All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [45]
He shows me his apartment, a tiny place in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, a more bourgeois neighborhood, he explains, than he’s used to, but he’s here because his kids and their mother live nearby. It’s a small studio dominated by a big desk, with books floor to ceiling, and a little nook with Indian pillows where he sleeps; there is little room for anything here but his mind. There are a couple of beautiful drawings and a photo of a woman, his girlfriend presumably, crossing her slender ankles and wearing white pumps. I do not imagine the Professor with someone who wears white pumps.
We have little time, because he has to go pick up his son. It’s so different from all our other visits together, where the days stretched out long, with no plans except to decide when and where to eat, to swim now or later. We have so much to say to each other, but, conscious of our short time, we sit there on his couch, saying nothing. Finally I ask him about the book he’s writing, and he gives me an enthusiastic description, verging on academic; it’ll be his best book yet, he thinks, and will even be translated into English. “Now you can read my book,” he says.
He asks where I have traveled, and I tell him Italy, Samoa, Tahiti, Nicaragua. “Ah,” he says, “la bella vita continues. You are always on the road.”
“I’m not settled down like you,” I say, half teasing, glancing at the photograph of the woman in white shoes.
“It’s not what I expected,” he says. “But I’m happier with a woman, someone to share dinner with.” He sighs. “My secret now is that I have no secret life. My students look at me like I’m an old man. I’m completely boring.”
“Never,” I say.
“Grazie, signorina,” he says, and strokes the back of my hand.
He asks about my next trip, and I say I’m not sure, I may take a little break from traveling.
“Because you have a boyfriend?”
I shake my head no. “I’m not interested in men right now.”
“Impossible,” he says. “No men, no travel? What’s happened to you?”
I get up and pretend to inspect the art books in his library. Then I sit back down. We are so used to touching each other, and now we can’t touch at all. Tears start to roll down my eyes.
“Che c’è?” he asks. What is it?
“I miss you,” I tell him in Italian. “I miss knowing that I’ll see you.”
He picks up my hand, squeezes it, then gives me a hug. I use his Egyptian scarf to wipe my eyes and pull away.
“Do you know what I liked best about your book?” he asks.
I shake my head no. We have never spoken much about the fact that I wrote a book about our romance.
“It was the first time I understood that you loved me.”
I nod yes, unable to speak.
“We’ve had a beautiful story,” he says. “Life is full of stories, and we’ll have more, each of us. Though maybe fewer.” He smiles.
“Sì,” I say. He embraces me again and then kisses me and then caresses me, and I pull away, alarmed.
“I can’t,” I say and start crying afresh.
“It’s nothing. Just a little caress,” he says, opening his hands wide. “We are old friends.”
“It’s not that,” I say, and somehow I tell him that I don’t feel comfortable touching anyone at all, I can’t travel, I’m too afraid, something bad happened to me in Samoa. He listens to me and frowns. He brings out one of his little cigars, in a tin box, and lights it, inhaling. “Do you want one?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I only smoked that one time, in Ischia.”
He blows a perfect smoke ring, and in spite of myself I smile.
He considers my story. “Mi dispiace molto,” he says, giving me a hug and then still holding on to my hand. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that happened to you, my dear.” He takes another puff. “But don’t make things too complicated. That experience happened, and of course you always want to be careful. But you can’t let one experience with a cretin change you. You’re a stronger woman than that.” He strokes my hair. “You love to travel, you have a great big appetite for life, and that’s who you are. You just have to continue to be yourself. It’s simple.”
“Simple,” I repeat. “Okay, Professor.”
He holds