At this point, a fierce battle unfolds inside me. Half of me remembers that I'm male and that this was the woman of my life; the other half has a heart that bleeds for Gianni.
I don't know whether to return her kiss: I want to, damn it, but I can't. I firmly grip the phone I keep under my pillow, as if it were Gianni's hand, and turn my head to the side.
I can't, Antonia I tell her.
“Can’t you even give me a kiss?” she whispers .
I can't "particularly" give you a kiss: it's the most intimate gesture I can conceive. I can't, I'm sorry, I really can't. And above all, I shouldn't.
She doesn't say anything: she moves her face away from mine and sits on the bed.
"Antonia," I tell her with a heavy heart, "hard times are coming for me: I must harden my body and my spirit. If I give in to the first temptation, it's the end for me. I could never forgive myself for having betrayed and abandoned a man who trusts me, a man to whom I am bound by a deep affection. Please understand me, if you can.
She is silent for a while, then slowly nods.
I think I can.
She leans down to kiss me again, this time on the forehead.
Good night, Antonia. Thank you for the lovely afternoon and the gift. Your cashmere scarf is gorgeous.
You're welcome. Good night, Emmanuel.
She smiles and walks away.
My forehead is beaded with nervous sweat. I take my phone out from under the pillow and check the display: strangely, there's no call from Gianni, not even a single text. Suddenly, my heart fills with cold. I can't call him, because Massimiliano would notice. I risk a timid text, a little red heart with a question mark, and wait. No response.
Needless to say, I can't sleep in those conditions. I stare at the ceiling for a long time, my heart racing. What's wrong with Gianni? Why doesn't he call me?
Damn, I really don't know what to do.
Suddenly, after an hour of torture, my cell phone rings. I answer immediately.
Gianni!
Hello, little one, what's that alarmed tone?
Nothing, sorry, it's just that you usually call first and I was afraid something had happened to you.
And in fact something happened to me: I argued with Massy all evening.
Why?
He says my latest photos aren't up to par with his previous ones and don't deserve an exhibition. As if all his paintings were beautiful! Some of them are awful, but he's a big name in Milan now and can afford anything. Having a Cattaneo in your home is trendy, even if it's rubbish. Those cats with fishbone whiskers he's been making lately... They're hideous, kitsch junk. I was pissed off and told him so to his face, and he yelled at me that I don't understand anything about art and called me a stupid little woman.
A stupid little woman?
Yes, with a chicken brain.
Come on, Gianni, I can't believe it.
Exactly. And he ordered me to keep my mouth shut until further notice, unless it's for... well, you get the idea.
I understand, Gianni. That must have been a really unpleasant discussion.
"He's insulted me to death. Tonight I'm sleeping on the couch, and there's no way I'm going to his room. I know he's waiting for me to make up, but I can't share a bed with someone who despises me and paints cats with fishbone whiskers."
A deep tenderness invades me.
Don't worry, Gianni: we'll do a couple of sessions in those places you know, abandoned factories or ruined churches, and you'll see that the result will be wonderful as usual.
Thank you, little one he replies with a voice broken by emotion But which churches?
I am speechless for a moment.
Well, I don't know: for example the one in Merate, where we were the other time.
But, darling, I didn't go to Merate with you.
My glottis is blocked. I can't say anything, I remain silent for several seconds.
"Gianni," I finally say, struggling to articulate the words through my dry throat, "of course we went there together, don't you remember? We took pictures with me dressed as the Archangel Gabriel and then as Apollo."
A shocked silence follows.
But are you sure?
"Of course I'm sure, Gianni! Damn, there are photos, the ones from the exhibition! Don't you remember the countess bought a life-size print of my photo? "Apollo in a Gothic Church"!
Yes, maybe you're right.
Anger and pain merge in my tone of voice.
No, Gianni, I'm not "maybe" right: I'm just right, damn it!
"Okay, okay, but why are you so angry? I just had the impression I went there with someone else… a redhead. I don't remember his name now."
“Christian?” I ask, stunned, unable to believe my ears.
Yes, that's right: Christian! How do you know that?
My heart stops in my chest.
Gianni, it's me Christian. You had me dye my hair, don't you remember?
Again a long silence.
Oh yes, how silly: it's true, it was you... My God, what an unforgivable oversight! Were you offended, love?
No, not at all offended: I'm just... worried, that's all. Very worried.
But you don't have to worry: you know that for me, only you exist. It's just that Christian the redhead has remained in my heart.
Anyway, Gianni, in Merate my hair was still blonde.
You looked good with red hair, but you look good without it too.
It makes me want to cry.
Gianni, we even made love that day… Do you remember it now? Tell me you remember, please.
Of course I remember: you started laughing during sex, how could I have forgotten?
He laughs. I laugh too, sweating coldly, only partially comforted by the fact that the matter has finally returned to his mind.
"I love you so much, darling, whoever you are," Gianni concludes with emotion. I suddenly understand that in that "whoever you are" lies the key to everything. His hand is outstretched in the emptiness of a mind that is losing its way, reaching for mine, without caring who I am: he just wants me to hold it and let him know I'm there. Who I am doesn't matter. My acceptance must be total: "for better or for worse."
“Do you really love me, Gianni?” I ask, trying not to cry.
So much love. I love you so much. I don't know what I'd do without you.
At this point I'm really crying, but silently.
Are you seriously going to help me take really good photos? Because Massy says they have to be really good, and not just a little good, to be worthy of an exhibition.
Of course I'll help you, Gianni: and they'll be beautiful.
Thank you, my love. Good night, I'll talk to you tomorrow.
See you tomorrow, Gianni: try to sleep well, even if you'll sleep uncomfortably on the sofa.
Not at all: it's a top-brand sofa bed and very comfortable. I've already put a goose down duvet in it, like the ones you like, in baby blue.
Do you really remember that I like goose down comforters?
"Of course not. We went to the mountains and slept together, and you kept making a crazy mess with the feathers, rolling around in bed and saying you really liked that rustling sound. Where was he already?"
It doesn't matter. The important thing is that you remember we were together.
Of course I remember.
Sweet dreams, Gianni.
Thank you, my love, you too.
Hang up.
For a while I let the tears flow; then I wipe them away and gather my courage: the photos will be there, and they'll be beautiful. I don't know how this will happen, but it will happen, I'm sure of it.
Faith, and love, can move mountains.