These long sunset whitout a nightfall

She had been writing all day for at least six entangling months. Including due breaks, of course. Conventions, concerts, and those almost obligatory trips to Germany if she wanted to get it serious. Waiting for him to come down was out of the question, it would have meant eating herself alive waiting for the giant leap from a confused cripple. She revealed to herself as confident, going for that relationship that she knew would fill her up and then empty her and then fill her up again. She was also clear from the outset—she had deliberately used the words “my boyfriend” and “long-distance relationship” in the first three sentences so that the meeting would not take a tragicomic turn. The week before actually seemed like a lifetime ago. There had still been two thousand kilometres, a couple of lovemaking sessions, and a very long evening in between, and she had no intention of thwarting all that mental effort. She couldn't even afford it, with the final deadline for the work just around the corner. Thus, those two breakfasts together in a row were already nothing more than a beautiful memory in her mind, she told herself, and little else. The man who was now sitting next to her, dressed too lightly for the evening of the spring solstice eve, was neat and commendably elegant but inevitably modest. Sickness still glimpsed on his thin, clothed body, sitting flexibly, bordering on slouching. The face, however, had never been too easy to crack. The eyes always seemed to chase different points of space separately, and the tilt of the nape constantly indicated opposite angles. The mouth was also oddly shaped, it almost seemed to possess a natural sulk, framed by a moustache that was too thin to create a believable mask. She associated it with that strange, almost artificial gaze, and had she even told him about it, softly. What she wondered inside, however, was whether it was ever possible to love someone with whom one could not look eye to eye. Who knows if they would have declared him ineligible, with a surgery like that in his background and an almost unquenchable disease. He wasn't handsome in the canonical sense, but he had his charms; she had to hand it to him. Or at least he invested in it—he might never have become an important actor as he dreamed, but you couldn't say he didn't have a belief in himself. It was very weird to think now of how just six days earlier, he had taken care of her. He was still captivated, the flower of the first day and the caresses of the second were evidence of that: an intense and pleasant excitement, shared as they knew how to when they had enjoyed together the taste for details in photographs, that designer shop, or those music unknown to most. A half-sentence had also escaped her: “certainly not like...” stopping herself in time, avoiding rubbing it in. By now, she was committed and convinced. A good friendship would have made sense, had he agreed. Besides, to be objective, there had never been anything between them, not even a kiss. Like all men, he had not even tried to hide that attraction; she was used to it despite herself—like too many men, however, he had never really tried to express that feeling clearly. Now, after almost three years, she hoped at least it was just a feeling and not an obsession. He had acted a bit superior, talking about it as past, water under the bridge. But he had missed a few verbal tenses, and the result was a sequence of tender words in a slightly ridiculous tone. He had called her ‘a benchmark’, raising his hand outstretched horizontally in mid-air, upwards. Perhaps one of the most unusual and eccentric compliments she had ever received in her life. She had caught herself laughing about it with him, slightly embarrassed. There was no disputing that the two of them were fine. Yet, as she thought she was looking at a man who made it clear to her, knowing he had no chance, that he had sincerely loved her for three years, she could not help but think of the umpteenth two feminicides she had read about earlier, tired, on her bed at home. Who knows if a man like him was capable of murder.

Enlistment now seemed inescapable, at least as an idea. Taking the life of a woman for the mania of possession or of another man for orders of war at that beat seemed to her on the same level of unreality—equally absurd actions when associated with the person with whom she was having a beer instead of dinner. She remembered that anarchist motto she had once heard him utter: “To die for the fatherland, to die for nothing”. Would he remain consistent with his ideas, or would he take advantage of the situation? With the qualifications he would have in a year, it would not have been difficult for him to attempt a career as an officer. Which would probably have kept him away from the front line, providing financial and personal security for himself and his family. She would certainly not have blamed him for that. In fact, it would have been a good excuse to sever ties for good, if necessary. One thing was certain: if she thought these things, it was because they were no longer in their twenties.

If she had wanted to interrupt that flow of love declarations, she could have talked about it. But after all, it was deeply romantic and therefore in its way satisfying to think how this man, who between the lines was swearing sincere love to her, might not live any longer within five years, or make a career that no one would have even recommended knowing him, with several hundred deaths on his conscience. Had he ended up in prison or a fugitive as a deserter, his aura would certainly have benefited. But that illness complicated everything, making him blackmailable or, worse still, relegating him to the margins of history as a mere spectator. He reminded her of those literary personalities of the early twentieth century—the world was in turmoil, nationalistic movements were everywhere, he was emaciated and in love, always wearing a shirt and a mechanical watch, very gallant and penniless. Basically, an anti-militarist, yet perhaps also so disillusioned with life and love that he just wanted to annihilate himself in a bigger machinery. It could surely have been a good solution for him and for her as well. All that would remain between them would be love expressed and never experienced, but no remorse. She would remember him, years later, as a brilliant mind gone too soon, and she would never again stop to fantasise about what he was telling her now, namely that in another dimension the two of them had been loving each other for a while, that what saddened him was the squandered potential between them, rather than the rejection itself. Even her therapist often told her to work on the unexpressed potential of interpersonal situations, rather than the ready value she alone could put on them. Perhaps for that very reason, in his mouth, those statements were almost annoying to her. She found herself, contrary to what she put into words, agreeing with him on the previous point: bad things to say them out loud vanish, but so do good things, unfortunately. So, she decided she had had enough and had herself walked back under her house, thanking him quickly and somewhat mannered for the beer and time offered. She thought about how life could make fun of her when it wanted to. She had missed their rendezvous time and risked standing him up, but then decided to join him a couple of hours later, even though she was tired. Precisely on the day that this man had decided to propose. In Germany, meanwhile, her fiancé had never been so restrained and was barely expressing interest, let alone romanticism or sweetness of that kind. It was surprising enough that they had gone back steadily. Maybe war was a solution. Who knows if they would ever face each other without even knowing one another, those two men. She told herself that in case, rather than killing each other, they should merge. But this was too abstract as a fantasy even for a professional thinker like her.

THESE LONG SUNSETS WITHOUT A NIGHTFALL

di FRANCO OLIVO