Some half-truths.
(July 1997).

A placid July day enjoyed in the most obvious of ways, in a warm and restful silence, on a swing that creaks gently back and forth, hand in hand and eyes turned towards the hill painted with the strong colours of sunflowers and cypress trees.
How happy your mother was... And tonight I want you to talk to your father too: call him as soon as he gets home from work, promise? You have to go and see them, poor things, they can't wait.
I will, sooner or later.
We are all proud of you.
For a paltry fifty-two?
Why paltry? Fifty-two sixtieths is a beautiful grade.
You speak from the height of your sixty sixtieths.
From next year, sixty will be the minimum grade, you know? It's a good thing we didn't have to take the reformed final exams, I didn't want to be a guinea pig.
But for now it's the best grade, and of course you got the best.
I was just wondering what you were waiting for to throw this dig at me. I'll send it back to the sender right away: I studied all year, not just the last three months.
Evidently three months would have been enough.
Admit it, you were a bit lucky: the Latin oral exam with Contini as an internal member was a walk in the park for you. She looked at you with certain eyes…
Yes, let's say I was playing at home.
We all know she has a thing for you. And to think she could be your mother.
He smiles enigmatically as he stares at the Leonardo-esque sfumato on the horizon; his eyes, however, do not smile.
What's wrong? Aren't you happy?
It's just the opinion of a bunch of teachers, what's there to be happy about? I'd have to be an idiot to be happy about it.
Okay, but that's no reason to be in a bad mood. What's wrong?
What if I told you one of my favorite musicians died?
Who died? And when?
You don't know him. He was thirty years old, he died two months ago and they haven't even had the funeral yet.
I'm sorry. I don't understand anyway how this can touch you so deeply.
See? There's no point in talking to you about it.
No, sorry, explain to me.
What should I explain to you? He was one of my idols, a genius son of a genius. When I played the guitar and sang, sometimes I tried to imitate him, but I only made myself ridiculous. He had an incredible voice.
You played guitar? And you never told me?
Yes, I played it a little.
And did you sing?
Yes, too.
You actually have a very good voice, I heard you singing in the car. But why haven't you ever played anything since you've been with me?
I wouldn't know what to play now. And I wasn't anything special.
You don't have to be Segovia to play the guitar.
It's a finished experience, Arianna. Like so many others.
Too bad, Emmanuel, really: I would have liked to hear you.
Pretend I didn't tell you anything. Everything's fine: I've been promoted, I'm here with you, I've recovered from my paranoia and soon we'll be enrolling in some serious university faculty. Thanks to your father and his connections I even avoided conscription. Everything's fine, don't worry. Let's relax, please.
He starts swinging again, holding my hand; I suddenly remember that I have to tell him something.
Oh, by the way: I signed up for the shooting range and I signed you up too.
By the way of what?
Of enrolling.
Yes, but what does the shooting range have to do with it?
There are more and more rabble around, I think it's important to learn how to shoot to defend yourself.
He turns to look at me with wide eyes.
Shooting to defend yourself? Are you crazy?
No, why? I don't intend to actually shoot anyone: it's enough for me to know that I could do it. Anyway, I have a very good aim, you know? The instructor complimented me.
Oh, so you've already been there?
Yes, a couple of times.
And you didn't tell me?
I didn't think it was important.
It is quite, if I may, since you signed me up too. However, I have no intention of going.
So you don't care about defending me if necessary?
Of course I care, but I don't intend to shoot to do it. If they were to attack you, I would stand in the way and probably get myself killed to defend you. But I wouldn't kill them back.
A real man would do that.
I'm not a fucking real man, Arianna.
And what are you?
Are you trying to call me a faggot? I'll warn you: yes, I may be one. I've never been a 100 percent male, you know, it's an old story.
He curls up like a hedgehog, lets go of my hand and crosses his arms over his chest, staring into the distance.
I didn't mean that at all, Emmanuel: I don't know what's in your past, but lately you're a little too straight to be gay, don't you think?
I don't know. These are irrelevant things to me.
But not to me: if you were gay we couldn't be together.
Put it however you want, but I'm not going to the shooting range.
Whatever you prefer: I'll continue to go there alone.
A sour half-smile appears on his profile.
I think you're more interested in hitting the instructor than the target.
Yes, he is definitely a good-looking guy: tall and dark, in his thirties, just the type I like. And he likes me.
Oh, there you go! Then tell it straight.
But you're not jealous, are you?
No, I'm not. Anyway, as you see, I'm right.
In what sense?
My presence at the shooting range would be inappropriate.
But I am already engaged, Emmanuel.
Really? And with whom?
With a blond, Nordic guy, the exact opposite of my ideal man.
What a shame, huh?
I guess I'll make an exception to the rule for him.
I take his hand again. He shakes his head, smiling, and says nothing in response.



Healed?
Physically he is much better. His hair is almost short now, he has gained a bit of bulk and is slightly tanned. He has shrouded his past in cryptic silence; I don't know how to interpret this attitude: he doesn't answer my questions, he never talks about it, he doesn't seem to have any memory of it. His diary, which I continue to read in secret, has become a sort of impersonal account of daily events, full of naturalistic descriptions, a feeble exercise in style. It's not even useful to the psychologist, who suspects it's a red herring and prefers to talk to him in person. I don't intend to delve deeper into the investigation.
The year has passed and I know I owe him something. He knows it too, but, by a sort of tacit agreement, neither of us goes into the subject. We have achieved with immense difficulty a precarious balance, we do not want to risk making everything collapse with a clumsy move.
My parents have grown fond of him as if he were a son, even though they continue to worry about me: Emmanuel certainly does not represent the solid and secure future that parents hope for their daughter. As for him, I don't know if he is happy, but he is serene: finally, now that he has recovered his physical health and a modicum of mental stability, he realizes the mortal danger he has run and clings with desperate strength to the little things of every day. But can the fact of being alive and healthy be enough to satisfy him? His tormented psyche is capable of sudden and lethal flashes, like a frozen viper when you step on it by mistake.
I try to tame his demons as best I can: I make him hot chocolate, I cuddle him, I spoil him, I take him for long walks. We make love often. He has become a perfect lover, attentive to all my needs, and he is absolutely faithful: he does not give himself up to the provocations of our schoolmates, ex- schoolmates now, and of the other girls. I often ask myself what more I could want from life: and yet I realize that something is missing. It is not easy for me to explain what.
It's just that I've always thought that a man who truly loves is less skilled, less capable of grasping details, cruder in a certain sense. He is always too much in control of himself: he stifles his reactions, hides the effects of pleasure, and immediately regains control. He has a strange modesty in sex. He shouldn't be ashamed of making love.
In everyday life, however, he is always at my side and indulges me with a disarming docility. I discovered that he is very good with children and the elderly: he works with me at the summer camp, where he always invents new games for the little ones, who adore him; we also signed up to a volunteer association that takes care of non-self-sufficient elderly people: he shows touching self-denial with them, makes them laugh, takes them outdoors pushing wheelchairs with his strong arms. It gives me indescribable pleasure to see him like this.
Sometimes I wonder if it is right to keep Antonia's maternity a secret from him, but I quickly let go of the doubt. I wonder what his parents might have guessed: formally they have decided to believe the theory that Antonia had her child with a guy she met right after the separation. It's really stupid, but for them it's the most convenient solution. The only one who has expressed doubts about the appropriateness of keeping the matter quiet from Emmanuel is his brother Michael, with whom I had a brief conversation right after visiting Antonia.
He struck me a lot: he is in a certain sense the healthy version of Emmanuel, with more pronounced features and Mediterranean colors. He is a good-looking guy, but you don't notice it: the practical sense that predominates in him makes his appearance fade into the background, while in Emmanuel it is almost impossible to notice anything else. He loves his brother and bears no grudge against him, nor, incredibly, against her: he was born a winner, he knows well who lost the game. 
From the beginning he decided to hide the truth about the reasons for his separation from his parents; he told me that it was a painful decision, because he hates lying. When I told him that I knew who the real father was, and that I had learned it directly from Antonia, he begged me to keep the secret from his parents: I hastened to agree with him. I am a believer, but in this case, I am ashamed to say, I am convinced that an abortion would have been the most sensible choice: and perhaps it would have also saved the marriage. Michael, however, does not seem to think so.
I must have put him at ease, because he confided in me a few things. He told me, for example, that he was very struck by his mother's reaction: Mrs. Helena showed neither surprise nor displeasure at the news of the separation, as if deep down she had expected it, indeed, had hoped for it a little. She said coldly: "I'm not stupid, Michael. I never want to see that woman again: she has already hurt our family enough", and left the room. Michael dropped the subject and started talking about work with his father, who pretended nothing had happened, but these words upset him: it's clear that his mother didn't believe the official version of events, and perhaps she also guessed who the child's real father was. Of course she would never admit it, she has too much common sense to get her favorite son into trouble. Perhaps Mrs. Helena, despite her distracted and absent-minded appearance, is the sharpest person in the family. 
They all agreed on one thing: that it was better to keep Emmanuel in the dark about his brother's separation, so as not to add further reasons for distress to what was officially "a serious nervous breakdown." Therefore, during telephone conversations with his parents, Emmanuel was always told that everything was fine at home. The fact that, for obvious reasons, he never asked about Antonia, also played in our favor.
But now he's waiting. He doesn't say anything, he continues to rock lazily back and forth, but his very silence is an eloquent invitation to stick to our agreement. We had agreed on a year's time, after which he would be the one to decide his future. The fact that we are officially engaged should in itself be a guarantee and reassure me of his intentions, but I'm not at ease: in order to decide, he is missing a very important piece, indispensable for reconstructing the complete picture. Soon, when he goes to visit his parents, it will be inevitable that he will find out about the separation. I'd rather tell him in advance. I take courage and start the conversation.



Emmanuel.
Yes.
We need to talk.
I know.
There is a painful pause.
The year has passed.
I know.
Now it's up to you to decide.
I know.
But there's one thing you need to know first.
What?
I went to visit your brother.
For a few seconds he says nothing.
When?
A few months ago, during the Easter holidays. Do you remember when I told you I was going to visit my cousin Letizia in Milan?
It wasn't true?
Of course it was true, I wouldn’t have told you such a silly lie: I went there, but on the way back I passed through Turin.
He is silent again for a few seconds.
Why didn't you tell me anything?
It was too early.
Ah. And now instead?
Now it is not.
Go on.
I really liked your brother.
I have no doubt about it. You would be made for each other.
There is another silence. Then he asks:
How are they?
How is he. He no longer lives with Antonia.
The swing stops. His neck becomes covered in red spots.
Since when?
For a while.
How much?
A few months.
A few months?!
They broke up almost immediately.
But why?
The marriage didn't work out. You know how that happens, right? Incompatibility of character.
Incompatibility of character? After all those years of engagement? Are you kidding?
I'm deadly serious, Emmanuel.
Was she the one who left him?
No, it was him: he realized he was better off with someone else.
He shakes his head, frowning.
Don't make fun of me, Arianna. This is impossible, it's not like him: he can't be better with someone else, not Michael. And then who else?
A slightly vulgar brunette, I don't know her name.
Absurd, this story doesn't hold up. And who is she with now?
Alone.
Who did you hear that from?
From him. And then... 
I clear my throat.
I went to visit her too.
Her who?
Antonia.
He turns. I feel his gaze on me, dark as the winter sea, heavy as a boulder.
What's strange? I wanted to meet her.
For a very long minute he is silent and continues to stare at me. Then, in a deep, grave tone of voice, he pronounces four words:
You lied to me.
In a certain sense, yes.
No, not in a certain sense: you just lied to me, Arianna. Lying is betrayal, and you lied to me.
For your own good.
He turns and leans back against the seat.
For my own good. Okay. And what did you say to each other?
We talked about you, of course: it's not like we have much in common.
Yes, of course. And what conclusions did you come to?
First of all, she realizes the harm she has done to you.
Oh.
And she's sorry.
Oh yeah?
But she's fine now.
I can imagine: she can open her legs for Frédéric as many times as she wants.
For whom?
Nothing, go on.
She wants you to be at peace.
And that we remain good friends?
Yes, of course. Maybe in a little while.
He can't hold back a short laugh.
This is all great! Are there any other curiosities from the archive that you need to tell me or is this enough? 
No, there's nothing else.
The silence that follows is very heavy.
God, what a disappointment.
What?
Yeah, who the fuck cares.
I understand you.
No, you don't understand me at all. I don't know which of the two of you understands me less.
Try to explain to me.
Did anyone tell her that they've invented those gadgets that you can use to talk to each other from a distance? You know, those things with buttons, with or without a cord: they're called telephones.
Emmanuel, you see, that's the point: I didn't want to disappoint you, that's why I didn't tell you anything.
But anything what?
Don't you understand? If she had wanted, she could have called you, but she didn't. It was her specific choice not to call you. I didn't want to tell you so as not to hurt you.
And how do you know?
She told me.
What? What exactly did she tell you?
I decide to ignore the fact that she had searched for him several times on our home phone. I recall our conversation so that I can half-lie, which is equivalent to telling half the truth.
She said: “I have no intention of involving Emmanuel in this matter”.
He is speechless. He opens his mouth and closes it, giving the impression of chewing air. Then he opens it again and only one sound comes out:
Ah.
He starts swinging again and suddenly jumps from one topic to another.
Are we going to La Fenice tonight? They're re-proposing Trainspotting: I missed it last year.
Let's go, even if I'm afraid it's not my thing.
It's definitely not your thing, actually.
But then, when it comes out, we go to see The Full Monty: I've been told it's funny.
Tomorrow I'll take you to the Capuchin convent, is that okay?
Of course: I'm very happy about that.
And in August we're going away for a week somewhere a bit wild, just you and me. The west coast of Corsica, huh? What do you think?
It will be a problem to book the ferry now.
So let’s go south without a destination, randomly, like gypsies.
Wouldn't a hotel be more comfortable?
He doesn't answer. He's silent for ten minutes, then he gets up, goes to the portable stereo and puts on a CD.
Enola Gay
You should have stayed at home yesterday
Ah-ha, words can't describe
The feeling and the way you lied...
Why this song?
Didn't you say you like 80s disco music?
Yes, but why this song in particular?
So. I wanted to hear something appropriate to the circumstances.
He sits back down on the swing and pushes himself so hard that he almost tips it over. Then he bends his knees, gathers his legs up on the seat, wraps his arms around them, and begins to rock himself into the fetal position.
This obsessive swinging made me feel nauseous.
I pull out a note and show it to him. He looks at it out of the corner of his eye, his blue irises surrounded by strange reddish veins.
What’s that?
Her new phone number.
The swing stops. His eyes stare hypnotically at the piece of paper. He turns to stare into space before him.
Throw it away.
I crumple the note and kiss him gratefully. His cheek is hot.