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.
Thats 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 Id 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 cant 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 wont 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 Filippos 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 whoknowswhos 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 dont do certain things, they would no longer be accepted in the parish, they couldnt 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 wasnt even a little like the one I no longer dreamed of, not even at night.
5.
Seeking oneself
Id 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 its as if youre not seeking his eyes, its as if you didnt want him to tell you every morning that youre 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 thats 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 dont 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.