Lost in the Spanish Quarter

by Heddi Goodrich

  “What about the dog show?”

  Pietro seemed not to have heard me. How could he possibly be sleepy now, when we hadn’t seen each other in sixteen days? Forty-eight hours was all we had, and I’d already squandered three of them on the bus. Admittedly, he’d done all the right things from the moment I’d arrived—carried my bag, paid for my dinner; he’d reassured me, kissed me—but all those gestures felt slightly off, like the notes of a familiar tune played off-key. I called him by name, but still there was no reaction: he was dead to the world. Could he be pretending to sleep?

  “Pietro,” I said again, louder his time. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing.” He opened his eyes and reached over to the bedside table for his fresh pack of Marlboro Lights, hitting it again and again to push down the tobacco and repeating again and again that there was nothing wrong. The more he said it, the more I sensed that that something that wasn’t there was even more wrong than I’d imagined.

  “It’s just that you don’t seem like yourself anymore.”

  “Of course I’m not myself anymore, baby. Do you realize what my situation is?” He tore off the cellophane and snatched out a cigarette. “I’m being forced to live in a town in the middle of nowhere, all by myself, working my ass off every day—boxes full of books that weigh a ton, put that one here, put that one there—and they don’t pay me a dime. Is this what I did five years of university for, to be someone’s lackey? Goddamn it, this is called slavery, or am I wrong? Castelli Romani—peaceful oasis, my ass. Let’s just hope this Calabrian is my kind of guy because the only way to deal with these conditions is to be high as a kite. Otherwise, I swear, it’ll be Escape from Alcatraz.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, and in fact I remembered Pietro once saying he’d rather die than go back to Rome. And I was relieved to discover that we shared the same attitude toward his placement after all. So then maybe with the expression lucked out he’d merely been referring to his accommodation, so very different from the buildings we were used to in the Quartieri. It was a modern structure without a history, a place he was simply passing through, not a home but a way station whose floor he could sleep on until the train turned up.

  But it still didn’t add up. The future seemed to be of no consolation to Pietro, as if his geological fatalism had morphed into personal defeatism. Besides, he was far too irritated for a weekend of leisure. I would have almost said he was annoyed not so much with the inevitability of the civilian service as with me, as if the location and the solitude and the degrading work were somehow my fault. Was he blaming me for the decision we’d made together for him to avoid the military?

  The night was dropping lower and lower upon us, leaking into the room. I could hardly see Pietro’s face anymore, until his lighter flicked, lighting up a scowl. It was no use looking for excuses: he truly had changed. But was this mutation just from today? I remembered how quick-tempered he was that morning in Piazza Municipio—and the afa, I knew, had little to do with it: that sticky heat was merely the salt on an unspeakable wound. And before that there was New Year’s, when, with his head over the toilet bowl, he’d sent me away with an echoey voice. Go! That’s exactly what he said, plain and simple.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Give me a break,” he muttered with his cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth like a cowboy.

  “That’s what I’m talking about! I ask you a question and you just snap. What have I ever done to you? Just fucking tell me!”

  I put my hand over my mouth. I grasped that we’d never actually had a real fight until now and that I’d uttered something irrevocable, tiny but ruinous words like hairline cracks in a porcelain vase. I stood there in shock, covering my mouth with my hand that, I realized now, was trembling uncontrollably.

  “You’re cold? In this heat?”

  “No.” I folded my arms. “I just want to know why you’re mad at me.”

  “Let me say it again, I’m not angry with you, baby. Why should I be?”

  Outside a love song came blasting through the speakers; the dogs started yapping, the humans started laughing. All together it was deafening. I felt unreasonably cold, my mind fogged by a baseless emotion that wouldn’t allow me to think straight, to connect the causes with the effects, to follow a logical thread through the narrative of our relationship. Those words, I sensed, had set me out on a perilous but hazy journey, without a map and without footholds, and in fact Pietro’s cigarette smoke was filling the sealed room and the only thing able to punch through it was his fury, like the way a mountaintop tears the clouds.

  “I don’t know,” I said once the volume was adjusted. “I actually don’t know why you should be angry.” The shaking eased a bit; even the dogs had begun to settle down.

  “So you see that you and me have nothing to fight about? Let’s just go to sleep.” He got up and began unbuttoning his shirt, adding, “The night’s gotta pass, as they say in dialect.” Adda passa’ ‘a nuttata, Naples’s somewhat darker version of “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  I turned away so that I didn’t have to see his naked chest, silver with sweat in the late light. I didn’t want to desire him: I wanted to order my thoughts. Had his anger really crept up on us at New Year’s in the Spanish Quarter and not before, at Christmas, when Pietro had had to go to Monte San Rocco without me? No, earlier still. His was a hot rage, one in fact that had reared its ugly head in the summer . . . All at once I thought I knew what the trigger was. You’re my worst son. That heinous statement had troubled him then, two weeks before our trip to Greece, and had continued to eat away at him in silence. To consume him.

  I glanced over at Pietro unbuckling his belt and went hot with a sudden rush of daring. I was either about to rip his jeans off, kiss him in every corner of his body, and make him mine again, or I was about to set upon him with the most outrageous words, the most scandalous thoughts. It was the rise in body temperature that hits a second before facing something head-on, the red fever of a torero. All trembling ceased at once, and I said with a steady voice, “No, Pietro. There is something to fight about, but not with me. It’s been staring you in the face for over a year now. But you don’t want to rock the boat.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want to make trouble, not with you or anybody else. I want to live in peace. Why do you think I’m doing my civilian service instead of learning how to load a semiautomatic?”

  “You know, you should actually make some trouble once in a while. Make a fuss, ruffle some feathers. Lose your temper!”

  “You want me to get pissed off, is that what you want? And who do you want me to pick a fight with, huh? With Gabriele?” he said, bulging his eyes like a Maori warrior as if pushing me to confess sins I’d only committed with my mind, for all at once I saw my very presence as an outsider in that sacred bond between brothers as something unforgivable. But then Pietro went on, “For always making me feel, since we were little, like a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe? Or should I pick a fight with Luca? Because, I swear, just hearing his name makes my blood boil over how close you two are!”

  I was disarmed. I didn’t think Pietro had a drop of jealousy in him, and yet something as ancient and black as crude oil had just gushed out from his depths. And if he was jealous, did that mean that he was more in love with me, or angrier with me, than I’d thought?

  “With who then?” he was pressing me. “Who?”

  “Your mother, Pietro, don’t you get it? You should be pissed off with your mother!”

  He yanked the cigarette from his mouth as if it had burned his lips. “You don’t get the situation, Heddi.”

  “What is there not to get? She’s doing everything she can to make sure we break up.”

  It was dark by now, and Pietro bent over to flick on the bedside lamp. “C’mon now, my mother’s four foot eight. She’s old, and ignorant at that. What sway could she possibly have over us?”

  I wished he hadn’t turned on the light, which ins
tantly defused the drama. Plus, at the dog show everyone was having a blast. But I could no longer bear to hear that old refrain of his and I said, “And yet you let her boss you around.”

  “All right, I’ll give you that. I pretty much do what she asks. But, believe it or not, there’s something in it for me. Every time I bend over backward for my parents, it works to my advantage. Otherwise, there’s no way in hell I’m getting a car.” Pietro showed no signs of wanting to sit back down on the bed. He was restless, drawing greedily from his cigarette in the direction of the closed window. “It’s disgustingly hot in here, but the mosquitoes . . .”

  “But of course you want a car,” I kept at him with undisguised irony. “A brand-new one like Francesco’s.”

  “Yes, baby, I do. Do you see how hard it is to live in a place like this without a car? It’s like being in exile. But look at Giuliano: even with that rusty piece of junk he owns, if he feels like it, he can leave Rome for a fun night out.”

  Hearing him associate with such superficiality the vacuous concept of a fun night out with a concrete symbol of aborted dreams, I lost it. I started ranting about how Francesco had given up everything, even his daughter, just to avoid displeasing his mother, that the car wasn’t a car but a trap. Trap, I used that very word. But I no longer felt hot or cold or afraid of saying the wrong thing because it was the words fueling me and not the other way around. I didn’t care how Pietro took it, and in fact he reacted with weak excuses, such as that I was making too big a deal about it, that his parents were just countryfolk intellectually incapable of plotting and scheming, and that they would eventually give him a car. His refusal to incriminate his mother—his generalization, his pluralization, of the problem—pushed me to the end of my tether, and I cut him short with the same sarcastic tone. “Never mind, the car is nothing. What’s worth much, much more are those wheat fields . . . those sure do make a great bait.”

  “It’s not like you think,” he said through clenched teeth. “I have to play my cards right. I can’t afford to start acting up at the wrong time.” Pietro ran a hand through his hair, the Mexican ring a flash of light among his dark waves. He was smoking nervously and, if before I feared his anger, I now discovered I wanted to feed it.

  “When is the right time, Pietro? You have your degree now, so where the hell are those plots of land they promised you? Have they even brought up the matter since your graduation day?”

  “Fucking hell, it’s like a Turkish bath in here.” He started pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I’ve sweated blood and tears on that land, too many to throw it all to the wind. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices! And have I ever complained to my parents? No!”

  Just as I’d hoped, he’d raised his voice. Then with a maliciousness I didn’t think I had in me, I laid it on even thicker. “Don’t you see that you’ve taken the bait and they’ve got you in the palm of their hands? They think you’ll want that land so bad that you’ll do anything to have it. Leave your girlfriend, marry a mussel, whatever they want!”

  He came to an abrupt stop, crushing his cigarette to a pulp in the ashtray. “I’m not some fucking puppet!”

  I’d done it. Pietro was seeing red. Outside a dog let out a long, primal growl. I’d spoken so recklessly that sooner or later I would regret some of my riskier statements. I’d said offensive things and I hadn’t spared anyone. But it had felt good to vent my feelings, and in the satisfaction of the moment I had only the compulsion to keep going. I was almost giddy, drunk on truth, a sort of in vino veritas without alcohol that had already made me spill so much red wine onto those hideously white tiles, so why not go all the way, why not tip out the whole bottle?

  I stood to face him, warning myself not to—don’t do it—but still the words came pouring forth. “Don’t you see, Pietro? Your parents are taking advantage of the fact that you’re so eager to please. What do they care—no, what does your mother care—about you finding a career, personal fulfillment, true love or happiness in your life? Compared to postwar famine, these things are self-indulgent luxuries that don’t fit into her way of thinking because in Lidia Iannace’s world the only things that matter are working hard, saving up, and making sacrifices, all the way to the grave! And she’ll give you her support, and maybe even her affection, only when you’ve thrown your life away like she has!”

  Pietro’s eyes went wide; he looked stunned by what I’d had the nerve to say. I could hardly believe I’d said it myself, but this time I didn’t even remotely want to take it back. I felt I was in the right, safeguarded by the facts. I looked him straight in the eye until he looked away. Then, still bare-chested, he leaned back against the wall; he seemed to go limp and then his knees buckled and, like a raindrop on a window, he slid down to the floor. Curled up in a ball, Pietro buried his face in his hands. “No, you’re wrong,” came his muffled voice. “No, no . . .”

  It was one of those scenes I thought only happened in the movies: the moment of truth, a gut-wrenching epiphany. All at once my bitterness was gone, and I crouched down beside him. I loved and desired him more than ever and I had the familiar impulse to stroke him and make him feel safe. But I didn’t. My love for him was no longer a drug, no longer a need to satisfy. It was the beginning of everything; it was the god I’d never believed in.

  I lowered my voice. “You need to understand, Pietro, that being with me means you might get cut out of the inheritance.” The risk was very real. Wasn’t his brother Vittorio, who had received neither land nor money nor even a mention, as good as disowned? And his only sin was setting up a life far from Monte San Rocco, against Lidia’s wishes, and marrying a foreign girl.

  Pietro didn’t say a word. He was just shaking his head, kneading his temples like dough. Maybe it was a good thing that I couldn’t see his face. I needed him to fully explore his pain but I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to watch it.

  “And anyway, what do you need that land for if you’re only going to sell it?” I said in a gentler tone. “We’re graduates now; we can earn our own money. We’ll be poor but happy.”

  He uncovered his face, reddened though devoid of tears, before looking away toward the wall. For some reason the dogs started howling, just like they did at night in Monte San Rocco. They sounded like wolves. We listened to them for a while without talking; then Pietro went back to working his temples even more furiously. But there could be no resolution without a conclusion.

  “In the end the choice is yours. What’s worth more to you: your family’s money or your freedom?”

  It was a very simple question, maybe even idiotic, the correct answer to which was based on not only our own values but the value system of our entire generation. But Pietro didn’t answer. Instead he kept digging his fingers into his perspiring forehead as if hell-bent on skinning himself alive.

  The only light left in the sky was a fresh green glint on the horizon, as pale as sea glass. The first stars were coming out of hiding. Pietro and I sat on the damp grass, far from the floodlights and people on the incomprehensibly festive field.

  There was laughing, singing, and clapping for several dogs standing haphazardly at a starting line, held back by their owners. So it wasn’t just a dog show but a dog race. “Three, two . . .” came a voice through the microphone, but there was a false start, followed by more laughter and clumsy attempts to pull the animals back in line. The presenter, amused by the disorder, began the countdown again and finished with a loud, “Get set . . . Go!” at which the contestants dashed down the grassy track chasing, it seemed, only the air.

  I thought of turning to Pietro to say something about the dogs but I didn’t know what to say. We’d come to a kind of no-man’s-land beyond words, even beyond feelings. So I said nothing at all, and we both sat there as drained and bare as a bathtub.

  But the race, though an amateur and lighthearted event, wasn’t over, and the fastest eight dogs were chosen for a second round. Once again toenails tore across the already mauled grass; ears flapped about co
mically. I almost laughed out loud, a surge of joy that was immediately killed by the memory of our argument. It weighed on my heart like a boulder.

  The competition was halved. Among the four remaining, I spotted one dog in particular. Skin and bones and gray as a ghost, she looked like a miniature greyhound. Female no doubt, judging from her showy collar. Most certainly she was shaking like a leaf, and like a leaf she was about to be outrun, if not trampled. Poor thing. I almost turned away so as not to witness her downfall, but in any case I immediately lost sight of her, only gathering from all the fuss at the finishing line that she’d come in first. The applause grew in intensity: the last race, between the two finalists, was about to take place.

  The owners restrained their dogs by wrapping their arms around their protruding chests. The little greyhound was champing at the bit, leaping forward to catch, I could see now, a bait that was quivering tauntingly before the two dogs. Then “Go!” and they were let loose. The tiny dog was a shooting dart, but the bait was jerked left and right as if pulled by an impatient fisherman. Her adversary didn’t fall for it, but she did . . . and she slipped. Her skeletal hind legs seemed on the verge of detaching from her torso as she twisted herself into an inconceivable posture and grass and clumps of dirt went flying. But in a flash she was back on her feet to continue the contest, which more than a race seemed like a desperate flight, a run for her life.

  She won. Everything was over in an instant, among applause and shredded terrain and barks that could even be called happy. Pietro and I went back to the apartment and made love, without sheets and without a word, the whole time looking at each other defiantly in the eyes.

  From: heddi@yahoo.com

  To: tectonic@tin.it

  Sent: September 13

  Dearest Pietro,

  I read your email this morning at work. I probably shouldn’t have, though, because it made me very pleasantly agitated and then only a few minutes later I had to teach a lesson, on conditional sentences no less. Then in the afternoon during a staff meeting, I found out that they’re going to have to lay off a few teachers because the number of enrollments has dropped again. Even more surprising was my impulse (though I didn’t go through with it) to put my hand up, to be the first one to leave.