WOMEN

Beginning of the book and two short stories
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By the same author

 

CHRIST IN BROOKLYN

A COMPLICATED EXISTENCE

BEHIND

THE DOG LOOKING FOR ITSELF

WOMEN

Tales and Memories

 

 

 

When you are young you are happy, because you have everything in front of you and everything is still possible.

ANDREI TARKOVSKJI

 

 

 

 

What is a diamond?

 

Coal, pressure, temperature, time.

Four words, four separate entities, which seem to have no mutual relevance, but take a piece of coal, submit it  at very strong pressures and at the same time at very high temperatures for a few million years and you will get the most splendid of stones, the most precious of gems: the diamond.

Unrivaled in brightness, unmatched in hardness, it is endowed with almost magical properties.

Soak it for as long as you like in the water and when it comes out, it will be dry and dry as if pulled out of the cotton wool.

It does not get wet. The water cannot settle on its surface because it is so compact.

The most hardened of the steel points does not scratch it, yet even though its crystallization system has changed, it is still coal, to the point that if you throw it on the fire it incinerates and all its hardness disappears in an instant.

It has a protean character and this makes it one of the wonders of nature.

Facetious in jewelry for its precious jewels, indispensable in the industry for the production of the brightest laser beams, rigorous in finance where it represents one of the best  investments.

To get it, men kill themselves and women get naked.

Time,  pressure, temperature in one  continuous, unstoppable action  synergistic, they transform a vulgar, black, crumbly piece of coal into a divine, white, very hard diamond.

The result of this coordinated and concomitant contribution of factors is astounding.

Well, amazing, bright as a diamond, it was my life, formed, combining friendships and actions of not excessive importance, perhaps taken  each in its own individuality, but fused together, they have irreversibly and decisively marked my existence, made up of work, fun, joy, passions, spent between moments of great dynamism and pauses for pure reflection.

One should, at least for a short time, be able to live this way, and then have no regrets when and for age and other uncontrollable facts, things change and  there is no more time to dedicate to ourselves, immersed in the stupid daily routine of life, made up of commitments, bonds and duties.

Duties, which with their uncrastinability, poison existence and take away the pleasure of the unpredictable, which they rape with their pressing habit and their dogmatic enslavement, which force us to renounce all the most intimate fantasies, making every secret aspiration evanescent .

It is not true that work ennobles man, because working represents a necessity and necessity generates a need that is not an ennobling condition.

What makes man noble is freedom, his being able to be everything, conceiving life in its realistic crudeness, not cloaked in courtly and idealistic doctrines, not limited to the sphere of good alone, but open to everything, because the good principles, good feelings are not the only components of our morality of life.

Existence is too often sad, because it is regulated on positions that have a character of universality and leave no room for individuality.

It would be too complicated for the system to endorse  behaviors that go beyond the generalized, to enter the sphere of personal subjectivities and then, here comes the legislator, creating a norm that, with its official nature, evades every possible individualism and obliges the social consortium to the mere obedience of a law, built with the sole purpose of obtaining a more careful and more effective control, forcing him to maintain a codified and defined behavior.

All this takes place both in the context of social laws and in that of religious and moral orders.

In our concept of life there is only the good and charitable God who distances us from evil and who must preserve us from this.

On the contrary, our god should be Abraxas who brings together all the good and all the evil in the world, offering us infinite choices, all legitimate.

It will then be up to us to find the right way in this labyrinth of opportunities, unfolding the sails of our sailing towards calm seas, driven by favorable winds.

A life, which toucourt takes away the possibility of choosing, discriminating between good and evil, is a half-life, incomplete, because everything, every aspect, from the highest to the most execrable, is inherent in us and it will be up to us only to opt for a choice rather than for another, depending on our attitude, receptive or indifferent to the facts of life and according to our free will.

Hermann Hesse says that what is not in us does not disturb us, does not affect us.

What excites us, what makes us wince and that somehow interests us is inherent in our spiritual gene and we, in no way, can escape the calls of our soul.

Fighting against one's nature is a losing battle.

Obviously, this does not mean that everything is justifiable and every road viable, but it is certainly true that one cannot reach the Truth without following the paths of life, which unfortunately are not paved with only good and its milestones often represent facts. negative and that in any case at every crossroads, the eternal choice between good and evil is proposed to us.

We're running out of time.

Our existence is not long enough to travel all the rivulets and streams that lead to the river delta, where we will find, in the embrace with the sea of eternity, the end of our journey, or perhaps, as Seneca asserts in De brevitate vitae , we have plenty of time, but unfortunately we waste it and wasting it is a sin, because no one will ever know how much they have available, and every minute can be precious to get to perceive in our soul the spiritual vibration of the Ohm and purified by the mantra to be able to touch the majesty of God, His infinity.

I have always believed in the concatenation of events.

All feelings, all sensations and all possible moods, even the most distant apparently, are  inextricably linked to each other by the wheel of changes, by samsara  of life.

Good and evil, extreme poles of the human condition touch and belong to us in equal measure, yet we want to openly ignore  everything that pertains to our egocentric and hedonistic morality, which is the strongest of the active and determining forces of our life, because our behaviors and actions are born from it. Place a wall  between our egotism and the mute observance of social attitudes, living in the castrating attempt to make good more than evil weigh on the scales of our respectability, it is the worst style of life.

The woman is said to be the other half of the man and I, although interested in his physical graces, have always been attracted above all by his personality, whose influence has played a decisive role in the formation of my emotional construct.

It is impossible for me, there are so many in abundance, to list the otherwise unexpressed sensations experienced through his frequentation.

I have had contact with beautiful females, on average beautiful and definitely not beautiful, but never ugly.

The woman can sometimes be endowed with considerable physical attractiveness and then appreciating it is consequential, but when the beauty is not sensational or even absent, there can still be, due to intellectual peculiarities, a sort of magnetism that attracts and covets and then it is not possible either we must speak of ugliness.

Ugly is what is vulgar, what hurts and not what fails to enhance the aesthetic sense.

Ugly is what offends, what makes us uncomfortable and when a lady offers herself, it is not to offend, but to give herself and a gift cannot be offensive.

The stories narrated here refer to often very beautiful women, but they have not been reported for this.

I intended to tell about attitudes and not about beauty and if in the narration, I sometimes lingered on erotic acts in their rawness, it was only to better describe the character of the protagonists.

 

 

 

Graduation

 

May 31, 1972 was a unique day, the most important of my life.

I graduated from the Polytechnic of Turin in Civil Engineering.

My father was radiant, he had crowned the dream of having an engineer son, who would attend to his jobs as an entrepreneur. My elated mother, her intelligent eldest son had a major degree. Me, the happiest of all. For me, an era was ending, which although beautiful, had been characterized by strong commitments and duties, lived between the college and the university.

Now finally my real life began, autonomous, free from my studies and my father's economic dependence.

It took me seven and a half years to get this degree.

It is true, I will be objected, that there are too many, because five, perhaps five and a half with the thesis are enough to graduate in Engineering. I lost two years. However, it must be considered that in those days, studying engineering was really challenging.

That faculty was enormously heavy, with compulsory classes every day of the week, including Saturdays.

With the exception of Sunday, only the afternoons of Thursday and Saturday were free from attendance.

There was not much time for entertainment, for social life and studies were extremely burdensome.

Of me, it was commonly said that I attended University in Ferrari.

Yes it's true, I was a university student and I was driving a Ferrari.

Well! I was a father's son, but it is more difficult for a father's son to study.

That day, after the graduation exam with my increasingly moved and happy parents, that new life I had always dreamed of began for me.

In the evening, I had a little party at Casanova, a Turin nightclub with some friends from belanda, or friends of pleasant and fun doing nothing, of good life.

For the occasion, my father let us swap cars.

We both had a Ferrari. I have a Dino 246 GT and he a 365 GTC4.

I spent a memorable evening.

I was a winner, young, rich and full of women. I lacked nothing.

I had everything it takes to be a happy person.

I took advantage of that moment of success to ask my father for some concessions, including a holiday in Saint Tropez with Federica, the flame of the moment.

Federica, blonde, very tall, with two big black eyes  on the face enclosed in a perfect oval, it was enchanting.

She walked with wide and light steps, slightly swaying and crossing her, there was no man who did not remain admired looking at her.

In Saint Tropez, our days started around three in the afternoon. We had a small breakfast and went to the seaside, where my partner sported some microbikinis that took your breath away and  we stopped with friends until aperitif time.

Then there was dinner. We all left in a group, towards some restaurant in the hinterland, running like crazy on our very fast cars. I remember Alfredo with his Miura SV, Jacques with his Porche targa 911 S, Philip with a superb white Rolls-Royce Corniche and Guido with a Bizzarrini, the most beautiful of all.

At the table, always cheerful and accompanied by girls, we joked and laughed, and surely those who looked at us could not help but envy us.

We had it all and the best of everything. We were a group of young people full of life and availability.

After dinner, the long night began that lasted until four, five in the morning, at Papagayo, the à la page place, where people of all kinds met: industrialists, rich businessmen, nobles of old and illustrious families , playboys, actors and fixers.

Characters of every kind and nature, around which fantastic women and unscrupulous international whores always moved.

Engaged in these pleasant tasks, I spent a week, without sparing myself and finally after a last night of revelry, at dawn I left with Federica for Montecarlo, to spend the last two or three days of vacation there.

Along the way, on the coast road, about seven o'clock, we felt like making love and I assure you that doing it at that time of the morning, after a sleepless night of extravagance, in the summer heat and in a car. two seats, it is not the best of comfort.

It was a terrible fuck.

But that was the way it was. You did everything you wanted to do and beauty  of that type of life, it consisted in the possibility of doing everything, as if there were no limits or impediments to the realization of one's desires and this feeling of omnipotence derived from well-being, but above all from the arrogance of youth and made one intoxicated,  because we lived in a wonderful and perennial state of euphoria.

In Montecarlo, we stopped at the Metropole hotel for a couple of days to rest from the excesses of Saint Tropez, between the swimming pool, lots of good sleeps and a few games at the Casino, where I remember that I won a fair amount of money.

In those days, all the donuts came with a hole in me.

After Saint Tropez, I accompanied Federica  in Milan and I went back to my wild hometown, where the company was waiting for me.

My father was looking for only this. He wanted someone to take over. He wanted, and he had reason to want it, to rest a little and so he went on vacation with the rest of the family, while I stayed in the town to start my life as an industrialist.

At the end of August, after two months of work, I went for a few days to Federica's in her parents' house in Desenzano sul Garda and from there we left for Malindi.

It was a wonderful vacation. It was the first time I saw a tropical country and I was so impressed by those fantastic white beaches that I later went to look for them many more times, in India, in  Mexico, Brazil.

After Kenya, I went to Turin to take the state exam and one night in Desenzano, at Federica's house, a phone call from a friend of my sister's university arrived. It was Federica who picked up the phone. She was informed that the day before, on October 26, 1972, my father had died in Imola in a car accident, while returning from Venice with my mother who fortunately came out unharmed.

I remember that Federica did not immediately have the strength to tell me what had happened and briefly mentioned a car accident.

We left immediately.

At the first motorway restaurant, where we stopped for a coffee, I bought a newspaper. Federica, before I opened it, snatched it from my hand.

From that day my life which had been like a dream, full of successes and wonderful things, began to creak and was no longer beautiful and carefree as before.

The first discussions with the family began immediately for issues of hereditary nature, not for the division of the patrimony, but for the responsibilities, which no one at the moment could or wanted to assume.

My brother was too young, not yet eighteen, my sister had to finish university and  my mother, never having taken care of the family business, was unable to attend to the needs of the case.

The only asshole available was me.

It was I who had to shoulder that heavy burden, far from simple, throwing my degree, my acquaintances, my friendships to the nettle, relegated to a third world country, far from everything that matters, from everything what is important happens, to dedicate myself to a company, which in addition was also beginning to no longer do so well, due to an obtusely left-wing regional policy, which was not open to that type of industry and opposed it in every way, creating difficulties and impediments such from  make it impossible to manage.

In this family and political climate, I was a full-time industrialist, working all week and the belanda ended.

I allowed myself only a few weekends every now and then, to go and visit my friends who unfortunately, slowly, I was losing.

Sometimes I was in Turin or Milan, other times in Santa Margherita Ligure or Riccione.

In the winter, I used to go  in Cortina, sometimes in Megève.

I spent four years in this way, alternating those breaths of life with short trips of a few days to Europe.

I visited Amsterdam, where I remember that for the foolishness of bringing only new shoes, I spent three days with a terrifying sore foot.

It was a weekend, between the months of April and May and there were three days of celebration in a row: Sunday, May 1st, the birthday of the Queen of Holland.

Three days during which, all the shops closed, I could not buy comfortable shoes and I was forced to wander around the city in those terrible new shoes that tore my feet.

I still remember the morning I left, with what joy, even before having breakfast, I bought  a couple of Clarks.

Unfortunately the holiday was over and the only memory I have of Amsterdam is the sore feet.

I made another small trip to Budapest, with three friends, passing first to Belgrade, to see the final of the European Cup. Juventus played against Aiax. Juve lost one to zero.

In Budapest, that  back then he was under a lot regime  hard, with the city invaded by police and military, I met Piroska, Piri for friends, a nice girl, very helpful and attentive to my needs as a guest in a foreign country. His company was very pleasant.

Of Hungary, I remember well the Puszta, the great, beautiful boundless Hungarian plain, where horses ran in the wild, in the air full of poplar pollen.

We were in May.

This was the life of those years, substantially rather flat, which was revived only in a few weekends.

In those breaks, I allowed myself to stay in splendid hotels, ate in excellent restaurants and indulged in the company of some beautiful woman.

It was already something, but not so much. Indeed it was all quite insignificant, because inside me, wherever I went, there was the nagging commitment to return to the management of the company, to life in that dull country, where by now I could no longer identify with its inhabitants.

And so it continued, until November 1976.

My sister, who traveled frequently, one day spoke to me so enthusiastically about New York that I was tempted to visit it.

Taken from work and commitments, which were more and more pressing, I was not entirely sure if I could give myself a vacation.

I was afraid to leave, for such a long time, the job that needed my interest every day, but I thought that breaking the routine for a few days would certainly do me good and  then I decided to go.

I booked a room at the Waldorf Astoria and left for the Big Apple for a fortnight.

As soon as I arrived, I got in touch with Ricky, a dear friend from Bologna, a schoolmate in Florence,  that I often met on vacation.

Ricky belonged to an important family of Bolognese industrialists of noble descent. He was a count, a true gentleman, both in his manner and in his soul and above all a true friend. He had been living in New York for some time now, where he worked in an investment bank.

With him, who acted as my guide, I got to know the city and fell in love with it at first sight.

In New York, there was an air of freedom that was unknown to us Italians. Relations with people were simple and above all it seemed to me that the inhabitants of that city had two separate lives and were able to combine work and fun, as if they were completely divorced from each other.

The New Yorkers lived in a totally different way from my Italian acquaintances, who always kept talking about the company, the workers, the unions, the banks and so on when we went out, never managing to pull the plug.

An indescribable boredom.

The only advantage that came from certain acquaintances was that the girlfriends or wives of those workaholics were tired of such a ménage and then, it wasn't too difficult to take them to bed. It was only necessary to entertain them, to make them smile, things that with their companions, for some time, they had ceased to do.

In New York, on the other hand, we had fun and when we went out, we never talked about work. I spent several evenings with the same people and never knew what business they had.

When Ricky left work at the end of the day, he often took me with him to some party, where we always went out with girls, and then closed the evening in the most exclusive clubs in town.

At the time, a very popular venue was the Infinity.

There was a custom among young people to smoke weed, a habit to which I immediately, with great pleasure, adapted.

The first night I smoked and it was also the first time  of my life, after a moment of initial panic, for that strange, indescribable sensation that the weed gives, I found myself pervaded by an uncontrollable euphoria, to the point that finding myself in a disco, I had to go out for a breath of air, trying to rearrange ideas.

A girl I had chatted with for a while followed me out,  he called a taxi and drove me around the city at night.

I still have in mind what it was like now, the unusual atmosphere of that sleeping metropolis, where the silence was interrupted only by a few police sirens passing by, and from the car, I looked at the very high towers glittering with reflections that we met along the road. A dazzling spectacle that our European cities, although beautiful, do not offer. At the end of the ride, we went down to a small street, where the girl lived, behind the Pierre hotel.

His house was special. I don't know if it was beautiful, but it was certainly original.

The living room had walls painted in black lacquer, on which stood out the ceiling decorated with very white stucco.

The windows, rather large, with small panes of glass, were also white. I don't remember anything else about that apartment, but I still have the feeling of pleasure.

In comfortable armchairs, we began to talk and smoke more weed.

This time, the effect was not upsetting and with a decidedly clearer mind, immediately sensing the obvious aims of the girl, we ended up in bed and made love until morning.

When I woke up at two in the afternoon, she was still close to me.

Finally I was able to look at her with a clear eye and without obscuration. I lifted the sheet to look at her. She was completely naked. Not that she was much, but she had two grand prix boobs and surely those were the ones that caught my attention the night before.

Excited by so much opulence, I took it one last time before calling a taxi back to the hotel.

I guess I didn't ask her what her name was. I don't remember his name.

The holiday ended, but that beautiful city left a deep mark on me and the desire to return.

A desire that never went out, so much so that several other times I spent short holidays there.

Those few American days made me realize how wrong I was in continuing to live in that absurd way, consuming my existence in things that did not bring me any satisfaction, living off all social routes, doing a job that I absolutely did not like and above all to carry it on alone, without anyone else in the family, caring about it in the least.

So I decided to sell the company and start living my life.

At first, it was not easy to make my relatives understand, but then everyone had to make up their minds and from that moment I started working with a new perspective: that of leaving as soon as possible.

I should have given up on a certain well-being. I knew this, but I didn't care. I was not living. I vegetated and that was enough for me to be persistent in my understanding.

An apartment in Rome, which in the division of the hereditary axis had fallen to me, located in a rather important residential area, was a large attic, with magnificent terraces. Always rented, it needed to be refurbished.

I gave the job to a good architect, who turned it over from top to bottom, obtaining a modern and eye-catching home, so much so that anyone who visited it found it beautiful.

It had the walls painted in Chinese wax, buffered by hand, the bespoke furniture, designed by me and the architect,  a large living room with large sofas and a fireplace that, in truth, was never lit and then, there was my favorite sitting room, in which I had a gazebo built with a winter garden, an accomplice of pleasant chats and more ...

An ice-white carpet covered the floors throughout the house.

Of course there were other rooms and all well furnished, but the highlight of the apartment was my personal bathroom. Divided into three communicating parts, without doors: the first with two washbasins embedded in a granite slab, the second, a vestibule with walls entirely covered with gray briar wood and sofas to relax after a bath, finally the third room, the one with the tub. A tub of black granite, octagonal in shape, where you could take a bath, and more than once it was done, in three or four people.

The edge, about twenty centimeters wide, was always full of glasses, bottles, cigarettes and other things, so as to always have everything at hand.

On summer evenings, with girls, to combat the terrible heat that was in the house, between one bathroom and another, I spent whole nights there.

I was now living in Rome.

At the village, I only spent the time strictly necessary to carry on the work, waiting to find a buyer for the company.

I was commuting between Umbria and Rome, leaving  on Friday afternoon to return on Monday morning e  in the middle of the week, usually on Wednesdays, I was back in Rome, where I practically lived four days a week.

During the day, I went through the alleys and squares of the city with the camera always hung around my neck, pausing to portray everything.

The favorite destination was Piazza Navona, beautiful and full of people, where I often stopped to eat in its restaurants.

In that square I met an incredible amount of people, all special in their particularities, belonging to every race and social category: tourists, painters, madonnari, musicians, actors, actresses, priests,  thieves, traders, street vendors, drug dealers, whores, homosexuals and so on and so forth.

I have known all that is possible,  I saw everything there was to see and for the first time in my life, inside that macrocosm, I felt freed from the dull petty-bourgeois conventions that were poisoning my existence.

Finally, I was free. Free to hang out with any person, to do anything. Free in body and spirit.

Unfortunately, that time has flown by quickly and will never return, but I would not trade its memory for a century to come of meaningless and mediocre existence, because today, I am what I was in those days.

The legend of my life, as Hesse would say, was written in those wonderful, unparalleled, Roman years.

And then there were the nights!

Restaurants, piano bars, cinemas, theaters were the obligatory stops until midnight, before starting the tour of the nightclubs.

The night was always a party and lasted until three, four and even more.

I was always accompanied by beautiful girls. I met many and had many adventures.

It happened regularly that on Friday night I went out with one, then changed another on Saturday and another on Sunday.

I lived this life, which I liked more and more, not only because I enjoyed myself, but above all because I lived among happy and worldly people, while in Umbria I vegetated, frequenting villagers of no interest, boring and retrograde.

Of all the acquaintances, I had put together  a hilarious group of friends.

With some I went to museums and  art exhibitions, and there was no lack of reading lovers, with whom animated discussions were held and then there was music.

I don't know how many evenings I spent listening to music, at my home or at other people's homes and there are countless concerts I went to.

Meanwhile, my industrial activity was declining more and more.

The market was changing and there was not enough earning to run a company that needed more and more workers and new technologies.

To adapt to growing needs, a profusion of means was required that I did not have at my disposal.

Towards the end of 1978, I found a buyer and that obsessive business came out of my life.

I felt like I was being reborn. I started living again.

The sale was not particularly brilliant, but I was equally satisfied, because when you have a tumor and they take it away, if a foot or a hand is gone in the operation, so that you can continue living, who cares, so much dead,  what good would it do you to be whole?

Tanja

 

That Sunday, when I woke up, it was already noon.

The previous evening I had smoked the last Montecristo and I had proposed to buy more the next day, from certain Russian merchants in Porta Portese,  but considering the now late hour, I remained in bed drowsy  to enjoy waking up.

The glow of the morning light, which entered the room through the half-closed shutters, announced a magnificent day.

When I was fully awake, Bettina, the maid, brought me a coffee and the newspaper.

After lingering a few more minutes under the sheets, I put on a robe, and went to see if the flowers needed water.

The idea of the flowers had come from the architect who had designed the apartment and had planted plants  everywhere and of all kinds.

Over time, those inside, despite the care of Bettina, who alas was not a great floriculturist, died, while outside on the terrace that surrounded the house, some vases of hydrangeas resisted neglect and bad weather.

Perhaps because they were the only survivors, I was fond of those plants and in my own way I tried to cure them, unfortunately, even if they lived a year longer than the others, they too went away, dry and eaten by parasites.

Patience. Sic transit gloria mundi!

On the terrace, the sun warmed without burning, making its warm rays felt on the face, infusing the soul with that joy that comes from direct contact with nature.

Spring was ending and summer was timidly arriving.

There was a pleasant warmth in the air that invited us to leave the house and made us want to stay outside, sitting outside in one of the many bars in the city, reading the newspaper over an aperitif.

I took a shower and got dressed.

I still remember my clothing, because the fate of the day is linked to it.

I was wearing a light hazel gabardine suit, white shirt, white pocket handkerchief, a soft blue silk tie with dark yellow squares and goose-billed Fragiacomo moccasins.

Always opposed to shoes of any color other than black, with the exception of suede, I was young at the time and occasionally indulged in the dictates of fashion.

It was too late even for an aperitif and I was very hungry. The night before, I had a party and my stomach was craving a big meal.

Rome is full of restaurants, but I was in the mood for a big Florentine steak so I opted for Pellegrino in via Sicilia, where you could enjoy excellent Tuscan cuisine.

The tables inside were all occupied. 

Giulio, the maitre d 'of the restaurant got me an outdoor table in the dehor.

The weather was splendid, it was beautifully.

Waiting for the steak, I sipped a glass of Chianti and took a look at Il Messaggero.

A blonde girl, long-limbed, tall, well-dressed, apparently foreign, was standing at the door, waiting for a table to become free.

She was alone. I asked Giulio if he knew her, if he could give me some information about her. 

He had seen her before. He didn't know who she was, but he replied that if I was pleased to have her at my table, he would ask her to sit with me.

The proposal sounded good and Giulio acted accordingly.

The girl, happy to accept my invitation, sat down, holding out her hand to introduce herself.

It was called Tanja.

After thanking me for the kind gesture, she made it clear that she was delighted to be my guest, but only for the table, not for the lunch, otherwise she would not have been able to accept.

Distractedly, I told her not to think about that and poured her some wine.

He said he came to Pellegrino often and noticed me.

For my part, I confessed to seeing her for the first time and apologized for finding it unforgivable not to have noticed such a beautiful woman.

The compliment pleased her and a low-eyed smile lit up her face.

He was sensitive to gallantry and I felt, in his behavioral traits, an evident interest in me.

High-spirited, spontaneous in her manner and easy in conversation, she had a cheerful and jovial character.

The day was starting well. The afternoon was still all ahead of us.

It was she who started the conversation, asking me who I was, what I did, if I lived in Rome and so on, ringing a series of questions, the usual that two strangers ask when they meet for the first time.

She, born and raised in Moscow, had been in Italy for a few years. She lived with a friend of hers in an apartment on Via Sicilia, near the restaurant.

When the meal was over, despite his grievances, I was of course the one footing the bill, and in thanks I received a chaste kiss on the cheek, along with a smile steeped in ill-concealed promises.

On leaving the restaurant, we went to Doney's in Via Veneto.

Sitting at a table, Tanja with a brusque gesture, we were drinking a coffee, she overturned a cup that poured out its contents  on my dress, forming a large dark spot on both legs.

He was very badly there.

I saw her whiten and stiffen with shame.

She was mortified and stammered words of apology for what had happened and although I heartened her, telling her that the dress, brought to the laundry would be back as before, she seemed not to rest.

Nothing failed to start crying.

She was visibly worn out by the accident and kept repeating: - What a fool I was, how sorry I am. -

It made me tenderness, because I understood how guilty he must feel for that nonsense.

Above all she was sorry for having spoiled my day, seeing that, not being able to stay in those conditions, I would have to go home.

I tried to reassure her about this too, pointing out that I did not live too far from Via Veneto and the episode would not compromise my afternoon programs.

I asked her if she had any commitments.

She didn't have any and I invited her to spend the afternoon with me, but first I had to change my clothes.

The accident had sparked a sense of guilt in her that led her to apologize constantly and to make her talk continuously, moving from one topic to another, arriving in this particular stream of consciousness of hers to also give me a justification for being alone in the restaurant .

A few days ago, she broke up with her man, a married lawyer who provided for her needs in all respects.

For this statement of hers, I appreciated her even more, for the courage to have naked without false modesty, unlike many other girls who, despite the same condition, masked their real situation with pathetic lies.

Spontaneously revealing his condition,  denouncing a clear and casual ease in dealing with men, he declared his availability.

Upon arriving home, as soon as we entered, he complimented me on the spacious and well-furnished apartment.

I made her sit in an armchair.

I offered her a drink, put on some music and she became nice and cheerful again. The sadness seemed to have disappeared from her, indeed taken from the house, she visited it in every room, observing everything with interest.

After the visit, we sat down on a sofa.

I wanted to be nice and brought her a little closer to me. I ran my hands through her hair and gave her a few tender kisses.

The coffee, filtered through the fabric, was sticking to my legs as well.

I had to wash myself so I went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub.

Waiting for it to fill up, I went back to her and in a situation that was traveling to a happy ending, we started flirting.

Only then did I notice how much Tanya she was  desirable.

Tall, with a slender body of the right proportions, she had long legs  thin ankle like a  purebred horse.

His skin  smooth and polished it was very white, so much so that it assumed a diaphanous consistency.

Her hair, blond of a light shade, had a dazzling brilliance and, when struck by the light, emitted gold-colored reflections.

The eyes, large and light blue, slightly almond-shaped, gave her face a soft and sweet expression, but the most beautiful part of her body were her shoulders, which I hadn't noticed at the restaurant, because she was wearing a jacket that I then went home she had taken off.

A top in addition to highlighting her breasts, left her shoulders completely bare, wide and well rounded, with barely pronounced shoulder blades. A back, worthy of a Renoir bather, ending in a thin waistline, from which the roundness of the hips branched off.

She was beautiful and I had never had a Russian girlfriend.

The water had been falling into the tub for some time now and, apologizing, I left it in the living room to go into the bathroom, pulling the door behind me, without locking it.

After a few minutes, while I was immersed in the water, busy in my ablutions, the door opened slightly and through a thin crack I glimpsed the blue of his eyes that were observing me.

I ignored it and she continued to look at me.

That game lasted a few seconds, then Tanja opened the door and quite naturally, smoking a cigarette with a glass in her hand, sat on the edge of the tub, while I continued my toilet.

We looked at each other in silence, without masking our intentions that leaked from our eyes.

I asked her to undress. At first she took off her top, leaving her prosperous and well shaped breasts bare, then came the turn of the skirt and stockings, remaining only with a very small thong that barely covered her pubis and highlighted two splendid buttocks separated by a diabolical one, very thin strip of fabric, which died in a beautiful cove.

With that evanescent slip, in her enchanting nakedness, standing in front of me, I looked at her enraptured by so much grace.

We continued talking.

We chatted quietly and looked at each other several times and every minute our eyes became more serious and intense.

I waited for him to finish smoking his cigarette and got out of the tub.

By the hand, I led her into the shower, where we bathed together.

With her wet hair, adhering to her head, she was even more beautiful, more sensual and the gold of her wet hair, which had become darker, stood out more against the whiteness of her skin.

We were both thrilled, and covered by bath towels we sat on a sofa, but immediately after that Tanja stood up, letting the sheet that covered her slide over her body and tore off my sponge, stripping me too.

I took her to the bedroom.

The wait had transformed our desire into an overwhelming desire for possession, difficult to describe, without diminishing its beauty with the rationality of a story.

The rest of the day passed between love and music.

Picking up something that was in the fridge, we avoided going out  for dinner.

Sunday, that incredible Sunday, was over and around midnight I accompanied her to her house.

We met before, but it wasn't like that early afternoon anymore.

Some time later, meeting again at the Pantheon, our memories immediately ran backwards, to those coffee stains.