What We Don't Know About Children by Simona Vinci

Author:Simona Vinci [Vinci, Simona]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: doncarlos
ISBN: 9780375404115
Google: RRyTAAAAIAAJ
Publisher: Knopf
Published: 2000-01-14T21:00:00+00:00

When they remembered that night spent in the middle of the fields, they’d think that the whole story might have gone in another direction if only they had stayed on the banks of the lime pit at night, or in the courtyard in the afternoon, coming together gradually, teasing each other, maybe even wrestling before kissing on the lips, quickly, closed-mouthed. Their hands tucked deep into their pockets.

11

The soft light in the shed drew out the length of Mirko’s eyes, making them seem even narrower, more liquid. His mouth, still closed, slowly touched Martina’s.

This kissing stuff always lasted a long time. You moved your lips under the other person’s slightly open mouth; you stroked their neck and hair. Like petting a cat, it wasn’t difficult, but wetter, and it made your heart race.

She could see Greta watching them in silence from the edge of the mattress, hugging her knees. Greta didn’t like to kiss. She had always thought it was disgusting. She never actually said it, but you could tell from the way she turned her head away as soon as she could, the way she wiped her mouth on her bare shoulder to clean off the spit. All the excess of tongue, lips and teeth revolted her. It was dirty and wet. When you get dirty and wet, you clean up and dry off.

Meanwhile, Martina was thinking about Brenda and Dylan, in a convertible by the ocean, REM singing “Losing My Religion” in the background. No, it wasn’t the same. And Brenda had tits, while Martina . . . But Mirko didn’t notice. He’d run his fingers over her chest, rubbing nonexistent roundness. He moved his hands just like he was squeezing two breasts. Martina thought that this might make them grow: because he felt them and she believed that it might make them blossom. Lifting her head slightly, she saw her thin, naked legs, bristling with tiny blond hairs. She shifted to let his hand in. How could she know if they were doing it right?

The image of two people she had seen one day at the Margherita Gardens in Bologna came into her mind. They had been sitting in front of the pond where there were ducks and these huge goldfish. Her mouth was open over his, her hands hidden under his sweater. Her eyes were open: she was looking into the deep water, not into his eyes. She watched the monstrous fish, their toothless mouths and rotten gills. She concentrated on the moldy green water, and the expression in her eyes was serious.

And now, looking right into Mirko’s eyes, Martina saw the fish floating belly up, dead, their skin faded and blotchy. She told him to get off her, to move. Enough was enough, it was getting late. And the fish kept crowding his eyes, more and more of them, enormous. There were so many they started blocking out the whites of his eyes. She felt a slow rip and then something soft but clinging stirred inside her.

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