Saturday, 6th March 1993

                                    

                                          
            
                          
"Giulia, aren't you well?"
                          
"I don't know mum, I've an headache."
                          
When did I start to answer like Fosca?
                          
"Go back to bed, I think you've got a fever."
                          
Thirty-eight point two Celsius degrees to be precise, accompanied by a cold closing nonstop my nose, keeping me awake almost all the night. Perhaps a sort of business allergy, a clear sign of my irreversible intolerance to that anthill.
                          
I spent on the bed all the Saturday morning, mum showed up every now and then to check the health status of her unique no longer child.
                          
"Do you want me to turn on the heating?"
                          
Although it was march, the winter didn't want to abandon the scene, finally leaving room to the spring. Out it was raining and, as usual, something filtering from the roof designed a damp spot in the corner of the ceiling of my bedroom.
                          
"No, that's fine. Why don't you work here? So you can keep me company."
                          
She agreed. Between a tacking and another she spoke again:
                          
"So how your first working week has gone?"
                          
"So and so. They gave me only filthy jobs."
                          
"Be patient Giulia. But don't let them walking over you, defend yourself if necessary. You're too good and if you're not careful people will take advantage of it."
                          
"Anyway, I don't think I'll stay there."
                          
"You'll look for another job after the graduation. Now you've started and you've to finish."
                          
So she educated me, to never give up.
                          
"Yesterday Francesco called."
                          
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
                          
"You were back late. And he said he'd have called again as soon as possible."
                          
"What did he say?"
                          
"He wanted to know about your job. He just told me that."
                          
I blew my nose, maybe with that gesture I hoped that something else got out.
                          
"Don't think about it anymore. You're beautiful and intelligent, you can have all the guys you want."
                          
The premises had been the same also for her, but at the end things didn't go so well.
                          
A desperate crying interrupted my inner reflections.
                          
"But that kid never stops crying?! Her parents really can't do anything? I can't stand it, I felt worse!"
                          
"What are you saying? She's so little, she doesn't know to bother."
                          
"Maybe she doesn't, but her parents..."
                          
"You cried too and nobody never complained."
                          
The goddess of justice had come into action, better to change subject:
                          
"Tonight, will you go out?"
                          
"Who? Me? I don't know."
                          
"Mum, you don't have to stay here with me. Go, please."
                          
"And if you don't feel well while you're at home alone?"
                          
"Remember I got just a cold."
                          
"Let's see. Now I'm going to make lunch."
                          
Always on duty, always running, so my mum was.
                          
*****
                          
In the late afternoon Fiamma came to visit me.