At the End of a Dull Day by Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar

the verge of tears I laid my silverware in my plate and looked her straight in the eye.
    â€œI love you and I have no intention whatsoever of giving you up. Make peace with Gemma. It makes no sense to break up such a fine and lasting friendship for a passing crisis of insecurity.”
    â€œYou’re right,” she stammered. “It’s a good thing we talked it over. I’m so relieved.”
    And so was I. I needed to keep Gemma as my accomplice.
    When I headed back to my restaurant, after my wife said goodbye and gave me a kiss on the lips, reminding me not to stay out late, I called that idiot friend of hers.
    â€œWhat the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    â€œWhy don’t you come over and I’ll show you?”
    I hung up. She was drunk. A good sign. Then she’d be smitten with remorse, there would be streams of tears and useless words and everything would go back the way it was. Between the two of them. The real problem was that now I saw Gemma in a new light. I’d always been attracted by women in their forties afflicted with chronic fragility. In my other life, before my relationship with Martina, who represented the summit of perfection from that point of view, I’d broken into the personal lives of countless women, playing relentlessly unfair with their weaknesses and dragging them down into the abyss with me, leaving behind me nothing but smoking ruins or wreckage silent with the chill of death. With my boyish good looks and my old school gentlemanly manners, I was a past master at lying and acting out extended scripts. That kind of woman only figures things out long after the point of no return. To avoid temptation I’d set myself some rigorous rules: never to fraternize with the female clients and the waitresses in the restaurant. I’d always turned down the numerous offers of sexual relations. The monthly blowjob I let Nicoletta give me was just a reiteration of roles between business partners, but I’d never have dreamed of embarking on an affair with her. Among other things, she wasn’t my type; she basically devoured her men and then spit out the few remaining bones. But now Gemma’s emotional fragility had been served up on a silver platter and I had to do my best to rein in my imagination. I focused on my work. But it wasn’t easy.
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    Three days later, when Sante Brianese walked into La Nena with his usual brisk, energetic stride, he was accorded a hero’s welcome. He’d been so skillful at exploiting the situation that he’d managed to appear on all the news broadcasts, and especially on the afternoon shows, which were the ones with the highest viewership among his average voters. The tearjerking story of the poor Moldavian women with a disfigured face, and the way that he had reached into his own savings to ensure she received the best possible medical care, had stirred the hearts of all Italy. He’d made sure he was photographed and filmed at her bedside in the hospital. After all, years of delivering summations in court and political speeches on the campaign trail had honed his rhetorical skills to a gleaming edge.
    I waited for the cluster of customers swirling around him to thin out, then I came out from behind the counter. I threw my arms around him in a transport of emotion and I whispered into his ear: “So there never really was a Dubai deal at all. It’s a bad thing to cheat your friends, Counselor.”
    I felt his whole body stiffen. I pulled back just long enough to stare into his eyes round with shock and then I slipped the maid’s white cloth tiara into the pocket of his overcoat. I walked back to the counter. By the time I turned around Brianese was slipping out the front door. He’d be back soon. I felt sure of it.
    A few minutes later Martina poked her head in the door and waved for me to join her outside.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œThat fool Gemma is ashamed to come in,”