The clock on the opposite wall reads half past four: according to my calculations Antonia should arrive any minute now.
The script calls for no one on stage but the two protagonists, so I flushed the liver pills down the toilet and sent Teresa to the pharmacy to buy them again. I am alone in the house.
I hear the handle of the front door creak. I sit on the bed, leaning back against the pillow, breathe deeply and prepare myself for the main scene. I have been going over it for days, I know it by heart, my spirits are high. I am ready.
Action!
She enters, greets me and sits on my bed with the naturalness of a consummate actress. She touches my forehead and sighs with relief:
You no longer have a fever.
Apparently not.
Soon you will be able to go back to school.
What joy.
And you can even see your girlfriend again. Are you happy?
I would kill myself for joy.
What does that mean?
That she's no longer my girlfriend.
Why?
I have problems with her.
You will get over them, don't worry: all couples have problems sooner or later.
Mine are serious problems. Did you really not ask yourself what was the cause of my illness?
What should I have asked myself? It was hepatitis.
She pretends to have forgotten Thucydides, or perhaps she has forgotten him for real. Bad business hanging up her hat: her brain is regressing by the day. I sigh and point:
Pròphasis alethestà-tae, professor. That is the disease, not the cause of the disease.
What does the cause matter? You are cured by now.
I'm afraid there are some variables that you are missing.
She tries to caress my face.
You must try to get your strength back: you are still very pale.
I stop her hand and rest it on the blanket.
Antonia, excuse me: I already have a mother.
You're right. I think you're a little sweaty.
She touches me everywhere with the sensuality of a cephalopod, forehead hair shoulders arm hand shirt shorts, she even pulls up my knickers. I stop her:
Leave it, they are OK.
No, they aren't: they are soaked with sweat on the back, and then the fabric is a cotton blend, there is synthetic, it's not good against your skin. You know you're allergic. I'll get you the cotton boxers with the blue ducks, they should be in the second drawer.
"Shit, not like that, not like that!". “The scriptwriter should be fired on the spot!”. Fast forward.
I change the subject completely, trying to move away from those embarrassing blue ducks she has meanwhile pulled out of the drawer and triumphantly shows me.
Anyway, we keep meeting.
Who?
Michelle and I.
Pull yourself up, lift your pelvis: that's it, that's it. Good. You were saying?
I said I keep seeing her.
Oh, good. Then it's a passing crisis.
No. The fact is that there are little things that we continue to do together.
I can't blame you: she is very beautiful.
Not "those" little things, Mommy.
Yes, it does not matter. Whatever it is, it will pass. It's OK, you're just a little tired.
My assault is about to bounce back against her rubber wall, but this time I won't be caught unprepared: there's no blue duck to hold me back.
I free myself from her maternal tentacles, reach for the stereo and put on an old vinyl with a white cover.
Did you know that the score of the opening scene is by Henry Purcell? Music for the funeral of Queen Mary. Great film, the kind that makes cinema history; fancy watching it one of these evenings? Like old times.
Slow zoom, close-up on my eyes: she stares at me interdicted. It is incredible the empathy I have with Antonia: with her, and only with her, I can communicate by subtext and allusion. It must be what they call elective affinity. The knowledge that I am succeeding in piercing her screen induces me to overdo it.
My opinion on verbs has changed a bit, you know? I discovered that my favourite diathesis is the reflexive.
The joke is objectively bad. The nervous tension is about to play a nasty trick on me: I can hardly restrain myself from bursting out laughing at the thought of the next, even stupider joke:
'Getting high' isn't transitive middle, is it? Don't answer, it's a rhetorical question.
She does not respond: she stares at me in alarm.
You really don't want to understand, do you?
I don't understand what I'm supposed to understand, she says dryly.
Sigh:
Fine, whatever: you make me tell you clearly.
I seek the right concentration for a formidable ace. I take her face in my hands and look at her with all the intensity of which a sick person with Rhys Meyers eyes and a slight Venus squint is capable. She instinctively tugs to free herself, but I hold her back and force her to look me in the eye as I utter these words:
I do drugs, Mummy.
A studied pause.
And heavily.
I let go of his face and fall back against the pillow, exhausted by the tension. It is done. My heart has slowed its beats, but the pulsations are so strong that I can almost feel the bed shake.
Antonia bends over with a groan, her shoulders heaving in a gasp.
Why did you tell me? She whispers softly.
What? Speak up, I can't hear you.
I heard perfectly, but I like to make him repeat it.
Why did you tell me? She groans.
Sorry, what question would that be?
Why did you tell me? She repeats for the third time, her voice cracked with despair. You knew you would make me feel terrible.
I arch my eyebrows and respond coldly:
So, because I knew I would make you feel terrible, I shouldn't have told you.
No, she says gloomy, you should not have told me.
Indignation makes me sarcastic.
Yes, I think I understand your point of view: it was better to carry on as if nothing had happened. One day you would have found me dead with a needle in my vein and given me a nice funeral. A couple of tears, maybe a month of mourning, and then off to your bright future as an upper-class bourgeois. Isn't that right, Mommy?
My words and the harsh tone of my voice awaken her from that narcotic stupor like a cold shower, provoking a chaotic and furious reaction in her: she suddenly grabs my wrists and looks at me with the expression of the killer from Pulp Fiction.
I'll kill you Emmanuel, she says growling menacingly, almost gnashing her teeth, I'll kill you if I hear you see that bitch again.
She tightens my wrists more.
I swear if you hurt yourself again I will kill you with these hands of mine.
Shall we keep this scene, Quentin? There is not too much coherence in the line, but it was delivered with appreciable pathos.
You are hurting me, I tell her softly, I remind you that I am still convalescent.
The more she squeezes, the more I feel her affection penetrate me. She is hurting me because she loves me: I love this pain and this lovely contradiction.
She lets go and looks at me panting.
I will have a bruise, I tell her calmly, smiling and massaging my wrists.
Sorry says lost.
A tremendous tenderness assails me, an irresistible urge to embrace her, but if I am to achieve my goal, I must continue to fiddle with the stunned mouse for a while longer.
Polly wants a cracker
Maybe she would like some food
She asked me to untie her
A chase would be nice for a few...
If I have told you, it is precisely so that you don't have to worry. I tell her, with the serene conviction of someone in the grip of cognitive dissonance I know the risks of addiction and I am not stupid enough to want to take them, unlike you.
She does not pick up the nastiness: she is too busy wringing her hands in despair.
But why do you do it, why?
The script at this point calls for a series of Almodòvar's junkie-style bullshit: I reread it in disbelief (when did I ever write such nonsense?) and pronounce the first one:
Because it makes me feel good.
Kudos for originality, a joke I've never heard. But Pedro gives me the thumbs up sign, you're doing great. Antonia says nothing: she looks at me panting, devastated. I get another hint from the director: In a moment a twinge of pain a second to wait then a gentle wave of warmth almost like love.
No come on, Finardi no. I can take care of myself. On with the second shit:
However, I can stop whenever I want.
She lifts her gaze into mine, increasingly shocked:
You mean you have already tried to quit?
Yes.
And did you succeed?
Sure. For a while. Then whatever, I started again, but don't worry: it's all under control.
I myself marvel at the naturalness with which I utter such nonsense: I must be a great actor. Antonia continues to breathe with difficulty: she has tears in her eyes, she is suffering like a dog. I am beginning to give in, it is costing me no small amount of effort to continue playing that hateful part.
How many times has this happened? he asks me.
Match point.
Ten, twenty, a hundred. I don't have a good memory for such things.
Standing ovation.
I had been saving this quote for a long time, intending to use it for the most perfidious of revenges. She catches it, but does not react to the provocation: her eyes open wide into mine, full of terror.
But that's enough: stop, break for lunch, turn off the spotlight and get out of the way.
I can't take it any more.
Antonia.
Yes?
What time is it?
He looks at me without understanding:
Five o'clock, why?
Tea time with the Mad Hatter.
Are you crazy?
Just kidding, come on.
Is this a time for joking?
It's time to cut the crap.
She does not reply: she looks at me bewildered, thinking that I have definitely lost my mind.
Forgive me, Antonia. I am trying to cope, believe me, but alone it is not easy.
Her lips tremble.
Is there anything I can do for you? She whispers. Anything, Emmanuel. Anything at all. I would do anything for you.
It looks like an unconditional surrender. I can no longer dissimulate the emotion, I can no longer pretend. I take her hand.
Yes Antonia, there is something you can do for me.
I draw her gently towards me as I lie on my back. She doesn't resist. She thinks I want to have sex, but I want something else entirely: I want to laugh, I have a tremendous urge to be a child again. I hold her in my arms, then suddenly I roll her over, tickle her under the armpits and nibble on her neck and shoulders; she laughs through her tears. For a while we roll around on the bed like two cats fighting for fun, then I make a kind of blanket hut and we hide under it. We look at each other panting, exhausted, smiling: I caress her face and kiss her on the mouth. The words break the banks like a torrent in flood, they flow out of me uncontrollably,
I want you, Antonia, I want you,
I don't want sex, I want you, I want "you",
don't cry nothing has happened,
I am fine, stay close to me,
she submerges me in a sea of repressed tenderness of which I feel only my floating on the surface and a few phrases among the many she whispers in my ear, please don't do it again, if anything happens to you I'll die Emmanuel, I'll die, I'll do anything for you, I'll do anything you want but don't do it again, promise me. She keeps thinking that I want to make love, her fingers are trembling as she tries in vain to unbutton her jumper, I don't know how to tell her that it's not about that, but she's craving for it and I'm afraid of offending her with a refusal, so I help her and try to humour her, but I soon realise that something is wrong: I struggle, a lot of struggle, the feeling doesn't grow, the desire doesn't find an outlet, I realise that without the stuff I don't feel anything anymore. I have become practically powerless. Despondent, I give up and tell her that I can't do it, but she encourages me and comes on top of me, yes you can, don't worry you just have to take it easy. I relax and let myself be lulled by the slowly rising tide. Finally, after what seems like an interminable amount of time, I feel something like the echo of an orgasm, so distant as to be almost inaudible. I try to pretend it is something more intense, but she immediately notices and bursts into tears, I don't know whether out of emotion or joy or because she realises she has made love to a corpse. But that's not important, nothing is important now, except that we are together again and we are floating embraced in the surf, floating in the amniotic fluid, she makes pre-natal sounds, I repeat to her I love you, I didn't think I had missed those two words so much; suddenly she whispers in my ear 'I love you too Emmanuel, I love you with all my being'. I already knew it, I had always known it, but hearing him say it gives me an inexpressible emotion, it takes my breath away. I close my eyes and cradle her gently on my chest, while my heart, after a hesitation of a few seconds, starts beating again with heavy thuds.
It is like starting to breathe again after being imprisoned for months in a dark basement. I feel myself in a state of perfect, ecstatic bliss, tears of joy and emotion flood my face: as I caress her hair I speak to that Someone who somewhere is watching us and knows everything about us. Can you hear me, God? If you exist, please don't let me waste this opportunity too, please let me live up to this wonderful thing that is happening to me and for which I thank you from the bottom of my soul. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
We completely lose track of time. We suddenly regain it when we hear my brother's footsteps in the hall. Antonia comes out of the blanket hut, dresses quickly, kisses me goodbye and goes out.
I feel exhausted and fall asleep immediately. For the first time in many months I sleep a regular, deep sleep, without dreams.
The joy I feel when I wake up the next morning is so strong that it almost breaks my heart.