RO(U)LES, MYLADY!

Tempo di lettura: 16 minuti

She liked her house because when she entered it was clear that this was her home: every corner spoke of her, even a book resting on a stool, a magazine on the sofa armrest, a fifty-year-old carpet. Her studio was full of books, colors, notes, and photographs, which might seem to be in chaos, but for her they had a precise order and represented her perfect space for work and reflection. Every single piece of her home was there because it was a part of her and Thomas, her husband. They were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in their box: just put there in bulk they don’t seem useful, but we know that each one has its role in the final composition: vinyls, books galore, CDs, clocks, old and new that contaminated each other to tell the past and present of their lives and the lives of other people, because they loved to keep small pieces of a past that they tried to explore with respect and curiosity, and that sometimes were of great inspiration in their vision of the future.
A house built step by step in which they had first stepped in with the minimum necessary, because they had chosen to add the rest through the life they lived, observing their lives moving in the available space. They tried to consult an interior designer to fill their home, but as they left her office they realized that before a professional they would need to consult their home and connect it with their two souls, their feelings, their needs.
To start, two armchairs and a television in the living room. Over time, there was the sofa, on which the eye always landed as they passed by the furniture store, wondering how they would sit, lie down, at what angle, well knowing that their trend was to have very long sleeps, while the television watched them. Their grandmother’s furniture, found in the old house full of rubble, which looked like it could have been used to light the fireplace, but placed in good hands found its proper place and a new life that no one would have ever thought of; a large bookshelf, carefully designed by Thomas, who took into account the various sizes of their books, the weight, the fact that it would have a key role in that house, not just as a mere decoration.

 

 

There was one thing on which they were both in total harmony: a house without books is a house without a soul, without a view towards that elsewhere which enriches life and stimulates curiosity.

 

 

“How do you deal with dust?” Chiara asked Livia one day. They were childhood friends, and Chiara was never particularly fond of reading, she said she was unable to keep her attention and was easily lost in other thoughts while reading. She preferred to flip through magazines that she would then throw away, the only bookshelf she’d ever had was the one where she kept her school books. But Livia didn’t judge her for that, she was a sensitive woman, a good friend, to whom she could also answer sarcastically, Chiara expected.
” With dust? Well…I just let it accumulate for a few years and then I use the lint to make into pillows, did you feel how soft the sofa pillows are?”
The bathrooms had the essentials: a sink, a bidet, a shower, a toilet, and small cabinets bought to hold necessary things. They would never spend as much on a bathroom cabinet as they would on a kitchen.
Those are choices, and they preferred to spend their money traveling, reading, going to concerts…they always gave themselves the chance to change their minds. In those years they had never changed their minds.
The house was always clean, scented, tidy in the order they had given it. It was certainly not an abandoned house: by organizing things, sometimes it happened to give them a new arrangement, to add or remove, throw away or renovate, paint a mural or hang pictures.
“This house looks like a Shopping Mall, which changes layout according to seasons!”, joked Thomas sometimes, because maybe opening a kitchen flap to get a cup, he found the cookware set there.
“So…now I’m going to look for a screwdriver in this drawer… which is not here but….?” he sometimes commented in his head, having realized that the day before Livia had been busy “tidying up” that drawer unit.
Their house was the image of their life: there was nothing taken for granted, nothing is forever fixed, you have to give yourself the chance to change your mind, to try new ways, to move outside the line you have drawn to find out more. And in any case, you can go back, putting things back the way they were, in every moment, as long as there is life.
Sometimes it happened to feel the need for some sort of order, especially in difficult times, those in which choices for one reason or another made things more complicated, and got stuck in corners looking for ways out, giving responsibility to each other. And it happened to look into the lives of others, of those who moved within a precise pattern, and to desire a piece of those lives, planned from beginning to end, with precise rules rarely broken.
But even though they tried, they couldn’t get into those shoes: they simply weren’t their size, they just couldn’t do it.
Sometimes, when invited to a friend’s house, they found themselves in a totally white setting, bare: white walls, white furniture, white doors and floors, fireplaces never lit and not even a grain of dust. No books, not a single object out of place, no one eating a pizza on the sofa or drinking a glass of wine sitting on the carpet, it seemed to enter one of those furniture showrooms where even cutlery and glasses are perfectly aligned, and not a drop of water in the kitchen sink. The windows were so clean that you could risk going outside thinking they were open and leaving the mark of your forehead on them. If those occasions occurred during particular periods of stress, Livia would sometimes, upon returning home, want to remove everything from her house and leave very few essential things behind, as if to reproduce a universal order that would simplify everything. It was as if leaving those environments left her with the spirit of minimalism at all costs.
In particular, it happened to her when she went to Miriam’s house, her work colleague. Livia had been working for years in a Publishing House, as an External Affairs Officer, and she shared the office with Miriam for many years. They sometimes went out with their respective husbands, even after office hours, to go to the cinema or theater, to be joined by dinners or aperitifs. They rarely shared dinner invitations at home, simply because they preferred to stay out, without too much commitment.
We live eight hours a day around books, magazines, people talking about books and magazines, I don’t want to also have a house full of books. Absolutely not!” Miriam told her, on those rare times she invited her to dinner and talked about how hard it was to keep the house clean. Livia loved her job, and wished she could have a storage room like Uncle Scrooge’s but full of books, of words, to swim in. She couldn’t understand Miriam, but she didn’t even care; everyone is just in their own way. After all, it wasn’t something she took away from her, that was her own approach to people.
Miriam had a younger sister, who had been divorced from her husband a few years earlier, and with whom she had a son, who was 14 at the time of the divorce.
” Do you want to hear the news?” He said to her one morning as he entered the office with coffee in hand and slammed his bag on the desk.
Without waiting for Livia’s reply, who was busy sending an email, she went on “That stupid of my sister has a boyfriend!”.
Livia raised her gaze from the pc, and directed it to her waiting for her to continue with the middle and serious part of the news, like “…and he beats her!”.

Miriam raised her gaze that until then had been fixed on the coffee, she looked at her with her eyes wide blinked “did you hear that? My sister has a boyfriend!!!”
Livia understood that that was the shocking news “Good morning to you too Miriam, and…sorry…I don’t understand. Are you happy that your sister has a boyfriend? Or is your sister’s boyfriend…I don’t know…a criminal? Or is it your husband?” she tried to hold back a sarcastic smile, but couldn’t.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I mean…my sister is divorced, has a kid, and a boyfriend! How the fuck could she even think of having a boyfriend? How??” Livia’s expression had probably irritated her even more, her tone was like saying ” is it possible that I’m the only one thinking here?” together with what seemed to be a menopausal flush…but Miriam wasn’t in menopause. She had lit up like a candle.…
“Ok, I’m sorry” Livia said, taking an adequate tone and a decent face to the seriousness of the facts – inside her every single cell was laughing, she could hear them – “you have to forgive me, but I don’t understand why you are angry. Your sister is, if I’m not wrong, 43 years old, she suffered a lot for the divorce and for her husband’s betrayal. She always said that for her son she has maintained a good relationship with his father – not easy or obvious – that they spend a lot of time together, and that he is still with the woman he cheated on her with. I can’t understand what’s so bad about the fact that she now has a partner, you should be happy for her happiness”.
“Livia! She is a mother, men are known to be very superficial, they follow every skirt that waves at them, and even children learn to accept this. But a mother is a mother, always and above all! We cannot think that we can start a new life over our children, imposing choices on them without asking them. I don’t accept it! I don’t accept it!” said Miriam with her eyes closed and her eyebrows arched: it seemed like a scene from another time, Livia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. But she still tried to argue with her, even if it meant that she would have to shorten the distance of light-years that separated them and take very long breaths to repress the countless insults that would otherwise come out of her mouth, which normally she would not have saved for a stranger with whom she would not have to share the office every day “So… I believe that your sister is a very good mother, but first of all she is a very brilliant and strong woman. And it’s because of those two traits that she has been able to stand by her son through these years of change. So I also believe that she knows how to deal with HIS son, I honestly don’t understand what you have to do with this. If at any point both parents will have to deal with this, they have been doing it up until now.”
“Livia, divorced people’s children are always in pain, I’ve seen a lot of them. They always have problems, they perform bad in school, they build unstable relationships, and they don’t have success at work. Especially when their parents make a new life for themselves, they act like young adults and hang out with boyfriends and girlfriends. That’s how they teach them that you can not assume responsibility in life and just go out and do stupid things whenever you want. They can’ t have children and then think they are packages that stay one week at one’s house and one week at the other’s house with strangers who roam freely in their space and play at being an acquired parent.”
“Um…Miriam…my parents divorced when I was 13. And I never considered their respective partners as my parents, nor did they ever consider me their daughter. They are my parents’ partners, and it is also thanks to them that I have never felt this as a problem. But first of all, it’s thanks to my parents, who coped with their divorce without making me feel neither a problem nor a reason to stay together,” Livia replied very quietly, hoping that she would understand that the expression “I know people who” does not constitute a norm, because each experience is unique, and above all, it does not involve the whole parentage.

“Yeah Livia, you’re right. But I don’t think your mother was walking around, as a separate person, dressed like a little girl, dancing with her boyfriend, leaving you with your grandparents parked like a car.”
“My mother would agree to her outings with my father for me to stay with him, and sometimes I would stay with my grandparents, as I always did even when my parents were together. But pardon me, when we go out together, don’t you leave your daughter Gaia with your mother?” asked Livia. Miriam’s daughter was 12 years old, she had never seen her with a skinned knee, messed up hair, and colored hands. She continually interrupted conversations where there was no mention of her: to Livia, she seemed a bit old not to have acquired certain relational skills, but she didn’t care about that either, she wasn’t her daughter, and growing up she would certainly experience it.

” So what? My daughter has a normal, peaceful life without all this mommy and daddy girlfriend and boyfriend drama. She then goes back to her house where we all live together, without having to walk around with her backpack like a nomad. I’m sorry, but I don’t want my sister’s boyfriend in my house,” Miriam exclaimed as if Livia had launched an inadmissible provocation.
“Don’t you think she would be sorry? You are her family, her son is very fond of you” Livia tried to make her reason with calmness, even if she normally hated wasting time with those who made stereotyped arguments.

“Sorry? She had to think about it before! I have already so many problems in my life: my job, the house, my daughter’s school, her commitments, I am a mother, I! I have so little time for myself that I surely don’t want to burden myself with other chores: can you imagine what my ex-brother-in-law would say? When I spend time with my nephew, I don’t want to be around people I don’t know too, risking having to justify my presence to him.”
Livia was truly shocked: she had never heard such arguments even from her grandmother when her parents divorced, but maybe her grandma’s grandmother had never made them either!

Confused and discouraged, she believed she saw Miriam as Aunt Violet Crawley, Countess Mother of Grantham, in Downton Abbey. The expression of disappointment was the same, she couldn’t tell them apart.
While Miriam continued what seemed to have become a monologue or the reading of the reasons for a Judge’s sentence without appeal, Livia observed her perhaps as she had never done before: she was realizing that when she spoke about anything, about anyone, Miriam always put herself at the center of the discourse: her rules, her principles, her vision of life, her problems, her time, her misfortunes. And whoever was around her would have to consider all these things to have a relationship with her; there was no other way to live in this world.
A series of flashbacks showed up in front of her: when Livia had been diagnosed with endometriosis, she experienced a serious depression, she couldn’t even get out of bed in the morning, it took her a while to accept this new phase of her life. She wasn’t good at asking for support from the people around her, at showing her state of mind, but one day in the office she opened up to Miriam, telling her that she couldn’t imagine the day when that pain would end, and that she was scared: Miriam replied “eh…you complain…think about me that two years after giving birth to my son I had a miscarriage…THAT is a big pain that can’t be erased. At least you have medication, my grief can’t be cured.” In another occasion, talking about a very skilled colleague who had been advanced from the front desk to human resources, “Well…I don’t understand Sara.
She has two children who are still little, and she put her career first. Life is about making choices: being a mother or having a career. You can’t have both, because if you work too hard, who will raise your children? The nanny? Sounds good, but it’s a pity that there are roles to play because children need a father and a mother, but first of all a mother. I worked part time until my daughter was little, I took her to school, cooked for her and accompanied her to sports activities, birthdays, everything. My husband, on the other hand, worked late in the evening, and then what could he have done alone? Can you imagine him with a little girl at home? Come on, we can invent everything, but thinking about your career when you have children is truly irresponsible behavior! For example, you have chosen the right path: work, social commitment and no children. I respect that!” Livia realized at that moment that Miriam could talk about anyone’s life without even knowing what she was talking about.
Thinking back on these two occasions, among many others, Livia realized that Miriam didn’t consider the world around her, wasn’t empathic, didn’t have an interest in the lives of others, and never asked them, “How would you like to deal with this? How do you feel? What can I do for you?”: Miriam put the world in order according to her idea of order, because she needed, not to be unprepared, not to have to listen, not to question herself. So she wouldn’t have to navigate through the unexpected.
It wasn’t a problem of cultural backwardness, it wasn’t about age ( Miriam was only 50 years old, seven years older than her!) but about insecurity, probably because she wasn’t able to face the monsters she was holding inside. On the other hand, Livia had always refused those who justified their reasoning full of stereotypes and prejudices with a nice “I can afford it, I’m quite old now!” because she knew many old women, who still chose every day to learn something from experience, not to accept fixed and unchangeable rules and roles, to develop through listening and observation. Livia thought about Jane Fonda, Gloria Steinem, Angela Davis, but also about herself, who had challenged her own beliefs a thousand times through experience. However, Miriam needed to put in order the world, the things, the house. THE HOUSE!
“I don’t know what to say Miriam, you and I are right at opposite poles regarding the question of roles, relationships, rules of life. I don’t know how I can help you, I feel sorry for your sister. If she were mine, I would have supported her through this new transition, and I would have supported my nephew together with her. Because that’s HER family.” Livia told her sadly.
” Aw, of course! It’s her family whenever she wants! When she needed something, even a house to stay in while she found one for herself and her son, my family was fine too!” Miriam remarked, with an accusatory tone that made her cringe. It’s like selling your soul to the Devil: if someone helps you, you have to play by their rules for the rest of your life, and you automatically give up your self-determination.
“I seriously have to tell you that your sister is in my heart because her vulnerable time turned into a reason for emotional blackmail and control. And people get lonely when they realize that asking for help and support can put them in the position of having their freedom restricted. It’s really sad.” Livia then assumed that bitchy face that she chose to hold when facing someone she considered to be truly mediocre…yes…it was time for the bitchy face. “I learned something from my parents’ divorce,” she added, “that nothing is indissoluble and forever, that even marriage can end, and that it’s important not to be forced into a relationship because life deserves to be lived, there’s only one! Ah…and I was good in school, had lots of friends, and experienced problematic teenage years like 99.9% of the population of this world. And I also wanted to tell you that…my father left my mother for a man, not a woman.”
Miriam was speechless, but clearly only because of that last truth that Livia had never felt the need to tell her before, the rest certainly didn’t interest her. Livia chose this way to end the discussion that would lead to nothing good but a crazy fight. However, she didn’t want any stress in the office, and she knew that in this way they wouldn’t have to deal with a lot of other issues for which Miriam certainly had rules, such as homosexuality, homosexual couples having children, children needing a mother and a father, and so on.
Miriam’s rules were Livia’s black book of life, but who knows how much it cost Miriam to stay within them, and how much it would cost her daughter.
Fortunately, her day was filled with meetings: she sent the email she left pending and spent the rest of the time outside the office, where she imagined the words responsibility, boyfriend, mother, roles, rules, order, discipline, bouncing from wall to wall like ping pong balls.
That evening, on her way home from work with the lasagna she had bought at the rotisserie, Livia took off her shoes, went to the stereo, and put on a David Bowie vinyl: she sat down on the carpet, in front of her enormous bookcase, surrounded by her bits of life, and while “All the madman” was playing on the plate, she called her husband in the kitchen “Tommy, bring here two glasses and the wine, tonight we’re eating on the carpet, free burp!”.