Page 18 of Two Chances With You

My mother. I haven’t seen her in two years. I wonder what her hair looks like now. She was constantly changing her hairstyle in that last year. She’d change with the fashions, the trends, her girlfriends’ advice, a picture in a magazine. I’ve never understood why a woman should always be so obsessed with her hair. I think of a film I saw, with Lino Ventura and Françoise Fabian,La bonne année. 1973. He winds up in prison. She goes to see him. It’s dark. You can just hear their voices.

“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve changed your hairstyle.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s that when a woman changes her hairstyle, it also means she’s going to change men.”

I smile. My mother has seen that film plenty of times. Maybe she’s taken those words seriously. One thing is certain. Every time I see her, her hairstyle is different.

Paolo appears in the doorway, opening it slowly, careful not to let the hinges squeak. “Stefano, are you coming to have breakfast?”

I turn to look at him. “Did you make a good breakfast?”

He’s momentarily stumped, and then he says, “Yes, I think so, yes.”

“All right then. In that case, I’ll come.” He never understands when I’m joking. He’s different from my mother as far as that goes. I put on a sweatshirt but just boxer shorts below.

“Jesus, you’ve lost weight,” Paolo says.

“You’ve already told me that.”

“I ought to move to America for a year.” He touches a roll of belly fat, gripping it between his fingers. “Look here.”

“Power and wealth bring a gift of a belly,” I say.

“In that case, I ought to be skinny as a rail.” He tries to make a joke of it. In this aspect, too, he’s different from Mamma because he doesn’t know how to do it.

“What are you thinking about?”

“That you’re good at setting the table.”

He sits down. “Well, yes, I like doing it.” He hands me the coffee.

I take it, and I add a dollop of cold milk without even tasting it first, just eyeballing it. Then I bite into a large chocolate cookie. “Mmm, good.”

“I got them for you. I don’t like them. The chocolate is too bitter. Mamma always used to get them for me when we all still lived together.”

I sit in silence and drink my caffè latte. Paolo looks at me. For a moment, it seems as if he wants to add something. But he changes his mind and sets about making his cappuccino.

I finish drinking my caffè latte. “Ciao, Paolo, see you around.”

“Lucky you, the way you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

Paolo stands up and starts putting things away and clearing the table. “You know, you’re lucky you are the way you are, free as a bird. You can do what you want. You’ve gone out together, things are still loose, nothing is nailed down.”

“Yes, I’m lucky.” I leave. There are too many things I’d have to say to him. I’d have to explain to him in the kindest of terms that he’s just uttered a huge, deplorable, terrifying load of bullshit. That you only dream of freedom when you feel like a prisoner. But I’m tired. Now I don’t feel like it, I seriously don’t feel like it at all.

I go into my bedroom, I look at the alarm clock on the side table, and I turn and walk out of the room, abruptly. “Fuck, you woke me up, and it’s only nine o’clock?”

“Yeah, I have to be in the office soon.”

“But I don’t!”

“Sure, I know that, but seeing as how you’re supposed to go see Papà…” He looks at me, puzzled. “Wait. Didn’t I tell you?”

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