Never Again So Close by Claudia Serrano

Author:Claudia Serrano [Serrano, Claudia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503941489
Google: XHdXDQEACAAJ
Amazon: 1503941485
Publisher: AmazonCrossing
Published: 2017-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

He would caress my knee. In the tram, while he was sitting and I stood in front of him and the passengers looked at us and we looked at them and, without saying a word, knew already what the other would say about each of them; in taxis, when the Eternal City said good night to us with its illuminated monuments and the sadness of departure was a sigh. He would caress my knee, and that seemly, delicate gesture restored me to love.

That was how Vittorio initiated me into his grammar of emotion, and I took pains to learn: It was up to me, to my womanly nature, to assume the burden of understanding. It was my job to decipher his language, to pave the way for him to find expression, an area in which he could extricate himself; it was my job, an almost religious duty, to compensate for the missing words, not with other words (which I dreamed of hearing, but no, they would not have been his), but with greater understanding.

We returned home, the last evening of our Roman weekend, and when I came out of the shower, I heard music that Vittorio had turned on—a poignant melody, but I couldn’t make it out. I wrapped the towel around me and opened the bathroom door. From the doorway, I saw him in the semidarkness of the room, standing motionless at the window. He wasn’t aware of my presence. The song lyrics went something like “save me, bring me peace.” Vittorio murmured the words, his lips barely moving. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered. I felt my hand loosen its hold on the towel I had around my body.

It was then that it happened, like a sudden fit. Midway through the song, Vittorio fell silent, bolted to the stereo, and turned it off.

The next morning, he woke me, groping under my nightgown. He made love to me without a single kiss, not one caress. By himself. Then he turned his back to me and fell asleep again. I shook him, it was just a couple of hours until my departure.

“I can’t take you to the station.”

“Why not?”

“I have an appointment. We’ll have breakfast, then I’ll leave you at the bus stop.”

In the courtyard of the café, children were playing around a small wooden house, their faces appearing and disappearing behind the windows.

“Listen, Vittorio . . .”

He turned on his phone and invited a friend of his to join us.

He had some flakes from the croissant in his beard. For spite I didn’t tell him.

“Vittorio . . .” I tried again. “I’m . . . Well, I’m a bit confused.”

“Confused? About what?” He stiffened.

“About this weekend.”

“Why?”

“Because I liked being with you . . .”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know if you liked it . . .”

There was a table between us.

Looking back now, it seems to me that we were always that way, Vittorio and I, always at a bar or in a restaurant, always restrained, facing each other across a table; with me acting as if nothing were wrong.

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