Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

I’m not telling you the entire truth, my friend, but you’ve guessed that already. My first instinct wasn’t to make a quick getaway. As the youngest and, in all modesty, most attractive visitor at the time, I felt I was being stared at. Something was expected of me. I was an object of fantasy. I could feel it in my veins. My first instinct wasn’t to get away as quickly as possible, but to unbutton my fly as slowly as possible. Glittering eyes gazed at me like wolves in the night. I’ve seldom felt so turned on. And by the time I had slipped down my underpants agonizingly slowly, I found myself the owner of a monumental erection that gleamed in the light of twenty, thirty, or forty pairs of eyes. I was blind to the film now. Nice and slow like a woman, I began to play with my cock as though it were a pussy. My own imaginary breasts turned me on like a transvestite. I took off my top and played with the world like I was fucking myself in my thoughts. If a horny old pervert had come up to me that moment waving his festering member, I would have sucked him off like I was wearing lipstick. I was La Superba. La Superba was me. I almost ejaculated at the thought, but delayed it a little for sake of the show, and instead, something quite different happened.

All things considered, it’s a terrible story — embarrassing, filthy, and humiliating for me. Naturally, I would never put something like that in my book. Or I’d invent another character who did it. And even then. I’m only telling you, my friend, because I trust you and I want to make something clear to you in this unusual fashion. That afternoon I was a victim of my own imagination. I felt sexy, but I was just a fat writer behaving scandalously in a public place in Genoa. Anyway, you get the point. The circumstances were extreme, but the truth of the matter is that I sincerely believe we are all like that. We dream our dreams, feel desired, inspired, and admired until the lights go on.

Because suddenly the lights went on. The French film had finished, clearly. I’d stopped watching it. A new film was put on the reels. It was a nonstop show, after all. But in order to change the film, the light had to go on. Just for a moment. A minute is enough. And there I was. There I was with my titties, my teased-up top, my remotely-removed panties, fondling myself like a girl in a Milo Manara drawing, with a painfully postponed orgasm on the fifth seat from the right of the second to last row of a cinema at the end of Via San Vincenzo, close to Brignole, in front of all of the eyes of Genoa. Somehow, all the dirty old men had suddenly turned into impeccably dressed, fine gentlemen. It was only then that I made a quick getaway.

6.

It was a cold night and had started snowing again. The snow didn’t even melt but settled. I was looking for a bar that was still open. It was Sunday, so the options were limited. Even the Britannia was closed. I went to the Piazza delle Erbe but all the shutters had already been rolled down. There was no one out. I pinned my hopes on the historical Bar Barbarossa on Piano Sant’Andrea under the Porta Soprana. I walked uphill along Salita del Prione, my head deep in my collar. I had to watch my step as I climbed. The street was definitely too steep for these weather conditions. I almost fell over twice. But it was too late to change my mind. The journey back downhill would be just as slippery, and what’s more, there was nothing to do down there, as I’d already found out.

In the distance I saw the shadow of someone trying to descend the same street from the other side. It was a woman. She didn’t seem to have any trouble with the slipperiness of the snow-covered cobblestones. She barely seemed to touch the ground.

We met halfway. She was an old woman, I could see that from her face. But she moved almost weightlessly. She looked almost transparent. She was wearing strange clothes, a long black skirt, and a gray shawl — she seemed to come from another era. In a strange way, she looked older than she looked.

She spoke to me. I didn’t understand a word she was saying. She spoke too quietly. I apologized. She apologized in turn and repeated her question. I realized she wanted directions, but she was speaking the Genoese dialect and I could only half understand it. I’ve heard drunken heating engineers and roadworkers at Paolo’s enoteca screaming in the dialect at each other that the other has a tiny belín, but I’d never heard friendly, polite Genoese. She repeated her question. Vico dei Librai? I’d understood. Vico dei Librai. Did I know where it was? That’s where she lived and she couldn’t find her house anymore.

I reflected. I knew Centro Storico very well by now, but I couldn’t place a Vico dei Librai. Was it in Centro Storico? Yes, it was just near the port, near Porta Soprana. It did sound like the name of an alleyway in Centro Storico, I had to admit. She didn’t seem demented or confused. She seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. But I didn’t know. I’d never heard of that alleyway.

But at the same time, under these circumstances, I couldn’t allow myself to just shrug apologetically. It was cold, snowing. She was an old lady who couldn’t find her way home. I couldn’t abandon her to her fate at this time of night. I was charmed by the idea that, as a foreigner, I could be the savior of a woman who was so Genoese she didn’t even speak Italian. I suggested going to Bar Barbarossa. They’d certainly be able to help us there. And I was on my way there, anyway. She nodded, turned around, and walked along beside me.

The Barbarossa was open but practically empty. I ordered a Negroni for myself and asked what I could get for her. She didn’t want anything. I insisted. I said it was cold. I ordered her a hot cup of tea. I said it was the least I could do for her.

We stood at the bar. She didn’t touch her tea. I asked the barman whether he might know where Vico dei Librai was. He didn’t know, either. I said it had to be in the neighborhood and that it was important because the lady had to get home. He did his best, looked in the phone book, but couldn’t find the street in question. How did you spell it again? Dei Librai? Like the booksellers? Strange. Wasn’t in the index. The woman was still standing silently next to me. He fetched a colleague. He had a smartphone with navigation. The problem would be solved within two minutes. I ordered another Negroni. She still hadn’t touched her tea. But Vico dei Librai didn’t exist. His smartphone gave no results. Maybe he didn’t have a signal. Maybe it was because of the snow. She thanked us. She laid a banknote on the counter to pay for the tea she hadn’t drunk a drop of. I protested. The barmen protested, too. But she was already on her way out. We followed her with the money she’d left behind. She was nowhere to be seen. There weren’t any footprints in the fresh snow. What she’d left behind turned out to be a one hundred-lira note from the Kingdom of Italy.

7.

“Your coat smells like a cage of wet, wild animals.” It was the signora. “If you want to become a Genoese gentiluomo , you’ll have to start going to the dry cleaners from time to time. But I’m prepared to forgive you that today on the condition that you give me your dirty arm and accompany me to the Bar of Mirrors. It’s slippery for a lady. And I’ll thank you with a drink. As long as it’s coffee and not the usual shit you drink. What’s it called again? Negroni. That’s healthier for you and cheaper for me. I have to think of everything, Leonardo. Promise me you’ll go to the hairdresser’s soon, too?”

“It’s such a privilege to be able to keep you company that I insist you allow me to thank you by offering you anything you would like.”

She smiled. “You’re learning, Leonardo.”