Мелисса П.: The Scent of Your Breath

I know, I can’t accept change. I’m too much of a traditionalist, too attached to my memories and, paradoxically, attached to fantasies about the future. That’s why my present is so restless, even if it’s happy: I mix the past, the future, and the present as though an exquisite sweet might emerge from the dough. A sweet that does you good because it hurts. A sweet that’s good because it’s full of clashing ingredients.

There is nothing positive in this wealth of feelings. It’s an orgy, Mum. An orgy of feelings…in which it’s impossible to work out who’s winning, in which you can’t predict whether the ultimate winner will be death or life, pain or love. It’s an infinite chaos, bound by many little interlocking rings that have slipped into my throat, dragging me to places that are never the same, to more and more exasperating states of mind.

I’m disturbed to the depths of my marrow. I don’t know how to hold back my instincts; I allow myself to be corrupted by my obsessions, by my most violent passions. Do you think it’s just because I’m Sicilian? Or is it because I’m fucking terrified of losing the most beautiful part of me? Of losing Thomas?

I shook him awake; I was breathless.

“There are ghosts, I can hear them,” I whispered so they couldn’t hear me.

“A dream,” he said, “a bad dream, calm down.”

No, I couldn’t. I really did hear that hand striking the wall opposite the bed. It beat out a rhythm, creating a sweet melody. Through half-open eyes I had seen a tall, black female figure.

Go to sleep, go to sleep, don’t be afraid. Go to sleep, go to sleep, don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.

This morning the memory of the night has already passed, but a strange attraction leads me to long once more for the black darkness. I hear a weird echo, I sip the careless milk of my thoughts, my legs are naked and crossed, I look impatiently at my cigarettes, because seven hours without smoking is far too long.

The stench of the dirty dishes in the sink grows from day to day. This morning I decide to clean the house; I swear I’m going to do it. I’m serene, even if that echo sounds like a Tibetan chant that won’t leave me alone.

He says, “Come and see.”

With my lips open in a smile, I go look across the narrow corridor, and I think this morning I really do feel like making love. I think that when I go into the room I’ll throw him on the bed and fuck him without even looking at him. He’s just had a shower and he’s damp. I can already feel the skin of his feminine back brushing against my fingertips.

“Come and see,” he repeats.

I don’t go in. I stop in the doorway, with one leg against the wall and a smile that hints broadly at what I have in mind.

He doesn’t notice but points at the wall.

A black hand. Or, rather, not a hand — three fingers. Three black fingers imprinted on the wall, as though someone had set fire to his own skin and then pressed it against the plaster.

I just say, “I told you so,” and feel something clenching inside me, and someone tells me that I have to hide because no one knows how to listen to that echo.

I realized I was in love with him one late summer evening. An electric evening, in a Rome that was colder than usual, turned in on itself as though to apologize for making too much noise, for being too beautiful, too schizophrenic, too old. The Rome of emperors and usurers, of politicians and tax collectors, lost girls and girls in miniskirts and stilettos, the Rome of vineyards and dairies, churches and brothels.

Sipping my Vin Santo, I studied the images running across the screen. The TV enfolded and contained me, and for the first time the eyes and words of the scarecrow presenters were directed at me, like rough-edged swords waiting to be used. What was I like? I wasn’t. I wasn’t me. I was a caricature of myself, I was the most exasperating version of myself, I said all the things I would never have wanted to say, because what I want to say is too crazy and too confused for anyone to understand. I was only pretending to cope.

Martina and Thomas were lying on a big leather sofa; Simone and I had our eyes glued to the TV.

“Tommy, would you give my back a rub? I’m aching like a beast…,” said Martina.

He brought his cigarette to his mouth and held it tightly between his lips, letting it dangle. He kept his eyes half closed to shield himself from the smoke that brought tears to his eyes; his long eyes, with their almost girlish lashes, looked even longer, two crescent moons.

Martina turned her back to him, and he started rubbing her vertebrae with two fingers, strong and extremely delicate. I thought about how good it must be to have two big hands like those on your body, and the smoke from his cigarette filling my nostrils. At that moment I desired him, and not just physically.

At some point I even thought of asking him, “Thomas, would you rub my back, too?” and I swear I nearly did.

But I don’t know how it happened…

That very evening, on an enormous Empire-style bed, Claudio lay on top of me and I halfheartedly opened my legs. By now I was wearing nothing but a black silk bra.

The smell of old wood gave me a comforting sense of warmth. The darkness engulfed everything. I was wearing the necklace with the pearl that you gave me, the only spark of light in the room. My thoughts were like long, long shooting stars whose tips I couldn’t find. Claudio’s attitude toward me was a mixture of jealousy and envy, and if I didn’t dedicate enough time to him he was hurt and made me feel guilty. He cried on the phone, begging me not to leave him, mortifying my happiness. “I can’t wait for this dust cloud to settle,” he said. “I want to have you all to myself. And don’t kid yourself, they’ll forget about you soon enough.”

No, Claudio, I’m not kidding myself. I hope deeply that they do forget me, that no one remembers me…and you, Claudio, you’ve got to forget me, too.

Claudio entered me and started moving back and forth. I felt my swollen belly, and felt his penis as something strange now, something unfamiliar. I turned my head to one side as I felt his abdomen rubbing against my pubic bone.

With my nipples erect I wanted to torture him.

After five or six thrusts he usually started sweating, water pouring from his forehead. When he was on top of me, the drips ran along his face and reached my lips, and I licked them wearily away with my tongue: they were very salty and bitter, with a vague taste of sperm.

That night he didn’t get as far as perspiration, because at the third thrust I stopped him and said, “I’m in love with someone else. I can’t do this.”

He broke away from me without a word, and I turned to face the other side of the bed. In front of me there was a huge mirror framed in an old wardrobe, and I stared at myself for a few moments that felt like an eternity. I studied myself and saw once again that same lost, passive expression that has accompanied me throughout my life.

“You aren’t in love with someone else, you’re in love with your success, and you think I’m a hopeless fool who’s barely capable of satisfying your whims,” he whispered a few minutes later.

“Please stop,” I said quietly, tired of hearing him say that success had altered me. The only thing that had changed was his vision of me; I felt that he was hostile and saw me now as something that belonged not to him but to everyone. I was starting to despise him — not hate him, but despise him.

“It’s the writer you met at that party, isn’t it?”

“If that’s what you want to think, go ahead and think it,” I replied indifferently. “I’m stupid as always…I always tell you everything. But things are going to change from now on, you’ll see,” I said, facing away from him and speaking very quietly.