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5 March, Ursula

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  5 March, Florence
  
  Ursula
  
  The sun. I wondered how long would it be before I died to it completely. Until, perhaps, one night I would have lived for thousands of years, and humans would be strange, curious beings to me, and I would be able to see the sunset once again. But this wasn't something I wanted to think about.
  
  The green of the bursting buds was washed by its gentle, transparent gold, and the tiny leaves themselves glowed with an inner light of their own. Together, it made for an enchanting, ethereal sight. The world seemed to have lost its solidity. It was like a mirage that has woven itself out from the quivering, shiny golden mist that can sometimes be seen at dawn, - wavering and somehow transparent; and, like a mirage, it looked as if it were about to change into something else.
  
  Just like me.
  
  I, too, was on the brink of becoming something entirely different from what I was. The tingling in my body had increased overnight. It was especially prominent in my face and fingers, and felt more like sharp needles being stabbed into my skin, over and over again, while it was simultaneously rubbed with a coarse cloth. It wouldn't be long before this turned into pain. Sometimes it seemed I could feel Francesco's blood working in me and burning out, bit by bit, what was there of the human.
  
  The lightness was unreal. Completely without effort, I made long, swift strides, and it was not so much like walking than gliding, weightless, above the ground on huge invisible wings, without my feet ever touching it. The sun cast a golden lustre onto my long black trenchcoat, and the black, ankle-length woolen skirt I usually wore to work with a jacket. A covering this, I thought, a shield to conceal me from eyes that would see too much. Underneath it, the delicate flower was crumpled and torn, though now I would have had it whole until the proper time came to tear it open. But the honey within it was untouched, and I was guarding it even more than I had before. All the more so that it was only now that I truly realized how valuable it was. And I felt free, and safe beneath the black shrouding.
  
  Only - for whom was I doing it?
  
  I caught sight of the gold that glimmered on my bronzed hand. I had been engaged to Enrico for more than four years, and it was with him that I had shared myself once. And now I was leaving him, going into that darkness which he, like many others, couldn't comprehend. And he wasn't even there; I couldn't even be certain whether he stil lived or not. I dreaded to think what could've happened to him, and had a dark, sinking feeling whenever I tried, but some inner voice kept whispering to me that he was alive, and I would see him again. He would come back and - what would he find? That he had lost me?
  
  I didn't belong to Enrico now. I belonged to the other, dark one; the one who had infused me with his very blood, and with whom I was in a much deeper bond than would've been possible with anyone I had ever known; and who - difficult as it was to think of this - loved me, in a desperate way, like a man drowning and trying to hold onto a straw.
  . . .
  
  ...The thin, tender blades of young grass seemed to tremble with some sweet thrill, as they soaked in that drunken sun. The surface of the river shone with blinding silver, and the city was enveloped in a thin sunny mist which made the buildings in the distance lose their distinctness and drift, ethereal like a mirage.
  
  'Yes, this is what I think when I think of my childhood,' I was saying. 'So cheerful, - sunlight shining through, - waking up in the morning and all but dancing - "yay, there's the sun again! a new day has come, I wonder what it will bring me?" It wasn't wholly like this, of course. But I won't dwell on that.'
  
  Enrico listened calmly, taking in every word I said. There was that look in his eyes, - the slight bewilderment that never left him when we talked about this, - and it seemed like he might not understand everything, but he wanted to and I knew it, and waited what I'd say next.
  
  'I wonder why your mother didn't just leave you alone.'
  
  'I think she tried to live through me. Maybe she has some dreams that never came true for her, so she wanted them to come true in me. Or she wanted to see me be what she'd wanted to be herself, but never managed to become. When I came to be only me, and none of these things, she felt betrayed. Underneath it all, I think there's a void that needs filling up. Many things went wrong with her own life, - she's a teacher and hates her job, she hasn't any hobbies, father is - I don't know where, really, and she never married a second time. Deep down, she's always felt her life was meaningless. Perhaps this made her focus on me the way she did.'
  
  'Is this why she made you study at home and rushed you through high school?'
  
  'I guess so. She wanted to mold me into something I'd never been, and won't be. Something 'special'. I'd say anybody is already special, but - guess that wasn't enough. She used to be obsessed with my being busy, and achieving something outstanding.'
  
  I gazed into the sunlit distance. I was feeling thoughtful. It was one of those tranquil moods when you may not want to speak, - and when you do, you try to make sure each word is full of meaning, - and you move on tiptoe because you're filled with a warm, cautious tenderness towards everything you see, and you're afraid to disturb something, bring some harm that might be indelible.
  
  'It took me time to understand what's what. When I was a teen, and all those fights were going on, I used to beat myself up bad over the whole thing. I wondered what I could've done, in what way I could've hurt her. I thought there was something wrong with me. I tried to behave 'as I ought to', and, of course, never managed to. In the end, I got depressed and it took me some time to heal. Thank goodness I moved out around then. Only much later, I dawned on me that nothing had been wrong with me at all, and I'd nothing to do with the whole thing altogether. I was becoming my own woman, and this in itself was 'wrong'. And, since I was always there, I was a convenient target for letting off steam. That was all.'
  
  Enrico listened with his usual quiet attentiveness. He had put his arm around my shoulders, and I felt him draw me closer, as if saying, it'll be allright.
  
  'Don't get me wrong. She's a great person to be around when she's okay, and she loves me and Silvia to bits. But she's sort of blind and will see only what she wants to see. She loves me in her own manner. She has her special notion of what'd make me happy; it's hardly occurred to her that if something would amount to happiness for her, that same thing doesn't have to work for me as well.'
  
  'The usual. Parents tend to be that way.'
  
  'Yes. Goes to show, I guess, that you can twist just about everything the wrong way. Even love. It's sad, really. I mean, I'm happy with my life. I love my job. I hope to have children one day, whom I'll also love. Finally, I'm earning enough not to be lacking anything, so this is okay as well. One'd think she should see this, and feel joy and be proud of me. But instead, she takes offense. Only because I don't live like she'd want me to.'
  
  'We can do nothing about that,' Enrico said quietly, but with a resolve that felt almost strange, though his eyes told that he was more hurt on my behalf than I'd ever been myself. 'Don't be so upset. As to what's past - is already past. That's the most important thing, no? There's none of that anymore. So - perhaps it's best to forget.'
  
  'Yes. What's gone, is gone. I left home when I turned eighteen; as soon as my birthday came, I sat my mother down and explained to her, as calmly as I could, that I had to go. She began to shout and made a scene that was hard to watch, and grabbed me by the sleeve and told me I wasn't going anywhere. I simply drew her away, opened the door, and left. I don't think she understands even now why I had to do it. She feels I'd betrayed her.'
  
  'You didn't. You had to live your own life, not hers.'
  
  'Sometimes I also feel I did. She's ill, and she doesn't realize what what she's really doing. I can't blame her for what'd happened. But yes, of course, I'm only me. I'm not her and can't live out her life, even if I tried to. In the very end, I think, just before I moved out, she'd also started to sense this - she sensed something was wrong, and it made her feel bad. She never understood what exactly it was. I wish she did. But I guess I can't expect her to change, when she can't, or won't. It'd be like - like sitting around hoping to see icebergs here in the Adriatic. There are none and there'll never be, so it's pretty pointless taking offense because of it.'
  
  'Right.'
  
  'I couldn't have stayed in any case. Not where tiny things are blown into a tragedy, and where every step of mine is watched and I'm screamed at all time because of I know not what - maybe just for being who I am. And I'd be cowering in a corner thinking, what is this, and when will it ever end. It was bad for both of us. All I did was add my own suffering to hers, and it did no good to anybody.'
  
  I paused, and went on.
  
  'When I was eleven, Silvia was born. Since then, the trouble didn't seem to matter so much, because I thought about her most of the time, took care of her. The times we spent together were the happiest for both of us. Our aunt has a little house in the hills, and we used to go there often and wander in the countryside. On a hot day, we'd find a shady place, clean all the twigs and cones from the grass or moss, and spread out a cloth. We'd lie on our backs, our heads resting on our hands, and look at the pines swaying in the wind. 'It's so lovely, isn't it?' Silvia'd tell me, warmly and a little dreamily. 'You look, and they sway, and sway, and sway, and whisper softly. So tranquil. You'd think nothing in the world is wrong, no?' It really did feel like that. We'd both watch the trees moving mesmerisingly in that bottomless sea of blue, and it'd eventually lull me to sleep. But I could've lain there for an eternity, thoughtless, just looking and listening. It was like there was nothing else in the entire world, but that bright blue sky and the golden-brown and dark green tree tops in it, and the happiness.'
  
  I fell silent, absorbed in the memories and their sweetness.
  
  'There was a low sandy slope there, in that pine grove, and when Silvia was very little, she liked playing there. The sand was silky, soft to the touch. It was a delight to take it into your hands, bury them in it, pour it from one hand to another. Sometimes there were droplets of fresh pine sap in it. Looking at them was delightful, - the were of this light yellow color which matched the color of the sand in which they lay, and extraordinarily clear, glistening in the sunlight. 'God's tears,' I used to call them. Sometimes they caught the light directly and shone with it, and there'd be a tiny rainbow. Silvia'd mistake them for jewels someone had lost or buried in the sand. She'd try to pick them up, and would always be surprised that they dissolved in her fingers and left only a nasty stickiness. She liked digging the sand, and did so until she reached the deeper, damp layer, and would then make castles or small mounds. Lots of daddy-long-legs lived there, and as she was digging, they'd surface from the sand and scurry away. Silvia loved them. She loves all living creatures, even spiders and suchlike,- '
  
  'You're like this too, I've noticed,' Enrico smiled.
  
  'Silvia's even more that way. She was so gentle with them. We'd both take them into our hands, and she'd examine them, take them by their long legs, - very carefully, so that she didn't hurt them, - let them crawl over our arms, and then let them go. I love those tender, harmless beings, too, and it was touching for me to watch it. Our mother has this phobia of spiders, - she screams whenever she sees one, and she'll often ask Silvia how she can stand handling such disgusting things. Silvia gets surprised every time, and says something like, 'Oh, why? Why should anybody be scared of them? Such a shame that you are. All God's creatures are lovely, no? They aren't ugly or revolting just because we people think them to be that way. They're only very useful, harmless beings, they rid the house of flies and other pests. And the daddy-long-legs, look how tender they are! Such long, fragile legs. They're lovely!' I'd totally second that.
  
  'You're strange.'
  
  'Of course,' I smiled. 'We had this favorite small valley of ours, a cozy place between two hills. In spring, there were lots of flowers on its edge, under the old oaks, - what's their name, the ones with rough crumpled leaves, growing in clusters on long stems? We used to call them 'golden keys'. There, we decided to go that place one day in the fall, - Silvia was no more than five then, I think.
  When we started out in the morning, the sky was dark gray and gloomy, but later the clouds disappeared, and there was that cold, sunlit clarity which seems to sing in your ears. I sat down on a log, and watched Silvia pick an enormous bunch, - or bouquet, really, - of maple leaves, large, brilliantly colored. There was any imaginable shade of orange, golden yellow, lemon yellow, crimson, scarlet, you name it. Silvia'd turn each leaf them this way and that, admiring it, before adding it to those she already had. Then she picked an oak leaf and brought it to me, saying there was something odd on it, and asking what it was. I had a look. There was a little thingy, like a small apple growing on it, - a white ball with some red on one side, like a fruit that had begun to ripen. It seemed that, if I tasted it, it'd be just as sweet and juicy. It was beautiful, somehow: ripe and healthy-looking, - perfect, bursting with juice amidst all the decay, those bare, black branches and the yellow and brown of the rotting leaves. I told Silvia what I knew, that this was probably the home of some larva that lives on leaves and eats them. We looked around and noticed there were plenty more. Almost every leaf had one of those tiny "apples" attached to it. Some were yellow, some were white, but all had that red ripeness on them, like a blush on a human cheek. I tore one open, to see what is like inside, it was soft and the juice made a sizzling sound and all but spurted out, as it would when one bites into a very ripe apple. It was - I don't know, I was looking at Silvia and feeling that I shared the same wonder that she felt, and I thanked God for making such small miracles that can make your day.'
  
  I made another pause and went on.
  
  'Another time, we came across a small clearing, and there was this long dry grass and tiny, star-shaped lemon-yellow flowers, the ones on short whitish stems that tend to lie on the ground. I happened to bend and noticed there were butterflies sitting on almost each blade of grass, - black ones, with round, very bright crimson dots on their wings. I wonder if they're poisonous or something. They sat motionless, swaying together with the grass, one on each stem, their heads uniformly turned upwards, and their wings rolled up into tubes, or so it seemed. It was odd to see them like this. I don't know whether they lived there on the grass and were just resting there, or they were having their mating season and were waiting for their mates. But it was beautiful.'
  
  The memories had claimed me, and I, carried away by them, - glad and grateful that Enrico listened, and wanted to hear more, - no longer noticed anything else.
  
  'Once we happened to cross this small stream. I took off my sandals and hung them onto my belt, and simply waded through the water, - it was deliciously cold, - while Silvia chose to walk over the stepping stones. I held her by the hand. The stones were wet, and at their bases, there were these tender, brilliant green beards of water-weed, which always wavered. Silvia slipped and I hadn't time to catch her, and we were both standing in that cold water, laughing, and then clambered out onto the shore. There were dragonflies everywhere - I'm not sure what they're called - they were a mournful black in the shadows, but in the sunlight their bodies turned out to be a shiny, metallic turquoise, and black silky wings scintillating with every color from indigo to turquoise to grass green. They were chasing each other, sometimes nearly brushing the water. Silvia asked, 'How much do they live?' I said I had no idea, but maybe several weeks, even days. 'Will they still be here next summer?' I said, hardly, hon, I don't think they can live that long. We watched them some more and turned to go, and I saw tears in Silvia's eyes. She was trying hard to swallow them, but couldn't, and was soon sobbing and hugging me tight. I asked her what was the matter. She just breathed out, 'those dragonflies - why? why not even a year? - why do they have to die, Ursula? - I - I feel so sorry for them...' I comforted her as best as I could. I told her next year there'd be other, new ones, and that this was just the way life is. God had meant it to be so. Those dragonflies were going to die, but each year, others were going to come. They'd dance over the water, too, and they'd be as beautiful as these, and you'll come here and look at them and be glad. By then, I too was smiling through tears. I can't bear it when children cry, Silvia especially. And I was also feeling that sharp sorrow about things never coming back - am I making any sense?'
  
  'You're too sensitive,' Enrico said pensively, the perplexed feeling mixed with a kind of quiet admiration.
  
  'Guess I am,' I smiled. 'There was also another time, except it was different - I think Silvia was real small, like four or five only - and we were somewhere in the city. There were these young pines, with dark emerald green needles nearly as long as my hand, with a multitude of bright yellow cones. I picked one of them and put it in my mouth. It was juicy and easy to chew, and almost tasteless, with just a slight bitter, binding tinge. I took another and crushed it slowly between my fingers, wondering at its color. Silvia was watching me with those bright, happy eyes; look, I said, smiling, so soft. There was something else I'd wished to say about the cone's softness and the way it crumbled so easily in my hands, - something special about it all, which I wanted to grasp at all costs. But the moment was already slipping from me, and that elusive thought had melted into the cheerful sunlight we were sinking in. I felt I was crying because it was the one and only, that moment, and it wouldn't happen once more.'
  
  'You really are strange.'
  
  'I know. Guess that was the way I was born.'
  
  We walked to my car. A blinding speck of white shone on the steely-colored door of the car as I opened it; we got inside, and at that moment even the hot, stuffy air smelling of leather and sandalwood deodorant felt just right. I was thankful to Enrico that I could share this with him, even if he didn't always understand. Ultimately, what mattered was only the sweetness of this moment which was special and would never come back to us again, and of feeling more clearly than before that I am *me*, Ursula Alesci. And that it was wonderful to be living in this world.
  
  . . .
  
  I had spent those years trying to convince myself that Enrico was the one; that we matched each other and were meant to be together. During moments like this, we did come close to that. It would cease to matter that we had nothing to talk about; I sensed how much he cared for me, and I knew, too, that I cared for him, and that was more than enough. With him, a great warmth would fill every fibre of my being, a warmth that made me feel I was standing strong, with both my feet firmly on the ground, and able to reach out and comfort not just him, but anyone who might need it. This was the most important thing of all.
  
  There were many things Enrico did not understand. It was hard for him to understand my moods, my mother's illness, the way all of us were habiatually all over the place; it was not something he was used to, and he had difficulty getting into my skin and trying to grasp what it was like. But I respected him for at least trying to understand, and for the fact that, whenever he failed to, he always had the strength to admit it. He accepted me as I was, even if to him I sometimes came close to being a sphinx, a mystery walking on two legs. That, in itself, was a great deal, and I felt infinitely thankful for it. Most importantly, he cared, and he wanted me to be well, unlike many other people I'd met who did not seem to give a damn. What more could I want?
  
  I literally dreamed about seeing myself with a wedding band on my finger. Yes, I was lonely, and I wanted someone else to be with me; each year, it would dawn on me more and more, until it became barely tolerable. It was not even loneliness, - not in the conventional sense of that word, - as much as a special desire to be one whole with another person, together with a sort of instinctive understanding of what this is like. It was not that I couldn't bear to be on my own, and needed somebody to give something to me to make me whole. On the contrary, I felt more self-sufficient than ever before. But being on my own was not enough any longer. While I felt complete when I was, the completeness was spilling over and there had to be someone I could share it with. Often, I would feel so filled to the brim with the sense of who I was, and with the sheer joy of being there, that I needed badly to share it with someone else, and to continue sharing every day, always. It was just not something you can keep inside, I felt; we are not made for that.
  
  It was sad when one of those times came, - the moments filled with an incredible intensity of being, - and I had nobody to turn to, and to tell him about it. More than anything else, they went to show that we really are not made to be alone, and that it takes two whole people being together to be able to truly enjoy their wholeness. That is, there was at least one person who would always listen and understand exactly what I meant, and that was Silvia. But I wanted someone who'd always be at my side, ready to share the joy of it with me.
  
  One of those moments was especially memorable. I had a house plant, one that must grow in swamps in the wild; it had triangular leaves looking like the ends of arrows or lances, or maybe a bit like hearts. One night, it turned out that Leonardo Basilio had bitten off a tiny, tube-shaped leaf the plant had just sprouted. I was unbelievably upset when I saw it. The leaf was so new and tender, and looked somehow very cute, and it was growing so nicely. I had wanted to see it grow further and become fully sized. It seemed so wrong that it was gone. But then I noticed that there was another, even tinier leaf coming out. It made me glad, and for minutes and minutes I must've stared at that tiny, tiny glossy tube, and at the droplet of white milky juice which had appeared on the stem where the other leaf had been. It was truly ideal suddenly, and just as it ought to be; it was unique, and beautiful, and in the whole world there was nothing else like it, - nothing like the sight of that strange plant, those tiny leaves, the droplet of juice, all of which was absolutely perfect in itself, just the way it was right then and there. Tears came to my eyes.
  
  And then I cried, - already not for joy, but because there was nobody I could tell about this overwhelming beauty, nobody for whom this would be part of life as much as it was for me, and just as understandable.
  
  I longed for somebody who would be there with me, - maybe not to talk to, but just to know he is there, to be able to make a meal for him, to do something small and sweet that would make him happy. I thought about how we could do everything together, and I would tell him things the way I never could with my family, with the exception of Silvia. I wanted him to be there so that I could always ask him for advice, no matter what I did, and be sure that he would stick to be through thick and thin, - so that if I ever was in trouble, I could come to him and be certain that he would understand, and help me. A very good, close friend; only we would be together the entire time. And I wanted to believe that it had to be Enrico.
  
  But something was wrong.
  
  'Whom *don't* you feel sorry for? That lamp-post over there?' Silvia asked once with her characteristic simplicity that was at once innocent and very straightforward. She was trying not be serious, but her voice was, above all, sad. 'Are you really sure sympathy is reason enough to get hitched? I mean....you could well marry just about anyone that way, it wouldn't matter. I know I'm a very thoughtless person....and I have no right to tell you what's what, this is your own choice....but I can't help feeling something's very wrong with you, Ursula. And I just want to help, and I don't know how.'
  
  Before giving her the usual friendly shove on the forearm and assuring her things would be just allright, I had gazed at her in surprise for a few moments, stricken by how precisely she'd nailed it without even realizing that. And I could only admit that she'd said the truth.
  
  I, too, had begun wondering whether it was right to marry just because I needed somebody to be with. We would have the mutual caring, yes, that was aleady a great deal. But there was nothing deeper than this, and would hardly ever be. How long could it last like that - a year, two years, four years? And even if it would last, would it be a good thing? I would be working, and our children would be brought up by - no, not by someone who is a stranger to me; by a man who cares for me greatly, and who is very gentle and honest, but with whom I have nothing in common, and no true connection to bring us together. And I'd be avoiding facing up to the fact that I need him simply to fill the gaping hole inside me that had been there for as long as I could remember.
  
  . . .
  
  It was right before my mother was hospitalized with a severe mixed episode. I came to Milan in the small hours of the morning, with just my briefcase and what I had on me at the time. I had never felt so weak before. I had been crying on the way there, and couldn't stop; and I cried when Enrico opened the door for me. Worst of all, I was constantly on edge, and that feeling lingered on and didn't seem to go away. It gathered somewhere just beneath the surface and threatened to erupt at any moment, and make me break down entirely. Enough, enough, I kept thinking; I've had more than enough, for a lifetime to come.
  
  After spending a few hours talking to Enrico in the kitchen, I felt better. He had already spoken to my mother, who had called while I was on my way to Milan, and told her, in his quiet manner, all he thought of what had happened. He said she should seek help, and leave me alone, as I was an adult and had a perfect right to decide for myself. I was grateful to him for saying this; it had been the one thing I wouldn't have been able to say at that moment. But it had put a lot of strain on him, too. He looked sad and forlorn, as if he didn't quite know what to do next. And I felt guilty for having dragged him into this.The worst was the helpless, baffled sympathy in his eyes, which appeared every time this happened again, and which had become nearly desperate now.
  
  I dreaded coming back to Florence. You don't have to, he told me. If you wish, you can spend the night here. And you can live here as long as you wish. I was feeling an unrelenting tension that didn't get better, and I feared, in avery irrational way, that I'd be found and fetched by force from where I was. But I knew it wouldn't happen. And I stayed.
  
  I only had my suit to wear, and he searched through his cupboard and produced a soft, loose ankle-length skirt and a jersey that had been apparently been knitted by hand, both of a dark emerald green color. There, these are my sister's clothes, he said. Just the kind that you like, long, casual, and not revealing. She won't be in the slightest upset if you wore them. I put them on right on top of my white shirt, and felt comfortable and at ease.
  
  Late in the evening, when I was sitting at the computer thinking over the email I wished to send to my mother, Enrico came over to me and asked me, simply and somewhat timidly, whether I would sleep with him. Then he lowered his eyes, apparently embarrassed and ready to accept my refusal. But something new was beginning in me, for which I didn't have a name. The feelings of the two of us had been unleashed and exhausted by what was happening, and the way we had been comforting each other seemed to require some deeper closeness, one which would later be left with us for a long time. It was as though all the bolts that had held my being together had been unhinged, so that they barely stayed in their proper place, - I was all loose, my mind seemed to move without coordination in different directions all at once, and what had seemed impossible just a short while ago had become acceptable. And, without fully knowing why, I said yes.
  
  I went to bed just as I was, dressed, and Enrico asked me whether that was the way I always slept, with my clothes on. Undeneath the covers, he gently unbuttoned my shirt and helped me out of it, and pulled off my skirt. I closed my eyes and waited in complete darkness, my heart pounding, for the moment which I'd been both dreading and joyfully anticipating pretty much my whole life, - the seal that had guarded me being broken, and the joyous pain of his flesh becoming one with mine.
  
  The next day I lay on the couch, soft calm sunlight settling on my face, so that I would close my eyes from time to time. Very cautiously, Enrico undid the buttons on my shirt one by one, and pulled the white fabric away; his lips were like moths' wings fluttering tenderly against my the bare skin of my breasts, stirring something within me that was altogether new. And, when he moved to do it, every time brought an intolerable thrill throbbing through me, until a brilliant sun exploded inside and I thought, for a few moments, that I'd died.
  
  In a few hours my mother called, and afterwards I cried for a long time on Enrico's shoulder, feeling completely powerless and driven into a dead end, and he kept embracing me with that begging, sympathetic look in his large black eyes, and asking - no, pleading, - again and again to please stop, because everything would be just fine, and I shouldn't worry this much....
  
  I stayed with Enrico for about a week. I did the usual simple, domestic things, and imagined, with a sweet and barely definable feeling, what would it be like when we married. In a way, it was as if I already was his wife. We scarcely talked. It seemed unncessary; we understood one another without words, or so it had appeared back then. And the silence itself was a blessing. There had been too much noise for me, too much rushing around at breakneck speed, and now it was gone suddenly, and I could have a break from it all. And stop, and think about things.
  
  We would go to the tiny corner shop nearby and buy simple food, - some small sausages to boil, milk, a large flat loaf of wheat bread, which we would place on the board and eat just like that, breaking off lumps with our hands. I would sit next to Enrico at the table and think how the two of us seemed to have become a single whole, and thus our relationship, and our future marriage, was sealed. I had agreed to it knowing that we were to marry; and now I felt especially strongly that we simply *had* to do it. And, yet again, the moment would be so sweet that I wanted to freeze it forever, with all its tiny details, - the diffuse sunlight coming through the window, the checked green and blue tablecloth with the small white crumbs on it, the air smelling of dust and warmth and renewal, - which all meant so much more than they really seemed.
  
  We would sometimes come up to the roof of the cathedral and sit there, looking at the brown and ochre buildings below, wrapped in a whitish mist that came with the heat. Or we would sit on the stairs in the central square and watch the multitudes of pigeons and the people passing by, while the twilight thickened around us, giving things a mysterious, tranquil, yet also joyful look.
  
  . . .
  
  I'd insisted on making rigatoni with cheese and pesto for dinner. Enrico was used to pre-cooked food, mostly junk food, the very sight of which made me pretty sick at the stomach. He hardly ever did any cooking, and it was usual for him to sit in front of the computer screen all day, munching on cornflakes and maybe having a couple yoghurts, but never a decent meal. I didn't want him to eat that way at least while I was there.
  
  'You want to be the woman so much?' smiled Enrico, somewhat shyly but with a touch of his characteristic humor, as I was searching for suitable pots and pans in the cupboard. 'Better you be the man, and I'll be the woman today.'
  
  I smiled back at him. The joke about my always being 'the man' was a standing one between the two of us, and it had some truth in it.
  
  'I'm getting a bit tired of that, I suppose.'
  
  'Not that I don't like your cooking. You're excellent at it. I just don't want you to go to so much trouble because of me.'
  
  'Thanks. I like good food, and I like it when others can enjoy it too. I'd spent all the time until I was eighteen eating God knows what, and I'm not very keen on going back to that. So it wouldn't be any trouble for me at all. Only sheer pleasure.'
  
  'How was it, the God-knows-what? Did it taste okay?'
  
  'Impressive. There's one good recipe: search your fridge for anything that makes it smell stale and unwholesome as soon as you open it, - half-rotten parsley, leaves that'd been cut off a beetroot, old zucchini, things like that, - and make a nice thin soup. Just dump everything into a casserole, add some water and boil.'
  
  I was smiling. Now that it was over, it felt only sadly amusing, and not much more than that.
  
  'Oh, and you may well add some syrup. At least that'd make you want to actually eat the stuff. If you're not too lazy, you can also boil some fish, - with no oil, you know, and you needn't bother about spices, - and have this as well. You can dig out some stale old bread that's been lying around in the same fridge, too. I bet that after a couple months on such a diet, you'd pretty much devour an old boot, if you chanced across one. With or without tomato sauce on it.'
  
  'But why?..'
  
  'Mother has this great hangup about food. I have a feeling it's not so much about the food itself, as about all that frustration of hers, the way she feels that most things she's ever done are pointless. She needs to channel it into something without actually having to face up to it, so there we are. Sometimes all she seems to think about is food. All talk will revolve around it. She also has the idea that I'm obese, so she's always been terrible afraid of overfeeding me, as well as obsessed with the thought that I might buy and eat something in stealth. Which was right on, I guess, as this was exactly what I used to do. Nothing has changed much since then, for that matter. I'll come over and she's like, 'oh my goodness, you've filled up those pants of yours completely,' or, 'your face has gotten bigger during these few days, you must've been eating something really calorie-rich again, some sweets or wheat products I bet', or, 'you're so fat, if you only knew how ugly it is, nobody'll ever love you if you have such looks and you'll stay an old maid.''
  
  'I love you. And you're not obese.'
  
  'Of course I'm not. But to her, I am. Often this was all we really talked about. 'Sweets' and 'wheat products'. That was the major evil. I think I'd be a billionaire if I had a lira for each time I heard those two words. Wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me about the two things that are real bad for you, - and I mean r e a l bad - and I'll name them.'
  
  'But didn't she have any idea -'
  
  'Nope,' I replied. 'Not at all. I was obese and that was it, I had to get slim at all costs. There was hardly a meal without extended discussions of how many calories are there in it and how many there ought to be. If I happened to have an ice-cream, mother would usually say I could well do without dinner. See, an ice-cream has as many calories as a whole chicken, though my stomach apparently wasn't of the same opinion. And if, Heaven forbid, we had pasta for dinner, the likelihood was that we'd eat nothing but cucumbers and milk the next day. I've loved pasta since. Little candies would be cut in half, - or no, a half's too much, you can get indigestion if you have that at a go, - into quarters, and we'd have one quarter each time we had coffee. Guess we were safe from the indigestion that way. Or cookies and cheese, if they were bought at all, would be hidden so that I didn't find them. I'd discover them stuffed into corners I'd never suspected to exist in the house.'
  
  I found some white porcelain plates in the cupboard, took out two and washed them.
  
  'I was always hungry as a teen. But never mind me, I could take care of myself. I'd just go and buy something to eat, or there were always friends who'd share their dinner with me or lend me some money. But - think about my mother. She thought the same way about herself, - that she's obese and all, though she's been thin and sickly as long as I remember, - and it's her who's been starving all that time.'
  
  'But - it's her problem, isn't it?'
  
  'It is. But it took me a while to understand that. I used to feel guilty that I couldn't help her, because I believed I really can do it, until I realized it's impossible. It's sad, - but I'm not God. I can't change her unless she decides to do it.'
  
  I shook the old crumbs from the tablecloth, and laid it anew onto the table.
  
  'Mother also had another hangup, about my being busy. From the time I was nine or so, she'd hide my toys, because I wasn't supposed to 'waste my time'. I had to 'do something useful' instead, which mostly meant sitting with a textbook, studying stuff I'd forget by next year, and would never need for my future job. We'd be doing the math, - ah, the math, - and I'd gaze longingly out the window at the kids playing in the yard, wishing bad I was there with them. Never mind that they did little except chase each other and scream, I thought it was still better than what I did. I couldn't go out when I wanted up until I finished high school, so I felt trapped, holed up indoors the entire time like that. When she'd leave, I'd put pop music on, loud, and dance until I'd drop, - that was some outlet for all that energy in me.'
  
  'I can easily imagine that. But I can't really imagine you sitting indoors all day.'
  
  'Neither can I, now. It's odd, one'd think that if I was meant to study, I'd at least have all the right conditions for that. But fancy studying when mother comes in every ten minutes or so, and woe be me if my eyes aren't moving over the page, or I'm looking in the wrong direction. I'm not even mentioning standing where I shouldn't have. She'd threaten to seal every serious book we had with scotch tape. Presumably then I'd have nothing to do but study, though this was just what I was doing just that all day long, anyway. Or it'd make me switch to cheap detective stories. If a day came and went without some sort of scandal, I could consider myself lucky. As for the math lessons, well, they were special. Every evening, I used to dread them. I was horrible at math, and mother used to help me with it. It invariably ended in tears. I'd spend some time trying to solve a task, and she'd start screaming at me, calling me a hopeless idiot. Then she'd slam the door and leave. I'd be crying by then. Then she'd be sorry and would come to me, and I'd be sorry too for upsetting her, and we'd hug and make up. But every evening, it was the exact same.'
  
  I began to grate the cheese.
  
  'I was almost never on my own. She'd always be there, watching my every step. Mind you, I'm very social, but when I finally moved out, it felt like such a joy - to be alone with my thoughts when I wanted, to go for a walk, to sit on a bench in the park in peace and quiet. To really study, finally. Not to have my things searched. Mother used to do that, search through my drawers and clothing cupboard and suchlike. I've no idea what she was looking for, - but I'm thinking food. If she found some, she'd tell me all she thought about it at first. Then she started to just take it away in secret, without telling me anything whatsoever. Once she woke me sort of late, in the small hours I think, and first thing I saw was her poking a chocolate wrapper into my face, asking over and over again, 'what's that?'. I didn't quite get it. Then she began screaming and opening all the drawers and flinging out stuff onto the floor. I calmed her down in the end, just barely. That was a long time ago, but if she can, she'll still do these things. When I come over, I'm sort of wary of leaving my bag in the living room, - not that I mind, there's nothing special in there anyway, but it's not too nice having my things browsed through without my consent.'
  
  'You talk about it in such a carefree way.'
  
  'Yes, I think what it did to me was teach me to be cheerful. If that doesn't show you how to smile at things, - just so that you don't have to cry, - then I guess nothing will. It sort of makes you a lot more endurant.'
  
  The pasta was ready. A friend came and brought a bottle of sweet white wine he owed Enrico, and we had that with our meal, along with the long French bread I had bought that morning, raising our glasses sometimes to look through them at the sun, wondering at the gentle yellow glow. I felt cheerful, and the sunlight around me echoed the light inside me, and I really did not mind - what had happened to me before, or what would happen when I came back to Florence. What did matter was that there and then, I was with someone I loved, and I was happy.
  
  . . .
  
  We had been intimate, and perhaps it was this, more than anything else, that had created the strong bond between us. I felt that, if my body had belonged to Enrico once, it should belong to him until the end. It was not a feeling of propriety, really, but rather an almost palpable unity that came from my very being. I was part of him, I felt, and vice versa, and I want to see him all the time, so that this unity would be even deeper. When he touched or embraced me, it was a special thing. I was still myself, but I was one whole with him at the same time, and I could sense it; I felt my body totally belonged to him, now that it had been his in a much more secret, intimate way, and it was so natural that he could hold me and carress me in whatever way he liked. I wanted it to stay, and I thought it would be wrong to break down that bond, and to tear ourselves away from each other, instead of strengthening it and making it holy by marrying.
  
  And then, of course, I had travelled far to see him, - all the more so that I not merely went, but ran away there, - and he had comforted me in my trouble, and I stayed and lived with him for several weeks. Such things are always bound to leave lasting marks. It cannot be otherwise. I often thought that, even if I had not known Enrico at all, and had seen him for the very first time when I came to Milan, it would have still been the same way. But I did know him, for several years at that, if only from our fragmentary meetings at the headquarters and our communication online. So that the marks it left on me were deep indeed, and it took me a while to understand how much.
  
  I would often come back to that time spent with Enrico in Milan. It had come to mean a great deal, up to the tiniest things; and each time I recalled it, I knew it was something special, which had occurred once and will never come back, and which was to be cherished at all costs, so that it never slipped from my memory. It is great and sweet and nearly unbearable, because of that special closeness between the two of us, and what I took to be our being connected into a single whole. Sometimes it seemed I had left a part of myself in Milan, and it always remained with Enrico.
  
  And - above all - Enrico was a good man, and a great friend to have. And I did feel sorry for him, seeing the way he either could not care about himself, or did not mind earthly things like cooking or making his bed in a normal way, or dressing neatly enough. He was a sweet man, but far too withdrawn, - always hidden in his shell, engrossed in his programming and software design, - and not used to doing the simplest practical things, so that he needed someone else to help him with it.
  
  But little by little things began to go wrong again. This was why I worked so much; and this, too, was why we had spent four years engaged without marrying at long last. I was waiting; though I didn't know for what.
  
  'You'll have to wait a little, Enrico. Maybe in a few years from now she'll have enough time for the wedding. Then she'll go to work the very next morning.' As always, it was up to the point. And as always, it made me feel a helpless sadness from which there was no escape, and ask that same question all over again - what to do now? and should I really...?..
  
  Except that now, none of it mattered. All I wanted was to have Enrico back, and to know that h eis safe and not harmed.
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