On the way back, stuck in the traffic that brings chaos to Catania every night, he looked at me, smiled, and said, 'Lo, I love you.' He took my hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it. Lo, not Melissa. He loves Lolita; he knows nothing of Melissa.
4 April 2002
Diary,
I'm writing to you from a hotel room; I'm in Spain, in Barcelona. I'm on a school trip, and I'm having lots of fun even if the sour, obtuse teacher looks at me cockeyed when I say I don't want to visit museums, I feel they're a waste of time. I hate visiting a place just to learn about its history. OK, that's important too, but later what good will it be to me? Barcelona is so alive, upbeat, but with an undercurrent of melancholy. It's like a beautiful, fascinating woman with deep, sad eyes that dig into your soul. It's like me. I'd like to wander through the nocturnal streets lined with bars and swarming with all kinds of people, but they're forcing me to spend the nights in discos where, if things go well, I manage to meet someone who hasn't yet gotten wasted on alcohol. I don't like dancing; it bores me. There's so much noise in my room: someone's jumping on the bed, someone's chugging sangria, someone's puking in the toilet. I'm going now, Giorgio is pulling me by the arm…
7 April
The next-to-the-last day. I don't want to go home. This is my home, I feel comfortable, safe, happy, understood by the Barcelona natives, even though we don't speak the same language. It's a relief not to hear the phone ringing with calls from Fabrizio or Roberto-and I don't have to concoct some excuse for refusing to meet them. It's a relief to be able to talk late with Giorgio without feeling I have to slip into his bed and give him my body.
Where have you ended up, Narcissa, you who loved yourself so much, who smiled so much, who wanted to give as much as she received? Where have you ended up with your dreams, your hopes, your manias, those of life as well as those of death? Where have you ended up, mirror image? Where do I search for you, where do I find you? How can I control you?
4 May 2002
Today Letizia was standing at the school entrance. She came to meet me with her round face framed by huge sunglasses, quite like those I've seen in photos of my mother from the 1970s. She was with two girls who were obviously lesbians.
One is named Wendy. She's my age, but her eyes make her look much older. The other one, Floriana, is slightly younger than Letizia.
'I've been dying to see you,' Letizia told me, gazing into my eyes.
'I'm glad you came,' I replied. 'I've wanted to see you too.'
In the meantime people were leaving school and taking seats on the benches in the piazza. Kids were looking at us curiously, whispering and snickering among themselves. The virgins of Sant'Ilario were even more sour, sanctimonious, and stupid than ever: they turned up their noses and rolled their eyes, fixing the pigtails their mommies made for them that morning before coming to school. I thought I caught some of their comments: 'Did you see who she's going around with? I always said she was strange.'
Letizia seemed to pick up on my uneasiness, so she said, 'We're going to have lunch at the center. Do you want to come?'
'What center?' I asked.
'Gay-Lesbian. I have the keys. We'll be alone.'
I accepted. I started my scooter and Letizia got on behind me, gluing her breasts to my back and breathing on my neck. We laughed a lot on the road. I was constantly weaving in and out because I wasn't used to carrying another person; she kept on sticking out her tongue at the little old ladies, her arms encircling my waist.
When Letizia opened the door, a special world appeared before my eyes. It was only a house, yet a house that didn't belong to anyone in particular, but to the entire gay community. It was furnished with everything and more, as the library contained not only books, but also a huge jar filled with condoms. Displayed on a table were gay magazines, fashion magazines, some about cars, others about health. A cat wandered through the rooms, rubbing against our legs, and I caressed him as I caress Morino, my beautiful beloved cat (who is here now, curled up on my desk; I hear him breathing).
We were hungry, so Letizia and Floriana proposed to go and buy a pizza from the shop on the corner. As they were about to leave, Wendy gave me a cheerful look with a dim-witted smile. She had a peculiar spring in her step; she seemed like some sort of crazed imp. I was afraid to be alone with her, so I went to the door and shouted for Letizia, saying I wanted to keep her company. Wendy interrupted me, trying to get me to stay inside. My friend immediately guessed what was happening and with a smile invited Floriana to go back. While we were waiting for the pizza, we didn't speak much. Then I said, 'Shit, my fingers are frozen!'
Letizia looked at me mischievously, but also ironically. 'Mmmm,' she said, 'I'll have to keep that in mind…'
While we were walking back, we met a friend of hers named Gianfranco. Everything about him was tender: his face, his skin, his voice. His infinite gentleness filled me with happiness. He came inside with us, and we sat talking on the sofa while the others set the table. He told me he was a bank clerk, although his outrageous tie seemed in sharp contrast to the sober world of banking. His voice sounded sad, but asking him about it would've seemed too forward. I felt like him. Then he left, and the four of us sat around the table, chattering away and laughing. Or more precisely I was the only one who was chattering, nonstop, as Letizia looked at me, attentive and at times disconcerted when I spoke about some guy I'd been to bed with.
Later on I stood up and went into the garden, which was neat but not well tended. They had planted tall date palms and strange trees with prickly trunks and huge pink flowers in their foliage. Letizia walked up and hugged me from behind, grazing my neck with a kiss.
I turned around instinctively and met her mouth: hot, soft, extremely yielding. Now I understood why men love to kiss women so much: a woman's mouth is so innocent, pure, whereas the men I've met always leave me with a slimy trail of saliva, coarsely thrusting their tongues into my mouth. Letizia's kiss was different: it was velvety, fresh yet intense at the same time.
'You're the most beautiful woman I've ever had,' she told me as she held my face.
'You too,' I responded, although I didn't know why. There was no need to say it since she was my only woman!
Letizia changed roles with me, and this time I took the lead, rubbing my body against hers. I hugged her tightly, breathing her perfume; then she led me to the next room, lowered my pants, and ended the sweet torture that had begun a few weeks ago. Her tongue was melting me, but the thought of achieving an orgasm in a woman's mouth made me shudder. While her tongue was licking me, while she was on her knees before me, straining for my pleasure, I closed my eyes, and with my hands folded like the paws of a frightened rabbit, I recalled the invisible little man who used to make love to me in my childhood fantasies. The invisible man is faceless, colorless; he is only a sex and a tongue which I use for my enjoyment. It was then that my orgasm arrived, so powerful it had me panting. Her mouth was full of my sap, and when I opened my eyes, I saw her-what a marvelous surprise-with a hand inside her panties, writhing with the pleasure that was arriving for her too, perhaps more keen and genuine than mine had been.
Later we lay down on the sofa, and I believe I slept for a short while. When the sun set and the sky darkened, she accompanied me to the door, and I told her, 'Leti, it would be better if we didn't see each other again.'
She nodded, smiled gently, and said, 'I agree.' We exchanged a last kiss. When I was heading home on my motorino, I felt used yet again, used by someone and by my own wicked impulses.
18 May 2002
I'm recalling the sound of my mother's warm, reassuring voice. Yesterday, while I was in bed with the flu, she told me this story:
'Something you find difficult, something you don't want, can prove to be a wonderful gift. You know, Melissa, we often receive gifts without our knowledge. This is the story of a young sovereign who assumes the rule of a kingdom. He was beloved before he became king, and his subjects, delighted with his coronation, brought him ever so many gifts. After the ceremony, whilst the new king was dining in his palace, he suddenly heard a knock on the door. The servants found a shabbily dressed old man, to all appearances a beggar, who wished to see the
