With a superb backhand demi-volley, Frédéric secures the decisive point: a chorus of compliments rises to his address; Maurice shakes his head and abandones: - Whatever, guys, there's no match when Freddy is in such good shape. The doubles begins, Emmanuel and Michele against Giorgio and Riccardo, while Maurizio actes as chair judge. It is a Saturday afternoon at the end of September; I am reading Dostoevsky's Humiliated and Offended and absent-mindedly follow the match, sitting on the bench with Saucepan at my feet nibbling on some imaginary flea. This novel disturbs me deeply, causes me a strange heartbeat, sounds like a sinister premonition. That woman is me. This can't go on, I have to stop, I know I have to at all costs, but every day I come back for it. I didn't think I could desire someone so intensely and absolutely. My God, I am climbing the ladder in reverse. I don't know why I delude him and delude myself: he takes our relationship seriously, but it's madness just thinking about it. Every now and then I imagine the scene: me in my fifties in menopause, obsessed with wrinkles, next to a gorgeous thirty-five-year-old young man desired by all women, ravaged by jealousy, ridiculous to the point of humiliation. I could only run for the hills. Yet, when I mirror myself in his enchanting illusion, I see myself as beautiful, timeless, a sliver of eternity. It will be so hard. I am working on myself, sooner or later I will make it. I have to make it, because otherwise I will lose him forever. I have been thrown into a paradox: to have him by my side I have to lose him. But in trying to get away from him I'm ending up completely off the road: I don't know where I'm going, I'm driving blindly at 100 mph with tampered brakes, I have a good chance of crashing into a wall. This novel is terrible, I don't think I will be able to finish it. Frédéric leaves the camp. My eyes, without lifting from the pages of the book, catch his strong contrasts: the elastic and light step, the muscular legs, the tanned body in white t-shirt and shorts, the black of the exotic eyes, eyelashes and hair, the whiteness of his smile, the bright colour of his lips. I know, without needing to look, that he is approaching me. Saucepan has a dull growl: he doesn't like Frédéric; I pat him on the head. I have realised day after day, with amazement, that our humiliating experience, instead of pushing us apart, has bound us together in a strange way: and I am not just talking about myself. Often, more often than he would like, his gaze stares at me with a distracted attention, as contradictory as everything in him. It expresses neither superiority nor contempt, but a kind of distant perplexity. For my part, I believe I felt for him, from the first moment, a blind, primitive, disinterested transport, without hope or resentment. It would be unthinkable for me to share my life with Frédéric: I sense in him a bottomless darkness, a potential for devastation that strikes terror in me. For no reason in the world would I want to be his woman. Yet I would not know how to say no to him if he needed me, even if it was to destroy me, just as one cannot say no to an earthquake or a tropical storm. To trivialise, a psychologist would say that he has a dominant personality compared to mine, but I think it is something more complex and at the same time simpler. Another black hole in my psyche, another thing I will have to work hard on to get to the bottom of who I am. From time to time I am reminded of Emmanuel's prophecy: "You are not too different from me, you just haven't realised it yet". This story will have no sequel, Frédéric had said that evening. Actually, a strange sort of sequel, or perhaps I should call it an appendix, there was, and just shortly after Emmanuel's departure for England. I had missed him a lot in those days; I had found myself fiercely jealous of the college girls, and this had alarmed me: jealousy is not in my nature, I have always rejected it from me as a source of irrational suffering. For the first time since the beginning of that Dionysian narcosis I had felt the need to awaken from my torpor and distance myself from him. He would soon get engaged, as was the order of things, and I, as his sister-in-law, would have to endure the daily presence of a girl at his side. The thing, at the time, seemed so inconceivable to me that one evening I told Michele that I preferred to renounce marriage. He remained speechless, he did not even ask me why: he simply took my hand and told me to think it over. The wrinkle that was drawn on his forehead expressed his state of mind. He asked me if there was someone else, I told him no. In fact there was no one else in the dimension to which he belonged. He gave me a kiss and told me to sleep on it. The next morning the ghosts of my mind had vanished, but the seriousness with which I had formulated the insane intention of getting rid of the only fixed point in my life made me realise that I had to start detaching myself from Emmanuel right away. One afternoon, after a swim in the pool, Frédéric and I had found ourselves alone in the shower room. The others had just left. All day long I had seen him gloomy and distracted; he had played badly and lost a couple of games against opponents far inferior to him. Now he sat by the window and looked out. - Aren't you taking a shower? - I asked him. - You shower first - he replied without looking at me. When, dressed and with wet hair, I came out of the cabin, I saw him still motionless in the same position. The musculature of his body, under the grazing light of the sunset filtering through the window, was smooth, sculpted, impressive. I approached him. - Is something wrong? - I asked. - My mother has six months left to live. - Freddy, I'm so sorry. I put my hand on his shoulder. - You should cry, let it out somehow. - I don't know how to cry. There was another way to vent. I placed myself in front of him. The black velvet of his eyes caressed my breasts. Oh to be beautiful. I lowered the straps: the silk dress slipped to my feet. The next week he went on a cruise with an Australian model. I realised I had squandered something, but this time I didn't waste time feeling useless emotions like shame or remorse. It had just happened: he, as I had predicted, had the ability to make me forget everything for a few minutes, leaving me with the salutary devastation of a tornado, an absolute emotional desert, which was exactly what I needed at that moment. Frédéric has come off the pitch and is heading towards me. He sits on the bench beside me and takes off his sweatband, shaking back his black hair; he pulls a towel out of his gym bag and runs it over his face and chest; his male smell mixed with the bitter fragrance of his aftershave reaches me, a smell I remember well; then he leans back to follow the game. From this position no one can hear us, but there is still a long silence between us. - Bravo Emmanuel! It is Michele's voice: I turn my head to look. - Thirty fifteen - Maurizio chimes in. - The kid plays well, - comments Frédéric. - He has a typical left-handed serve, powerful, with a nice effect. The left-handed player naturally serves from the left with a high, tight spin on the opponent's backhand and an unfailing arched banana trajectory. The ball ends up on a right-hander's backhand displacing him and forcing him to face the opponent's winner from the usually weaker defensive side. A right-hander doesn't make such mirror-image trajectories even after hours and hours of practice. - Interesting. - I had underestimated him. Lefties are special, they usually develop divergent thinking. - He's actually a special person, that kid. - Do you like him? - Very much - I answer, turning a page. Pan growls softly. - This dog cannot stand me, who knows why. - Yeah, who knows. - He's a horrible animal, and he looks dumb too. Why doesn't he get himself a proper dog? I could see him with a greyhound. I lift my eyes from the book and look at him expressionlessly. - Afghan - he points out. I lower my eyes and resume reading. He continues with that characteristic atonal and subdued timbre of his voice: - Personally I would propose an Oyster. The most common colours among Afghan greyhounds are golden blond, cream or fawn with a dark mask and black, but there are also tiger varieties. The rarest and most prized, however, are the Oyster, without a mask, with a silver-grey rump, white coat and ears in shades ranging from ivory to hazel. Canine excellence, in short. I refrain from commenting. He wipes the handle of his racket. - What's going on between you two? - he asks suddenly. - Does it show that much? - I can see it. - It will pass. - Be careful with it. I suddenly close the book, staring at his profile. - I beg your pardon? - Nothing, just like that. It's a friend's advice. - I've already had a few samplings of your friendship. - Thirty evens. - I didn't want to. I don't know what I wanted. I don't know why I did it, I don't even know if I like you. I can see that he is trying to be sincere, and this is costing him effort and embarrassment. As usual, attention to his suffering and discomfort overrides my pride. - Let's think no more about it - I say, placing a hand on his in a friendly manner. Pan begins to growl again. Frédéric turns to look at me with a tired smile. - If you want I can try to make it up to you. I stare into his eyes with all the seriousness of which I am capable. - No way, Freddy. It's water under the bridge. - Because he is here now? - Thirty forty. Michele's voice can be heard, contrite: - What's the matter with you, Emmanuel? That's the third ball you've sent into the net. I turn my gaze towards the players, but immediately avert it: from Michele's half-court a silent, fierce blue flash reaches me. Frédéric lowers his eyes to his racket. The game begins again. I don't know why, I feel the need to justify myself to him: - Sooner or later I will get over it, I told you, but for now I can't help it. He frowns slightly in an effort to understand. Then he says with a strange seriousness: - You are sitting on a bomb, little sister: the harm I have done to you is not even comparable to what he can do to you. - In what sense, sorry? - In the sense that between you and me the match is on equal terms: a man against a woman. With him you are a loser from the start. - Why against? - Because it's always against. - And why am I a loser? - Do I have to tell you? It's so obvious. - Because he's 15 years younger than me? - And also because of something else. - But shouldn't it be the other way around? He laughs, shaking his head: - You are completely crazy. He absent-mindedly observes a small crack in the handle of the racket and resumes: - You and I can be friends if we want; you and he never can. He can blow you up. In a thousand little pieces, you know? But I mean, it's your life. - Are you trying to make me think you want to be my friend? - I still don't know what I want from you. It's amazing how you give yourself away. You excite and disgust me, little sister. He smiles, yawns, stretches slightly like a lazy cat and leans heavily against the backrest, letting his arm brush against mine. I begin to get to know him and I know that these are all symptoms of malaise. - How is your mother? - I ask him. - She weighs thirty-nine kilos. - I'm sorry, Freddy. Try not to put yourself down, if you can. - My father got involved with a 20-year-old. I don't live with him anymore, I moved to the penthouse on the hill. There's another silence. Then he says: - Are you coming over tonight? - Double foul. Michele throws the racket on the ground, impatient: - What the fuck is wrong with you, Emmanuel? You're playing like a dog. We were ahead, now we've given them two breaks! - You're right, I'm not really in the mood. You'd better look for another partner. Emmanuel takes off the sash from his blond hair and runs lightly to the edge of the court, giving Frédéric a disarming smile: - Would you like to take my place? On the court, I mean. Frédéric stands up: - All right. Michael, pleased with his new companion, does not protest. The game resumes. Emmanuel sits at my side, caresses Saucepan, who has immediately stood up to cheer him on, and starts vigorously rubbing the handle of his racket with a towel, without speaking. There is a thunderstorm, the dull rumble of thunder can be heard. I break the silence. - Up to a certain point you were playing well: then what happened? He continues methodically tidying up his things. - Are you angry? He ignores my question. - I'm going to take a shower. He walks away without adding anything else, followed by his dog. The information is formulated in an unequivocal imperative tone: I cannot help but obey. I wait a few minutes; then, taking advantage of a backhand that has gone out of bounds, I tell Michele that I am cold and that I prefer to go back inside. He looks at me a little puzzled, dripping with sweat, and tells me that he will join me in half an hour. Frédéric intervenes: - Half an hour is not enough: if I lose I want a rematch. Michele concedes it. Frédéric tests the strings of the racket, smiling while I walk away with rapid steps. The shower room is on the ground floor, in a rather isolated wing of the villa. As I enter, I am struck by the usual scent of moss and chlorine; under the high vaults of the ceiling, the echo of my footsteps alternates with the rhythmic dripping of a badly closed tap. - Emmanuel? He does not answer me. I suddenly find him behind me, so that my heart leaps into my throat. I turn around. - You scared me - I tell him, smiling. He calmly closes the door and rests his shoulders on it without speaking, remaining with his arms crossed. He looks at me for a long time from head to toe. - You have a bruise on your shoulder. Did you fall down the stairs? - No, why? - And one on your neck. You're wearing foundation, but it shows. - I did? It must have happened when I hit the edge of the door. The timbre of his voice suddenly drops, becoming almost threatening. - Don't lie. I don't know what to answer. He resumes: - How many times has this happened in my absence? I try to attack to defend myself: - Don't use that tone with me, little boy: I am not your girlfriend, it is not to you that I am accountable. I get no reply. More and more clumsy statements come out of my mouth: - I am your brother's woman, in case you don't remember. I am talking incredible nonsense, offensive to his and my intelligence, as well as to Michele. He continues to stare at me as if he does not recognise me, while his chest rises and falls in a slow, deep breath. - How many times? - he repeats. Suddenly the sense of revenge for my past and future jealousy dictates a fierce whiplash, which I deliver in an indifferent tone: - One, two, ten. I don't have a good memory for such things. - And maybe right here. - That's enough, - I cut impatiently short, - I can't stand this third degree any longer. Let me go. I move to leave, but he stops me on the threshold. - Let me go - I repeat, but he remains with his back against the door, blocking my exit. I feel nervous, irritated and even a little scared. Finally I snap: - Yes, right here, on this floor. Now that you know, do you feel better? I try to push him away with one arm to open the door. Suddenly he grabs my arm and throws me to the floor, with a force I would never have suspected in him. - Have you gone mad? - I ask him in amazement. Without saying a word he comes on top of me, places a folded towel under the nape of my neck and spreads my legs. I close my eyes. ... The even roar of the shower has been going on for a quarter of an hour when I decide to pull back the curtain. Emmanuel turns his back to me, his forehead and elbows resting on the tiled wall, clutching his head in his hands, while his shoulders contract in a convulsive, irregular sob. - Go away, Antonia! I close the curtain and leave the room, confusingly realising that I have caused an irreparable disaster. I have only one thought: how to avoid the perfect catastrophe. Now he does not want to see me, but I will look for him, I will find him wherever he is hiding, I will ask his forgiveness, I will accept any conditions. I wait for evening to fall and go looking for him. ... It is half past seven when I finally spot his scooter leaning against a tree on the riverbank. The sky has cleared a little, but there remains in the air like a prelude to a storm, a strange electric charge. I turn towards the usual clearing and suddenly see him sitting on the grassy bank, knees bent, intent on throwing stones into the stream; Saucepan is lying with his snout in his lap. Emmanuel notices my arrival, but does not turn around or interrupt the mechanical repetitiveness of his gestures; the dog does not recognise me: he launches himself at me barking, showing his teeth and raising a crest of grey hair on his neck. I call him: he immediately lowers his ears, approaches me almost crawling and wagging his tail. Emmanuel says and does absolutely nothing. I stand by his side without speaking. He picks up another stone and throws it far away; he watches it fall into the water, listening to the thud. - Get out of my way. I sit down next to him, as if I hadn't heard. - I leave immediately. Suddenly he stops throwing stones into the stream and crosses his arms over his knees. - The herons have made a nest in the middle of the reeds. - Where? - Over there. That's the male - he points to a motionless grey bird in the middle of a shoal. - He is beautiful. A distant thunderclap can be heard. - I think it's going to rain - he says. - I think so too. I pull a blade of grass from his hair. - Don't touch me, thank you. Soon the seagulls come. After sunset they always gather on that little island. There are also some cormorants. - It's a good sign if there are cormorants, it means the river is not so polluted. He picks up a piece of plastic detached from the moped frame and shakes his head: - I guess it won't fit again. Darkness is falling, in the stubborn song of the crickets. - Those butterflies fly too close to the lamppost: they will burn their wings. - Emmanuel, please stop. He falls silent, turning the piece of plastic over in his hands. Then he says: - How do you do it? - How do I do what? - Don't you ever get confused? - No. Each of you occupies a place of your own in my heart. - What a hospitable heart. She raises her eyes, two cold mountain lakes filled with a deadly calm. - It is over, Antonia. A sense of despair grips my stomach so hard that I fold in two. - Please, no. Not now. I put my dignity and pride under the heels of my shoes: - Give me some time, please. I can't do it now, I still need you. - One would not have said it. - How can I explain the truth to you? - I don't know, try. Good luck. I hardly utter words I never wanted to say to him: - Emmanuel, I didn't think I was so important to you. I catch a moment of astonishment in him. He looks up to stare at the river, which he can barely make out by now. He throws another stone into the water. - I don't know what else I should have done to make you understand. - How could I think I was important to you? Try to reason: I am thirty years old and a rather average woman; you are beautiful and very young. Our story was destined to end very soon anyway, we both knew that. I have to find a way to.... I hesitate. - "To" what? - To get some distance from you before it's too late. - Too late how? It's a humiliating confession. It's costing me a terrible effort. - Before I really fall in love with you. I would suffer to death. He shakes his head with a sour half-smile. - Really fall in love with you, yeah. I cannot reply. - Antonia, - he resumes coldly, - you could have avoided that whole scene at the abbey and told me straight away that you like being banged by Frédéric. I would have understood and left you alone immediately. - You don't believe me, do you? - No, I actually don't believe you. - It's not what you think. I don't regret a single moment of those I spent with you: they were the most beautiful moments of my life. - It doesn't matter anymore. These words sound like my final death sentence. Emmanuel remains silent for a while, then finally speaks: - How much time do you want? - As much as you want. - Just one night. This one night. - The whole night? - Yes. But I warn you, no sex: I have a fever. I accept unconditionally: the rush of happiness I feel at the thought of spending the night with him stuns me. I hope to die before dawn, that would be the solution to everything. I am free-falling and the sense of vertigo is so strong that I feel relief at the thought of crashing soon. Suddenly I remember that he is only sixteen: - Your parents will worry when they don't see you come back. - I have my mobile phone: I call them and make up an excuse. - And where will we spend the night? - In the old barn. I would like to say something important, but my brain is full of jam. The only thing I can think of is nonsense, which I utter in a solemn tone: - Mosquitoes will devour us. He laughs despite himself. It is now dark, but he notices that I am crying. He turns and embraces me as a friend, with detachment. I feel him warm, shivering with fever. I roll on top of him and cover every inch of his body with chaste kisses: he remains motionless with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched, as if crucified in the grass, without hinting at the slightest reaction; I rest my head on his chest, listening to the accelerated beat of his heart. - Emmanuel, - I tell him - everything will be fine, I swear. He does not answer. He mechanically bends an arm over my neck. I try to joke with tears in my eyes: - Do you want to suffocate me? He loosens his grip, but I hold his hand on my throat, because deep down I hope it. - Aren't we going to the barn? - I whisper. - Later. The moths swirl around the lampposts, plummeting drunk with light. Overwhelmed by the paradox, I feel indescribable joy and infinite remorse.