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Authors: Davide Longo
Tags: Fiction
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like an experienced skipper warned by a radio station of bad weather at sea.
“Most of the girl students,” he said, “are sluts and use their bodies to try to get what they want, and then they yell rape if for some reason they can’t have it. As though any man who cares for culture must be a eunuch! A castrated man stuck behind the lecturer’s desk to entertain a gaggle of female idiots showing themselves off for their own amusement, in the certain knowledge that the teacher wouldn’t know what to do with them if he had them.”
Leonardo studied his coffee: it had delicate verdigris reflections, striking if entirely inappropriate, and tasted like boiled cabbage. He had never drunk barley coffee before, but then he had never spent three nights in a row without sleeping either.
“I’m grateful for your moral support,” he started, “but—”
“Our support is unconditional,” Renato interrupted, a fragment of orange hanging from his lip making him look even more deeply committed. “And we’ll bring pressure within the university to have this business set aside. The fact that you are also a writer doesn’t make things any easier, but many of us have passed the same way and could tell you that what in the morning may seem to have been a storm almost always turns out by evening to have been nothing more than a gentle breeze. But I would advise you not to try to extricate yourself just by fencing with a mere foil. You must reply with the same weapons used to attack you. You don’t know it yet, but you have much more to lose than to gain. The sooner you make that clear, the sooner you will be able to take a milder view of things.”
Leonardo realized the pointlessness of any attempt at explanation. Taking his silence for tacit agreement, the man placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Here’s my cell phone number,” he had said, “give me a call.”
Leonardo took the card he offered. The man got up.
“I won’t hide it from you, but I always thought you were probably a bit of a wimp. A man with lots of brain, but not much in the balls department. I have to admit I was wrong. You even deceived me.” Then he squeezed Leonardo’s hand, paid the bill, and left, offering Leonardo a final smile from the other side of the window.
Leonardo had never seen or heard of him again, but a year later, by which time he had already lost his job at the university and any chance of seeing his daughter again, he had noticed his name in the pages of a daily paper to which Renato had begun contributing a column, commenting and explaining the ins and outs of current affairs.
Six months later the daily closed down. By that time Leonardo had moved to M. and heard nothing more, good or bad, about Renato or any other of his former university colleagues.
He spent the afternoon sitting on the veranda staring at the rows of vines on which the grapes had started to wither, the air full of the constant buzzing of bees attracted to the ruins of the store by the smell of cooked grapes.
The hot weather continued and the vegetation on the far side of the river took on a ferocious yellow hue. Clouds above the mountains hinted at autumn, but for the time being the wind confined them to France.
It was already evening when Elio came into the yard on his bicycle and stopped short of the steps. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and blue striped trousers. His folded jacket was clipped to the pannier rack. Drumming his fingers on the handlebars as if describing the scene in Morse code, he stared at the pile of blackened rubble.
“Well, look at that,” he said.
Leonardo picked up his glass from the African wood table and drank a mouthful of water. It tasted good. At the time he had decided to move to M. the excellence of the water had come first in the list of advantages he had looked forward to. This list had been one of the last ideas suggested by his psychiatrist. In fact, after a month of telephone calls, the man had
“Most of the girl students,” he said, “are sluts and use their bodies to try to get what they want, and then they yell rape if for some reason they can’t have it. As though any man who cares for culture must be a eunuch! A castrated man stuck behind the lecturer’s desk to entertain a gaggle of female idiots showing themselves off for their own amusement, in the certain knowledge that the teacher wouldn’t know what to do with them if he had them.”
Leonardo studied his coffee: it had delicate verdigris reflections, striking if entirely inappropriate, and tasted like boiled cabbage. He had never drunk barley coffee before, but then he had never spent three nights in a row without sleeping either.
“I’m grateful for your moral support,” he started, “but—”
“Our support is unconditional,” Renato interrupted, a fragment of orange hanging from his lip making him look even more deeply committed. “And we’ll bring pressure within the university to have this business set aside. The fact that you are also a writer doesn’t make things any easier, but many of us have passed the same way and could tell you that what in the morning may seem to have been a storm almost always turns out by evening to have been nothing more than a gentle breeze. But I would advise you not to try to extricate yourself just by fencing with a mere foil. You must reply with the same weapons used to attack you. You don’t know it yet, but you have much more to lose than to gain. The sooner you make that clear, the sooner you will be able to take a milder view of things.”
Leonardo realized the pointlessness of any attempt at explanation. Taking his silence for tacit agreement, the man placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Here’s my cell phone number,” he had said, “give me a call.”
Leonardo took the card he offered. The man got up.
“I won’t hide it from you, but I always thought you were probably a bit of a wimp. A man with lots of brain, but not much in the balls department. I have to admit I was wrong. You even deceived me.” Then he squeezed Leonardo’s hand, paid the bill, and left, offering Leonardo a final smile from the other side of the window.
Leonardo had never seen or heard of him again, but a year later, by which time he had already lost his job at the university and any chance of seeing his daughter again, he had noticed his name in the pages of a daily paper to which Renato had begun contributing a column, commenting and explaining the ins and outs of current affairs.
Six months later the daily closed down. By that time Leonardo had moved to M. and heard nothing more, good or bad, about Renato or any other of his former university colleagues.
He spent the afternoon sitting on the veranda staring at the rows of vines on which the grapes had started to wither, the air full of the constant buzzing of bees attracted to the ruins of the store by the smell of cooked grapes.
The hot weather continued and the vegetation on the far side of the river took on a ferocious yellow hue. Clouds above the mountains hinted at autumn, but for the time being the wind confined them to France.
It was already evening when Elio came into the yard on his bicycle and stopped short of the steps. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and blue striped trousers. His folded jacket was clipped to the pannier rack. Drumming his fingers on the handlebars as if describing the scene in Morse code, he stared at the pile of blackened rubble.
“Well, look at that,” he said.
Leonardo picked up his glass from the African wood table and drank a mouthful of water. It tasted good. At the time he had decided to move to M. the excellence of the water had come first in the list of advantages he had looked forward to. This list had been one of the last ideas suggested by his psychiatrist. In fact, after a month of telephone calls, the man had
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