One day you'll understand A squat black butterfly with redflecked wings lands on Emmanuel's hair: he picks it up on his forefinger and observes it. She's hurt, I don't think she'll make it. Too bad: he only had a few days to live. He throws it in the air and watches it go in an awkward zigzagging flight. Butterflies fly badly, but it's still better than staying on the ground. He refrains from asking my opinion on the matter; in recent times he always does this: he proceeds by apodictic affirmations of which he is not interested in having confirmation or denial. It's like he's talking to himself. Kurt Cobain's death, a real generational shock, with its absurd succession of copycat suicides, shocked him. He was his favorite musician, a legend for him. He no longer listens to his music, doesn't communicate with anyone and has vertical mood drops; I do what I can to distract and comfort him, but it's not easy. He seems to have suddenly grown by ten years and has lost his natural good humor: it is as if a boulder weighed on his chest. I'm sitting on a tree trunk blown down by the wind, in a dominant position. Emmanuel throws his head back and rests it on the rough wood, next to my knees; his expression is visibly in pain. I know I have to call him back to his duties, but I do it discreetly, trying to infuse sweetness into my tone of voice. You're distracted today: you can't afford it, tomorrow you're being interrogated about Latin. Courage, let's get to work. I open the book and place it gently on his lap. Start with metric reading. I already read in metric. Elegiac couplets, don't you remember? Really? Who's the distracted one? You are right, sorry. You don't want me to do it again, huh? The elegiac couplet disgusts me. Why, is there any other verse you like? Maybe the one from poem 8. The coliambus, also called iambic trimeter scazonte. You're right, it's a beautiful verse. Now move on to the translation. I loved you, then, not as vulgar people love a mistress, but as a father loves his children and sonsinlaw. Now I know who you are: therefore, even if I burn with a more violent fire, you are to me much more vile and contemptible. How is this possible, you say? That's right, but can you tell me why "qui" is translated “how”? No reply. Are you listening to me? No, Emmanuel won't listen to me. Sitting crosslegged in the grass with the book resting on his knees, he closes the volume, turns his back to me, plucks a blade of grass and chews on it thoughtfully. Are you hungry? It's not that I eat grass because I'm hungry: I'm not a goat. But maybe I'm a little hungry. I smile to myself: depressed as he is, he's still a sixteenyearold boy, with the normal appetites of a teenager. I put some sandwiches in the basket, do you want one? What's inside? Dried ham. Then no, thanks. There is also salad and tomato. Yes, thank you. I hand him the sandwich. He begins nibbling it with more appetite than he cares to admit. You know, he says chewing with his mouth full I think I'll become a vegetarian like Pythagoras. He is a great Pythagoras. Except that story about the beans, which I've never understood. Me neither, actually. So it's useless that I ask you to explain it to me. Yes, it's useless. He finishes his sandwich, takes a sip of CocaCola and wipes his lips with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Then he picks up a river stone, transparent white with reddish veins, and looks at it against the light. Even the most normal things can be beautiful: you just need to know how to observe them. Yes, for a stone it's very nice. It looks a bit like an opal. Do you ever feel like something is missing? What do you mean? It happens to me especially after the rain, when I smell the freshly cut hay: it gives me a sense of vertigo, a sort of backward dip. It is an indescribable sensation, as if the meaning of life were enclosed in that instant. Doesn't it happen to you? It's called déjà you . I asked you if it happens to you, not what's its name. Yes, I do. And what remedy is there? There is no remedy: just stop thinking about it and start doing something else. He shakes his head. Not thinking about problems is not a remedy, it's just a way to forget about them for a while. But then they come back. But thinking about it is even worse: they always stay with you and poison your life. Yesterday the philosophy professor said that déjà vu is connected with platonic love: one of the few interesting things I heard in school. Too bad he didn't explain why. It's not easy to explain. All right, but at least try... Instead she threw it out there and then started talking about something else. However I know that the problem is upstream. In what sense? In the sense that I really didn't understand what platonic love is. One of my companions, when the teacher questioned her, replied that it is love without sex, but she almost laughed at her and gave her six minus. Well, I would have said the same thing. Indeed it is not the correct answer. Explain it to me, then, since you know. It's a bit complicated, it's not like explaining grammar rules. Thanks, I got there on my own. So you're telling me that outside of your industry you know nothing? No, I'm not saying that at all. I'm just telling you that it's not my job and that I've never dealt specifically with philosophy. I am a specialist in classical philology and in my field I know exactly what I am saying. I don't like pitch invasions: it makes me uncomfortable to talk loosely about topics I only know from having studied them in high school. Earlier you said the answer was incorrect: so you see that you know. I'm just asking you to explain why. Try it, please. Try it in your own words, suitable for a poor fool like me. You're not stupid. Seriously, I want to understand where I'm wrong. He sits crosslegged and looks at me. Although I know I have to take advantage of that rare moment of availability to listen, I realize that finding the right words is bloody difficult; teaching is a complex art and a subject like Emmanuel would put anyone to the test: he's the kind of guy who, if you get the wrong way of communicating, destroys everything with irony. I awkwardly try to make a joke: So be it: but I should speak with my head covered, like Socrates in the Phaedrus . I know the Phaedrus : we have just read it in class. Evidently, however, I did not understand it, since I'm asking you to explain it to me. I clear my throat and start talking. Let's start from a basic concept: according to Plato, the soul preexists the body and originally wandered in the hyperuranium world, where there is no matter, but only form. Yes, I know that: Ideas. Now, the human soul is made up of three components. Those of the winged chariot? Yes, bravo: the black horse, the selfish and materialistic part; the white horse, the divine part, which tends towards the ideal; and the charioteer, the rational part, which has the task of keeping the two horses in balance. I know this too. And I also know that the white horse has an aquiline nose. Funny, isn't it? The black one has a flat nose and I can understand it, because it's a randomly assembled beast, but why does the white one have an aquiline nose? I don't know: probably the aquiline nose was considered a sign of distinction. What a crazy idea. Go on. At one point the black horse took over, dived down and dragged the whole chariot into the matter. Otherwise we wouldn't be here talking to each other right now. Exactly. In that moment we were born, or rather we incarnated. But contact with matter, for Plato, causes oblivion of everything concerning the soul: tabula rasa. So we believe we are bodies, right? Yes, we forgot who we were. In reality, all matter is imprinted with some form, we just don't recognize it. And this is where love comes into play. Well, this is exactly what I want to understand: what kind of love? Passionate love, the one that drives you crazy. The one that Plato calls eros, contrasting it with philìa. Then also physical, of course: that's why the teacher laughed in my schoolmate's face. No, not necessarily. You see? I still don't understand anything. You're sixteen, it's not easy at your age to separate sex from passion: but they're two different things. Maybe, I don't know yet. The fact remains that falling in love gives us the immediate desire to have sex with a person. Because there's a fundamental misunderstanding, Emmanuel. What misunderstanding? For Plato, falling in love is this: when we see a body that reminds us of the idea of beauty, we suddenly recognize the beauty, which we had already seen in the hyperuranium; we feel a blow to the heart, a sense of malaise, a confused desire for possession. But we don't know what we recognize. We confuse form with the material that hosts it, and that's why we want to have sex, as if by possessing a body we could possess beauty. But that's not the case, because we're actually looking for something else and we don't know what. In short, we feel bad, but we don't know why. I remember that passage, it struck me a lot: it's the one where Plato says that we feel an itch like children when they put their teeth and that the itch is the wings of the soul that sprout. Exactly: this is what starts the process of anàmnesis or reminiscence. We recognize the idea that we have seen before, but because we recognize it in a confused way, we feel dizzy and restless. He solemnly nods: Yes, that's right. If I were less focused on trying to explain a complex concept in simple words, this statement of his would surprise me a lot: how can such a young boy, moreover shy and solitary, already have such an experience behind him ? This thought disturbs and defocuses me. I hasten to conclude: And this explains the dejà vu effect : since we recognize beauty in someone, it seems to us that we have already met that person in another life or who knows where. And in fact, for Plato, it is just so. He remains for a moment to reflect in silence. Then he replies: Maybe. However, if one loves that way, physical attraction is inevitable. In fact, it is precisely at this point that the trouble begins. Socrates in the Symposium says that , if we don't have a spiritual guide, we are bound to fail and we will waste a unique opportunity. Meaning what? That in fact we will simply tend to have sex with the person we love and that's it. Such a thing is useless and does not lead us in the right direction. Obvious, because it takes us back to matter again. Exactly. So basically, falling in love is a ripoff. It's like standing on a ladder: you have to go up, but it's much easier to go down. However I think I understand: if this is the case, it is clear that sex is to be avoided. Actually not really: Plato doesn't say it's to be avoided, he's not a moralist; however sex distracts us from the search and slows down the ascent, so over time we must learn to do without it. That is why platonic love for people means chaste love. So you see? My poor schoolmate was right. In fact she wasn't entirely wrong, but she had to explain why Plato comes to this conclusion: otherwise it's like reading the sentences in chocolates, it's not a response from a classical high school. Basically, do we have to love each other as brother and sister? No passionate love? Absolutely not: this is philìa , quite another thing. Eros is an irreplaceable experience, essential in a man's life. He fidgets a little, annoyed. You see? Every time I think I've grasped the concept, it turns out I didn't understand shit. I told you it's not easy to explain. Yes well, but put more effort into it, professor. So, to recap, one has to fall in love like an imbecile, freak out, but try not to have sex with the person he loves? Yes, more or less. But it's torture! I mean, what's the point? And then why simply feeling affection for each other isn't enough? Because feeling affection, according to Plato, does not trigger the process of reminiscence, and this will force us to roll "for nine thousand years around and under the earth". Is that exactly what he says? Yes. He remains dumbfounded for a few seconds, then resumes: But why exactly nine thousand years? Perhaps because the cycle of reincarnation lasts about ten thousand years, unless one is a philosopher: in which case it lasts only three thousand years. Is there a discount for philosophers? Yes, because philosophers love the truth. Love is a philosopher, remember? In any case, it doesn't add up: even calculating the average life of a man in eighty years, which is a long time, at a rough guess nine hundred and twenty years go forward, plus or minus year. I am amazed by this observation of his: I had never thought about it. He insists: And then sorry, what does around and under mean? That is, under is enough: why also around? Frankly, I don't know. I don't know if I have understood, but this is really interesting. Yes, especially since no other ancient philosopher thinks so. Now come on: I've mistreated Plato enough for today. He'll forgive you. In any case, I understood what I needed to understand. Meaning what? He turns away with an enigmatic smile, dropping the question. A warm gust rises from the river, bringing with itself a stagnant smell of marsh. They threw plastic bags into the water again. They're killing this river. But shouldn't waste recycling be mandatory? It should. Throwing things away is idiotic, and even recycling isn't that smart: tell me what's the point of throwing away glass bottles and then breaking them, shredding them and making glass bottles again. Can't we keep them as they are, I don't know, and wash them well before using them again? Indeed in my father's time it was like this. So as time went by we became more and more stupid? It's good to know. Anyway, let's remember to collect those fucking bags before we leave. They are stranded under that plant. Which? That one over there, do you see it? I see it: it's a medlar tree. You are a kind of walking encyclopedia: you know everything except the important things. Nobody knows those things, kid. But I love you all the same, even if you're an ignorant teacher. He smiles at me before I can resent it: Come on, I'm joking. He remains silent for a long time. Then he asks me point blank: Do you also think I'm a loser? Sorry? What are you meaning for? Today in the aquarium there was a fish with a strange white mold on it; I went to buy a disinfectant at the pharmacy and when I got home I found it half eaten by the other fishes. But he was still alive, I didn't know what to do. Teresa told me it was cowardly to let him suffer; so we took it out of the water and killed it with a drop of formalin. I'm still hurting now. Unfortunately in nature healthy subjects instinctively eliminate sick or abnormal ones. How do the fishes know that one of them is sick? He's different, he's behaving strangely. Chickens do this too. Then you see, I'm a loser. What's that got to do with it? You're not a chicken. Teresa is wise. My parents always tell me that I trust her too much. Even that of your parents is a natural behavior. You know what, professor? Dealing with an ex first in class is objectively boring, but it has its advantages: you can talk a little bit about everything. Is that a compliment or a criticism? A compliment. And then I'm also discovering things. Plato? Not only him: Catullus too. Those verses made a strange impression on me. What impression? As if they were written especially for me. But you don't look anything like Catullus, luckily. You say? Such a strong impression cannot be accidental. I'm ruling it out. Catullus had been betrayed by the woman he loved, when he wrote those words he was in pain like a dog: what do you want to know? I realize I've made a terrible gaffe: he looks at me with a grim expression: Sorry, could you avoid making me weigh my inexperience like this? The patch I put in is worse than the hole: It wasn't meant to be a criticism, it's nothing personal. It's typical for teenagers to absorb everything like sponges; as you grow up you will become more waterproof. One day you will look back on these moments and it will all seem very far away and very funny. He doesn't answer. What are you thinking about? The pile of bullshit you said. Quite a lot, huh. If I'm not mistaken it's called rhetoric. Don't be arrogant. And you then? With all your pseudoculture, you're as sensitive as a shoe sole. And to think I've never believed in astrology. What the fuck does astrology have to do with it? Let's pretend we believe it. Let's pretend: so what? Born under the sign of Pisces. No come on, no Venditti. I'm not quoting Venditti: all the sacred texts of astrology say that Pisces natives are moody and hypersensitive, they think that everything that happens is done on purpose to hurt them. And thereby? Thereby, hasn't the suspicion ever touched you that you're a bit selfcentered? He shakes his head with an expression of profound nausea. I didn't think you were so superficial. Here's another cliché typical of your sign: depth. You're a collection of clichés, kid. Speaking of clichés, I'm also a bit masochistic: so go ahead, I love being insulted. Excuse me, in what sense would I be superficial? In all senses. You completely lack intuition: when you can't rationally frame something you say it doesn't exist. Your fucking charioteer just sits there rambling, blahblahblah, the scientific name of loquat, the chemical formula of mold, the diameter of frogs, the waterproofing of sponges, the angular momentum of wheels, how many ears does have a horse on average, what speed must the black horse maintain in order not to roll over in a curve, after how many dejà vu the white horse has to book a psychiatrist, and meanwhile that idiot charioteer whips the horses and doesn't realize they're dead, they're both stone dead those poor beasts, and he's not going anywhere the fuck. There is too much "fuck" in your last statement. Fuck you. A real imbecile, my charioteer. You can say it. And what would my horses have died of? Of boredom, professor: they committed suicide to stop hearing your speeches. Well boy, I'm sorry to tell you, rationality is not your strong point. Your speech reeks of the Middle Ages a mile away: you are Pisces to the core, child of the moon. You're not too different from me, professor, you just haven't realized it yet. Well, we lacked the prophecy. We cross our arms simultaneously and sulk at each other for about ten minutes, while sitting and looking at the landscape. I'm about to reluctantly ask him to go home, when he breaks the silence: Shall we make up? I feel great relief. All right, let's make up. He turns to me and continues the conversation as if nothing had happened. Going back to music, have I ever told you that I find Italian music unbearable? With a couple of exceptions, such as De André and Battisti. Musically Battisti has a lot to say. I liked Rino Gaetano, it's absurd that he died so early. I also like Paolo Conte, of his kind. Then maybe Battiato, I don't know: I still haven't figured out if he's a serious musician or a bluff. A serious musician, I would say. Up to the Euclidean Jesuits I follow him, I can even tolerate "dressed like bonzes to enter the court of emperors", but when he adds "of the Ming dynasty" I have the distinct feeling that he's kidding me. But it's a beautiful song, brilliant in its own way. Yes, I agree. In general, however, I find that Italian lends itself little to music, it always has something too much. Maybe because you're half Dutch. I don't like the Dutch, I really can't stand them as a people. Really? Why? Too long to explain, one day you'll understand. I'll understand what? I don't even feel too Italian, for that matter. My brother yes, but he is different, he also has a Mediterranean look. It's true: you are very different. Music, as far as I'm concerned, speaks English. I don't really like Italian music either. I prefer the old sixties songs, at least they weren't pretentious; those who came later are insufferable intellectuals, like your charioteer. Or they get into the sentimentalpathetic, which is even worse. He begins to sing with an ironically inspired expression. You have a beautiful voice, you are in tune. The honorary degree in vagueness belongs to De Gregori: and something remains between the light pages and the dark pages, and I erase your name from my facade and confuse my alibis and your reasons, etcetera etcetera. But it sounds good. It's your charioteer who thinks so. But they are all like this, with some exceptions. What exceptions? "Already the water swallows the sun, the happy gypsies, the lilac chair"... Stuff like that. What lilac chair? Oh well, professor, but get informed. And then there are the classic donuts with a hole, which you don't know how they managed. He starts singing again almost in a low voice. "A flower in the mouth can be useful, I wouldn't swear..." I bet that when he says little sister it hurts your stomach, right prof? I block him. That's enough, I understood the concept and in some ways I agree with it. He smiles shaking his head. "In some ways". He suddenly stares at me with an adult's steady, serious gaze, which contrasts singularly with the intense blue of his eyes. Antonia. He never called me by name. I jump in amazement. Yes? I feel bad. I know, you are very shocked by what happened. I understand you, you know? It's a terrible thing. You must let time heal your wounds: now there is no more we can do, except try to distract ourselves. It's not just that. What else is there? There is that I don't want to roll underground for nine thousand years. I can't improvise any response to this eccentric lefthanded ace that falls unpredictably on the righthanded opponent's backhand, especially since he doesn't stop looking at me. I feel hunted, like being chased by two blue car headlights in the night. I instinctively look for a pair of dark glasses in my purse. There is no sun, he comments, without looking away. The rays that filter through the trees annoy me: they reach right into my eyes. The sun is low, almost setting. Yeah. We talk too much, I tell him sternly. Meanwhile the hours go by and we don't realize it's late. Yes, it's late, and we even forget to eat. We will end up turning into cicadas. Phaedrus day? He doesn't answer. Finally he looks down, turns around and turns on the stereo. It amazes me that he wants to listen to music at a time like this, but as soon as I hear the first notes of that piece I recognize the strings that make his soul vibrate: a melodically raw, but at the same time anomalous and unpredictable, distorted guitar line, a warm and sensually adolescent voice. I am fascinated by it. I don't know who he is and I dare not ask him, but subconsciously I think he looks like him. Sometime I have to make you listen to music properly, he says thoughtfully. Meaning what? I mean, not with a batteryoperated portable stereo, evidently. You need a serious system, like the one I have in my room, and possibly a vinyl record: I much prefer it to the CD. He stands up, leans his back against a tree with his left knee bent and his foot against the trunk and starts throwing stones into the river. We were talking about inexperience. He resumes with an indifferent tone. You, on the other hand, don't lack experience, I suppose. I'm a woman, not a little girl. How does it feel to have that kind of experience? Nothing special; it's a habit like any other. Even a habit? Come on, I was just saying. Then you have a lot of experience. Don't be indiscreet. He throws a stone violently: I see it fall across the stream. I'm not indiscreet, I'm jealous. Jealous? I'm taking my brother's place. So? How much? Neither too much nor too little. I was not a precocious girl. How old were you? How old was I when? You know perfectly well. I interrupt him curtly, in a stern tone. Look, it's none of your business. That's enough, I won't let you waste any more time. Come here and open the book: as punishment you will do all the analysis by yourself. You have exactly ten minutes to finish it. He turns to look at me: As a punishment for what? For your insolence. I had no intention of being insolent. He says to me with mild amazement. Okay, sorry. He sits back down and opens the book, concentrating on the text. While he's trying to juggle the analysis I leaf through his notebook nervously to check his homework; I am struck by a piece written at an angle in twisted handwriting, which bears no resemblance to a translation: It's two in the morning and I can't sleep. I can no longer listen to that music: it devastates me, I fall apart. Silence is scary, scary the sense of loneliness. The impression is that everything turns upside down; worse: that everything turns in the right direction while I go backwards. I would like to be a gypsy, I would like to live floating, I would like to leave all doors open, none excluded. I'm afraid of choosing, of losing by choosing total availability towards life. I will not allow any ideal to blind me, any dogma to paralyze me. The chaos is complete inside me and the dream of beauty becomes more and more intense and necessary, like the push of the blood in my body. When I hear others talk of love my soul strings hang dead: I don't care about loving that way. Yet the need for love in me is very strong, it projects me out of myself to try to undo the loneliness which is the source of all suffering. But outside there is life, and life, real life, has a horrible taste or is pure enjoyment, with no middle ground. Life is a sadistic lover. Waste me, rape me my friend, do it and do it again, it hurts but I like it, and I only like it like this. But I'm scared, I'm not ready to die. I need her. This insomnia is hers, the insomnia of all my nights: I think of her until sleep overtakes me and the pain goes away, the fear disappears, only her cradling embrace remains and a feeling of wellbeing so intense that I can no longer control my reactions, my body overflows with pleasure and then I disappear into a dream. And perhaps this is death, a sweeter lover. I snap shut the notebook and reopen my Greek notes, while all the shutters of my being descend to prevent that thing from entering inside me. Hypercataleptic anapestic dimeter, there is no doubt. He's not a child anymore, after all. What is this? A fercrateus? Emmanuel is in love and I didn't realize it: how could I not understand it? I'm losing it: it's a glyconeus. Once upon a time I would have recognized him at first glance. It seems impossible to me to imagine him grappling with those tormented nights of his looking at him now, all concentrated on the Latin book, his eyebrows furrowed in an effort to unravel the syntactic skein. He seems so childish to me, so far from those murky fantasies; a flush of blush rises to my cheeks at the mere thought of what is quite natural for a boy of sixteen. I'm late on everything, the teacher will be disappointed in me. I must hurry. Who can she be? Perhaps a schoolmate of his? But how could any gosling conquer so much space in his shy and introverted soul? He's not like everyone else, he can't love in such a trivial way. I watch him with a strange shyness as he tosses and turns in vain looking for a comfortable position in the grass. He's leaving. I feel wounded, dispossessed of something that is not mine: a painful and useless sensation, which I immediately remove. However, the losers are nicer. I don't reproach him for having interrupted the analysis: hearing his voice expressing such a simple and spontaneous thought gives me an indescribable joy: he is still there, he is still here. In what sense? Donald Duck, Duffy Duck, Wilcoyote: everyone is rooting for them. Instead Mickey is on everyone's dick. I don't reproach him for the trivial expression: I'm in a state of grace, willing to forgive him everything. Well, you know, in cartoons things are a little different from reality. You don't like cartoons? Yes, but only the classic ones. Indeed many computer animations suck, but there are also some beautiful ones. The manga? No, those are the comics. They are called "animé". My mom still has some old Walt Disney movies from when she was a kid, you know? They don't even have sound and you have to project them with those noisy gimmicks that were used once, but they have an incredible charm. There's one where I even like Mickey Mouse: Pluto goes to a dog show, makes an absurd mess and the judges chase them away, but in the end he saves a little dog from a fire and they give him a medal for valor. I remember it: you're right, it's very cute. Did you see it too? Yes, many years ago. Do you like it? Very much. Listen, but if you like cartoons, why don't we watch them together in my room? Only if you study. Is it blackmail, teacher? Full blown. I'm in. Can I use your legs as a pillow? Before I answer him, he rolls onto his back with his head on my thighs. Its smell of hot young animal reaches me. Does it bother you if I'm like this? No, it doesn't bother me. Can you make apple pie? I'm not very good at cooking, but I can make apple pie: my mother is an excellent cook, I learned from her. So can you do it for me, please? After all, you're almost my sisterinlaw, no one will find fault with it. All right, I'll do it for you. Is there anything else you want? Yes mommy, but you'd be pissed if I told you. Let me guess: you would like to be in the arms of one of your classmates who doesn't know a word of Greek? You are far. Not a classmate? Then a friend. Closer. You see that slowly I'm getting there. You smell good. It's a men's aftershave. Seriously? I don't like women's perfumes, I find them disgusting. The sun gave you freckles on your nose. I know, it always happens. You have fair skin. Are you natural redhead? Yes, but my hair is slightly different; I dye it to look less... less carrot, that's it. It looks good on you. And you have green eyes like cats. It's normal for redheads. They are beautiful. All these compliments to make me forgive your halffinished analysis? He doesn't answer. You are shivering: are you cold? Yes, a bit. There will be 90° F, prof. But this evening breeze is biting. Suddenly he gets up, shakes off the dust and blades of grass that have stuck to him and sportingly extends his hand: Come on, let's go: it's getting late, you don't want to keep your future husband waiting. He precedes me through the woods walking with rapid steps, as if in a hurry to get away from me. Suddenly, without turning around, he says: Anyway, it was a homicide, not a suicide. What? Nothing. One day you'll understand.