Clare

Today is a strange day.

The clouds have won their battle against the rain, and a grey, dark sheet has covered the city.

The streets are noisy anyway, filled with the sound of cars and buses; two passers-by, stubbornly
holding their umbrellas open, are arguing, about everything or nothing, and there is a constant
swarm of agitated and indifferent people. Further away, the annoying noise of a pneumatic drill has
finally stopped screaming.

The temperature, after the rain that has just fallen, is finally human: it cools and refreshes, wiping
away the heat and oppressive humidity of the past few months, like a sponge on a blackboard
written on by a teacher with white chalk.

My thoughts, as has happened far too often in these last few days, turn to a woman I met by
chance.

To improve my terrible English, which has always caused in me an intense sense of discomfort and
personal defeat, I joined an international chat.

Incredibly, in the most unexpected way, I met Her.

Galeotto, in the Dantean sense, was a technological 3D printer.

On the profile, which they stubbornly encourage you to fill in, I had written about my hobbies. Too
many, in truth, with the sad consequence of being eternally unfinished.

Among a piano and other very nerdy activities, my faithful 3D printer stood out, bought years earlier
as a gift to myself, after a sad period full of pitfalls and pain. A period that had turned my life upside
down, leaving me desperate and insecure, and that I had stubbornly carried through simply by
gritting my teeth. That year had somehow changed my perception of life forever.

The site, contrary to my darkest predictions, seemed to work. Someone had actually contacted me,
with the usual banal exchanges of information: where do you live, where do you work, what do you
do. Pure boredom, but boredom in English, which was a nice advantage.

Unfortunately, I immediately realised my obvious linguistic limitations. I kept floundering, holding
my breath as I tried to catch elusive words, wrong verbs, non-existent grammar. Only the translator
saved me from defeat.

Then it happened.

An anonymous profile, without any photo, contacted me, talking about my 3D printer. I told him
something about myself, he told me something about himself, nothing special, just our nerdy
hobbies. I'll admit it, you have probably already realised it: I am a nerd, proudly nerdy.

Nice guy, anyway, that English guy. I was finally happy to be able to write, or at least to try to write,
with someone who was obviously nice and had similar hobbies.

But suddenly, he told me his name.

We hadn't even introduced ourselves, caught up in my attempt at conversation.

“My name is Clare,” she wrote to me.

Clare?

I was astonished. Wasn't it a guy?

I checked the profile photo, and in fact the icon was feminine.

Caught up in the exhausting attempt to understand, speak and explain myself, between an unlikely
subject and an invented verb, I had completely forgotten to check who she was.

Honestly surprised to have met a woman I could talk to about my strange hobbies, but happy, we
continued the conversation, on the same subjects.

I had to return to my duties, so I said goodbye to Clare and immersed myself in my routine of work,
hobbies and being a separated father.

A father who, I want to say, absolutely loves being one, to two wonderful daughters. A father who
has spent ten years trying to be better, and to offer them something special.

Always, as poor Severus Snape would say, this is to make his daughter, a Harry Potter fan, happy.

I love being a father more than my 3D printer, but don't tell Clare!

After dinner, I insisted on torturing myself, trying to understand and improve myself in this strange
language that the whole world speaks, except me, reopening my previous chat.

I immediately remembered that nice woman named Clare, so I wrote to her. I had no other contacts
at the time, so the choice, besides being deliberate, was also unavoidable. I would have looked for
her anyway, mind you.

And so we began talking about absolutely anything: shepherd's pie, roast chicken, a 3D-printed
plant pot, a printed aeroplane, English monuments, the Falklands, England, Italy, Ethiopia: an
endless whirlwind of subjects, one after another, without any interruption.

Every exhausting attempt to understand, made of furious copy-and-paste and different translators
to explain my thoughts, suddenly stopped.

The world disappeared, immersed in the war between Italian and English, between astonishment,
joy and the awareness that I had met someone special.

I felt an instinctive current passing between us, carrying us towards ever-new subjects, hour after
hour. We were immersed in words, emotions, sensations, and with every moment I was more
fascinated by this woman, so strong and weak, sweet, ironic, introverted and extroverted. I could
feel how special, enthusiastic and funny she was.

And then I really stopped breathing.

She sent me a photo of herself. Actually, two.

But the second one, under the snow, with her brown-and-red hair, her bright blue eyes and her red
lips, in a wonderful smile, stopped my heart.

It couldn't be possible that I had really met a woman like that. I had never been that lucky. Every
single crumb of my life had cost me sacrifice and blood.

Mine.

Even being a father, a mother and everything else for my daughters had been difficult. Every
evening I had fought the sleeplessness of worrying about them, about the lack of a mother who
had chosen something else. I had often lost, but I had tried to pick myself up, to take control of my
life and theirs again. I was their father. I had to be.

And suddenly she was there.

With that smile that took my breath away.

Oh my God.

But was she real?

I absolutely had to check her profile again.

Again my heart stopped, and I don't know for how long. Silence crystallised around me. A
deafening silence.

Age: 32.

Me: 56.

Before it had even begun, a simple acquaintance, or a friendship, was already over.

I literally felt my castle of emotions crumble down on top of me. There, palpable, every moment
something was falling apart that had never existed, that wasn't even consciously the beginning of a
dream. Something that wasn't, had never been, and could never have been.

I had found a woman whom I considered fantastic, funny, intriguing and interesting. I had
discovered that she was beautiful, and exactly one second later I had nothing.

Once again, fate had made a fool of me.

It had amused itself by making me meet Clare, only so that I could admire her from afar, with no
possibility.

I had rarely felt so comfortable with someone, after hours and hours of conversation, so good, so
astonished by someone who was plainly incredible.

And she was beautiful too.

I started breathing again, my heart started beating: in the end, my purpose wasn't to make friends,
but to learn English, to be able to have a conversation, not just in monosyllables.

A little sad, I continued the conversation, but once again I was captivated by Clare's world.

Again.

I sent her a photo of myself, taken only a few weeks earlier, and we chatted again and again about
everything and nothing: dogs, cats, 3D programs, her favourite colour, purple. I listened, somewhat
incredulously. Purple has always been my favourite colour too.

We resumed our conversation on a thousand other subjects, and eventually, after so many hours,
night stopped us.

We said goodnight.

“It was nice talking,” she said to me.

“Me too.”

I didn't know it yet, Clare, but you had already got inside me.

So, the next day, when I went to McDonald's for a Happy Meal for the Spider-Man surprise, I
immediately thought of sending it to you. I wondered if you would appreciate it…

I wanted to keep talking to you.

Her reply arrived late in the evening, almost midnight, and we started again, and Clare was Clare
more than ever.

She made a comment about the surprise, small but cute, and then realised the double meaning,
completely embarrassed.

She apologised.

I would have looked at you with the same affection I feel when I see my daughter make some little
mess.

No, Clare, don't worry. It's all fine.

And between a shared hatred of KFC and fast food in general, I discovered more about you: your
joy for life, your little experience as a model, and other photos, in front of which my heart beats
more and more wildly.

God, you're beautiful.

I don't know whether you don't realise it, or whether you're just damn shy, but Clare, you're
breathtakingly beautiful. And I don't mean that just to say it.

As I stare at your photos, at your tattoos, which I don't like, but which, for some strange reason, are
perfect on you, I realise the devastating effect you have on me.

I simply ignore it.

At some point, a question came out of nowhere, as always happens in these crazy conversations
about the British Empire, Northern Ireland and the Falklands.

It was obvious that the subject mattered to her, so I tried to give an honest answer, as always, but
a careful one.

Colonialism was certainly a dark page, leaving the euro was a mistake, and as for wars, this is
simply the current situation and there would be no point in reopening territorial disputes from fifty
years ago.

Her slightly sharp reply made me realise that I was right.

The subject mattered to her.

Obviously, other countries made mistakes too.

One of the saddest pages in Italian history is that of Italian colonialism in Ethiopia.

“History is important,” she declared, making me feel like an idiot for the banality of my answer.

But apparently Clare appreciated the answer, and my knowledge too.

Because of my somewhat banal answer, I thought of Baci Perugina, and showed her one in a
photo.

Clare, you have no idea how good they are.

Who knows, maybe one day I would have brought you a box and we could have eaten them
together, remembering these days.

I didn't even realise what I was thinking, or what it implied, or how much I already wanted to see
her after only a few days of conversations.

Only now, rewriting what happened, do I understand how everything already seemed to be written,
how my situation had already slipped out of my hands, and I didn't know it.

The usual jump from one subject to another, from driving on the right to knights, passing through
her photos, and finally we both admitted that it was nice talking to each other.

The conversations flowed onto our respective photos.

She was beautiful, and:

“Clare, you're so beautiful.”

“And me too? Seriously?”

“No, Clare, you're beautiful. I'm absolutely normal!”

Your photo, the one from the day before — just the day before, not weeks, OMG, I would tell you
— the one under the snow, the one that made me stop breathing.

No, that one is fantastic.

The smile, the colour of your lipstick, your fringe, your beautiful blue eyes, and yes, Clare, your
smile.

Your wonderful, incredible smile.

I adore your lips. I was already fantasising about kissing them, you know, and I felt guilty about it.

Then I understood.

We were flirting.

Clare, SERIOUSLY, you're flirting with me.

Did I get it wrong?

It's impossible.

And so I did the one thing no man would do.

I tried to discourage you, because you were already inside me, and I couldn't hurt you.

I didn't want to hurt you.

I reminded you of my personal Sword of Damocles: the huge age difference.

I didn't want to lose you, and I didn't want you to regret it the next morning.

I wanted to keep hearing from you.

But you continued with this exciting game, which by then had taken hold of both of us, and at some
point you explained to me that you didn't want to be misunderstood, that you weren't one of those
women who did such things lightly.

But by then the excitement had taken hold of both of us, and finally I described the kiss I had
dreamed about only a few hours earlier.

I would have kissed you so much that I would have wiped that wonderful red lipstick right off you.

You have no idea how much I want to kiss you, even now as I'm writing this, even now that
everything seems dark, that the uneasiness in my soul keeps me from sleeping, makes me check
whether you've read my message.

Yes, even in this tormented moment, I would kiss you until my lips hurt.

The evening — better, the night, since it was almost four — ended like this, in the middle of a hot
chat, exhausted.

Later I saw that you had tried to reach me again, but I was already in bed, thinking about you,
literally overwhelmed by what had happened, by my feelings, my excitement, my crazy desire for
you.

Not for sex.

For you, Clare.

For the emotions you kept awakening in me, deeper and stronger all the time.

Yes, for sex too. I would have made love to you.

Made love, Clare.

Not sex.

Idiot.

Rereading what I wrote, I realise only now that something had already been born in my heart for
you, and from the outside I would have laughed at it.

But it was inside me, with a thousand conflicting feelings, with my heart in turmoil.

With a twenty-four-year Sword of Damocles reminding me that I wasn't right for you.

You have no idea how strongly I feel that sword.

I know that one day that sword will fall, unless this crisis is final.

But when it falls and you give importance to this difference, then for me it will simply be the end.

I kept going because you're Clare, and I can't lose Clare.

I could never have stopped putting effort into this strange relationship, this relationship, this…
whatever it is.

The verdict belongs to posterity, quoting Manzoni.

I don't know what this is, Clare. I only know that you were already important to me back then.

After the separation, I devoted body and soul to my daughters, never holding anything back, with
my ups and downs, but always giving it everything, trying not to give in, not to ask, gritting my teeth
through the difficult moments, laughing and joking with my daughters.

I haven't had anyone in all these years.

Now I have you.

You have no idea what it means to me to wake up in the morning hoping to find you beside me, just
so I can look at you.

And then to feel that disappointment inside me because something is not, and cannot be.

The sun peeks through my shutters, and this latest night, tormented by a thousand thoughts, is
finally over.

I hate the night. It never brings me advice.

It brings me fear of losing you. It brings me terror of losing you.

Today I have a CT scan. How I wish I could hear a thought from you, just to comfort me.

But I can't: our serious argument means I can't ask you, because it would be like trying to force
your hand, and I don't want to do that.

I miss you, Clare.

But I'm afraid that something bad might show up, even if it's just a routine check-up.

The next day we started again as if we were actually physically together.

As if this enormous distance between us didn't exist.

I would have wanted to know everything about you, for you to tell me about your emotions; I would
have wanted to discover what you're like inside, because I can see something wonderful, a glimpse
of paradise.

I feel good with you. I don't need to be someone else. I trust you even though we don't know each
other, and I tell you that.

Still flirting.

I love flirting with you. You're so beautiful, so funny, and also sexy and fun.

It's strange to find myself amused and excited at the same time.

But flirting is only one part of you.

And the rest is wonderful.

Do you know what really impressed me about our conversations, Clare?

It's how we move from one subject to another, from the Falklands to photos, from the 3D printer to
your wonderful lips.

Because that's how my mind works.

I have an endless series of associations of ideas. I can go from Mozart to how AI works to the
situation in the Middle East in just a few minutes.

That's what makes me feel good with you.

We think alike. We have a synchronisation of thoughts that I've never experienced before.

If someone had asked me to describe my ideal woman, it would be you.

Intelligent, nerdy, self-aware, strong, weak, sexy, sweet.

And gorgeous.

We move, I don't even remember how, to your true love: the 3D printer.

The feeling I had at the beginning of knowing you takes shape.

You're a damn little genius with printers.

You did what I had wanted to do with my own printer.

Exactly the same modifications.

I tell my daughter about it, because I'm genuinely amazed, both by your knowledge and by this
constant synchronisation of our thoughts.

I've never met anyone like you.

Not a woman.

A person.

And as a woman, you're phenomenal.

You tell me about your aeroplane, about how you would like to make it.

I'm genuinely curious, and I ask you for photos, which you refuse to send me.

I've never understood why you're so reluctant.

You send me photos of yourself, but not of an aeroplane?

I accept your refusal.

It's right that way.

For a few hours I've had a thought, a request, and so I decide to share it.

I'd like to hear your voice, to know what it sounds like, how you speak.

So I ask you to send me an audio recording, pronouncing your name.

I'm genuinely curious to hear you.

I simply can't imagine your voice, and I would also like to understand whether Clare is pronounced
the way I think it is.

Maybe I've been imagining it wrong!

Time passes again, talking about everything: music, films, Robin Williams, Queen, how modern
music and films are mediocre.

“You have an old soul,” you tell me.

No, Clare.

You have an authentic soul.

I try to explain to you, Clare, you have no idea how difficult it is for me to express my emotions in
English, between a translator, ChatGPT and who knows what else.

I've realised that the translation isn't what I REALLY want to tell you, but their interpretation.

And so I try to change a verb, the construction of a sentence, and all of it while I have to answer
you, at an insane speed.

You tell me you're not complicated.

Obvious lie: you absolutely are.

You're an open book.

At first I didn't understand what you meant, then I did.

You're simply who you are.

You don't pretend.

But to me, an open book meant that I understood what you wanted.

And no, Clare, I never know what I should say to you, what I shouldn't say, whether I'm doing the
right thing or the wrong thing.

It's a constant attempt to get to know you better, without going too far, trying not to let you
understand how important you already are to me, so as not to scare you.

So you won't think that on the other side you have a madman hoping for something impossible.

I'm a blind man in a dark room, full of bombs.

And, as you know, it exploded.

Flirting is a constant in our conversations, and it's obvious that we both enjoy it.

It's a light kind of flirting, like a caress on the cheek, or a barely-there kiss.

I loved it.

I ask you to put the snow photo back: I discovered that you had deleted it.

I was upset because I think that photo is magical.

Perfect.

I tell you that I had saved the last photos, but that if you wanted, I could delete them.

You explain to me that you'd had a bad experience, but I wanted something of you.

Because it's you.

We reached a compromise: you put the photo back, I don't save it, and you don't delete it.

In the meantime, I deleted the two photos I had saved.

At that moment I understood the power you had over me.

I had told you I would delete them, and I did, even though I didn't want to.

But I couldn't lie to you.

I felt my chest becoming heavy, I almost felt a dull pain at the thought of doing it.

It's the same pain that forces me to take my father to the bank, that DUTY that I feel so strongly.

I HAVE TO tell you the truth, Clare.

For me it's literally a physical matter.

I feel a weight on my chest, as if someone were pressing down on it.

It's a strange sensation that I don't really know how to explain.

I try to make her understand that I don't lie, almost never, at least.

I also know when I made that decision; I remember the exact moment.

After graduating, at twenty.

I don't tell you about it: I'll save that story for another time, but I tell her about when my daughters
were little and used to show me their terrible drawings, wanting compliments, and I would tell them
they were “beautiful for their age”.

My daughters still remember it, because as they grew up they understood that their father doesn't
want to tell lies, but he doesn't want to hurt them either.

A small act of love.

You tell me that people have often lied to you in your life, and that trust and truth are important to
you.

I explain to you that they are important to me too, because I have had terrible experiences in that
respect, and I don't know yours because you keep them inside yourself, but mine were terrifying.

Trust.

It's the magic word we agree on.

And yes, the thing that keeps a relationship going.

At this moment of crisis, I understand that what you're missing, as far as I'm concerned, is trust.

I know nothing about your past, but if you can't understand that the person writing to you would
never hurt you and genuinely has strong feelings for you, then you must have been through
something traumatic.

And that makes me angry and makes me feel tenderness at the same time.

And now, the beginning of the end.

As usual, it's late, almost one in the morning. You say goodnight to me and tell me that you're
going to work the next day.

I get worried, and ask if you'll still be able to reply to me.

You don't know it, but I hope you will.

Knowing that you'll still reply makes me happy.

It's Monday.

I send you a good morning, hoping for a reply within a few hours, but it arrives four hours later.

You explain that it's a stressful day and tell me, after I ask, that you will probably finish around
seven.

I would like to send you a message, but I'm afraid of being intrusive.

I don't want to be too much, but I want to make you understand that if you need anything, I'm there
for you.

I would like to make you smile, at least, to break up what you tell me is an exhausting day.

From that moment, you disappear.

The fear keeps growing, no message, no clue.

I tentatively send, via chat, a “Clare?” at around your 10 p.m.

A “Clare?” that could mean so many things.

It would mean that I miss you terribly, that I don't understand what's happening, that I wish I could
do something for you, that I wish I were there with you to help you somehow.

I don't know if you understood all of that in a single “Clare?”.

It's almost one in the morning and it's been almost 24 hours since I've heard from you.

Used to almost living your daily life alongside you, it feels like an eternity.

The night has brought no advice, only nightmares, fears you never want to feel again.

But I'm learning to get to know you.

You would have told me if something had happened.

I don't know when, surely during the night, you saw my “Clare?”

But no answer.

At 12:45 I send you a message explaining that I'm worried. I just want to know that nothing has
happened to you.

Fortunately, you reply that yes, you're fine, you're just very busy.

Oh God, you're okay.

Thank goodness.

You can't know this, Clare.

But my first girlfriend was raped by her stepfather.

She wasn't my girlfriend yet when it happened, but the terror I felt when she told me about it has
stayed inside me.

And you're okay.

You're tired, but you're okay.

Nobody knows this, but you have no idea how terribly afraid I am, both for my daughters and for
you, that something like that might happen to you.

I remember going to cry in a corner of the balcony, overwhelmed by emotion.

But you were okay.

It was only your damn job that was keeping you busy and taking you away from me.

I had thought about it all night, by then, as usual, and I had thought about making you understand
how important you were to me by trying to be helpful to you.

To make you smile.

I wrote it to her: I missed her terribly, and it was also a way of feeling her close to me again.

So, the second message, around lunchtime — at least I think it was your lunch break, judging by
the time — I wrote something about Shepherd's Pie.

I was writing this story.

I had decided to put my constant thoughts about you down on paper, this paper, and then it had
become our story.

So I wrote a joke about how I had suddenly wanted Shepherd's Pie even though I had never tasted
it.

The power of Clare.

I have decided to give you this story: if things go badly, as a last hope to make you understand how
important you are to me; and if things go well, to make you understand how important you are to
me.

Here are my thoughts, my emotions, my fears, and my terror that it might end.

The Sword of Damocles of those twenty-four years occasionally makes an appearance; it has done
so often while writing this story, but I decided to ignore it.

I can feel it swinging above me.

And this is where the tragedy begins.

The breaking point.

The first real argument between us.

Thinking about your famous photo under the snow, I still remember one of my thoughts after the
initial shock:

“God, she's so perfect she looks like she was made by AI.”

That photo is perfect, with the falling snow, your hairstyle, your brown-and-red fringe, your
wonderful blue eyes and your lips.

God, how I adore those lips, Clare.

If it had been made by a professional studio, it couldn't have been better.

So, here I am, writing my own downfall.

“Did I ever tell you that I thought you were a man? And then an AI?”

Telling her that to me she was so perfect, like only an AI could have created a photo like that.

It's the only quotation in this story, because it's the most important one.

How a simple sentence can ruin a relationship.

You replied.

My heart exploded with happiness. Finally, you had replied.

The problem was that I didn't understand your reply.

You weren't just angry.

You were furious.

I think that if I had been with you, you would have shouted at me, telling me about your shitty day,
that you were tired, and I was writing something like that to you!

And a goodbye that sounded like a farewell.

I panicked.

The real kind of panic.

What was happening?

What had I written wrong?

I didn't even understand which of the two messages you were referring to. I tried to tell her that it
had been difficult for me not to hear from her.

But you were a river in full flood, sweeping me away without giving me a chance to breathe.

It felt to me as though you were shouting at me — at least that's how I experienced it — that I had
been cruel, that you didn't deserve what I had written.

You're English, so perhaps you would have used a cold and cutting tone.

Maybe worse.

The panic kept increasing out of all proportion.

I still didn't understand.

I wrote in Italian because I was in such a hurry, I had no time.

I thought:

“What is happening? Clare, stop!”

Damn this English I can't understand!

I tried to understand what you were referring to, and she replied that I should leave her alone.

I tried to tell her how important she was to me, that she was one of the most beautiful things that
had happened to me in my life.

I realised that what was supposed to be a nerdy joke had evidently been interpreted as an insult,
as if I were saying that you were fake.

I tried to explain myself, but how do you stop a river in full flood?

You are swept away, unable to do anything, helpless before its force.

You told me that you didn't care about what I was writing, that you wanted to think about whether
you wanted to continue talking to me.

And that was it.

You were at work.

Okay.

I had made an incredible mess.

I tried to make amends, I told her I wouldn't write to her anymore, and I tried to explain to her that
you were important and that I would never want to hurt you.

I apologised, because I understood that it had really been something serious for you.

That evening, I tried to find the words to tell you how important you were, how your sincerity and
the fact that you were genuine had won me over.

That it had only been a terrible nerdy joke.

I only asked you to talk about it together before making a decision about our future.

Another sleepless night passed.

Before dawn, I decided to get up and finish this story.

I had already been writing for four hours.

Reliving the moments of our strange story had been beautiful and difficult.

It also made me realise how many times I had been childish, like a sixteen-year-old experiencing
his first crush, and that I should simply behave like an adult, saying what I feel instead of inventing
strange stories to make you smile.

Maybe those, yes.

Your smile is so beautiful.

But the truth, Clare, is that I don't know how to behave with you.

I'm a blind man in a dark room, I repeat.

I don't know you well enough to understand what you like or don't like.

You don't really set limits for me, but then you exploded over something I didn't say.

I was thrown out of paradise without even having tasted the apple.

Here the story ends.

If today I had to say what I feel for you, it would be difficult.

You're a fantastic woman, precisely because you are consistent and genuine.

I feel a sincere affection for you, and I truly feel so many emotions that I can't decipher.

It's clear that my ten years of solitude left me unprepared for so many emotions, all of them arriving
together in such a short time.

I want to live this strange relationship of ours all the way, wherever it ends.

Damn Sword of Damocles.

I hope there is a happy ending, which I haven't written because I don't know it.

If there isn't one, it will have been a roller coaster of emotions.

With you, I have experienced feelings that I thought I had lost forever.

Thank you.