Encounter
(September 1997).

And running she met me along the stairs...

Here I am again, Doctor. How does it feel to hear my voice again after all this time?
I'm kidding: you can't have missed me, since until the beginning of June we saw each other once a week. In the meantime I diligently did my homework, I wrote my diary and I made you read it little by little, even if I never understood the purpose and often, excuse my frankness, I had the impression of indulging in a sort of unconscious voyeurism.
But you reproach me: "My dear boy, in your story there is a gap of more than a year. Your diary stops in June 1996 and now we are in September 1997. These were not the agreements; and do not tell me that during this year we spoke in person, because it is not the same thing and you know it very well: when you write a diary you are alone with yourself and lying to yourself makes no sense; you are forced to be sincere".
Don't be quick to judge me, doctor: I've written what I knew, but you can't force me to write what I don't know. The fact is that I still haven't been able to decipher the meaning of what happened to me in the last year. If I weren't afraid of seeming pathetic, I'd tell you that I don't know who I am anymore. It's easy, very easy for me to reconstruct who I was at sixteen, but it's terribly difficult for me to understand who I am at nineteen. All I know is that I'm still alive and I don't suffer too much, in fact, sometimes I don't suffer at all; but this situation of ataraxia doesn't make me happy; on the contrary: it makes me feel like a stranger to myself. In philosophical terms, I'm living the fourth point of the Epicurean tetrapharmaco: the fear of not being able to be happy. I feel like a cork adrift in the waves: as I float on the surface, swirling in the eddies and rocking in the undertow, I don't know what feelings I feel, I don't know if I feel anything. I think it will take me some time to get used to the new me.
I take this opportunity to thank you belatedly for the box of cigars: I always forgot to do so. I tried one and coughed until I almost spat out my lungs, but I must admit that the taste it leaves in the mouth is not bad. One day, perhaps, you will explain to me what the point of that gift was.
Anyway, if you really want to, I'm ready to write down what it takes to fill this gap of a year that you throw in my face; you'll notice the difference right away: a few words are enough for me this time, I couldn't think of more. You can integrate them, if you like, with the many that others have told you about me in the meantime; I'm certainly not the one who has to teach you that it's not a good idea to believe their statements: unfortunately, the portrait that people paint of others is almost always unreliable; even what one paints of oneself is unreliable.
Ten lines will be enough for me to summarize everything. Actually, let's make it fifteen: death to avarice.

For a while I remained immersed in the mud like Millais's Ophelia, except that I had my face turned downward. Then a hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and brought me back to the surface, cleaning me and tidying me up until I was almost human again. I began to walk again like a one-year-old, with small, uncertain steps, at first seeking the dark and hidden corners: the sunlight terrified me, it gave me panic attacks that took my breath away. I was forced to go back to bed, shaken by shivers and with the blood pounding in my temples. Then, little by little, I began to go out into the open for increasingly prolonged excursions, facing the sunlight with the aid of dark glasses. Breathing became easier for me, the presence of a loved one comforted me, sex became possible again, sometimes pleasurable. I realized that I was still alive in some way and this gave me relief: evidently I didn't have that much desire to die. I had freed myself from the burden of the past and I was almost happy, even if I remembered the taste of true happiness too well; but that state of constant intoxication is paid for with the price of one's blood: my heart had been beaten, blended, homogenized, reduced to a shapeless mush. I no longer felt the need for those emotions: they were like a distant memory, the memory of a previous life, someone else's life.
There you have it, doctor: the account of a whole year of floating in the void, during which I always had the pleasant company of a girl. Oh yes, I forgot: I also took the final exam, passing it quite well. I'm done, there's nothing else to say.
…
You're right, I'm lying. It's true, you can't lie to yourself by writing a diary: I feel like an idiot for doing so. I'll try to be completely honest, even if it costs me a huge effort.
A few days ago, while I was floating on the surface, dozing and fantasizing about full sails and a tailwind, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a freak wave. Strange, incredible things, violent emotions churned the inert mush of my heart, made it beat wildly again, but in that messy and chaotic way that has more to do with the prelude to a heart attack than with feelings. I didn't feel like I loved anyone, I was just madly sick and then madly well and then madly sick again, terribly sick. I wandered around like a drunk among things, banging into all the walls, laughing at my own idiocy and that of others. I crashed into a tree and hurt myself, but not enough. They were all, all completely drunk, I could do nothing but laugh at them and at myself. It was neither beautiful nor ugly, it was just violent, brutal and senseless. It was like certain natural disasters that you can only endure. It wasn't called love or hate or anything like that: it didn't have a name.
Now I am completely destabilized, and what's worse: based on this state of mind I will have to make some important decisions.
Don't ask me to judge all this, I can't: I can only try to tell it.
…
I should start by saying that for months I had been thinking with a certain anxiety about the moment when I would return home: I knew I would have to go and say goodbye to my family, sooner or later; more later than sooner, because my knees were always too weak to take that step and I didn't feel ready to play the painful comedy that the circumstances would have required of me: the one who knows nothing and falls from the clouds. I was content to speak to them on the phone, without ever asking direct questions about topics other than the weather and general health, especially since I had learned that Michael and Antonia had broken up. Since I took it for granted that the cause was Frédéric, I preferred to be left in the dark about everything. The standard question was: and are you all okay?, which was followed by the inevitable affirmative answer. This gave me a little comfort: I was content to imagine them all healthy and happy. But too much time had passed and I had taken the final exam: I no longer had any excuses for not going home, and my parents made me understand this with increasingly insistent remonstrances.
It was only at the beginning of September that I found the courage to go and see them: I hadn't seen them for over a year. I'll describe the scene of the meeting and the rest of the day in the present tense, just as you like it.
As soon as I set foot in the garden of my villa, two large German shepherds launch themselves at me, barking; my father calls them back sternly. Surprised, I bend down to pet them both on the head: they immediately calm down, wagging their tails. I know how to deal with dogs.
What's this news? I ask my father.
Meet Olaf and Marina, our new guard dogs.
I stare at him in shock.
Guard dogs?
Yes, why? It is normal for a villa on a hill to have guard dogs. Before we couldn't because there was yours, that kind of dog.
I give up commenting and limit myself to petting again the two big and magnificent dogs, who with the intelligence typical of the breed have immediately understood that I am one of the "masters" and are acting accordingly: having deciphered the smell of the new master and found it evidently convincing, they trot alongside me with their tongues hanging out and a satisfied expression, escorting me like two faithful guardians to the entrance.
At home everything goes as expected: greetings, kisses, hugs, my mother's emotion, Teresa's tears, my father's compliments on my exam, everyone's congratulations on my magnificent appearance and on my recent engagement.
Then nothing, they pretend that nothing happened. They pretend that my brother doesn't exist, no one seems to realize that he's not at home, they pretend that I'm an idiot and don't notice. For a while I play along, hiding my shock and trying to understand where they're going with this. Obviously I exclude a priori that this scene is due to the fact that someone knows about my past with Antonia: she can't have been so crazy as to have let our secret slip. So why all these precautions towards me?
As soon as I enter the living room, I immediately notice that something has changed: I remain staring at the overall view in profound dismay. Something is missing. In fact, a lot of things are missing: where have the Persian carpets gone, replaced by modest copies that even a layman like me recognizes as such? And where has the abundant silverware that shone on the top of every piece of furniture gone, that silverware that my mother cared so much about and that she personally polished once a month with a smelly pink product? A subtle anguish pervades me: not for the material value of those objects, but for the implied, the unsaid. My parents are hiding something from me, and this something is nothing positive.
I am informed that there will be only three of us at lunch: my father, my mother and I; I think that this, if nothing else, will allow me to appreciate without further hassle the excellent dishes of Teresa, who smiles at me and caresses my hair every time she meets me across the rooms calling me Manuelito.
When I enter the dining room, however, I almost freeze: I stop without saying a word. My mother invites me to sit at the table, but I remain still, staring at the wall.
Where did she go? I can finally say.
Where did "who" go?
My mother pretends not to understand.
I struggle to hide my indignation. I remain silent for a few more seconds, then I say:
The Spinner. Where the hell did she go?
I can barely hear my father's response, as he makes up a lame excuse about a good restorer who is supposedly taking care of it. That painting was in excellent condition, it didn't need any restoration. A dull anger invades me, and I can't even understand why: I've never been attached to material objects, but to that object, yes. Suddenly I realize that that magnificent life-size painting, which I was used to seeing every time I entered the dining room, was an integral part of my childhood, in a certain sense it summed it up. Without her, everything was different. And then, right in front of that painting, under the smiling and mischievous gaze of the spinner, I had met Antonia.
Suddenly I realize that I am about to cry. I tell my parents that I have to go wash my hands and I spend the ten minutes I'm in the bathroom swallowing my tears. When I return to the dining room and sit down at my place, I am apparently serene. The excellent lunch, rich in vegetarian dishes, and the attentive warmth with which Teresa serves them to me, help me to come to my senses.
I continue to find my parents' silence about my brother incomprehensible: it's as if they don't remember his existence, and, what's worse, it's as if they take it for granted that I don't remember him either. This also affects and offends me.
After lunch we carefully fold the napkins, as if it were important. I put my napkin in the personalized boxwood ring with my initials, as if it were normal, I show a polite smile and decide to ask the question as naturally as possible:
And Michael?
My mother gets up:
Come Teresa, let's go unpack the bags.
My father gives her a stern look. At this point I've had enough.
Don't worry mom, I know everything.
Teresa is petrified like Lot's wife, motionless with her knee bent and her foot resting on the first step of the marble staircase.
What do you know, my father asks.
That they separated, dad.
How do you know.
Arianna told me.
My mother turns and looks at me:
Arianna? But when?
She and Michael met, Mom, didn't you know?
No, Michael didn't tell me. But what exactly do you know?
My father cuts short:
Go unpack the suitcase.
The message is loud and clear: these are men's things. Women disappear up the stairs.
My father rests his elbows on the table and runs a hand through his gray hair. I feel a strange tenderness: I realize that he is still a handsome man and that I have missed him. I wait in silence: my face is a wax mask, perfectly reflecting the pneumatic void that I have created in my mind. I am ready for any revelation: in that void it will float without producing any effect.
The marriage didn't work, Emmanuel. These things happen. A long engagement is no guarantee: living together every day is another matter.
I know.
One in three couples separates after a few months.
I know,
It's nothing tragic.
I know...
Obvious for obvious, I'll add one too:
Luckily Antonia can't have children: if there had been a child involved it would have been worse.
My father lets my remark go, perhaps considering it too banal.
Anyway, you know your brother: he's an oak, he won't let himself be cut down. He's already with someone else.
Already? Good for him. But where is he now?
At Caprera, but he's coming to dinner with us tonight.
With the new girlfriend?
No. It's not official, he's not bringing her home yet.
Thank goodness, I had no desire to meet her.
You already know her: she's Laura.
Laura?
Why are you surprised? She is a beautiful girl.
We don't have the same taste in women, Dad. But in the end, he's the one who has to like her.
I stretch, yawning, and get up from the table, throwing my light linen jacket that matches my trousers over my shoulder. It's hot: I've taken off my tie, unbuttoned my shirt and rolled up my sleeves to my elbow. As I pass through the entrance I look at myself in the mirror: I have to admit that the serious boy disguise suits me. My father watches me go away with a bit of sadness: bad moment when even the last of the puppies grows up.
You're a man now.
I turn around with a smile:
I'm almost twenty, dad.
In the afternoon I go to the river to visit Saucepan's tomb: the rough wooden cross is no longer there, but I immediately recognize the burial site. I'll skip over the effect that seeing those places again has on me. I give myself an alibi: the torment is still recent, no wonder I feel so bad. Naturally I stay away from the barn. I concentrate with all my strength on the thought of Arianna, a breath of fresh air in that suffocating haze; I call her on the phone, talk to her for about ten minutes and immediately feel better.
I admit, I missed my city: I want to see Turin again from the hill. I get in the car and take a tour around the Eremo; it would have been better to avoid that area, but you know, certain automatisms are hard to overcome. I head towards Villa Genero, park in front of the entrance gate and get out of the car. I'm walking along the avenue, when I feel a heavy hand resting on my shoulder. I turn around pissed off thinking it's a drug addict: instead it's Carlos.