The hang glider
(December 10, 1998)

Lean against that foosball table, darling. Open your shirt and fiddle with the chain... Lips half open... like this...
I look like a complete idiot, Gianni: all I need is foam at the mouth.
Yes, love, you're a half moron. You're perfect.
Okay, as a moron I'm perfect: that's nice to know.
Moron… but sexy.
Under the guise of sexy, you're making me look more of a moron than I am. I mean, I'm not particularly intelligent, but I'd like to be appreciated for something else, too, if you don't mind.
I'm not just taking your photos for fashion magazines, there are also art shoots: and there you play really fascinating roles, you have to admit.
Yes, those, yes. But I can't stand these anymore.
Don't be a naughty child, you know I appreciate your inner self too.
Yeah, right: you treat me like I'm mentally handicapped. It was different before, but now you really get on my nerves.
Do I really make you angry, little darling?
Yes, and a lot.
A lot how much?
Oh shit… well, there's no point in talking to you at certain times.
You're such a sweet little kitten, you know? Tender and fierce. I love it when you kick the ball of yarn: you roll yourself up in it, tie your own legs, and then you just stand there like an idiot waiting for someone to untie you.
Gianni, if I didn't love you…
…you would have already sent me packing. But you're not doing that, are you?
No I do not.
Because you'd break my heart. Now come over a little further, under that slightly rickety roof: it contrasts beautifully with the elegance of your linen suit. Your back against the wooden pole, your head tilted back a little… Well done, just like that.
The setting for the photoshoot is unusual, to say the least: we're in Lodi's old bowling alley, the last place you'd think you'd encounter a model in a runway outfit, especially out of season (the shoot is for spring/summer fashion). We're working on a shoot for Elle magazine, one of those things I've become very reluctant to tolerate: I have to appear scantily clad, with my shirt open despite the winter temperatures, my hair blowing in the wind, my gaze ambiguous and suggestive, and so on. Gianni doesn't like these fashion shoots anymore either, but they pay him to do them, and he needs to work to live: he likes luxury, and luxury costs money. From a professional standpoint, our relationship has changed: as he promised me, we now split commission earnings equally; we've practically become partners, a bit like with Bruno.
I look at Gianni and inevitably smile.
No, don't smile: make that pissed off expression again.
I swallow my smile, but inside I keep smiling: I was acting pissed off a little while ago, but obviously it was just pretending, and he understood perfectly. His lightheartedness touches me: he's rediscovered his joy in life and his surreal sense of humor, especially in moments like this, when we're engaged in frivolous and superficial activities. These are the moments when it's easiest for us to love each other: we're like two children playing, it's the perfect environment for us. We indulge in a few kisses every now and then as a kind of fuel, and then we get back to work —that is, play— with flying colors. The trouble begins when physical desire intrudes between us like a third wheel.
I've had to accept that sex between Gianni and me will be rare and difficult. Not out of fear: I've stopped being afraid of him; there have been no more violent episodes like that unfortunate time in the movies, and even the absurd ploy of the clothespin has been abandoned. Gianni has entered a dimension unknown to him, where he moves with wonder and caution, like someone who has accidentally entered a china shop and is constantly afraid of breaking something with a clumsy move; but I think he really enjoys it. As for me, I can abandon myself to sex like I haven't in a long time: I feel that he understands me in an intimate and profound way.
Is everything okay, then?
No, that's not okay at all.
My desire to "let go" has finally appeared to me for what it is: a selfish and self-absorbed pretense, a form of narcissism in which the other is reserved only for the role of a mirror in which to reflect my presumed beauty. And I no longer see myself as beautiful, because I'm not: I'm not beautiful inside. I simply feel stupid, because with my pretensions I'm making the person I love unhappy. 
Now put your back against that old pinball machine... A little to the left... To "my" left, darling, not yours. Look at me like you're trying to throw a shoe at my head... like that, good, perfect.
The more Gianni desires me, the more trapped he feels: it's a situation I've already experienced with Antonia and whose risks I know all too well. She had reached the point of total rejection; Gianni can't do it: he tried, but he was forced to backtrack and suffer the humiliation of begging me to come back into his life, something for which I appreciated him infinitely. It takes courage to admit something like that, and just as much courage to accept it. But I have to be careful, very careful: I've come back into his life, as I myself desired with all my heart, but unfortunately the soul is attached to a body, which, as Plato says, only creates a lot of trouble.
Our physical relationships leave him with a painful trail of remorse, because he feels he's betraying his former partner in a profound way, one that's not just physical. I see him gloomy and dejected every time he gives in to desire, and also worried, as if he fears he's no longer in control of the situation. He's used to being the director of his life and the lives of those around him; now he's no longer the one directing the game, and this makes him nervous and irritable. 
Then there was the painful incident of The man in the iron mask, in which he let himself be overcome by brutal bestiality, revealing to me a side of himself of which he's deeply ashamed. Now the fact that he can't abstain from sex, no matter how tender and affectionate it may be, confuses him. Sometimes he treats me badly for no reason, just to vent his nervous tension, recognizing me as guilty of a humiliating situation. Then he apologizes and hugs me, because he knows it's not my fault. 

Show off your feet, darling. Why are you hiding them from me?
But are you sure?
Absolutely, darling.
In complete contrast to my elegant attire, Gianni made me wear some truly hideous beach slippers with crisscrossed straps, revealing wrinkled, cat-poop-colored socks. Another of those brilliant and extravagant ideas he's known for in the industry, though certainly less unfortunate than the Smart car one. Sometimes I think back on that day and find it no longer so horrible, but simply hilarious: we all behaved like idiots.
Right now, Gianni is happy because he's the director, and so I'm happy to indulge him: I try to appear stupid, sexy, pissed off—in short, everything he wants. I can't stand seeing him depressed and discontented; I love him above all for his pathetic dependence on me and for the fact that he can stoically endure it without kicking me out of his life, unlike Antonia. I feel a deep affection for him and want him to be happy, not tormented by guilt: so I do my best to avoid leading him into temptation, starting with my casual and modest clothing: I wear shirts and pants that are too large, almost shapeless, but which don't deceive his connoisseur's gaze.
I've begun to hate being beautiful, even though I know that's essentially why Gianni loves me. Gianni is an aesthete; he certainly doesn't love me for my inner self: he lied a moment ago. After all, what's so special about my inner self that it deserves to be loved? This thought saddens me deeply: I wonder what would happen if, for any reason, like illness or an accident, I lost my beauty. I really don't think he'd love me anymore; I've never had the courage to ask him.
Furthermore, our relationship is one-sided: he doesn't allow me access to his body except for completely innocent caresses. But then I myself feel awestruck by him: there's a kind of invisible armor protecting his intimacy, something that inspires a strange respect in me, a reverential awe. The mere idea of performing a gesture like putting my hand in his underwear strikes me as vulgar and obscene. The object of desire must be me and only me, that much is clear: it's implicit in his gaze, which maintains an authoritative tone even in the most intimate moments.
But what is the meaning of all this, and above all, where can it lead us?
Every day I wonder if it wouldn't make more sense, at this point, to shift our relationship onto a completely platonic path: I'd accept it, especially for his sake, but he won't let me. I don't know if he does it because he desires me too much or because he's calculating, assuming I'd look for an outlet elsewhere. He doesn't understand me: I would never do something like that. I'm happy to share as much time with him as possible: every experience, no matter how insignificant, shared with him fills me with joy; I don't need sex to feel this way. I'd be satisfied with his kisses, that's all: I really wouldn't want to do without them. It's the only form of reciprocity I'm allowed, and that's why I hold it dear.
I don't know how to get out of this impasse, and in any case, I'm careful not to make any rash decisions; I'm stalling, but it's clear we need to find a solution. We need to find it together. I feel the time has come to discuss this with him. 
Now take them off completely.
What do I have to take off?
The slippers, darling, and the socks too.
But I stay like this, barefoot?
Yes. You have gorgeous feet, haven't I ever told you?
Yes, you already told me, don't you remember?
Oh, it's not like I can remember everything I say to all my models.
I understand. There are too many guys to compliment on their beautiful feet, I guess.
No, love, you're the only one with angel feet. I fell in love with you because of your feet, you know?
Yes okay…
You don't believe it?
Come on, stop kidding me. Let's get on with the work.
There's a fetish in him: this obsession with feet, for example. Besides, it seems to be a fairly common perversion, and I don't know much about perversions, because I don't have any.
Once the shoot is over, we head back to Milan. After a simple yet refined snack, as always with Gianni, at our usual bar, we head straight to the studio, where he immediately downloads the camera's contents to his laptop, which features a very large display.
He sits me down next to him, on one of his comfortable designer plastic chairs, and together we select the best photos.
This one next to the pinball machine looks really cool to me! You had a great idea.
Yes, you look gorgeous here.
Overall it didn't go badly: in some photos I even look like a real model.
He smiles at me.
Whether you like it or not, you "are" a model now.
Don't joke, Gianni. I'm still very embarrassed: you're the one telling me everything I have to do. And you know I'm not interested in this kind of career: I really enjoy your artistic and cultural services, like the one at the church in Merate.
I much prefer them too, but culture doesn't make money, my love, unless it becomes a trend. Look at Massimiliano's paintings, for example: he's managed to establish them in the circles that matter, so in Milan's upper class having a pair of Cattaneos at home is a must. His exhibitions are always a success.
I'll say it again: why don't you organize an exhibition too? You have some beautiful photographs, especially those of church and castle interiors, but also those of abandoned and ruined factories; they have an incredible charm and fantastic colors: they look like Impressionist paintings, like Monet's.
Thank you, darling: there really is something decent. Especially the ones in Merate, with you as Apollo and the angel Gabriel. I'll think about it.
I'll gladly give you a hand.
Thank you, sweetie.
He turns to me and hugs me gratefully. We end up in bed.