by Rita Siligato
She is sitting up in bed with a book. There is no one else at home. She has not heard the alarm, maybe Dario switched it off this morning before the seven o’clock ring.
A few meters away, the big Town Hall clock chimes: it is ten, now. Since she was born she has been listening to the sound of Mikeze and Jakeze’s bell; she doesn’t need to count the tolls.
She hears the jangling of the keys at the door: Dario is back, a little earlier than usual.
“Redenta! Are you awake?”
“Of course I am, silly! I am reading a new biography, it’s about Colette.”
He snorts, looking into the bedroom. He sits on his side of the bed to take off his sandals.
“I forgot my walking stick at Barcola again,” he says. “But I am sure I will find it tomorrow where I left it. No one would steal an old crouch, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think that. How will you manage without it?”
“Can’t you see? I walked to your house without it, I can cope without it for today.”
She considers him again: wild hair as usual, and a defiant look in his eyes.
“Coffee now, Redenta. And we have to talk.”
“Have we? Coffee at home, today, considering…”
“Considering that I forgot my walking stick again, or…”
“Or? Do you want to go down the stairs and then come up again for the sake of a fancy coffee in the cafeteria? Come, come, let’s move to the kitchen. The coffeepot is ready. And you want to talk.”
Briskly, she leaves the bedroom. Slowly, he follows, leaning on the corridor walls.
She turns the stove on, and she waits, facing the window overlooking the courtyard: she does not want to look at him when he is in a rebellious mood. She predicts that a fight is coming, dark as a rain cloud.
“Redenta, I thought a lot about us this morning,” he says in a small voice.
She freezes. She does not know what to say.
“And… can’t you see? I think we are going nowhere.”
“We are NOT going nowhere. We are staying here together. We spent the lockdown together, and we survived. We decided to live together, and we are thriving. We have some teething troubles: it is normal, for a couple.”
“It is not. I love you, girl, and you know it. But I need…”
“You need what? You have everything you need here. Home, bed, supper and dinner…”
The light grumbling of the coffeepot breaks her speech. Without turning, she grabs the cups and the teaspoons.
“The milk, Dario! In the fridge.”
“Please. You always give me orders. You never say please.”
It is her time to snort.
“We have known each other for eighty years and you want me to say please?”
“It’s not eighty, Redenta. And yes, I would like to hear you say please, for once.”
There’s something else, she thinks. He wants to tell me something that is much more serious than this.
“Please, husband, pass the milk.”
Without getting up, Dario swivels his chair to the fridge and takes the milk carton.
“Are you happy now?” they say, almost in sync.
“No, Redenta, I am not happy. I need…”
He stammers. His lovely voice breaks.
“I need some time for myself. I need my home, my books, my music. I need to be alone sometimes. Do you mind if we go back to living as before?”
“As before? But Dario, we are married…”
“Prior to this, we have been married for more than five years. And we kept our homes, and we met for a coffee and for dinner and for something else…”
She acts as if smiling: she wants to cry, but she cannot.
“You spoke and it is done: but do not dream about your something else for a while! Now, drink your coffee. And we will pack your summer things and you will move in a few days.
“Dario!”
“Yes, girl?”
“Go and get your brown suitcase, and help me pack.”
“Please…”
“Please. Silly boy. There is something to gain in your move, even if I think the one who is losing is you.”
“And maybe in September you will let me come back here. Your home is warmer.”
She smiles a Cheshire cat smile, saying: “Who is telling you I will want you back in September? Mr Please?”
E’ sempre difficile rinunciare alla nostra ‘libertà’