School started a little while ago, and already the air is thick with strikes, demonstrations, and meetings over the usual issues. Already I’m imagining the reddened faces of the politicians when they clash with the protesters. The first assembly of the year will begin in a few hours, and the issue is globalization. Right now I’m sitting in a classroom during a period with a substitute teacher; behind me sit some of my schoolmates gabbing about the speaker who will lead this morning’s meeting. They say he’s not only very smart but good-looking, with an angelic face. When one girl says she’s much less interested in the intellect than in the face, they burst into giggles. They’re the same girls who went around talking trash about me a few months ago, saying I’d given it up to some guy who wasn’t my boyfriend. I’d confided in one of them, told her everything about Daniele, and she’d hugged me, uttering an “I’m so sorry” that was obviously hypocritical.
“What’s so funny? Wouldn’t you let a guy like that bang you?” asks the girl who expressed more interest in the face.
“No, I’d rather rape him,” answers another with a laugh.
“What about you, Melissa?” she asks. “What would you do?”
I turned around and told them I don’t know him, and therefore I don’t feel like doing anything. Now I hear them laughing, and their laughter blends with the shrill, metallic sound of the bell that signals the end of the hour.
Perched on the platform built for the assembly, I didn’t care about the demolished Customs building or the torched McDonald’s, even though I’d been chosen to write a report on the event. I was seated in the centre of the long table; on either side of me were the representatives of the opposing sides. The guy with the angelic face sat next to me, gnawing on a pen in the most obscene way. And while the confirmed rightist engaged with the tenacious leftist, my eyes studied the blue pen wedged between his teeth.
“Write down my name among the participants,” he said at a certain point, his face bent over a slip of paper filled with notes.
“What is your name?” I asked tactfully.
“Roberto,” he said, although this time he looked at me, surprised that I didn’t already know it.
He stood up to speak. His speech was strong and compelling. I watched him as he moved with self-confidence, holding the microphone and the pen. The extremely attentive audience smiled at his ironic quips, which he made at just the right moments. He’s a law student, I thought, which explains his rhetorical skills. Every so often he would turn to look at me. Somewhat mischievously, although in the most unaffected manner, I started unbuttoning my blouse from the neck down, revealing the white swell of my breasts. Perhaps he noticed my gesture. At any rate, he began to turn more frequently, and with a mixture of curiosity and slight embarrassment he started making eyes at me, or at least so I thought. After finishing his speech, he sat down again and stuck the pen back in his mouth, ignoring the applause that was directed at him. Then he turned toward me – I had meanwhile gone back to writing my report – and said, “I don’t recall your name.”
I felt like playing. “I still haven’t told you,” I replied.
He lifted his head a bit and said, “Right …”
I smiled and watched him resume taking notes, pleased that he might be waiting for me to tell him my name.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” he asked, scrutinizing my face.
I beamed. “Melissa,” I said.
“Mmmm … Your name is the Greek for ‘bee’. Do you like honey?”
“Too sweet,” I replied. “I prefer stronger tastes.”
He shook his head, smiled, and each of us continued writing on our own. After a while he stood up to smoke a cigarette, and I saw him laugh and gesture excitedly to another guy (who was also quite handsome). At times he would glance at me and smile, letting the cigarette dangle from his mouth. From a distance he appeared thinner, and his hair seemed soft and scented, bronze-coloured ringlets that fell gently on his face. He stood leaning against the streetlight, shifting all his weight to one hip, which he seemed to be holding up with the hand in his trouser pocket. A green-checked shirt flounced out, disarranged, and round glasses completed his intellectual look. I’d seen his friend a few times outside of school, handing out leaflets. He invariably had a small cigar in his mouth, lit or not.
When the meeting ended, I was gathering the sheets of paper scattered on the table – I had to submit them with my report – and Roberto returned. He squeezed my hand and said goodbye with a broad smile.
“Arrivederci, comrade!”
I started laughing and confessed that I liked being called comrade, it’s amusing.
“Come, come!” said the assistant principal, clapping his hands. “What are you doing there chattering away? Do you not see that the assembly has ended?”
Today I’m happy. I had this lovely encounter and hope it doesn’t end here. You know, Diary, I truly persevere if I want to achieve something. Now I want his phone number, and I’m sure I’ll manage to get it. After his number I’ll want what you already know – namely, to inhabit his thoughts. But before that happens you know what I must do.