The Day I Killed My Father by Mario Sabino

something you used to say: “It’s impossible to love thy neighbour from up close,” and so on. That’s also Karamazov’s.’
    â€˜I know. That’s about as far as I can get.’
    â€˜I should have read more Dostoyevsky. There’s no method to my reading. I’ve got so many gaps because of it. Russian literature, German philosophy … I’ve wasted time reading a heap of useless Italian literature.’
    â€˜To seduce mummy. Mamma Roma.’
    â€˜Mum … Living with her was unbearable, but sometimes I miss her so much. As for Dad, I don’t know what to think …’
    â€˜I was really fond of her, too …’
    â€˜I know. And I’m jealous that you had your own relationship with my mother.’
    â€˜ Vitellone …’
    â€˜Isn’t it funny how there’s still so much intimacy between us?’
    â€˜Intimacy takes a while to die, but one day it does.’
    â€˜Do you ever think about me?’
    â€˜I do, and I quickly stop. The last few years of our marriage were really hard going.’
    â€˜But we’re friends, aren’t we?’
    â€˜They still haven’t invented a category for the current stage of our relationship. I have friendly feelings for you, but we’re not friends. I miss you, but I don’t want to be with you. I remember our past, but I’d like to forget it. Maybe, with time, we’ll manage to become just ex-wife and ex-husband — the first step towards a mutual friendship — unless there’s some kind of major conflict along the way. Anyway, it’d be worse if we’d had a kid.’
    â€˜You really wanted children … ’
    â€˜I still do. You never did. You’ve always hated kids.’
    â€˜I don’t hate kids. I just don’t want any competition. I was thinking, we could go on a photography safari in Kenya. It’s always been your dream. I know your dreams better than anyone does.’
    â€˜Antonym, I didn’t want to tell you now, but you’d find out anyway, so it’s better you hear it from me.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’m pregnant.’
    â€˜â€¦â€™
    â€˜Are you OK?’
    â€˜No, I’m not.’
    â€˜You look pale. I’ll get you a glass of water.’
    â€˜I was right. You cheated on me.’
    â€˜That’s crazy. We broke up almost ten months ago, and I’m only two months pregnant.’
    â€˜I know you, Bernadette. You wouldn’t get pregnant to a man you’d only just met. Who’s this guy you’ve obviously been screwing for years — your partner?’
    â€˜No, he’s not my partner and I haven’t been screwing him for years. The guy, as you say, is an ex-boyfriend from when I was a teenager. I ran into him again at a resort.’
    â€˜At a resort! So, you hang around resorts now?’
    â€˜Would it make any difference to you if it had been ... um, at the New York Plaza? I needed to unwind, and a friend suggested a resort. He also needed to get away from it all. He’d broken up with his wife a few months earlier …’
    â€˜What a cock-and-bull story.’
    â€˜To sum up the cock-and-bull story, there was an amazing dinner he’d arranged to have served at his bungalow: a dazzling full moon on the veranda, divine wine, and a really big, soft, nice-smelling bed.’
    â€˜Spare me the sordid details. You forgot to mention the opportunistic bastard and the needy, irresponsible woman. What if he’s got AIDS?’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous, Antonym. But if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t seen him since. He lives in another city. We spoke two or three times after that, always by phone, and that was it. The last time we spoke he told me he’d got back together with his wife.’
    â€˜And you bawled your eyes out, obviously, feeling used and abandoned. What’s the bastard’s name?’
    â€˜I