Countdown
School has started again, but Emmanuel has missed the first three weeks of lessons: he has just returned from a two-month study holiday in Cambridge, where his parents have forced him to go to perfect his English, a language which, like many boys of his generation, he has learnt mainly from the lyrics of pop songs. He loves American music very much, and this has given his pronunciation a slightly Yankee accent that offends Mrs Helena's hypersensitive ear: hence the decision to send him to the most exclusive heart of England for a while.
It was very difficult to overcome his resistance: he would not have wanted to leave my side even for a day; but at such junctures I force myself to let the mother prevail over the woman, and so he left.
The night before he greeted me with a very long hug, but I am no longer the age for romantic illusions and I told him don't be a child, behave yourself and call me as soon as you arrive.
He called me almost every night, not without my mother's astonishment. His short, intense phone calls were a naive account of his days, his progress, his melancholies; I joked about his conquests, about a certain Charlotte whose name recurred all too often in his speeches; he did not deny that he had broken a few hearts, but the very fact that he couldn't wait to tell me about it made me certain of his affection, which had been increased by the enforced distance.
One evening, immediately after the initial pleasantries, he told me point-blank:
- I have a terrible crush.
Then, after a studied pause, he added:
- For Shakespeare. We are studying the first Hamlet, the 1603 edition, you know. Read in the original language it's mind-blowing.
To disguise the violent emotion, which had almost made my heart jump in my mouth, I complained about the last expression, reproaching him for having betrayed formal language for slang.
I missed him. As soon as I heard of his return, I rushed to the villa.
There is no one at home, I only see Teresa in the kitchen. I greet her and enter the living room: he is not there. I only see a guy sitting with his back to me on the sofa, a decidedly mod guy, dressed in a pale blue shirt, light-coloured linen trousers and camel-coloured loafers, the nape of his neck shaved and his blond hair cut with precision, parting slightly in the middle, according to the unmistakable style of English colleges.
It's strange, Emmanuel hadn't told me he had invited one of his fellow students. I hesitate, not knowing what to do. I close the door behind me: he turns around.
I remain breathless.
Hi my love, I missed you so much.
He smiles and stands up: he is taller than me by a head, how is that possible? He comes towards me and hugs me. I remain motionless without reciprocating his embrace, embarrassed by the contact with the seductive stranger whose chest exudes a refined scent of musk and vetiver; a confused welter of emotions tangles inside me and finally explodes in the most senseless of feelings: indignation.
I push him away from me, offended to death:
- How could you?
He looks at me in dismay, how could I what. Go and explain it. I sit on the sofa with trembling legs. I can't keep my gaze fixed on him. Finally, deciphering the sense of resentment and desperate pain I feel, I finally realise how much I miss my funny little boy.
Somehow, he understands. He leans over me:
- Hey, it's me again... I thought you liked me better like this, but it's ok. Wait for me, I'll be right back.
He walks away and returns a little later wearing the same old blue jeans that are now too short, worn-out trainers and his grandfather's checked shirt; he smiles and spreads his arms as if to say here I am. I look at him: it's almost him. Anyway, he is quite funny.
I smile through my tears and as he hugs me I realise a terrible truth: the countdown has begun.
School has started again, but Emmanuel has missed the first three weeks of lessons: he has just returned from a two-month study holiday in Cambridge, where his parents have forced him to go to perfect his English, a language which, like many boys of his generation, he has learnt mainly from the lyrics of pop songs. He loves American music very much, and this has given his pronunciation a slightly Yankee accent that offends Mrs Helena's hypersensitive ear: hence the decision to send him to the most exclusive heart of England for a while.
It was very difficult to overcome his resistance: he would not have wanted to leave my side even for a day; but at such junctures I force myself to let the mother prevail over the woman, and so he left.
The night before he greeted me with a very long hug, but I am no longer the age for romantic illusions and I told him don't be a child, behave yourself and call me as soon as you arrive.
He called me almost every night, not without my mother's astonishment. His short, intense phone calls were a naive account of his days, his progress, his melancholies; I joked about his conquests, about a certain Charlotte whose name recurred all too often in his speeches; he did not deny that he had broken a few hearts, but the very fact that he couldn't wait to tell me about it made me certain of his affection, which had been increased by the enforced distance.
One evening, immediately after the initial pleasantries, he told me point-blank:
- I have a terrible crush.
Then, after a studied pause, he added:
- For Shakespeare. We are studying the first Hamlet, the 1603 edition, you know. Read in the original language it's mind-blowing.
To disguise the violent emotion, which had almost made my heart jump in my mouth, I complained about the last expression, reproaching him for having betrayed formal language for slang.
I missed him. As soon as I heard of his return, I rushed to the villa.
There is no one at home, I only see Teresa in the kitchen. I greet her and enter the living room: he is not there. I only see a guy sitting with his back to me on the sofa, a decidedly mod guy, dressed in a pale blue shirt, light-coloured linen trousers and camel-coloured loafers, the nape of his neck shaved and his blond hair cut with precision, parting slightly in the middle, according to the unmistakable style of English colleges.
It's strange, Emmanuel hadn't told me he had invited one of his fellow students. I hesitate, not knowing what to do. I close the door behind me: he turns around.
I remain breathless.
Hi my love, I missed you so much.
He smiles and stands up: he is taller than me by a head, how is that possible? He comes towards me and hugs me. I remain motionless without reciprocating his embrace, embarrassed by the contact with the seductive stranger whose chest exudes a refined scent of musk and vetiver; a confused welter of emotions tangles inside me and finally explodes in the most senseless of feelings: indignation.
I push him away from me, offended to death:
- How could you?
He looks at me in dismay, how could I what. Go and explain it. I sit on the sofa with trembling legs. I can't keep my gaze fixed on him. Finally, deciphering the sense of resentment and desperate pain I feel, I finally realise how much I miss my funny little boy.
Somehow, he understands. He leans over me:
- Hey, it's me again... I thought you liked me better like this, but it's ok. Wait for me, I'll be right back.
He walks away and returns a little later wearing the same old blue jeans that are now too short, worn-out trainers and his grandfather's checked shirt; he smiles and spreads his arms as if to say here I am. I look at him: it's almost him. Anyway, he is quite funny.
I smile through my tears and as he hugs me I realise a terrible truth: the countdown has begun.
