Authors: Manuela Pigna
I
go directly to table two without stopping. There are two people who have to
order. I spend a bit of time with them, while I explain what there still is to
eat and, when I return to the counter, I see Rosy chatting with both of them,
smiling like a nut and batting her eyelashes like some Disney movie fawn. I
don’t even ask her to prepare table two, I just do it. While I move around
behind the counter, Madame Barbieri says in a loud voice, “Olivia dear, wasn’t
the counter yours today and the tables for Rosy?”
I
stop for a moment and redden, the boys stop speaking and look at the elderly
woman – all decked out at nine-thirty in the morning as though she were going
to the Scala Theater to see an opera. Then they both turn towards me while Rose
keeps her back to me.
I
really don’t know what to say, and after a few minutes of embarrassment, Rosy
speaks, “She asked me to switch places for a minute and as a good co-worker I
said I would.”
Madame
Barbieri begins to fiddle with her necklace of green stone beads without
commenting. I turn towards the coffee machine and go back to what I was doing.
I finish up with table two and go back to the counter. Rosy has disappeared.
Nic is deep in conversation with Andrea. He’s seated sideways with his profile
to me, while Andrea is seated facing me directly and nods from time to time
while playing with his half-full glass of orange juice. Every so often he
shoots me a quick look, a look I don’t know how to interpret. He seems serious,
almost as though I’ve made him angry, but I haven’t done anything.
I
look at Madame Barbieri for comfort, hoping that she’ll make me laugh with one
of her funny faces, but today she continues to stare at me in that strange way.
I don’t feel comforted at all. She watches me so intensely… It’s never happened
before.
When
the two men get up and put their hands in their pockets to start looking for
their wallets, I heave an inner sigh of relief. I can’t take any more of them,
or Rosy’s overexcitement, or the sudden intensity of Madame Barbieri who is
usually so light hearted.
“Uh
Nic,” I begin, a little tired, as I give them their change, “your number? For…”
I twirl two fingers in the air to finish the sentence.
I
suddenly feel Andrea’s eyes fixed on me.
“Oh,
yeah,” Nic answers putting his hands in his pocket. He watches me and Andrea
does the same. I wait, totally unnerved by their scrutiny.
“Give
me yours, so I can give you a ring and you’ll have it.”
I
nod and begin to give it to him from memory.
He
brings the phone to his ear and waits for a ring, then he hangs up and puts it
away. “But,” says Nic, looking at me intensely, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t
want to give it to her anymore.”
I
raise my eyebrow surprised and don’t say anything. He continues as a smile
blossoms on his lips, “You know, recently I’ve raised my standard.”
I
feel something like a small butterfly, light, start from the pit of my stomach
and fly up, up until it alights on my lips and spreads its wings in a radiant
smile.
Nic
says goodbye smiling and walks towards the door. Andrea watches me without smiling,
serious, and takes two steps back – first making his goodbyes, then reminding
me about our appointment in the afternoon and then following Nic out of the
shop.
Secretly
satisfied, I sigh and turn around, catching the bright eyes of Madame Barbieri,
who now has an enigmatic half-smile on her painted red lips.
***
I’m
going to the bike path at the lake a week after Nic and Andrea came to the cafè
the first time. They came this morning too, but today it was my turn at the
tables and they sat at a table. Maybe it was just by chance, but I was pleased.
When
I arrive I see him already there, at the start of the path – today all dressed
in gray. He has my notebook rolled up in his hand – the diet diary notebook
that I gave him last Saturday.
I
get out of the car and go to meet him. He takes me by the hand. “Come on, let’s
talk about your diary.”
I
quickly take my hand away from his. I’m still in my mantra phase, it’s not the
case for him to touch me.
We
sit cross-legged on the ground. Even if it is freezing, it’s not raining and
hasn’t rained recently, so the ground isn’t wet. I sit beside him. He opens the
notebook and turns a couple of pages before speaking. “What do you want to do
in life, Olly?”
Surprised,
I look at him and he turns towards me, waiting.
“Librarian,”
I answer after a moment’s hesitation.
He
raises his eyebrows. “A what?”
“A
librarian. Why? Do you have something against librarians?”
He
shakes his head. “No, of course not, but… why?”
“Because
I like books, I like to read them, I like putting them on the shelf, talking
about them, recommending them to people...” I drop my eyes from his. I think
about it for another moment. “And the people… the people that you’d meet at
work would only talk about books.” I look at my hands, imagining that sort of
future. “Yes, I would definitely like to be a librarian.”
Andrea
is silent for a little. “And writing? Have you ever thought about it?”
Have
I ever thought about it? Of course I have, but I’ve never confessed it to
anyone, not even to myself almost. I look at him until I can hold his gaze – as
light and clear as mountain water – then I drop my eyes and don’t answer. I
hear him sigh after a while. “In my opinion you’d be good at it. Your diary… it’s
only a diet diary but… I enjoyed reading it. In some parts it was almost
funny.”
I
turn to him, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes.
And, I don’t know, I thought that if you are able to write a diet diary in such
a pleasing way… well, you could do a lot better if you wrote something that you
want.”
I
don’t comment, but I feel a wave of pleasure in almost all of my body.
He
looks at me for a bit without speaking, then he sighs again and returns to my
diary. “Ok, getting down to business. You don’t eat that badly, it’s just that
in certain moments you eat for four people.” He says it without any inflexion,
with total indifference. I redden anyway and look at my gym shoes.
“For
example,” he continues, “I noticed that on Sundays your eating is decidedly
bizarre. At lunch you always eat something really light and in small
quantities, while in the evening you eat a huge amount and usually not very
healthy things.”
“Really?
Always on Sundays?” I ask surprised. I hadn’t ever noticed.
He
nods, leafing through the notebook. “Two Sundays ago,” he taps his index finger
on the page where he’s stopped, “you ate cream of leek soup for lunch and
that’s all, but at dinner you ate a pizza, French fries and tiramisu for dessert.
Then, as if this dinner weren’t enough, before going to bed you had a cup of
milk with eight cookies.”
Oh
my God… I’m so ashamed… Please God, open a sink hole in the earth and let me
disappear!
“Really?”
I stutter, all red.
He
nods, alternating his gaze between me and the notebook. “Monday morning you usually
eat a lot too, then sometimes you eat small amounts, other times more,
sometimes in exaggerated quantities - but it seems just by chance – even if I
don’t believe that’s the case. The only trend I’ve managed to put together is
that of Sunday and Monday morning.”
I
know why I eat so badly on Sunday. My mother. She always brings out the worst
in me. I don’t want to tell him though, so I don’t say anything.
“Looking
at your diary I realized a thing,” he gives it a last look and rolls it up in
his hand. “You’re not someone who eats badly in general, someone who has huge
bad habits to get over. Olly, it seems to me that when you want to, you know
how to put together a well-balanced meal.”
Of
course. With all the diets I’ve tried in my life, something like making a
balanced meal must have entered my brain unconsciously.
“I’m
afraid that you’re one of those people who eats out of nervousness. And that
may be worse than having bad eating habits because there’s a psychological
factor to consider,” he continues.
He
stops and looks at me – after a few seconds he asks, “Do you think you’re
someone who eats when you’re nervous or for other psychological reasons?”
I
don’t need to think about it to answer, “Yes.”
He
nods, “I’m not a psychologist, so maybe you should look for someone like that
if you really want to do something the right way. Anyway, I brought you
something that could be useful to you. At least I hope you can use it.”
“What?”
“Do
you want to see it right now or after training? Today we’re beginning running…”
“Right
now. I may be too wrecked afterwards to understand anything.”
Andrea
gets up with a fluid motion and offers me his hand. I take it to get up and
then quickly release it. He heads towards his car and opens the trunk, but the
first thing he pulls out is the scale, and, needless to say, places it in front
of my feet.
“Again?”
I ask grumpily, “but I haven’t done any diet! It’s not fair!”
“We’ll
weigh ourselves anyway.”
“Again
with this plural?”
Andrea
laughs. “I’m weighing myself too.”
I
huff stepping on the scale. “Was this the thing? What a great…”
“No,
it wasn’t this,” he says coming nearer and bending to look.
When
the number appears I can’t believe my eyes. “Eighty-one and a half?” I almost
shout with happiness. I turn to him, now smiling. “How is it possible?”
He
smiles in turn and my heart skips a beat.
Andrea is practically Linda,
Andrea is practically Linda, Andrea is practically Linda.
“Yes,
it is possible, it’s actually typical. For this reason I wanted you to weigh
yourself. Writing down what you eat, in itself, already pushes you to eat a
little better.”
I
continue to look at the scale and then him – I’m brimming with happiness.
As
soon as I get off, he gets on just like the other time. Eighty-one.
“You’re
the same, and still weigh less than me,” I say with a half grimace.
“Not
for long,” he reassures me good naturedly. Then he leans into his trunk and
gets something. A small book and some sheets of paper. “Try reading this book,
then tell me if it’s been of any help. If not, we’ll find another solution.
Maybe it will help if you find a psychologist.”
“Hmm.”
I take the book in hand and look at it. It’s called
The Answer is not in the
Fridge
. I’m already interested and begin to leaf through it.
Andrea
covers my hands with his and I lift my gaze to him with a mute question.
“You’ll
have time to read it, now let’s move on.”
I
nod and close the book, putting it under my arm.
“I’ve
written some instructions for the diet you will have to follow. More than a
list of lunches and dinners – which are, frankly, difficult to follow - I’ve
written down how you should behave, what type of combinations you should make,
certain tricks, etc. So that you can start to understand how it works. But
basically you’re free to manage it. Here,” he hands me a folder of pages
stapled together. “Read them when you have time at home and if you have some
doubt or any questions or need something cleared up, feel free to call me on my
mobile phone.”
I
take a deep breath and nod again.
“Shall
we start?”
“Let
me leave this in the car.” So saying I go towards my car and leave everything
on the passenger side. Andrea is waiting for me at the start of the bike track,
and as soon as I join him he explains the program – a mix of running and
walking – with his usual simple, concise and clear way of doing things. I think
he’d be an excellent teacher. Besides a gorgeous model.
When
we begin to run I feel incredibly awkward. I feel my thighs brushing together,
my breasts bouncing up and down and even my cheeks moving… And I’m out of
breath right away, in a truly embarrassing way. And people ask why fat people
don’t do sports… Simple – it’s terrible.
What’s
more, if all this weren’t enough, I’m doing this side by side with the Sun God
– always perfect and beautiful – who observes me from time to time in a way I
detest.
Andrea
alternates the running with walking – I follow him. When he walks, I walk. When
he runs, I run and so on and so forth. After a few minutes of silence he asks
me, “So, what advice would you have for me?”
“Huh?”
I ask to be brief.
“As
a book to read… you said you’re good at suggesting…” It goes without saying
that while I already have to breathe with my mouth open, he chats as though he
were sitting in front of a table for tea.
“Ah!”
Me, the verbosity in person, suddenly become brief when I’m running I’ve
discovered. “I don’t know you well enough.”
Andrea
raises his eyebrows. “That doesn’t make any sense – the people who come into
your library won’t know you either!”