Labyrinths.
The relatives of the spouses a little further to the left... Like this... Stop, please.
I smooth the skirt of my light blue suit and smile. The flash dazzles me for a moment, then we are finally free from the boring ritual of group photos.
Five hundred kilometers to register for the wedding of a stranger: if it hadn't been for the insistence of my father, who after his retirement, in order not to feel useless, entered into I don't know what business with the groom's family, I would now be in swimming pool with Luca, who for some time has become the most assiduous of my suitors. Too bad he's also the most insignificant. In general I distrust the generosity with which fate bestows male admiration on young heiresses. I know well that Luca would be the first to stop seeing me if my father became too poor to afford the villa with swimming pool: with these conditions he certainly cannot expect to be taken seriously.
I started out taking into account the prospect of being bored to death, a task in which I would be succeeding perfectly, if it weren't for a crazy variable that has been putting me to the test for a few hours.
I hate staring at people and being stared at, but there is, among the groom's relatives, a boy I can't take my eyes off. And not because he's beautiful. Okay, he's beautiful. But, apart from the fact that it's not my style to look insistently at guys, I like Mediterranean, dark, healthy and sporty men. He, on the other hand, is blond, Nordic, and exudes a sick charm.
That curiosity which my teachers interpret as an "indication of uncommon intellectual vivacity", and which is actually my main flaw, makes me imprudent, attracted to what doesn't look like me. I admit that I am fascinated by phenomena that escape logic, and it is impossible for me to classify based on my mental categories, which are decidedly too Aristotelian, the effect this boy has on me: especially his gaze. I could say that I feel a fatal attraction and at the same time an alarm siren, a silent and desperate SOS. The shipwreck is happening before everyone's eyes, is it possible that no one notices?
I'm a good observer: I've been keeping an eye on him for a couple of hours, paying attention to the smallest details. During mass he never got up or sat down at the right time, as if he did it on purpose or was too confused to realize it; the lady next to him, tall and blonde, very elegant in her Luisa Spagnoli suit, continued to give him reproachful looks, but he showed no sign of noticing. While the couple swore eternal fidelity to each other, he was struck by an absolutely unseasonable coughing attack and brought his handkerchief to his face: I could have sworn that he had difficulty holding back his laughter. Then he snorted, got up and left, blowing his nose loudly. Overall, that boy always seems inappropriate: I deduce that he doesn't control his reactions.
To confirm this suspicion, at the end of the service I see him again in front of the church sitting astride a low wall, with his legs wide apart, his jacket thrown over his shoulder, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair disheveled, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and an indecipherable smile on his lips. Once again inappropriate, to be precise inappropriately sexy, as if he thought he was on the cover of Playboy instead of at a wedding, so much so that I feel ashamed for him; but, apparently, I'm the only one who notices it: all the others are distracted by the bride and groom, they crowd around them, applaud, throw handfuls of rice, demand the kiss, the ritual throwing of the bouquet. Nobody notices him, except the bride herself, a redhead with a slim physique, pretty in her short cream-colored dress, with her hair gathered behind her neck and a few orange flowers pinned in her chignon: I notice that he remains with his gaze stubbornly staring straight ahead, as if he doesn't even see her, while she can't help but give him brief, anxious glances from time to time. Maybe she's disconcerted by his attitude, maybe irritated, maybe attracted, who knows.
As I make my way through the crowd of guests to congratulate the newlyweds, I suddenly see him get up and come next to me, so close that I can smell his musky, very sensual perfume. It's his turn to kiss the bride: I wonder apprehensively what he's contemplating. He touches her cheek with his lips and whispers distinctly:
One hundred of these days, my dear.
She smiles expressionlessly, but blushes a little and immediately turns to kiss someone else.
During the wedding banquet I sit at the table reserved for the children in a secluded wing of the restaurant; he, on the other hand, is sitting at the same table as the bride and groom, which confirms to me that he is one of the family. The large Venetian mirror in front of me reflects his image; I chat about this and that, with my table neighbors, enjoying the exquisite dishes of the wedding lunch, and in the meantime I continue to keep an eye on him. I see he hardly touches any food.
At a certain point I see him get up and walk away, probably to go to the bathroom. When he returns to the room his face is bruised and contracted, as if returning to his seat would cost him a huge effort; he has certainly rinsed his face, because his hair is slightly wet, he has taken off his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, opening it on his chest: he exudes a kind of desperate sensuality that the bride certainly perceives, because she turns red and turns away other side. Suddenly he notices me looking at him through the mirror and stares at me for a moment: his gaze literally makes my stomach tighten. I lower my eyes and try not to look at him again.
About twenty minutes pass and the situation in the room degenerates, as is typical of banquets where too much is eaten and drunk: after several toasts in honor of the spouses, complete with best wishes for male children, someone begins to sing, someone to laugh, everyone talks too much and too loudly. We are waiting for the lemon and sage sorbet, an excellent digestive, and the inevitable coffee, before going out into the garden and taking part in the outdoor dance: I can hear the little orchestra tuning the instruments. In the general revelry no one notices that the bride has gotten up and left the room. Instinctively I turn my gaze towards him: his place is empty. I fight a fierce battle against myself, trying to dominate the impulse to go and look for him. I lose the battle, I jump up and start wandering around the restaurant.
He's not in the restaurant lobby, nor in the bathroom. I also enter the men's room and find it deserted. I take the opportunity to touch up my makeup and put the ribbon back in my hair, noting that the blue suits me. As I return to the room I suddenly see them together in the garden: I recognize the bride from behind; evidently she went out into the garden to check on the preparations for the open-air dance and he joined her. Waltz notes are heard. I know it's not nice to spy on people, but I'm forced to do it: I hide behind a screen near an open window and listen.
Shall we dance, ma'am? he says with a strange tone, which I would define as almost threatening.
It encircles her waist. She struggles. He holds her tighter with a sour smile that contracts his jaw:
They see us, dear, try to control yourself.
She frees herself with a yank.
You're drunk, she tells him indignantly, and walks away with rapid steps.
The lady is, or wants to be, not very perceptive.
At first he remains still with his gaze fixed on the sunny garden. Then he turns, crosses the hall, goes out, reaches the car park, opens the door of his car.
He leaves: I feel a pang in my heart. I will never see him again, he will take his secret with him. Suddenly the sun disappears, my day is emptied of all meaning.
But no: he bends down to take something from the glove compartment and goes back into the room. His jaw is so tight I can see his muscles twitching in spasmodic contractions. He takes quick steps towards the Italian garden and enters the vegetal labyrinth. The alarm siren is deafening, I can't stand it anymore, I feel like I have to act immediately. I wonder if by any chance I've gone mad, what do I care about a complete stranger, how I get the idea of meddling in his business, what my parents would think if they saw me right now: all questions that I brush aside in a second, because there is no time to waste.
Without hesitation I leave the room and enter the boxwood walls, which under the summer sun exude a strong smell of crushed insects. After a few idle runs I finally see him. He is sitting on a stone bench, with his shoulders leaning against the thick wall of the hedge and the back of his head thrown back. God be praised.
"Hello!", I tell him smiling, as if it were normal.
He looks up at me without anger, without expression, simply empty.
Who are you?
Arianna. And you?
Emmanuel.
Emmanuel as the groom's brother?
He nods.
It's me.
The matter is taking on grotesque contours.
I would like to be alone, Arianna.
I know.
You know? So excuse me, why don't you leave?
I can't leave, because you're in danger. In fact, I came on purpose.
He stares at me attentively for the first time:
Who are you? he repeats.
Arianna Benvenuti, born in Siena seventeen years ago, zodiac sign Aquarius, student at the Piccolomini classical high school in Siena. My father is your father's business partner, but I guess you don't care much.
In fact it doesn't matter at all. Thanks for your concern, and you can leave now.
No, I'm not leaving. I'm not like the others who pretend nothing happens: they all seem stupid to me, sorry if I tell you, starting with your relatives. It's clear that you need help.
He looks at me strangely:
Look, seriously, but who are you? My guardian angel, a mirage, a simple pain in the ass? Or have I already got high without even realizing it?
Don't lie: you've already got high and you noticed it very well. Before, when you went to the bathroom, it was for that. And then you went to the car to get more, and you came here to finish the job.
He is silent, as if to gather his thoughts and calm his nerves. Then he finally speaks, pronouncing the words slowly.
Arianna, I don't know if in your area it's normal to mind other people's business, but here it's not customary. So please give it a rest, okay? I'm an adult, I know what I'm doing, I know very well what I risk.
With a gun you would do better.
I hate violence. So it's different. It's like a bad mom digging her stiletto heels into your heart while she's rocking you.
It's a disgusting metaphor.
Listen, are you going or should I go?
He starts to get up from the bench. I have to play for everything: all in.
You would be willing to do anything to ruin her wedding day, right? Even making you find yourself dead or in a coma.
Touché. He stares at me without answering. I urge:
Is it some kind of revenge or do you hope that she will cry for you?
He remains silent.
I know perfectly well that it's none of my business, do you think I'm stupid? But it will do you good to confide in someone. I'm a stranger, there's no danger of me going to talk about it with your parents, the thing dies here. Take advantage of the situation: in a few hours I will return to Siena and we will never see each other again. Empty the bag.
He relaxes and suddenly depression hits him. He sighs and lowers his head:
Let's say it's a way to avoid the final exam.
Why, don't you want to show up for the oral exam?
Do I seem fit to take the exam?
When would you have the oral exam?
The day after tomorrow.
No, I really don't think you are. And so you will fail.
Obvious.
It's not a big deal: a year is nothing compared to a whole life.
My life lately is a pilgrimage from one intoxication to another. Nothing worth regretting.
It's up to you to change your life: you are beautiful, young, rich, healthy, as long as you avoid ruining your health yourself. There must be something you would like to do: do it.
He leans against the hedge and looks at me with disarming sweetness.
You're late, Adriana.
Arianna.
He already forgot my name after less than five minutes.
Late in what sense?
It will happen anyway, even if I don't exit the game myself. I'm what they call a loser, I have no alternative to the rules of the game.
You're a smart boy, though.
I'm playing bridge without knowing the bidding code, I can only lose.
I finally managed to make him talk: a sense of warm tenderness invades me. I sit next to him on the bench and ask him a question point blank:
How long have you been lovers?