The Templars' loves.

No greater pain 
than to remember the happy time 
in misery.

Even a person like me, with an obvious tendency toward self-destruction, cannot help but recoil in horror at the memory of happiness touched with a finger and immediately irretrievably lost.

Recently, the psychologist tried to get me to downplay the severity of the loss by using the usual trick of downplaying the magnitude of the lost good. But I am not a weak mind, doctor: your brainwashing did not work, you could not even for a moment make me believe that in those three days I did not experience a condition of perfect bliss.

He who loses such a thing is finished with life: at best he survives, and only because others demand it. But as long as his earthly existence lasts, passing along that road, looking at that landscape, listening to that song, he will feel a tremendous pang in his heart and measure in a moment the unbridgeable distance that separates him from life. No need to know in retrospect that it was all self-deception: this knowledge adds poison to poison, but it does not change the perception of loss. At most I can avoid thinking about it so as not to hurt myself unnecessarily, but if I recall those moments the evidence of my feelings is still so devastating that it would be ridiculous to try to convince myself otherwise.

The problem was not the illusion: the problem is that the illusion is over. If only I could recreate that deception, I would choose to live in pretense and self-deception for the rest of my life. There is a deeper truth in this pathological lie than any truth of the so-called healthy. Think about it, I'm giving you the cue for a new article in your specialist journals, the ones I absent-mindedly flip through while waiting my turn in the waiting room.

Here I am, ready to perform my almost daily task, to revive the memories of my brief past and fix them on this cold medium that is a computer memory; how much better my old diary was: the relationship was much more secret and intimate, there was the smell of the ink, the rustle of the paper, the seductive contact with the leather cover... I must have been an amanuensis in another life, I like these archaic writing instruments too much.

As I said, doctor, I am ready. But this time I don't think I can do it: I'm throwing in the towel early.

If one is not a great writer, one had better give up trying to describe happiness: its clumsy translation into narrative terms reduces everything to a series of heartbeats, tenderness, sighs, glances, smiles, with outcomes mostly on par with messages in chocolates. Being happy is a state of perfect wholeness, and since perfection is inexpressible, I am putting myself in a position to simply make a fool of myself, failing to revive even one of those unforgettable moments.

I don't understand writers. As far as I am concerned writing is a practice of painful masochism, it leaves me with the same sense of bitterness and frustration as lonely love. My diary made sense before, when she used to read it secretly; sometimes I would write provocative things in it for the sole purpose of surprising and shocking her, it was a little innocent and sadistic fun. But now what's the point? You'll tell me I'm writing it for you, doctor. Now, I hope you will not be offended if I tell you that it is not exactly the same thing.

The writer is always alone. He is alone while he is writing, and he does not know whether anyone will read him; he is alone while his work is being read, because he cannot see the effect it is having on the reader, whether it bores him, amuses him, excites him: no feed-back possible. In fact he is in a condition of pure autism: between him and his readers there is no relationship. It is less frustrating the condition of the actor, who, if nothing else, has the opportunity to witness immediately the reaction of the audience.

Sometimes, to alleviate the pain of this torture I inflict on myself, I imagine that I speak to an invisible reader who stands behind my back and reads what I write in real time; I question him, listen to his answers, his comments, and this gives me some comfort. Then I come to my senses and see myself for what I am: an asshole sitting alone in his room, sitting at his PC, while others chat and play cards downstairs. And I wonder what life is all about, what the point of human relationships is, when I almost daily am forced to make excuses to avoid the company of the girl I say I love and be able to lock myself up here doing the only activity that can soothe my malaise: conversing with my ghosts.

Are you there, reader? If you're listening, I'd like to ask you a question: have you ever felt such happiness that your heart ached? I really mean physically, not metaphorically.

I hope so, otherwise you cannot understand what I am about to tell.

...

During Antonia's convalescence I had remained discreetly by her side, allowing myself only short walks alternating with moments of study; I had put off for weeks the opportunity I had been looking forward to. Now the moment had come: Antonia had been true to her word, had agreed to spend three days with me after the written exams, which, according to the internal member, I had passed rather brilliantly. She, proud of me, had granted me that short vacation as a reward and a relaxing interlude before the oral exam. I had almost a month to prepare for it: my section would come last and the letter L had been drawn, so my oral exam would not be until mid-July.

Like all middle and upper-middle-class families in Turin, my parents have a house in Liguria, a small villa on the hillside of Bordighera. I very seldom go there, however: western Liguria is not wild enough for my taste; I prefer the rugged cliffs of the Levant, that incredible Portovenere with its cemetery overlooking the world, the eerie caves of Byron, the chilling Christ of the Abyss of San Fruttuoso. However, I had dismissed Liguria out of hand: it had not even crossed my mind to propose to Antonia a walk on the path of love of the Cinque Terre or some other Peynet-like situation. I wanted our vacation to be something absolutely out of the ordinary, as indeed it was.

I had chosen an area in Tuscany where I had been on vacation with my parents as a child and which had left a kind of hole in my soul, a desire to experience something important there. I didn't know it at the time, but I recently found out that right there, just a stone's throw away, stands the white windmill of advertising; this confirmed to me once again that the Demiurge is endowed with a perverse sense of humor, at least toward me: he loves to target losers and disguises sarcasm behind Anglo-Saxon-style coldcocks like "I was so distracted this morning that I wore my grandfather's bra." Something like that.

I had obtained permission to use my father's bmw: he had been made lenient by my obvious psychophysical improvement and the fact that the exam papers had gone well; I had told my parents that I would be spending two or three days with a classmate of mine who had a house in the country, so that they could be comfortable studying for the oral exam. As for Antonia, she had simply told Michael that she needed to stay home for a few days, since she was still feeling a bit weakened by the aftermath of the operation. No one had suspected at all that we had left together.






On the outward journey I drove, as badly as any drunk, now pressing too hard on the accelerator, now mindlessly slowing down, while she, a little amused a little concerned, told me to watch the road; as we drifted away from the known world, into the surreal landscape of the Crete Senesi, my intoxication grew: I caressed with my gaze the half-tones of those whitish lands drawn by the comb furrows of the plows, the undulating backs of the hills surmounted by small patches of cypress trees like crests of sleeping blond dinosaurs.

At a fork in the road, I accidentally took a side road that climbed up the hills and got lost in oak and chestnut forests. I love getting lost, and I cannot imagine a more blissful experience than getting lost with her. We took a wrong turn, I told her, I don't know where we are going; she leaned her head on my shoulder and said smilingly go ahead, we will get somewhere. Those were the words I had hoped with all my heart to hear from someone, literally the password from which I would recognize the woman of my life. In that moment I loved her with absolute love. As we proceeded at random I felt that I was so happy that I was sick. That was the answer, that was the meaning of life: to go on like that with her, without knowing where. Things have changed a lot since then, but to this day I still think that if only it were possible for me to kidnap her and lose our tracks, I would travel with her into nothingness until I died, without feeling the slightest regret for anything else. That knowledge terrified me: I knew that if I made the slightest mistake it would be the end of everything. My heart was beating wildly.

Suddenly I pulled over and stopped in a small clearing between two huge cork oaks; at that moment the car stereo was playing Vivaldi: I had chosen an all-classical soundtrack for that unforgettable trip. I need fuel, I told her; she objected that the tank was almost full, then understood and smiled. I kissed her nonstop throughout the first movement of the Stabat Mater.

We arrived at our destination that it was already dark. 


The farmhouse stood atop a not-too-high hill, surrounded by cypresses, oaks and olive trees: it was an old country house entirely in exposed sandstone, as is typical of the best Tuscan tradition, tastefully renovated, clean and welcoming. I asked to pay for everything myself and would not listen to reason when she objected: for some time the weekly pay my parents passed on to me, previously thoughtlessly squandered, had ended up in its entirety in a special cash fund: I could afford to give her a weekend that lived up to any expectation.

We wandered around inside the farmhouse for a while: we entered a porch with arches where the old wood-burning oven stood, with tables and chairs for outdoor dining; just beyond, through a loggia, a few steps led to a terrace with an extraordinary panoramic view of fields and hills. In the large garden, within an English lawn, was the private swimming pool with umbrellas and sunbeds. The outside porch led to the kitchen with a full brick vaulted ceiling; a large archway, also made of bricks, separated the kitchen from the dining room with a large fireplace; from the living room a terracotta staircase led to the second floor, where a long corridor finally led us to our bedroom: it was large and bright, painted a warm apricot color, with handmade terracotta floors and classic Tuscan ceilings with exposed rafters and hollow tiles. The furniture was a clever combination of antique and modern pieces; the dominant smell was that of wood, as intense and reassuring as that of our barn. The bed, made of wrought iron painted light green, had white linen sheets that smelled of lavender. I thought it would be wonderful to spend my nights with her in that bed.

It is strange how I remember every minute detail of that farmhouse that I would not be able to find again (I even removed the name of the location) and in which I will certainly never set foot again, while the rest of the next two days blurs in my mind in a strange fog, as if I experienced them in a state of narcosis.

Have you ever noticed, imaginary reader, that when you think back to the most intense experiences of your past you usually think of a single frame. It is as if the feelings you have experienced have been concentrated in a single, mostly insignificant detail. That one detail will stick in your mind forever.

So it is with me: of those two days I retain only a series of snapshots that photograph details, never the full picture: her white skirt with red poppies, her toothbrush next to mine, her lightly tanned face, healthy again, full of tiny freckles, the candlelight dinners in the restaurant's outdoor terrace, the two of us so distracted that we spilled our wine laughing and looking into each other's eyes, the whispering table neighbors, her suddenly embarrassed, me ostentatiously kissing her in front of everyone defying the respectability of the moralists, her shy, confident smile as she leaned against my shoulder.



Here, doctor, the restaurant is an experience I feel I should tell you about. You'll probably take me for an idiot, but for me eating in a restaurant with her was like taking an elevator that catapulted me to the top floor of a skyscraper of happiness. I don't particularly like restaurants, partly because I am a vegetarian and generally eat very little. I don't have a good relationship with food, as you know. But sitting at the table with Antonia in front of those typical Tuscan dishes, while she, who is not a vegetarian, honored all the courses, from appetizer to dessert, pouring into her glass that excellent lightly sparkling red wine, some kind of Brunello or something like that, watching her eat with appetite smiling, happy as a child, was for me an indescribable joy: my heart was pounding, so much so that I had to force myself to remember that I had to eat something too, and at least taste the excellent homemade pasta dishes whose name I can't remember, big lumpy spaghetti typical of that area, seasoned with a very tasty garlic-based vegetable sauce. I cannot tell you why it gave me such a thrill to have lunch with her in that restaurant: all I know is that it was one of the most intense experiences of my life, so much so that I myself am amazed by it in retrospect. But I was amazed even then: amazed and in disbelief. Literally, I was thanking God for existing in every single moment of those lunches and dinners. Even the table neighbors, after a while, would stop looking at us ironically and surrender to the evidence of the facts, because my expression was too dumb to think that I was not in love with her.

And then, in the afternoon, the trip to the seaside, that corner of the beach among the rocks, a natural pool with water of an incredible greenish-blue transparency: we had the same taste in beaches, we didn't like sand, we loved the rocks and the clear water of the rocky bottoms. I remember her swimsuit so severe, not the usual bikini, a kind of little black dress with a transparent bias skirt, chaste and very elegant. It was a great surprise for me to discover that Antonia swam like a fish; in the presence of my parents, in our pool, she was always a little intimidated, so I had gotten the idea that she did not like to swim, but I had to completely change my mind: in the sea she had a natural aquaticity, you could say it was her element. I, too, was a good swimmer, as was my brother; I had won a few competitions in freestyle and was doing more than fairly well in breaststroke and dolphin as well, but in my case it was almost due: the Kellerman family had invested quite a bit of money in coaches and swimming pools, while Antonia swam on her own, with no particular style, but in an absolutely spontaneous way, putting her head underwater without the typical female worry about getting her hair wet: she would emerge shaking them off and smiling; it was beautiful for me to watch her. She would stay in the water for hours: I almost had to force her out when I saw that her fingertips were almost cooked by the saltiness. I remember the dives from a high rock, me launching myself headfirst from a height of almost ten meters, her not having the courage, 

but in the end she would jump off her feet all curled up on herself, raising huge splashes, while I from the water applauded her and shouted "well done, my love".

And then our dives, the seabed with the starfish that I would point out to her underwater holding her hand, the two of us lying on the shoreline catching the waves, the moonlit beach, bare feet, the smell of the night seaweed, me standing still in front of the black expanse of the sea, her in my arms, her back resting against my chest, in silence.

I reread what I just wrote and realize that my fears were well-founded: I feel like I am reading the lyrics of a Mogol-Battisti song, it looks nothing like what I was feeling. In any case, I will still make an effort to go ahead with the story.

I purposely omitted what happened after our evenings, and not out of sudden modesty, but simply because nothing happened. Our agreement continued to forbid sex, and the fact that we were alone for three days, sleeping in the same bed, did not change our pacts at all. I knew it was very difficult, but on this point I was absolutely uncompromising: I had my good reasons for being so, and I had to keep them to myself.

The first night she immediately pressed herself against my blue cotton pajamas, too naive chastity belt. I was ready for this eventuality and immediately stopped her hand from trying to slip inside my pants.

 No.

 Don't you really want to?

 No, Antonia.

 How long has it been since we have done this?

I would have been able to tell her the exact number of days, hours and minutes.

I don't know, I answered vaguely, not much, anyway.

Tell me the truth, Emmanuel: don't you like me anymore? I'm not offended; I can understand you.

 Don't talk bullshit.

 Then why?

 Because it hurt us, Antonia. These months have served me to detoxify. Now I finally feel good.

 Why?, she asked again.

Because I know it can last.

I had gotten a little out of line: I spoke no more, said I was very sleepy and pretended to doze off. She took my hand and after a few minutes fell asleep with her head on my chest, like a child. I stayed awake for a long time listening to her breathe, immersed in my thoughts; one in particular occupied my mind: there is a very deep sense in purity. If my joy in those days had been mixed with sex, I would never have discovered its nature and intensity: I would have confused it with pleasure. Now it appeared to me in all its naked truth.

Quid albedo? Nisi integra castitas. Castitas, securitas mentis, sanitas corporis est, nisi enim unusquisque miles castus perseveraverit, ad perpetuam requiem venire, et Deum videre non poterit . 

(What is candor, if not complete chastity? Chastity is security of mind and health of body. In fact, every soldier, if he does not persevere in chastity, will not be able to reach perpetual peace and see God).

And finally came the third day, the last. I had been preparing that moment for a long time: I had imagined it, studied it, repeated it countless times in my mind, so that every single detail would be perfect. In fact, the whole script unfolded according to my predictions, except for a single detail.