CHAPTER THREE

"A shared friendship makes happiness more splendid and misfortune less serious" 

(M.T. Cicero)

Marianne finally arrives. The rendez-vous  time has long passed, I only have ten minutes left and I have to go back to work. She is always carefully dressed, even if her taste doesn't always match mine. And she is also always well made up. Since she is officially divorced, moreover, looking around is not recognized as a real sin. She is still so beautiful even though she is approaching fifty. My goodness, already fifty.

However my friend keeps in shape, she is always a stunner, and despite her proverbial delays, in these years of golden prison she has always been close to me.

"Hi babiche/sweetie you're late."

"Sorry but I was on the phone for work." And she prints her kisses on my cheek with an exchange of microbes for the joy of viruses looking for victims.

I can only stay for a few minutes because I've already been out of the office for a while.

She smiles at me sincerely sorry as we walk into the "hall of mirrors". Oh yes, because the cafeteria of every small or large company is a bit like what the theater was, on a social level, in past centuries: a place to watch, but also to... be watched. You don't enter the cafeteria if your hair isn't tidy or freshly styled. You can't enter even if you are dressed in clothes already used in the previous days. You can't enter if your makeup is worn or your heels are worn. But above all, it must be kept in mind that once one enters the best village of gossip with someone of the opposite sex, the unofficial regulation intends, now as official, the relationship between the two natives. In other words, entering the cafeteria should only be made with people you really want to show at your side, and above all it must be orchestrated down to the smallest detail. What is important, therefore, is how you dressed in the morning. Show off a feline gait if you have chosen a sensual style. Marking the step to the military, but remaining naturally sexy, if you have adopted an extremely casual look. Or pretend to be casual and at ease if you are in the Dolce and Gabbana style (if you don't have the original piece, a fake one is fine too).

Well, today I was none of that. I had gotten dressed in a hurry, so to speak a bit like Sciura Maria who goes to the market, and above all I had committed the most heinous crime for a mid-level official: I hadn't washed my hair! Oh yes, because if you occupy a high position, keeping a good dose of oil on your hair can be trendy (she is so stressed, so busy with meetings and travels then she has no time for these stupid things. That's the price for the power, darlings).

If, however, you are part of the lower rabble, then it is clear that "ça va de soi/it goes without saying." The task is not part of your tasks. The anointed is accepted, if not due, to comply with the profile of the category.

But when you find yourself halfway, then washing your hair is a must. It is your sacrosanct daily duty, because you do not have the charisma of managerial power, nor the good-natured excuse of the lowest level. Oh no, my dear, when you are in this situation, the only pale remedy you have left to do is that of the... ridiculous last-minute "chignon/bun". And if theoretically it is still true that "the clothes do not make the man", and that the value of a person cannot be measured by physical appearance and that's it, it is also true that in professional (and social) life it is more or less a minimum level of hygienic presence and above all a certain dress code is tacitly required (and I return to this issue, to keep in mind). It was therefore necessary to remedy my serious crime. This is why, faithful follower of some rituals of my class, in the morning before leaving the house, I had placed some weak hairpins in the strategic holding points as best I could, hoping that the hours already spent in the office had not made that slender pyramidal structure dilapidated.

To my advantage, however, the full make-up remained. Finished in the car - between one red light and another - on the way to work. You can tell me anything, but not that I don't know how to carefully make up between a clutch, a brake and a screw you to anyone who overtakes me on the right. The firm and decisive line of the black pencil will always remain one of my strong points. The class is not water after all. And my eye liner is water proof.

Ok, Laura, some eyes are monitoring the morning's entries. Head held high (so the bun fades into the background and perhaps even camouflages behind a noble demeanor), chest out (the magic bra will have its effect), straight posture, and elegant step... and everything else is silence as the good Bard said (even if here it wasn't a question of entering the court of Queen Elizabeth or King James I). Marianne and I enter, continuing to talk while looking at each other. Of course, our gaze deviates, every now and then, even among the occupied tables, with the nonchalance that only proven experience can give. But it is always better to display a natural indifference to the rest of the room. Even if a few predatory eyes feel pointed at you anyway. But my friend is very tense today. Her peeks seem aimed at one table in particular. There will surely be someone who interests her, or someone who... doesn't interest her anymore. Poor Marianne, she deserves to find a good man in her life, she is so romantic and spontaneous, and she is also a beautiful woman, she did not deserve the latest disappointment in love. But who knows why the ass punches always happen to the smartest ones. And lupus in fabula, here's who we meet while we pay at the checkout: an ex of hers. That big white head and that long beard peeked out right behind the chocolates. That's why Marianne was looking at the table behind the cashier. To tell the truth, I hadn't seen it right away, as I was caught up in the effort of keeping the weak bun upright and the string pulling me to one side - my goodness, how annoying! I was so absorbed in my own business that in the end I didn't even notice. White Wolf looked at us with an astonished expression. Since the story between him and my friend had ended, they had never met again, not even by mistake in the corridors. Marianne seemed in catalepsy, hypnotized by that white and wild mane and that long bearded tip, which even from afar characterized her former lover. Yet if she could, my poor friend would have ipso facto teleported herself to another place.

He, on the other hand, seemed amazed down to his tail (sorry, to his coccyx). Perhaps because her ancestral instinct had failed in the attempt to dodge her, and now he found himself almost in front of her, unprepared for the event. The fact is that the moment between the two seemed to last, even for me, a passive spectator, an eternity. Like looking at those slow-motion images that highlight all the details and make you enjoy the scene. Well, we were experiencing exactly that situation.

I'm sure the guy was looking for the most elegant way to get out of that strange circumstance. He had plenty of class, will he try a hit and run or a tail wag? But what do I see? She was giving a hint of an artificial smile. Maybe he thought: "It's better to come out with a flourish than to retreat with your tail between your legs"? And only when the golden tooth at the bottom of the Wolf's mouth shone dangerously, I see Marianne regain awareness of the delicate situation and head to the back of the room, as if in search of shelter. After hastily paying, I sit next to her, wait a while biting my lips, and then I dare to ask:

"What's going on?"

My friend looks at me seriously. The whites of her eyes appear slightly bloodshot. She is not crying, but her gaze is permeated with pain. A dull and powerful pain that seems to transfigure even the beautiful features of her face. When Marianne answers me, she seems to notice a slight tremor in her chin. I'm sorry for her, I would like to tell her but I hold back and let her vent. "A shared friendship makes happiness more splendid and misfortune less serious" (M.T. Cicero)

"Non, ça va pas/No it is not ok, Laura. They told me he had left... They told me he would be gone for a month... I wasn't ready to see him yet... Not now, not today."

"He made me suffer too much, I need to stay calm, why he didn't go away, why did he come to the cafeteria?"

I widen my eyes in a sign of helplessness. I honestly wasn't aware of anything. My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. I can't find the right words to cheer up Marianne. So, we find ourselves communicating with looks, without saying a word, and with a faint smile that finally appears on our faces as if to demonstrate all the symbiosis that binds us, because as they say in French: "j'ai des atômes crochus avec elle/I have chemistry with her."

In the end I get out: "Je t'aime beaucoup ma petite, courage.../I love you very much dear little one, courage."

After quickly drinking the coffee, we set off smiling, now calmer.

Before returning to the lion's cage, we kissed another time on the cheek, hugging each other tightly. She heads towards the toilet. I have to run, at full speed, towards the office of drying (of the brain), fermentation (of the balls), and bottling (of the finished product - finished in every sense).

"Rebating" in a hurry, that's what I have to do. But a new surprise awaits me. Upon my return to the concierge's booth, I find Karl the concierge next to the improvised "x-ray" (we can see that Georgette's gerontophile had finished his shift). How does that big man always know everything about everyone. Does he have an innate gift for the gossip scoop, or does he spend his time eavesdropping on what people are saying? No, Karl the concierge bombards you with an avalanche of questions as soon as he sees your nose emerge from the dingy corridors. Dazzled by the divine light of the cafeteria, he catches the officials off guard. He shoots the ball carefully, then with a touch of well-placed circumlocutions he anxiously listens to your every syllable, and finally unleashing a champion's champagne-football, he torpedoes a verbal rocket that hits you in full body (or worse, in the full lower abdomen). He absorbs, swallows and ruminates your secrets, magnanimously giving you during the ordeal of the interrogation, some prophecies derived from last-minute meetings. «Do you know that now Francesca, the other Italian, the foul-mouthed one, but a graduate (Karl cares about royal titles) wants a child? But if she continues to go with old married men, how does she do that one? I said to her: "Francesca, find one of your ownage?" But she doesn't understand. She says she likes the old man. And, by the way, are you always in that office? When do they move up your ranks?" And so on...

This is usually the Karlian ritual. But not today. Yes, today I am muzzling Karl the concierge. I take advantage of his moment of distraction to then feign a sudden deafness to the persecutor's call, thus avoiding a melee from which I would have emerged the loser. Oof, danger averted. « Tans pis. Les jeux sont faits rien ne va plus/Too bad the game is over. »

Going up the stairs I see two high-ranking colleagues walking down limply in miniskirts, swaying their hips wildly. It's "Fuck You" and "Fuck Me" going to the café. In reality the funny nicknames were given by some young people from the team where a friend of mine also worked. The brunette "Fuck You" was named so because she looked down on everyone from her height of five feet as if she were "sa Majesté/her Majesty". The redhead "Fuck Me" on the other hand had been baptized that way after her umpteenth promotion. I sided a bit with the redhead "Fuck Me", because she certainly knew her job but moreover, she deserved further admiration: she knew what she wanted and she got it despite not having all the attributes to be considered a top model. Let's say that outside the organization she would have gone unnoticed or at most someone would have turned around because of her excessive dressing style, linking her to a job different from what she actually did. We had never spoken but she knew me, and I knew her. More than once I had seen her pull her neck when we passed each other in the corridors. In fact, I involuntarily biologically surpassed her by two heads despite her inevitable 12-inch heels, and for her this must have been experienced, I believe, as a blemish given how when I was next to her, she vertically squeezed her spine to appear taller. However, I liked her the way she was. A little erotic Venus with an iron will. Let's be clear, I may have been taller and thinner than her, but I was not as good as her in openly applying the elementary rules of sexual provocation in a professional environment. Husband-colleague aside, who worked two departments away from mine, I wouldn't have been able to pull out the "Fuck Me" weapons even if I had been single and aspired to become the Merlin Wizard of our OI. I remember well that once I ended up in her boss's office to request a signature. I found her with a concentrated, serious look, sitting like a schoolgirl with her beautiful crotch-length miniskirt... but with her legs semi-open like Sharon Stone in the famous film. They were talking in English about a file, but she was in such an exciting position that I had serious doubts about the concentration of her interlocutor. During the few minutes in my presence the little erotic Venus had candidly continued her voluptuous movements, as if they were the most natural thing in the world. With a disarming naivety she seemed to be looking for the most suitable position to continue the conversation, but as she moved, she allowed a glimpse of Alibabà's cave. Open and close, softly, open and close, softly, overlappingly strategic and open again, and again, and again... So good, so softly... The superior spoke slowly in front of that succulent view, visibly sweating to check the leavening of what on a physiological level can be very difficult for a man. I also remember that once he became "bulky", the poor thing glued himself to the desk, crushing his stomach and waist. Having received the signature, I left smiling under my moustache. "Fuck me" knew how to excite feverishly, and not just men. « Rien à voir avec le porno/she was not vulgar like porn. » At that sight I must confess that I had only thought of one thing: I witnessed a scene of professional eroticism displayed with great mastery. Chapeau !