Go away, please.

(January 1999).

This is not the way to go, love: we had made a pact.

I know, Gianni.

You've been making excuses for not fighting for a while now, and that's not fair. Deals are deals. Hit me.

He lies back on the bed smiling, waiting for me to lie down on top of him so we can engage in one of those surreal fake fights that are his substitute for sex. I pretend to lunge at him and grab his biceps, pushing my knee into his thigh.

Harder, little one: that way you won't even tickle me.

But Gianni, I'm afraid of hurting you.

Hit me for real, not in this ridiculous, cartoonish way! You're a cartoonish guy, you know that?

I know, a lot of people told me that.

I took off my glasses, so you can slap me.

Resigned, hesitant, I give him a rather violent slap. He smiles.

Use your knees too, come on… That's it, good, we're almost there.

I wrestle with him, who is lying on his back on the bed beneath me. I bite his ear almost hard, I knee him a few times here and there, I grab his wrists pretending to want to hold him still while I pretend to beat him. Suddenly he starts to resist, he tears his wrists from my hands and delivers a punch that is anything but gentle. I am left a little stunned, but then I continue the "game", as he calls it: a game that promises to become quite violent, given the energy that Gianni is putting into it. His lean, muscular body still has a strength that I struggle to control: he rebels, he flips me over on the bed and really bites my shoulder, leaving a red mark that will surely become a bruise. Then he knees me between the thighs and makes me see all the stars in the sky, none of which I particularly like. I rebel in turn, pushing him away from me and flipping him over on his back on the bed. He looks at me with a furiously blissful light in his eyes.

“Good,” he whispers, and grabs my hair, throwing my head back. My male instincts awaken, spurred on by the protest of my aching balls: now I fight in earnest, trying to get the better of him. We punch and knee each other, sneaking in a few bites in between. Suddenly, with a feral burst of uncontrolled energy, he throws me onto the bed, lying on top of me and holding my handcuffed wrists firmly above my head with fingers that feel like a steel vice. I stare at him, astonished.

Now I'm going to fuck you, he tells me.

Gianni, I begin, not knowing how to stop him. I know too well that this thing must not happen, and not only because it is forbidden by our agreement. But he bursts out laughing.

Just pretending, you idiot.

Oh well, if it's fake then... And thanks for the idiot.

Yes, my love, you are terribly stupid: you never understand jokes.

The thing is, it didn't really look like a joke, Gianni.

Still clutching my wrists, Gianni buries his face in the pillow next to my head and remains still, as if petrified. He seems to have fallen into a trance.

I'm fucking you, puppy, can you feel it?

I have no choice but to indulge his madness.

Yes Gianni, I feel it: you're hurting me terribly.

Don't worry, after a while it will pass and you'll see that you like it a lot.

After a while how much?

A bit.

You're right, I'm starting to like it now.

See? Now I'm picking up the pace, you'll like it more and more.

Gianni gasps into the pillow, remaining perfectly still. As much as I empathize with his delirium, I can't imitate him: I just emit a kind of moan that sounds questioning, like "what the fuck are we doing?"

Oh God baby, this feels amazing, he pants, I'm fucking you so hard the bed is shaking, can you feel it?

Yes Gianni, I feel it.

The springs are creaking, the slats are swaying, the neighbors hear everything and will understand what we are doing…

Yes, they will understand and then they will no longer greet us on the stairs.

But who cares!! It's too beautiful... Do you like it, love?

Very much.

I stare at the ceiling above me and seriously wonder what is happening to Gianni's brain. If I didn't love him I would run away as fast as I could, because he is showing obvious signs of mental imbalance. Instead I love this madman: so I stay here and stroke his hair while he continues to do absolutely nothing, convinced that he is doing who knows what. But something is actually happening, physically, to him: suddenly I hear him moan. He suddenly gets up with a growl and glares at me with hatred:

What did you do to me?

Astonished, I stammer:

Nothing, Gianni, why?

It wasn’t supposed to happen, he hisses ferociously. It was forbidden by our agreement! It wasn’t supposed to happen "to me"!!!

But excuse me, I object, what can I do?

He gives me a violent slap.

You have broken the agreement. Go away.

He suddenly gets up and runs to the bathroom. At the threshold he turns:

Sorry, I was forgetting the rules of good manners: go away,... "please".

He disappears into the bathroom.

This is too much. I get out of bed, straighten my wrinkled clothes, grab my travel bag and head for the door. I intend to leave without even saying goodbye: Gianni cannot abuse my patience to this extent. I will go home and calmly think about what to do: I love him, but I have to set very specific limits on this relationship.

I'm already on the landing of the second floor when Gianni, dressed but still with his shirt open, reaches me out of breath.

What are you doing?!, He gasps.

I'm going away, I reply in a calm and dignified tone.

But where?

Home.

He grabs me by the shoulder.

Are you crazy? You're leaving without even saying goodbye?

I turn to look at him with mild reproach.

Gianni, I tell him simply. I don't add anything else and turn to go down the stairs.

Puppy, he pants in an anguished voice, I'm sorry. Please, come back.

I stop without turning around.

You're excused, but no, I'm not coming back.

He clings desperately to my shoulders.

Please. Please please please...

I turn to caress his cheek, where the usual wrinkle has appeared when he is in this self-destructive state of mind. I feel deeply sorry.

Gianni, I tell him, this is not working. It can't work, you understand?

He nods.

I have great respect for you, but you also owe me respect.

Yes, my love, you are right.

I'm going home now, because I need to be quiet for a while. I'll talk to you another time.

I give him a kiss on the cheek and start walking down the stairs again.

Emmanuel! he suddenly shouts in the stairwell. I turn up with a smile.

The neighbors, Gianni.

I leave the building and head towards my Suzuki: I get in and start the engine. Despite everything, I feel calm: I know I did the right thing. Gianni needed a lesson.

Almost immediately, well before I reach the entrance to the highway, my cell phone rings.

What's up?

His voice is broken with anguish.

Puppy, forgive me.

I've already forgiven you.

You're leaving me, aren't you?

No, Gianni, I'm not leaving you.

I don't believe you. You're leaving forever, I know: you're lying just to keep me quiet, but you won't see me again.

No, Gianni, I'm not lying to you. And now I'm hanging up, because there's a patrol of carabinieri and I'm not on speakerphone. We'll talk.

When will we talk?

Soon.

I'm hanging up.

The whole way there, Gianni does nothing but try to call me back. I let my cell phone ring for a while, then I put it on speaker and answer. Gianni is in such a state of confusion that he can't articulate a meaningful speech: all he can come up with are a series of nouns, pronouns, and adverbs without a verbal predicate.

Love…, I…, forgive me…, when?

Gianni, I tell him, you should learn to trust me: if I told you that I'm not leaving you it's because I'm not leaving you. I'll come back to Milan.

When??!!

His is almost a cry of desperation.

The day after tomorrow, I answer, after thinking about it a bit.

Do you swear to me?

There is no need to swear when one speaks the truth, but I swear to you anyway.

He gasps for a few seconds, then adds:

No more beatings for a while, huh?

Yes, enough beatings. Now relax, Gianni, take a camomile tea and take a nice nap. See you the day after tomorrow.

I love you, little one.

I love you too.

You're just saying that to console me.

No, Gianni, unfortunately I'm not saying this just to console you.

Unfortunately?

Good night, Gianni.

I concentrate on driving: I don't want to think about anything for at least a couple of hours. Tonight I'll sleep at Mayra's, who certainly won't refuse me her bed in the guest room: I'll sleep with Bella curled up at my feet. I need quiet and normality.

It's hard to love a bipolar lunatic: really hard.

If only you could choose who to love…