Page 5 of Three Times You

She’s filled with delight at his achievement. Then she turns and hands me my gift.

“Here. Now you can open it.”

So I unwrap it. I find a T-shirt, XL, which is my size, with a white collar. I take another look. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s striped—white, dark blue, and light blue—identical to the one her little boy is wearing. I look up and meet her gaze, level and serious now.

“Yes. That’s right. And maybe that’s why I’ve never really missed you.” Suddenly, I’m having trouble breathing, and my head is spinning. I stand there, my jaw hanging open, stunned, excited, surprised, angry, confused, and, yes, at a loss.

Then Babi touches my hand again. “Aren’t you going to say anything? Don’t you think your son is handsome and wonderful?”

Chapter 6

Alightning bolt has split my life in two. I have a son. And to think that it’s exactly what I’ve always longed for. To have an unshakable bond with a woman, not a promise of love or a wedding vow but a living, breathing child. The union of two people in the form of creation, that almost divine instant that manifests itself in the encounter between two human beings, in a dizzying mixture that spins, choosing details, nuances, and pigments, that daubs at a tiny painting destined to bloom in the future. She and I. Me and you, Babi. And this child. I try to string together a few coherent words.

“What did you name him?”

“Massimo. Like a warrior on a prancing steed, even if he’s only managed to ride a bicycle so far. Still, that’s a victory of sorts.” She laughs lightly and tosses her hair in the wind.

And I think back to that party, six years ago, that my friend Guido took me to. That splendid villa, the cheerful crowd, the glass of rum—Pampero, the finest. Then another glass, and yet another. The sound of that laughter in my memory matches up with another peal of laughter from a nearby room at that long-ago party. No doubt even then: Babi’s laughter.

The rest is history.

Babi…Babi…Champagne for both of us, on top of the rum. And then we danced, and then she grabbed my hand and pulled me out the door of that villa, across the lawn, down the drive, out the gate, into her car, and out into the night. And we made love as if this were a new beginning, as if nothing could ever change from that day on. Like a message from destiny, a fork in the road.

It started to rain, and she dragged me out of the car, her blouse unbuttoned, because she wanted to make love in the pouring rain. She let the water embrace her, along with my kisses on her rain-drenched nipples. Under her skirt, she was naked, sensuous, daring, and lustful. I let myself go. Babi straddled me, wrapped her arms around me, and I lost all control. She whispered, “Come on, come on, come on.” And she pulled away only at the end, when I was already coming. She collapsed on top of me, and as she planted a light kiss on my lips, only then did I sense my guilt. Gin.

And then, back in the car, the first words Babi spoke cut like a knife. “In a few months, I’m getting married.” That’s what Babi told me, still warm with the heat of the two of us, of my kisses, of our sex, of our sighs.

“In a few months, I’m getting married.” Like a song on an endless loop.

“In a few months, I’m getting married.”

And it was all over in a flash. There was a knot in my stomach. I could barely breathe.

“In a few months, I’m getting married.”

It all ended that night. I felt dirty, stupid, and guilty, so I decided to tell Gin the truth. I begged her to forgive me because I wanted to delete Babi from my life, and also that Step, the one drunk on rum and her. But can love be forgiven?

“Are you trying to figure out when it was?” Babi’s voice brings me back to the present.

“There can’t be any doubt about it. The last time we were together. When we met at that party.”

She glances at me mischievously. She seems to have turned back into the girl of six years ago. It almost hurts to wrench my eyes away from her, but I have to do it.

“I had a lot to drink.”

“Yes, that’s true. Your kisses were all the more passionate. You were out of control.” Then she falls silent.

“It was that night.”

She sighs. “So the next day, I had sex with him. It was a sacrifice, I could still taste you on my skin, but I had to make it look credible. Afterwards, I wept. I felt empty, sad, and meaningless.”

“So why do you think he’s my son?”

But no sooner do I finish that question than I see him coming toward us on his bike. He’s pumping wildly, standing on the pedals, and he swerves as he brakes, fishtailing, but the bike goes over and he manages to land on both feet. He looks up, slightly embarrassed.

“Mamma, that other boy did it.” He turns his head, gesturing vaguely behind him. Then “Step, will you teach me?” And with that, he gets back on the bike and rides off, happily.

Babi watches him go. “How can you even ask if he’s yours? He’s like you in every way, every single thing he does. There’s only one thing that’s a little different.”

---