Turin surroundings, March 29, 1997.
Hold on, little sister: we're almost there.
It's not up to me.
Are you feeling very bad?
It's being born.
Oh no, not in the open countryside, please. And especially not on the seat of the Carrera: the seat shell has a visible carbon surface and is made of synthetic material reinforced with glass fiber and carbon. The upholstery is in black leather with a perforated Alcantara central band and...
Stop this fucking car, Freddy!


Pieve Santo Stefano, March 29, 1997.
Did you see how those two guys looked at me?
I saw.
And you're not jealous?
No: it's normal, you have nice legs and you show them off. If you don't want them to look at you, put on pants.
He starts the engine and concentrates on driving. Since he stopped being afraid of the light, we often enjoy going on trips in the surrounding area; by his own choice, we don't plan anything, we let chance offer us new surprises: Emmanuel has the soul of a gypsy. After all, Tuscany is a chest of hidden treasures, we are never disappointed. His answer, however, annoyed me.
I didn't ask you if it's normal, and I didn't even ask you for advice on my clothing. I just asked you if you're jealous.
No, I'm not.
Strange. One of the two was a bit chubby, but the other one, the dark one, was not bad at all.
Well, maybe. I didn't notice.
But I did.
However, even if it was Apollo himself, jealousy makes no sense.
Are you sure you love me, Emmanuel?
What does loving have to do with it? The question is very simple: either you are happy with me or you are not. If you are happy you do not feel the need to go with another man, and therefore there is no point in being jealous; if you are not happy it is right that I leave the place to someone who is able to make you happy. In both cases, as you see, jealousy makes no sense.
Someone asks you a direct question and you answer with these foolish sophisms! You are detestable.
If for once you say "fucking", your tongue won't fall off, huh.
I don't like vulgar language.
It's not vulgar, it's now in common usage.
I don't care. In fact, look, it bothers me that you use it too: if someone gets used to speaking in a certain way, they will end up thinking in that certain way and "being" in that certain way.
Yes, I know, it's called Sapir-Whorf linguistic determinism: the thesis that thought and language are interrelated and the latter influences the former.
Well, that's exactly what I think.
You should have noticed that I refrain from swearing in your presence.
But you keep using bad words with others.
You're amazing, you know? "The bad words, the maiden, I apologize for being so frank." I thought there was no one in the world who expressed himself like that anymore.
I'm Tuscan, I'll be allowed to express myself with a certain propriety.
"I'll be allowed..."
Oh, enough! And don't change the subject, please: we were talking about jealousy.
Where do you want to get to?
You know very well. Were you jealous of her?
"Her" who?
Antonia, who else?
Yes, I was.
Exactly. And what do you deduce from that?
That I was an idiot.
Like all lovers, Emmanuel.
He doesn't answer: he knows he's got his back to the wall. I'd like to get angrier, but I can't: he's become talkative again, he's recovered his vivacity and spirit; I'm starting to glimpse his true personality beneath the mask of curse that depression had imposed on him, and it's a rather amusing personality: he must have been a very nice guy, when he was well. I remain diplomatically silent for a few seconds, then I add a little provocation:
Well, at least now I know you'd forgive me for cheating.
Who, me? Not at all. I never forgive betrayals.
Maybe "her" betrayals.
No betrayal.
But you just said you're not jealous of me!
What does jealousy have to do with it? It's a matter of agreements.
Explain yourself better.
Let me give you an example: let's say our agreement provides for an open relationship.
Open in what sense?
You know that kind of couple, let's say, open-minded, who doesn't feel obliged to be faithful to each other? Those people who organize triangles and partner swaps. There are quite a few of them around.
Don't even talk about it, Emmanuel.
It's just an example. I don't like those things either, I find them disgusting and vulgar.
Good thing, otherwise I would have told you to drop me off here, even if I had to hitchhike home.
Suppose, I was saying, that the agreement is this. Well, at that point I know what I'm getting into and if I don't like the offer I decline it; if I accept it, however, I take full responsibility for it and I have no right to consider it a betrayal. But if the relationship involves mutual fidelity and then someone stabs me in the back, then I don't forgive him, because he has betrayed the pact and my trust. This has nothing to do with sex or jealousy.
Said like that it sounds a bit like a parody of Catullus: foedus and fides.
These are things I have always thought, since before Catullus. And mind you: I am not just talking about physical betrayals, but about any betrayal: there are betrayals worse than sexual ones.
Maybe, but I could kill for sexual betrayal.
Really?
Really, Emmanuel. And without too many regrets.
Will you take me to Caprese? And then maybe we can go up to La Verna to say hello to Francesco.
You must be cold up there, you're underdressed.
I brought the sweater.
That's not enough: it's only March.
Almost April.
It's at eleven hundred meters altitude, Arianna.
How do you know Tuscany so well?
It's a region that I loved very much.
Why do you use the past tense?
Did I use the past tense?
The present perfect, to be exact.
I didn't notice. If I had noticed, I would have used the simple past.
Who knows if I will ever know what experiences he had in Tuscany. 
The road climbs up the hill through fairytale landscapes; the beauty of the day, the scents in the air, the magic of the places, the closeness of Emmanuel stun me. I feel a little nauseous, because he is driving strangely in a zigzag. I beg him to stop: he apologizes and goes back to driving normally.
Excuse me, I say to him can you turn down the volume? You're deafening me.
I'd rather turn off the stereo.
I didn't say turn it off, I just said turn it down.
Arianna, this is not music that can be listened to at low volume. Anyway, ok, I'll turn it down.
I would like to know why this group always has to put noise parts in their songs: they are unbearable.
It's actually called noise, it's an integral part of their style.
Call it what you want, it's still just noise.
I'd like to know why, every time I try to get you to listen to something decent, you tell me to turn the volume down.
Something decent?
Ok, I'll turn it off.
No, come on.
I'm not a music connoisseur, Emmanuel, I've always told you.
After a few seconds he turns the stereo back on and puts in a CD.
Wuthering Heights! I exclaim.
Yes.
Thank you, it's beautiful.
He hums the song softly: he is in tune, even though it is a song that is almost impossible for a man to sing, and he knows it all by heart. I rest my neck on the headrest and close my eyes. When I open them again we are in the open countryside and we are walking along an abandoned parish church. A sudden idea crosses my mind.
Can you turn this way, please? I'd like to visit that little church.
He obeys. We go down the dirt road and park Dad's Volvo next to a clump of holm oaks.
The door is closed and there is not a living soul. We walk around the parish church, splendid in its Franciscan nakedness, walking among bushes and brambles; I proceed carefully, embarrassed by my high heels, trying not to scratch my legs. We stop at the back of the church, hidden by the crumbling walls of what must have been a small convent. The place is incredibly evocative: the valley in front of us, almost uninhabited, slopes towards the hills that disappear on the horizon among the bluish mists that you see in Leonardo's paintings. There is a very green lawn, with the first recently cut spring grass that gives off an intense scent. It is the perfect setting to make love to him: I take off my sweater, sit on it and drag him down into the grass.
Suddenly he feels dizzy: his forehead is beaded with sweat and he passes a hand over his eyes.
What's up, Emmanuel?
Do we... do we really have to do it here?
Why, don't you like this place?
No, it's just that all these churches are starting to get to my head a bit.
All these churches?
He starts kissing me again; he caresses me, lingering on my thighs and my breasts, but those warm and technically flawless caresses, instead of exciting me, annoy me; a feeling of uneasiness begins to build up in me until it becomes unbearable, like a bottle of champagne whose cork is about to pop. I interrupt him abruptly and sit down.
Excuse me. We need to talk.
What's happening?
Where are you, Emmanuel?
Where am I in what sense? I'm here.
No, you're not. Are you still with her when you make love to me? Answer!
Arianna, I lost half of my soul. It's not with her, it's not with you, I don't know where it is. I do what I can.
Tell me the truth: was it different with her?
Yes. It was different.
His response, though widely expected, is a stab in the stomach. I feel like crying. He caresses my ankle and, incredibly, tries to change the subject.
These sandals look great on you, they are very feminine.
Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think any compliment is enough to make me forget what you just said to me?
Arianna, I'm happy with what's happening: it almost seems unreal to me...
I'm not a second choice for anyone, Emmanuel: try to get that into your head.
Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.
You didn't offend me, you simply told me the truth, that is, that having sex with me is mediocre. After all, I see for myself that it is mediocre, I have no experience but I'm not an idiot.
I never said it was mediocre: I just said that with her it was different, and only because you asked me. I have nothing to complain about, it’s good for me.
And you never thought that it might not be good for me?
Arianna, seriously, let me understand what you want: I'll try, I'll do my best.
It's simple: I want it to be the same with me as it was with her.
This is not possible.
Why?
I put him in a position where he can’t be honest. I already know the answer: because I loved her. I appreciate his caution, he's right not to answer me: I couldn't bear to hear it said to my face, I just don't know how I would react after all the efforts I made to get him out of that tunnel. But I have to understand, I have to understand at all costs.
Let's leave the sentimental side aside and talk about the physical side. Am I the one who doesn't turn you on?
No, no: you really turn me on.
So it depended on her? Was she hotter, more sensual, I don't know?
She was definitely very hot, at least with me.
Did she feel physical sensations that I don't feel? Because I don't feel much, you know: you've probably noticed. And don't start talking nonsense like you're not super gifted, that's not the point and you know it very well: from that point of view you're exactly the same as you were with her. So why did she feel those sensations and I don't?
It's not good to feel certain sensations, especially at your age. At any age, to be honest.
Emmanuel, let's be clear: on a scale of one to ten our level of sex is three, no more. Even for you, not just for me. When you make love to me at most you sigh: does that seem normal for a boy your age? Look, I've seen some erotic films too, I understand the difference. You make me feel embarrassed, you cool me down too. It's not that I expect screams, scratches and bites like a monkey in heat, but not even something like a couple over sixty, if I may say so. I'm not satisfied, Emmanuel. If she wasn't satisfied, why should I? Why do you take it for granted that I have to settle for andropause sex?
It wasn't just her, Arianna: there were other women. And also...
Other women? And I'm only finding out now? And also what?
Also some...
Before he can finish his sentence I cover my ears with my hands. I suddenly realize that I don't want him to be honest at all. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know, there are too many terrible things in his past. My mother is right: he is too much for me, I have to stop, I have to find the courage to leave him; I don't have to be with him to help him, I can do it as a friend. 
He stares at me without understanding. I try to regain some balance, I speak to him in a calm and conciliatory tone.
Let's leave it, Emmanuel, seriously. No hard feelings. We're too different. Let's be good friends, I'll get over it.
Arianna, it doesn't matter what happened before: it's all over, dead, buried.
He tries to caress my shoulder.
Don't touch me.
But why? Why don't you want to be with me anymore? What have I done to you now?
Nothing, he just doesn't understand. Despite my good intentions, emotion takes over again.
Because I claim my right to be handicapped, deficient, frigid, without having to account to anyone.
What are you saying?
You are a revolting chauvinist, Emmanuel, and you don't even realize it. In your imagination, I am the good girl who redeems your murky and sinful past, the chaste and pure girl who has to settle for conventional sex. You don't care who I really am, what I want. What do you know? Maybe I would like to be one of those women, or those men, who whispered dirty things in your ear while you were having sex with them and turned you on so much. Maybe I will be one day, with someone else. Sooner or later I will meet someone who will lose his head over me and will say dirty words to me while we fuck instead of standing there looking at me like a cod, and will make me discover real sex. You are not the only one in the world, Emmanuel!
Arianna, I don't understand. You scare me. I'm sorry, I don't know where I went wrong, I don't know what's going on, I don't know what you're talking about. I always make mistakes and I don't understand how, everything always comes crashing down on me all at once. You're all I have now, I don't want to lose you too.
Despite everything, a pang of pain runs through my heart: I realize that he is trying to avoid everything that could be connected to sex, in a form of indirect anorexia from which he cannot recover. His clothing is humble and modest: he wears a long-sleeved military green crew-neck T-shirt over jeans that are too large, almost shapeless, which hide the line of his hips, on his feet he wears old worn-out sneakers from which white socks peek out: not a centimeter of his skin can be seen. And yet Emmanuel is all the more attractive the more he tries to appear chaste, his angelic blond hair touches the dull green of the T-shirt and illuminates it, his strong, long, athletic hands emerge from the sleeves, clasped on his knees in an unconscious gesture of prayer. I feel my defenses giving way.
Emmanuel, why do you think it should be different for me?
I think it's because you're a kid, Arianna. You're the only girl younger than me I've ever been with.
I'm not a kid at all. I'm eighteen years old, I'm a grown woman.
You're right: that's how I see you.
He no longer dares to touch me, afraid of my reactions: I will have to take the initiative, if I want something to happen. And I want to. I lie down in the grass.
Emmanuel, I want to know everything there is to know about sex and I want to learn it from you.
No, look, I...
Don't make excuses: I know you know a lot about sex, even if you pretend not to remember. Now let's review, huh? Maybe not all at once. You'll have plenty of time to repeat the lesson.
I reach out and pull him down by his hair.