This month, the couple who lives across the street have had two fights. Both times, from my apartment, I have heard screaming, crying, and crumbling things. When they fight, they don’t speak Italian.

During the first fight, however, the woman yells “help” in Italian several times. My roommate calls the police to explain the situation. The police officer replies that happens often that people call about that house and that there are no squad cars available at the moment, later maybe someone will come by.

Apparently, there are three cars in total and the police and Carabinieri have to share them. These were surely busy making sure that no weed was being bought in front of the train station of Padua, thank God they protect us. Also apparently, precedents are not an aggravating factor, but a reason to not intervene, because nothing will ever change and if it does, it’s just because someone gets killed and will all know that no one is murdered by his or her partner, right?

Anyway, after an hour and a half, the police still have not arrived; however, an ambulance has arrived in their place. The man comes out in his underwear with blood on his forehead and his chest.

The second fight, tonight, at 10 p.m. Same routine: screaming, crying and crashing. I call the police, I tell the police officer that the last time an ambulance arrived. He asks me some crucial information for intervening, like what nationality they are. I don’t know it. Are they from Africa or East Europe? Apparently, for cases of domestic violence, there are only these two options. I guess East Europe.

This time, they come and ring the doorbell, but no one opens it. There is silence for 10 minutes, then noises again, but they are more contained. The police are there, but they don’t come in because no one answers the intercom. They leave.

The routine begins again. I get dressed and go to their house. I ring, but they don’t answer. The gate to the yard is open, so I go in. The woman comes out and asks me what I want. I want to know what’s going on. She tells me that I can come inside and see for myself. She leads me to the apartment.

The man is sitting on the couch, there is a lot of money on the floor, and there is also a dog. She tells him that it was me who called the police, not her, and to take the money and leave for good. Probably he was angry because he thought she called the police. I stand in the doorway, and he invites me in.

The flat is small, with two rooms in total: kitchen and bedroom connected by a small aisle where there’s the doorway and the door to the bathroom. I sit on the couch. He reeks of alcohol, is counting the money, saying he’s leaving but doesn’t move. She takes his clothes and throws them in front of the front door. He puts the money in the fanny pack. They argue a little bit about who’s to blame for me being there. He tells me to leave because he has changed his decision: he will sleep on the sofa. I reply that I’m not leaving until he leaves. He goes to the bedroom to change his clothes and insults the woman and maybe even me because he speaks a little in Italian a little in Moldavian. He takes off his clothes and then comes back to the kitchen in his underwear, where she and I are. He pulls out the money again, says they are not enough, that she has to give him more, and then he pushes her and tells her that she’s a whore. She counts them in front of him, they are 350 euros, but he’s drunk, he is persuaded that they are 300 and that she’s cheating on him. I say she is right, they are 350.

The rest is an endless repetition of these things: her crying, cleaning, calling the dog, bluffing about calling the police if he doesn’t leave and replying to anything with “it’s okay, just go away;” him telling her she’s a slut, that she’s shit, that it will all come back to her, him going back and forth from one room to the other, counting the money, saying he’s not leaving and that he is sleeping on the couch, then that he’s leaving, but he never moves. While he is in the other room I tell her to hide both copies of the keys.

I’ve never seen a person taking so long to get dressed, but eventually, he succeeds. Apparently, it wasn’t the lack of clothes that kept him from leaving: he is still there insulting, yelling and counting money. Only now he has another reason to be angry: she doesn’t want to give him the keys. I say he doesn’t need the keys because he said that he’s leaving forever, that now he has his things and if he doesn’t leave immediately I’ll call the police. He tells me to call, thinking I wouldn’t. She doesn’t want the police either but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe she thinks that he doesn’t know she won’t ever call them. I call the police and he finally leaves.

She is Katy, she is from Moldova, she has two daughters from a previous marriage, they are married and have children, even Kitty, the dog, is her daughter. Today she has worked 12 hours, from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. She tells me she works a lot.

While she is recounting, he keeps ringing the doorbell and yelling.

They have been together for 9 years. He also had kids from a previous marriage, three but two of them died years ago. He is nice and good, but he always drinks, always, then he gets violent and she is tired of it. He will spend those 350 euros on alcohol and then he won’t have anything. I say that’s his problem. She kicked him out several times, gave him many last chances, and even smashed his head once. I say I’ve seen that. She asks me if I have a boyfriend and tells me to not trust anyone. We talk some more, I tell her to not let him back in, that he won’t stop to drink, that it’s better to be alone than with a drunk and violent asshole, that I do know it’s hard to get out, but that the people who support and love her are others. She agrees with me.

His clothes are still on the floor, before leaving I ask her if she wants help packing them up. She doesn’t but she asks for my phone number. It’s almost midnight when I leave.

The clothes are still on the floor because he will be back. After all, there will be other last chances.