When hormones come to your head and your reason fades away, you end up behaving exactly like my wife, meaning you feel the need to calm your sexual impulses wherever you are. And she was right in our house, where, with the occasional lover, she thought of giving me a "gift" for my birthday. She would have the rest of her life to meditate on this. Without me. I was having a party in our villa on the outskirts of Dubai, to celebrate my birthday, in this case, the fortieth birthday.
Sara, my noble wife — and I say that because she comes from an old, noble-blood family — had dressed elegantly in a black velvet deux-pieces matched with a shiny white blouse. He wore high-heeled shoes and old-fashioned jewellery. I whispered in his ear:
"Honey, you look absolutely amazing tonight!" Like a diva ready to devour her prey in a love match.
Sara smiled gratefully at me and turned her back on me, heading for a group of guests.
When I told Sarah what I told her, I meant the love thing, I foretold. The party took place in the huge hall on the ground floor of our villa. More than thirty people had come - just the cream of society - and everyone seemed to be fine.
A friend of mine, a politician, who long ago was a waiter in his youth, practiced his old habits and served guests drinks, walking the tray from one to another.
He had already managed to intoxicate two of the guests, as they had begun to hum an old song, covering the music that was slowly coming from the speakers.
At one point, one of the two partygoers (owner of a butcher's shop in our city) gave up whistling the old song and came to me like a bullet, as if he had forgotten to tell me, the secret of eternal life, and now he had suddenly reminded him. The man said to me, in a hurried voice:
"Dude, the Japanese didn't invent anything, they copied everything. The Japanese man stands with his back to a monument to be photographed by another Japanese man."
"That's right!" I said without paying attention to the nonsense of a drunk man.
"But the Japanese are not the problem!" my friend continued.
"But the Japanese are not the problem! my friend continued."
"The guy who sits on the piano and smokes. It looks very dubious. I do not know him. He was unwilling to introduce himself to him, although I raised to him a glass. He raised his glass back, as a sign of "good luck!", But he did not drink from it, he put it on the piano.
I looked at the indicated place. Indeed, a tall, stubby, asymmetrical-faced man, about 35-40 years old, with blond hair and washed blue eyes, was resting his piano bottom on the edge of the living room, more precisely, on the keyboard cover, and seemed that he meditates. I didn't know him either. I said to my interlocutor:
"I don't think he's a man who wants to be asked questions." I've never seen him here either. He's probably a guest of Sarah's.
"Anyway, he's a suspect. You know what I don't like about him? The look!"
"The eyes. He has the eyes of a hunting animal. You better see what's wrong with him."
"Dude, you know I don't like to bother my wife's guests." She has her circle of friends, intellectuals! We are just businessmen, we don't have their doxa, ha, ha, ha! Let the told one to feel good and relaxed. You all have to feel good! That only once does a man turn 40!"
The cursed flair of the butcher had been good. That guy had come to hunt. But who would have imagined that he was hunting my wife?
Later, I found out that Sara and the blue-eyed blonde had known each other for a long time.
My wife, being a music teacher, but especially passionate about music, frequented concert halls in Bucharest, and the blonde played in an orchestra.
Recently, I discovered around the house (in the downtown apartment, where I currently lived) a photograph in which Sara and the instrumentalist were grinning happily, holding each other by the shoulders, at the entrance to dell ‘Opera di Roma. On the back, the picture was dated. He was seven months old.
I return to the celebration of my birthday and remember that around midnight, when the party was in full swing, I wanted to say a toast in which, among other things, to slip a few bitter words about aging, as well as some ironies about the happiness of conjugal life.
But the real irony was just a few meters away from me, beyond the walls of the living room.
Obviously, I could only say the toast in the presence of my wife, but she was gone. I waited patiently for her to return to the living room, but Sara was not coming. I started looking for her, first in the courtyard (because it was summer and a few guests had come out under the moonlight), then in the villa. I took the rooms in a row, thinking that Sara was getting some rest, only to last until daybreak. That's what she does sometimes.
And I can tell you that not little was my surprise when, opening the door of a bedroom upstairs, I saw my wife in the arms of the blonde. They were lying in bed, half naked.
And because there was not enough the light through the window, I turned on the lamp in the ceiling of the room to "enjoy" this shocking scene better.
They both rose to their feet, trying to put on their abandoned clothes. Trying to look calm, I said to my infamous wife:
"My dear, I've been looking for you everywhere." Forgive me if I bothered you! It’s midnight and I wanted you to say, "Happy birthday!" But I see... you're busy with... sir. When you finish this activity, no doubt pleasant, please go down to the salon, the guests are waiting for you."
"Stefano, I... I mean, you know... It's not about... God, what a situation!" Sara stammered.
The guy had managed to get dressed and sat motionless on the bed, his head on the ground, as if thinking, as if it had nothing to do with the embarrassing situation in which the three of us found ourselves.
I left, closing the door slowly, not before turning off the lights. You have to admit, I'm a caring husband.
My noble wife came down in about twenty minutes, in impeccable attire and a princely gait.
She was freshly made up, but the smudges did not hide her gloomy air. The blond did not appear, he had been evacuated through the back door.
Sara came to me, docile. I took her hand, ceremoniously, and led her to a microphone installed in a corner of the living room and tied to the amplification station. I asked the guests to be quiet. The toast I said, with a glass of champagne in hand, was short:
"I dedicate this cup to your health, dear friends, but also to my health and that of my life partner. I live moments of joy tonight, with you and my loving wife, who wanted to be with me for this toast. I wish you all, especially my wonderful wife, a long life, complete satisfaction and a beautiful party!"
Applause. The guests started moaning (because obviously they were no longer able to sing) "Long Live and Happy Birthday!". Sara had blushed like a boiled lobster.
I will not describe all the events of that night. In general, I note that the guests got drunk and did all sorts of mischief, which was more or less out of place.
The party lasted until noon the next day. After all the guests left, I gave the caretaker all the keys to the villa and left her the burden of cleaning.
The whole building looked like a battlefield, as guests roamed everywhere and scattered scraps of food, cigarette butts, drinks, glasses and broken plates, and so on.
The poor caretaker, an old woman I hired two years ago, resignedly received the pile of keys.
I returned with Sara to our downtown apartment. I felt the need to sleep soundly, to recover from drunkenness and the heavy pressure of the horns that my wife had put on me. (I honestly felt like a stupid ox)
I had to regain my strength, because in the next few days I would do important business. One of them was divorce and of course I suggested to her to change her job and become a luxury escort because she has all the necessary qualities.
Today, as I write these lines, the dissolution of my unhappy marriage is imminent. The court is due to rule in two weeks.
My noble wife returned to her noble parents, for living with me had become risky. "I go to my mother and father, they know how to forgive," said Sara. For her, however, a big disadvantage is the fact that the parental household, full of tradition, has a toilet at the back of the yard.