All of a sudden I turned around, as if I had unexpectedly realized something, some mystery till then beyond my grasp. "I don't love you," I murmured, almost to myself.
I didn't even have time to think it.
He slowly turned, opened his eyes, and asked, "What the fuck did you say?"
I looked at him a moment, my face set, motionless, and in a louder voice I said, "I don't love you."
He frowned, drawing his eyebrows closer together. Then he shouted, "Who the fuck ever asked you to?"
We remained in silence, and he again turned his back to me. I heard a car door close and then a couple's muted laughter. Daniele turned toward them and, annoyed, said, "What the fuck do these people want? Why don't they screw somewhere else and leave me in peace?"
"Don't they have the right to screw where they want?" I said, studying the sheen of the clear polish on my fingernails.
"Listen, babe, you don't have to tell me what other people can or can't do. I decide, only me. I've decided for you too, and I'll always decide."
While he was speaking, I turned away, annoyed, and lay down on the wet towel. He shook my shoulders angrily and emitted some indecipherable sounds through clenched teeth. I didn't move; every muscle in my body was still.
"You can't treat me like this!" he screamed. "You can't not give a damn about me. When I talk, you have to listen, you can't turn away. Understand?"
Then I suddenly turned and grabbed his wrists. They felt weak in my hands. I pitied him; my heart was aching.
"I would listen to you for hours on end," I said softly, "if only you spoke to me, if only you let me."
I saw and felt his body go slack. His eyes squeezed tight, then looked downward.
He burst into tears and covered his face with his hands, ashamed. Once again he curled up on the towel, and once again, with his legs folded, he resembled a defenseless, innocent child.
I gave him a kiss on the cheek, folded my towel quietly and carefully gathered up all my things, and slowly headed toward the couple. They were locked in an embrace, nuzzling each other's necks, smelling each other's scent. I stood watching them for a moment, and amid the low roar of the waves I heard a whispered "I love you."
They escorted me back home. I thanked them, apologizing for the interruption, but they were reassuring, insisting they were happy to help me.
Just now, Diary, as I was writing to you, I felt guilty. I left him on the damp beach weeping bitter, pitiful tears; I deserted him like a coward. He might even get sick. But I did it all for him, as well as me. He has often left me in tears, and rather than hug me he sent me away with his mockery. So it isn't such a tragedy for him to be left alone. Nor is it for me.
30 April 2001
I'm happy, happy, happy! It hasn't happened the way it should, and yet I'm happy. No one ever calls me, no one comes looking for me, and yet I'm oozing joy from every pore, I'm improbably content. I've banished all my paranoias. No more do I anxiously wait for his phone call; no more do I suffer the anguish of having him on top of me, wriggling all over without giving a damn about my body and me. No more do I have to lie to my mother when, after I return home, she asks me where I've been. Like clockwork I would reply with just any old story: downtown to have a beer, the cinema, the theater. Before going to sleep I would let my imagination run wild and think of what I would've done if I had really gone to those places. I would've amused myself, certainly, would've met people, would've had a life that wasn't just school, home, and sex with Daniele. And now I want this other life, it doesn't matter what it takes, now I want someone who is interesting to Melissa. The solitude might destroy me, but I don't find that frightening. I am my own best friend, I couldn't ever betray myself, never abandon myself. But maybe I could hurt myself, yes, just maybe I could do that. Not because I would enjoy doing it, but because I want to punish myself somehow. Yet how does a girl like me love and punish herself at the same time? It's a contradiction, Diary, I do realize. But never have love and hate been so close, so complicit, so deep inside of me.
7 July 2001
12:38 A.M.
Today I saw him again. And once again-for the last time, I hope-he abused my feelings. He started it all, as always, and finished it the same way. I'm stupid, Diary, I shouldn't ever have let him get near me again.
5 August 2001
It's finished, forever. And I'm delighted to say that I'm not finished, in fact I'm starting my life over.
11 September 2001
3:25 P.M.
Maybe Daniele is watching the same images on TV, the same ones as me.
28 September 2001 9:10 a.m.
School started a little while ago, and already the air is thick with strikes, demonstrations, and meetings over the usual issues. Already I'm imagining the reddened faces of the politicians when they clash with the protesters. The first assembly of the year will begin in a few hours, and the issue is globalization. Right now I'm sitting in a classroom during a period with a substitute teacher; behind me sit some of my schoolmates gabbing about the speaker who will lead this morning's meeting. They say he's not only very smart but good-looking, with an angelic face. When one girl says she's much less interested in the intellect than in the face, they burst into giggles. They're the same girls who went around talking trash about me a few months ago, saying I'd given it up to some guy who wasn't my boyfriend. I'd confided in one of them, told her everything about Daniele, and she'd hugged me, uttering an "I'm so sorry" that was obviously hypocritical.
"What's so funny? Wouldn't you let a guy like that bang you?" asks the girl who expressed more interest in the face.
"No, I'd rather rape him," answers another with a laugh.
"What about you, Melissa?" she asks. "What would you do?"
I turned around and told them I don't know him, and therefore I don't feel like doing anything. Now I hear them laughing, and their laughter blends withthe shrill, metallic sound of the bell that signals the end of the hour.
4:35 P.M.
Perched on the platform built for the assembly, I didn't care about the demolished customs building or the torched McDonald's, even though I'd been chosen to write a report on the event. I was seated in the center of the long table; on either side of me were the representatives of the opposing sides. The guy with the angelic face sat next to me, gnawing on a ballpoint pen in the most obscene way. And while the confirmed rightist engaged with the tenacious leftist, my eyes studied the blue pen wedged between his teeth.
"Write down my name among the participants," he said at a certain point, his face bent over a slip of paper filled with notes.
"What is your name?" I asked tactfully.
"Roberto," he said, although this time he looked at me, surprised that I didn't already know it.