The Iron Mask.
The Doppelganger.
October 1998.
It's already a bit chilly, isn't it?
Yes, almost cold. After all, it's October.
I hug his heavy tweed jacket. Gianni doesn't give up elegance even for the sake of practicality: if he can, he prefers a jacket to a padded jacket. He says it makes him look too youthful, and he hates the idea of imitating young people to try to hide his age. He is deeply ashamed of having dyed his hair, but I have convinced him to keep this brown shade, very discreet, by the way: I like it a lot, and above all I like the fact that he dyed it to please me more. I, on the other hand, have no problem with elegance: I wear a heavy jacket with a collar padded with synthetic fur, anything but chic, but comfortable and warm.
I am floating, as always with him, several hundred meters above the ground; everything below us is shaking convulsively and unreal: reality is my hand holding his, worn in a glove of soft black leather, my cheek resting on the rough fabric of his jacket, his smell of aftershave, his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward “our” multiplex cinema.
I have to be careful not to become unbearably sappy when I’m with him: I’m always tempted to end every sentence with the word “love”. A little while ago I bit my tongue just in time to avoid asking him “It’s chilly already, isn’t it, love?”. More generally, I feel like calling him “love” every two minutes. Something like this has never happened to me before, I must have gone silly.
I already knew that happiness makes you stupid, but now I have confirmation: I am totally, abysmally dazed, but the effect of this daze is beneficial: the echo of this profound happiness accompanies me in every moment of my days, both when I am with him and when I am far from him; it is like background music that makes every moment of my life pleasant, and ensures that I am always in a good mood, kind and available to everyone. I tolerate every setback, the tantrums of the nursery customers, the bills to pay, Martino's whims, Carlos's heavy ironies, Mayra's jokes, who no longer knows how to judge this story, Antonia's reproaches, who always finds me inexplicably distracted. I don't give her any explanation, but in compensation I smile at her.
I often wonder what this happiness depends on: in the end Gianni and I are not really together, also because he has had a steady partner for many years; and, almost incredibly, we have never had sex. Gianni says he can't do it with me, or maybe he doesn't want to, and I'm happy even without it. I can't deny that I desire it, at times even intensely, but I don't want to cause him any displeasure. My happiness depends exclusively on the fact that Gianni loves me: I feel it through his body and his soul, I read it in his eyes, in that very tender light that appears for a moment before he, embarrassed, looks away. But he immediately takes my hand to communicate in another way: and the current that emanates from him reaches me and passes through me, leaving me stunned by a wave of well-being. The only thing I ask of him is to kiss me, and his kisses satisfy me completely: after all, kissing is a much more intimate act than making love; you can't kiss persons you don't love: instead, you can easily have sex with them.
What movie do you want to see?, I ask him, climbing the stairs of the huge cinema, housed in a surreal and fascinating structure of glass, steel and concrete that makes the landscape visible from every side, even under our feet. I feel a slight vertigo looking down: it's like walking on empty air.
I would love to see “The Man in the Iron Mask”: what do you think, darling?
The one with Di Caprio? Sounds like a good idea. It starts soon, it's in room C. In the meantime, let's sit here.
I sit with him on the comfortable velvet chairs facing the entrance to the theater, next to the cinema bar, but I immediately get up, irresistibly attracted by a yellow bag of M&M's. I buy it, along with a can of Coca-Cola, and go back to sit next to Gianni, opening the bag and starting to munch on the colored buttons filled with peanuts. I'm crazy about them. I hand the bag to Gianni, offering him the chocolates. He smiles and shakes his head.
They're full of colorants, darling, they're not good for us.
Come on, Gianni, let yourself go every now and then: they're delicious, trust me.
I pop one into his mouth, cherry red. He chews it half-heartedly, but then lets out a satisfied moan.
I have to admit, it's not bad.
I pour some into the palm of his hand.
These things are eaten in handfuls, Gianni: look.
I throw a handful of chocolates into my mouth and crunch them loudly. He smiles and imitates me. I kiss him on the cheek.
Did you see? That's how it's done.
Mickey Mouse, we shouldn't kiss in public: people look at us strangely.
Let them look. And then it was just a kiss on the cheek.
There is nothing to be done, my happiness is so impenetrable that it cannot be disturbed by anything: I am totally indifferent to people's judgment. And then, who are people?
Distracted as I am, I shook the can of Coca-Cola while I was talking: when I pull the metal tab to open it, a splash hits me directly in the face. Gianni laughs.
Oh damn, this stuff is sticky, I say, awkwardly attempting to wipe my face.
Yes, honey, it's a very sugary drink. And you also stained your white sweater.
I get up with an exclamation of disappointment.
Wait for me here, I tell him, I'm going to wash myself in the bathroom.
But there's a queue in the bathroom, and I don't want to stand there, stuck in front of the door, waiting my turn. I start wandering around the glass structure, fascinated by the view of the two floors below me, and I stop to look out of one of the windows at the landscape, which is nothing special: a very anonymous semi-industrial suburb. At this moment, however, it seems magnificent to me, like everything else.
The bathroom is finally empty: I go in and rinse my face and hands, then I successfully try to get the stain off my sweater too. I'm drying my hands with a paper towel when suddenly my cell phone rings. I answer.
Where are you?
Gianni's voice vibrates with an anxiety that strikes me to the heart.
I'm in the bathroom, I'm finished.
But how long does it take you?
I'll be right there, don't worry.
I hang up and with a few quick leaps I reach our living room. Gianni is in a state of painful tension, even if he smiles when he sees me. I sit down next to him and take his hand. I feel it trembling.
Hey, what's up?
I was… he hesitates. I was afraid you were gone. That you never come back.
Gianni, I'm here: imagine if I'm abandoning you!
I wrap my arm around his neck affectionately, touched by his words.
I thought you met someone your age... and moved away with him… or her.
Gianni, what the hell are you talking about? It's just that there was a queue in the bathroom.
Sorry, little one.
Excuse me.
I give him another kiss on the cheek and then ask him cheerfully:
What is the movie about?
What, you don't know the story of the Iron Mask?
No, or rather, I know very little about it.
My strategy works: Gianni, diverted to the terrain of culture, feels reassured and calms down. He immediately begins to explain the story to me with the tone of a benevolent professor: I listen to him attentively.
The film is inspired by the novel The Vicomte de Bragelonne by Dumas père. The story is fictionalized, but partly true, you know? Voltaire, when he was imprisoned in the Bastille, learned that a few years earlier a character called "The Man in the Iron Mask" had been detained there.
Voltaire was imprisoned in the Bastille? I didn't know that.
Yes, darling: twice. These things happen to free thinkers. In any case, the stranger always wore a black velvet mask held by metal straps over his face. It was never discovered who he was, but Dumas imagines that he was the twin brother of Louis XIV.
Oh yeah, I read something about DiCaprio playing both twins. It wasn't that they were glowing reviews, eh... If I'm not mistaken they gave him the Razzie Award for Worst Couple of 1998. I mean, quite a record, if you think about it: the DiCaprio and DiCaprio duo!
The Razzie Award is the Raspberry Cup?
That's right: the Oscar parody.
I decide to show off a little high school culture:
However, broadly speaking, it seems to me that the theme discussed is that of the "double": Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the picture of Dorian Gray, etc.
Exactly, my love: in popular tradition this “double” is an evil being, from which we should try to free ourselves. Even in Steiner's anthroposophy it is like this; our “double” is not like Socrates' “dàimon”: it does not love us, it is an evil and dangerous being.
Really, Gianni? I didn't know that.
In Dumas's novel, Louis XIV's twin, Philippe, betrays him and usurps his throne; for this reason the king has him locked up in the dungeons with his face covered by a mask. But the film, from what I understand, remains on rather superficial tones: I think we will witness a pleasant but mediocre show, a sort of soap opera set in the seventeenth century, complete with cloak and dagger and all four musketeers.
That's fine, Gianni: we'll have some fun with something light. Oh, and speaking of musketeers, remember that D'Artagnan is you.
How do you know what D'Artagnan looked like?
I know very well: he looked like you.
What a fool you are, love.
Oh, I know: I'm a fool from birth.
But adorable.
I have to make up for my stupidity somehow. Oh, but the movie is about to start: let's go.
We get up and enter the semi-dark room. Usually we sit in one of the last rows, away from prying eyes, and this time we manage to settle in a rather secluded area of the cinema, at the back left. We hold hands, as we always do, and the screening begins.
I follow the film with that distracted attention that is typical of lovers narcotized by the presence of the person they love. In cases like this, normal couples, let's say, take advantage of the darkness to kiss and stick their hands everywhere, but this is not the case with Gianni and me: a deep mutual respect prevents us from behaving so trivially in public.
I rest my head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around my shoulders. He is always absorbed and collected in moments like this, an attitude that makes me a little intimidated, because I would be more crude and spontaneous; but his affectionate, slightly 19th-century restraint fascinates me. While DiCaprio, Depardieu and the other musketeers move on the screen, I lose track of time and space: I no longer know who I am, where I am, why I am here. I only know that I am in the arms of a man who, who knows why, I love so much, and it seems so natural to me to be here, and it seems so unnatural to me not to do what I want. There is so much sweetness, in this moment. Timidly, I reach out for his hand and move it to my jeans.
He turns to look at me: I look back at him without lowering my eyes, to tell him that there is nothing wrong with all this. It is just a caress, a simple caress for that poor devil forced into a chastity not suited to his age, and what's more, there are my trousers in the way: sturdy denim, you can hardly feel anything. I raise a hand to caress his face with an expression that means "leave me at least this". He seems to understand, he nods his head. He turns back to look at the film, but leaves his hand resting on my trousers, without moving it. I close my eyes and establish with that hand such an intense internal contact that pleasure rises by itself, I don't know how, suddenly and treacherously. I bite my lips to not make a sound, but Gianni notices.
Puppy… he starts, but stops.
I blush a little.
Puppy, so you…
Me what?
You are like that?
Like that what?
Like that… in those moments?
Well, yes, I think I'm always a bit like that.
He turns and leans his back against the chair.
Good God.
I have absolutely no idea what to say, because I don't know what he means by that "good God": that I'm really pathetic or disgusting at certain times? Or what the hell?
I take his hand, fearing that I have caused trouble.
Sorry, Gianni.
No, but you don't have to apologize. It's me the one who…
Who?...
Nothing, my love, let's watch the movie.
Reassured by that “my love,” I sigh with relief and go back to looking at the screen, casting a blameful thought on that silly thing between my legs. Luckily, Gianni is wise and has forgiven him.
We don't talk anymore and we don't do anything anymore, except hold hands, until the end of the film, which turns out to be exactly what we expected: a seventeenth-century meatloaf, excellent for spending a couple of pleasant and relaxing hours.
We leave the cinema at about six in the afternoon: it is already almost dark and the sky has darkened. It is about to rain and there is an unpleasant cold breeze, which lifts the leaves fallen from the trees and throws them in our faces; we shield our faces with our arms and run to take refuge in Gianni's comfortable silver Rover 75: even when it comes to cars, apart from the unforgivable slip of the Smart, Gianni has very refined tastes. I sit down on the welcoming seat.
The seat belt, darling.
I reluctantly put on my seat belt (I hate feeling tied down); he starts the engine and off we go.
Shall we go to the studio? I'll offer you something hot, a punch.
Would be?
Water, tea, sugar, cinnamon, a slice of lemon and brandy or rum, your choice. Alcoholic but not too much, because of your sensitive tummy.
Thank you, Gianni, you're a treasure.
I place a hand affectionately on his, full of gratitude.
We arrive at the studio and walk up the stairs, avoiding the elevator, which neither of us likes: there are three floors, but climbing the stairs is good for the legs.
You look tired, little one: do you want to lie down on the bed for a bit?
I gladly accept. There is a rather large and comfortable single bed in the back of the study: the room, like the rest of the apartment, has a beautiful light wood parquet and completely bare white walls, except for some splendid giant photographs by Gianni depicting ancient buildings and landscapes. The furniture is reduced to the essential, almost absent, and this highlights the clear geometries of the rooms, giving the whole a very refined elegance, I would say Euclidean.
I lie down on the bed, taking off my winter boots and closing my eyes.
Your punch says Gianni's voice next to me. I open my eyes and smile. I take the clear glass cup filled with an amber-colored liquid that he is offering me and thank him. I blow on the punch, which seems to be boiling hot, and inhale its intense aroma.
That smells good I say You're always great at making cocktails, Gianni.
He sits down next to me and watches me sip the punch, continuing to blow on it every now and then. He lets out a half smile, as always happens when he witnesses some example of my clumsiness. Then, seeing that I've finished drinking, he takes my cup and puts it on the nightstand.
Thank you I tell him smiling.
You're welcome he replies.
He takes off his glasses, closes the arms and puts them on the nightstand. This gesture surprises me a little, because it is usually the prelude to erotic activities, as I know from experience. But Gianni does not move, and after all we have already been together in a bed and nothing has happened, not to mention his sexual block towards me. I hold out a hand.
You lie down for a bit too.
He looks at me, tidies my hair and, strangely, puts his glasses back on; then, with an agile maneuver, he climbs over me and lies down next to me. I cling to him, overcome by the usual emotion that assails me at his touch, but he doesn't return my embrace. I look for his hand and bring it to my face: I need his caresses. I caress him too, on his chest and shoulders, moaning childishly; then I move down his body a little. I would never allow myself to undo his trousers, but I would like to make him feel somehow that he is not alone, that his desire for me is reciprocated. So I risk a timid caress on the fly of his gabardine trousers. I feel a spasmodic tension under that fabric, so much so that I immediately stop my gesture.
Suddenly I feel my hips being grabbed with a brutality that shocks me. I turn to Gianni in deep astonishment. His expression chills me: his eyes are shining with a black light that I have never seen in him. I try to get up, but he throws me down on the bed with a slap.
“Stay still!” he growls, pressing his left hand to my chest and his right hand fumbling with the waistband of my jeans. I try desperately to bring him back to his senses.
Gianni, no, not like that…
I reach out to caress his face, but he pushes it away with annoyance and tugs at my pants to take them off. I feel like crying, I can't believe what's happening. One thing is very clear to me: if what's about to happen happens, it will be the end for us. This thought throws me into total despair and gives me the strength to react. I fight against him, trying not to hurt him.
No, Gianni, no I tell him firmly, and I push his hand away. My gesture provokes a ferocious reaction in him that terrifies me. He glares at me with hatred and opens my jeans with such violence that he almost tears them, exposing my underpants with the blue ducks, which elicit a mocking grin from him.
Did my puppy pee on himself?