Alpha male Where our hero accuses Plato of betraying him. Carlos is a man of his word, a real man: he never mentioned that night again. We remained good friends. No, it's not a catchphrase: it's the pure truth. For the past week or so we have been seeing each other almost every evening; we pass the time at the Murazzi as we did in Antonio's day, talking about this and that, even though we don't have much in common; at worst we keep quiet. He also plays the guitar, but in the Italian repertoire, in which he often produces himself thinking of doing me a favour, he doesn't go further than Vasco and Battisti; at most De Andrè. At the third Marinella I begin to show signs of breaking down and at the height of Albachiara I feel like committing suicide; I know he does it for me, but he doesn't realise that my musical tastes range over much wider and international horizons. I follow him more willingly when he plays me some morna from his country, a kind of blues typical of Cape Verde: not exactly my genre, but at least interesting on a folkloric level. I find it curious that in his language the guitar is called violão, while the violin is called rabeca. His favourite singer is Cesária Évora, but his idol is Eugénio Tavares, the romantic poet who influenced the music of the island of Brava (Carlos is originally from Nova Sintra, the island's capital): here morna is played in a slow, poignant tempo and the lyrics are mostly about love. However, as much as I try to appreciate this genre, Carlos' musical tastes only confirm the sidereal distance that exists between us. I wouldn't put up with it from anyone else, it is also from this that I understand that I'm fond of him: at this stage of my life I would feel alone in the world if he were not there. I must admit that something about him has begun to appeal to me. His physicality is masculine, but not vulgar: I could not tolerate the company of a vulgar person. I don't know exactly where this absence of vulgarity comes from: perhaps from his bearing, he walks as if he had a gold crown on his head and a red cloak hanging from his shoulders, with the train held by two imaginary pages, or perhaps from his sullen expression, which makes him appear reserved and surly. It is as if on his muscular body, so desirable to women, hangs a sign saying 'do not touch'. Or perhaps from the light in his eyes, sad and magical; like Cape Verdeans often, Carlos has light eyes but not blue, just a little lighter in colour than his skin. Only in cats have I seen eyes like that. Maybe Carlos is handsome, I can't tell: it's a type of beauty that escapes me. In any case he is an alpha male, of that there is no doubt. I recently looked up in an encyclopaedia the definition of this type of subject, which has always intrigued me because I belong to a completely different type of male: in the animal kingdom the alpha male is that specimen who stands out clearly in the herd, imposing himself on the others not by force, but by character traits that are his own. In the human species it is always a very direct individual, who knows his stuff, instils a feeling of security, is dominant but never aggressive. He does not care about being liked, he does not compromise: he knows that, in the end, he will get exactly what he wants, which does not necessarily coincide with success. In the case of my brother, another exemplar of the alpha male, success in work and social prestige are a natural consequence of his socio-economic status, although I cannot say how far his dominance extends to the female universe (Antonia's infidelity is the best proof of this). In the case of Carlos, who, despite being a prince in his little island, occupies an inferior position in the social scale of the western world to which he has moved, success is of no importance: if it had any, he would accept to be hired as a stripper in clubs for horny cougars, but, as I have already said, this idea disgusts him. Being an alpha male can also mean choosing a dignified solitude. I have an instinctive respect for this type of man, perhaps because I have never been able to be this way. Carlos has a real passion for beer, of which he is a great connoisseur. He explained to me with a certain sass that he is not a fan of Grogue, the typical Cape Verdean sugar cane rum: he considers it the stuff of alcoholics, a concoction that has ruined too many people in Santo Antão and other islands; and he added that, although he does not dislike the Coral beer typical of his country, he does not find it aromatic enough for his taste. At least in this respect he is decidedly cosmopolitan. By dint of following him around the pubs, I have become an expert: bitter ale, strong ale, the legendary Bulldog, stout, dortmunder, rauchbier, a very rare smoked beer, barley wine, bock and doppelbock, eisbock, lambic, unfiltered and low-fermentation kellerbier, the fabulous Trappist beers; and then the weissbier, wheat beer: Carlos says it's the best thing for someone like me who can't handle alcohol. When he sees me drunk, he grabs me by the arm and takes me to have my little nap, as he says. He expresses himself as if I were mentally handicapped, and he's probably not wrong: in fact when I'm tipsy I say idiotic things, make moronic jokes and laugh out loud. A few nights ago, while we were talking, I spilled a mug of beer on Carlos's dreadlocks for no reason at all, and his stunned face, his copper-coloured eyes fixed on me like those of a statue, seemed so comical to me that I almost died laughing; he slowly wiped himself with his napkin without saying anything, then grabbed me by the scruff of my neck like a stupid cat and took me outside, dropping me on the car seat. I apologised to him, but then, as he drove, I leaned under the steering wheel and tied his shoelaces together. He said "oh, you are really dumb tonight", but he didn't react. I fell asleep on his lap, still giggling at the thought of him getting up and falling to the ground long and sprawled. Definitely alcohol, unlike drugs, brings out the more surreal side of me, a kind of Puck leprechaun: too bad we can't be drunk all the time. Around midnight he stopped in front of my house and waved at me; as I hesitated, he reached out to open my door and looked at me as if to say "get out, what are you waiting for". I wanted it, better that way. Tonight we are seated at a table at Doctor Sax, where I have many memories and almost none good ones: those few are linked, despite everything, to Antonio. I hope not to meet him, especially in the company of Elettra: that would be embarrassing. There is a new band playing, we have come on purpose to hear them; they are good, but for some strange reason their music doesn't excite me, on the contrary it pulls me down more and more. Melancholy assails me. I sip a Franciscan weiss while Carlos drinks a lambic framboise with a blood-red label and an ominous name: Mort Subite. He wears military canvas trousers and a dark green long-sleeved T-shirt that hides his muscles. I find him different from the usual, different in every sense: he is serious and composed, he doesn't give me a glance. Carlos works on me like an antidepressant and his indifference makes me feel uneasy. I wonder what is wrong with me tonight. I don't recognise you any more, he suddenly says, taking a sip of Mort, as if he had read my mind. I look at myself in the mirror on the wall of the bar: blue T-shirt, faded jeans, broken sneakers, hair pulled back in a ponytail, the blinked eyes of someone who sleeps too little. Objectively cool, despite everything. Why?, I ask him. He does not answer. I insist. Because I don't play silly jokes on you? No, you only do those when drunk. So why? Because once upon a time you wouldn't have held back. Held from what? From dancing, right? We are not in a disco. And I have no intention of dancing anyway. Again no answer. Again I insist: Sorry, but why would you want me to dance? Like this. You are beautiful to look at. Do you enjoy faggots putting their hands on me? Don't worry, you have your bodyguard. This is not the point. And what is the point? I am very irritated. I am about to make it brutally clear to him what the point is, when two girls, a redhead and a brunette, approach us. As much as we try to go unnoticed, we are too peculiar a couple. I hate being interrupted when I'm talking to someone and right now I'm not willing to put up with it. Do you have a light?, the redhead asks him as she sits on the table. Carlos lights her cigarette and she inhales a few puffs; he pushes the smoke away with one hand, annoyed. In the meantime, the brunette has sat down between me and him; I can see her tight leather trousers, I can smell her opiate, nauseating perfume. What’s your name?, she asks me. I look at her, she is pretty, a goth with emo tendencies. I lower my eyes. Michael. I Cristina. You're cool, Michael. You're wrong, Cristina, I am gay. The girl stares at me strangely. And a passive one, I add. Carlos bursts out laughing. The girl turns to him. Is he your boyfriend? No, come on. I like women. Thank goodness. She is a soft-hearted metalhead. She looks at me and says: Would you like to talk about it? Why can women be so stupid? I look at her and smile. We don't understand each other: I am queer and happy to be queer, absolutely irredeemable. Finally, hard as she is to understand, she gives up and leaves me alone. The redhead beats time on the table with her long nails lacquered in black. After a while she says to Carlos. Cool, huh? Yes, they are good. They will make a bang, you'll see. If you say so. Don't bullshit me: for once there is a decent city group. I mean, even more than decent. Cristina intervenes. Bluvertigo are not from Turin. They are from Milan. What the fuck are you talking about? That's Subsonica. Bluvertigo were the ones at Hiroshima a month ago. And then they're from Monza, not Milan. Marlon is cool as hell. Oh but you won't get one tonight: Morgan, not Marlon. However, you're wrong, it's not them: the keyboard player is from Roland's Friends. No bullshit, come on. Even the singer, for that matter. No look, I'm sure: read the programme again. The learned musical disquisition comes to an end. I'm running out of patience, but there's no way to get them off my back, not least because Carlos isn't helping me. Evidently he doesn't give a damn about what I had to say, which exponentially increases my irritation. The redhead turns to him with her trademark politeness. I'm getting a flat ass, may I? Without waiting for an answer she gets down from the table and sits on his lap. He keeps his hands to himself, but he does not seem indifferent; she certainly feels something interesting through his trousers, because at a certain point she turns to look at him in astonishment and admiration. The brunette begins to cling to him in turn. He lets her do. At a certain point he gives me a look of understanding: it is obvious how this evening will end, and it is equally obvious that one of the two will be the turn of me. So, for the avoidance of doubt, I get up, go and pay the bill for both of us and leave. Turin is beautiful tonight: the air is fresh, pleasant, the night is starry, you can see the Ursa Major shining above the Eremo, you can hear the Po flowing calmly. I stroll under the arcades of Piazza Vittorio with my hands in my pockets kicking a can, the only clue to my state of mind. Everything is in its place, my city breathes in my face, it makes me feel clean and well accepted in this demented joke that is life, and I pretend to believe that everything is perfect. Suddenly a junkie approaches me and asks for ten thousand lira: I tell him to fuck off, he insists, he puts his hands on me. Someone comes up behind me and pushes him away: it's Carlos. The junkie leaves swearing. I don't thank him, I don't even speak to him: I start walking again, lengthening my stride. I want to walk up towards the Eremo, Michelle's pull is still strong. He follows me, or rather he chases me, panting a little out of anxiety. Are you crazy? You're just leaving without saying anything? I do not reply. He grabs me by the shoulder and pins me down: I yank myself free without looking at him. Tears are welling up in my eyes, I don't want him to see them. Oh, what's wrong with you? Nothing, leave me. Come on, what is it? I don't need any more shit. Eat it, if you like, but without me. I start walking again with rapid steps with my gaze fixed on the spectacularly lit Gran Madre; I catch a glimpse of the arches of the Vittorio Emanuele bridge reflecting in the black water of the Po, like great rings of gold; in the background the mysterious blue silhouette of the Monte dei Cappuccini emerges from the darkness. I will never understand why Turin. Carlos pauses for a moment to reflect and then rushes up to me. You're right, sorry. Come on, stop, I'll take you home. We'll walk to the car. During the journey I do not utter a single word: I am in a black mood. Then suddenly, as we are approaching my villa, I say. I want to see shooting stars. It is an objectively idiotic request and it is not even the right time, but Carlos raises no objections: he reverses gear, crosses the Isabella Bridge and takes me to the Magdalena Pass along the Road of the Dead. I am too depressed to grasp the unconscious irony of that choice. We stop the car in a lay-by at the Parco della Rimembranza. We lie nose-up in a not-so-clean meadow and wait. Not a single star falls, the Big Dipper is always in its place, firmly embedded in the sky. Carlos breaks the silence with an atmospheric phrase. Shit, a sewer rat. Where? Nothing, it left. It is an evening full of crickets; the night breeze is biting. I have a stomach ache. I knew it, you caught a cold. You were sweating. Perhaps. I have a panu di tera in the car. A what? A blanket. He gets up, fetches the blanket, brings it to me and wraps me in it. Curled up in a cocoon of comfort, I feel at home again, safe. There it is!, exclaims Carlos, pointing to a bright trail running diagonally across the sky. I smile, almost in disbelief. A shooting star. You have to make a wish. You too. Then let us both express it. He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to him, continuing to stare at the sky. I can smell the pungent odour of his skin, similar to that of certain big cats: a smell that has an arousing effect on women, while on me it produces an indefinable disorientation, a sort of narcosis. It is all terribly strange. What is happening?, I ask alarmed. I don't know and I don't care. But you must care. Why? Because it's not fucking normal. Yes, it's normal. You're cold, I'll warm you up: that's all. No, that is not all. You are free to leave whenever you want. Relax. He is right, no one holds me back. I relax. But as soon as I let my guard down, predictably, I cry. What's going on with you? Fuck Plato. Huh? He betrayed me. Beauty is not good, beauty does not save. Form is a strategy of matter, it serves it to preserve itself. It does not care about us. Beauty serves nothing else. I didn't understand a thing. Of course, I explained it very badly. Basically, Carlos, beauty is a rip-off. When I get old, I'll be alone like a dog, no one will look for me. Why do you say that? Because I know. I am not like you: mine is a fragile beauty, the kind that does not stand the test of time. You mean you think I'm handsome? Yes, at least I think so, but yours is a manly beauty. Men like you grow old remaining interesting. Instead, those like me at sixty risk looking like old lesbians. It's terrible, the very idea terrifies me: it's fortunate that some of the best-looking guys in rock died young, they were too adolescent to grow old. Adolescence is an existential condition, not a stage of life: if it doesn't coincide with age, disaster is assured. What's rock got to do with it? It is too long to explain. However, Prince, if a woman seeks you out just because you are sexy, it means she has understood nothing about you. You don't say sexy, you say hot. Oh, who put that shit in your head? The young have beauty, the old make money to buy the young: it's the fucking epitome of our civilisation. There are also the people who love us. Bullshit. We invented friendship, love and ideals just so we wouldn't slit our wrists. There is no white horse, or if there is he is in a coma. When you spout this crap, I don't really follow you. This is not crap. What horses? What veins? Look, listen to what I'm telling you: if everything disappears tomorrow and the world is left with nothing but concrete and a pickaxe, you know what I'll do? No, what are you doing? I punch concrete. No fucking way I'm cutting my veins. Great. I admire you. Are you shitting me? No, I mean it: I would like to be like you. I have one person who really loves me. Yes, I know, Mayra. And so do you, Prince. My philosophical paradigm undergoes an unexpected reversal, hovering between Epicurus and Schopenhauer: a decidedly uncomfortable position. We remain immersed for a long time in a perfectly catastematic pleasure. After a while he says to me. I don't know what you will do with your life, prince. I fear for you, you like getting into trouble too much. Remember one thing, though: I'll always be there for you; just give me a whistle and I'll join you at the ends of the earth. Even if I'm in Nova Sintra, I'll jump on a plane and be with you in a few hours. Those words drop into my stomach like a Christmas Grogue made of dark rum with lime juice and a cinnamon stick, and with the same effect: they get me instantly drunk. By a strange mental short circuit I see myself sitting next to Guybrush Threepwood in Monkey Island, I'm on the wrong continent, who cares. I rest my forehead against his chest, listen to the heavy beat of his heart. I raise my head towards him, I enter the womb of a primordial innocence, the sky closes over me. A red light pulses on the horizon as the sun sets among the baobabs, a firework explodes in the twilight coagulating into a neon sign, two words float scarlet in the darkness resembling an Edgar Allan Poe title: Mort Subite. Then everything fades away. What remains is the silence broken by animal sounds, gasps and groans, rattles of struggling creatures, the incommunicable ecstasy of a night in Africa.