Tango of jealousy
I'm tidying up the tools in the greenhouse at the end of a fairly productive day's work: several customers have purchased or reserved our plants; earnings are more than decent, the nursery is growing: overall, I can say I'm satisfied. Carlos, returning from his day as a bricklayer, is giving me a hand:              he's become a third-level skilled worker, so his salary has increased considerably, but he doesn't give up spending his free time at the nursery, helping his sister and me and spending time with us. He could just have dinner with us, but he likes to feel like an integral part of our project: he wants it to be clear that he's part of it too.
Tonight, however, he is unusually taciturn:              I have tried several times to make conversation, but he has always dropped all the topics I brought up, even though I tried to bring him onto common ground and attempted a few jokes, which fell on deaf ears.
"It doesn't seem like it," I tell him, "but in winter there's a lot to do in the greenhouses:              roses, camellias, azaleas, rhododendrons, cypresses, and conifers need to be treated with Bordeaux mixture, otherwise they'll get sick when the first warm weather arrives.
I know, he grunts, I did it yesterday.
I sound as if I'm reciting a gardening manual by heart: I should be ashamed of myself, but I can't think of any other way to start a conversation right now;              so I continue in the same tone, pretending to carefully examine a pressure sprayer I bought yesterday.
"It's a bit expensive, but I think it will make our job easier. We also need to treat the fruit trees: many diseases are incubating in the wood of the branches and trunk right now. We need to treat them every four weeks until spring."
We will.
And then there's the cochineal, which attacks oleanders, laurels, and lilacs, but also citrus trees. That damned beast causes irreparable damage. This year I want to try a natural remedy: white oil or neem oil.
It stinks.
And nothing, Carlos speaks in monosyllables today.
I know, but that's exactly why it works.
As I put away my equipment, I can't help but glance furtively at him, who's moving some pots. Working together in the greenhouse is usually a time of sharing, but today it definitely doesn't feel like it. I see him arranging his tools with an energy that seems more frenetic than focused, as if he's doing it to release some nervous tension.
“Shall we go for a beer at our usual pub?” I ask him cheerfully.
“'Usual' in what sense?” he replies coldly.
Sorry, what do you mean?
He hangs the shovels and rakes in their holders and turns to face me.
It's been weeks, if not months, since we've been to the pub together. So I don't understand what you mean by "usual."
I'm struck by the harshness of his tone. I've actually neglected everyone a bit since I've been seeing Gianni. Our relationship has been, and still is, so complicated and up-and-down that it's taken up almost all my physical and mental energy. It's only recently that I've regained some sort of balance, but in that time I've lost several dear people along the way. I have a lot to make amends for.
"Yes, sorry, you're right," I reply. "It's a complicated time. Gianni's exhibition is about to start and I'm helping him. You know, it's his first show, there are some important guests, and he's very worried about making a bad impression.              He's not actually in any danger of that, because his photos are beautiful, but he's very apprehensive, and I'm trying to keep his spirits up."
Apprehensive, Carlos repeats sarcastically.
I put a hand on his shoulder:
Carlos, sorry, is there something wrong?
He frees his arm from my grasp, slumps heavily into an office chair, folds his arms on the desk, and looks at me. Instinctively, I look for Mayra, but I don't see her.
"There's no point in looking for Mayra," he warns me. "She went grocery shopping. Our fridge is empty."
Where is Bella?
She took her in the car. Ever since she got her license, my sister finds every excuse to go for a drive in the hills, and Bella happily goes with her.
I understand.
Even my last bastion, faithful Bella, has abandoned me. I'm alone with Carlos. I say nothing more and wait for him to speak.
"Prince," he says finally, weighing his words carefully, "if I'm not mistaken, you told me a while ago you weren't gay. Do you remember?"
Puzzled, I reply:
Yes, I remember. But what does it have to do with anything?
"And since you weren't gay," he continues, "you shut the door in my face. You didn't show up for a year. Do you remember that too?"
Sure, I remember it perfectly. I acted like a jerk. But then I came back to look for you.
Yeah. But you see, Prince, the gist of the matter doesn't change: you sent me packing by telling me you weren't gay. Doesn't that apply to Gianni?
"With Gianni..." I begin, but my words get stuck. "Carlos, it's complicated."
He looks at me with a penetrating gaze.
“Complicated?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
I'll take my time with a banal answer:
It's different.
I don't know how to begin to explain to him that I'm in love with Gianni, but I've never been with him, and that this has nothing to do with being gay. However I put it, it would sound offensive.
Different in what sense? In the sense that you feel attracted to Gianni?
Yes, but it's not just a question of physical attraction. It's more complex. Gianni makes me feel alive, he makes me laugh, he makes me forget my insecurities, and besides, he needs me...
I pause: the list of reasons I've given to explain the situation is so ridiculous that I suddenly fall silent.
Carlos nods slowly and leans back in his chair.
"Good, Prince. It seems you're finally finding your way. So, in short, when you told me you weren't gay, you lied. It was just an excuse."
My stomach feels like it's in a knot.
No, Carlos. It's not about being gay. It's something else.
Something else? If I remember correctly, that's exactly what you said to me to send me away. Yet you knew I could and wanted to be your friend, but you ignored it because you didn't want to be gay. That's what you told me.
Carlos, I'm sorry. I really am.
I approach him, but he stops me with a wave of his hand.
No. Not now. I have to understand first.
But what do you have to understand? There's nothing to understand, I'm fond of you and I'm your friend.
There's a lot to understand: Gianni is gay, he's with another man, and he's many years older than you. An even more impossible relationship than ours. But you don't tell him you don't want to be gay. Why?
He fixes me with a sharp gaze.
It's simple: because you don't want to get rid of him. You wanted to get rid of me instead. You lied to me, you told me you weren't gay just because you wanted to get rid of me.
I sink into a chair in front of him, exhausted by the tension, but also by a dull anger that I feel building inside me: it's not fair that Carlos is subjecting me to this trial.
Carlos, I don't care about people's gender. Or their age. I don't even care about falling in love; I don't even consider it. It's just that, at a certain point, a bolt of lightning strikes me and I suddenly find myself dazed, stunned, tied to someone's soul. I don't know how it happens.
Tied to the soul of who... Gianni?
Yes, Carlos, and please don't ask me why: I don't know. He has a strange and restless soul, but I know he loves me deeply and I feel he needs me. That's all, Carlos. What I can't make you understand is that all this has nothing to do with sex. It's something that suddenly comes over you and you don't even know why. It can happen with anyone: it has nothing to do with being gay or straight.
He nods his head.
Yes, I know that.
I don't say anything, because I know he knows it from having felt it with me. Carlos was truly in love with me, and right now, judging by his attitude, it seems he still is: he's having a full-blown jealous fit. I'm terribly afraid of losing his friendship, which I value deeply, but I continue my conversation undaunted.
"Well, Carlos: if you know that, you also know there's nothing you can do about it. Right? I could have fallen in love with anyone else, male or female, and the outcome would have been the same."
He nods. After all, he couldn't deny it: he knows perfectly well that things are like this.
"The only important thing to know," I continue, reaching out to his hand across the desk "is that this doesn't stop me from loving others in any way. I love Antonia, my son, my parents, and I love you and Mayra a lot."
I try to hold back the tears that are welling up in my eyes.
"Carlos, I came back looking for you: that must mean something. If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have left things as they were, don't you think?"
He doesn't say anything, but I feel the ice melting. I conclude:
I really hope you and Mayra don't leave my life: I would be so sorry to die. 
He finally smiles, shaking his head.
"I really don't think we're leaving, Prince. In the end, you said what I wanted to hear."
I feel like a tractor-trailer with all its cars loaded has been lifted off me.
The sound of the door opening interrupts our conversation. It's Mayra, her hands full of grocery bags, followed by Bella, bouncing and cheerful.
"Hi, little ones!" she says, smiling. " I like driving around in cars, you know, Prins? I brought some food to stock the fridge, which is no good empty."
“Hi May,” I say, feeling greatly relieved: her presence always has the power to lift people’s spirits.
Do you want to eat something here?
No May, we are going to the pub, replies Carlos.
Oh ke pekato. Paxienxa, I will eat alone with Bela.
Bella, sitting under the desk, confirms with a bark.
Carlos gets up and throws his jacket over his shoulder.
Come on, let's go to the pub.
“Have fun!” Mayra greets us, heading to the kitchen.
I get up, say goodbye to Mayra and Bella, and follow Carlos to the John Lennon Pub.
…
We're sitting at our usual table, drinking two rare beers: he's chosen a Delirium Tremens (what kind of names do they give to beers?), and I've chosen a Kloster Scheyern Gold Hell, a beer with a complex and persistent aroma. Carlos seems serene, and I feel like I've had a lucky escape. I chat nonstop about this and that, carefully avoiding serious topics.
Around ten o'clock my cell phone rings: I quickly glance at the display, but I already know it's Gianni, ready to wish me goodnight as usual.
I'm caught between two fires: if I don't answer, Gianni will raise hell, and if I answer, I risk irritating Carlos. I opt for a tried-and-true tactic. I pretend to answer, but in reality, I press the "mute" button.
Hello?... What? I can't hear you. Wait a minute.
I cover the receiver with one hand and say to Carlos:
Sorry, I can't hear anything over all this noise. Do you mind if I go to the bathroom for a moment?
Do it, do it, he replies with a smile and a wave of his hand.
I get up and go to lock myself in the bathroom.
Hi, Gianni.
Hi, little one. It took you so long to reply, why?
I had to leave the room, it was too crowded.
Which room? Where are you?
I'm in a pub.
A moment of silence.
Oh. And I assume you didn't go there alone.
Well, no, Gianni: usually you go to the pub in company.
"Usually." And specifically, puppy?
In the company of Carlos, a friend of mine.
But are you two alone?
Yes, we're alone. I mean, there are a lot of people, but not with us.
Another silence.
Baby, let me guess: is this Carlos by any chance the two-meter-tall mixed-race I saw in the photos on your cell phone?
"Gianni!" I exclaim, scandalized. "What are you doing, secretly rummaging through my cell phone?"
Well, yes, darling, I searched your phone. You know, it's common practice between lovers.
But it's not common at all! I mean, I've never done it.
It's obvious you've never really been in love. But don't change the subject: is it him?
Yes, it's him, but he's not mixed-race: he's Cape Verdean.
“But little puppy!!!,” Gianni exclaims, in an alarmed tone, “he’s a beast all muscles and with spectacular hair, not to mention his eyes, which seem cast in bronze!
So what?
And you don't mean to tell me you're indifferent to a space-cool guy like that! I mean, I would have been totally freaked out at your age,... and I still am now, if I weren't engaged.
Oh, now too? Well done!
I said "if I weren't engaged." But don't beat around the bush, we were talking about you.
I'm not at all indifferent, since I'm his best friend.
"Puppy!!!" Gianni shrieks, on the verge of hysterics. "You're cheating on me and you're not even telling me!!! This goes against all our agreements: you can't do something like this to me, do you understand? You can't!!... If you cheat on me, you have to at least let me know, so I can kill myself."
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
“Gianni,” I whisper to him, “I’m not cheating on you, I swear.”
I can't believe it! What are you doing at this hour at the pub alone with him? Why aren't you cozy up in your bed like usual? Oh my God, baby, I feel faint!…
"Gianni, hey, Gianni..." I hasten to reassure him, feeling like he's having a heart attack. "Don't worry, we're just friends. We see each other every day because he works at the nursery with me. We've known each other for years, there's nothing forbidden between us. My friend Mayra is his sister..."
Gianni is panting.
"Breathe, Gianni..." I say softly. "Don't worry, I'm a faithful guy, I told you. I can't have more than one love at a time."
And what love do you have now?
It's you, you idiot.
I feel like he's secretly crying.
"Gianni… Giannino…" I whisper. For the first time, I instinctively call him by that nickname.
Giannino… he sobs. Do you know that's the name Massy calls me?
"No, I didn't know that, but he's right to call you that, because sometimes you really are a child.              Now, please, go to bed and try to have sweet dreams. I'll do nothing at the pub except have a beer and chat with Carlos. Then I'll go home and go to sleep with my big dog at the foot of the bed. That's all."
But before you go to sleep, will you send me a message? One with a little red heart...
Of course I'll send it to you.
Not the yellow one you accidentally sent me the other night. It was disgusting!
Yes, you're right, I missed it: the little yellow heart can't be seen.
And not even blue: it makes my soul cold.
I'll send you one in the reddest red possible.
“I love you so much, darling…” he whispers through his tears, and hangs up.
I sigh deeply, put my phone in my pocket and go back to the living room.
“Took you a while, huh?” Carlos comments, eyeing me with a wry look.
Yes: there were some little problems at home, but nothing serious, fortunately.
He smiles.
Cheers!
He hands me the mug and we make a toast.
My throat feels very dry: I drink in long gulps, almost choking on nervous thirst.
Sometimes it's really hard to be in the world.
One jealousy attack a day is more than enough: two is really too many.