Мелисса П.: The Scent of Your Breath

I heard him crying but shut my eyes. I couldn’t have cared less about his victimhood.

He just cried for a while and soon worked out that it wasn’t going to move me. His tears flowed whenever he needed someone to give him a little understanding. I wished him black with bruises from my fists, white from my withheld caresses. With my nipples erect, I wanted to torture him.

The sheets rustled faintly, and before I realized what was happening I heard a croaking sound. I looked at the mirror on the wall in front of me and saw in its reflection that the sheet behind me was slightly raised, and that his hand was gripping his penis. Lying in bed next to me he was masturbating, partly in order to come, but also partly, perhaps, to take his revenge on me.

I felt him touching himself and shut my eyes; I tried to sleep and feel nothing more.

With my nipples erect, I wanted to torture him.

He got up and went to the bathroom, from which I heard his final, long moan of pleasure.

The next morning we had breakfast in silence. I never saw him again.

In a sense I felt like an orphan, though one with two fathers: a natural one, for whom I have never felt anything, not rancor, rage, or love; and one whom I had taken it upon myself to love and on whom I had imposed the task of loving me.

With my nipples soft, freedom arrived.

I’m naked at the computer; he’s in the kitchen washing the dishes and whistling. I like noise when I’m writing — I like a racket. He puts on a CD and I, still writing, find myself moving my hips and making my revolving chair move back and forth. The curtains aren’t closed yet and the windows are high, typical of a seventeenth-century palazzo. Everybody can see us, and we’re happy for anyone to watch us making love. Perhaps that’s typical of people in love: showing everyone you love each other. I wander along the corridor, brushing the walls with my fingers. I enter the sitting room and stroke the bonsai tree, standing on tiptoes. He has his back to me, and I wrap my arms around his chest and start rubbing my pelvis against him. I turn him resolutely around, look at him coyly, aware that I’ve made a movement he likes. I turn around, rub my ass against him, and he delicately strokes my back; I sit down on the edge of the cold, wet sink, the contact makes my whole skin shiver, and my body swells upward.

He takes me there and then, grandiosely stretches his body out on top of mine, and whispers words I like into my ear, warming my earlobe with his breath.

Then I hear a coughing fit and open my eyes: I see a woman leaning over the table, coughing convulsively; she looks up and smiles wickedly at me. She’s blond, wearing a flower-patterned dress, and she’s thin and coarse. I look at her for a moment longer, then I look at him, close my eyes, open them again, look back at the woman and see that she’s disappeared. I can still hear her coughing. I draw him toward me and devour him.

His tongue bleeds, dripping red on my neck.

Lovely, absolutely lovely — that film was fantastic. A touch of genius in that shot.

And what do you think of the new director in competition at the Berlin festival? And Cannes? And Venice?

Well…I…

And what do you think about Edgar Allan Poe, about Céline, about the fin de siècle poets? Don’t you think their words blend perfectly with their ideas?

Yes, of course…but…

And did you see the Paul Klee exhibition? And the Tintoretto? Did you see Tarantino’s latest, and Buñuel’s first?

No…

Your brains are in a state of collapse. You all know how to know. I don’t.

I’m a Homo sapiens who hasn’t evolved yet. I’m still in the initial phase and I intend to stay here.

They’re all motionless pillars of ash. Compacted ash, impossible to break. I’d so love to walk on their soot. Their stillness frightens me yet, at the same time, fascinates me.

Someone once said that we’re surrounded by dead people. Dead people walk in the street, eat, drink, make love and read lots of books and see lots of films and know lots of important people. But dead people, unlike living people, can’t have palpitations; they can’t have emotions. They use only their intellects, their minds, and they tend to show off their own culture.

I’m scared of dead people.

I’m scared of the thought that one day I will die, too.

At the beach at Roccalumera there was an enormous NO SWIMMINGsign, and yet it was the most crowded beach in the whole of eastern Sicily. There was no sand, there were no rocks. Just pebbles. Pebbles that got stuck between your toes, that dug into your tender skin.

“Here, put on your rubber shoes so it won’t hurt,” you said.

I always hated those horrible rubber shoes. They made me feel ugly, like one of those old German tourists with little white hats and those inevitable rubber ballet shoes.

I preferred to hurt myself, and when I did a lot of walking I even ended up liking the sensation, that gentle torture that I inflicted on my childish skin.

I didn’t like going down to the beach in the morning; the ideal time for me was early afternoon, straight after lunch.

“You can’t go swimming, not right after lunch,” you, Grandma, and my aunts all chorused, while the men inside snored, back from their night’s fishing.

“No, I swear, I’m not going to go swimming. I’m going to lie down in the sun,” I said seriously.

“You’ll get sunstroke!”

“I’ll wet my head every now and then,” I replied wisely.

I set off with all the paraphernalia, accompanied by Francesco and Angela, who had previously dispatched me to persuade you to let us go.

We crossed the street, the three of us hand in hand, and once we reached the shore, we threw the inflatable mattress into the water and lay down on it. We played at betting who would get their belly wet first. The water was extremely cold and it felt as though all the food we had just consumed was freezing in our stomachs. After initial unpleasant experiences, we had grown used to jellyfish. Around here they’re small but lethal. We brought olive oil, Nivea Creme, and butter, mixed them all up together, and greased the places where we got stung. In contact with these substances, our skin fried like bacon and eggs. Then we put a hot stone on top, gritted our teeth, and beat our feet on the ground.

Francesco, small as he was, managed to impale the jellyfish with his dagger. On the water’s edge there were dozens of decomposing jellyfish, melting in the sun and giving off steam.

While he was cruelly killing jellyfish on the beach, Angela and I ran in under the shower, sure that no one could see us. We let the water run over us and sang the theme song from a television music program: “Brancamen-ta! Ta-ra-ta-ta…,” we crooned, writhing like snakes in a bowl.

You and my aunts arrived at about five o’clock. From a distance, washed out by the sultry air, you looked like characters from a Sergio Leone film. The heat, the silence all around, you armed with your fighting gear: sunglasses, cushions for your backs, hair bands, eye masks, sarongs, transistor radios, Tupperware containers full of biscuits, fruit, and panini made with oil, tomato, and salt — my favorites, the ones that burned my chapped lips.

We looked at one another from a distance and felt like thoughtless beasts, instinctively assessing an opponent’s weak points. After a few minutes you started running and shouting at us, “You scoundrels, you’ve been swimming, haven’t you!”

“Eight wasted years! You’re eight years old and you’ve wasted them all!”

“I’ll have your soul, you wicked child!”

“Mum, how are you going to take my soul?”