Nursery school.
(end of February 1999).

Thanks for the lovely birthday present, May.
Nothing, Prins: it's just a little knitted sweater.
It's gorgeous, soft, and warm. The belt Carlos gave me is also beautiful, made of real leather, nice and thick, just the way I like it.
Carlos loves you, Prinsy, even if he's a little jealous…
Jealous of what? Of my relationship with Gianni?
Yes, Manu. Now you're friends, but before he was in love with you.
I know, Mayra.
Then he saw you were with some women and he got smart. He loves you like a brother now.
He's like a brother to me too.
But he doesn't understand very well why you like another male now, eh! And then so older than you.
I shake my head.
I don't understand it either, Mayra. It's one of those things that hits you like a train and you can't do anything about it. All I know is that I get along great with Gianni: he entertains me, he relaxes me, he lets me do a lot of interesting things... And I like him: he's a charming, cultured and witty man, even if he's crazy as a goat.
Exactly.
I love that madman very much, perhaps precisely because he's mad. His dependence on me makes me feel very tender: if he spends even half a day without hearing from me, he goes into a state of hysterical agitation, becomes confused, no longer understands what he's saying or doing.
Because he loves you, Manu.
I really think so. When he sees me, he calms down and almost returns to normal. Now I've become his collaborator, you know? Not just a model anymore. We still take photos for fashion magazines, but only to earn a little money. Most of the time, we discuss his projects together, we go to ancient churches, castles, and abandoned factories to take artistic photographs: he's brilliant, he immediately understands the right light to transform any object into a work of art, with magical shades of color. His first exhibition was a success: he plans to organize another, and I'm happy to help him. I inherited my love of art from my mother; I really enjoy this type of work.
Yes, but enough with the kabèlu rostu: you're blombadu and you're fine like that. Don't dye your hair anymore, or you'll ruin it.
You're right, Mayra: I had to wash it I don't know how many times to get the dye out. I told Gianni I was fed up with this masquerade, and he resigned himself. So far, I've only put up with it to please him: being happy comes with its own price.
I'm glad you're happy, Manu.
Yes, I am. Or rather, I would be, if I weren't worried.

I freeze, not knowing whether to talk to Mayra about this.
Preocupado da kùza?
Gianni has terrible ups and downs: it's like being on a roller coaster all the time. And lately, he's been making a lot of mistakes.
Mistakkes how?
Mistakes that may seem trivial to you, but are absurd for someone like him. Let me give you an example: the other day he was unsure whether to mount a Zeiss or Leitz lens on his Canon.
This doesn't seem like a serious mistakke to me.
For an ordinary person, no, but for a professional of his caliber, it certainly is: he told me a hundred times that the Leitz's superiority lies in its chromaticity, transparency, three-dimensionality, brightness, detail in shadows, and other things like that , while with the Zeiss, it's like seeing things through colored glasses, which is a whole different story. It was as if he suddenly forgot it: I reminded him, but he took offense and replied curtly, "Don't teach cats to climb." That thought had vanished from his mind, a true memory lapse.
Maybe he's just a little tired.
Maybe. But he does drop things, and that's never happened before. The last time he dropped the lens while he was changing it, and it shattered.
Oh, what a pity! I think it costs a lot of money.
Indeed. Now, however, he seems to have recovered somewhat: he doesn't say so many strange things anymore and is completely focused on preparing the new exhibition. I'm giving him a hand, because sometimes he has strange uncertainties, but his latest photos are very beautiful, in my opinion: his ruined castles have an extraordinary charm, they convey a sense of the sublime like Friedrich's paintings.
That's nice, Prinsy. Are you still in the photos?

Sometimes, yes, but he makes me play ghosts or something like that, sinister and macabre presences. He says that beauty, in certain circumstances, is even more disturbing.
What an ugly kuza, Manu! You're so bunitu and he makes you act like a ghost?
Yes, but I don't care: I just need to see him happy.
I sigh, shaking my head, and change the subject.
I'm not coming to the greenhouse this afternoon, May: I'm going to Antonia's. She's also keen to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Martino turns two in a month, so I thought I'd bring him a little present early, too: a really cute educational toy. I'll get him something else in due course.
You love him, eh, Manu…
Yes, very much. Can you hold Bella for me this afternoon, please?
With pleasure: you know we are good together, me and the dog.
Thank you, you're a treasure.
Watch out for Antogna, Prinsy.
Surprised, I look at her.
Watch out for what?
You still like that woman a lot, and she knows it.
Mayra, my heart is completely occupied with Gianni.
I know, but there's not just the heart. There's more.
You underestimate me, May.
Be careful not to overestimate yourself, Prins.
I smile and give her a little peck on the cheek.
See you tomorrow. I'll leave you my office cell phone: if Bruno calls, tell him I might have a client for the houses in Albugnano.
All right, Manu: good afternoon.

…
And this green animal with long legs is called a "rana." "Rana," see? It's also written underneath: "Ra-na".
I gave Martino an educational game called "My First Words": it contains about forty colorful and beautifully designed cards to teach him to speak well and appropriately, connecting sounds with images and also starting to visually associate the signs of written nouns with their respective phonemes.
"Ra-na": try repeating it after me.
"Ra-na," Martino repeats without any difficulty, looking at me sideways with the air of someone who thinks he's dealing with a slow-witted adult. Indeed, he carries out these requests with complete ease, just as he has no hesitation in fitting the pieces of the wooden children's puzzle I gave him last month into the right places. He's particularly good at memory games: he remembers the positions of the pieces with aplomb and associates them without hesitation.
You're great, Martino! You always got it right. Now, if you want, you can rest and go play with Lego in your room with Gino.
"Gi-no," he replies in a slightly mocking tone; he gets off the chair and trots off toward his bedroom, followed by the cat.
I have the distinct impression that my son, much more mentally gifted than I am, has endured this educational game just to spare me the displeasure. Suddenly, I feel silly. Antonia, however, smiles at me.
That's a very nice game you gave him, Emmanuel.
Yes, I like it a lot. But maybe he doesn't.
He prefers electronic games, but I disagree. They even have it at nursery school, you know? Martino will be able to play it there too.
I remain silent for a few seconds.
At nursery school?
Yes, of course: he's almost two years old, Emmanuel, it's time for him to go.
I feel a strong sense of discomfort.
Sorry, Antonia, why?
Because I want to get back to work: I have no intention of continuing to be supported by your brother, and a little by you too.
"A little": I take the hit. What I manage to give Antonia for Martino's upkeep isn't much, and almost all of it comes from my clandestine work as a fashion model, because what I earn from the nursery barely covers living expenses and Mayra's salary: unfortunately, the bulk of my earnings still goes towards paying the installments on the loan my father and brother gave me.
Antonia, I've almost finished repaying the loan to my parents: later I can be more generous with you two.
But I don't want you to be more generous at all: I want to support myself. Yes, I know you care, and I thank you, but for me it's a matter of principle: I've received several substitute teaching offers from schools in the Turin area, and I've already accepted a couple. My university record is a guarantee, and despite the decline of public schools, there are still principals who care about Latin and Greek.
"I have no doubt about it, Antonia, and you're very good. But let's get back to the nursery: why is it necessary for Martino to go there? Can't your mom take care of him anymore?"
"But Emmanuel, do you think a woman my mother's age can look after a two-year-old child every single morning? She has the right to make her own life, poor woman."
Yes, sorry, I said something stupid. But I can take care of him a couple of mornings a week, if you trust me: I keep him with me at the nursery.
I would keep him with me even longer, if it weren't for the fact that I have to go to Gianni's studio in Milan at least two days a week.
I think he would have quite a good time, I add.
I doubt it, I don't think he has any botanical interests, but I appreciate your consideration.
And then he'd play with Bella, and Mayra would make him delicious desserts and happily let him play. She has a strong maternal instinct.
I see Antonia is hesitating: after all, she doesn't particularly like the idea of nursery school either. I insist:
But what does he think? His opinion is important. Does he want to go to nursery school?
No. He doesn't want to go there yet. I've brought him a couple of times, and he immediately started throwing a tantrum to go home.
"He wouldn't be my son if he couldn't wait to get into some kind of school. Leave him alone for a while longer, Antonia. Seriously, we can take care of him, we can organize ourselves somehow."
"Actually..." Antonia continues, her face darkening. "There's also the problem of vaccines. They're becoming mandatory, and there are far too many: polio, tetanus, diphtheria, whooping cough, measles, mumps, rubella..."
At this point I've had enough: I decide it's time to be a father.
"Antonia," I tell her, with the utmost authority I can muster, "I'm against it. I can't tell you why; it's more a matter of intuition than anything else, but in these things my intuition is rarely wrong."
I expect Antonia to reproach me for the fact that my intuition, at the time, had not suggested me to stay away from drugs, but at this moment I have neither the desire nor the time to delve into the psychoanalytic explanation of my adolescent cupio dissolvi, in which she had played a significant role: there are far more pressing matters to deal with. I wait a few seconds for her rebuke, but since it doesn't come, I continue in the same tone.
I'm absolutely against it: I feel like all this can't do them any good. Polio, tetanus, and diphtheria are fine, but what about the others? We've all caught measles, mumps, and everything else at home. And besides, we can't inject ourselves with a little bit of everything in the illusion that it will protect us from every disease: that's an idiotic and dangerous idea.
-Whoever invented vaccines did it for our own good.
You mean Jenner? He lived in the eighteenth century, Antonia: a few years have passed since then. He probably did it with the best intentions, but these days, those who say they want our best are generally lying through their teeth and trying to screw us over, starting with our leaders.
I catch my breath, while Antonia, with her arms crossed, lets me continue, looking at me with some attention.
Have I ever told you about the nightmare I had when I was five or six years old?
No, I don't think so.
I dreamed I was in a labyrinth of corridors, in total darkness; I had to hide behind every corner because I was being chased by doctors in white coats with syringes in their hands, desperate to inject me with something. I ran through the maze with my heart in my throat, terrified of running into one of them around a corner.
A horrible nightmare.
Yes, absolutely. I've always thought of it as a premonitory dream.
I hope not, even if it seems to me that the situation is taking a bad turn.
And then, sorry, as a child I jumped and played like a goat, I ate things that fell on the ground, I grazed my knees and immediately went back to running without even disinfecting myself. Good God, we need to build an immune system!
She smiles.
"You're not a reference for anyone: you belong to a species all your own. Martino isn't like you: he's a delicate child."
"Antonia," I repeat peremptorily, "I'm against it, okay? I'm against it, and that's it: Martino is my son too, will my opinion count for anything or not?"
There's no need to get so worked up , Emmanuel: I'm against it too.
Oh, look, I see we agree on that at least. However, something's been amiss in the minds of our politicians for some time now. Granted, we've always been a US colony ever since the so-called liberation, but now something's really going wrong. I don't know what, I just know I don't trust these people: it seems to me they're taking orders from someone who wants us dead.
She smiles again, evidently not taking my political-economic analysis too seriously.
There's little to smile about, Antonia. They're tricking us with linguistic manipulation: they say one thing to mean the opposite. If they say it's for our good, you can be sure it's for our bad. This applies to the economy as well as the new vaccines they're forcing on our children. They can't do them any good; they're not doing it for their own good.
Yes, I think so too.
Since we are fortunately in agreement on this, I'll change the subject.

Have you already done any substitute teaching?
Yes, and right at your former school, Gioberti. A month of substitute teaching.
And how did it go?
Not as bad as I thought. School's not for me, you know, but I like teaching. My relationships with my colleagues are like "good morning" and "good evening." In those grotesque meetings they call class councils and faculty meetings, I stay silent, except when I have to express my opinion, then I walk out and leave it all behind.
And with the boys?
The kids respect me. I'm very cool with them, very professional, and this intimidates them: so they stay quiet and attentive.
How do they do with translations?
Very bad. Or rather, generally very bad, but with a couple of exceptions.
Worse than me?
You did quite well, Emmanuel.
Yes, let's say I always managed to get the meaning out.
"Exactly. Not them, almost none of them. They do better in oral exams: they're pretty studious kids, I can't complain about that. I even manage to fit teaching into my university commitments. Naturally, I'm careful not to get caught up in the competitive exams: I absolutely don't want to become a tenured teacher; they'd tie me hand and foot to a single school. For goodness sake. There are other things I want to be stable in, like my home: I feel exactly the same way as you, I've always wanted to own a house, even a modest one, and Michele has been wonderful: with the money from the sale of our villa in Pecetto, he managed to straighten out your parents' financial situation a bit and even buy this little house, which I adore."
I nod silently: what could I say to her? I must acknowledge my brother's superiority and generosity. Unfortunately, I'm not capable of doing the same: I started fifteen years late.
Anyway, to wrap up the discussion, we agree on vaccines. But then what do we do with Martino? Don't send him to school?
Yes, exactly: if the conditions are like this, we won't send him to school. When the time comes, we'll take care of it: we're perfectly capable of providing him with a basic education, the two of us; and on top of that, there's Michele, who's doing his part wonderfully.
Fortunately, for now, these conditions only apply to daycare centers and preschool, not to compulsory education. I don't think the state can bar unvaccinated children from compulsory schooling: it's a contradiction; if you force them, you obviously have to allow them to attend. As for daycare, as I said, Martino can't stand it, so I think you're right: we'd better try to organize ourselves as best we can.
Thank you, Antonia.
She smiles.
Thank you, Emmanuel.
I feel a pang of paternal pride for my strange son who doesn't know he is one.
He's a child with clear ideas. Who knows if one day you'll decide to tell him the truth, Antonia.
I will, Emmanuel, but it's still too early now: I can't tell him that his father, whom he thought was dead, has suddenly risen again.
I shake my head: there's no way to make Antonia understand that this whole affair, built on a huge misunderstanding, can do no good to anyone, and that delaying my resurrection further complicates matters. 
"And then..." Antonia adds with some hesitation, "you're with that man now. This doesn't seem like the right time to tell him you're his father."
I sigh.
Antonia, please call a spade a spade: what you meant was that you don't think it's appropriate to let him know that he has a gay father.
No… or rather, yes, a little bit – she admits.
Oh, right. There's no point in me telling you he'd never see us together, right? I've already told you at least ten times.
Yeah, I know. It's just... maybe I'm the one who can't get used to the idea.
The bitter tone with which he pronounced these words undermines my polemical attitude.
I'm sorry, Antonia: I didn't mean to disappoint you. Things turned out this way partly because you didn't want me yourself... I would have married you, you know that. But maybe you were right, maybe you sensed that I wasn't... I wasn't a real male, that's all.
She looks at me with strangely tender eyes.
Of course you're a male, Emmanuel. Do you think I don't know? You've been such a sweet and passionate lover to me. A true gay man can't love a woman with such passion.
Maybe you're right. I can't even explain what's happening to me. The fact is, I fall in love in a disorderly way... I don't know how to put it, it's not my fault.
Yes, very disorderly. When you fall in love, you're so happy that happiness blinds you, takes away your sanity.
Suddenly my stomach tightens. I hesitate, not knowing whether to tell her.
Antonia, I'm not happy right now...
She looks at me with wide eyes.
Aren't you? Things aren't going well with your photographer?
No, it's not that. It's just that, unfortunately, I have the feeling that Gianni isn't well.
What's wrong? Is he sick?
No, he's not sick, but his head is no longer right. I don't know how to explain it to you, he's confused... He doesn't remember things from one time to the next, he confuses people and places...
He's too young to be suffering from dementia: if I'm not mistaken, he's not yet fifty.
Exactly. That's why I'm worried.
Instinct tells me I need to be cautious: Antonia's reaction could backfire on me, especially my role as a father, and I really want to see Martino. Suddenly, I look up and smile.
"I'm sure it's just a passing ailment," I reassure her, lying shamelessly. I feel like I need to change the subject: I can't air Gianni's ailments to Antonia. I feel like I'm betraying him. She's not Mayra, she's not the right person to understand things that can only be understood with the heart. Gianni is too mine to share with someone who doesn't understand him. I suddenly veer toward a frivolous topic.
Tell me the truth, do any of your students hit on you?
"Well, yes, someone's looking at me with those strange eyes kids have at certain times. You know, at that age their hormones are racing, and the teacher, still young and quite pretty, has a certain effect on them."
Oh, I know. I know it all too well.
But you just have to keep them in their place: that's all.
Aren't there any cute ones?
Yes, there is someone.
I decide to provoke her.
Does the thought of sleeping with one of those appetizing teenagers ever cross your mind?
Antonia turns to look at me with cold eyes.
Emmanuel, you really are an idiot.
I burst out laughing.
Yes, I was just saying…
I pause for a moment; then, assuming an almost serious demeanor, I add:
I mean, I was speaking mostly from personal experience.
More and more icy, she answers me:
Emmanuel, in case it wasn't clear to you, you were a one-of-a-kind experience for me: certainly not "some appetizing teenager to sleep with." I thought you understood that.
I laugh again.
"Come on, don't take it all so seriously. Of course I understand. I'm glad I was unique to you. I'm kind of jealous of my little privilege, you know?"
She sighs, rolling her eyes.
It's quite late: do you want to stay here and sleep? Your sofa bed is ready.
Yes, thanks, Antonia: I'm a little tired, I don't feel like getting back in the car; and Bella, luckily, is with Mayra.
That woman is a saint.
Yes, you can say that out loud.
I'm making something for dinner.
I'll help you.
…
And here I am on my incredibly comfortable blue sofa bed with lavender-scented cotton sheets: it always gives me a strange feeling to be here. I love Antonia very much, even though our love story can be considered over and my heart is occupied with Gianni. But woe betide if she and Martino weren't here: they are a constant in my life, something I somehow earned through both legal and illicit means, and to which I hold dear.
Antonia approaches me and, as usual, leans over to kiss me goodnight. Her citrusy scent captivates me as always. As she leans over me, her robe opens slightly over her breasts, and I suddenly remember that I'm not gay after all. I close my eyes: I feel her mouth on mine.