Мелисса П.: The Scent of Your Breath

It seemed a lovely image, you making a hole in my stomach and pulling out my soul with your hands, as though it were a rope.

We felt an exponential joy: the joy of our aquatic play and the joy of transgressing your stupid rules. Why…if you didn’t want us to go swimming after eating, why on earth did you bring food to the beach?

At seven o’clock, when the sun started shrinking and the sea turned gray, down came Grandma, the Boss.

The Boss was no taller than us children, she had short fair hair, big green eyes, her skin was smooth as silk, and her breasts were worn out from having six children in as many years, her belly swollen and hard. And her thighs…the most beautiful thighs I have ever seen. Slender and sleek, without a hint of cellulite, toned and soft.

The Boss came down to the beach even more heavily armed than you, with jars of water, trays full of food, boxes of ice creams, and big bunches of bananas. The Boss filled us with awe, and we were forced to eat the bananas beneath her gaze.

“Eat it up for your Nonna, it’ll do you good.”

At the eighth banana, if one of us said, “That’s enough, Grandma, I’m full,” she cast you a glance so grim that you wet yourself, and it was a good thing our swimsuits were wet already.

Our stomachs became endless storehouses of food — we could have kept going for months. It was her way of expressing her affection.

Then, down came Dad and my uncles with their own gear: cameras and movie cameras. They said they wanted to photograph us children, but in fact their lenses were always trained on the bottoms of the women in the sea. You got furious, but still you took the sun, mumbling, “What’s so lovely about that bum, what do they see in it? It’s flabby, sagging…”

Every weekend the band came and set up in the central courtyard surrounded by the villagers’ houses. I watched it all, sitting on the concrete step, letting my legs dangle because I couldn’t touch the ground with my feet. There was Signor Sibilla, who, when his wife went away, flirted with his neighbor, a fat, vulgar woman who gave off a strong, rancid smell. Then there was the Witch, who came down covered in sequins, her eyes surrounded by gleaming, green eye shadow, her black, black hair down to her shoulders, always wearing tight, fluorescent clothes. She sat down next to the band’s keyboard player and tried to follow the music so she could play the songs on her pianola the next day. She was our band for the rest of the week.

Grandma’s thighs, on these occasions, were sublime, especially as she danced. “Put your hands in the air, shake them all about…Do it when Simon says, and you will never be out.”

They were sublime both to me and to Signor Loy, the Sardinian who looked like a tarantula. Every weekend the band had to leave earlier than planned because Granddad started punching Signor Loy, who, undaunted, went on slobbering over Grandma.

Queen of the summer, she was more radiant than the rest. She gleamed, and her brilliance was more powerful than the sun’s reflection. More glittering than the Witch’s sequins.

Sometimes I think about you. No, that’s not true, not sometimes: I think about you all the time. And every time I do a tear slips out, from only one eye. If Thomas asks me why I’m crying, I reply that it’s nothing, that I’ve focused my eye on a point on the horizon and that’s why my iris is stinging. I’m thinking about you and your unbroken solitude.

The pizza has just turned up and you’ve been searching through the money box to find coins because the boy has no change. When he (and his pimples) have disappeared, you laugh and say, in Sicilian dialect, “Che scemu carusu ”—“What a stupid boy.”

You sit down on the sofa with your legs crossed and switch on your TV, trying to find a film that might move you. A costume drama, preferably, with a tight, romantic plot. Francesco and Morino are sniffing at the tomato on your pizza; you hold out a little bit of sauce on one finger. You’ve already opened the windows, the terrace with the little garden is a few feet away, and you catch the freshness of the newly watered lawn. It’s lovely to see Ornella lying on her belly on the carpet, head on a cushion, face pointing straight at the TV. But her eyelids are closed — she’s just gone to sleep.

I love hearing her tell you to fuck off when you call her to go to bed, to get between the sheets. She rises to her feet, looks at you with her direct, imperious eyes, and says, “You’re a fucking idiot, why the hell did you wake me up?”

You don’t reply, because if you did the two of you would come to blows.

If I’d been with you, I would have sat still with my cheek pressed against your bottom and would soon have gone to sleep. But now you’re alone and the cats have followed Ornella between the sheets.

You’ve lit a cigarette and sat yourself down in front of the television again. Your eyes, which are made of water, are drowning in an ocean of tears.

When you wake up, you realize that it wasn’t my voice calling you but the infuriating crackle of the umpteenth unextinguished cigarette making the umpteenth hole in the same old sofa.

You go to bed knowing that I wasn’t calling you and you weren’t able to get pissed off and say, “What the hell do you care if I sleep here on the sofa?”

You slink off to bed, tears drying on your cheeks.

I’m in another world, falling in love.

I think about me, about you, about him, about me and him, especially. Your eyes are made of water, mine of fire, his of earth. Out of the three, I’m the one who can endure your dominion, the one who loves it.

I advanced, slowly at first, and then, once I had managed to touch his thigh with my knees, my movements became even more enveloping. I circled him lightly with an arm. His body stiffened and his breath seemed to falter for a few moments. He stayed motionless, blocking off all contact with the world. With my outstretched little finger I gently touched his erection. It was powerful, yet incredibly light. I had never touched a real erection before. That was why my hand moved higher and higher until it reached his heart. When he lightly brushed my fingers, I realized that nothing would be as before.

“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?” I asked him.

We were at Cosenza in Calabria, and the university where I was staying had put two rooms at my disposal, one for me and the other for my companion.

“It’s horrible sleeping on your own…,” I went on, plunging farther and farther into my embarrassment.

“OK,” he replied, his cheeks growing fiery.

The smell of his neck was intoxicating, he was young, he was a child. He was everything I wanted.

“The scent of your breath…,” he whispered suddenly in the night, “I love the scent of your breath.”

I clutched his T-shirt with my fingers and closed my eyes.

He imprisoned my breath in a glass jar, and he sniffs it every time he makes love with me.

The train’s progress accompanies our movements, our sighs creating a light and liquid countermelody with sudden surges of emotion, our lips brushing, a race to kiss each other’s bodies, tongues darting disturbingly, imperiously, the night’s darkness, broken here and there by street lamps scattered along country roads, reconciling troubled fantasies and provocative imaginings, my thighs gripping his body, pressing him tightly, as I cried out to him, “You’ll never want to go! Why are you getting away? Why won’t you come back? Why won’t you suck my breath?”

My palms against his warm, maternal body, my neck thrown back, my eyes holding back their tears, perhaps tears of blood.