How long have you been lovers?
He remains dumbfounded for a few seconds. Then he responds with a question:
Do you see that much?
You can see it a lot, or at least I can see it.
However lovers is not the correct term.
How should I define you?
I don't know, but certainly not lovers.
Is it that important?
Of course it is: you look like you're at the top of your class, so you know that terminological accuracy is the fundamental prerequisite for semantically correct communication.
What a strange creature: where does he find the resources to appear lucid, in the total chaos of his being?
I'll rephrase the question: how long have you been in a relationship?
For almost three years.
So much? You are very young.
I've known her forever.
But why her? Why such a more adult woman, and what's more engaged to your brother?
I can't explain it to you: it would be like describing the sea to a blind man.
I gloss over the unintentionally offensive comparison.
Give it a go.
I do not know what to tell you. I just know that she got into my blood.
I take the sachet with two fingers.
Kind of like this stuff here.
I slide it into my bag along with the rest, intending to throw everything in the next bin. Strangely, he doesn't try to stop me.
The comparison doesn't hold up: the sensations the drug gives are false, the ones I felt with her were true.
True, false, what does it mean? Feelings are feelings. Getting high on endorphins is just another way to get high. If you want to know what I think, the lady was good in bed. That's all.
With this somewhat naive provocation I manage to obtain the desired effect: distract him from his desperation. A flash of anger lights up his gaze.
Listen Arianna, I don't accept sex lessons from a stranger. If it were as you say, it would work with anyone. Sex is a means of communication, it only works if there is something to communicate.
I'm glad to hear you say that.
I told her what I had to communicate, I have nothing else to say to anyone. If I survive I will end up getting married to any woman, to have any career, perhaps to have children, as if this gives meaning to life.
It gives, in fact.
No, it doesn't. And don't ask me why.
Suddenly he falls back into reality. He rests his elbows on his knees and falls with his head in his hands moaning disconsolately:
The bouquet of white roses... She doesn't know the harm it causes me. It was the bouquet I had chosen for us, I can't stand it.
It is difficult for me to articulate a response to this irrational exit. In fact I am silent while listening to the next one.
God, tell me that's not true. It's terrible, she doesn't know what she's doing, she'll suffer like a dog. I would have given my life to prevent it.
And here, I must admit, the boy surprises me: no one denies that he is handsome and desirable, a very pleasant lover for his dear sister-in-law, but his discomfort and anguish seem grotesque and disproportionate to me. He definitely overestimates himself. What is terrible, for a girl of modest social background (in Tuscany we say "without art or part"), in marrying a career manager, who is also young and attractive like Emmanuel's brother? I would be myself in the lady's place. That woman who is now dancing in the arms of her new husband doesn't really look like she's distressed, I don't understand how he can believe otherwise. I'm looking for a way to make him understand without offending him.
You're depressed, that's why you see everything black. If it seems like she's feeling so bad, it's because you're feeling bad. Depression is a serious illness, it should not be underestimated: but it can be cured.
I see his curved back, I see his trembling. I can't resist anymore, I lean over him and wrap him in a maternal embrace. I know this will make him cry, but crying is good for those who are desperate. He's warm and throbbing like some puppies, the scent of his hair stuns me: I hide my face on his shoulder. We remain like this for a few minutes, in silence. Then I decide to speak.
How can you think of seeing your brother's wife every day after what happened between you? And what's more, without being able to confide in anyone? You can't carry on this fiction by keeping everything inside, you risk exploding.
That's exactly how it is, in fact.
You need to get out of here.
That's what I was doing.
Not like that, come on. I have a better idea.
Which idea?
You could apply to transfer to my school. Next year I will have the exam too: we will prepare for it together, it will be fun. Don't worry about accommodation: my parents will gladly host you if I ask them to; they know that I have my head on my neck, and then I'm the only child of elderly parents, they never say no to me. You'll like them, you'll see: they are simple, smart people.
You're really kind, Arianna, but I can't accept it, he says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. I offer him my handkerchief.
Why?
He blows his nose and remains silent. I translate his thoughts:
Because you can't last so long away from her?
He nods his head yes. All I have to do is be ruthless and sink the knife all the way in.
She has now chosen someone else, she has excluded you from her life. There's nothing you can do about it anymore.
Suddenly he raises his head with a strange light in his eyes, as if comforted by a crazy perspective.
It's not true: I can still be her lover.
The addiction is more serious than expected: I am not prepared to deal with this situation, but I do not intend to give in. I respond impulsively:
Look, let's make a deal: one year, one year only. The time for a detox treatment, even less. Then, if you want, you can go back to her, prostitute what's left of your dignity and continue making yourself ridiculous.
I was cruel. I'll sweeten the pill a bit.
You are probably right, there will still be a place for you in her bed: you are very beautiful, she will not say no to you.
He shakes his head with a sour smile:
It wasn't her bed I wanted. But that's okay, that's okay too.
Not now, listen to me, you are too weak to be able to do it and she has a clear advantage over you: she has just married your brother, who among other things seems to me to be a guy with a lot of talent, and for some time she will be a devoted little wife. In a year it will be different: you will be fine and you will be able to look for her again, but from a position of strength. She will have missed you and will be a year older, which at her age matters a lot: perhaps in the meantime she will have become a mother, and I assure you that taking care of the dirty diapers of a brat, while your husband goes around on business and plays tennis with his friends, significantly reduces the charm of marriage. You will be in an advantageous position, you will have the game in hand.
I don't think so, the brat: Antonia can't have children. She's undergoing treatments, but it doesn't mean they'll work.
He laughs to keep from crying.
God, all we need is the brat.
I insist.
Give yourself another chance, please: what do you have to lose?
He remains silent for a long time, immersed in painful reflection. Then he says.
Maybe you're right. You're also right about my brother: I always underestimated him, but in the end he won.
Why didn't it occur to you to confide in him? I think he loves you.
He looks at me like I'm crazy.
Are you joking? And what was I supposed to tell him, that I was fucking his woman and did everything I could to take her away from him?
Yes, exactly like that. He would have been mad as hell, but then he would have understood. He's an intelligent man, from what I can see, and he would have understood that it wasn't just a sex story, or at least not for you: your desperation is too obvious.
Not even for her, he says dryly, annoyed by the fact that I doubt it.
All the more reason he would have understood.
He shakes his head:
You're crazy.
Maybe, Emmanuel, but no more than all of you.
He is silent for a long time.
It's all so strange, he says at the end. He looks at me and for the fourth time asks me.
Who are you. I mean: who are you "really".
I don't answer him.
It doesn't matter, so much the better if you don't exist.
The orchestra is playing a waltz beyond the boxwood wall. I stand up and hold out my hand.
Let's dance, do you want to?
A waltz? Are you kidding me?
I'll teach you.
I put my arm around him and show off a few dance steps. He shakes his head, but lets himself be led docilely.
You're very good, I tell him. I laugh like a child, without realizing that it's too early for joy: distracted by my happiness, I almost forgot that he suffers a lot. Suddenly, in fact, my laughter hits him like a slap. He abruptly releases himself from my embrace.
Leave me.
I left you.
I mean leave me alone. Please. I don't know what I'm doing, I must be crazy. My place is here: she will need me sooner or later.
And how do you plan to help her? By committing suicide?
I actually have to stop. I did it, I'll do it again.
Half an hour ago you didn't think so.
Half an hour ago was half an hour ago.
What makes you think you can quit?
I will succeed.
We had just made a pact: we said that...
Please, Arianna, stop. You were kind and I thank you for everything, seriously, but please don't be intrusive.
Intrusive. This word hits me like a punch in the diaphragm, leaving me equally breathless. I, Arianna Benvenuti, a person so discreet as to even be considered unfriendly, was defined as intrusive by a complete stranger! I have never felt so humiliated in my life. I straighten my skirt.
Excuse me.
I turn my back on him and walk through the vegetal corridor, devastated by an inexpressible sense of unease.
Exiting a labyrinth is not that difficult: the labyrinth is topologically equivalent to a circular room with one or more doors; it is therefore inevitable to reach a door by always following the internal wall of the room. The simplest procedure consists in placing your right hand on the right wall of the labyrinth at the entrance to the labyrinth and choosing the only path that allows you to never remove your hand from the chosen wall, until you reach one of the possible other exits, or the start point. If the labyrinth has only one exit, the algorithm leads to a dead end, from which one returns to the starting point by simply continuing to follow the chosen wall.
I scrupulously stick to the studied rule and in a short time I reach the exit: I see the sunny garden in front of me, which for a moment dazzles me, giving me a sense of dizziness. I clearly grasp the tremendous void that I am leaving behind. I'm about to walk across the pavement of the path that leads to the restaurant, when I hear a voice coming from the labyrinth:
Arianna.
I stop and listen. I take a few more steps along the path, but the voice calls me louder:
Arianna!
I decide to answer.
What's up?
I'm lost.
It is a fact that my sense of humor almost always intervenes to destroy the pathos of dramatic situations: I have not yet understood whether this is an advantage or a disadvantage. Tragedy, in my life, always tends to transform into operetta: the force of humor drags all the weights afloat, forcing them to remain on the surface. Superficiality is a virtue, if combined with rationality.
Despite being mortally offended, I burst out laughing at the thought of my Rimbaud wandering through the corridors of the labyrinth in vain search for the exit. I know well that I should reply "make do on your own!", especially since our hero had entered that trap on purpose to die like a rat. A dark instinct tells me I'm doing it all wrong as I turn and retrace my steps. My rationality is lacking, I urgently need to review the ABCs of Greek mythology. And anyway, now instinct has taken over.
Wait for me, I'll come to look for you.
I put my right hand on the right wall: following the usual path I should find him easily. Instead I wander around in circles for five minutes.
Where are you?, he exclaims from somewhere in the labyrinth.
Stay calm, I'm coming.
Another ten laps in vain: I understand that something is wrong.
What are you doing?, I shout back to him.
I'm looking for the exit.
I sigh in resignation: that boy doesn't understand the most obvious things.
Emmanuel, wherever you are, stay still: if you keep moving I will never find you.
I'll start over again. "You will come across a point where there will be only one path to cross the crisscrossing walls. This will be the turning point. After crossing this point, you can walk backwards or forwards." I find the turning point: after another five minutes I finally come across him, or rather I stumble upon him, sitting on the floor behind a corner and curled up like a child, with his face in his knees. I stop with my arms folded in front of him.
Get up.
Excuse me.
I don't need your excuses.
You're right, I can't do it now.
Perfect, I see you finally figured it out. Now let's move, my parents will be wondering what happened to me.
He gets up with the distraught expression of someone experiencing withdrawal: I pretend not to see it.
Follow me.
I walk in front of him: the small fresh leaves of the pittosporum caress the palm of my right hand as I proceed confidently towards the exit. Suddenly he grabs my left hand and forces me to turn around, staring into my eyes with absolute desperation.
Take me away, please. Take me away from here! 


I nod without answering and continue to proceed confidently towards the exit of the labyrinth, guiding him by the hand, as one does with the blind.