- So, what's your answer?
"Same old story, Gianni: it's fine by me. I'll try not to take up too much space in your life; and if I overdo it, let me know. Now, breathe, please."
Until now, in fact, Gianni has been practically breathless, livid from nervous tension. Now he finally exhales and inhales deeply, like someone coming back to life. He hugs me passionately and lulls me to sleep for a few minutes.
- I love you, baby.
- Me too, Gianni. It's obvious: if I didn't love you, I wouldn't accept your unfair pact.
- You're so sweet. If you weren't so sweet, you wouldn't be able to accept something like this.
- I'm not that sweet, Gianni. Not with everyone. I'm sweet with you because you need it, because I really love you and want you to be happy.
- That's true. But...
That "but" left hanging doesn't bode well.
- But?
-But all this sweetness wears me out.
Shocked, I look at him.
- What do you mean, excuse me?
- I mean, it's nice making love to you, but it's like getting an indigestion on blackberry jam.
- Why blackberries?
- Because it's sweetish.
- Am I sugary?
- Yeah, a little bit. That's why I'm gay: sweetness is typically feminine, and I need something else, too. Something a girl could never give me.
"And I don't suppose so either," I conclude, bringing his tortuous reasoning to a close. "Is this what you were getting at, Gianni? Aren't I enough for you?"
He turns to look at me with a smile.
"Puppy, you're more than enough for me. I love your sweetness, but you're a little boy, and quite a big one at that. So, since you're physically capable, I'd like you to hit me."
I remain speechless for a few seconds.
- What?
- I want you to hurt me. Please, I need it.
I'm still speechless for a while, but then I recover.
Forget it, Gianni: I have no intention of doing this. I'm sorry, you've got the wrong person: you'll have to find someone else if you need this. And believe me, I'm telling you this with a heavy heart.
He shakes his head.
- You're wrong, love: I'm not a masochist.
No, it's not masochism, I know that well: it's a desire for punishment. He needs it to alleviate his guilt, but he won't get it from me. We'd rather give up sex altogether.
- I was just joking - he adds in a gentle tone.
- For… fun?
- Yes. Remember when you beat me up and smashed my glasses?
- Yes, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry.
- You shouldn't mind, because I really enjoyed it. I really enjoyed you punching me and kneeing me in the balls, scratching me and biting my hands.
I look at him with wide eyes ('chicken eyes', as Mayra calls them).
- What are you saying, Gianni?
- It was a great game, remember? Two cats in love beating each other to death. So, if you want to do something for me, please, hit me.
I'm not saying anything.
"Come on, please," he insists. "I'd really like to fight every now and then. Just for fun, I told you. I didn't have any brothers, I never got into fights as a child: it's something I miss."
Disconcerted, hesitant, I answer him:
- Okay Gianni, if it's for fun, it's fine.
(The fanfare of the bersaglieri can be heard.)
- But what is this stuff?
"It's the Bersaglieri fanfare, darling. My grandfather was a Bersaglieri soldier when he was young, and he included the fanfare so dear to his heart among the cuckoo clock's chimes."
- Was your grandfather a watchmaker?
"No, my dear: he was a notary. But he had a passion for antique clocks, his house was full of them. When I went to visit him, it was all a sound of ticking and cuckoos singing, it felt like I was in the Mad Hatter's house."
- Well, then I think it's hereditary.
- How?
- Nothing. But I don't understand: why did you bring the watch here to the office instead of keeping it at home?
- Because Massy can't stand him: he says he makes a huge mess.
- The more time passes, the more I understand Massy.
-What do you mean, darling? You mean you find me unbearable?
- No, I didn't mean that. It's just that the cuckoo clock is very intrusive. If Massy finds it so annoying, why did you bring it here to the studio?
"Because you're here at the studio, my darling. And I know you put up with it, because you put up with me and you're so sweet. Massy, no, he's not sweet at all: he said if I bring him back home, he'll throw him out the window."
- Okay, you're right, poor cuckoo: let's keep him here.
- Thank you, love: I knew I could count on you.
- But let's get back to the game: how do I know when you want to… play?
- It's easy: I'll pretend to rape you, and you'll react by beating me up like last time. That'll relax me a lot.
- All right, Gianni, if it relaxes you then I'll do it.
"Without hurting myself too much, mind you, because you're much younger and stronger than me. I can't come home covered in bruises; I wouldn't know how to explain them."
- Sure, of course. But first, take off your glasses, please.
- Right. You know, the other time I had to tell Massy that I'd jammed the arm of my glasses into my cheekbone when I hit the refrigerator door.
-Against the refrigerator door? That's a lame excuse. How hard would you have to open the refrigerator?
- And in fact, Massy told me it was a stupid excuse. He's convinced I got drunk and got into a fight with some thug.
- Of course, you said something stupid. Poor Massy, I feel for him, you know?
- Seriously? Aren't you jealous?
- Yes and no. I mean, it's easy for me to relate to him.
- That's really noble of you, little one. Or maybe you just don't love me.
- Of course I love you, you know that. Anyway, don't worry, I'll beat you just enough, without overdoing it.
- Thank you.
- You're welcome, you're welcome. Just one thing, Gianni...
- What?
The time has come to nail down the key point of the strategy I've had in mind for some time.
"At this point, I'm asking you not to do it too often. I'm not comfortable with the idea of feeling pleasure and reciprocating by punching you. I love you, Gianni, damn it, I don't feel like hitting you. I'm fine just being near you and doing nothing, you know that."
My strategy is working: I'm doing him the favor, helping him not feel constantly guilty, but the only way to do this without offending him was to make it seem like he's doing me a favor.
He hugs me tenderly.
"As you wish, my angel. I understand, I certainly don't want to embarrass you. You decide when."
- Thank you.
I sigh at the thought of having to give up my saccharine moments, as Gianni calls them, which for me represent the only way to experience fulfilling sex. It won't be a complete renunciation, after all, but a rarer opportunity, because he himself is very attracted to me and won't resist for long. At that point, I'll firmly block his advances, using the excuse of my unwillingness to hit him, and I'll postpone it until next time. He'll calm down and accept, knowing it's just a matter of procrastination, and so on, from one time to the next, until we allow ourselves a moment of abandonment: and that will make up for everything. It will be difficult and even a little foolish, but the main goal right now is to calm Gianni's demons, otherwise our relationship will fall apart. I finally see him relaxed and smiling.
"Now let's get some rest, shall we?" he says to me. "We'll sleep for half an hour and then the dream is over: you go back to your life and I'll go back to mine."
- Okay, Gianni: as long as there's a next time.
- Oh, there'll definitely be one, if it's up to me. I'd have to be dead if I never wanted to see you again.
I kiss him and close my eyes. We stay like that for a while, embraced, already half asleep.
(The Clash's "London Calling" suddenly starts playing.)
- Gianni… but these are the Clash!
- Yes, dear: I forgot to tell you that my grandfather, at the ripe old age of seventy, had converted to punk music and had included "London Calling" among the cuckoo clock's chimes.
- That's awesome! What kind of grandfather did you have, Gianni?
- Yes, he was a great man.
- But do you like the Clash too?
- Sure, love.
Gianni and I have similar musical tastes! This discovery stuns me and fills me with uncontrollable enthusiasm.
- Gianni, let's dance!
-Shall we dance?
- Yes, come on, please!
I tug at his arm and force him out of bed. Gianni lets himself be swept away by my reckless enthusiasm: we start dancing like idiots; he lets himself go in that Dionysian dance: his shirt falls open at his chest, exposing his lean, muscular chest, almost hairless except for a few graying hairs. He's never let me see that exposed part of his body: I find it beautiful and exciting. I'm afraid I'm quite exciting myself, judging by the light in his eyes. I grab his arm again and throw myself onto the bed with him without saying a word.
- Do you want?... - he asks me.
- No - I reply.
- Safe?...
I sneak my hand under his shirt: he immediately stops my hand.
- Oh no, little one, that's not fair.
I imitate him:
- Safe?...
“Hit me,” he whispers.
- No.
- Beat me - he repeats.
- No.
- I see you've entered the stage of growth where children always say no.
“No,” I repeat, and burst out laughing.
- Strange: I thought my assistant's sparrow was red like him. Instead, it's blond: why?
I keep laughing.
We forget everything for a magnificent quarter of an hour.
We're cuddled on the bed again, half asleep. Suddenly, Gianni breaks the silence.
- Baby, what's that friend of yours called?... Oh yes, Mayra.
- Why?
- Because if I die, I'd like you to get engaged to her.
I suddenly come to my senses.
- Gianni, what are you talking about? Why should you die?
"Don't worry, I don't plan on dying anytime soon. But I'm many years older than you, my darling, and I understand that this Mayra truly loves you."
- Yes, he loves me, but what does that have to do with anything?
- It does. If I leave, I'd like to know you're in good hands.
I feel agitated and restless.
- Gianni, please, don't say any more strange things. You've said enough for today.
- All right, little one, never mind.
- Anyway, Mayra's quite a bit older than me, too…
- Never like me. Go sleep, come on.
"And then I don't like him physically!" I blurt out.
- This is a minor detail, love.
- Negligible?
"Of course. You'll like her for her feet or some other stupid thing like that. Someday you'll understand. You can't now: go to sleep."
(A silence broken only by the ticking of the clock.)
- Why is the cuckoo silent now?
- Because we have to sleep now, my love.
- Okay, Gianni, I'm sleeping.
I let myself go and slowly relax, comforted by his touch and the calm I finally sense within him: the storm that had been agitating him has subsided. I think that in the end, it won't take much effort to pretend to beat him every now and then: it will be just another way to connect with his body, which I love so much yet know so little about.
I will beat him with all the love I can.
And Gianni is crazy as hell anyway: why on earth would I like Mayra's feet?