# I love her

Sasha Kaya

A student rents an apartment in Turin in the 1990s and falls hopelessly in love with his landlady—a Russian woman. However, she comes as a set with her husband. As he observes the couple’s strange and tangled relationship, the young man unwittingly turns into a real detective. But suddenly, the lady in red appears, and everything goes to hell.

This is a story steeped in the spirit of Italian music of the 80s and 90s.

## Глава 1

My name is Franco. In early October 1997, I turned twenty-one and moved to Turin. I remember it clearly: I was speeding in Ferrari, listening to Eva Mango’s song “S’alza il Vento” (“The Wind Rises”). Back then, I had no idea how suddenly the weather could change.

I finally 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.

“Who are the owners of the apartment?” you might ask. 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.

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.

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. How many evenings I spent watching that shimmer, watching her walk down the path toward the house, coming home from work. 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). I envied him—her husband. He could hold her in his arms and never let go. Though, truth be told, I never once saw that happen.

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… 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.

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… Well, I never tested whether he was really a boxer or not. Maybe the only thing that man knew how to do was frown. 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. 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. Some try to argue openly, hoping to sway men like him – the unswayable. Others act behind their backs, against their will – and end up causing even bigger problems.

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. Noticing me come in, the poor thing didn’t know what to do with her hands and awkwardly attempted to rise from the couch. So, not wanting to disturb them, I quickly put the groceries in the fridge and slipped into my room. The woman came over a few more times, but I only found out about it from Adelina herself – when she was tidying up and collecting the things her friend had forgotten on the guest sofa: makeup, some piece of lingerie they had shown off to each other, jewelry… all sorts of silly stuff.

“Where is Adelina?”, was the first thing Valerio asked me, after knowing each other for a while already. Today he came back from work in a very stressed mood. He was worried even more when he couldn’t find his wife in any of the rooms.

“She just went to the shop”, I said, as the doorbell rang. Valerio startled. Instead of going for the door, he rushed to the sofa where Adelina’s forgetful friend's clothes were lying. Picking up the first thing he could find – a bra, he gave me a confused look. Then he quickly threw the item back into the pile with disgust and rushed to open the door. I had no idea he could move so fast. Then, they came to him. Two middle-aged women. He introduced me to them as his neighbor. From their conversation, I understood that he worked at a school as a music and singing teacher. I would never have guessed! I wouldn't want a teacher like that; it wouldn’t even hope to get a B from him. I didn't listen and went back to my room. But I heard the women suddenly start shouting, sounding threatening. They left, slamming the door loudly.

The next morning, I found out that some gossips about Adeline’s were spread around in Valerio’s school. These two women from yesterday decided to visit to take a closer look at who these people really are. When they accidentally saw some frilly underwear on the sofa and they decided that they were Adelina's work outfit. What an imagination! Because, these silly women concluded that she was a stripper at one of the nightclubs! They even found confirmation of this: someone had seen her leaving some private clubs more than once. At first I was pissed off, but then I thought that Adelina could well turn out to be… an irresistible dancer. She felt guilty towards her husband: when she returned home, she didn't leave his side for a minute. Now, his job was at stake, despite his excellent reviews, unquestionable work ethic, and great success.

…

“Just gossip, that’s all. They’d do better to go study the moon. What’s on the far side of the moon, I wonder? I think Pink Floyd has a song about that,” said Adelina, waving dismissively at the daily newspaper, then toward the window.

And outside, the moon really was shining bright. She was speaking loudly, drying her hair with a blow-dryer. She was wearing a light robe. Her husband sat in an armchair, pretending to read that very newspaper. How did I end up there at that moment? Well, I had access to the shared living space without needing permission. He clearly didn’t like that – kept glancing at me sideways, as if he couldn’t move anything but his eyes.

“Oh, Franco, you probably want to turn on the TV?” Adelina laughed suddenly, nodding in my direction. It was as if she saw only a child in me. But apparently, that put him at ease.


## Глава 2

The Christmas holidays had arrived, and I was in no hurry to go home. I needed to show my parents that I had become so accustomed to independence here that I couldn't live without it.

Meanwhile, Adelina's husband had gone to San Remo on business. He didn't want to go and, if I remember correctly, had even already refused. But then she convinced him:

"You have to go. You need to unwind. Besides, I know you really want it."

"Okay, I'll think about it. I'll think about it very carefully," her husband replied.

In short, she and I were left alone. I bought myself some cologne, and she… behaved with me the same way as before. But one evening, when she saw my suitcase and realized that I was really getting ready to leave, she spoke to me in a special way, on a special topic.

I don't know, maybe the holiday wine went straight to her head, and I should thank that very wine for such frankness with me. I didn't hesitate to take advantage of her talkative mood and found out what she did for a living.

"I'm a wrestler. I've won dozens of fights in a row in the women's category.”

She! A fighter? A boxer!.. Well, yes… now I can see she has strong arms and legs… But still! Still, if she'd told me she danced in a nightclub in front of a bunch of guys, I would have taken it much more warmly." This news was the first revelation of the evening and, as it later turned out, not the most powerful.

"No, not now… Now I'm just a coach. But if you'd seen me ten years ago…"

"You were in school then, I suppose?"

"You were in school then, and I won the title, I was twenty-three.

She's older than I thought! I'd never have guessed she was more than thirty… twenty-five… That doesn’t change anything! What difference does it make?

"You reminded me of the years, and I remembered that today is our anniversary…"

"Wedding?"

"No," she said, barely suppressing a smile. "That was before I met the man you know as my husband."

"Isn't he your husband?"

I thought they'd tell me they were undercover spies, and that she was actually completely free, but…

"No, no. The real deal. It happened exactly seven years ago. My girlfriends took me somewhere—for a laugh, they said. Things like that don't happen back home."

"Like what?"

I was already curious.

"Such establishments."

"What establishments?"

"A place where men dressed in women's clothes sing."

She answered as if I might later say, "Big deal! We're really used to going to places like this on weekends."

"When I first saw him, he performed the song "Quando nasce un amore" (Italian: "when love is born") by singer Anna Oxa on stage, and I was sitting at a table in the fourth row, feeling like I was drunk. I hardly drink, but it's absolutely clear: I was experiencing a magical intoxication. I smiled and couldn't calm down. But he didn't make me laugh – he gave me joy… And when his gaze accidentally fell on me, completely accidentally and for a few seconds, I crawled under the table. Such unbridled energy – and directed entirely at me!”

"How did it all end?" I was eager to know. Frankly, I could barely restrain myself from laughing: how else could this funny story end except with an ending?

"And it all ended with me coming there every Friday. It was the highlight of my week, the happiest. A place where I was myself, and for everyone else, a spectator, watching what was happening from the sidelines. But suddenly that very same artist made me feel involved in what was happening: he began to look into my eyes longer and longer each time. Can you imagine? In my eyes! At me! And this despite the overwhelming success of the rest of the audience. The audience applauded, shouted, sang along, but I barely moved, silently enjoying myself. I always sat in the same place, the audience changed, and no one could discern where exactly the performer was looking. If anyone looked back, they were all looking at some guy, but not at me.

I was sure they were looking at her. If there were men in the audience, of course.

– And then I stopped going there. And I did the right thing!

– I missed about two or three Friday nights,” she continued. “It was an eternity. Those days, I felt, to put it mildly, lousy. What should have passed in a couple of days didn't leave me for a minute. I repeated to myself what I'd learned since childhood: remember, a woman's happiness lies in being protected and cared for, not in being run from. I was sure that if I went there again, he would think I was pursuing him, chasing after him. So, I decided to suppress all these feelings. Let me, I told myself, have pleasant, untainted memories: an attentive, confident… and tender look in my direction…”

Women! Why do you need this? Why are you drawn to effeminate creatures? You're the same way! You should have a masculine man by your side – strong, powerful, rough… just like the posters on the wall! I thought that was the end of it. Although the conversation left a bad taste in my mouth, I was glad it was gone. And then, suddenly, she stepped on the gas…