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could sense her lack of interest in the way she nodded, saying “yes, yes,” as one does to a child whom one loves and has no intention of contradicting. She did little things that revealed what really mattered to her at that moment: loving me, being close to me, living with me. As she assented to my arguments, she would take my hand and kiss it, still pretending to listen. Or she would gently provoke me by pressing her leg against mine, seeking a more intimate, distracting contact. I would exclaim: “You don’t care about what I’m saying.” To which she would answer, with almost mystical abandon: “I always agree with you, no matter what you say.” This irritated me even more. “Come on, Nella, what if I’m wrong? You have to contradict me if you disagree.” She would confess, humbly, “You are so much more intelligent than I am … of course you’re right.” “So you agree that the revolution is coming?” “Of course, if you think it is,” she would say, taking my hand and kissing it passionately. “Don’t kiss me … Why don’t you think for a moment?” “I’m sure it will come … and no matter what happens, I’ll always be beside you, always … I’ll never leave you.” “But that’s not the point!” I would finally exclaim, exasperated. “You have to reason, use your brain, think!” “I do, I think I love you.” “You’re an idiot, a stupid, silly thing,” I would say, brutally detaching my hand and pushing her away, “you’re nothing but a piece of meat, a sex, a being without dignity, without autonomy, without freedom.” “Don’t be angry with me,” she would implore; “why are you so cruel to me?” These last words were said in a strange, cloying voice tinged with surprise. Even now that we are no longer together, I can still hear her: “Why are you so cruel to me?”
I remember that on that evening, as I was explaining for the hundredth time why I believed that a revolution was imminent, she took my hand and began to press it against her cheek, kissing my palm passionately from time to time and gazing up at me from beneath her red mane with her big brown eyes, full of love and admiration. It was clear that the emptiness of that little room excited her and awakened in her a desire to make love in some dark corner, just steps from the door. What irritated me even more was that I too was becoming excited at her touch and was beginning
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to have trouble following my own complicated reasoning. Suddenly filled with fervor, I asked: “Don’t you agree?” She pressed my hand and put her face close to mine, saying, “To me, you’re always right … but now, kiss me …” Earlier, I described Nella as timid and passive, discreet, and extremely demure. But when it came to love she was brazen and quite unashamed, though her manner remained innocent and awkward. I must admit that these were the qualities I most admired in her, and which excited me the most. But at that moment, after the effort I had put into explaining my ideas to her, her insistent talk of love and kisses filled me with rage. “Enough!” I said, in a loud, trembling voice. “I try to talk to you and all you do is rub against me … Leave me alone … You’re like an animal … Leave me alone!” She held my hand tightly and, not paying attention to my furious words, pulled me very close, offering her lips. At the same time, she slipped one leg on top of mine, almost climbing on my lap, revealing one knee and part of her thigh. As I pulled away, I slapped her, brutally giving release to the discontent I had felt on that and many other evenings. She stared at me in surprise, still holding my hand. Finally she let go, wide-eyed, but still rested her leg on mine. Two enormous tears appeared, filling her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. Now furious at myself for my brutal, stupid action, I tapped the plate with my spoon and called the waiter. Nella pulled away her leg but continued to cry quietly without drying her tears, sitting still and straight with her eyes wide open. After paying the astonished waiter I got up as if to leave. “I think it’s best if we go to bed,” I said curtly. She followed me in silence, still crying.
As we walked out into the narrow street, just a few steps from our door, a slow-moving car almost hit us, and we were forced to step aside and press our backs against one of the buildings. As the car rolled by I turned to protest, still furious from the scene in the café, and the car came to a stop. It was a large model, old-fashioned but quite luxurious. A figure leaned out of the window. I heard a surprised voice: “Sergio, is that you?”
I was still so angry that I found myself at a loss for
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words. I stared in the direction of the voice; a man leaned his head out of the car but I didn’t recognize him and could barely make out his face. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s Maurizio,” he said, and suddenly, like a shipwreck victim who finally catches sight of a ship on the horizon after staring into an empty, pitiless sea, I called out, “Maurizio!” I don’t know if I felt happiness or relief, or something even more profound. In any case, my reaction was involuntary and automatic.
“Finally!” Maurizio said, in a tone that was already less intimate and bore a trace of irony. He opened the car door, saying, “Get in, get in … I haven’t seen you in ages! Get in, we’ll talk.”
“I’m not alone,” I said, not moving.
Maurizio answered calmly: “I can see that … Well, why don’t you both get in?”
I took a step as if to get into the car. But Maurizio’s voice, now completely sarcastic, stopped me in my tracks: “I see you haven’t changed … head still in the clouds … Why don’t you introduce us?”
I thought to myself: “Here we go, right from the start, putting me in my place and making me feel inferior. He can go to hell.” I gave Nella a little push and said: “Nella, this is Maurizio.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Maurizio said, taking Nella’s hand. Timidly, she mumbled a few words. “Here, climb in next to me,” Maurizio said, pointing to the front seat, “there’s enough space for all of us.” Without a word, Nella climbed in next to him and I followed. Maurizio shut the door and we set off.