“I don’t give a damn about your friends, about what they might think or how they judge me. You always say that they’re all self-made men, people who have achieved something. What have they achieved? What have they done with their lives? Made money and spent it. They don’t talk to their children. They really don’t give a damn about what they do or how much they’re suffering. You don’t give a fuck about us.”
That’s when Raffaella hauled off and slapped her right in the face. Babi put one hand to her face and then smiled.
“I said it intentionally, you know? Now that you’ve given me a slap in the face, your conscience is at rest. Now you can go back and chat with your girlfriends and sit playing cards with them. Your daughter has been brought up right. She knows right from wrong. She understands that you shouldn’t say bad words and you should always try to use good manners. Don’t you see how ridiculous you are, how laughable?”
Babi turned and left. Then she climbed onto Step’s motorcycle and rode away with him.
How long ago had that been? How many things had changed? Babi sighed and opened another drawer.
Poor Mamma, the things I put her through. In the end, she was right. Maybe I only realize that now. But there are more important things in life. But she couldn’t actually think of a single one of those things, so much more important, maybe because she preferred not to think about it, because it was just easier this way. Perhaps it was because there really aren’t that many things that matter.
“You look so sexy this evening.” One after another, the memories came back to Babi, implacable, melancholy, sad, and distant now. The weekends they’d spent together, fleeing on the wings of this lie or that. Always the four of them, with Pollo and Pallina, at the beach or in the mountains, at little restaurants, out on delightful moonlight strolls, standing somewhere chatting at night, or sitting on a low wall, lying on a beach, lost in the shadows on some uncomfortable cot.
Her eighteenth birthday party in Ansedonia. Ten at night, a sudden roar of motorcycles. All the guests rushing over to the edge of the terrace. Finally something to talk about. Step, Pollo, and all his friends had arrived. They dismounted from the motorcycles and strode into the party, laughing, brash, bold, and confident, looking around, his friends on the hunt for some pretty girl or other, and he on the hunt for her.
Babi had run to meet him, losing herself in his arms, between a loving “Happy birthday, sweetheart” and an irreverent deep French kiss. “Hey, hey, my folks are here…”
“I know, that’s why I did it! Come on, come away with me…,” Step said.
After the birthday cake with the candles and the Rolex her folks had given her, they’d run away together. She’d allowed herself to be captivated by his laughing eyes, by his fun ideas, by his fast motorcycle. Away, racing downhill, toward the midnight sea, through the scent of broom, far away from those pointless guests, escaping Raffaella’s contemptuous glare and the chagrined expression of Claudio, a father who just wanted to dance a waltz with his daughter like any other father.
But Babi wasn’t there anymore. She was far away. A little more grown-up now, she was lost in another world, dancing amid Step’s kisses, to the music of soft, salty waves, a romantic moon, her young love.
“Here, this is for you.” Around her neck there gleamed a gold necklace studded with turquoise stones, the blue of her happy eyes. Babi smiled at Step, and as he kissed her, he even managed to convince her the following was true.
“I swear to you that I didn’t steal it.”
It was the eve of her final exams. How funny that time had been, at home studying until late. Continual guesswork about the subject of the main exam, exchanging secretive tips. Everyone thought they knew the subject of the written essay. They’d share confident phone calls, all of them certain that they’d nailed the topic.
“It’s the sesquicentennial of Leopardi’s death… a new essay by Manzoni has just been found…it’s about the French Revolution, for sure.”
Some said they’d received the news from Australia, where the test had been given to Italian students there the previous day. Others had heard it from a friend who was a teacher or a member of the examination board, and some talked about having consulted a medium. When, the next day, the future turned into the present, they learned that the teacher wasn’t such a good friend after all, that the medium was nothing but a con artist, and that Australia was too far away to bother with their problems in Italy.
But then, when the scores were posted, that enormous surprise. Babi had achieved a sixty. Sixty out of sixty. A perfect score. She’d run happily to tell Step, thrilled at her achievement.
He’d laughed, needling her good-naturedly. “You’re a grown-up now. You’re so mature. In fact, you might even be overripe, like a squishy peach…”
He’d undressed her, laughing as if he’d known, as if he’d expected that result. Then they’d made love. And she’d gloated over her victory. “Would you ever have thought it? Here you are, a humble forty-two out of sixty, enjoying the unrivaled honor of kissing an eminent sixty out of sixty. Do you even realize how lucky you are?”
He’d smiled at her. “Yes, I fully realize.” And he’d embraced her, in silence.
Sometime later, Babi had gone to see Signora Giacci. In the end, after all their disagreements, her teacher seemed to have taken a shine to her. She’d started treating her well, with kindness and with an almost excessive modicum of respect. That day, when she went to visit her at her home, Babi had learned why.
That respect was nothing more than fear. Fear of being forced to live alone, fear that she’d never get back her one and only friend and companion. Fear of never seeing her dog again.
Babi was left speechless. She’d stayed to listen to her teacher’s furious outburst, her rage, her vicious words. There Signora Giacci sat, facing her, with her little Pepito back in her arms. The older woman seemed even wearier than before, more bitter and disappointed in the world and, especially, in its young people.
Babi had hurried away, apologizing, not knowing what else to say, no longer knowing who she even was, who she was surrounded by, what her score would be—her real score, the one she’d truly deserved.
Babi went to the window and looked out. An array of Christmas trees were blinking on and off on the terraces of the other apartments, in the elegant drawing rooms of the mansions across the way. It’s Christmas, she thought. It’s a time to be kind. Maybe I should call him. But all those times I’ve been kind though. All those times I’ve forgiven him.
She remembered the differences in the way they saw the world, their screaming fights, and then the sweet truces that followed in blithe hope that everything could change. But that’s not what had happened. Arguments and more arguments, day after day, and her folks waging war on her. The phone ringing late at night, her mother picking up, Step hanging up. And her, grounded, more and more frequently.
That one time that Raffaella had thrown a dinner party at their house, forcing her to attend. She’d invited an array of respectable people and the son of a very wealthy friend of the family. A good catch, Raffaella had told her. Then the doorbell had rung again. Daniela had opened the door without thinking twice, without calling out to ask who it was. Step had shoved the door open, hitting her in the head. “Sorry, Dani. It’s not you I’m mad at, you know that!”