"Put this on," she adds. "In your pocket, not around your neck. Take off the necklace, too."
I obey like a robot. She slips something smooth into my hand and without further ado, she gathers her things from the lawn, turns her back on me, and walks briskly toward the exit.
I open my hand with a slight pounding heart: it's an image of the Miraculous Madonna reproduced on an oval ceramic disc. I mechanically pocket it and return to Gianni. I feel completely dazed.
“Is everything okay?” he asks me, smiling.
“Yes,” I reply, putting the bottle opener back in my bag and sitting back down next to him.
What a silly girl: she could have come here with the bottle, or taken the bottle opener, opened it herself and then brought it back.
Yeah.
I try to hide my emotions, but my facial expression is very altered. To hide my feelings, I find no better way than to lean my head against his shoulder again, panting slightly. He misunderstands my gesture and my intentions.
"I understand, little one," he says to me. "Let's go back inside the church, away from prying eyes."
Luckily, he didn't understand anything, but I really don't know what to do, how to explain my confused and upset behavior. For now, it's best for Gianni to attribute it to a sudden erotic crisis.
“Okay,” I reply. “Luckily, it’s deconsecrated.”
We return to the ruined building. I reflect on the fact that churches, especially those in ruins, have always been the focus of my erotic encounters: there must be a reason. In this case, the reason is easy to understand: I'm seeking protection from above, because I'm terribly worried; the previous experience with Gianni was truly difficult, and the encounter with that girl deeply disturbed me. But I won't have protection from anyone in a deconsecrated church.
Gianni takes me to a semi-dark corner near the apse and takes me in his arms again.
You boys wear jeans that are practically glued to you, I don't know how you do it.
Gianni, please…
I stop his hand. I'm in a state of feverish agitation: on the one hand, I long for his touch; on the other, I'm terrified.
What is it?
"How do you expect to unbutton my jeans if you don't take off your gloves?" I blurt out in a shrill voice.
Yeah, how stupid, you're right.
Finally, he takes off his gloves and places them beside him: this gesture eases my tension a bit, but I'm too nervous to be excited. There's a dead calm beneath my boxers.
“Don’t you like it?” he asks me, amazed. “Last time you did it all by yourself, without me even touching you, and now you look like a fish in a refrigerator.”
Gianni, for God's sake, don't you remember how it ended last time?
I remember it very well, little one: and in fact I've come up with a foolproof remedy.
What are you saying, Gianni? What's the remedy?
This.
I look up at him and my heart stops in my chest.
Gianni, what is that stuff?
I can't believe my eyes: Gianni has pinched his nose with a wooden clothespin, the kind used for hanging out laundry, to make sure he doesn't smell that "odor" that triggers his uncontrollable reactions. After a moment of irrational panic, my comic relief instinct takes over. I burst out laughing: the scene is irresistibly funny.
As I laugh, a thought occurs to me: there's no way Gianni would try to rape or kill me looking like this, unless he's completely crazy. Then I think about it more carefully: it's actually typical for serial killers to have these bizarre ideas; they like to dress up in absurd ways, precisely because they're crazy.
"Gianni," I say to him to lighten the mood, "how do you expect me to let go? You're so funny, come on, you look like Pinocchio! No, Duffy Duck."
Gianni laughs in turn, but does not desist from his advances.
You don't like Duffy Duck?
Yes, but I never thought of having him as a lover.
I'm not your lover, little one: I'm your partner.
It's not quite like that, Gianni, and you know it.
Oh yes, I am. You're Duffy Duck's girlfriend. Quack, quack.



He tickles my armpits. I laugh and try to fight back, but I can't: deep down, I want it too. I give in and surrender, but I can't help but be overcome by fits of laughter every now and then. I try to suppress them, but I have to keep my eyes closed to succeed. I think to myself that I had missed the experience of comical sex, and I never thought I'd be able to have it with Gianni.
Suddenly, a flash hits my brain: I see myself naked, wrapped in the red cloth. A jolt of terror shakes me, and I instinctively reach for the pocket where I've tucked the medal. I caress his face and say in a trembling voice:
Gianni, please try to be gentle. Please don't hurt me.
He looks at me without understanding.
Baby, you're shaking. Do you want us to stop?
The fact that he's willing to let it go should reassure me, but I don't feel reassured at all, given that he continues to talk to me as if nothing's wrong with that clothespin clamped to his nose. I don't know what to say to him; I'm in a state of panic.
Yes... , I mean, no…
He picks me up like a baby and kisses my forehead, turning the clamp upside down so he doesn't stick it in my eye.
"Gianni," I tell him in a small voice, "I know you don't like it like this, but since you're doing it for me, please be gentle. I don't like that violent drunk trucker thing. I told you I'm a bit retarded."
Drunk trucker?
Yes, sorry, I know the comparison doesn't apply to you, but that's exactly how I see it. I'm afraid I'm a little too feminine for that sort of thing.
Yes, you really are a girl, my love. My girl. Don't worry, I'll be as sweet as I can be.
Listen, let's do this: you stay still and I'll move, slowly.
"Darling, then I might as well not be here. I think I know what you like, let me try."
Okay, I conclude resignedly.
Gianni is true to his word; there's no trace of violence in his attitude. I feel like a small child caressed by his mother—a mad mother, though. I close my eyes, reciting a prayer to who knows who, and let myself fall into darkness. At the climax, I feel him catch my sigh with his mouth, as if it were the last breath of a dying man. I clearly formulate a thought: now he'll kill me, but he'll do it gently, because he loves me.
My eyes widen: no, I'm not dead. I check his reaction: he's perfectly calm and looks at me tenderly. The only discordant note is that clothes peg on his nose. I hug him with deep relief and kiss his cheek.
You had a brilliant idea, Gianni: the pliers trick worked perfectly. Bravo, really.

He smiles a little, scratching the tip of his now blue nose.
“I brought a spare pair of boxers,” I hasten to say. “I’ll put them on right away.”
I get up and quickly change, shoving my old boxers into my duffel bag. I pour a generous amount of baby powder into my pants, trying to achieve the innocent smell of a newborn, and then I sit down next to him again.
“Now do you think you can take that clothespin off?” I ask him, struggling not to burst out laughing in his face.
He elegantly removes the clothespin from his nose, which has left two red marks on his nostrils, and slips it into his jacket pocket with the composed and dignified gesture of a notary slipping a Montblanc pen into his pocket.
"Did you like it?" he asks, a little uncertainly, seeing the muscles in my face twitching with repressed laughter.
Yes, Gianni. Besides everything else, I also had a lot of laughs. Thank you so much.
"Is it so ridiculous to have sex with me?" he asks a little acidly. I realize I've made a blunder.
No, not at all. It's just that the circumstances were a little strange... But I really enjoyed it. Yes, a lot.
"A lot", he repeats, imitating me.
Sorry. I meant to say I really liked it.
He doesn't say anything. His silence worries me. I kneel before him and suddenly decide to drop the mask.
Gianni, I liked it, but I was very scared.
He looks up at me in amazement:
Scared of what, puppy? I didn't do anything wrong this time. I made sure I couldn't harm you.
I saw, Gianni.
You know what? I have a very brutal imprint when it comes to sex, as I explained, but this time I only felt great tenderness. No bestial instincts. I'd never felt this way before, you know? It was something completely new to me, very beautiful: I felt… lifted up, that's all.
Yes, I felt it too: in fact, I was perfectly calm while it was happening. But I was so scared... before.
Before? And why?
I blush to the roots of my hair, but then I tell him:
Because you were wearing gloves.
For a moment he doesn't say anything: he just stares at me. Then he says:
Honey, are you serious?
Yes, I'm serious. You were caressing me with your gloves on, Gianni. This isn't normal, you know?
Emmanuel, he sighs, I wear gloves because I'm allergic to citrus peel: didn't you see that I put them on to peel an orange?
I look at him in disbelief.
Allergic?
"Yes, my dear: painful sores open up on the tips of my fingers and I break out in hives. It's a shame, because I love citrus fruits, so I came up with the trick of wearing gloves so I can eat them."
I hug him eagerly.
Gianni, I'm sorry... I thought... I mean, I thought...
What did you think, little one? That I was going to strangle you? Good God, I see you even took off your necklace!!


I… I really don't know what I thought. Suddenly I saw myself as some kind of sacrificial lamb,      with that red cloth that looked like a pool of blood,      and then that parody of the Archangel Gabriel with his left arm outstretched instead of his right, and then sex in the apse of a deconsecrated church… It was all terribly esoteric, it had the air of a reverse, satanic ritual. In short, I was scared.
He stares into my eyes with great intensity and suddenly holds me tightly.
"Emmanuel," he tells me, "if I were to ever hurt you, I would kill myself right away. And I assure you, I'm in no hurry to die."
Sorry, sorry, really…
And anyway, darling, I want you to be clear about one thing: I won't do anything if you don't want me to. Really, I just want to make you feel good. If sex with me scares you, we won't do it anymore.
No, it's not that it scares me, Gianni. It's just that...
I understand, my love.
A mountain of ice suddenly melts and falls on me, drowning me in a sea of emotion.
We stay embraced like this for a few minutes, without saying anything else, and once again I feel like this is better than sex. Then I decide to ask him a question:
But, Gianni… and you?
Me what?
I didn't… I didn't do anything for you.
You don't have to do anything for me, my love. Absolutely nothing.
But why?
I've already told you, but I'll explain it better another time. Now let's go, I'll take you back to your car.
We stand and walk toward his Rover. As we walk away, hand in hand, I feel deeply disturbed, and not just by his last words: that girl who suddenly appeared, out of nowhere; her warning, the gift she gave me.      And then the absurd irony of the situation: I played the Archangel Gabriel in the shrine dedicated to the Immaculate Virgin, only to then desecrate it in the most pagan of ways by having sex with Gianni. But instead of condemning me, someone protected me, even if I don't know from what. In this utter confusion that is my life, I can only decipher love: everything else is obscure and incomprehensible.
Perhaps she never left, even though men drove her from this place, consigning it to death and abandonment. But she's still here, she lives here.
“I'm at home here.”