Read Online Gang of Lovers by Massimo Carlotto, Antony Shugaar - Free Book Online Page A

agreeable trip. I enjoyed his presence as an unexpected gift, a breath of fresh air. And I imagined nothing more, it didn’t move beyond the bounds of fantasy. Not merely because that wasn’t something I was accustomed to do, but especially because he was younger than me. By ten years, I later learned. Guido was born in 1975. And I was certain that only men found it natural to dedicate themselves to younger women without a twinge of shame. I’ve always chosen my lovers from among men of my own age and have always felt contempt for women who take men young enough to be their sons, or just slightly older, to bed.
    I soon learned that Guido was a connoisseur of painting as well. He gave me some advice about the artists I’d mentioned to him when I explained the reason for my Venetian interlude.
    We said farewell at the station with a handshake and a friendly smile. But by the time I’d turned and taken ten steps, he was already just a memory.
    A few hours later I chanced to see him again. I was chatting with the art dealer when I glimpsed him peeking through one of the gallery windows. He smiled when he caught my eye. I thought it would be nice to invite him in. He immediately confessed that he hadn’t happened on me by chance. His curiosity had been piqued by my mention of the paintings and he wanted to see a few of them. The proprietor introduced himself and that was when I heard his name for the very first time. Guido Di Lello. He turned toward me with an outstretched hand and apologized for failing to introduce himself earlier on the train. “Oriana Pozzi Vitali,” I said, enunciating clearly, as my family’s prominence demanded.
    Usually people immediately connect the double surname to my husband’s companies. But he didn’t. His world had nothing in common with mine.
    I was uneasy. I’d never have expected him to come after me. Guido immediately hit it off with the art dealer, praising the selection of paintings that he was proposing I purchase.
    I wanted to close the deal that same evening, but his presence was keeping me from doing so. I tactfully tried to make him understand that I would have preferred for him to leave. Never discuss money in front of strangers. Not only is it in poor taste, but it would have obliged me to show an aspect of my personality that I preferred to keep hidden because money should be spent, not wasted. Investing in art means paying as little as possible, especially when the economy is flagging. The dealer knew that I was going to drive a hard bargain and, when it became clear that the stranger wasn’t going to get out from underfoot, he spared me any further embarrassment by suggesting we talk again the next day by phone.
    Guido, who at that point was still just Professor Di Lello to me, asked whether I was headed for the station or whether I was planning to stay the night, in which case he would be exceptionally pleased to invite me to dinner.
    I replied that we weren’t sufficiently close for him to dare ask me such questions. He said that he agreed. He muttered an embarrassed farewell and turned to go, but before he’d taken three steps he turned back to ask my forgiveness. I’ve never met anyone as talented as he when it comes to slipping talk of unrelated matters between an excuse and an apology. He freely ransacked the archives of literature, proving to me with a slew of poetic citations that there was absolutely no harm in his desire to get to know me better. He anticipated every objection I might have raised, first and foremost the question of whether or not I might be interested in him as a person.
    Five minutes. Not a minute more. And I surrendered. I was flattered that a professor in his mid-thirties, instead of chasing after co-eds, promising them good grades, should choose to court me. But I was also uncomfortable because I’d never before had a relationship with a man who lacked all familiarity with those material