Born Twice (Vintage International) by Giuseppe Pontiggia Read Free Book Online Page A

him to his responsibilities. Nor was there any lack of women either, among the so-called “non-faculty staff ” who had had some kind of intimate relationship with him, an expression that in his case suggested something sordid and lecherous.
    This bristly-faced, smooth-talking city satyr was constantly on the prowl for sexual favors, for pleasures stolen through intimidation and surprise, for brief liaisons with women who were at their wits’ end in silent despair. He reminded me of the pillager of a ruined city or a jackal after an earthquake. Or of one of those men who’d be shot on the spot—now there’s an unparalleled expression (we find a variation of it in “summary execution”). It’s a terminology that, under the guise of “equality,” always managed to satisfy my homicidal instincts.
    It’s a shame we can punish only those who commit physical crimes and not those who are guilty of psychological ones. I detest men who “collect” sexual adventures; they use trickery and deception to obtain that which rapists obtain with force. Moreover, these psychological rapists are considered great seducers. What distinguishes the two, besides the apparent identity of their object (never a better word) of desire, is that they are never won over by their prey, they’re never taken with their victims’ loss of power. These men court women with the same dark determination with which misogynists avoid them. Essentially, both groups hate women, only in different ways and with different consequences. That the scorn they have for their victims is matched by their victims’ image of them validates them, provides them with the final stamp of approval. As such, the man finds the alibi to begin his hunt all over again.
    The principal of the Martin Luther King Scuola Elementare might not have needed an alibi. He was only concerned about the penal repercussions. While psychological thieves are unquestionably of lower principles than apple thieves (the biblical fruit being the preferred one for such metaphors), no laws exist to stop them. Indeed, if their intentions are never transformed into action, a crime is never actually committed. This is the minuscule abyss that separates the penal from the moral code.
    These prejudices were well established within me when I met with the principal in his office on the second floor of the recently completed school. Its structure—cube-shaped buildings connected by staircases, bridges, and open, airy corridors— and the outlying constellation of lawns and shrubs gave it a modern feeling of spaciousness and light, entirely different from the Lombrosian isolation of my own school.
    His manner is both gruff and courteous. He wants to make me feel like a colleague. Given his seniority in age, he has the sad privilege of inviting me to address him with the informal tu. He observes me carefully. He has sunken cheeks and his eyes are bright with excitement. Pointing to his bad leg, which juts out from behind the desk, he refers to the unfair circumstances that unite us. There is a kind of caustic glee in this casual show of solidarity; it’s the bitterly private sense of humor of someone who enjoys imposing his handicap on others.
    “Now let’s be clear,” he says promptly.
    I’ve always disliked that phrase. It’s never the invitation to transparency that it seems to be. On the contrary, it always inaugurates an exchange of hostilities.
    “You’re lucky to have found a principal like me.”
    He looks up to see how I react to what he’s saying.
    “If there’s anyone who knows what it means to be handicapped, it’s me.”
    I nod, glancing discreetly at his leg.
    “Your son will have everything he needs here: the right teacher, the right classroom on the ground floor. . . .”
    I ought to be happy, and in fact I am. But something about this man reminds me of a tour guide or a real estate agent, extolling a product in order to justify its price. What price will I have to pay?
    “You