Prince. About the strange male complicity. And so that evening I met Mayra. I think I understood why Carlos does not like to talk about her: Mayra is not beautiful, in fact, to be honest, she is downright ugly. She has nothing of the wild nobility of her brother's somatic features: she is short, fat, with something ape-like in her face, her hair almost always hidden by a coloured cloth cap, a sloppy clothing that reveals her clear awareness of not being attractive to the male sex and her refusal to try. However, she has beautiful gold-coloured eyes, very similar to Carlos's, a very sweet character and a maternal and visceral attachment to her brother. She speaks little and masters Italian in an awkward and uncertain way, mixing it with Creole expressions, but she always manages to make herself understood, not least because she has a very expressive facial expression: as you talk to her, she widens her eyes and smiles from ear to ear to let you know that she is listening willingly. When she runs out of things to say, she moves on to typical Cape Verdean cakes, which she prepares every day and of which she is fond: she goes to the kitchen and brings you a slice on a plate, then sits down and eats it with you, showing with wide smiles her satisfaction at the result of her cooking skills. In short, she knows how to make you love her, because she is one of those rare people who love respect and cultivate life in general without judging it and without expecting it to be anything other than what it is; it is not by chance that she lovingly grows basil, sage and rosemary seedlings on her balcony, some of which are so ugly that anyone else would throw them in the bin: I'm sure they only stay alive to reciprocate her affection; one of them in fact is already dead, but she insists on watering it anyway; moreover, she has adopted two shabby cats, one lame and the other blind, who look perfectly happy in their stuffed baskets. This did not fail to make me reflect on the meaning of my existence, in which there is everything but the essentials. Perhaps there was, certainly there is no longer. I concluded from this - that Mayra is everything I would like to be and am not. It is not hard to understand why Carlos has taken her along and is so protective of her: he probably realises that you have to love her a lot to appreciate her and that this is beyond the reach of ordinary males. In his place I would do the same thing. Be that as it may, Carlos's presence has begun to please me: it relieves me of the responsibility of pleasing Gerti, a task which by now, given the turn our relationship has taken, has lost all interest in me. Carlos has become a strange go-between for me and sex: I watch him fuck for me and almost feel like a participant. In fact, if one could put aside trifles like pride, jealousy and personal dignity, it would be quite an exciting sight. A strange and unexpected all-male complicity has arisen between us: Carlos compensates for the indifference of Gerti, who, too busy satisfying herself, does not notice my humiliation, or pretends not to notice it. In those moments, I simply do not exist for her. Yet, if I try to let a few days pass without looking for her, she is the one who shows up. I suppose my presence has an aesthetic meaning for her: I am a must, an essential complement to the décor, like the Chinese vase, the Egon Schiele paintings and the Persian carpet. I thought I had got used to it, but apparently not: today I was really turned around. Suddenly, while I am with them, I feel like throwing up. I run to the toilet. While Gerti is taking a shower Carlos enters the bathroom and finds me slumped on the floor near the toilet. He approaches with jaguar-like strides, grabs me by the arm and yanks me brutally, almost dislocating my shoulder: Get up! What kind of man are you? You worm, you can't be reduced like this for a whore. I stand up unsteadily on my legs, twist on myself like a puppet and slump to the floor. For a few minutes I remain in a state of semi-consciousness; when I come to my senses I am sitting on the toilet and he is shaking me vigorously: It's about time. Are you OK? More or less. Look, I'm sorry I called you a worm before. The fact is that this is not working, we have to cut it out. I'm saying me too, not just you. I'm sick of this story: no need to waste all that time on sex, we males only need five minutes, it's the women who are sluts. Apart from my sister and your mother, of course. Get dressed, let's go have a beer. We go out together. As I walk beside him I think. Physically I do not like Carlos: he is too male, I feel no attraction for his athletic and muscular body. His personality is also too basic for me. But I like him to like me, and I know that he likes me: I am convinced that by now he keeps seeing Gerti just so he can see me. A strange revenge mechanism has been triggered in my soul: it's no small thing to win over a rival like Michelle. He takes me to the John Lennon Pub. I make my way to a secluded table at the back of the pub full of people, and the whole time, while sipping my beer, I just nod at his chatter without listening to anything he is saying to me at all; meanwhile I look him in the eye and smile, running a finger along the rim of my glass. After the beer we get into his beat-up Cinquecento; I have brought a CD with me: I plug it into his stereo and let myself be swept away by the killer tune of one of the songs I listen to with Gerti. He looks at me puzzled. Do you like this stuff? he asks me. This stuff is a bomb, I reply, laughing, but I don't expect you to understand it. It's actually not bad, he replies without the slightest conviction. The speakers of the old stereo slaughter the bass by vibrating unbearably, but, apart from the fact that it would be indelicate to point out to Carlos that his system is a cheap shack, I am too excited to complain about it: I beat the time with my hands on my jeans and I sing at the top of my lungs "break my body, hold my bones!". He smiles as he shakes his head and continues to drive me aimlessly around my city. The music ends. Exhausted, I close my eyes and doze off. When I open my eyes again I realise that he has taken me up the hill. He parks in a side street and pulls the handbrake. It is exactly what I had planned. I let what is in the logic of things happen. I thus discover that with him I can allow myself to be myself: there is no performance anxiety, no typically female parameters such as size, hardness, duration; I am fine with him as I am. People think of relations between men as violent, but in my experience it is women who are more bestial in pleasure, as they are generally more attracted to the material aspects of existence. In the end, of course, there is much awkwardness between us. He keeps silent, I reflect on the homophobic scruples that have assailed me, comparing the situation with the one I had already experienced with Antonio. But the comparison does not hold up: the one with Antonio was a relationship between almost peers, similar in terms of Weltanschauung and culture, nourished by common interests, poised between Plato and Thomas Mann. It was a relationship between equals, in which I controlled the game perfectly. Everything is different with Carlos: he is a man, his appearance is as virile as one can imagine, and we have nothing in common, neither social background, nor cultural formation, nor interests of any kind. I cannot make intellectual excuses or invoke the extenuating circumstance of elective affinity. Well, I find out now: I have no intention of becoming “that” kind of person. I lock myself in stubborn muteness. He does not break the silence, he waits for me to speak. I finally make up my mind: Look, I wouldn't want you to get any strange ideas in your head. Don't worry, I'm not putting any ideas in my head. I am not gay. Neither do I. So what are we doing together? It is a good question. Perhaps an answer should be found, don't you think? OK, let's find it. Emptying the bag has done me good: I already feel more relaxed. I try to joke around: So, to recap: neither you nor I are gay. Exactly. But we like being together. Exactly. And not just as two friends, I would say. No. What do you deduce from this? I don't know, Prince. The important thing for me is that you are well, but if you are not well we stop now. Disarming answer in its simplicity: I find nothing to reply. I shake my head: Look Carlos, you are a dear friend, but we'd better leave it at that. He raises no objections. He starts the car and drives off. He turns the stereo back on. Don't you sing any more? No, I don't feel like it now. In fact, please turn it off: I'm in the mood for silence. As you wish, prince.