Книга - The Confessions Of A Concubine

The Confessions Of A Concubine
Roberta Mezzabarba


One day you will be happy, but first life will teach you how to be strong

A powerful novel, charged with strong emotions, with a cadenced rhythm. A story of domestic violence, of psychological abuse that will grab you in the gut. Mysia, a young woman, and her monochromatic life that step by step will become increasingly tinged with black, a black that knows sadness, fear, mourning. And in an escalation of violence, when the situation seems to become irreparable, impossible to bear, it will seem as if there is only one solution... But life is sometimes able to surprise us, and although this will not represent a fair reward for the wrongs suffered, perhaps over time it will be able to mitigate the memories, cushioning sharp edges and opening an unhoped-for glimmer of light. Every one of us deserves a life in color, deserves to finally be the architect of our own destiny, without succumbing any longer, to finally be free to love, to love each other.







This is a work of fantasy. Names, characters, places and events are imaginary or used in a fictitious key and any reference to people, living or dead, to facts or to truly existing places is purely random Original title of the work: Le confessioni di una concubina First edition

August 2020

IL PORTO

© 2020 La Caravella Editrice



Second edition in Spanish

Publicado por ©Tektime

December 2020



Third edition in English

Published por ©Tektime

December 2021

386 pages



















Roberta Mezzabarba







The confessions

of a concubine

Novel



Translator: Barbara Maher



















PART ONE
























A subtle fear of freedom exists,

so everyone wants to be slaves.

Everyone talks about freedom, of course,

but no one has the courage to be truly free, because when you are truly free, you are alone.

And only if you dare to be alone can you be free.



OSHO


1.

The confessions of a concubine



The confessions of a concubine.

That is all I am.

Nothing but the concubine of my heartaches, my dissatisfactions, my frustrations, my needs which are duly disregarded, ignored, trampled, vilified, despised, burnt at the stake.

That is what I am, mocked, deprived of all dignity, kneeling at the altar of the wishes of others.

Constrained

Forced into cramped spaces that are ill-suited to my desire for freedom.

At the end of each day, all that remains is a piercing sensation of emptiness inside me, almost



as if they had stolen my viscera.

And hope to still have the desire to escape and not listen to anything any more, and forget this torment that never leaves me.

At night I daydream of being able to break free of the bonds that I have allowed to be knotted around me, and be able to do without them. Be able to do without what little I am shamefully able to get by pleading.

Mine is a one-way life, the dichotomy between giving and receiving, between the agonizing desire to live and the existence that saps away moment by moment, in the vain attempt to have my life back, the way I wanted it.

And no answer from the void full of people that surrounds me.

Thus I have learned at take refuge in the solitary universe of colorless days.

Every time I realized it too late and, trapped, became aware of the role I should have



impersonated in that moment of my life, in that situation, while at night thoughts mingled with dreams, and dreams with memories.

With time I have learned at leave the ME that I would have liked to be on a hanger in the closet, and my life went on inexorably, in the attempt never carried out to escape from the inadequacy which no-one had ever been able to allay.












2.

Memories



As a child I always had an almost reverential fear of being judged by my family, by my parents.

I went through my life with uncertain steps always keeping an eye focused on the reactions that my actions aroused.

Never once was it necessary for them to tell me what they would like me to do, what my choice should be, what decision to make.

A look.

That was enough to carry out, unwittingly, their every will.

Maybe I could have made different choices, but this feeling never emerged from the antechamber of my thoughts, so it didn't exist in my head.



I just wanted to please, accomplish, also because that was all I knew how to do.

In those days, without realizing it, the little concubine had taken shape and began to move her first steps.

I remember that I was crazy about the music lessons I took from an elderly conductor who had settled not far from my parents' house, after retiring.

I waited impatiently for Thursday afternoon, the day I went to the teacher's house: he welcomed me into the living room and gave me music lessons, letting me practice on his piano.

One day, when I got home from school, while we were all gathered around the table and my sister Silvia was making an incredible racket on the high chair with ladles and lids, my mother smiled at me and said: "Mysia, your father and I have decided that you won’t be going to music lessons any longer, but starting next week you will attend the



artistic gymnastics classes at the municipal gym.

It’s not normal that all your peers are attending those classes, while you, with your music, withdraw into yourself more and more!"

It was a bolt from the blue. Nothing had let me foresee that sudden change, but I accepted my family's decision, albeit with regret, without saying a word.

I was not good at physical activity, so much so that the teacher always left me for last, and sometimes neglected to have me do the exercises which he made everyone else perform.

I have never had the feeling of being forced to behave in a certain way, I think I did everything with extreme levity, guided by the trusted hand of those who had had brought me into the world.

If it is right to follow the social and behavioral dictates imposed by the family in which we grow up, it is equally as right to ask ourselves questions, to interrogate ourselves with all the "ifs" and all



the "buts" that buzz in our heads.

But I had none, so blind was the trust in the hands that led me.

Wise guide who takes without asking, who obtains without demanding, who appropriates without thanking.

That time for example I could have told my family that I wanted to continue with music lessons, but I was not used to thinking things independently.

It all seemed so normal to me, when I think back, that if I had to make a decision with no relatives within sight I would put the world on pause and seek advice.

Advice, the stupidest and most presumptious thing you can ask and presume to give.

My grandmother used to say: "It’s one thing todie and another to speak of death. "

Perhaps only she never had the pretense to maneuver me, to shape me to her desires, dissect



me into parts and then keep the ones she liked and discard the disagreeable ones.

Perhaps only with her, without realizing it, the real "I" came out and moved dancing freely with her eyes closed.

I remember that we laughed out loud at the silliest things or that we were moved by watching the romantic movies, on television, that she liked so much.

She stroked my hair and made me feel unique in the world.

Unique... a beautiful feeling.

My adolescence was born and blossomed in the shadow of strict rules.

I never went out in the evening nor did I ever ask to be able to do so.

I took refuge in music and reading, which allowed me to escape from what I did not see as a prison, but which was that.



***



I have no unpleasant memories to erase, more a series of colorless days, spent dreaming of living a life like a tv show.

I studied out of passion and also to please my family though they never seemed to be satisfied, perhaps believing that in that way it would spur me to do better.

So I got used to believing that I was nothing special.

I rarely looked at myself in the mirror, I believed I was even a little ugly, simply because life had taught me not to trust in myself, in my potential.

Retracing my days backwards, I realize only now that the best was always expected of me, but once I attained it, it was not worth even a mention, a compliment, and the goal had always moved a few steps further ahead.

I graduated with honors, and even that seemed



like a given.

The teachers pushed everyone so that I could continue to study but my family did not sponsor this initiative, and it was taken for granted that I should look for a job.

So, from the bright future that I imagined in the evening while reading my books, I found myself accepting a position as a stock clerk in a supermarket in my city, and dating a guy that I wasn’t even sure I liked or not.

Filippo came into my life at a time when all my peers had been engaged for a long time, and my mother was continually asking questions about why I still didn't have a boyfriend.

I had not chosen him, in fact I had never even considered him before, and I had no comparisons to make.

One day at the public garden where we met on summer afternoons, with the cicadas singing their chant, Filippo proposed to me and I accepted.



I ran home, and out of breath, dragged my grandmother into her little bedroom: I told her what had happened to me and her soft cheeks went red and she gave me the sweetest smile.

"Mysia, be careful, the world is not good, but you are so dear that you deserve all the good of this world and what sparkling eyes you have!"

So I asked her, "How do you figure out who is the right person? And above all, where to find him and how?"

Then she patiently told me how she had met my grandfather, that I barely remembered.

"We didn't know each other, and I must say, my little one, that I was very lucky to meet him. But I was also good at bowing my head when the situation required it and teaching him to do the same. There is not the right person, Mysia. Two people must become right for one another, together."

A few days later, my grandmother had a stroke



that deprived her of speech, and of a good part of her body. My father's friends brought her home with her knees grazed and her glasses broken. She had collapsed and fallen down in the square in front of the parish church.

She looked at me with huge eyes, as if trying to tell me something. When we were alone, I put a hand between the bars of her cot and she squeezed it tight. From that moment I began to understand what it meant to feel helpless and alone.

I had a thousand questions in my head and no courage to ask anyone, so I never got answers.

My grandmother passed away one autumn

morning, silently, and her Argentinian laughter no longer resonated within the walls of the house, leaving an immense void inside me.

Life had snatched an important piece from me, the only person who had ever believed in me, who loved me completely, just as I was.

"You are imperfect and beautiful" my



grandmother used to tell me.

From the day she died I only felt imperfect.


3.

And feel that I am transparent



There are days when I feel beautiful, shining.

I look in the mirror and see my face reflected, turquoise eyes, small slightly full lips, freckles that sully the skin around my nose just a little.

I run my hands through my red, silky hair, dissolving thoughts with my fingers.

In those days, to see my husband ignoring me, hurts me so much I could die: he seems to give no importance to what belongs to him by right, by contract, and like a short-sighted person does not perceive what is close to him.

I have never made myself beautiful for others, but to be ignored in this way, to be transparent, irrelevant, less than an annoying fly, is



demoralizing, and you never get used to it.

Angrily I grab the usual clasp, discolored from all the times I have used it, and imprison my hair, and with the bite of those plastic teeth I wound my heart, my soul, my pride, my self-love.

And he doesn't even understand my angry gesture.

He gives me a quick glance, as if he can’t really bring the whole situation into focus, and as always I drown in this incomprehension, and suffocate tears that want to be freed, swallowing the bitterness and that lump in my throat that does not want to go down.

Tomorrow it will change, or rather, I hope that I will change tomorrow.



***



"This haircut really suits you, Mysia!"

Pietro’s voice spoke those words, boiling oil to my



ears.

I felt my cheeks and neck flush and instinctively lowered my gaze, not knowing exactly how to reply.

I wasn't used to receiving compliments, it had been so long that... I had wanted to hear those words from my husband's mouth, I had longed for this to happen in too many dreams, and instead here is that man who did not belong to me making my skin ripple with a shiver, making the longing for pleasure that hides inside every human being come true.

Pietro was a colleague who worked in

administration at the supermarket, always smiling, with slightly long dark hair, expertly disheveled.

To tell the truth I hadn't noticed him until his gaze had begun to lock onto mine, insistently. He had started saying hello to me, looking for opportunities to start a conversation with me. And



that’s where the first comments, the first veiled compliments began to arrive.

I listened, unaware, eager, pitifully in need of appreciation.

Strange, I must say, because my upbringing always prevented me from enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of being appreciated.

In my family compliments were a rare

commodity, then marrying Filippo had not changed the situation: he was such closed man that I often had the feeling that he didn’t even notice me.

But I had married him.

And now there was nothing to do, other than accept what the meal in front of me contains, without dreaming of other dishes.

Paying attention to Pietro's words was playing with disaster, I am aware of that, but as I listen to his words, every shadow inside my heart disappears in a flash.



But it doesn't last long: as the echo of those words fades away, as Pietro disappears from my sight, my heart freezes.


4.

The search for a life



Work, home, home, work.

That’s the life of a thirty-year-old.

My life.

As a girl I could never allow myself much entertainment, because it was not right to go out alone, much less in the company of my boyfriend.

Now because my husband prefers to doze in the armchair in the living room, instead of living.

Of course, this has not always been the case.

We wanted a child, only God knows how much I desired it.

Before the wedding it was almost as if I were fleeing from the idea of such a huge commitment, then as the months passed a space had formed



between us, a void I’d dare to say, that I thought I could fill with a child.

Filippo did not seem to have the same needs as I did, his job as a security guard was enough for him.

My husband was a good man, he made sure I had everything I wanted, but I was dismaye by his lack of sensitivity and his aloofness.

The menstrual cycle arrived inexorably at the end of each month to destroy my dreams, fostered in those three, four days it was late.

Two, three, four times.

It was too much.

Too many hopes shattered...

We each thought that there was probably something wrong with the other, a mechanism that did not work properly, a spark that did not fire at the right time.

Then once I was ten days late: I did not talk about it, as if this could make my dream



unbreakable, but it was nothing more than a soap bubble, beautiful, iridescent, carried on the wings of the wind, but destined to vanish in a plof.

Silently I let the minutes flow by, and the days and weeks became months.

For almost two months I cradled the idea of a baby in my thoughts, a grain of life that could give meaning to mine, that illuminated the darkness of my existence.

For quite some time, after that night, I had no more tears to cry.

I was awakened from sleep by pangs in my lower abdomen that seemed to want to tear my bowels apart.

In silence, dragging myself, I managed to reach the bathroom where a horrendous discovery awaited me when I turned on the light.

My nightgown was soaked in blood at the level of the groin.

I remember screaming just once.



Then nothing.

Then only the vague memory of my husband trying to bring me back to my senses, taking me in the car wrapped in a blanket, then the doctors, the nurses like working bees around me, the bright lights on the bed illuminating my nudity.

My baby.

My baby.

Give me back my baby.

Give him back to me.

Where did you put him?

Where?

Where?

Where did you hide him?

Where did you take him?

It was too beautiful.

I know it was too good.

I felt as if I had gone crazy.

Nothing made sense anymore, nothing seemed important enough to me to live.



Filippo was almost always sitting by the side of my bed, but he didn't look at me, he didn't talk to me.

In those days of pain, his presence was of no comfort to me, partly because I believed that he was there only because the situation forced him to be, partly because I felt I was obliged to endure his presence.

It seemed to me that the few times he turned his gaze to me, pointing his black eyes at me, he blamed me without the possibility of appeal for not having been able to guard the life of our son.

One morning I woke up and Filippo was already there.

"So do you realize that you weren't even able to keep my son. What kind of woman are you, but what kind of filth are you, that you can’t even bring a child into the world!"

His eyes flashed at me, and I could not hold his gaze and lowered mine.



"You don't even have the courage to look at me, do you?"

He walked out, slamming the door, making such a loud noise that it made me jump.

Silent tears began to slide down my cheeks, and I missed my grandmother in a painful way.

I closed my eyes, wet with the tears and imagined her ancient hands caressing my neck and cheeks. It was as if I could smell her perfume and the feel softness of her breast where I wished I could lay my head even for an instant.

At that moment my mother came in.

I hadn't thought of calling her, but maybe Filippo had.

"You must have overdone it with that work you have and here you are!"

My grandmother's sweetness had not passed to her daughter, my mother, even the slightest bit.

Inexplicable how such a kind person could bring a woman so different from her into the world.



Who knows what my son would have been like?

"Do you have everything you need? Are they treating you well in here?"

My mother was practical and reliable, a perfect life planner, impeccable, but in terms of feelings she was completely arid.

I answered her with a tired smile, without a word.

"But, my star, you are neither the first nor the last to have had a miscarriage, cheer up, sulking won’t help!"

I opened my eyes again and looked at her, to see if maybe I was dreaming everything, instead she was there in front of me, with her hands on her hips.

I wonder if my son would have looked like her or me?



***



The doctors kept saying that there had never been a fetus, that it had been an ectopic pregnancy, that I had not lost the life of a child because it had never existed, that I was so young that I still had many years to have a child, that, that, that.

Seeing the condition I was in, an elderly doctor tried to explain to me what had happened. He spoke to me in technical terms that reminded me of some science class.

"Dear girl," the doctor concluded, resting his warm hand on mine, "there was nothing you could do to make things different."

Having received the medical explanations of what had happened did not relieve the pain for the loss of my son, nor did it take Filippo’s accusations of not being able to bear a child, of being half a woman, from my ears.

I came home still in shock.

And just a few days later I wanted to go back to



work: being constantly busy helped me to stop tormenting myself, albeit for only a few seconds, with feelings of guilt that overpowered me and made me short of breath.

At

work

everyone

treated

me

with

condescension, and this hurt me because it gave me the impression that in fact there really was something wrong with me.

That niche, which I had prepared for my son, seemed to petrify, and a wall, an insurmountable rock, seemed to rise up from nothing between me and Filippo, that prevented us from having even the slightest contact.



***



For a couple of years we sluggishly tried to have intercourse, no longer with the hope of being able to procreate.

Filippo snarled at me, and spoke to me only 41



when forced to, in monosyllables.

From the tests we had done it appeared that neither of us was sterile, but only that we probably could not generate a new life together.

The miles of distance between us increased.

One day I had the misguided idea to propose a solution to my husband that had been buzzing around in my head for some time:

"Filippo, I thought we could adopt a child, and besides if we really can't have one ourselves...

there are many children waiting for a family. You know, I talked to a colleague at the office and she told me that in a few months we could be able to...

"Could what?"

"Adopt a child..."

"Are you kidding? Raising whoknowswho’s child, break my back for a brat who doesn't even have my blood? You're really crazy!"

The vase, which was cracked, had broken into a thousand pieces with those words.



He dozes on the armchair in the living room, in a singlet.

I dream of running away.

But how can I do that?

My parents would die, they taught me that you don’t do certain things, they would no longer be accepted in the parish, they couldn’t even go to the baker any more to buy bread and milk.

A commitment is a commitment, and it must be kept even if it involves sacrifices, even if it involves a little unhappiness.

In my case I could have said without any doubt: even if it involves giving up living.

And so I continued to vegetate.

The years passed.

And winters followed autumns.

Everything is normal.

Everything, except my existence, which wasn’t even a little like the one I no longer dreamed of, not even at night.


5.

Seeking oneself



I’d been doing it for some time now, and I noticed that Pietro also reciprocated the shower of looks that I launched at him every day.

Like a little girl I barricaded myself behind pathetic excuses: if no one sees you it’s as if you’re not seeking his eyes, it’s as if you didn’t want him to tell you every morning that you’re beautiful.

And Pietro, placid and undeterred, continued to return my glances, not doing anything other than give me the hint of a smile that opened his lips and gave me a glimpse of his teeth, just enough.

But I was afraid that some of our colleagues would notice this game of glances, which gave me the pleasant and unfamiliar feeling that someone



noticed and appreciated me.

I wanted nothing more than this, to receive attention, to be noticed: I know, it may seem pathetic, but that’s how it was for me.

The management of the supermarket had

decided to buy a new accounting program, and more and more often after my miscarriage I found myself relieved of manual tasks, which were heavy, and I helped Pietro in accounting more and more often.

Pietro, who had attended a course for the use of the new program, was commissioned to teach me the basic principles of using it, so that I could then help him in setting up the complicated operations of accounting and administration.

I blushed instantly at that news and my heart seemed to go like a galloping horse.

Meanwhile, Pietro had already prepared two chairs in front of the pc.

As he began to explain to me how that new



program worked, I kept my gaze fixed on the screen trying not to notice the scent coming from his skin, and his warm breath on my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Please God save me," whispered my mind, to try to distract me from the man who was a few inches from my skin.

"Please God save me."

But it was not God who had to save me from that web which awaited me, I could have done it very well myself, and instead I did not.

His hand slipped naturally onto my knee, squeezing it a little, and I slowly turned to him.

It was if my face had turned frame by frame, it seemed so long before I met his gaze.

His eyes searched the space around the desk we occupied, then with a small smile, he made me understand that there was no one there.

And then it happened.

It happened, and I don’t know exactly how it



happened that I found myself with his lips resting on mine, in a light kiss.

It happened, and I thought the sky would collapse on me if I did something like this, but instead nothing happened.

Embarrassed I quickly turned my gaze to the video on which a small dash was flashing waiting for someone to decide to tell it what to do.

How could this have happened?

How could I have allowed something like this to happen?

How would I be able go home to my husband that evening?

As soon the "lesson" finished, I went to the bathroom, and stayed there for a good quarter of an hour: I spent it almost entirely in front of the mirror, looking at myself, to see if something had changed in me, if you could see that I had kissed another man, who was not my husband.

I washed my lips with soap, rubbing hard as if



they were really dirty, and then I rushed to take the bus home.

As I ran my thoughts were galloping too.

I was a married woman, and Pietro also had a wife, even though he never talked about her.

What had I been thinking?



***



Filippo had not arrived yet.

Good.

I would prepare the hunter's chicken that he likes so much to be forgiven for what he will never know, and to seal my mute promise that I would never do it again.

How would I be able to kiss him?

Would it still be the same or had something changed, that afternoon?

He arrived when it was already dark and giving me an apathetic kiss on the forehead got me out of



the bind of finding out if he would feel the taste of Pietro on my lips.



***



A confession.

The first.

The words come out in drops, digging into recent events, too recent for them not to still hurt.

I have to shape my will.

"Forgive me father for I have sinned."

Forgive me.

Forgiveness.

"I desire another woman's man."

Forgive me, O father.

The confessional is dark and through the grate I glimpse a figure intent on listening to me, his head bowed.

"My girl, the flesh is weak."

Forgive me, O father.



"My flesh is not weak, I want his soul, I want his words, I just want a little sweetness, a little affection, a little love."

Forgive me, O father and tell me what I can do:my dark existence has found that glimmer thatgives color to everything, but he cannot belong tome and I cannot belong to him.

"My child, I know, it's hard."

Forgive me, O father but I can't help but havehim in my thoughts in every second of every minuteof every day.

"Forgive me, O father."

My knees begin to ache, as if the wood on which they are resting had suddenly become very rough.

Act of contrition... I repent of and I am sorry for...

my sins... I promise with the help of your Grace...

and to avoid the next occasions of sin.

I had never understood what I was reciting from memory, until now.

I promise, I promise.



I promise.

A saddlebag that was too heavy.

And my shoulders are too weak.


6

Small steps



With small steps I walked towards horizons forbidden even just to my imagination.

All the fears that Filippo would find me out dwindled day after day, drowned in our lives like poor devils, in every absent glance, in every click on that damn remote control.

Even his fits of anger, his words of accusation, his derogatory statements in my regard, did not hurt me so much anymore.

Every day that passed I was becoming more confident that I would be able to take what little happiness I deserved.

Pietro caressed me with his eyes in the long hours of work, whether I was among the shelves,



or if I was called to his office, and in doing so he unequivocally gave me to understand that the kiss we had exchanged, could, indeed should have a sequel.

One Friday evening, I had almost finished entering the suppliers’ invoices that had arrived during the week into the accounting management program. There were a lot of them.

All the other colleagues had left.

The manager came to the door of the office to say goodbye.

Pietro was putting on his jacket, and was about to leave.

"Miss Mysia, have you finished entering the invoices? Good, that means I can work on it tomorrow morning... Pietro will you wait until Mysia has finished? I don't like her being alone in here. I have to run. Have a good evening guys."

Pietro nodded yes, taking off his jacket again.

The door was closed.



We were alone.

I panicked at the mere thought.

Try as I might to concentrate on the work my head was in flames and my hands were shaking.

He sat down opposite me, his legs crossed, his arms folded, his big, dark eyes fixed on me, and his lips posed in a smile.

I couldn’t breathe, and there was a weight pressing on my chest.

"You want to kiss me, right?"

"..."

"Right?"

He was already on his feet with one hand resting on the desk and the other busy stroking me under my chin, the flesh yielding and quivering.

Nose to nose, with my eyes fixed in his, I felt his lips brush mine softly, like a touch of butterfly wings,.

He was so delicate, unhurried, as if we had all the time in the world.



"You wanted it too, baby, didn't you? I felt it, you know?"

I was unable to say a word.

Now we were standing and he was holding me in his arms, with my face pressed to his chest.

In the silence he caressed my hair, kissed me on the nape of the neck, made me feel as if I were the center of the universe.

And I wanted to weep.

I was clasped in the arms of what I had wanted so long.

And I didn't have him.

He could never be mine.

Unless a very small part perhaps.

But at that moment it didn’t matter: the only important thing was having Pietro a few inches from me.

He helped me finish entering the invoices, and at the door of the office we said goodbye.

With my cheeks red with excitement, I ran



happily towards the bus that was waiting for me under a lamppost of the space used as a station.

As if I were in a trance I sat down on a seat, still feeling his touch.

His perfume had stayed on my hands: the road ran quickly by, I closed my eyes and breathed him in from the palms of my hands.


7.

The Scarlet Notebook



Perhaps a part of me would have liked Filippo to discover my relationship with Pietro.

I wanted to wound his indifference, reduce it to shreds, and respond with facts to his constant offensive statements when he said that I was worth nothing, to see even one emotion scrape his face.

Thinking about what I was doing made me feel sick, I recognized that I was a two-timer, but looking at the thing from my point of view, I could no longer help but seek a little appreciation.

With a bitter smile, I remembered when I accompanied my father to the conversations with my teachers and, after listening to the praises they



wove about me, he invariably concluded by advising them to ask more from me. I justified the embarrassment and disappointment of never receiving any praise with the conviction that in doing so I was driven to do better and better. And instead I realize that all this desire for recognition comes, perhaps, from the lack that I had experienced until then.

The manager, who was now assigning me more and more tasks in administration, had sent me to the stationery shop to buy some office supplies.

I was wandering among the shelves going past packets of clips, reams of paper, notebooks, when my attention was captured by a notebook with a hard cover in scarlet red.

I took it, even though I had no idea what I would do with it: it had been impossible not to buy it, as if that object had had a will of its own, and wanted to come with me.

Holding it in my hands I remembered my



grandmother and her exercise books in which she wrote her recipes and the phrases that struck her, and which she also used to dry the daisies that I sometimes picked during recreation, at school.

I went back to the office with two bags of supplies, and my notebook in my bag.

Pietro came to meet me at the door, took one of the bags, and helped me put away everything I had purchased.

As I passed him a pack of paper he said to me:

"We should find our own place, somewhere just ours where we can meet without problems."

"Pietro, are you crazy? What do you want to do, rent a room in a hotel by the hour? And where, anyway, in this provincial town, where everyone knows everything about everyone?"

"Don’t worry baby, the important thing is that you want me. We could take a train and go a bit further away, and find some place near the station."



I didn't want to go a bit further away and find a place near the station. I feared that that moment would soon arrive, I feared that Pietro would ask me for more. It was enough to feel his gaze on me, his words, I needed it desperetely.

That might have been enough for me, but maybe not for him.



***



I had put the pots with lunch for the next day and the stew for dinner on the stove, when I took the notebook out of my bag, put it on the kitchen table and opened it.

Spontaneously, without knowing where the pen would take me, I began to write.



If loving is a mistake

then I am guilty.



Tie my lungs



and stifle the song

that comes out improperly

to disturb the sleep of the righteous.



If loving is a defect

then I am imperfect,

Unworthy.



Tear pieces from my heart

and lay them on the cold tray

of respectability.



If to love is inappropriate,

when the path deviates,

lose me.



Nothing is more dangerous

than a burning spark

when dead branches

are stacked around it.



But if loving is inevitable,

appropriate

deserved

if it is breath,

light

magnificence of the soul,

pathway,

discovery,

youth,

ransom,



mutation,

motive,



I love for all this,

but above all because in me

the stele of courage

it is not yet lost.



I stopped, rested the pen on the table, vibrant with emotion and surprise from my own words.

It was the first time I had stopped thoughts with ink.

It was time to turn off the stove and start waiting for Filippo to come home.

My mind wandered freely in dreams, imagining that Pietro came in through that door, with his smile, with his fresh love.

The phone rings and abruptly brings me back with my feet on the ground.

"Hello?"

"Hello baby, can you talk?"

"Yes, but how did you get my home number? And why..."



"I took the number from your file, in the office... I just wanted to tell you that I love you and I want you so much."

My right hand clutched the handset of the phone feverishly, as the front door opened letting my husband in.

I immediately closed the call, leaving the phone on the kitchen bench and with my back to my husband I started to move pots and ladles.

My hands were shaking.

He was talking via radio with a colleague, not yet tired of twelve hours of service.

"Is dinner ready?"


8.

Bitter morsels, sweet crumbs









Perhaps all women find that they have to accept situations that rationally seem impossible to bear, unsustainable.

I did all I coud to try to understand Philip, I justified his attitudes, always so aloof, his manner which had become more and more brusque lately, but all this hurt me so much that often in the recurring moments of solitude I burst into floods of tears that could find no consolation.

Even when the tears stopped falling and the sobs calmed, I did not feel a little more relaxed.

I was just tired.

Tired inside.

And as I felt myself founder, the only thought



that gave me a reason to exist was Pietro.



***



It was a cold winter, it had been raining incessantly for too many days to remember how many.

I was sorting invoices into the files, hidden by a shelf full of papers.

I hadn't heard Pietro approaching.

"I’ve found a place."

His warm breath on my neck left bare by my hair gathered on the nape of the neck confused me.

"Go down the stairs to the ground floor, then continue for two more ramps, where there are all those boxes. See you down there."

That said, he disappeared just as he had appeared, leaving me in the throes of a cyclone of emotions.

My arms felt heavy, and my legs did not support



me, my heart was thumping so fiercely that it seemed to me that everyone in the studio could hear it.

What was I to do?

Think.

Reflect.

I didn't give a damn about reflecting at that moment.

Think, make your head work.

What should I do?

Do I go down?

No, I don't go down.

What if I don't go down and he gets upset and doesn't talk to me again?

I can't risk being left without what only he can give me.

I’m going down.

No.

I don't know.

So I found myself going down the steps of that



place which was so squallid, where the entire condominium piled up things of no use.

It was dark.

What if Pietro hadn’t come down?

What if he had played a bad joke on me?

In the dim light that enveloped me I saw his face emerge, and his hands outstretched looking for me.

My steps raised small clouds of dust that danced in the beams of light that penetrated through the dirty windows.

I let myself be lured as if in a dream, as if it were not me taking part in that encounter, but that I was seeing it on a television screen.

His arms were strong and squeezed me hard against his chest.

"I have wanted to hug you like this for so long,"

he said to me.

I couldn’t speak: a knot of emotion and fear gripped my throat suffocating every syllable in my mouth.



His hands wandered over my body exploring it, showing him by touch everything that the darkness, which surrounded us, concealed from view.

Then gliding gently down my neck with caressing fingers he stopped at the first button of the cardigan I was wearing.

I stiffened.

And he felt it.

"What's wrong, baby? What are you afraid of, you know that I love you? Don’t you know that? So let yourself go. I've never wanted anyone like I want you right now."

His gestures became insistent.

My hands still crossed on my chest did not loosen.

It was he who capitulated.

"And that's fine. I understand, you need time."

He kissed me for moments that seemed

incredibly long.



He whispered words to me that I had never heard, filling me with unknown sensations, kissing me, on my eyelids, my eyes closed.



***



Under the hot jet of the shower.

Not moving.

Thinking of him.

With eyes wide open, see everything that happened again, like in a movie.

Incredible.

I was still feeling my heart beating furiously, when I looked out of the basement to see if I could go upstairs without anyone seeing me.

Holding the handrail anchored to the wall and quickly climbing the stairs.

Still aware of the neon light of the supermarket that hurt my eyes accustomed to the dark.

And finding myself answering a customer with



forced ease who asked me where she could find the crispbread.

Seeing Pietro again from my desk a few minutes later, coming back into the office, winking at me as he asks me for the packing slips from the mineral water supplier.

The water runs over my nape and slides down my back. There is no soap that can wash away the thoughts that are crowding my mind.

Or maybe I don’t want to wash everything away.

This will be my secret.

Our secret.

The small joy of each day.

The red notebook is waiting in my bag, Filippo is sleeping in the armchair with the remote control in his hand, the television tuned to one of those insane programs that I detest from the bottom of my heart.

I write.





And I lose myself thinking about you.

sweetly relaxed,

ineffectual

like all the hours

that separate me from you.



And I stretch out, sleepily,

with your dream chasing me,

indelible is the belonging

that tears me apart.



And I hold you close with memories to comerelentlessly

to live you ten, a hundred, a thousand times.



Wherever your breath is.


9.

Discoveries



Secrets never uttered

words hidden

behind

candid attitudes

unsavory thoughts.

Long hours

chasing each other

elusive moments

of superficial contact

avid

of unspeakable thoughts.

Forbidden thoughts.

Dry mouth.



The scarlet notebook was meeting my pen more and more often.







Go away

go away from me

go away from my heart

heart beating with emotions

unspeakable memories

Go away

Go away

get far away from my hands

that can no longer reach you

touch you like warm water

like fragrant breeze

at dawn.

Go away from me.

Far away.

So that my eyes

can only glimpse you

indistinct

so that I can

chase you,

gain ground,

and join you,

nearby.



And my meetings with Pietro became more and more frequent.

And every time I was surprised I didn’t feel ashamed of what I was doing: I had gone from platonic to carnal without even realizing it, and as



the meetings multiplied, little by little I also lost the fear that had almost killed me the first time.

I searched for Pietro's gaze with mine, in the hope of discovering that small wink that presaged a new encounter.

I had fallen in love. Irreparably. Without solution.

I had also bought some lace underwear and each time I couldn't wait to show it to Pietro, although

"showing" was a eufemism, because in that squallid basement where we had established the abode of our meetings it was almost dark and even cold, but I did not feel any of this when I was stretched out on the cartons that he had brought downstairs and laid on the ground, overwhelmed by the whirlwind of sensations that Pietro made me feel.

Of course, it was important for me that he paid attention to me even outside of our tête-à-tête, but I was certain that instead it was vital for him to



have carnal contact with me.

He kept telling me that he had never felt what he felt for me, that I was fantastic, wonderful, beautiful, unique.

And each time I came out of it drunk.

And each time he wanted more.

Always more.

"I want to make love to you, I can't resist any longer! When I'm with my wife I think of you, I think I'll go crazy at this rate..."

In his arms everything seemed possible, but thinking back to his requests when I found myself alone, I didn’t feel ready, I didn’t want this last barrier that had remained between us to fall, the last small embankment against a current which was now too violent.



***



I felt a vague sense of guilt towards Filippo



hovering between us, leading me to have sexual impulses that, much more than once I think, had left him surprised if not appalled. To me it seemed that by giving myself to him I could partly silence my feelings of guilt.

One evening after some disinterested sex, done as if by obligation, he turned to me and said:

"You can't have children, you can't make me feel real pleasure... luckily at least you’re able to cook and tidy up the house, otherwise ... "

These were the things that made me realize more and more that I was not remotely willing to give up Pietro.

With my face pressed into the pillow I dreamed of Pietro, and clenched my teeth so as not to cry.

Filippo was never there: absent in moments of joy, and in moments of deep pain.

Absent not for nonsense, of course, for work.

" I serve the people!"

His work as a security guard made him feel a



step above the others.

For me by now it was late, too late to give up, to undo fastened ties, to give up, to do without Pietro.



I started because of pain.

Because of pain in love,

or love of the pain

now I don't know anymore.



I wrote love

and I didn't notice it

until many lines later,

when the pain reclined

tired and afflicted

on the extended palm of my heart.



And I loved.



Without hesitation and reservations,

certain

in the dark,

to find pain again,

only pain.


10.

The gala dinner



Giovanni Percalli, the new director of the company that managed the supermarket chain where I worked, had decided to offer a dinner to all the employees so they could meet him and to celebrate this new milestone.

"There’s no way I’m getting dressed up for someone who has bought himself a position in a company with money ..."

"But Filippo! Everyone will be there, do it for me, what will people think?"

"Think? What will they think? You work in that supermarket, you’re not obliged to do everything they ask!"

"But what if I want to go?"



"Listen Mysia, I don't want to come, and anyway tomorrow I have to cover a colleague, I’m doing a double shift, if you really want to go you can go by yourself, no problem."

Coversation over.

Television on.

End.

Swallowing tears of anger, and disappointment, I slid into a tub of boiling water.

The background of the news accompanied me, exasperating me, in every room.

I closed the bedroom door behind me, and stood in front of the closet looking for something that I could wear to the dinner.



***



The meeting room was already crowded with colleagues and other people I didn’t know.

The catering service had already set up a



wonderful buffet.

I felt a little calmer: I would spend a lovely evening with Pietro, he would tell me that he liked how I was dressed, that with my hair up I was more fascinating, he would make me feel beautiful for one evening, like Cinderella.

The director was in the middle of the room with his wife: a middle-aged couple that transmitted the complicity that united them. She looked towards him constantly, as she spoke, as if to seek comfort in his gaze, as he ran the palm of his hand lightly down her back. But what struck me immediately about the director's wife was her smile, which seemed to illuminate her whole face.

"Ah, good evening Pietro!"

The director’s voice brought me back to reality

"You’ve arrived at last, I wanted to introduce you to Giovanni, the new administrator, come on, come with me."

I turned around radiant, unaware of what my



pupils would see.

Pietro, with a woman, by the hand: his wife.

Me alone.

The smile faded from my face, as I looked at the scene that as it passed my eyes slowly reached my brain.

Jesus, I wished I could disappear swallowed up by the floor.

He had a dark blue suit, a white shirt stretched over the chest I knew and a thin tie, the same color as the suit.

She, light eyes, blond hair, smooth cut into a bob that just touched her shoulders: she was wearing a long black dress that left her back bare, and had a shell-shaped evening bag in her hand.

On the left ring finger together with the wedding ring a cascade of diamonds glittering so much that it attracted everyone's attention.

While Pietro was talking with the managers of other stores, the director’s wife turned to Pietro's



wife:

"My dear, you really are a splendor, and what a beautiful ring! Is it a present from Pietro?"

"Oh, yes, he gave it to me a few days ago, and just think, it wasn’t an anniversary!"

"My dear, watch out, men are real devils, they always know how to make us forgive them even for something that we will never know about!"

I felt as if I was living in a nightmare: my cheeks were on fire, my hands were like ice and I had a huge desire to cry.

As soon as I was sure that my legs would support me, I headed for the bathroom, with an uncertain step.

I opened the glass door that led into the dressing room and then everything disappeared.



***



In the distance I heard a voice calling me,



lovingly.

"Mysia dear, what’s wrong, come on open your eyes. You gave us take a nice scare darling."

The director’s wife caressed my neck gently and stared at me with genuinely worried eyes.

Now I remembered... Pietro with his wife, the bathroom, then total darkness.

With a quizzical gaze, perhaps reading all the questions that were crowding my mind, Mrs. Olga explained what had happened.

"Dear, I saw you coming to the bathroom with such an uncertain step that I thought I would follow you to make sure you were alright, and instead I found you slumped on the ground, unconscious. Maybe you suffer from low blood pressure? And tell me dear where your husband is, maybe it would be better if you went home..."

"Thank you, but I feel better already. It's nothing, really. Thank you."

I had only seen that woman a few times, in the



store, and now she was on her knees with my head resting on her legs. The touch of her hands on the nape of my neck suddenly made me think of my grandmother, but it was just a flash.

I tried to get up, but my legs still couldn't support me. Mrs. Olga helped me to a sitting position, and then stand up.

So it was that I made my entrance into the meeting room where the buffet was set up, supported by the director's wife, attracting everyone’s gaze, including Pietro’s.

I wanted to cry.

I spent the next two hours with colleagues who kindly took turns keeping me company.

At a certain point there was a momentary pause in the close surveillance, to which I was being subjected, just enough for Pietro to come closer and whisper calmly in my ear:

"You look beautiful. I would have liked to be the one who found you in the bathroom, unconscious,



completely in my power, so you could not have denied me!"

I hated him for his one-way jibes, but his proximity melted my joints and ligaments, and I felt my knees go weak again and the blood melt in my veins, yet I had to maintain the impassive mask of the afflicted colleague, because his wife was watching us.

Whether it was hatred or the fire that burned inside me that was predominant, I had no idea.

A few words when I returned from that devastating evening.



Between today and tomorrow

I dress in air

and in the irreversibility of time,

I wait,

to breathe.



Sitting at the kitchen table, alone with the scarlet notebook in front of me, I did not want to sleep, just write.



I wanted Pietro but I could not have him, it was clear, but I didn’t want to listen to the voice of logic that told me to stop, to interrupt that relationship while I was still in time, in time to save myself, in time to save my dignity, in time not to continue on the path of vivisection in pieces, of the choice, I like this and I don’t like that.

But stubbornly I looked only at what I wanted to see, I gave light to what made my heart beat faster, without evaluating the fact that Pietro seemed more interested in sex than in a future together, that after seeing him with his wife I should no longer have any doubt that he would never leave her for me.

But blindness is a choice.

And I had chosen.





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