Past imperfect

Marko didn't believe in all that nonsense, but today he felt especially saddened. Perhaps it was the wine that went to his head, but nevertheless for some reason, he stumbled into his bedroom. There was a photo frame of himself and Paola on the bedside table beside the huge bed. Marco thoughtfully rubbed his stubbled chin and, after considering it, took the photo out and tore it up into small pieces. Not because he hated the girl. He just wanted to make sure there would be nothing compromising if he threw the photo out of the window.

Then he entered the dressing room and pulled out the first red object that caught his eye. It turned out to be a beautiful, large-knit sweater that his mother had made with her own hands. Marco put it on over his sports T-shirt.

Then Marco forced himself to look in the far corner of the dressing room. Having decided, he reached onto the top shelf and took out an old, torn T-shirt that was faded, but very carefully washed and repaired. It was his favourite T-shirt which he wore when visiting his parents in the campagna. He had not lived with them since the age of nineteen, since he started studying.

Two years ago, their house in the village was completely burned down. A remote area, an isolated house with almost no neighbours… His parents didn’t survive. It was fortunate that his brother was not there at the time. An old T-shirt and a vineyard taken care of by strangers were all that remained of that particular past. Marco had the house rebuilt rebuilt in detail, but it never again felt the same.

Marco looked at the T-shirt for a long time, then he took it out of the dressing room, gathered the pieces of the photo on the cloth, and went to the kitchen. It was two minutes before midnight according to the clock. He reached into the fridge, picked out a dozen from a bunch of grapes, rinsed them, and placed them on the table. Some scattered, so Marco collected them in a pile. He opened the window, letting cold air into the apartment. Then he turned on the live broadcast from St. Mark's square in Venice and waited.

Almost immediately, joyful voices came from the TV, a

He swallowed the grapes like a duck, without chewing, and with at last stroke, he finished the last of them. The sky lit up with bright fireworks. Marco grabbed the T-shirt and the scraps of photo and walked towards the window albeit reluctantly. He couldn't take his eyes off his burden. His fingers convulsively at the fabric.

At the last moment, he scooped up the paper scraps from the shirt. Placing the cloth on the table, he threw the photo fragments out the window with no regret. There was no shame before Paola, but the desire to release the grief that had tormented him for two years gave rise to a bitter sense of guilt.

Marco sighed heavily, lowered his head, stood there for a minute and finally slammed the window shut. He went into the living room, took the wine and sat down to watch "Christmas Holidays", the plot of which he already knew by heart.

After half an hour, Marco realised that he was not looking at the screen. He turned off the TV and trudged into the bedroom. Stripped naked, he stretched out on the bed on top of the blankets with a sigh. Fireworks were booming outside the window, illuminating the room with coloured flashes.

The sight of coloured confetti made from the photo flying out of his window rose before his eyes. Marco would soon be thirty-nine, many of his classmates were already sending their children to school, and he had just thrown his past affair out of the window.

Marco rolled over on his side. "I wonder what that redhead is doing now? Probably dancing somewhere on the street, in a crowd of other idle revellers" he thought, and immediately regretted it. The image of soft lips picking up red, juicy flesh from a creamy bed instantly burst into his consciousness. Heck! He could describe in details where he would like to see those lips.

He tried to force the image away, but it was instantly replaced by another one: a girl with her eyes closed sat at the piano, slowly swaying to the music, her head tilted back in pleasure. Her open throat was white against red curls and a slight smile played on her full lips. For some reason, in his fantasy, the girl was barefoot. He wondered what else she could do so slowly and delicately?

Marco cursed out loud, slammed his fist u

Marco realised that he would not be able to sleep. He got up, grumbled through his teeth, and – naked – went back into the living room. He picked up a glass, drained it in one gulp, and poured himself more wine. But it only made things worse. His brain, clouded by alcohol, refused to obey and gave him a series of images of a red-haired temptress one by one.

After two hours of fruitless attempts to distract himself with TV, wine, music, or anything else, Marco gave up and went to take a shower. Standing in front of the transparent wall, he wondered if he could act like a true stoic and stand under cold water. His second option was to stop acting like a moral idiot and get into a warm shower and solve the problem as a real warrior. In other words, as some poor guy who was quite an adult but didn't have access to women in the flesh. Ignoring his ego, Marco turned on the hot water.

The image of the hated witch didn't leave his mind, and Marco stayed in the shower for much longer than pla

He dreamed of a red-haired witch. Naked, she lay on a white rumpled sheet, shamelessly spreading her legs, beckoning to him and smiling invitingly. The reflections of the flames danced on her white skin, her hands reached out to him, stroking his flushed face and pulling him closer.

She asked him for something softly and tenderly, clinging to him like a cat. She kissed him and whispered something tender in his ear. Her accent drove Marco crazy, and he tossed and turned in his sleep unable to calm his newly awakened excitement.

And then the flames burst into his dreams again and Marco woke with a muffled cry. Marco did not see the tragedy that happened to his parents personally. All he found was the black, sooty and gloomy parental remains of a house that looked like a cemetery crypt.

His recollection of the process of identifying of his parents was poor. Of course, they showed him what was left of them, but he would not have recognised those charred remains as human had he not been told what they were. Since then, he had often dreamed about fire.

For two years now, fire had been preventing Marco from getting a good night's sleep. Almost every night, the ubiquitous flames penetrated his dreams and woke Marco up mercilessly. They did not take pity on Marco even on New Year's Eve. Marco went to bed at four and at five, the nightmare awakened him. Then, Marco tossed and turned for an hour before finally falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

And at eight, his assistant Vincenzo called. Marco's head throbbed and his body still ached from the previous day’s exertions. Marco was ready to get mad and tear up the contract but then he remembered the size of the penalty and answered the phone.

"I hope you have an important reason for waking me up at eight o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day on my legal free day," he said gloomily instead of greeting.

Vincenzo was cheerful and radiant, to the point of making Marco grind his teeth.

"Ma-a-arco, dear! Buon a

"So far, it's not a good start," Marco growled.

"Don't get angry, Marco!" Vincenzo continued undeterred. "Do you remember that we start filming 'Russian' scenes tomorrow?"

“Tomorrow, Vincenzo! So why a hell are you calling me today and at such an early hour?!”

“We were lucky, my dear friend!”

“Really?!” Marco growled again.

"Quite by chance, an interpreter from Moscow is visiting Rome right now," Vincenzo almost sang. “This girl just yesterday taught my uncle Giuseppe to make wishes when the clock strikes. It is demanded to drink prosecco with the ash of a piece of paper where the wish is written!”

“What kind of nonsense is this? Vincenzo, are you drunk?”

“I’m totally serious, Marco! Honestly! My uncle told me that his entire staff burned paper at night. The residents of the upper floors have almost called rescuers and firefighters!”

“What a folly!” Marco snorted, desperate to get rid of his assistant.

“So, about the interpreter. She kindly agreed to help you with your text at a reasonable price. And she’s ready to do it today.”

"What makes you think I need help?” Marco muttered.

“Because, Marco, you've only heard Russian language in American action movies and this is a not really good study guide!” Vincenzo replied quickly.

“I trained with an e-translator!" Marco got angry.

"I'd prefer you to get a consultation with a native speaker." the assistant insisted.

"And I’d prefer to sleep!" Marco barked, losing his temper.

"In this case, you are not paid to sleep. If they have to reshoot scenes with your Russian text, the penalty may be higher than your fee. Do you need it?"

Marco howled like an enraged beast; Vincenzo burst out laughing.

"Come on, come on my friend! I've set up an appointment with your interpreter at Largo di Torre Argentina at eleven. You have three hours to make yourself presentable and get there."

Vincenzo hung up, and Marco barely resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. This was absolutely not how he had imagined a successful start to the year. Grinding his teeth, he finally dragged himself out of bed. The icing on the cake of his anger was the discovery of an empty coffee tin. Marco somehow forgot that supplies tend to run out and had not bothered buying more.

Marco arrived at the meeting five minutes before it was due and decided he could finally satisfy his need for coffee. The interpreter was late and this did not improve his mood at all. He was inspecting the menu when a woman broke noisily into the cafe and began asking for Signor Guerriero. She was led to him, and Marco reluctantly looked up from his menu to see who the hell his assistant had sent to punish him for his sins. As he looked up, a red fog covered his sight.

The same split-tail from the restaurant was gliding towards him. So that was what the accent had been! She was Russian. In daylight, she looked even younger, like a teenager. Her pale blue silk dress elegantly emphasized her slender figure, making her look like a mermaid. She wasn't wearing makeup, and her red hair was tousled.

She looked as if she had just jumped out of bed, where she had been sleeping very restlessly. Or didn't sleep at all. Her full lips formed a surprised "o" and her eyes became wide open. Marco finally saw their colour. Bluish-green, like the shallow waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.