You really believe that?
Yes.
Maybe it’s something that concerns only you.
I don’t think so.
It concerns me, too?
I imagine so, yes.
In what way?
In many ways.
Tell me one.
Those who love us betray us, and we betray those we love.
What do I have to do with that?
It’s what’s happening to you.
I’m not betraying anyone.
No? What do you call this?
This what?
You know very well.
This has nothing to do with it.
Precisely. It has nothing to do with your great love, it has nothing to do with the Son, it has nothing to do with the idea you have of yourself. There is no trace of all that in the actions you are performing at this moment. Doesn’t it seem odd to you? No trace.
I stayed here to wait for him, doesn’t that mean something?
I don’t know. You tell me.
I never stopped loving him, I’m here for him, and he’s always with me.
You’re convinced of it?
Of course. We never stopped being together.
Yet I don’t see him here.
He’s coming.
It’s what they all believe.
And so?
Maybe the truth would interest you.
The truth is that the Son is arriving.
I’m afraid not, signorina.
What do you know about it?
I know that the last time they saw him was a year ago. He was embarking on a cutter, a small sailboat. Since then no one has heard anything about him.
What the hell are you talking about?
Naturally it wasn’t something that could be communicated to the Father, so crudely, and abruptly. So we preferred first to put it off and then to manage it in a, let’s say, more gradual manner. It couldn’t be ruled out, moreover, that the Son would reappear out of nothing, one day or other. You’ve stopped swaying, signorina.
But you haven’t.
I no, it’s true.
Why are you telling me these lies? Do you want to hurt me?
I don’t know.
Are they lies?
No.
Tell me the truth.
It’s the truth: the Son disappeared.
When?
A year ago.
And who told you?
It was Comandini who took care of things.
Him.
He was the only one who knew, until a few days ago. Then he came to tell me, shortly before we left. He wanted some advice.
And all that stuff?
The two rams and the rest?
Yes.
Well, the affair became complicated when you arrived. It was hard to keep dragging things out. So to Comandini it seemed that a very lengthy, endless relocation could gain some time.
Comandini sent those things?
Yes.
I can’t believe it.
It was a form of courtesy toward the Father.
Nonsense…
I’m sorry, signorina.
I will hate you all, with all my soul, forever, until the day the Son returns.
The Uncle closed his eyes, I felt his shoulders under my hands change their weight.
I tightened my grip.
Don’t do it, I said. Don’t go.
He reopened his eyes, his gaze empty.
Now let me go, signorina, please.
I won’t even think of it.
Please.
I won’t stay here alone.
Please.
He closed his eyes again, he was leaving, to return to his spell.
Did you hear me? I won’t stay here alone.
I have to go, really.
He was already talking in his sleep.
So I tightened one hand around his throat. He opened his eyes, astonished. I stared at him, and this time it was a firm look, maybe mean.
Where the hell do you think you’re going? I said.
The Uncle looked around, more than anything to avoid my eyes. Or to look for an answer, in things.
I won’t stay here alone, I said. You come away with me.
I saw his eyelids descend, while he drew a long breath. But I knew that I wouldn’t let him go. I could still feel his sex, under mine, I hadn’t stopped dancing for a moment. I took my dress off, over my head, with a movement that couldn’t frighten him. He opened his eyes again and looked at me. I took my hands off his shoulders and began to unbutton his shirt, because the Mother had taught me that it was my right. I didn’t lean over to kiss him, I didn’t caress him, ever. With a single movement of my neck, in an instant, I loosened my hair. I got down to the last button of the shirt and I didn’t stop there. I kept my gaze on the Uncle’s eyes, I wouldn’t let him return to his spell. He looked at my hands, then he looked into my eyes, then he looked at my hands again. He didn’t seem to be afraid, or to have questions, or curiosity. I took his sex in my hand and for a while I held it firmly, tight in my palm, like something that I had returned from a distance to retrieve. I moved my spread legs forward, and I remembered my grandmother’s lovely expression: a skillful belly. I was about to understand its meaning.
Don’t do it with hatred, said the Uncle.
I came down on him and took him inside me.
I don’t do it out of love, I said — and I remember all the rest but I’ll keep it for myself, about that strange night, spent in a crack in the world, not to be found in the ledger of the living, stolen for hours from defeat, and given back at dawn, when the first light filtered through the blind, and I, holding that man in my arms, let him fall asleep, this time for real, and restored him to his dreams.
It was late when we awoke. We looked at each other and understood that we should not be found like that. The instinct to start over, always. We began to put things in order, hurriedly, I changed, he went to his room. He moved as I had never seen him, lining up his gestures with confidence, eyes vivid, steps graceful. It occurred to me that it would be easy, for the Daughter, to love him.
We didn’t say a word. Only, at a certain point, I asked him:
And now what will you do?
And you? he answered.
In the noonday sun someone knocked at the door, respectful but firm.
Modesto.
It’s more or less at this point that I left my computer on the seat of a bus. A bus that crossed the island from north to south, gliding along roads scarcely wider than itself, with foolish precision. At a certain point I got off and left the computer on the seat. When I realized it, the bus had already disappeared. It was a nice computer, apart from everything else. Inside was my book.
Naturally it wouldn’t have been difficult to get it back, but the truth is that I let it go. To understand you have to take into account the light, the sea, the dogs moving slowly in the sun, how the people live there. The South of the world suggests curious priorities. There is a particular approach to problems — solving them isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. So I walked a while, I sat on a wall, at the port, and then I began watching the boats come and go. I like that whatever they do, they do it slowly. If you look at them from a distance, I mean. It’s a kind of dance, it seems to involve some form of wisdom, or solemnity. There is also some disenchantment at times. Maybe a hint of renunciation — gentle. It’s the marvel of ports.