Don't worry at all, ma'am! Such a nice boy... He doesn't touch anything of what you send him, you know? He says it's all at our disposal. And then you know what we say in Tuscany, where three eat, four eat. Speaking of eating, that poor son lives on air, he eats as much as a bird. But he's better now, don't worry. Everyone at school is happy too, I went to talk to the teachers last week. Yes, don't worry, I'll have him call you as soon as he gets back, he is at the psychologist now. No trouble, ma'am, it's a pleasure for me. We'll talk again. 
She hangs up and turns towards me. Her expression changes suddenly. 
Arianna. 
I don't answer; my eyes trace the spirals of the arabesques of the damask tapestry. 
You know that dad is right. 
My father looks at me. I've never seen him so old: his dentures wobble slightly as he speaks to me: 
Arianna, I love that boy, you know. I have become fond of him like a son, and I know that he loves me too. But we are old, we have only you in the world: we are not at peace. 
His hand rests on my arm. I remove my arm. 
Sure, dad, I reply sarcastically what's better than a tomb to be at peace? 
I get up, run to my room and throw myself on the bed face down. My mother joins me, sits next to me and caresses my back. 
That boy is polite and good-natured, he knows how to make himself loved, but there's something wrong with him, Ariannina. He's too pale and thin, he always stays hidden away in his room with the shutters closed. He seems to be afraid of the outdoors. And then, if he were well, he wouldn't need the psychologist, and the second one is already trying to help him: Doctor De Martino has thrown in the towel. 
He suffered a lot, mom, that's why he's strange. But he's healing, he's making progress. 
I don't see any progress. Yes, he eats a little more, but otherwise he's still the same. And then he never laughs. How is it possible that a boy his age never laughs? 
What do you want to do, send him away because he doesn't laugh?
No, what does it have to do with it? 
Great idea! So he misses another year of school. And don't you think about me?
It's not that I want to send him away, of course. We love that son too. It's just that... 
It's just that I shouldn't love him.
She sighs, shaking her head. 
You have to be judicious, Arianna. Being friends with him is fine, but woe betide you if you decide to fall in love with someone like him. 
Mom, you can't choose who you fall in love with. As for being judicious, I remind you that as a girl you ran away from home to live with dad. And you were only sixteen. 
She smiles, despite everything, at that memory. 
I made signals from the window to your father with a lamp: three times for no and twice for yes. If yes, he knew I was alone and climbed the wisteria to join me in my room. Then we were caught red-handed and my parents put me under close surveillance, with a maid sleeping in the same room. So one night, while she was asleep, I lowered myself from the window with a rope, risking breaking my neck! In the end I let go like a sack of potatoes: luckily the wisteria broke my fall. Your father was quick to pick me up and we ran away together. 
What a cute little scene! I imagine that the grandparents were happy to have such a judicious daughter. 
But for me it was different, Ariannina. 
Sure, of course: for others it's always different. 
What could I do? They had put my back against the wall: everyone in the family wanted me to marry the son of the lawyer Landi from Scandicci, but I really didn't like him, even though he was such a respectable boy. 
You don't fall in love with respectable boys, mom. 
She sighs again. 
What should I tell you? There's no point in reasoning with a lover, I've been there too and I know it too well. Let's just all try to be careful. 
Of course, mum. 
She caresses my hair with her big hand that tastes like basil and rosemary. 
Do you remember what did the good-natured grandmother say? To understand if you really like a man, you have to imagine him pushing a wheelbarrow naked uphill. 
I burst out laughing despite myself. 
What a stupid image! However, I would still like Emmanuel naked, uphill and with a wheelbarrow. It would make me laugh a little, but I'd still like him. 
Listen, I've had an idea: why don't you try talking about it with Don Luciano? He is parish priest in San Lorenzo now, he is preparing the children's summer camp. Bring him too. 
It's a bad idea, mom: he doesn't like priests. 
But Don Luciano is different, you know: he knows how to deal with boys. Make up an excuse, tell him you want to go on a picnic. 
Yes, maybe a picnic could work: he's starting to go out again, just make him wear sunglasses. 
Perfect, then try it. 
I'll do it this evening, mom. Thanks for the idea. 
Would you like me to make you a strawberry smoothie?
Vanilla, please. 
Luckily you don't have my tendency to gain weight. 
Thanks, mom. 
I sit on the bed, blow my nose with the handkerchief that she hands me and I watch her walk away towards the kitchen with her waddling, obese gait. 
Being the only child of elderly parents has some undeniable advantages. 
... 
So Arianna, can I count on you for the summer camp? 
Of course, Don Luciano, like all the years. As soon as I've taken the exam: if all goes well, of course. 
Knowing you, it will go very well. 
Hopefully. I have studied a lot. 
He wipes his big ruddy face with a checked handkerchief and gives me a broad smile. 
Can I count on that boy too? 
He points to Emmanuel, who, sitting astride the wall, is sunbathing in front of the church, with his back leaning against the trunk of a horse chestnut tree. I note with relief that he has now almost reconciled with the daylight, albeit protected by the screen of his inseparable dark glasses; his very pale skin, no longer accustomed to the sun's rays, immediately turned red. 
I don't know, Don Luciano: let's try asking him.
What's his name? 
Emmanuel. 
Hey, young man! 
I don't understand why he asked me the his name, since he then addresses him in that generic way; perhaps the name Emmanuel embarrasses him, it evokes biblical memories: he is not the only one to whom that name has this effect, I have seen it in various circumstances. Emmanuel turns to look at him. 
Are you talking to me, father? 
Yes, boy. Come here, I have a proposal to make!
Taken by surprise, for a moment Emmanuel is dumbfounded. Then he descends from the wall, approaches us and, as soon as he reaches a shaded area, he takes off his sunglasses, mercilessly revealing the dark circles 
that still mark his face. From my point of view they accentuate its charm, but I suppose Don 
Luciano doesn't think the same way. 
How about giving us a hand at the summer camp? Don't worry, we have nice and respectful children here in town: they're all old-fashioned people. 
Emmanuel hesitates. Then, noticing my facial expressions, he replies: 
I would gladly do it, Don Luciano, but I don't know where to start: I have no experience of summer centers and I have never taken care of children. 
There is always a first time, my boy: and then this young lady here would help you, sorry if it's not much. 
Emmanuel shrugs his shoulders smiling. 
I can try: I can't guarantee anything, but I can try. 
In any case there's still time, you can think about it calmly. 
I'll think about it, Don Luciano, I promise. 
Don Luciano places the stubby and robust hand of a worker priest on his shoulder: 
Good boy. 
I enter the sacristy with him to make the final arrangements. The atmosphere is the same as always, reassuring: the usual stone walls, the usual dark, slightly rustic furniture, the usual smell of incense and mould. The comforting predictability of things always being the same. As I'm leaving he throws a question at me: 
Arianna, where did you meet that boy? He's not from here, you can tell from his accent. 
At a friends' wedding, Don Luciano. He comes from Piedmont, but he's half Dutch. 
He's a very handsome boy, no doubt about it, but I see him as too pale and thin. And then those dark circles... what's wrong with him, isn't he in good health? 
He is recovering from a severe nervous breakdown, but his recovery is rapid. 
In any case, if he goes out with you, he'll definitely be a respectable boy. 
Don Luciano, you know me: if he were a bad person, I wouldn't frequent him. 
Yes. You've always been a girl with your head on your neck. 
He pats me on the cheek. 
Say hello to your dad and your mom. And please, huh: no rash decisions. 
Don Luciano, do I seem to you like the type to make rash decisions?
No, of course not, but you never know. See you soon, Ariannina.
Goodbye, Don Luciano. 
The usual stone walls, the usual mould, the usual depressing atmosphere: the detestable predictability of things that are always the same. I go out into the open. The day is fresh and sunny, the colors are clear, the grey-blue stone of the church captures the shades of light, the sky is a deep blue, the air is full of birdsong, Emmanuel is lying on the wall in the shade of a majestic century-old lime tree: everything is absolutely perfect. 
I sneak up on him and tickle his belly. He grabs my hand laughing, stands up and puts his arm around my shoulders. I push him away from me a little and prevent him from giving me a kiss, because Don Luciano is spying on us from the sacristy window. We walk towards the car. I can't wait to be alone with him. He looks at my legs out of the corner of his eye, I wore high heels on purpose. 
Such a respectable boy...