скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
I promise.
A saddlebag that was too heavy.
And my shoulders are too weak.
6
Small steps
With small steps I walked towards horizons forbidden even just to my imagination.
All the fears that Filippo would find me out dwindled day after day, drowned in our lives like poor devils, in every absent glance, in every click on that damn remote control.
Even his fits of anger, his words of accusation, his derogatory statements in my regard, did not hurt me so much anymore.
Every day that passed I was becoming more confident that I would be able to take what little happiness I deserved.
Pietro caressed me with his eyes in the long hours of work, whether I was among the shelves,
or if I was called to his office, and in doing so he unequivocally gave me to understand that the kiss we had exchanged, could, indeed should have a sequel.
One Friday evening, I had almost finished entering the suppliers’ invoices that had arrived during the week into the accounting management program. There were a lot of them.
All the other colleagues had left.
The manager came to the door of the office to say goodbye.
Pietro was putting on his jacket, and was about to leave.
"Miss Mysia, have you finished entering the invoices? Good, that means I can work on it tomorrow morning... Pietro will you wait until Mysia has finished? I don't like her being alone in here. I have to run. Have a good evening guys."
Pietro nodded yes, taking off his jacket again.
The door was closed.
We were alone.
I panicked at the mere thought.
Try as I might to concentrate on the work my head was in flames and my hands were shaking.
He sat down opposite me, his legs crossed, his arms folded, his big, dark eyes fixed on me, and his lips posed in a smile.
I couldn’t breathe, and there was a weight pressing on my chest.
"You want to kiss me, right?"
"..."
"Right?"
He was already on his feet with one hand resting on the desk and the other busy stroking me under my chin, the flesh yielding and quivering.
Nose to nose, with my eyes fixed in his, I felt his lips brush mine softly, like a touch of butterfly wings,.
He was so delicate, unhurried, as if we had all the time in the world.
"You wanted it too, baby, didn't you? I felt it, you know?"
I was unable to say a word.
Now we were standing and he was holding me in his arms, with my face pressed to his chest.
In the silence he caressed my hair, kissed me on the nape of the neck, made me feel as if I were the center of the universe.
And I wanted to weep.
I was clasped in the arms of what I had wanted so long.
And I didn't have him.
He could never be mine.
Unless a very small part perhaps.
But at that moment it didn’t matter: the only important thing was having Pietro a few inches from me.
He helped me finish entering the invoices, and at the door of the office we said goodbye.
With my cheeks red with excitement, I ran
happily towards the bus that was waiting for me under a lamppost of the space used as a station.
As if I were in a trance I sat down on a seat, still feeling his touch.
His perfume had stayed on my hands: the road ran quickly by, I closed my eyes and breathed him in from the palms of my hands.
7.
The Scarlet Notebook
Perhaps a part of me would have liked Filippo to discover my relationship with Pietro.
I wanted to wound his indifference, reduce it to shreds, and respond with facts to his constant offensive statements when he said that I was worth nothing, to see even one emotion scrape his face.
Thinking about what I was doing made me feel sick, I recognized that I was a two-timer, but looking at the thing from my point of view, I could no longer help but seek a little appreciation.
With a bitter smile, I remembered when I accompanied my father to the conversations with my teachers and, after listening to the praises they
wove about me, he invariably concluded by advising them to ask more from me. I justified the embarrassment and disappointment of never receiving any praise with the conviction that in doing so I was driven to do better and better. And instead I realize that all this desire for recognition comes, perhaps, from the lack that I had experienced until then.
The manager, who was now assigning me more and more tasks in administration, had sent me to the stationery shop to buy some office supplies.
I was wandering among the shelves going past packets of clips, reams of paper, notebooks, when my attention was captured by a notebook with a hard cover in scarlet red.
I took it, even though I had no idea what I would do with it: it had been impossible not to buy it, as if that object had had a will of its own, and wanted to come with me.
Holding it in my hands I remembered my
grandmother and her exercise books in which she wrote her recipes and the phrases that struck her, and which she also used to dry the daisies that I sometimes picked during recreation, at school.
I went back to the office with two bags of supplies, and my notebook in my bag.
Pietro came to meet me at the door, took one of the bags, and helped me put away everything I had purchased.
As I passed him a pack of paper he said to me:
"We should find our own place, somewhere just ours where we can meet without problems."
"Pietro, are you crazy? What do you want to do, rent a room in a hotel by the hour? And where, anyway, in this provincial town, where everyone knows everything about everyone?"
"Don’t worry baby, the important thing is that you want me. We could take a train and go a bit further away, and find some place near the station."
I didn't want to go a bit further away and find a place near the station. I feared that that moment would soon arrive, I feared that Pietro would ask me for more. It was enough to feel his gaze on me, his words, I needed it desperetely.
That might have been enough for me, but maybe not for him.
***
I had put the pots with lunch for the next day and the stew for dinner on the stove, when I took the notebook out of my bag, put it on the kitchen table and opened it.
Spontaneously, without knowing where the pen would take me, I began to write.
If loving is a mistake
then I am guilty.
Tie my lungs
and stifle the song
that comes out improperly
to disturb the sleep of the righteous.
If loving is a defect
then I am imperfect,
Unworthy.
Tear pieces from my heart
and lay them on the cold tray
of respectability.
If to love is inappropriate,
when the path deviates,
lose me.
Nothing is more dangerous
than a burning spark
when dead branches
are stacked around it.
But if loving is inevitable,
appropriate
deserved
if it is breath,
light
magnificence of the soul,
