But I did go to my office, and worked without stopping, not even to eat, until late afternoon. Then I told Maria Teresa I had something urgent to do, and escaped to a bookshop.
I stayed there, browsing, until the shop closed. I was the last to leave. The shutter was already half lowered, and the assistants were all lined up at the cash desk, looking at me in an unfriendly way.
I rang the bell of Margherita’s apartment and waited for her to come and open the door.
I had keys, but almost never used them. She didn’t use hers to my apartment, two floors below, either.
We’d each kept our own apartment, with our own books, posters, discs, and so on: a mess, in the case of my little apartment. Hers was a penthouse, big, beautiful and tidy. Not obsessively tidy. Tidy like the home of someone who is in perfect control of the situation. Of the two of us, she was the one in control, but that was fine by me.
The only change had been in her apartment. We’d bought a king-size bed, the largest we could find, and had put it in her bedroom. I’d taken over a corner of the wardrobe for myself and had put in a few of my things. One shelf in the bathroom was also mine. And that was it.
I often slept at her place. But not always. Sometimes I felt like watching TV until late – though less and less – and sometimes I wanted to read until late. Sometimes she was the one who wanted to sleep alone, without anyone around. Sometimes one of us went out with friends. Sometimes she left for work and I stayed at home. I never went into her apartment when she was out. I missed her even when she’d only been gone a few hours.
I rang again just as the door opened.
“Nervous?”
“Deaf?”
“If you want to fast, you just have to say so. No point in beating about the bush.”
I didn’t want to fast. From inside the apartment came a nice smell of freshly cooked food. I raised my hands to my chest, palms turned outwards as a sign of surrender, and squeezed past her to get inside.
“Did I tell you you could come in?”
“I bought you a book.”
She looked at my empty hands, and I took the bookshop bag from the pocket of my winter jacket. Then she closed the door.
“What is it?”
“Constantin Cavafy. A Greek poet. Listen to this. It’s called ‘Ithaca’.”
I opened the white book, sat down on the sofa, and read: Hope that the way is long,
That the summer mornings are many,
When you enter at last, with such joy,
Ports you are seeing for the first time:
May you stop at Phoenician markets
And purchase fine goods,
Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
And sensual perfumes of every kind,
As many sensual perfumes as you can,
And may you visit many Egyptian cities
To learn and learn from their scholars
Always keep Ithaca in your mind
To arrive there is your destiny.
But do not hurry the journey in any way.
Better that it should last for years…
Margherita took the book out of my hands. Keeping the place with her finger, she looked at the cover – there was no illustration on it, just a poem – passed her finger over the smooth white paper, and read the back page. Then she turned back to the poem I’d been reading and I saw she was moving her lips, silently.
When she’d finished, she looked at me and gave me a quick kiss.
“OK. You can stay and eat. Wash your hands, put a CD on and lay the table. In that order.”
I washed my hands. I put on Tracy Chapman. I laid the table and poured myself a glass of wine. I still wanted a cigarette but, at least for today, the worst was over.