Page 6 of Three Times You

As if startled out of a trance, I turn around to look at her, more curious than I’ve ever been. “What’s that?”

“He’s better looking!” And she bursts into laughter, delighted to have tricked me, tossing her head back and extending her legs. She’s beautiful, just gorgeous, a woman in full, more sensuous but also a mother. Does that make her more desirable?

I think about what she said. “I had to make it look credible…”Those words stir up a sludge of guilt.

Suddenly, Babi stops laughing and lays a hand on my arm. “You were there, every time I held him in my arms. And that’s why I didn’t really miss you. I had you the whole time.”

I’m lost. I was born to be with Babi. It goes beyond mere reason; she’s everything I could never understand. And as I watch her leave now, I tell her in my mind, that walk that is all you, and even though it’s been six years, I’ve never forgotten a single detail of that gait. Your back, your hips, your tanned legs, those high-heeled navy-blue shoes that swing with every stride you take. And you don’t turn around, but that little boy turns instead, raising his hand and waving goodbye, hurting me more deeply than anything I’ve felt yet.

Chapter 7

Ihead back to my car. Stunned on this ordinary day, a day like any other. Out of the blue, my life is changed forever. I have a son. Not some theoretical, future development. No, my son is right there, handsome, smiling, funny, and smart. And suddenly, I’m jealous, more jealous than I’ve ever been in my life. Jealous of a man I’ve never met, the father he’s always known, even if he’s no father of his at all. A father who hugs him, kisses him, whispers fond words, and even yells at him, scolds him, and berates him. Things he has no right to do, things only I should be able to do from now on. How dare he? My thoughts, my imaginings of him scoldingmyson, my recent memory of that boy. It all goes black.

“Would you fucking watch where you’re going, asshole!”

I have slammed into some guy walking in the opposite direction. I see his face in front of me, eyes big, hair dark, a beard, a jacket, a grown man, big and strong, with a snarling voice. Instinctively, both my hands lunge for his throat, and I slam him against the wall, throttling him and lifting him until his feet dangle helplessly, unable to touch the ground.

I shove him and choke him and bear down harder, and then I imagine Massimo riding up on his bike and smiling. He shakes his head.“Step…no, don’t. He has nothing to do with this.”

He’s right. I realize what’s happening. I’m choking the life out of another man. He must be forty or so, his eyes are half-shut, squinting, as if struggling to breathe. I let him go, and he slowly sinks down, hunched over, coughing. And I look down at my hands, red and swollen. I gaze at them in horror as if they were bloodstained, and only then do I realize how my rage has blinded me. I just thought…I thought that this man was hurting my son. Myson.

Then I turn around, and Massimo is gone. I’m all alone.

I help the man to his feet. “Excuse me…”I don’t know what else to say. “I didn’t mean to bump into you…I don’t know what came over me.”

But he looks at me with fear, and I realize the best thing to do is leave without saying anything else. I’d only make things worse.

Chapter 8

Iwalk into work and go into my private office and shut the door without a word to anyone. I open my navy-blue mini-fridge and pull out a Coke. I tip it up and guzzle it down, thirstily.

Someone knocks at the door, and I swallow the last gulp. I launch the bottle into my trash can, hitting dead center for once.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

I recognize the voice and its confident assurance. Yes, maybe it will do me good to talk to someone. “Come in.”

Giorgio Renzi enters, takes a Coke out of the mini-fridge in his turn, and looks up, asking an entirely rhetorical question: “Mother, may I?”

“Asshole…”I reply.

He smiles, opens the can, and sits down in the large leather armchair next to the window. “Well, that ‘asshole’ makes me think things aren’t all that bad.”

I look at Giorgio, and he laughs, confident he knows more about things than anyone else. He’s fifteen years older than me. His physique is still youthful, his hair is long, he surfs, kitesurfs, and has a shelfful of trophies, and I’ve seen him fight. I wouldn’t want to take him on. His specialty is money. He knows how to get it, grow it, and pay it back with dividends for both lender and himself. He’s the reason I’m sitting in this office.

And I trust him. He’s no Pollo, but he makes me feel better when I miss my dead best friend.

“Well? Tell Uncle Giorgio all about it.”

“All about what?”

“Whatever it is. You’re in here with the door closed, guzzling Coke like you wish it was rum or whiskey.”

“Okay.”

“Then things aren’t right.” He crosses his legs and takes a sip.

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