Russian Roulette. Where the protagonists amuse themselves with a little game of which they clearly do not perceive the mortal danger. A few weeks ago, at Michael's request, I started to follow Emmanuel in his studies again: his school performance suddenly dropped; mother Helena went to talk to the teachers and they all said they were worried about his chronic distraction; a few signatures on the absences booklet turned out to be false. The poor lady avoided alarming her husband and preferred to talk to Michael, who immediately phoned me and asked for my intervention: I couldn't say no, because I was worried too. The maths teacher played it down, he must have had a crush, it's normal at his age: but often teachers, in order not to take on educational responsibilities, are capable of denying the evidence. Minimise, don't see, don't hear, always endorse the mainstream explanation: the state school adheres by practice to these golden precepts, which is also why I can never teach. Besides, don't parents do that too? But I, who know him well, know that it is impossible to attribute this difficulty in concentration, this tarnishing of the intellectual faculties to infatuation: his mind is agile and lively, it does not let itself be dulled by love, which, if anything, on the contrary, exalts it and makes it more ready to learn. No one knows this better than me. Now he is dazed, his mental processes are slowed down, it is as if his intelligence is regressing. I feel a sense of deep alarm and try to silence it by giving it trivial alibis: maybe spring, but it is not yet spring; maybe growth, maybe a bit of anaemia. I suggested blood tests, but he laughed at me: good, they already take me for a junkie, let alone with holes in my arms. We are alone in the house. I am trying to help him unravel the syntactic tangle of the famous passage in which Thucydides explains the function of direct speeches, when suddenly it occurs to me to ask him, rather foolishly in truth, who the girl is that I saw leaving the villa a couple of hours ago. She struck me very much: she is beautiful, tall, with a princely bearing. She's one. One of the many. Eremo area. She may have a name. We don't need to know it, for what we have to do together. Do you have to? We want, he corrects himself. I plunge back into the syntactic meanderings of the Greek text, looking for a logical explanation to a relative pronoun apparently unrelated to the rest of the clause, but I find that he does not follow me. Her name is Michelle. Then you remember her name. It's a beautiful name, isn't it? She is also beautiful, but she has something I don't like. Maybe you are jealous. Why should I? Yeah, why should you? I am, of course, but I feel an intense emotional transport for him and I do not want to leave room for negative feelings that could poison this state of grace. I am learning, with great effort, to be close to him like a sister, and the joy I feel in doing so is a real revelation to me. The grip on my heart is loosening: at last I can hope to stay close to him without losing him. I get it, I exclaim, placing my hand amicably on his, the anacoluth is only apparent: there is an implied verb after the comparative. He withdraws his hand. Very interesting. It's one of those things that, if you know it, will change your life. He gets up and puts on one of his records, a strange ballad that exudes an unhealthy charm; he turns his back on me for a few minutes. Are you getting enough sleep? I ask him. Why this question? I don't know, those dark circles. I am often late with her. You should rest more: you are a bit worn out. He turns and suddenly looks at me with a strange expression. Come on, why don't you ask me? What? What I do with her. You're dying of curiosity. Don't you think you are exaggerating? No, why? It's a stupid question: it doesn't take much to understand what you do together. He shakes his head walking around the room: Far. Far in what sense? In the sense of far. He hums the final stanzas of the song while turning around with his arms open and eyes closed. The music ends: he stops the CD, opens his eyes and stares at me with a blank stare: If I freak out will you still want me? What are you talking about? You're not going to freak out. And then you'll want me in what sense? Look, they've closed the asylums and my parents won't know what to do with an idiot at home. Will you keep me? Emmanuel, are you crazy? He laughs and returns to his seat. Yeah, I'm just fucking with you, prof. I was really scared. I count to ten to control my anger and answer coldly: I realised that. So, do you want to know what I do with her or not? No. She is similar to you in some ways. She looks like a good girl. But instead... What is this, a challenge? Times have changed, professor: challenging you is not exactly my favourite activity. Let's just say that I amuse myself with a little innocent provocation. I take the quote. I'm sorry Emmanuel, I reply, I no longer see a trace of innocence in you. He stands up again and turns his back on me, shoving his hands in his pockets. You took my virginity, he says in a brutal tone, and I am not talking about the physical one. Now you have no right to judge me: I get by as I can. I answer nothing: a mixture of conflicting emotions bubbles up inside me, but anger prevails over all of them. I don't understand why he's provoking me so blatantly just when I'm trying to help him, as if he doesn't realise that mastering my feelings is costing me immense effort. Worse: as if he fully realises this and intentionally wants to hurt me. I don't think I deserve it, not now that I'm doing my best to be his friend. I feel I'm about to cry and I don't want to give him the satisfaction. He picks up the chair, turns it inside out and sits back on his back in front of me, resting his chin on the backrest. He mercilessly scrutinises my expression: as I feared, not only does he not feel any tenderness for my pain, but he looks at me with a smile of ironic superiority, with the air of someone who says 'you asked for it, now you won't demand my sympathy too'. Emmanuel hates me, I feel like dying. Then he says: I have to thank you, you know? It's not easy to please someone like Michelle. It's also thanks to you that I got good at it: frigid women are a great gym. I give him a violent slap before I even realise it. He doesn't flinch: That makes two, he comments. You are not even original. My lips tremble with rage and humiliation. I utter those words before I even realise it: Come on, kid: show me what you can do. He shrugs his shoulders with an expression that means okay, but then say you want me to win easily. He gets up and comes towards me. "No wait" I say, but it's too late: I fall in slow motion, I feel the rough carpet against my back, I close my eyes. I don't recognise him any more: he has a technical and genital way of making love, with an absolute lack of emotional involvement, in a silence broken only by a few cold exhortations, turn around and move, and some crude comments, try not to take the usual half-hour. He smells that girl on his skin, a strange odour of musk, sweat and incense mingling with mine. I am intimidated, humiliated, I cannot stand that horrible comparison. I feel torn apart by a mixture of opposing emotions, ravaged by jealousy at the thought that a few hours ago he made another feel the same sensations and at the same time proud of him to the point of tears because he is good, yes he is good, my boy is good, he is a man. This state of mind will burst into madness if I let it last a single second longer: I have to stop, stop now. I don't let him finish, I abruptly push him away from me and get up. I recompose myself in front of the mirror with trembling hands: You did well to teach me this lesson, you know? If before I might have had some doubts, now everything is clear: you no longer need me in any respect. Let's put it this way, I have fulfilled my historical function towards you. I hook my earrings back on and adjust my skirt as best I can. Then I hurry away, closing the door behind me. In the past I liked to keep his scent on me, but this time I can't wait to get rid of all traces of him. I run to the bathroom and take a quick shower, drying my hair and putting my make-up back on, God, I look awful, I look ten years older. When I walk back past his room I hear a strange silence. I'm about to leave quietly, but suddenly anxiety assails me. I half-close the door. Emmanuel is holding his head under the pillow and pressing it convulsively as if he wants to suffocate himself. I cannot leave him like this. I go into the room, sit on the bed and try to push the pillow away from his face: he turns around with a wild, desperate expression, biting my hand like a rabid animal. Ouch, are you crazy? He stares at me with infinite hatred. I soften him with a few caresses and tidy him up with precise gestures, drying him with my handkerchief, slipping his vest into blue boxer shorts with a print of little white ducks, pulling up his military canvas trousers with large pockets on the thighs while he instinctively lifts his pelvis to help me, arranging his rolled-up jumper on his chest so he doesn't catch cold. I didn't mean to, he says. Excuse me, please. A wall of ice melts inside me: maybe it was just a bad dream. Nothing happened, I tell him, stroking his face. I suck, I know. No, what suck, you're just a little confused. He looks at me with dilated pupils. I lied to you. I'm not good with her, I'm not good at all. Yes, you are good. Very good. You didn't even want to finish. I don't like making love like that. In fact that's not making love, that's fucking. Not nice. Not with you. You're right, it's not nice at all. You became a man, I remembered a boy. In a way you became too good for me. I just... got scared, that's all. Scary good, in short. Yes. He laughs for no reason in a way that gives me the creeps. You are far from the truth. I'm a disaster with her. I don't believe it, it's not possible. But she's trying to heal me, you know? You have nothing to heal from, I reply insulted, as if this concerned me personally. No, I'm telling you I'm not good with her. It seems to you that I am good because you are you, but it is not so. You have to fucking believe me! All right, I believe you, don't fret. But she found the cure. Don't you want to know what it is? I don't want to know anything, you're talking a lot of nonsense. Now try to get some sleep. He squeezes my hand. Don't ever say that again. Never, ever, do you understand? What? That I no longer need you. I... if you don't... He turns around, closes his eyes and bites his lip. I don't know what I want, I don't know anything anymore. I am afraid. Don't leave me alone. I'm here, I won't leave you. He's holding me tight, tell me where the damn anacoluth is, I love anacoluths, I can't do without anacoluths. He is in a state of confusion. I tell him don't worry, we'll find at least three anacolutes, but first you have to take a nap. He answers yes, as long as I stay beside him; he lies face down on the pillow. So you don't breathe, I tell him, trying to turn his head. The light. The light bothers me. I switch it off. I adjust the pillow and feel it wet with tears. She is not one of many, is she? He shakes his head without saying anything. Are you in love with her? He hesitates for a moment, then replies: I don't know. I am confused. I can't do without her. I caress his forehead and feel it very warm. She is not the right girl for you. She does not care about me. She never says my name, never. I care about you, Emmanuel. He bites my hand until it hurts. I really do care, I repeat firmly. Only I have to learn to care in the right way. He loosens the grip of his teeth and pulls the sucker of his lips away from my hand, leaving a warm, wet mark. And what would be the right way? I hold his hand. This. He remains silent for a while; then he makes a rambling statement: It's OK with me if you fuck other people, so I can do it too, OK? It's not OK at all, but I tell him yes. He laughs softly with his eyes closed. Then he resumes: We've got some skeletons in the wardrobe you and me, huh? I don't know what to say to him. I continue to hold his hand, which trembles slightly in mine. After a while he asks me: Don't we watch cartoons any more? Of course we watch them. Tomorrow we will watch them. Saucepan has to pee. Will you put him out? My heart is skipping a beat. I'll take care of it, don't worry. Now go to sleep. He clings to my hand, closes his eyes and wishes me goodnight. He is shivering, involuntary contractions harden the muscles in his jaw; every time he slips into sleep he wakes up as if falling into the void and his eyes open wide to check that I am still there. Then, finally, he dozes off. The situation is alarming, he seems to be losing his mind. My gaze falls on an empty glass overturned on his bedside table, with a spoon in it. Suddenly I have a vision: a black hole, a flash, a greedy suction of antimatter. My heart stops in my chest.