I love her

My name is Franco. In early October 1997, I turned twenty-one and moved to Turin. I became a student. My father stopped sponsoring my races—despite the fact that, over the season, I had made it to the podium eight times. A bright future in motorsports seemed within reach… provided I could find reliable sponsors. But there were none. And then there was that unfortunate incident with my father’s car, which I had borrowed for a while.

In short, my parents decided I should dedicate the next three years to higher education. They also believed I needed what’s commonly called a school of life: to live on my own, manage a budget, and take care of daily life by myself.

They allocated enough money for a decent one-bedroom apartment in the city center—but I chose to spend it differently. I rented a room on the outskirts, and by saving that way, I secured a small reserve to keep me afloat for the time being. The room was in a new building, and my landlords—who were also my neighbors—had only moved in six months earlier, so they still knew what it felt like to be new to a place.

She is striking and beautiful. She seems flawless. From the very first moment I saw her, she became the most extraordinary woman I had ever laid eyes on—unlike anyone else in the world. Unlike any woman I had known since childhood. And no wonder—she’s a foreigner. “Who are the owners of the apartment?” you might ask.

She came from Russia; her family was originally from Saint Petersburg. Her name was Adelina. I could hardly hear any accent—she had been living in Italy for over five years.

How many evenings I spent watching that shimmer, watching her walk down the path toward the house, coming home from work. She’s beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t just about looks… What am I saying? Of course it was also about looks! I’m no poet, but I have to say something about her hair. It was black, and it fell in a gentle wave over her shoulders, catching the light with a bronze shimmer.

I didn’t know what her job was, nor what her husband did for a living. I didn’t ask and, at first, I wasn’t even curious. Adelina could’ve been a singer (there was a piano in their room) or an actress (she had such expressive features, and a dancer’s figure).

Though, truth be told, I never once saw that happen.I envied him—her husband. He could hold her in his arms and never let go. A boxer? Him? Not very tall, not muscular. I’d even say he looked soft. I wasn’t sure Adelina’s husband had ever set foot in a gym. I was much taller and broader than he was – I’m even a full two heads taller than my own parents. And him? Definitely not an athlete. He looked like your average office worker. He even wore glasses. The apartment was cozy – it was clear a woman with good taste had a hand in its arrangement.

Only the posters of boxers on the walls spoiled the overall impression. Framed autographs of famous athletes stood on the shelves, along with a few trophies…

Well, I never tested whether he was really a boxer or not. I didn’t know a more silent or serious person. Not rude – just far too unsmiling. I wouldn’t have dared tell him even the funniest joke: even if he liked it, he’d never show it – which would’ve hurt my feelings. And if he didn’t like it, or didn’t get it…

He was always in a suit and tie, never seen without one. And always clean-shaven to such a degree I found myself wondering whether a beard could even grow on that skin – smooth as a child’s. Maybe the only thing that man knew how to do was frown.

He wore a wedding ring on his left ring finger. He probably didn’t even like it; he seemed like the kind of man who despised all sorts of jewelry.

After two months of sharing space with him (more precisely – two months without exchanging a single word), I realized: people like him are the reason conflicts happen.

Others act behind their backs, against their will – and end up causing even bigger problems. Some try to argue openly, hoping to sway men like him – the unswayable. Noticing me come in, the poor thing didn’t know what to do with her hands and awkwardly attempted to rise from the couch. The couple never had guests over – from that, I concluded he had no friends. Only once, coming back from the store on a weekend, I found Adelina sitting on the couch with a friend. They were whispering. Adelina was wearing her usual leather jacket, while her friend was dressed in an elegant red dress. From what I gathered, her friend was a woman who, though no longer young (though I didn’t really get a good look), seemed terribly shy.