to slip inside her tunic, indeed she expedites their imperious advance by moving her upper body in concentric circles, moves that resemble the undulations of a cunning snake. When the big hands find her nipples she grips his biceps with all her strength, as though seeking his protection in a situation of grave danger.
Minutes later they’re on the mat and her tunic is an open book, and not a holy one. Spread over her long body, the mechanic pumps his mighty arms as his pelvis delivers potent thrusts, the way he might pound a large post into the ground. He looks like he’s in a hurry to complete a strenuous task. She, meanwhile, cheek glued to the sky-blue floor tiles, stares out the bayonet window open to the alley of the Nigerian prostitutes, her vision clouded as if she’s about to faint. She seems almost unconscious, or drugged. Alone in a world of wind and bright sunlight.
Now the bike shop satyr slams harder, he seems to want to break right through the floor and descend into the cellar. (Inferno, I think. Inferno was one of the many hobbyhorses of that supposed son of mine, but I must give him credit, the scenography was undeniably powerful.) Finally the satyr emits a long braying sound, an asphyxiated donkey desperate to catch its breath. He hovers over her for a few seconds, tremors running through him like an epileptic fit, then deflates on top of her. Maybe those rock-hard muscles broke something inside him? It’s another one–zero, but this is merely act one. The mighty tool has only contracted by a few millimeters; he just needs a short break. It won’t be a night of verbal disquisitions or philosophical conjecture; in fact, they’re looking in opposite directions. She, toward the post-Fordist courtyard behind the wall of glass bricks; he, toward the plate of biscotti on the rim of the fish tank.