Eros and Tano

  I would never forget what had happened with Fiorella, the memory would forever remain as a black abyss deep in my consciousness, but it wouldn’t prevent me from existing.

  Or at least, so I hoped.

  Arianna.

  Arianna, a church girl. Involved in volunteering, in scouting, in religious choirs. The living proof of the fact that the Good Samaritan syndrome can easily go hand in hand with two awake and mischievous eyes, a slender and provocative little physique, and hair as red as sin.

  We attended the same school, but not the same class. I had never noticed her, she had. If she had the chance to parade back and forth in front of me a dozen times, practically under my nose, it was just because, having decided with some friends to kick the ball a bit, we had asked permission to use the courtyard of the oratory near the school.

  She kept buzzing around me, indifferent to the more than explicit glances and hushed embarrassing comments that my buddies sent her, until I decided to speak to her to ask her I don’t remember what. From that moment she didn’t let go of me anymore.

  Arianna loved to care for other people, solving the problems of others, broadcasting serenity to anyone near her. She confessed me, without any trepidation, that she had already spotted me a while ago, and she did that so spontaneously that I couldn’t help but be enthralled.

  She was the first person with whom I spontaneously talked about the accident happened three years earlier. It was good to do that, it made ​​me feel better, helped me to overcome that trauma. And she was always there, ready to take on any burden just to be near me. In love, even more than with me, with the love she felt for me. How could I not reciprocate?

  To my great pleasure, and also with some relief, I found out that, in spite of her assiduous frequentations of the religious community, she didn’t think that the obligation to abstain from premarital sex was binding at all.

  "But isn’t the Pope against it?" I teased her, unable to restrain myself, even if having her change her mind about that would have been quite at my expense.

  "When he said it, he wasn’t speaking ex cathedra", she said seriously.

  She replied in such a stiff tone that I did not dare ask why the bishop of Rome had decided to change his old desk with a new one before speaking on such an important issue. And, to be honest, I didn’t care that much.

  New Year was approaching and we decided to celebrate in the best way, she and I alone. And let all others pile up in some smelly nightclub, drinking cheap champagne from plastic cups and counting away the second to midnight starting from one hundred thousand...

  A bottle of Dom Perignon – it cost me a fortune, but for such an occasion it was worth it – suitable and effective music, a delightful alcove all for ourselves and fireworks outside to celebrate the new year. The first time for her, in a sense to me as well.

  Her and I, all of our sweetness, more and more sweetness. Then...

  Darkness.

  "Come the next," the imposing old man said, inviting me to take a step forward with a flourish of the hand, thus causing an oscillation that rattled the single, massive golden key dangling from his belt.

  "But if he has only one, what is it tingling against?" I wondered, "does he have bronze balls?"

  "So," he snapped impatiently, "good or bad?"

  "Who are you, Santa Claus?" I asked him back, "look, this year I didn’t prepare the letter."

  "Young man, I do not like funny people. As sure as my name is Peter, you had better not act smart if you do not want me to send you directly downstairs," he growled. "Hell," he added in a sadistic whisper.

  "Sorry, I don’t understand. Is it you who decide who goes there? If a serial killer comes here and adulates you, you send him to heaven?"

  The acid old man stuttered something incomprehensible in an angry manner, then recovered with obvious effort.

  "You dare to question HIS word!?" he barked.

  "Whose?"

  "HIS!" he repeated, as if repeating the same concept twice could somehow make it more understandable.

  "Look, I don’t know who you mean, but so far I have only talked with you, so at most I might have questioned YOUR word. Anyway, I just asked a question, and you did not answer yet."

  "Bravo, bravo, I see that you are someone who knows a lot," he said in a tone that was maybe supposed to be mocking and threatening at the same time. "What you say, what we do with this?" he added, winking at an angel equipped with golden armour and double harken who guarded the entrance to the right, who anyway seemed completely indifferent to the question.

  "Look, do whatever you want, as long as you get a move," I answered instead of the distracted cherub.

  "Blaspheme! Hell, go to hell!" he yelled pointing at the left gate.

  For the sake of getting rid of that irritating person, I started without hesitation in that direction, but not before devoting him a deeply felt interpretation of the so-called "giving the finger".

  "Yes, I'm going to hell. And you go fu..."

  I didn’t have time to finish the sentence that the door swung open before me. On the threshold appeared a devil, so ugly, but so ugly that... oh well, I can’t think of a term of comparison.

  "Oh no," thundered the latter, talking to St. Peter.

  "Uh... «oh no» what?"

  "That's enough, you cannot keep sending down everyone who comes!"

  "J... just this one, I promise."

  "You broke my tail with your promises. We have no place. Keep him up there."

  The door closed suddenly and we stood there, the vulgar guardian of Heaven and I, looking at each other in silence.

  "So? What should I do?" I pressed him.

  "You can go to Heaven, my son, you have my blessing," he agreed, sounding so fake that for a moment the assurances of the Prime Minister about the imminent end of recession came to my mind.

  "Who cares about your blessing," I said, parading in front of him and taking the opportunity to tread on one of his sandaled feet.

  "Ouch," was his last line before I left the scene.

  What can I say? Heaven, it was heaven. With all the angels and saints, and that good woman of Holy Mary. There was also that freak Nazarene, the one who had pulled up all that mess in the Holy Land, long ago.

  I also had a chat with him, and judging from how he spoke, how he reasoned, I realized that he was just the kind of person I'd heard described many times by the priests. Strange, though. I wondered why no one had ever told me that he was blacker than Michael Jackson had been before starting to dive-bomb himself with hormones and bleach.

  We were there, talking, when suddenly I was gripped and pulled away.

  I came back to my senses in a hospital room. My mother was there, trying to nap on a reclining chair. For a while she didn’t even realize that I had opened my eyes. All in all I was pleased that my return had passed, in fact, unnoticed. The chaos that had been unleashed last time frankly seemed a little excessive to me.

  Arianna came to see me. Since she knew that I had had a similar precedent, she hadn’t been traumatized like Fiorella years ago, but it certainly hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

  She told me that she felt the need to be on her own for a while, to reflect on our relationship. I told her she was right, and not just because I couldn’t do anything else. I did that because she was utterly and completely right.

  I saw her after some time, by chance. She was still engaged in her many activities; study, volunteering and religion. But she no longer had the bright eyes of when I had met her.

  We lost touch.

  The luminary 2.

  "Therefore, as a result of the scrofondanian trauma with firopondatonesiritornicadic the rescostroncoidalprystil made it so that the gulendronicacipillorial inserted itself into a dropponielloveruntic..."

  That speech I had already heard from someone else before, but I no longer remembered well by whom.

  "Excuse me, Doctor," I interrupted, eliciting from him a look that barely concealed the irritati
on he felt for such irreverence, "in other words, you're saying that as a result of the trauma suffered as a kid, I run the risk of entering a state of apparent death every time I have sexual intercourse?"

  "That is exactly what I am saying. What is it that you do not understand?"

  "Well, nothing, I just would like to know why."

  "That's because, as I have already explained, as a result of the scrofondanian trauma with firopondatonesiritornicadic the rescostroncoidalprystil made it so that the gulendronicacipillorial inserted itself into a dropponielloveruntic..."

  Silvia.

  I met Silvia at university.

  She was a girl active on a thousand fronts, in favour of Third World, antivivisection, anti-capitalist... I think there wasn’t a single event in the entire universe she wasn’t either for or against. Probably, if she had been born at the right time, she would have been included in the much abused definition of "revolutionary."

  Silvia, among other things, was for free love, but she had her own personal vision of that concept. She applied this principle of sharing her body only and solely to stalwart, attractive and fascinating boys. Any other suitor who did not fall within these parameters, would do better to not even talk to her.

  Her dissuasion strategy against those who – without being up to her expectations – even vaguely aspired to enjoy her favour, was based on wearing them out. The misguided young man who might attempt to approach her, would find himself entangled in endless discussions about ecological, social or whatever themes, watching boring film followed by forums, or attending seminars on topics so general that they almost became abstract. There is no male in the world capable of withstanding more than a few days of such an ordeal.

  On the other hand, who was able to meet her exigent taste about male company – and I was among the lucky ones – could enjoy her handsome availability without much effort in courtship and romance, and without having to feel committed to her.

  When I began to hang out with her, to be correct, I mentioned as delicately as possible my problem about sex. She listened rather absently, then said: "Don’t worry, leave it to me. We go to bed?"

  Of course I followed her. Thinking in retrospect, I doubt that she had understood something completely different. She probably guessed that mine had been a harmless performance anxiety, and when a prompt and virile reaction was the response to her first approaches, she gave it no further thought.

  We were lucky, my bizarre syndrome did not show up for some time, until one evening, just at the climax...

  Darkness.

  "Where did I end up this time?" I muttered.

  "So, why do you hesitate?" the ruddy, vigorously-mannered old man that I suddenly saw standing in front of me asked me.

  "Um... actually, before I could hesitate, I would need to know what I would be doing if I was not hesitating, don’t you think?"

  "Well, well, you're cute", he said. "The future is waiting for us", he pressed on, "do you want to march alongside the millions of workers who, joining their efforts, will build the world of the future?"

  "Well, we can talk about it. But, you know, with that moustache you look just like..."

  "Come on, let’s not get distracted in conversation," he interrupted, "Come, follow me at a relaxed, rhythmic step, and I will explain the amazing results of production planning."

  "Ok..."

  He led me along the wide avenues of a city consisting of buildings belonging to an extreme cubist style, well spaced from one another and surrounded by tidy gardens and well-equipped recreation areas.

  "Each of us has the job most suited to their talents and their abilities. The production is equally shared so that everyone has what they need to live a dignified and – why not – wealthy life."

  "And you?"

  "I?" he snorted, returning me an astonished look.

  "Yes, you. What is your role in this perfect society of workers? "

  "Well... let's say I'm a bit at the service of everyone. I oversee the situation to ensure that it works. I intervene where misunderstandings or misconceptions arise..."

  "Look, said that way it’s a little disturbing. With that moustache, then... you know you really remind me of..."

  "Now, young man, don’t waste time. You're lucky, you got here on the day in which we celebrate the success of the last five-year plan. We organized a great party, it will be an unforgettable experience!"

  From the way he spoke, he seemed genuinely excited of what he was prospecting. However, it wasn't hard for me to imagine that his good humour was more than a little facilitated by appropriate washing, as the vodka exhaling from his breath already early in the morning hours testified. I could infer the time by estimating the height above the horizon of the sun of the future.

  He led me to the city centre, where there was a very large square. As we approached I heard coming to my ears, growing in volume, the notes of martial hymns dedicated to the actions of workers through the ages of mankind, those past and those to come.

  A host of people of every race, gender and age were gathered there. Lined up in neat rows, each held up a red flag, without symbols. Others paraded before them, framed in tight formation, receiving thunderous applauses. When they reached the end of that endless phalanx, they arranged themselves at its side, while on the opposite side a similar human block undertook the same route.

  I watched those manoeuvres for a long time, realizing that, since the square was circular and the groups stood in line following its perimeter, the carousel could theoretically go on forever.

  "So, what do you think?" Moustached-Man said.

  "Wow, that's great. Sure you know what it means to have fun..."

  Something grabbed me and dragged me away, so I had no way of knowing if he had caught my sarcasm.

  That time, when I came to my senses, I found no one beside me. They had loaded me onto a stretcher and then parked me in the emergency room, in a secluded closet, so to prevent other patients from being unnerved too much. I looked down and saw a post-it stuck to the sheet up to my chest. I read it: "Don’t take away. Maybe still alive."

  The others.

  Giovanna, the gourmet.

  A romantic dinner – romantic and abundant, I dare say – then her and I alone.

  Darkness.

  A city boasting a thousand restaurants, pizzerias, sandwich shops, kebab, sushi, ethnic eateries of every civilization ever existed. Buildings in the shape of pots and pans, deliciously painted in pastel hues...

  Morena, the athlete.

  Fitness, aerobics, savate, karate, godknowswhate.

  A couple of rimes stalking her out of the gym, then her and I tangled in the park where she had gone running, I had followed her on my bike.

  Darkness.

  Jattaaa!

  Bruce Lee, the tiger man, Fist of the North, a world of gyms and tatami, ranks of adepts of the weirdest martial arts, funny Shaolin monks looking at you with that benevolent and condescending expression that regularly has the effect of making you feel even more stupid than you already are...

  Federica, that great... oh well...

  Her and I, and so on.

  Darkness.

  Terrible, the world of Barbie, inhabited by wire-thin girls and buff boys, all constantly pursuing the most pleasant activities that you can imagine...

  Filippa, the girl with surprise.

  Yes, it happened to me too. What can I say? I was drunk.

  Darkness.

  Eh... this would be the paradise of... oh, let's hope that this time it will end soon...

  Chantal, fond of fantasy literature.

  Darkness.

  This one was nice... mighty castles, picturesque villages, knights, dragons... dragons? Help!

  And Francesca, Cristina, Maria, Lucia, Elena... and others. I'm a nice guy, it’s not like I can remember them all, right?

  Vanessa.

  Vanessa was the last of the series.

  By then I had given up from some time already. When some girl a
pproached me – yes, I am one of those men who never have to ask – I tried to push her away by giving her the cold shoulder. To those who insisted, I described the most gruesome details of my sexual misadventures. This had the effect to deter even the most stubborn, with one exception. Vanessa, indeed.

  She was one of those girls always dressed in somehow funereal colours, usually ranging from black to purple, animated by a deep interest in everything that was macabre. She liked Dark music, Dark Metal, Dark-Punk, well, whatever had anything to do with the prefix in question. She loved vampire movies but not those with zombies. Why she preferred one type of corpse over the other, frankly I was never able to understand.

  Anyway she didn’t seem at all intimidated by the not too remote possibility that I might pass away in her arms, and I thought that maybe I had finally found the right woman for me.

  Ironically, my recurring problem didn’t pop up for a while, until one day, right at the best moment...

  Darkness.

  Darkness.

  "Come on, only darkness?" I snapped.

  Actually, I could see something, my eyes were slowly adapting.

  A huge-sized cavern, with reddish and violet reflexes revealing the presence of sources of light at some distance. A thumping music in the background. It had to be really powerful, but it also seemed to come from far away.

  I ventured into that maze of tunnels, glimpsing the more or less human creatures who roamed it; a lot of damned committed to inflict one another pain and pleasure.

  Having reached the end of a corridor, I found myself in a balcony that overlooked a huge area, at the bottom of which I saw a large crowd lost in the ecstasy induced by the music booming in all of its power. What my eyes were seeing looked like the unholy union between a rave party and sadomasochistic orgy. To my surprise, I realized that the result had its own morbid charm.

  A light caress on my shoulder, I turned to look.

  Partly she-demon, but human enough. Beautiful with a sensual, animalistic beauty.