Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

“And the fact I just gave you two euros, what do you think that means?”

“But, maestro, it’s not that difficult. A question of deduction. In theory it might mean that you’re generous, but you’re not, because you’ve never given me that much before. It could mean that I’ve done you a favor or that I’ve changed in some way you like, but that’s not the case. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time until bumping into each other two days ago, and I change more slowly than the centuries. So there’s just one possibility left: you have changed. And I’ve always seen you in this city as a confident, successful man. And because you’ve necessarily changed, you’re no longer that. Quod erat demonstrandum . The fact you’ve given me two euros today means that things are not going well for you. And that’s the reason I’m asking why you don’t go back north.”

“What would I do there? Escape you?”

“You wouldn’t be able to, maestro. I’d find you wherever you were. You don’t have to go to any trouble. Just call it all part of the service. You’re my customer.”

25.

I remembered her as a big blonde, not exactly slender, but in her own way impressive and, most of all, present, like a woman with the power to fill silences and cavities with the engorging plumpness of her obvious northern appearance. When I saw her again at the specific time of arrival she’d texted me, I was shocked. It could be that, unlike the previous time she’d arrived, I wasn’t really in the mood to be hospitable to luscious forms or forms of any other kind, but she stormed toward my halfhearted welcome hug like a cow toward an open gate. She was enormous. Maybe she’d gotten bigger in the meantime. Or maybe as a result of a summer full of calligraphic, wafer-thin scooter girls I’d forgotten how to see her as an attractive woman. In any case, in my eyes she looked like a blonde mountain with bulges that were in theory in more or less the right places. As she kissed me elaborately in the station, I saw pity in the eyes of my fellow city dwellers. It made me feel embarrassed.

“Ciao,” she said, much too loudly. “Are we going to your house or shall we get drunk on your little square first?” She laughed much too exuberantly. “I know already,” she said. “First, a few drinks. Come on. I know you. I know what you want. I’ll take you to your little square. I think I still know the way.”

I needed a stiff drink, she was right about that. But the way she charged through my city on her overly fat and overly confident legs, rolling her wheelie case noisily behind her, deflated my enthusiasm even further. Every paving stone covers an ancient, well hidden secret that we might whisper about one day when the wine is full, the evening quiet, and the stars favorably positioned. Two or three fragile stories lie on every street corner. Anyone with the courage to admit it will meet the tenuous old ghosts. Anyone living here will lay their ear from time to time to one of the gray, crumbling housefronts and focus on the weak echo of voices from the past. They don’t always say what we want to hear, that’s true. And it’s not always easy to understand them. But that’s why you listen harder. And when you listen really well, you can hear the old walls creaking as they rearrange the labyrinth bit by bit at night. You can hear alleys twisting and the palazzi sighing if you know how to listen and if you listen to the minimal echo of the almost inaudible footsteps within a porcelain grotto.

And she charged cheerfully through all of that on her fat legs. “Nice weather, though. It’s much worse back home. Ooh, I do fancy a Negroni. It’s great to see you again. Come here and give me a big kiss.”

We walked down from the station to Via di Pré. It wouldn’t be the route I’d have chosen in these circumstances at this time of day, but she was leading the way. This was Africa. If I French kissed a blonde mountain of that size in this quarter dominated by black, frustrated, jealous Muslims, I might not make it out alive. “I’m so happy to be back in Genoa, too. It’s all so wonderful here.” She should be counting her blessings that she hadn’t been robbed, raped, and sold as a white slave to the Bey of Tunis by now. A fair amount of money could exchange hands for a woman as massive and blonde as she. “It almost feels a bit dangerous here. I’m glad I’m with you. Give me a kiss. Come on, give me a kiss.” I saw the shining teeth in hungry faces. Knives glittered. Someone spat blood. “It’s so nice here!”

26.

We reached Piazza delle Erbe. Miraculously, we were still alive and in possession of all of our limbs. She wasn’t impressed. She ordered a Negroni. “ Allora !” she shouted. The barmaid discreetly whispered in my ear, was it OK? I gestured subtly that it was and that I’d pay.

Within half an hour she was blind drunk. “ Va bene !” she screamed. I cautiously suggested that now might be a good time to go home. She was tired, I suggested. Perhaps she needed to rest after the long journey. After that she could freshen up and we could go for another drink. Or maybe she simply preferred to turn in for the night. That wasn’t a problem. Tomorrow was another day, I assured her. “ Va bene !” she said, ordering another Negroni.

I’d invited a couple of my Genoese friends to add luster to the occasion of her return. They’d been courteous enough to invite us to their house for a simple dinner. I told her this, and asked whether she was happy with the invitation. She wasn’t obliged to go or anything. I’d understand perfectly if she preferred to get an early night. My friends would also fully understand.

“ Va bene !”

She asked what time we had to be there. I said they were coming to pick us up. It would be an honor for them to partake of a little aperitif with us before going to their house.

“ Va bene !”

And in the meantime, I’d already bought wine, fave , and salami. My friends were taking care of the main course and the dessert. She didn’t need to worry about a thing.

“ Va bene !”

But perhaps it was advisable to lie down for an hour beforehand. Recover a bit from the journey. Perhaps sober up a little before dinner. There was plenty of time for that; she didn’t have to worry in the slightest. And I’d come and fetch her. She didn’t have to think about a thing.

“ Va bene !”

But she didn’t go. And that evening as we carefully peeled the fave and attractively draped the special salami in delicate, thin slices on a fragile plate and poured the whispering wine into beautifully designed goblets, one of my female friends cautiously asked her in polished English what she thought of the poetry of contradictions in Genoa’s ancient labyrinth.

“ Va bene !” she cried with a slice of sausage in her mouth. “ Va molto, molto bene !”

27.

That night I barely slept a wink. After I’d pushed her, staggering and swaying, wheelie case and all, through the alleyways and hauled her up Vico Vegetti to my house on Vico Alabardieri, I was full of hope that in all her enormity she would fall asleep like a log as soon as her spinning head hit the pillow, after which I could tranquilly search for a strip, shred, or crack of available space on the mattress where I could hide with the sheets over my head. But the opposite was true. As soon as she’d stumblingly, topplingly undressed and was lying in my bed with her scandalous blonde thighs and tits, she spotted me next to her and seemed to awaken. Or some kind of demon awoke in her. She bit my arm, hit my belly, and grabbed my cock like a builder reaching for his tools.

“Well,” she said. “Well. There you are at last. Did I misbehave at your friends’ party? I hope so, I certainly meant to.” She began to laugh hysterically. “Do you know what’s so funny? I’ve suddenly realized that I’m lying here with a famous poet’s cock in my hand!” She laughed even louder. “At least, one who used to be famous.” She began to kiss me wildly. She tried to ram her tongue behind my epiglottis. Survival instinct made me fight back with my tongue. “See! You like it, don’t you? Tell me you missed me. Say it!” Her tongue made it impossible for me to say anything. “You know what the funniest thing is?” I’d long lost my sense of humor — there was nothing funny, let alone funn iest . “Maybe you think I misbehaved with your friends this evening, but that was just the start. Tonight I’m going to show you what real misbehavior looks like, you mark my words.” She rammed a finger up my ass. I screamed. “Yes, scream away. I know you like it. My lovely transvestite. Scream away. Yes. Like that. Like that. Yes. Yes.”