Читать книгу The Confessions Of A Concubine - Roberta Mezzabarba - Страница 7

3.

And feel that I am transparent

There are days when I feel beautiful, shining.

I look in the mirror and see my face reflected, turquoise eyes, small slightly full lips, freckles that sully the skin around my nose just a little.

I run my hands through my red, silky hair, dissolving thoughts with my fingers.

In those days, to see my husband ignoring me, hurts me so much I could die: he seems to give no importance to what belongs to him by right, by contract, and like a short-sighted person does not perceive what is close to him.

I have never made myself beautiful for others, but to be ignored in this way, to be transparent, irrelevant, less than an annoying fly, is

demoralizing, and you never get used to it.

Angrily I grab the usual clasp, discolored from all the times I have used it, and imprison my hair, and with the bite of those plastic teeth I wound my heart, my soul, my pride, my self-love.

And he doesn't even understand my angry gesture.

He gives me a quick glance, as if he can’t really bring the whole situation into focus, and as always I drown in this incomprehension, and suffocate tears that want to be freed, swallowing the bitterness and that lump in my throat that does not want to go down.

Tomorrow it will change, or rather, I hope that I will change tomorrow.

***

"This haircut really suits you, Mysia!"

Pietro’s voice spoke those words, boiling oil to my

ears.

I felt my cheeks and neck flush and instinctively lowered my gaze, not knowing exactly how to reply.

I wasn't used to receiving compliments, it had been so long that... I had wanted to hear those words from my husband's mouth, I had longed for this to happen in too many dreams, and instead here is that man who did not belong to me making my skin ripple with a shiver, making the longing for pleasure that hides inside every human being come true.

Pietro was a colleague who worked in

administration at the supermarket, always smiling, with slightly long dark hair, expertly disheveled.

To tell the truth I hadn't noticed him until his gaze had begun to lock onto mine, insistently. He had started saying hello to me, looking for opportunities to start a conversation with me. And

that’s where the first comments, the first veiled compliments began to arrive.

I listened, unaware, eager, pitifully in need of appreciation.

Strange, I must say, because my upbringing always prevented me from enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of being appreciated.

In my family compliments were a rare

commodity, then marrying Filippo had not changed the situation: he was such closed man that I often had the feeling that he didn’t even notice me.

But I had married him.

And now there was nothing to do, other than accept what the meal in front of me contains, without dreaming of other dishes.

Paying attention to Pietro's words was playing with disaster, I am aware of that, but as I listen to his words, every shadow inside my heart disappears in a flash.

But it doesn't last long: as the echo of those words fades away, as Pietro disappears from my sight, my heart freezes.