Page 30 of Three Times You

And Babi had told me how things had worked out in that family. The guy’s grandfather had started a long-distance bus business in the Marche region. He’d built up a network of coach lines where there was no other public transportation connecting far-flung, godforsaken towns that had no other alternatives. And so he’d started earning big money, and he’d plowed his earnings back into his company, extending out into neighboring regions like Molise and Abruzzo, continuing to pile up cash. By the turn of the 1980s, it had become an official, government-sanctioned transportation network, extending all the way north to the region of Emilia-Romagna.

From there, the family had been especially good at investing their money, opening a number of companies, and what had definitively crowned their efforts at empire building was the company that managed advertising spaces for all of Italy. Anything that anyone advertised on a billboard or posterboard in even the most tucked-away, overlooked spots would inevitably and by obligation make reference to their company.

This man’s son, who was therefore Lorenzo’s father, had done nothing more than to consolidate all of that without changing an iota of what he’d inherited. And so Lorenzo was bound to inherit the company, no matter what ability or hard work he might bring to the table. Then he might earn a little more or lose some of his wealth, but he was really going to have to work extraordinarily hard to destroy an empire like that.

Yes, I remember perfectly when she told me about it. So, tell me, Babi, is this what your life has actually become? That night in the car when you told me the news that you were getting married, I’d been left speechless. You looked at me, and you told me, “It’s never going to be the way it was with you, but the way it was with you had become impossible.”

And I’d continued to sit there in silence for a moment. I even thought you’d said that to me as a way of making me feel better, after we’d finished making love—or maybe it was really just a random fuck. Who can say. They seemed like the right words to put a definitive end to that chapter together in our lives.

But I do remember that, before I left, you told me, “But after all, life is work, children, and friends, and in the end, love is just ten percent of the whole thing.”

And when I heard that, I died a little bit, and I wondered to myself,What the hell am I even doing here? She’s getting married.

And I felt ashamed. I felt dirty, and I thought about Gin, her clean, bright self, and what I’d already done…

And when you turned on the radio, it almost seemed as if you were just killing time to keep from kicking me out, but you couldn’t wait for me to go. Maybe because you knew that you were lying, that you were being the actress that you are, that those words didn’t come from you, they came from your mother. She’s the one who forced you to marry Lorenzo, or maybe I should say, Lorenzo’s bus lines, his advertising company, and his underwear shops. That remains my pleasurable delight, a justification that maybe it’s easier to accept as the truth.

I’m about to shut the photo album when I realize that, on the facing page, directly opposite the photo of that asshole, there’s an envelope.For you.

Chapter 22

Well, I don’t know what to call you anymore. I’d like to call you sweetheart, darling, or even my love. But I know that you’re no longer mine. And yet, there was a time when you were, when you’d have done anything for me, anything and then some, even more than what any other reasonable person could have imagined, a normie, as you used to call them. And you weren’t normal, or really, I should say, you weren’t ordinary. You were and you remain special. But there are times when that can be uncomfortable, an inevitable, insurmountable challenge. At least, that’s partly what you were for me.

Maybe it was out of fear, maybe because I wasn’t courageous or because I didn’t know how to say enough is enough, no more beating around the bush, he’s mine and I want him. Maybe I should have said that. But now what has been is what is. There’s no point crying over spilled milk. I’ve tried desperately to have you here with me, every single day, and in a certain sense, I’ve even succeeded. You were with me at every moment of every day, even when I was talking to my girlfriends, or listening to music, or laughing or else miserable—whatever my state of mind, you were still there with me.

Then, when Massimo was born, everything became so much easier because, every time I looked at his mouth, his smile, those eyes that every now and then would stare at me even before he knew how to talk, I could glimpse your gaze, your love, your curiosity—they were the same eyes that searched inside me for who knows what. Yes, I’m certain that when you laid eyes on that photograph of Lorenzo, when you discovered just who had become my husband—that is, if you hadn’t tried to find out before that—you must have said, “You see? I did the right thing when I beat him up!”

I smile when I read that part. At least in that detail she knows me and understands me.

Lorenzo has always loved me, he’s always wanted to be with me, and when we started dating, I realized that he has certain qualities that are ideal in a man you’d want to marry. He’s generous, kind, and reasonably attentive. Do you remember what I told you about that? As far as I’m concerned, your marriage only takes up a small portion of your actual life. The rest of it is work, friends, and children.

Actually, you’d talked about love, and you’d only assigned it about ten percent.

But then, just the other day, I watched an old movie again.Meet Joe Black. And when I got to that scene, when she’s in the helicopter with her father and he asks her if she loves Drew, and his daughter says little or nothing, then the father tells her that he wants her to be swept away. He wants her to be deliriously happy. Because if you don’t start with someone you can’t live without, what are you going to end up with?

I’ve watched that scene so many times that I know it by heart, but the first time I saw it, I burst into tears. I sobbed and sobbed, and when Lorenzo came in, he was worried. He asked me what had happened, but I couldn’t even bring myself to speak. So then he got mad. He insisted I tell him because he thought something might have happened to Massimo. But really, something had happened to me. No one ever explained things to me like that, no one ever stopped me. In fact, my mother basically forced me into marrying Lorenzo with a very subtle form of brainwashing, making it clear to me every single day what my life could be like, what a woman’s life could be like, every day filled with loving attention, beautiful possessions, and then, to have a child…

Of course, when I told her that I was pregnant, there was never the shadow of a doubt about who might be the father, even though, a few months ago, we were having dinner at my folks’ place, and at a certain point, Massimo just broke out laughing and he sounded exactly like you. When that happened, my mother stopped and looked at him. At first, she laughed, too, but then her face changed. Really, it transformed, and it was as if a thought had suddenly gone through her head. She turned to look at me, and there was a spark of understanding in her eyes. Then she said to me, “Your son is very handsome.”

And I said, “Yes.”

And she said, “I wonder how he’ll turn out.”

And after that, we never said another word about it. After watching that movie, I realized that I needed to see you again, and that I had actually always known that this moment would arrive eventually. For that matter, I started collecting duplicate pictures of Massimo from the very first day, from when he came into the world, and I kept them so I’d have them the day I finally met you again.

The scene from that film was as if someone had held up a big mirror in front of me and I’d suddenly been able to get a glimpse of my own life. And then, the fact that I broke down and sobbed like a baby until I just couldn’t speak, well maybe that can give you some idea of what I saw in that mirror. Nothing, an absolute void, except for my son. I’m not saying that there’s nothing in my life, nothing to make me feel that I’m living the life that I want to live. Sure, I have a beautiful home, a shiny new car, lots of parties, plenty of friends, but every single day it’s as if all that only served to sharpen my pain, making me feel all the more keenly how empty and pointless my life has turned out to be. We even thought about trying to have a baby sister or brother to keep Massimo company, but we couldn’t make it happen.

The thought of this attempt they made suddenly ties a knot in my stomach. It blocks my respiration, and it makes me suddenly feel like throwing up. But I manage to get past that point, and I feel like tearing that letter up into shreds, so great is the annoyance I feel because of the story she tells me without a thought for the consequences.We couldn’t make it happen.And then I conjure up the image of an awkward, demented attempt, conceived only for that purpose. And I see a dreary act of sex, a miserable orgasm, a passive woman on the verge of boredom, pretending to take part, like the finest actress in a soft porn film, or maybe not so soft, after all. And then I see that dope of a young man, that useless husband getting busy on top of her, or underneath her, or from behind…Why didn’t I give him a good sound beating at the time? I knew it then, and I know now that you always have to listen to your gut, to your instincts, that’s the best advice you’ll ever get.

So what now? What does my instinct tell me? Here I am, with this letter in hand. I still have half a page to read, and I can just glimpse on the other side of this sheet of paper. What surprises may lie in wait for me in all those words? They lurk there, like menacing soldiers concealed in trenches, ready to attack, to strike, to end me, to destroy. I already know that I won’t be able to resist, whatever may emerge in the coming lines, I’m still determined to go ahead and read them. So I turn the page and go on reading.

Anyway, enough of that, I don’t want to bore you with my private and personal issue. But there is one thing I want to tell you, namely this: ever since the night I rewatchedJoe Blackand I thought back to you, I’ve done nothing but imagine us meeting again, what it would be like, where it could take place, what you would be like. Would you be surprised, would you be happy to see me or would you be angry, or worse still, would you be indifferent? And then, when it finally did really happen, I couldn’t do anything but look into your eyes. Yes, I was trying to read your emotions, what you were feeling when you saw me again after all these years, or to put it in the terms you like so well, “Is the flame dead or is it still smoldering?”

I persuaded your secretary to help me out. I told her a few things about us, and she embraced our story passionately. She told me that we were missing an important opportunity but that it would never be too late. She struck me as a good person, conscientious, quick on the uptake, and capable. You hired an excellent assistant.

Sure I did. Too bad she doesn’t work for me anymore. And she has you to thank for that fact.

She refused to tell me anything about you. I have to say I tried everything I could think of to get her to talk, but I couldn’t get a word out of her. As far as that goes, she was a model of discretion. Maybe you’re in a relationship, maybe you’re dating someone, maybe you’ve broken up with someone. I don’t know. I know that you’re not married. I saw that you don’t wear a ring, and anyway there’s nothing about you being married on the internet or anywhere else. But the most important questions I want to ask are these: Are you happy? Can we talk? Can we see each other? Could you please think about that? I’d really like it.

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