Read Online Gang of Lovers by Massimo Carlotto, Antony Shugaar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Massimo Carlotto, Antony Shugaar
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considerations against which I measured my very existence.
He insisted we go to a restaurant that a couple of his colleagues had recommended to him. I was sufficiently familiar with Venice to know that the place was nothing special. The chef was a trattoria cook who had renovated the place and then started wearing an immaculate chefâs uniform, and the wine list was frankly abysmal. But I thought it would be tactless for me to point this out and I told him I would be delighted to go.
Guido had understood me to be a woman who cares about tradition, etiquette, and that old-fashioned formality that is nothing other than a shell of armor that protects you from other people. He forced me to yield by making me laugh. Jokes, anecdotes, funny stories. Refined ones, obviously, nothing vulgar. I never heard a dirty word slip out of Guidoâs lips, not even one of those that has by now entered the common parlance.
When I realized that I desired him, a sense of fair play and sound reason demanded that I point out that I was older than him. That was an unpleasant interlude that dissolved in a split second the amusing atmosphere that had prevailed all evening.
Guido took my hand and confessed with disarming sincerity that I represented the pinnacle of his fantasies. That I was perfect.
I suddenly leapt to my feet and rushed to the restroom. And not out of embarrassment, but because of the excitement that those words had triggered in my mind. And in my body.
When I returned to the table I energetically played the part of the matron with a good head on her shoulders, pointing out that we had barely just met, hoping with all my heart that his answers to my objections would be persuasive enough to leave me with no avenue of escape.
All he had to do was reference a couple of novels. At that point I reasoned that even if we wanted to, and the desire was all too evident, we wouldnât be able to spend the night together because we certainly couldnât register together in a hotel. Certainly not in mine, where I was a familiar guest.
Guido suggested we go to his, which wasnât much more than a glorified pensione. At night there was no desk clerk and therefore the guests were simply given keys to the front door.
I hesitated for a moment. I wasnât all that certain that I wanted to go to bed with a man in a dump. Sex, no matter what people say, isnât something you can just do any old place. But then and there I couldnât seem to find a way to bring this up and so, as silently as a pair of cat burglars, we slipped into an unspeakably bleak hotel room that was, fortunately, quite clean.
Guido was delicate and careful. I found myself nude, in his arms, and it was as if heâd known me forever. He knew how, he knew where . . .
When I fled at five in the morning, he was fast asleep. I didnât want to be found out and treated like a stowaway. I hurried back to my hotel and slipped into bed. Happily topsy-turvy. Guido phoned at nine. I thought I was going to faint when the reception desk called to say that a certain Di Lello wanted to speak to me on the phone. I treated him sternly and arranged to meet him in a café.
I told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever hoped to see me again he was going to have to learn some basic rules of secrecy. While I laid out the ground rules, the astonishment on his face shifted into a smirk that turned him a little ugly.
He nibbled at a croissant and sipped his cappuccino in absolute silence.
Finally he said that he understood my need for secrecy, but that what he wanted to talk about just then was us. An urgent need dictated by the sheer beauty of the night before. He sang the praises of my body and said a thousand other things, each of which left indelible traces deep in my heart.
My husband and the few lovers Iâd allowed myself over the years seemed like mere primates compared with him. That morning, in that café, I fell in love. Love. True
He insisted we go to a restaurant that a couple of his colleagues had recommended to him. I was sufficiently familiar with Venice to know that the place was nothing special. The chef was a trattoria cook who had renovated the place and then started wearing an immaculate chefâs uniform, and the wine list was frankly abysmal. But I thought it would be tactless for me to point this out and I told him I would be delighted to go.
Guido had understood me to be a woman who cares about tradition, etiquette, and that old-fashioned formality that is nothing other than a shell of armor that protects you from other people. He forced me to yield by making me laugh. Jokes, anecdotes, funny stories. Refined ones, obviously, nothing vulgar. I never heard a dirty word slip out of Guidoâs lips, not even one of those that has by now entered the common parlance.
When I realized that I desired him, a sense of fair play and sound reason demanded that I point out that I was older than him. That was an unpleasant interlude that dissolved in a split second the amusing atmosphere that had prevailed all evening.
Guido took my hand and confessed with disarming sincerity that I represented the pinnacle of his fantasies. That I was perfect.
I suddenly leapt to my feet and rushed to the restroom. And not out of embarrassment, but because of the excitement that those words had triggered in my mind. And in my body.
When I returned to the table I energetically played the part of the matron with a good head on her shoulders, pointing out that we had barely just met, hoping with all my heart that his answers to my objections would be persuasive enough to leave me with no avenue of escape.
All he had to do was reference a couple of novels. At that point I reasoned that even if we wanted to, and the desire was all too evident, we wouldnât be able to spend the night together because we certainly couldnât register together in a hotel. Certainly not in mine, where I was a familiar guest.
Guido suggested we go to his, which wasnât much more than a glorified pensione. At night there was no desk clerk and therefore the guests were simply given keys to the front door.
I hesitated for a moment. I wasnât all that certain that I wanted to go to bed with a man in a dump. Sex, no matter what people say, isnât something you can just do any old place. But then and there I couldnât seem to find a way to bring this up and so, as silently as a pair of cat burglars, we slipped into an unspeakably bleak hotel room that was, fortunately, quite clean.
Guido was delicate and careful. I found myself nude, in his arms, and it was as if heâd known me forever. He knew how, he knew where . . .
When I fled at five in the morning, he was fast asleep. I didnât want to be found out and treated like a stowaway. I hurried back to my hotel and slipped into bed. Happily topsy-turvy. Guido phoned at nine. I thought I was going to faint when the reception desk called to say that a certain Di Lello wanted to speak to me on the phone. I treated him sternly and arranged to meet him in a café.
I told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever hoped to see me again he was going to have to learn some basic rules of secrecy. While I laid out the ground rules, the astonishment on his face shifted into a smirk that turned him a little ugly.
He nibbled at a croissant and sipped his cappuccino in absolute silence.
Finally he said that he understood my need for secrecy, but that what he wanted to talk about just then was us. An urgent need dictated by the sheer beauty of the night before. He sang the praises of my body and said a thousand other things, each of which left indelible traces deep in my heart.
My husband and the few lovers Iâd allowed myself over the years seemed like mere primates compared with him. That morning, in that café, I fell in love. Love. True
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