Chapter V Carlo’s house Two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. Carlo had lived in those few squared meters for pretty much his whole life. The first time they had seen it, Giovanna and him, they immediately fell in love with it and signed a lease, which was basically the only way they could afford to put a roof over their heads, being both high school teachers. That was the place where they lived their love story, where Simone was born, and a few years later, where Giovanna got sick. A rare disease, a tough one, long and painful. That was the place where Carlo stayed, alone. Before closing her eyes for good, Giovanna whispered “Sorry” in his ear. Carlo spent the rest of his life wondering what for. One more minute, he would have needed just one more minute with her to know the answer. For that minute Carlo would have traded his life. With his salary he managed to pay for their son’s education and save something, so he decided to buy those two bedrooms, living room, bathroom and kitchen: he paid half of it, and started a mortgage that he could pay quite easily. He did not like to talk about his love for Giovanna, simply because he was sure that nobody really cared, but he never thought, not even for a moment, about moving on. “You’re still young”, “You still have your whole life to live”, “Go travel the world, you might meet somebody like you…” He knew those voices, those encouragements, but maybe for his personality or maybe because he had not been lucky, he did not get any second choice. When you are alone, the memories eat your soul. It seems just something that people say, but it is true. In all of the memories of those years they lived together, there was one that Carlo loved the most. As soon as he closed his eyes the memory became vivid: them, in the living room, naked. They had just made love, in a violent, angry and sudden way, as it happens to young people. On the table there were two glasses, half full of red wine, a lamp and a pile of homework they had to grade. Numbers and equations for him, Cicero and Seneca for her. Giovanna ties up her long, blond hair, holding a blue and red pencil, sips gently from her glass. He looks at her. Her full breasts, her nipples still hardened by emotions and pleasure. It was just a moment, an image that did not fade through the years but, instead, showed new details each time Carlo thought about it. An eyeshadow, the lips slightly open, a hand distractedly playing with a strain of hair, the moon lighting up the window. Like a picture becoming more and more detailed, more alive and was keeping alive the memory of the person he loved the most. It was still there, that blue and red pencil. After so many years it was still on the table, because he never thought about breaking away from the past.
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