Hello little brother. Hey big brother. Can we talk for a moment? I was on my way out, but okay. Let's sit in the living room for a moment. Do you want to have a drink? With this cold I would like at most a hot chocolate. Stuff for kids, you're grown up now. How about a glogg? A what? A typical Swedish hot drink based on wine, liqueur and spices, a kind of noble relative of mulled wine. It's good, trust me. Sit down, I'll prepare it for you. Okay. I sit in the armchair and watch him casually tinker with wine, cognac, orange peel, cinnamon and cloves on a sort of small camp stove that I am only now discovering exists in my house. Every now and then, my brother amazes me, I didn't know he had the soul of a bartender. How are you doing. As usual. Sorry to mind your business, you know it's not my style, but every now and then, I need to be the big brother. Here's your glogg. Pay attention to the cloves, I left just a couple because I like the intense aroma they give to the drink: the boiling liquor enhances their scent, rises in the nose and goes straight to the brain, a bit like the smell of snow high in the mountains. Or the fumigations that our mother made for us when we had a cold, I add, staring at him warily. Yes, he confirms. He puts a steaming glass cup in my hand: I taste the strange balsamic-scented concoction with a bit of hesitation and immediately burn my upper lip. I blow on it and sip it carefully: it's really good, I have to admit. I confirm it to him. Michele places a hand on my shoulder. Are you sure everything is fine? Yes why? It's okay, I tell you. Never underestimate the power of denial. He sits in the armchair in front of me and leans forward to observe me with his shoulders slightly hunched, holding the glass between his knees with both hands. He looks like an art critic studying a painting. I feel embarrassed. Do you go out dressed like this? Yes why? T-shirt, jacket, sneakers and torn jeans in the middle of winter: aren't you cold? No, I'm not cold at all. However, if we want to be precise, it is not winter yet: it is late autumn. He, on the other hand, is wearing a Norwegian sweater, which actually suits him. You've become a really nice boy, no doubt about it: practically my opposite, blond and angelic. You got everything from mom, we don't even look like brothers. It's not true, we have the same build and more or less the same height. You will still grow, I won't. I hope not too much, I'm already quite tall. And then our hands are the same. Hands are important, especially for a tennis player: ours are large but beautiful, with long and thin fingers, like our mother's. Yes, he confirms by looking at mine, with the difference that I don't wear rings or bracelets. Not that they're bad for you, far from it, but they're a bit... Feminine, I conclude. Yes. I smile with detached superiority: Rings and bracelets can be removed. No no, keep them: they look good on you, they're part of the character. What character? Yours: you went directly from Voltaire's Candide to Verlaine's cursed angel. Isn't that what you're playing now? I'm a little taken aback, then a half smile escapes me. Yes, I'd say it fits, as a definition. The quote is imprecise, but I refrain from correcting it: Verlaine's definition of Rimbaud is angel in exile, an adolescent Satan. It's really your part, it comes naturally to you. Just... He takes a sip of glogg and pauses like a great actor. Speaking of interpreting, who knows how long he had been rehearsing this scene, even rummaging through his high school memories to find cultured quotes. He's waiting for the next line; it's my turn to say it: Just what. Well, sorry if I tell you, you haven't looked good for some time: I find you too thin and pale. Seriously? Well, maybe I study too much and don't go out enough anymore. He raises his eyebrows with a no bullshit expression. If it's a joke, it's not funny. You go out every afternoon and you're definitely not studying too much: you have bad Greek and math again, little brother. Fuck. He got informed. Oh well, a couple of bad grades. What does it take to fix it? What does it take? I do not know, you tell me. I remind you that this year you have the final exam. There's still time. You're joking, I hope: it's Christmas soon. For mathematics I can help you, it's not a problem, but for Greek I think Antonia's help is needed. I snort impatiently. Oh no, again? Oh yes, again. You'll have to put up with it for a while longer. I don't think she wants to put up with me. She will do it if I ask her to. She'll be pissed off when she finds out I'm bad at Greek again. She was happy, she thought I was doing well. In fact you were, until last summer. Then what happened? Then oh well. It's like when you play tennis and suddenly a shot you know how to make is no longer successful. And I don't want Antonia's help anyway. I don't want anyone's help, I'll manage on my own. I dip my lips in the glogg and swallow it in small sips without adding anything else. My brother realizes that I'm closed up like an oyster and changes tactics. But that girl you're seeing now... what's her name. Michelle. Right, Michelle: what's she like? A pussy you wouldn't even dream of, big brother. She's okay: she's the lawyer Kerschbaumer's daughter, you know. Well, at least he's a friend of Dad's. However, since you saw her you've changed, and don't say no: you don't talk to me about the usual nonsense anymore, you don't come to the mountains to ski, we don't even play tennis anymore. You also got dark circles under your eyes. Well come on, I don't feel like going into certain details. Okay, good for you if the girl goes hard in bed: I also like beautiful and fiery women, and that girl is very beautiful, I admit it. But fiery doesn't mean nymphomaniac, if we understand each other. I nod. Just make sure you don't overdo it, that's all. Mind, your, own, business. No, I swear, everything's fine. I have a very high fever and I'm playing poker with Sinone and Putiphar's wife; the fourth is missing: Master Adamo, immobilized by dropsy, has declined the invitation; I hear him stating a blatant absurdity, namely that the tenth bedlam is eleven Florentine miles long and no less than half that wide: perhaps he simply means that among the perjurers there is room for me too. I visualize by analogy the parish church of Romena in Casentino, one of the most moving things I have ever seen, of a breathtaking beauty that I would have liked to be able to share with... I stop, grasping the risks of analogical thinking, and replace it with a generic consideration: I must have inherited the passion for Romanesque from my mother. Meanwhile Michele stirs his glogg, thoughtfully turning the spoon among the orange peels. Aren't you getting yourself into a messed up story? If I'm not mistaken she's twenty-two, there are always problems with grown women. Never underestimate the power of silliness. She's actually five centimeters smaller, I reply expressionlessly. This time he says it out loud: Oh no little brother, it's not worth taking the piss. I reply defiantly: Okay, she's four years older than me: so what. Suddenly his gaze becomes severe. "So what" in that tone you say to your sister. There must be a conspiracy against me: they all agreed to irritate me with this fucking joke. I am forced to give him the usual answer with a small variation on the theme. Do we have a sister? Can you introduce me to her? He sighs and tries to arm himself with patience. Emmanuel, I don't want to joke: try to be serious. At twenty-two a girl is already a woman, at seventeen a boy is a boy. Eighteen, soon. Don't be an idiot with me, little brother, you understood very well: the concept is that you are dealing with a woman, with everything that entails. You can't even imagine what entails. And I also have to stay here and act like an idiot and give you some encouragement. Let's try with a classic, the good old "that is". That is? That is, she has a lot more experience. On top of everything, she also seems like a spoiled, demanding girl to me: to stand up to a woman like that, you would need someone like Frédéric. Damn Frédéric. No, look, you're wrong. If so, all the better. In any case, keep your guard up, it's best for you: I'm telling you this in your interest. I don't answer: I hope with all my heart that the conversation died there. Instead he smiles at his half-empty glass and continues: At your age I also dated someone older, you know? I didn't expect this from him: you can see it runs in the family. I fear that he is in the mood for confidences: this embarrasses me, above all because it is a strategy to extort my confidences; but I'm not that naive, I won't fall into such a trivial trap. Her name was Francesca. says my big brother. She was thirty-six years old and was already dating someone else, a colleague of our dad. I was nineteen years old, I wanted to challenge fate. You know what it feels like at your age, practically omnipotent. He extracts an orange peel from the cocktail, sucks it and begins to chew it thoughtfully. In the end she chose the other: he was a career man, he could offer her a solid position, while I was a simple student who had just graduated. She liked me a lot, especially in bed, but that wasn't enough. My nineteen-year-old brother: I was four at the time, I can't remember him, much less imagine him in bed with a thirty-six woman. I suppose he was good, as in all the things he does; then love gives an extra gear, and it is clear that he was in love with that woman. Physically he was interesting, I saw some old photos: he wore longer hair and had the light-hearted expression of a young gypsy, very different from now. I can't blame her, continues Michele. A thirty-six year old woman feels deadlines approaching that she can't postpone, especially if she wants to have children. For a woman, thirty-five is a critical milestone, after which nature takes over again and constantly reminds you that your biological time is about to expire. It must be terrible, it's like having a clock ticking unbearably inside you, you know you have to hurry and make choices before it's too late: she was more and more nervous every day, I realized that she now considered me just a waste of time. She would never have wanted to have children with a penniless boy and she certainly couldn't wait for me to have a career. It was very humiliating. I chew a clove: it tastes horrible, I deserve it. I must admit that my brother's diagnosis is spot on, I recognize some of the psychological mechanisms that I had already noticed in Antonia. I can't help but think that my brother beat me in this too: there was a seventeen year difference between him and his Francesca, more than those that separate me from Antonia. I listen to it with more interest than I thought: I want to know how it ended, what happened to her. He goes on: She never managed to have children: she had a miscarriage, then became sterile. I was sorry to hear that. In retrospect I find it particularly stupid that she left me for this, don't you think? Especially since she divorced within a few years. Yes, I admit it was stupid of her. Maybe she would have been able to have a child with you. Maybe. I thought about it too, but by then it was too late. She wasn't even that beautiful, you know? But there was something that damned intrigued me about her, she was charming and confident, she knew how to dress and she had a natural elegance that I have never found in any other woman. A true queen. I had a terrible crush on her, when she left me I suffered like a dog for a year. All the places I had been with her had become unbearable, I no longer knew where to go: we had toured half of Turin looking for all the possible and imaginable holes to... He hesitates. I'm about to suggest "to fuck", but that's not his thing, at least not with me. In fact he continues: ...to hide. In the end I gave up on going out and threw myself headlong into studying: this helped me not to think about that story and made me start university with a bang, if nothing else. He raises his eyes with a knowing look: Please, let's let this thing stay between us, huh? Nobody knows, not even Antonia. Dad never imagined that his colleague's woman was my lover and he must not know it. Don't worry, I'll be a grave. He resumes: I would have married her right away. I wouldn't have cared about the age difference, even if in retrospect I realize that it would probably have ended badly: today I would have a forty-nine year old as my wife, who knows how I would feel. But maybe, I'll tell you, I wouldn't care even now: it wouldn't be a forty-nine year old, it would be "that" forty-nine year old. I really liked that woman. He turns the glass in his hands, eyes lowered. I especially miss her warmth. Before we were talking about fiery women: she was very fiery, I didn't need to ask her anything, she was always the one who took the initiative. I'm not saying she was a nymphomaniac, but she was certainly very hot, like no other woman I've met: and this is a big regret for a man. I purse my lips to prevent myself from asking "that" question, but he guesses it on his own and continues: Not that Antonia is cold, huh: but compared to Francesca she is, let's say, a little lukewarm. Let's be clear, little brother, I have nothing to complain about: Antonia suits me very well as she is. She's an intellectual, and she's younger than me, even if only slightly: it's the type of relationship that's different. Lukewarm: I can't believe my ears. Apparently multiple souls coexist in a woman. After all, not just in a woman. I wonder how long it will take for big brother to discover that the nymphomaniac is by his side: sooner or later it will happen, I'm sure, and that won't be a good day for him. I sigh, unable to do anything to help him understand, and I return to the previous discussion, which somehow interests me. I can't help but ask him: Why didn't you come back and look for her? She had divorced, in the meantime you had graduated and were already working, I suppose. He shakes his head. No. No what. We need to learn to say no to what hurts us, little brother. It had taken me too long to heal, I didn't feel like trying again. It's a bit like with drugs: if you manage to get over it, the idea of falling back on it horrifies you. In any case, the gist of the matter is that you have to be careful: with older women the game is never easy. Now what should I answer him: "don't worry big brother, I learned my skills screwing your girlfriend, I don't remember how the match ended, but at a guess I'd say it was a draw"? Once upon a time, I would have at least been able to tell him that I truly loved her, his girlfriend, with the crazy and passionate enthusiasm of an idealistic teenager, and this, knowing him, would have somehow ennobled my figure in his eyes; but now, in the light of later developments, it would have seemed only a squalid and ignoble affair. I refuse to comment. All right, I'll be careful. Now I really have to go. I place the empty glass on the table and get up: I stagger slightly under the effect of the wine and cognac cocktail, I have the sudden flash of pineapple juice mixed with rum. Michele approaches me smiling: Watch out little brother, I think you're a little drunk: you're not used to spirits. Luckily you don't have to drive. Come here, give me a high five. Okay. He squeezes my shoulders with his energetic hands. I recommend you, huh. Stay smart. Hi. Hi, brother... I head towards the exit, hoping that my tail doesn't stand out too much as I crawl between the furniture; I notice that he is watching me, I casually roll it up under my arm and reach the door. At the door I turn. Michele. Yes. I wanted to tell you... Tell me. Nothing. Just thanks.