I like the taste of her, so different from what I’m accustomed to, and I especially like the fact that when we catch our breaths and look at each other again there isn’t the slightest trace of embarrassment between us. It’s all so natural, so spontaneous.
In the meantime, Giulia is sitting in her high chair waiting for her baby food. Isabelle goes back to the stove to liquidize some vegetables and the kitchen fills with inviting smells. I sit down next to Giulia. She’s exploring the upholstery on the back of her seat with her tiny fingers, while also trying to loosen her belt, but before she can get upset her mother intervenes promptly with a biscuit. Giulia takes it, drags it across the feeding tray so that it crumbles a bit, then lifts it. I don’t think she has any intention of eating it, she seems to be wondering what would happen if she dropped it on the floor. After a while, she stops wondering and just drops it. That’s the nice thing about children, there are many things in my life I wish I had the courage to deal with the way she’s dealt with that biscuit.
Her food is ready, and I ask Isabelle if I can be the one to give it to Giulia. She laughs her head off at my attempts to deal with Giulia’s constant moving. I try to persuade the child to eat by imitating a plane, and get a spoonful in the face for my pains.
The spaghetti with fresh pesto and small tomatoes is delicious, and the most surprising thing is that I have all the time I need to savour it. Isabelle doesn’t hurry me, just keeps looking at me with that enchanting smile.
When we finish eating, I help her to clear the table. I don’t think I’ve ever cleared a table in my life, and she’s amused by my clumsy attempts to hide the fact. As far as I can remember I’ve never even washed a plate, but Isabelle doesn’t have a dishwasher, the one she had is broken and she’s never replaced it. “There are a whole lot of things I always forget to do,” she says, adding, “I’ve never been much good with machines.” She pours a little detergent in the sink and I offer to help her. She laughs again. “Don’t be silly, I can do it myself.” But I insist, and find myself sharing the sink and a little sponge with her, earning some more laughter from her.
We put Giulia to bed and sit down on the sofa. I find an open book under the cushion. She starts to tidy it a little, but I stop her with a kiss. I kiss her on the mouth, on the neck, again on the mouth, I’m like a young boy trying to hold in his excitement. I don’t have the courage to go further, not because I don’t feel the desire, but out of respect, the kind I’ve never had for any other woman before. Not only is Giulia sleeping in the other room, but given how incredibly slowly time is passing when I’m with Isabelle, there’s no urgency. I’m not so crazy as to risk ruining everything.
I look at her: any physical defects I might have noticed the first time I saw her have vanished. The lines around her eyes, the fact that she doesn’t have the fresh skin or perfectly firm body of a twenty-year-old, with a round arse and no trace of cellulite, the kind of arse I’ve always looked for in a woman: none of that matters. Then I don’t see her any more, I feel her and that’s enough, it all boils down to a matter of skin. And the gentle way she disarms me, the confidence visible in every gesture, the way she confronts life as if it would never end. She surrenders to the passing of time, trying to savour what remains, and simultaneously digging within to know herself better every day. I wonder if it’s possible to look someone in the eyes and see all this in such a short time. Isabelle, with her inexplicable ability to slow my life right down, shows me that yes, it is possible.
We interrupt our adolescent kisses to catch our breaths, and lie on the sofa talking, looking up at the ceiling beams, the veins in the wood with their whimsical shapes. Isabelle strokes my hair and tells me about a book she’s reading for the third time. She says there are certain masterpieces that should be read several times, life is a constant evolution. Reopening a book that has been important to you can mean setting out on a new journey, perhaps a different one, being able to catch references and meanings that may have escaped you on a first reading. She has a visceral vision of things, the ability to focus only on the present without worrying too much about what has been and what will be. And she makes me feel like that book. If she had leafed through me a few months ago, she might not have been able to read me. I myself have never stopped to read myself, and the paradox of this sudden race against time is that since everything has speeded up, in reality I’ve stopped running. And even though physically, in these past few months, I’ve tried to keep up with my own life, my real race began a long time ago. And now that she’s stroking my hair, with gentle, circular, soporific movements, it’s like stopping for the first time, in every sense. The profound tiredness I’ve been dragging around with me for too long is gradually overtaken by the deepest sleep I can ever remember.
I sleep all the hours it seems to me I’ve never slept. A sleep expanding through time, weightless, dreamless, a pure, regenerative sleep. I sleep so well that when I wake up, I forget my name for a moment. Then I see her smiling at me. “I like to watch you sleep,” she says.
I realize it’s already dark.
“Don’t worry, it’s only just eight. I’ve made you something for dinner.”
A brief moment of unease. “What about Giulia? I’ve taken advantage of your kindness, I really should be going.”
“Don’t be silly… You don’t have to be so formal with me. I’ve put Giulia to bed, and I really want to have dinner with you, if you don’t have any other plans. We can eat whenever you like. Are you hungry?”
I ask her if I can take a shower first. She gives me a towel and leads me to the bathroom, which turns out to be the most surprising part of the apartment. The walls, originally white, are almost entirely covered with writing: fragments of songs, passages from novels, thoughts. They have a uniformity of style that gives this fresco a certain artistic refinement. There are a couple of magic markers next to the washbasin, one black and one red. “Don’t pay any attention to this nonsense,” she says apologetically.
“It’s obvious you’re someone who wants to leave her mark.”
Isabelle smiles and holds out a marker. “Do you want to leave a mark, too?”
“Do you ask everyone who comes into this bathroom the same question?”
“No,” she replies, her eyes fixed on mine. “Only the people I trust.”
As I go to take the marker, I pull her towards me and kiss her again, with more passion now, my hands glide over her body, I discover her figure for the first time. When my excitement becomes unbearable, I stop, and busy myself with the marker. “One day I’ll write you a nice story,” I tell her, putting it down again next to the washbasins. “A story about you and about time passing.”
“You’ve made me curious.”
“I’d really like you to become my story.”
There’s a lovely gleam in her eyes, a surprised smile, her face has filled with happiness, like a child unwrapping presents. She goes out to lay the table, leaving me to my shower.
We’re sharing an unexpected, perhaps premature intimacy, but it’s so pleasant to imagine myself an integral part of her life, to leave the bathroom and find her with two glasses of Martini in her hand, ready for a toast. We kiss again, this time only a thin towel separates me from her body and it’s more difficult to hide my excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever kissed a woman for such a long time without undressing her first.
This time we eat in the living room, by candlelight. The table is elegantly laid, the menu is a simple one: meatballs in sauce. I can’t remember the last time I ate meatballs. They’re delicious, every bite arouses an age-old memory. She cooked them while I was asleep, she says they didn’t take long, she’s used to making this kind of thing.