I return home earlier than expected from my Christmas shopping trip: as I walk through the entrance I hear the English clock strike five times. My parents went to visit their uncles in Fiesole and only Emmanuel is at home: this means that we will have a couple of hours to ourselves. I went to Cortecci and bought him a powder blue sweater that I can't wait to let him try on: it will look great with his light hair and eyes of the same color. I'm surprised by the music I hear coming from his room: he usually has the bad habit of studying with the shutters closed even in broad daylight and with the stereo on, immersed in the noise of his favorite bands, but what reaches my ears is a heavenly music. I recognize the second movement of Bach's Second Brandenburg, one of my father's favorite concerts: he must have searched through his records. I approach on tiptoe. The door is half open: in the dim light I see him kneeling in a sort of pagan prayer, with his forehead resting on the bed with his eyes closed, shaken by a convulsive tremor; I hear him moan, where are you, where are you, I would give ten years of my life to have you next to me for half an hour.
The sweater bag falls from my hands, my heart stops in my chest. I walk away hastily. In the kitchen I discover that the snack I had prepared for him has ended up in the rubbish bin: my eyes fill with tears, I run to lock myself in my room.
I can't do it, the enemy is too strong. I lie in bed staring at the flowered wallpaper for more than half an hour. I don't want to cry, it wouldn't be of any use: I have to empty myself. I count and recount the little flowers meticulously, sorting the violets on one side, the daisies on the other, the primroses on the other, the anemones on the other, imagining making four bouquets to take to my grandparents at the cemetery; then I sit on the bed and start thinking.
Emmanuel continues to obsessively relive his past, he doesn't want to let it die, he keeps it alive with a therapeutic fury that borders on madness. There's no point in stalling: he continues to be exactly what he was and to cultivate the same morbid fantasies; he simply does it secretly. There is no more time to waste: a decisive change in strategy is needed. The time has come to try everything, but not right away: now I'm too shaken. I wait until midnight and when my parents are in bed I knock on his bedroom door.
Come on in, the door is open.
His tone of voice is courteous and not too surprised. He is reading by lamplight an old book that he found in my father's library; he is lying on the bed, fully dressed. The computer screen gives off a dim light, as if he had been writing just recently. Without preamble I sit on his bed.
What are you reading?
Pinokkio.
Pinokkio?
Yes. Your father has the original edition by Salani, the 1924 one, illustrated by the Cavalieri. It's gorgeous. I love your father, you know? He reminds me of my grandfather, who I lost when I was a child.
I snap the book shut on him. He looks up at me questioningly.
I made an appointment with another psychologist, a famous and very good one. Waiting for you on Tuesday.
A grimace of disappointment appears on his face.
Arianna, you have to stop making my parents waste money on psychologists.
By the way, he sends you these.
A box of cigars?
Yes: Tuscan cigars.
And what should I do with it?
I do not know. He said he wants to know what you think.
Are you sure your psychologist doesn't need a psychiatrist?
He's doing great. He is a family friend, a special person. Physically he resembles Freud.
So we're on our way. However, I'm not sick, do you want to understand? I'm just practicing...
What.
Nothing.
Do you want to try to explain to me what the problem is? I'm serious, Emmanuel.
He thinks about it for a while, then gives me a surprising answer:
Free will.
What do you mean?
At our age, the body is the master: we believe we make choices, but our hormones choose for us.
So?
I want to make sure that I am the one who decides.
So you want to do without the body?
Approximately.
Is that why you don't eat?
It's likely: food and sex are linked.
Sex isn't just something sublime or dirty: there are also in-betweens.
There is no in-between: sex is either sublime or degrading.
That's not true, it may just be natural.
What do you know?
I know. Or at least I feel it.
Yes, that may be the case for animals.
Man is an animal.
What are you doing?
Don't you see, Emmanuel? I'm unhooking my bra.
...
That's it, every trace has disappeared: the old washing machine is doing its duty. I lie down on the bed next to him as he rests, I take his hand and think about what just happened. My first time.
At first he remained still, as if dazed, without helping me, while I undressed him. A faint light came on in his eyes, he stared at me dazed, like someone who remembers with difficulty. I kissed him. He kisses as I had always expected, with a disarming and very sensual sweetness. My hand rushed too soon to slip under the fabric stretched by the bones of his thin pelvis. He didn't collaborate, but he didn't even oppose: he let me do it without saying anything. So far everything is normal.
Then here's the most bizarre of unexpected events: out of the blue I burst out laughing. My damned sense of humor suddenly made everything seem irresistibly comical: those awkward fumbles, the zipper on Armani's skirt was broken, him looking so funny in his underwear and socks. His Praxitelian nude is beautiful, despite its excessive thinness, but Aristophanes is right when he says that the male sex is comical: and this explains the reason for the fig leaf. I apologized to him for my laughter and attributed it to emotion: he pretended to believe it, smiled and lay down on his back waiting. Waiting for what? I protested:
Emmanuel, let's try to respect the rules at least the first time.
He got on top of me and opened my legs. I felt like I was at the gynecologist:
No, come on, that's vulgar.
Then he unmade the bed, made a kind of hut with the blankets, hid underneath and pulled me towards him. That, finally, was a beautiful moment: I felt like it was going to happen right.
There's a problem, I whispered to him I'm a virgin.
He stopped immediately, disconcerted:
I have never had to deal with virgin girls.
My tongue preceded the thought:
I believe it, she could have been your mother.
An unforgivable misstep: he left the hut, turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
It took me a long time to get him back under: I apologized to him a hundred times, I pressed myself against him again and caressed him on all sides, until he gave in and went back into the hut. I told him that virginity was not a problem and explained that we just had to be careful not to get blood on the sheets. He shuddered with horror at the idea of blood. Look, it's normal the first time, I told him, don't worry, I'll take care of it now. I got up, went to get a large terry towel and placed it on the sheet, folded in half. Then I lay down, waiting for that thing to happen; but nothing happened.
I'm afraid of hurting you, he whispered.
So I told him let's try it together. He said "yes", but in reality I had to do almost everything myself, drive him blind. When I felt that pain it was a real relief: it had finally happened, and it had happened with him.
He stopped almost immediately, alarmed by the blood:
Did I hurt you?
I didn't hear anything I replied.
Like nothing?
Yes, I mean, everything is perfect. Go ahead, careful to stay on top of the towel.
He continued without further interruptions. When he finally fell back on me, panting, his heart was beating as fast as if he had run. I stroked his hair until he fell asleep.
And here I am finally alone with myself: I'm trying to translate my sensations into a rational form; he expressed his in a comment, the only one, whispered in my ear, with which he informed me that he was liking it.
As for me, three words are enough to express what I felt: is that all?