- No sugar, thanks. The woman, a typical Mediterranean beauty of the apparent age of twenty-five, wears a white shirt with short puffed sleeves that slide to reveal her shoulders, revealing her florid breasts; the waist is tightened by an amaranth bodice; the dark blood color of the skirt contrasts with the dazzling whiteness of the apron knotted at the waist and with the gold of the ears, counterpointed by freshly picked poppies. She wears only one piece of jewelry: a coral necklace with a horn hanging in the center. - So? The frame is that of a wheat field at sunset. The painting has an academic realism, but something surreal makes the whole disturbing. The girl smiles imperceptibly, with her left arm raised in the act of holding a spool and her right lowered to squeeze the tip of a spindle between thumb and forefinger. By observing carefully you can see the very thin thread that connects the two instruments. Here's the thing: the setting. There is no point in setting that activity in a cornfield. And then the smile: mysterious, allusive, "as if". I try to read the author's name on the plate at the bottom of the frame: Rudolph Lehmann. Never heard of him, I'll try to find him on the encyclopedia. At a sign from the lady, the robust Peruvian maid bends over me and with polite and precise gestures fills the porcelain cup decorated with refined floral motifs; then she retires to her corner, between the Louis XVI sideboard and the curved handrail of the teak staircase, composed in the blue uniform, her hands intertwined on the white lace-trimmed apron, her gaze fixed on the void. - Of course your efforts will be rewarded. - If you put it this way, Mom, I don't think Antonia will accept. - Indeed - I confirm. I could never humiliate myself to the point of selling my benefits to my future mother-in-law. I dip the lemon into the cup, less and less convinced of accepting that strange proposal; I take time with a general question: - What's his problem? - My brother has no problems, he is a problem. I smile at the somewhat naive joke: Michele is trying to play down, as is typical of his good-natured character. We have only known each other for a few months, but the psychological profile of the "good boy" Michele is now clear to me; one of the most evident character traits is the intense bond that unites him to his family clan, a somewhat tribal instinct in my view. Like everyone else, I am attracted by his profound positivity, but at the same time I have a certain distrust for his sunny and expansive way of being, so different from mine: I know too well that the human psyche is a dark and deep well, and in Michele's I was able to glimpse at times disturbing depths. In recent months I have met the whole Kellermann family, with whom I have polite and courteous relationships, except for the elusive little brother, of whom I have heard several times, but whom I have never had the opportunity to meet. - I mean his school problems. Mrs. Helena gestures to the maid with a faint and elegant sparkle of the diamond on her right ring finger. - You can retire, Teresa. Teresa goes out. I look at my stockings and I see a pulled thread: I adjust the pleated skirt and cross my legs in order to hide it. I feel embarrassed: I thought I was elegant enough in my powder blue dress and matching shoes, but Mrs. Helena has the prerogative to always make me feel inadequate in comparison to her. The lady waits a moment, to be sure that Teresa has gone away, and then answers my question: - He's a smart kid, he always did well in school. It is only since this year that he has begun to have problems. - What high school does he attend? - Gioberti. - Michele replies - Our father would have preferred Valsalice, but he was opposed: he says that there are too many daddy's children. A shareable judgment, were it not for the fact that it was formulated by a daddy's child. Almost all left-wing alternatives are, and the little brother, from what I understand, is likely to be one of them. - As long as I could - continues the lady - I took care of him personally, but I don't know Greek and my Latin is a bit rusty. I could help him with English, but he doesn't need it: he speaks it correctly. I also know Italian literature and art quite well: I left Utrecht precisely to come to study the Tuscan Renaissance. I graduated in Florence with full marks, maybe Michele will have told you. - No, Mom, I haven't had a chance. - I was twenty-two when I moved to Italy. - Mom's surname is Harmenszoon, you know? Like Rembrandt. - I lived near the Pieterskerk, you know that famous church? - I've never been to Holland. - It dates back to the 11th century. Romanesque in Holland is very rare. I have the Romanesque in my blood, that's probably why I've always felt at home in Tuscany. - And while she was on vacation in Punta Ala - Michele intervenes - she met the young Kellermann. It was love at first sight, they understood each other immediately. The lady lowers her eyes and blushes slightly; perhaps she would say something else, but embarrassment holds her back. I can't find the words to continue that conversation: I fill the silence pause with a smile of circumstance and a sip of tea, while I wait in vain for Michele to change the subject. I don't believe in love at first sight; this story seems to be taken by one of those tabloid magazines that you read from the hairdresser or from the script of a b-movie from the sixties: the usual career Italian industrialist seduced by the usual blonde foreigner with Vermeer blue eyes and a model body . I must admit, however, that Michele's mother is anything but mediocre: she is intelligent and kind, as well as beautiful, she loves art and culture, she speaks Italian with great property, keeping just a slight bit of her mother tongue inflection. Too bad that from all these qualities she has not been able to derive anything other than her current condition as a luxury kept. Was it worth it to love the Romanesque so much, only to end up organizing receptions for ladies of the Turin precollina? I know from Michele that the purpose of their weekly canastas is beneficial and that the lady works to raise funds for some local association, but there was no need for a degree with flying colors to do this. Besides, I don't understand why Mrs. Kellermann's case should bother me so much. The betrayal of oneself, of one's ambitions and one's vocation: this is what is unacceptable to me. There is an annoying typicality in being female: even if I exclude the possibility of giving up my studies and my interests for any reason, this thought disturbs me, I hardly follow the speeches of my interlocutors. The lady tries to joke: - I don't understand how I could have had two such different children. Michele has never given me problems, he has always been brilliant in his studies. Michele shields himself with an annoyed gesture of the hand. - Don't make me look like a nerd, Mom. I was studying just enough, okay? And what does brilliant mean? It is a stupid term. The lady smiles: - It's true, Michele could afford to study little because he learned everything on the fly. - Emmanuel could do it too, if he wanted to. The point is, he doesn't want to. Emmanuel: the name strikes me, it exudes a biblical charm that is not appropriate for a teenager. - I wonder if it's not really the confrontation with his brother that makes him so rebellious. The lady's hypothesis seems reasonable to me, but Michele denies it: - He is not a rebellious boy, he is simply different from us. Some things are not inherited, they are born into us. - He's a gypsy. Michele winks at me: - But he's her favorite puppy. - Don't believe him, Antonia: a mother makes no difference between her children. The script takes an awkward turn: the role of Filumena Marturano does not suit the blonde Mrs. Kellermann. - He is fifteen years younger than me, it is normal that he is more spoiled. Ibat res ad summam nauseam . - I don't know, I'm an only child. The lady takes a sip of tea, wipes her lips with the lace-trimmed napkin, leaving a slight halo of pink lipstick on it, and resumes with a smile: - To return to his problems, as a child he was very studious. He liked fairy tales and made beautiful summaries: the teacher was proud of him, she said that he wrote very well for a child of his age. He was also good at math. In middle school he continued to live on income: he was successful in all subjects. Then he chose classical high school and had started quite well. - Was it his choice? - Yes, we have not forced him in any way; indeed, my husband would have preferred a scientific high school. He seemed to like school, but overnight he withdrew into himself, started being alone all the time and stopped studying. - Why? - Here's the point: - Michele replies - we don't know. He is a rubber wall: he always tells us that everything is fine, but it is evident that it is not so. - Haven't you thought about sending him to a psychologist? - It's the first thing that came to our mind, but he refuses to go: he says he's not sick. On mother Helena's forehead, smoothed by botox, a kind of wrinkle is drawn. - He has changed since the death of his grandfather, my husband's father. They were alone in the house when he got sick. Emmanuel was very attached to his grandfather and seeing him die must have been a terrible trauma for him. We were wrong, we shouldn't have thrown such a great responsibility on a child. Michele shakes his head: - It's been five years since then, Mom, and he's only been doing this for a few months. There must be more. I have some ideas, but I prefer to translate them into a banality of circumstance: - Fifteen is a difficult age. - Sixteen: completed the day before yesterday. Born under the sign of Pisces. - He's not got a girlfriend, if that's what you mean: that's not why he's become so weird. So weird. On the screen of my mind is projected the image of a zoo-anthropomorphic divinity with tattoos mottled lower limbs, pendulous scrap metal on the nose and ears, an orange crest erected on the shaved skull. A strange and gigantic swamp bird, most likely a sacred ibis. - It is impossible to communicate with him: he is too little at home - adds his mother, pouring me some more tea - When he arrives from school he locks himself in his room and he listens at the highest volume to horrible music that thunders him completely. He puts on his headphones so as not to disturb: if you call him he doesn't even hear you, you have to shake him. But during the day he is almost always around with that kind of dog. - He has a very ugly dog - says Michele laughing - a cross between a tapir and a pantegana. - Does he bite? - No, he is meek: it is his only virtue. I venture another question, on which the explanation might depend: - Around where? Turin? - No, my son doesn't like the city. He goes to the river or to some other stream. This hypothesis also proves to be unsuccessful: the boy does not frequent certain circles. The image of the little brother begins to draw in my mind like a gigantic question mark, which, however, I do not see why I should worry, since it does not concern me. - You will be forced to take lessons outdoors - continues Michele, already assuming that I accept; this irritates me a lot, and it irritates me even more that he takes unfair advantage of my current position of inferiority - My brother is a lizard: at the first ray of sunshine he runs out of the hole and jumps on his scooter. I dissolve a series of unspoken considerations in the cup. Are they really willing to believe that a sixteen-year-old boy wants to be alone in the country enjoying his hormonal storms? Michele watches me take a sip of tea and understands my state of mind, but doesn't help me escape from that dead end. I turn my secret disdain to the silverware glistening on the mahogany shelf of the cupboard and focus again on the painting. I concentrate on the detail of the raw wool spool, which certainly symbolizes the generating principle of life. The lady realizes that I am distracted and perplexed and fears that she has made the wrong tactic. There is embarrassment in her voice when she starts talking again. - Excuse me for insisting, Antonia, I absolutely don't want to force you. The fact is, my son doesn't accept any private tutors. I look up to meet her eyes and reply with seraphic calm: - So he won't accept me either. - Maybe it will be different with you: now you are almost one of the family. Hearing Mrs. Helena define me almost like a family member causes me a kind of shock: the impression I get is not at all positive, and this worries me. I need to be alone to understand the meaning of my discomfort. I place the cup on the saucer with a slightly shaking hand. She continues: - So far I have taken as much time as I could, but now the situation has precipitated: my husband intends to send him to boarding school with the Jesuits. - Doesn't seem like a good idea, if I understand the type of kid. The lady's eyes fill with tears: her anguish strikes me deeply. - I'm very worried, dear, I really hope you can help me. Suddenly a gust of wet wind hits me and a strange slow-motion sequence begins. Mrs. Helena gives a curse similar to the German verdammen, something blond enters the room and bends to grab a strange animal by the collar. Voice over, distorted by about ten semitones: - Get the dog out! The animal is ejected. The blonde thing turns, turns, turns in an endless loop that prevents me from seeing its face. He takes off a wool cap with multicolored stripes, shakes his wet hair, dries it with his hands upside down. Sudden zoom on the delicate right wrist that emerges from a too wide sleeve rolled up several times. The Mediterranean sphinx looks at me smiling. - Say hello, Emmanuel. He approaches me. - Antonia? The sound of my name pronounced by those lips strikes me as if I were hearing it for the first time: it is severe, archaic, beautiful. He sits next to me with absolute naturalness. - I bet they asked you to give me private lessons. Subjective that runs from above in succession hand-knitted sweater shapeless indefinable color threads pulled in several points torn blue jeans worn sneakers unfastened. He speaks to me with disarming sweetness: - I don't envy you, you know? I am a bad student. The spinner telepathically communicates the solution to the riddle, but I'm distracted, I don't understand. - Why? He rolls up the other sleeve and smiles. Smiling like this should be prohibited by law. - I don't feel like studying useless things like Latin and Greek. High voiceover of some pitches, a kind of squeak: - Emmanuel, Antonia is assistant of classical philology at Palazzo Nuovo. - Ah. - he smiles again - Then we are neighbors. Blue look. Not azure, just blue. But who is behind the camera? - He's right - I answer eagerly. I immediately regain control to prevent the amazement of my interlocutors. - I mean he is not completely wrong, in the sense that the school usually makes them hate Latin and Greek, and he is so... So what, Antonia? - ...so little in tune with that kind of studies. - I conclude with a formal tone. I bring the cup to my mouth to fill it with something other than my words. - You mean there might be something interesting in that stuff? - asks the boy, polite. - Of course it could. - Okay, then let's try. He surrendered immediately: I am dumbfounded, but he does not give me time to react. He gets up, smiles, waves goodbye to me, opens the door, takes his specimen of Myacis eocaenicus under his arm and disappears in a gust of rain. The analyst snaps his fingers. I blink, the pupils dilate to catch a thread of light. - I bet you're hating me - says Michele with a smile - You certainly didn't expect such a thing. Here is the key: Atropos, the siege of death, the risk of clumsily breaking the delicate thread... I place the cup on the table: - Agree. Let's start tomorrow.