On the point of believing
Shrouded in the greyness of the day and the slight shiver of the first cold days, they were lazy as ever on that Monday in October. The chatter smothered the noises from outside and the first to run and see what was going on were the nosy parkers or those thirsting for news.
There weren’t any final blows being thrown, nor did there seem to be an argument brewing, there was just one tall, pleasant-looking middle-aged man, kneeling on the floor and picking things up. By now there was a crowd of spectators watching him and he had quietened down a little, but he continued to mutter insults and abuse as he moved. As soon as the floor was clear again the man got up, sighing. Then he set off along the empty corridor staring at a far-off spot, like a general ready to make history. Then, striding decisively he went in, and coming to a stop next to the door, he ran a hand through his hair and looked around, as if looking for something enticing.
 “OK, he might have had a bit to drink, but so what?” whispered a girl who was staring at him dreamily.
Is there something you want to ask me? The man asked her calmly.
No no, she stammered, bowing her head to hide the blush creeping over her face. She was the sort of person who couldn’t keep quiet at the slightest hint of emotion, thus triggering a series of unfortunate events, word after word. So she added: would you mind telling us your name, or at least introducing yourself? The ill-posed question caused brisk laughter and bar comments, some people set to work to make it even more awkward. He let the break fizzle out on its own just as it had started and, skipping the pleasantries of introducing himself, he set the group to work straight away.
The idea of having an alcoholic in front of them soon became a general sense, the only common thought the group had ever had. Just as quickly, snap judgements and litanies followed one another to fill up the breaks. It was said, for example, that the smell of alcohol in itself, repugnant as it was, sentenced him to isolation. The thing is, he didn’t like it either, he wasn’t bothered about contradictions, he didn’t believe in them, neither did he believe in big confessions, fit only for romance novels. 
A couple of months went by and the girl who spoke at the slightest hint of emotion kept on asking questions in her own way, beating around the bush with pointless repetitions. One Thursday in spring, she asked him if by any chance she could come closer, or in any case, speak to him from closer. Then the man shouted that girls who pretended to be free spirits were irritating and intolerable, so he got up and, leaving everything behind including the door which he slammed, set off towards the courtyard.
When he was asked where he came from, he replied that it didn’t matter, that it was late and he had to rush to the cinema. He didn’t go to the cinema, he went home and slipped under the covers to warm up. He had been following this routine for a while and it wasn’t really ideal, it was just that going along with good habits seemed bizarre to him. Spurred by a wave of good sense, he started to think about changing job, he didn’t always feel like communicating and this hindered his success at work. He ended up changing the position of the bed, the time of his alarm and the sheets and was on the point of thinking he could drink less gin without moving on. As usual in the case of fickle thoughts, he jumped to a swift summary and bravely began to think he could throw away old ties without moping about his downfall.
On an evening out with colleagues, he met a great woman. She had her hair in a tight plait like the weave of a chair and, waving his glass in the air as if it were a strong-smelling flower, he spoke to her about indecisive women who were unable to decide between passion and chastity.
The following morning, he had a peach tea, forgetting about laced coffee and the little biscuits that came with it. Therein he glimpsed a new hope and an injection of pride motivated him to start a new life. The fact that just one drink wasn’t enough for him to get through the evening was negligible, it was part of his routine. He wasn’t bothered about contradictions, he didn’t believe in them, he didn’t believe in big confessions either.
When he woke up, he wanted what he couldn’t have: a sun-drenched beach where he could spend endless mornings and aromatic coffee without sugar. Banning coffee seemed intolerable to him and while he was lolling about in the bathtub he thought about alcohol addiction and had a laugh. The doorbell interrupted his train of thoughts but it had to be the masseuse so, still dripping wet, he went to open the door. They greeted each other with familiarity, he told her he was going to make himself presentable and while she was waiting, she lit a cigarette.
Neither of them knew much about the other, but they had a silent connection, and the fact that they never arranged a date as such was a sign of their unspoken reciprocal arrangement. He usually gave her lunch and let her rest; she said the house was welcoming and well-kept. The day she declared her feelings, he was busy looking for socks, so he jokingly asked her if by any chance she had a pair with her. When he came out barefoot, even the walls were waiting for an answer. He put his shoes on with difficulty and then, in a conciliatory tone, said “let’s discuss it on a sunny morning where we can enjoy the peace and quiet and drink coffee”.
She looked confused as the weight of the rejection was alleviated by a sense of intimacy and with that same expression, she disappeared from the room. With the echo of her footsteps, she went down the empty stairs and disappeared amongst the crowd.
That sunny morning came, and that was already a good start for her. He still didn’t know what he would do or say; as always, he waited for things to happen until he was overwhelmed by them and when things went badly he ran for cover as best he could. Most of the time, finding himself tired and discouraged, he lay down on his sunbed and went back to waiting.
They sat down outside, in the best place available, said the waiter. Indeed, it was a lovely, comfortable sofa and the sun warmed him up. Both were wondering how to start the conversation in these cases, then he faltered in the silence and made a long and convoluted speech that she thought was sad for a man of his age.
After a brief pause during which they avoided looking at each other, he knocked back a strong drink and found a way to apologise, holding her hand. At that point, she psyched herself up to ask whether that was how he felt, whether he wanted a stable relationship or else…
Or else? He urged her harshly, and straight after he bowed his head. Meanwhile, she took a breath, she realised how much effort it was to be around him and she felt hopeless. Intending to wrap it up, he stood up. He said he wasn’t good with feelings, that you need to be patient for some things if she had still any patience left, but that he would wait for her between Sunday and Tuesday. Then he went away with the satisfied look of someone who doesn’t prepare their speeches because they come out well just like that. A few steps later, he came back to ask her for a lift.
It was nine o’clock on the 10th May and there was a sombre background buzz along the corridors. The news had come quickly but nobody could believe it. The day’s plans were turned upside-down, some people were in turmoil and weren’t hiding it.
Professor Romano, the gentleman on the verge of believing he could drink less gin without moving on, had been killed. Caterina, who was living with him, had found him face down next to the front door and, panicking, had called for help. In a state of shock, she recounted everything she knew, his last hours of life, the details she remembered and finally, their relationship, which had started with massages and ended up there.
For three days, Irene’s desk had been empty and a friend commented that this was a good thing: in the midst of the upset and the silence that followed the sad discovery, there was no place for her strange questions or for the falsely cheerful spirit that motivated them.
Someone ventured that everything would be cleared up quickly and without serious consequences as this is what happens in cases like this, where the investigations closed in around routine.
Irene, holed up in her room, was exhausted by a nervous breakdown that wouldn’t let her be. She felt awful for having loved him without saying anything to him and for having embarrassed him in front of everyone on various occasions. Because of this and for other reasons she couldn’t explain, she was in bad shape. Weak and malnourished, she thought about the feeling experienced only in her head, of the agony and the expectation. How could she forget his eyes? They swept over her quickly like a train driven by a strange euphoria.
He would never smile at her again or say good morning, not to her or to anyone else, and this thought tormented her not so much for a sense of human compassion towards those who are no longer here, as for the loss, because something important had been lost and she with it.
Even when she had got herself back together, she didn’t ask about the investigation, despite knowing that the school would also be involved, if only for the chatter it caused among the people. Having got to this point, all she could think about was finding out about his past. What else could she do after all, obsessed as she was with remorse and regrets? 
By a strange twist of fate, she met Riccardo, the professor’s nephew, a confident twenty-something who did his best to tell her everything he knew about the man’s life, without leaving out personal comments that left her perplexed. He was obviously special to the professor because he knew stories and details about him, almost as if he were his son. When Riccardo left to go home, Irene finally had the possibility of putting the pieces together. 
The professor had been passionate about stories and he wrote in a continuous stream, just to stay in shape, he used to say. “To write a story, you just have to put pen to paper”, he was told by a boy who wrote many good stories very quickly. He liked this saying, so he repeated it, even if it wasn’t always in keeping with his clear simplicity; sometimes, he used it sarcastically and with a vague sense of madness. He enjoyed writing but he didn’t feel like a writer because “writers are never sure about anything”. When he felt like it, he said things like that, other times he remained silent in his wrinkled coat. When he was young he married a pretty girl, it seems he too was a good-looking guy. The marriage ended after a few years, they didn’t have children because he didn’t want any and this led them to a painful separation. As for the matter of alcohol, he never wanted to talk about it seriously, he just joked about it, he certainly had never come across anyone who saw things as he did. And call it solitude or stubbornness, the result didn’t change as there were days in which he was unpresentable even to himself.
Even to himself. That’s what Riccardo said, while twisting the edge of his shirt as if he were alone inside a closed room. This business upset him, although he tried to hide it.
Irene made the ultimate choice, to stop hating herself.
First of all, she met up with Caterina. They were sitting opposite each other, the kitchen table was small and narrow and the tablecloth too long. It made Irene think about a doll’s house, but this was just a fleeting thought.
Caterina seemed happy because someone was finally interested in her, but she was no longer used to being with people and she couldn’t think of anything to talk about except for the empty fridge and pets. Irene wanted to know more about that morning and once, twice, three times she asked her about the professor. It was in vain, she wasn’t listening.
Irene’s heart was beating quickly, her eyes were glassy and her vision was slightly foggy. She still had the imagination of a child, and perhaps she took her inspiration from comic book heroes to gather her strength, getting straight to the point. Thus, she shouted that she wanted the truth with no more beating around the bush.
Caterina drew back shouting for help but, like in her worst nightmares, she was rendered speechless. Irene, meanwhile, had confidence in her abilities so she sat back and waited.
The other woman had her back to the wall and slid down slowly, then with her hands on the floor, the words she could no longer hold back came spilling out.