much; that photographer can squash herself into one of her own pictures and live inside it forever.
This is what all we humans do: we stay trapped inside our creations, our worlds…and no one can save us from our worlds, no one can drag us out of them.
While they all raise their glasses to my success and a thousand more to come, I repeat just one thing in my head: Go fuck yourselves, the lot of you, you horrible ass-licking cunts. I’d just like to see the look on your faces if I showed you my pussy.
I grip Thomas’s hand as I whisper to him, “Take me away from here, now.”
Ten
I’m eating salted crackers. Over there, some delirious jazz pours from the stereo and outside it’s raining. My hips are so wide you can rest your elbows on them.
My voice is hoarse. Massimiliano was here this morning, that Neapolitan friend I told you about a few times: sometimes he comes to see me and when he smiles I can’t tell if he’s sad or what.
“I’m frightened,” I whispered to him.
He looked at me compassionately, embarrassed, and said, “Of what?”
“I’m frightened that he might betray me…,” I replied.
“What makes you think that?”
“Nothing.. it’s just a feeling.”
He looked at me and nodded, and I immediately understood what he was thinking.
I screwed up my eyes as tightly as I could and screamed, “Do you think I’m crazy?!”
He said I was getting reality muddled up, that the world I thought I lived in wasn't the real world.
“Open your eyes, Melissa. You’re creating a reality that has nothing to do with the reality around you.”
I took him by one arm and hurled him out, with such violence that a scrap of his checked shirt stayed in my hand, tom out by my furious fingers.
Then I shut the door behind him and felt dizzy for a moment. Exhausted, I went to the bathroom and noticed that in my haste I had left a blood-filled Maxi Pad in the basin. It doesn’t matter; blood doesn’t bother anyone. I went out onto the balcony; the washing machine had finished its cycle. I stood and looked inside the dram for a while — I don’t know why. My head is so full of thoughts it seems empty. I’m sated with happiness, happiness is exhausting me, demoralizing me. I ask myself every day, every moment, if this happiness will end and when. I’m too apocalyptic, I know. And maybe masochistic. Yes, I’m well aware of that. The messages sent by the world are exasperating: nothing lasts forever, everything comes to an end, everything withers, everything dies. And if it didn’t happen to me, well, what about that? If I stayed this age forever, if I remained intellectually ignorant, if I stayed in love forever, what about that?
I know, I can’t accept change. I’m too much of a traditionalist, too attached to my memories and, paradoxically, attached to fantasies about the future. That’s why my present is so restless, even if it’s happy: I mix the past, the future, and the present as though an exquisite sweet might emerge from the dough. A sweet that does you good because it hurts. A sweet that’s good because it’s full of clashing ingredients.
There is nothing positive in this wealth of feelings. It’s an orgy, Mum. An orgy of feelings…in which it’s impossible to work out who’s winning, in which you can’t predict whether the ultimate winner will be death or life, pain or love. It’s an infinite chaos, bound by many little interlocking rings that have slipped into my throat, dragging me to places that are never the same, to more and more exasperating states of mind.
I’m disturbed to the depths of my marrow. I don’t know how to hold back my instincts; I allow myself to be corrupted by my obsessions, by my most violent passions. Do you think it’s just because I’m Sicilian? Or is it because I’m fucking terrified of losing the most beautiful part of me? Of losing Thomas?
Eleven
I shook him awake; I was breathless.
“There are ghosts, I can hear them,” I whispered so they couldn’t hear me.
“A dream,” he said, “a bad dream, calm down.”
No, I couldn’t. I really did hear that hand striking the wall opposite the bed. It beat out a rhythm, creating a sweet melody. Through half-open eyes I had seen a tall, black female figure.
Go to sleep, go to sleep, don’t be afraid. Go to sleep, go to sleep, don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.
This morning the memory of the night has already passed, but a strange attraction leads me to long once more for the black darkness. I hear a weird echo, I sip the careless milk of my thoughts, my legs are naked and crossed, I look impatiently at my cigarettes, because seven hours without smoking is far too long.
The stench of the dirty dishes in the sink grows from day to day. This morning I decide to clean the house; I swear I’m going to do it. I’m serene, even if that echo sounds like a Tibetan chant that won’t leave me alone.
He says, “Come and see.”
With my lips open in a smile, I go look across the narrow corridor, and I think this morning I really do feel like making love. I think that when I go into the room I’ll throw him on the bed and fuck him without even looking at him. He’s just had a shower and he’s damp. I can already feel the skin of his feminine back brushing against my fingertips.
“Come and see,” he repeats.
I don’t go in. I stop in the doorway, with one leg against the wall and a smile that hints broadly at what I have in mind.
He doesn’t notice but points at the wall.
A black hand. Or, rather, not a hand — three fingers. Three black fingers imprinted on the wall, as though someone had set fire to his own skin and then pressed it against the plaster.
I just say, “I told you so,” and feel something clenching inside me, and someone tells me that I have to hide because no one knows how to listen to that echo.
Twelve
I realized I was in love with him one late summer evening. An electric evening, in a Rome that was colder than usual, turned in on itself as though to apologize for making too much noise, for being too beautiful, too schizophrenic, too old. The Rome of emperors and usurers, of politicians and tax collectors, lost girls and girls in miniskirts and stilettos, the Rome of vineyards and dairies, churches and brothels.
Sipping my Vin Santo, I studied the images running across the screen. The TV enfolded and contained me, and for the first time the eyes and words of the scarecrow presenters were directed at me, like rough-edged swords waiting to be used. What was I like? I wasn’t. I wasn’t me. I was a caricature of myself, I was the most exasperating version of myself, I said all the things I would never have wanted to say, because what I want to say is too crazy and too confused for anyone to understand. I was only pretending to cope.
Martina and Thomas were lying on a big leather sofa; Simone and I had our eyes glued to the TV.
“Tommy, would you give my back a rub? I’m aching like a beast…,” said Martina.
He brought his cigarette to his mouth and held it tightly between his lips, letting it dangle. He kept his eyes half closed to shield himself from the smoke that brought tears to his eyes; his long eyes, with their almost girlish lashes, looked even longer, two crescent moons.
Martina turned her back to him, and he started rubbing her vertebrae with two fingers, strong and extremely delicate. I thought about how good it must be to have two big hands like those on your body, and the smoke from his cigarette filling my nostrils. At that moment I desired him, and not just physically.
At some point I even thought of asking him, “Thomas, would you rub my back, too?” and I swear I nearly
