The following is from Pier Vittorio Tondelli’s Separate Rooms. Tondelli was born in Correggio in 1955 and died in 1991. He made his debut in 1980 with Altri libertini, which was followed in 1982 by Pao Pao. In 1985 he published the novel Rimini, followed by Biglietti agli amici in 1986 and Separate Rooms in 1989.
One day, not so very long ago, he caught himself looking at his face mirrored in the window of a small plane flying from Paris to Munich.
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Twenty-five thousand feet below, the Alps looked like ripples of sand, tinged with gold by the setting sun. The deep blue sky seemed fathomless, lit on the horizon by a bright saffron hem, the color of Zen robes.
The landscape framed in the small oval window conjured up night and day, and the boundaries between two worlds: earth and air. Later, when a light went on in the cabin, reflecting his weary, fuller face on that northerly holographic screen, the landscape told him things about himself as well.
His face, the one that others had for years recognized as “his,” once again struck him as foreign. Every day his face seemed more alien, because the image he retained of his own face was forever and eternally his face as a boy and as a younger man.
He still thought of himself and saw himself as an innocent, someone incapable of doing ill or going astray. But the image he saw against that illuminated backdrop was simply the face of someone no longer as young as he used to be: someone with fine, thinning hair; puffy eyes; full and slightly flabby lips; and the skin of the cheeks flecked with fine veins, just like his father’s livid cheeks. All in all a face suffering, like any other, the deterioration and the marks of time.
He turned thirty-two just a few months back. He is well aware that he is not of an age ordinarily defined as mature or, even less, old. But he also knows that he is not young anymore. Most of his university friends have married and had children. Most of them own a home and have a fairly well-paid profession. When he bumps into them, on those rare visits to his parents’ home—the house he was born in, and later fled from on the pretext of pursuing his studies—he senses that there is an ever-deepening gulf between himself and them. His old friends pay taxes, just like he does. They take summer holidays and have to insure the car, just like he does. But on the odd occasion when they get to talking, he realizes that they have altogether different responsibilities. He realizes that in their respective lives they have roles that have absolutely nothing in common. As a result he feels more and more alone, or rather, more and more aloof and different. He has broken away from the surroundings where he grew up, and lives each day detached from the comforting day-to-day life of a small community. He has time on his hands that others do not have. This in itself makes him different. He is pursuing an artistic profession, but here, too, he has little in common with his so-called colleagues. This makes him feel all the more different. He has roots in no town. He has no family or children. He does not have a house that you could really call “home.” Yet another difference. But what he lacks most of all is a companion. He is single, and alone.
The plane suddenly loses altitude as it starts its descent toward Munich. He turns away from the window and gathers up his things. He puts away the book he had been leafing through, slips his glasses into their case, and puts out his cigarette. He leans his head back. They will be touching down in twenty minutes or so. He imagines Thomas pacing nervously back and forth in the international arrivals hall, checking his watch and the scheduled landing times. He sees his lanky form heading impatiently toward a row of shop windows with displays of pipe tobacco and gaudy boxes of Havana cigars. He imagines his frayed sweater, his thick wool jacket, his velvet trousers, his big, stout, red leather shoes. He sees the dark pools of his eyes, his broad, relaxed smile, his warm, bony arms that will hug him as they always do and steer him firmly to a beat-up Citroën or Renault, parked miles away. But he cannot hear his voice. He sees their embrace quite clearly, he picks up the sweet smell of his skin, he feels his cheek rough with its two-day growth, he sees his lips asking softly, “How was your trip?” but he cannot hear the sound or inflection of that voice. He sees their embrace, but he cannot feel it.
He heaves a sigh, eyes closed, head still tipped against the lowered back of the seat. The stewardess leans over and says a few words to him. Slowly he emerges from his reverie and adjusts the back of his seat to the upright position, ready for landing. His eyes are open again now. With an inner shudder of horror, he is once more fully aware of what is tritely called reality, though he prefers to call it “the current state of this dream.” There will be no Thomas waiting to meet him at the airport with his dilapidated Citroën. Nor will there be any friend in his place. Because Thomas, or at least everything on this earth that bore this name and everything that had anything to do with this name, for himself and for those who loved him, Thomas is no more. Thomas is dead. Two years now. And he feels more and more alone. More alone and even more different.
A few years back, on the sort of grim, gray Sunday that only the skies of Northern Europe can come up with, Leo left a brasserie in Paris with Michael, an American jazz musician. Michael, if truth be told, was just another of those expatriates who turn up in far-flung corners of the world as a result of discontent or restlessness.
Michael is a man of forty, heavily built, with a full beard turning white on his chin. He is more bald than not, with a face that might be best likened to a potato field—full of growths, pimples, and lumps. He usually wears military trousers held up by black leather braces, wool shirts, and a black felt hat, Rainer Fassbinder–style. He chews on all kinds of cigars, especially when he gets involved in all-night jam sessions. By dawn, he is invariably the only member of the band still on his feet. Leo likes Michael. He likes the music he plays, too. He would never dream of talking about literature or philosophy with him, but they find plenty to say about Broadway musicals. And young men. One of those Sunday afternoons that seem so long ago, Michael and Leo left a brasserie in the Marais to go to a party. Leo met Thomas at that party. Or rather, Leo saw Thomas for the first time.
They walk side by side through the Place des Vosges, staring at the ground and talking as if they were addressing the cobblestone pavement. Both have their hands thrust deep in their pockets and their necks wrapped in long scarves. The November chill is like dry, invisible snow melted in the air. They reach the building where the party is. They can hear music and hubbub wafting down into the street. Other partygoers run past and reach the doorway ahead of them. Leo smiles and slips his arm through Michael’s. They climb to the fourth floor. They have to avoid stepping on people who have spilled out onto the landing and stairway. Empty champagne bottles are rolling about on the wooden floorboards covered with confetti and cigarette butts. Inside there is crush and confusion, people dancing, people smoking dope, people drinking whisky straight from the bottle. Leo pulls Michael over to the drinks table. A young punk girl with a plume of iridescent hair dazzles him, taking flash photos with her Polaroid. Further in, images of the party fill the TV screens scattered around the apartment. Some young men are filming the party with a video camera. They push through the throng, spotlighting the guests like some night-fishing expedition: in the beam of the powerful light, small darting fish, confident and quick, suddenly turn phosphorescent, as do handsome lobsters—elderly and inebriated, sharks, pink prawns, garish tropical fish, whales, dolphins, and the odd bream. Leo steps back out of their way. He says hello to various people he knows, with kisses, hugs, and handshakes. Then he finally reaches the room where the food is. Two round tables littered with torn paper plates and napkins, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette stubs, and leftovers. Beyond the tables, the drinks. He pours himself a glass of champagne, then another and a third, to get himself into the swing of things. The wild disco music has a vaguely African beat. Everyone is moving. Leo sways, uncorks another bottle and offers Michael a drink.
“Leo, Leo!” shouts the host, edging his way toward him, hands high above the heads of the crowd. He is dressed up like a geisha. “My dear, thanks for coming! Some party, isn’t it? We’ve been at it since last night. I showed the movie, you know. It was a great hit!”
Leo hugs Bernard and compliments him on his fiery red kimono. He introduces Michael to him. He makes small talk for a moment or two, until Bernard is whisked off by other friends, all singing his praises, and shouting his name. Someone thrusts the camera into his hand. Bernard climbs onto a table, looks through the viewfinder and pretends to shoot Leo. Everybody cheers. Leo giggles. Bernard yells something, then passes the camera to someone else and disappears, engulfed by the crush of admirers. “Let’s have a look at the crazy old queen’s film,” Leo says to Michael after a while.
In the throng, they elbow their way through Bernard’s apartment. Each room is a mixture of styles: papier mâché columns, Second Empire mirrors and pier glasses, here and there a Bauhaus armchair, a Renaissance confessional fitted with bookshelves, rugs, damask hangings, tapestries, spray-painted Moorish cupolas made of polystyrene, rejects and remains from all Bernard’s past sets: reminders of his irrepressible kitsch style and his dreamlike zaniness. White statues of demigods sporting gigantic copper-colored phalluses; capitals and columns; colored plaster of Paris figures of St. Sebastian, imploring or sublimely absent in the hour of his martyrdom; in the windows, figures of Mary Magdalene, Christ on the cross, Angels and Archangels, and Thrones. They pass through four reception rooms until the chattering, tipsy party fauna thins out. They still have to cross the exercise room and the bathroom before they eventually reach Bernard’s large bedroom where his latest video is being shown on multiple screens.
In this room people are sprawled on rugs and the bed, some asleep in front of the screen. Leo and Michael lean against a corner of the four-poster bed and watch the video. After a while Michael leaves in search of more alcohol.
It is just at that moment that Leo becomes aware of someone brushing past him. From his slightly precarious position against the spiral bedpost, all he catches is a glimpse of someone’s legs passing the mirror on the door—just jeans and a pair of black shoes. But an irresistible urge makes him get to his feet. He leaves the bedroom, following the young man with his gaze. He stops in his tracks momentarily, not sure whether to keep up his pursuit or go back and watch the video. Then Michael comes back, saying he has found a horn to play. Making their way through the guests they reach a dimly lit room filled with smoke. Somebody is playing the piano. Michael picks up an old sax and starts to blow. Leo’s eyes linger softly on the young man at the piano. He examines him intently. He is seeing Thomas for the first time. And as if Thomas can feel the charge of Leo’s gaze, he raises his head and stares back for a split second. Then his eyes return just as fast to the keyboard and he starts rocking to and fro, in time to Michael’s rhythm. Leo refills his glass.
Some time later Leo is slumped in an enormous damasked armchair, answering a Spanish journalist’s questions in that overly polite manner that tipsiness sometimes brings out in him. He sees Thomas leaving the apartment with a girl. He feels like getting up and following him. He braces his legs, gripping the arms of the chair. But his strength fails him and he topples heavily backward. The journalist asks him if he’s writing anything at the moment. A smile flickers across Leo’s face and he carries on chatting about this and that.
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From Separate Rooms by Pier Vittorio Tondelli. Used with permission of the publisher, Zando. Copyright © 2025 by Pier Vittorio Tondelli.