Some good guys

I had promised to describe my experiment to you in the most concise manner, but, as you teach me, conciseness is the enemy of precision. You will therefore excuse me if from time to time I cannot help but go into detail: you know, the devil is in the details. 
I will proceed to the account. If you do not mind, I will use the present tense, in my opinion the most suitable to give evidence to the descriptions.
It's a bad June evening. June is one of the most beautiful months, but not this one: it sucks. There is a dark thunderstorm in the air and the wind is rising as we leave the gate of villa Kellermann together. The girl runs to her grey Uno, I make my way to my black Carrera, parked in the side street. I emphasise the Carrera: only laymen call it the Porsche Carrera and consider it a feminine noun. I anticipate a banal objection: I know that automobile is a feminine noun, but originally it was not. I quote Marinetti: vehement God of a steel race, a roaring automobile is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace and so on. God, not goddess. There must be a reason why the Carrera has reached stellar prices among enthusiasts: we are talking about the king of the road, a cult object, the pinnacle of an automotive legend. Its lines have a sublime aesthetic appeal, with those eighteen-inch rims perfectly flush with the wheel arches, the very wide, clean tail with no aerodynamic frills. The car of absolute perfection. Therefore it cannot be female. 
I come out right after her around seven o'clock, an hour when I normally play bridge at the club, to make sure we are alone. I approach her on the deserted pavement, studying my gait.
Today she is dressed unusually well, in a low-cost, well-cut dress, tight black bodice, high waistband and powder-blue full skirt, black shoes with a slim medium heel, a winning choice because twelve heels are vulgar, the whole thing a bit 1950s. 
I catch up with her, not giving her time to be surprised:
- Would you like to have a chat?
She jumps a little frightened, but immediately, turning around and recognising me, she smiles:
- Oh, it's you. Haven't you had enough talk for one night? We've done nothing but talk nonsense all the time.
Bullshit. It's called bullshit. But she is an assistant professor of classical philology and likes to use obsolete terms.
- Not that kind of talk - I reply.
She suddenly stares into my eyes, but there is nothing alarming in my gaze.
- I would gladly do it, but I am a bit tired and would like to go home.
- Too bad. I had something interesting to tell you, but well, another time. Bye, beautiful.
I walk towards the car.
Curiosity is female. Then there's the Carrera, and there's me. I count to ten: one, two, three....
- I should warn my mother who is expecting me for dinner, but I forgot my mobile phone.
I show her mine with a smile:
- Get in, come on.
I open the door. She takes a seat next to me and crosses her legs, allowing a glimpse of her dark stockings with a stripe in the back. 
- Would you like to eat something?
At first I had thought of inviting her to the Gatto Nero, my favourite restaurant (no cerebrality or improbable culinary philosophies: repetitive atmospheres and rituals, simple but perfect dishes bearers of primary sensations), but I immediately discarded the hypothesis: as a first invitation it would have been suspect and I certainly could not tell her it would be the only one. I choose a restaurant on the Po, in the Corso Moncalieri area, an interesting and fairly good place. I make her drink and laugh without mentioning what I have to tell her. She seems relaxed, carefree, even beautiful at times. She tells boring anecdotes about her starving career and asks me about myself, my friendships, my family; I answer her with catchphrases, clichés, banalities. From time to time I light a cigarette and pour her a drink (I am a teetotaler and do not smoke).
At one point a small ragamuffin approaches us holding half-bloomed roses that look like they have been picked out of the rubbish.
- A gypsy child, - she whispers, - Poor thing, what ugly roses.
I hint at a smile, but it comes out badly as usual, so I give up. I opt for a stern tone:
- Look, you are an intelligent woman, try to avoid clichés.
She looks at me strangely and asks no questions, but it is clear that she has not understood. Perhaps it is her social background that prevents her from grasping the obvious, whereas to me it is all very clear: I have always counted among the most alarming symptoms of decadence the fact that I consider the assaults of gypsies in restaurants, window washers at traffic lights, non-EU citizens at the exit of shops, illegal parking in pay car parks, etc. to be normal. By the way, swear to me one thing: if one day you see me reduced to doing such a thing, suppress me. I'm not joking: I keep a gun in my drawer under my shirts, you charge whoever you like, I spare no expense. 
You know how I feel about the instinct of self-preservation: there is no need to bother Kalergi, all that is needed is the reasoning with which every human being is endowed. When I see myself being treacherously attacked by one of those misfits, my first instinct is to punch him in the face: I tame the impulse just to avoid trouble with the law; besides, given my physical size, a glance is usually enough. That, then, was just a child: in fact, as soon as I lay eyes on him, the little gypsy turns around and walks out of the place. 
She watches him leave and says, a little resentful:
- Why did you look at him like that? You frightened him. He already has his own problems with those roses, poor kid: he won't be able to sell a single one.
- That's not a good reason to annoy your neighbour.
- But what do you know? Surely they must have forced him. Maybe he's not even the son of gypsies, maybe he was kidnapped...
- Look, let's change the subject, shall we?
Disconcerted by my peremptory tone, she humours me.
Shortly afterwards, the young boy returns. He holds down his bouquet of roses and stares at the floor, not finding the courage to approach the tables. I ignore him, but she, evidently drawn to existential squalor, cannot take her eyes off him.
- They beat him up! Look, he has a bruise on his forehead. Someone outside beat him up and forced him back in.
I look at the brat, I look at her. It's normal, it's part of the order of things: I don't understand what she's surprised about. Anyway, I decide to humour her. I call out to the child with a wave of my hand, but he turns his back on me as if he was afraid of getting hit by me too. The little prick doesn't want to get any closer; I sigh, stand up, reach out to him, take his hand, put a hundred in his palm and take the whole bunch. He stands still for a moment staring at me as if he can't understand, looks at the hundred bill and looks at me, then closes his dirty fingers and runs out without even thanking me. 
I take the less shabby rose out of the bunch, returning the others to the rubbish from whence they came, place it in front of her and say:
- Everything's fine. Now can we talk about something else?
She doesn't answer anything: she looks at me with wide eyes and the expression of someone who is losing her bearings. 
Once dinner is over, we leave the restaurant. I can't stand the stench any longer, our clothes have become soaked in the raw smells of the restaurant. I propose a detoxifying walk along the riverside, knowing full well that she will not accept because it is starting to rain. In fact she tells me:
- Unfortunately I didn't bring an umbrella, I didn't expect it to rain.
At this point she expects an objection, an attempt to counter it; instead I humour her:
- You're right, I'll walk you back to the car.
This disconcerting move was not at all expected, but I cannot claim credit for it, as it is a quote: Fischer-Spassky 1972, eleventh game, the horse returning to the starting house. 
This destabilises the opponent and puts him in a position of inferiority: the implicit message here is 'I didn't like you enough to take you to bed', which, for any woman, is deeply humiliating. In fact, she does not say a single word for the entire return journey.
I take her back to Michele's villa and sportingly extend my hand to her:
- Thank you for a lovely evening.
I see her feverishly searching for a foothold:
- All right, another time.
- For what?
- That thing you wanted to tell me, don't you remember?
- Ah yes, sorry. I was just about to tell you about it when it started raining.
- I live too far away, otherwise you could have come for coffee at my place.
She lies shamelessly. I know where she lives, it's not that it's far: it's that she's ashamed to live in a condominium apartment on via Vanchiglia. I point to the hill behind the Gran Madre:
- I live a stone's throw away.
- Magnificent area. 
- Yes, not bad. Shall we go?
She smiles shyly:
- Decent girls do not go up to strangers' houses at this time of night.
- But I am not a stranger.
And above all, you are not a decent girl.
Said and done, I take her to my house. I live in a penthouse on the fifth floor of a period building on Via Villa della Regina, but I purposely avoid the lift. I precede her up the antique staircase, caressing the briar handrail of the wrought iron banister: the briar is smooth and warm to the touch, like silk, a magnificent sensation, don't you think? This is also why I like to use the stairs. The old buildings in Turin have low steps, comfortable to climb, almost always in pietra serena, a grey sandstone of varying grain size that I much prefer to marble. 
I open the security door and point to the black leather sofa:
- Have a seat.
She looks around dreamily:
- You have a beautiful house.
- I have a good interior decorator: he suggested this mixture of antique and modern furniture. Besides, I pay him a fortune. The Persian carpets are authentic, the paintings too. Casorati, Menzio, Follini, Delleani. I even have a Jessie Boswell. I don't like them at all, but it seems that in my environment it is obligatory to have such things.
I let her wander ecstatically among my paintings, go to the kitchen and come back with a bottle of Dom Perignon: not exactly a memorable vintage, nothing like 1982, 1988 or 1990, but still a very dignified Oenothèque Rosé, in all probability the best pink champagne in the world.
- Thank you, - she says - I don't want to drink any more.
- But I do.
I place two goblets on the ebony coffee table and sit down on the sofa. She also sits down, reaches for the goblet and brings it to her lips.
- So, - she says, trying to act sassy and crossing her legs, - what was it you wanted to tell me?
I start making up an absurd story about mutual friends, the kind of nonsense that always appeals to the female soul. She laughs, I humour her circumspectly and continue to fill her glass. The chat goes on for about a quarter of an hour and she relaxes completely. I realise that it might be more complicated than I expected, because from time to time I get a little distracted: but, as I was telling you, in these months I have matured a fair amount of self-control.
Suddenly I feel the moment has come: I reach out my hands and grab her wrists. She squirms like a snake, but I squeeze her wrists tighter and drag her onto the couch beneath me. I cover her with my body and make her feel my sex on hers. She looks at me motionless, not understanding.
- What are you doing? - she asks me, as if it were not clear.
- Tell the truth, you couldn't wait to get banged by me. It's your lucky day, I'm offering you an ironclad alibi.
I sink my thumbs into her wrists.
- Let go, you're hurting me.
- Shut up.
- What do you want from me?
- Screw you, sis: what else?
I spread her thighs and tear off the black garter belt. She finally stops wriggling.
The sequel is very predictable.
Eventually I get up from the sofa and go straight to washing. As I tuck my shirt into my trousers and re-tie my tie - double Windsor, the British style knot par excellence: triangular, symmetrical, it works very well with French or well open collars - I feel satisfied. As I surmised, the woman is frigid, but she likes violence, or maybe she likes me, I don't know; the main thing is that the rehearsal succeeded to perfection: I maintained control of the situation from the first to the last moment, while she lost it completely, she looked crazy or hysterical, she was still screaming. 
I despise those who cannot distance themselves from carnality: a person worthy of the name cannot allow themselves to be totally dominated by matter. After all, 'woman has her heart under the sole of her shoe and eyes that have never seen the stars', as someone once said.
When I re-enter the lounge I feel a salutary nausea and can't wait for her to get out of the way. She is still there, motionless and wrecked like the wreck of a shipwreck. I turn my back to her, hoping the message is clear. I hear her slide off the sofa, dress, gather her things and put on her coat. I turn, walk ahead of her to the door and block it against the jamb. She is almost ugly, stripped and undone, her dark circles deeply scarred. I lift her chin with two fingers and slip the now withered rose into her cleavage:
- This story will have no sequel. Therefore, in the interest of both of us, we did not see each other this evening. Is that clear?
She does not answer. I open the door and let her go.
I suddenly realise that it's time to make sense of the evening, so I lie down on the sofa, switch on my Marantz 1200B with tangential automatic turntable and get ready to listen to my favourite music.
I have recently discovered that the livid and desolate sound atmosphere is largely attributable to the very special instrumentation, where the only woodwinds present are basset horns and bassoons; the result is an opaque and ghostly timbre, weaving polyphonies against the pizzicati of the strings. Aesthetic perfection is achieved here.
I am talking, of course, about Mozart's Requiem.