Recalled To Life novel Chapter 2

At the age of seven, I was a well-developed girl for my age, taller than most girls, and I started putting on makeup in Mom's bedroom when she went out to meet her friends for the bridge game she loved so much. Dad was utterly engrossed in eating and watching TV, and he did not care what I did.

The Italian teacher was a worldly hunk, his forelock fluttering like Little Tony's, my favorite singer. I would dream in class with my eyes open, and especially I liked his Neapolitan accent when he repeated the phrase "Tutti Inseima, Uno Due Tre." When his character started appearing in my dream at night, and I felt him stroking my hair and bringing me strawberry-flavored lollypops, I knew for sure I was in love with him. He was twenty-seven, and I was seven. So what? At the age of twenty, I thought he would be forty; it already sounded better. I wanted to write him a letter and convince him to wait for me to grow up, but I was afraid he would make fun of me in front of all the students in class. Once during the break, Ilia, who was the most popular boy in the class, approached me and offered me friendship, and I told him that I was already in love and busy. Luckily he did not ask who? Not that I would have answered him anyway, he was just shocked, offended, turned around, and left. Ever since I refused him, my reputation has risen among the girls, and they have been fluttering around me like chickens.

But the truth was quite different; I was so sorry that I refused him with my great stupidity because when he announced that he was the boyfriend of Mina, sitting next to me in class, I cried all night out of jealousy.

And so my first school year passed, and the summer holiday arrived. Dad and Mom took me to Lago di Garda, to a small town called Salò, where I first heard the name, Mussolini. Dad explained to me that a king named Emmanuelle was in Italy, and Mussolini overthrew him and became a strong and authoritarian leader. There was a war, and the people did not want him as a leader. Some soldiers captured him and imprisoned him in the mountains, and the Germans came and saved him and let him escape. Then the soldiers caught him again and killed him, and at the end, they hung him upside down in Milan, and everyone passed and spat on him. But that does not belong in my story; I continue from the town of Salò, where we spent the whole month of August and where I also met Roberto.

When I went with Dad on a boat ride on Lake Garda, I saw a boy who was taller than me, and he wore a visor cap that read on its front “Fate L'amore non la Guerra" - "Make love, not war." When we got back from the cruise, he was there with an older woman who I later found out was his grandmother. He looked at me and I at him, and neither of us dared to approach and start a conversation, so he took a handful of sand in his hand and threw it at me. Instead of yelling at him, I stood and smiled like an idiot, then he took another handful of sand and threw it at me, and this time he hit me. Without a second thought, I bent down and flew a ball of wet sand at him, but he bowed, and the ball hit his grandmother, who was sitting on a mat, so she fell on her back. We both burst out laughing, which made me wet my panties. Afraid he would see, I ran quickly to my hotel room.

The next day I met him at breakfast. He refrained from laughing when he saw me; I approached him and said, "My name is Graziella; what is your name?" He blushed like a beet and said in a whisper, "Roberto," and then I asked him, "How do you make love instead of war?"

As I mentioned earlier, Roberto was shy, but he had a good head for pranks, and we truly enjoyed ourselves together. Therefore, I can conclude that I had a great summer vacation. I remember one evening we went to the lake; it was already dark, but the full moon illuminated the surroundings in pale light; we settled in the tall bushes that grew close to the water and peeked at a couple who made love on the beach. They were completely naked, but we could not notice the details; we saw that he was lying on his back, and she was sitting on him with her face turned towards his legs while his hands were holding her breasts. When she started moving her body and making sighs, we also began making sighs from the bushes, she stopped for a moment and looked toward us, but we kept sighing. She probably thought there was another couple nearby making love, so she continued screwing . After long minutes they changed positions, she lay on her back, and he got on top with her feet leaning on his shoulders. When it seemed to us that they no longer noticed our moans, we started throwing wet sand balls at them. At first, they did not respond, but when such a bullet hit the man's back, he stopped moving and lay down next to her as he raised his head and waited to see where from the next shot would come. Quietly we sneaked away from the bushes and returned to the hotel.

I studied a chapter on making love and realized that the stork does not play any role in having children.

On the last evening of our stay in Salò, there was a dance at the hotel. My parents appeared dressed in their best clothes; Dad wore a gray suit and a burgundy bow tie, which blended perfectly with his red cheeks. Mom looked like she came out of a Parisian fashion magazine, her face perfectly made-up and a dress hugging her shapely body calling attention to her sexy curves. Roberto's parents, who had brought his grandmother with them, looked very provincial and blended well with the other guests who did not take the festive evening very seriously. The loudspeakers played an Argentinian tango, and slowly the dance floor was filled with couples. Finally, Roberto and I realized it was our time to retreat. We got up at different time intervals and went out to the garden. I looked behind me and saw that no one was interested in us. Roberto suggested we peek at the couples lying on the lakeshore, and I offered him a game where we try on ourselves all the positions we saw during the week. We chose a dark and dry place as I was careful not to get my dress dirty.