It was only after talking to him that I remembered I hadn’t called an undertaker. I looked in the phone book for the ones with the flashiest advertising. They were very helpful, even at that hour of the night, and assured me they’d go to the hospital and get everything ready in time.
I didn’t have anything else to do. The phones were quiet. So I went to the window to smoke and look at the deserted street and the streetlights. Every now and again a car passed, breaking the silence of the night. Then, with indescribable slowness, the sky started to lighten until it was time to go home.
* * *
The funeral was the next day. All morning I stayed by the phone with Graziano’s notebook in my hand but couldn’t get hold of anyone to inform and in the end gave up. His father arrived around noon in his taxicab. He was a pale, nervous little man, his eyes red from tears. He immediately wanted to see his son and I left him alone in the morgue and waited for him in the courtyard. There were cats roaming between the parked cars.
A man came forward into the sun, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. He was from the undertaker’s. He said they couldn’t use the suit Graziano had died in because of the bloodstains. He asked if they should buy one. I said no and went to Graziano’s apartment. There was a closet full of suits. I took out a white one and went back to the hospital, where I handed it over to the still-sweating man. Then I went and sat down next to Graziano’s father on a granite bench against the ivy-covered wall. He was staring at the cats among the cars. “He didn’t have any ideals,” he said. “You can’t live without ideals.” I noticed that he was wearing a war invalid’s silver badge in his buttonhole and I didn’t say anything. This was the man we’d killed in our story, an old man.
We sat waiting in silence and after a while the police officer I already knew showed up. He apologized and handed me a sheet of paper and an envelope with the things Graziano had in his pocket when he’d been brought into the hospital. There were a bunch of keys, a wad of money, an initialed silk handkerchief, a cigar butt, and a wilted carnation that for some reason reminded me of Sant’Elia, maybe because the stalk was cut just the right length to be inserted in a buttonhole. I signed the paper and gave everything to Graziano’s father, except the carnation, which I put in my pocket.
The man from the undertaker’s came to tell us that everything was ready. We followed him into the chapel of rest. There was an intolerable scent coming from a few bunches of flowers and an electric fan was humming, pointing straight at Graziano, stirring the collar of his shirt. “He doesn’t have shoes,” I said and the man from the undertaker’s said he hadn’t been wearing any but that they could send someone to buy a pair. This time too I said no. I didn’t like keeping them waiting, but I took the old Alfa Romeo and went back to the apartment. After I found the shoes, I set off in search of a smoke shop. It wasn’t easy to find one that was open. I drove back with the shoes and the cigarettes.
Graziano’s father was again sitting in the shade of the ivy. I gave the shoes to the man from the undertaker’s, who had to struggle to get them on the feet. I turned away until he’d done it. “Can we close it up?” he said, and I put the pack of Lucky Strikes in the coffin.
“Close it up,” I said, thinking he should have asked Graziano’s father, but the old man sat there motionless, incapable of saying a word, and when I looked at him he merely nodded.
Three young guys in T-shirts came in with an acetylene torch and set to work. The flame was noisy and smelly and I preferred to go out into the courtyard.
It wasn’t far from the hospital to the church. Graziano’s father was in no shape to drive his taxi, so I got behind the wheel and followed the undertaker’s van. I didn’t go into the church for the service, which in any case was very short. Instead, I sat down on the rim of a dry, cracked fountain. Here too there were cats, crouching in its shade. I was joined by the man from the undertaker’s. “Incredible heat,” he said. “We have to be very quick in these cases. I know now’s not the time,” he went on, “but about the expenses…” I told him I’d see to it and to contact me at the Corriere dello Sport. He said that was fine, and went and leaned against the van.
After a while, the coffin came out of the church. Graziano’s father must have been feeling bad, because two of the guys in T-shirts were supporting him. He sat down in the backseat of the taxi. He was very pale. “I haven’t slept all night,” he said. “And the drive didn’t help,” he went on. I got behind the wheel. It was a long ride to the cemetery, but the streets were empty in the sun and the van made good time. Once, it jumped a red light, but there really wasn’t anybody on the streets.
It was cooler at the cemetery, but the smell of flowers wilting in the heat was suffocating. The marble headstones looked like gigantic cuttlefish bones abandoned on a beach. A priest, along with two seminarians, blessed the coffin as it descended into the grave. I wondered why the two boys were in the city, doing this crummy job, instead of being on vacation like everyone else.
When the coffin was all the way down, the priest opened his book, but I told him no and took out The Last of the Mohicans. I hadn’t even needed to mark the page, the last sentences were what I wanted to read. I approached the sun-filled grave while Graziano’s father went and leaned against a cart full of dried-out flowers. “‘Why do my brothers mourn?’ he said,” I read aloud, “regarding the dark race of dejected warriors by whom he was environed; ‘why do my daughters weep? that a young man has gone to the happy hunting-grounds; that a chief has filled his time with honor? He was good; he was dutiful; he was brave. Who can deny it? The Manitou had need of such a warrior, and He has called him away. As for me, the son and the father of Uncas, I am a blazed pine, in a clearing of the pale faces. My race has gone from the shores of the salt lake and the hills of the Delawares. But who can say that the serpent of his tribe has forgotten his wisdom?’” Then I closed the book and left.
The avenue in front of the cemetery was deserted. I looked over toward the bus stop, because my old Alfa Romeo was still outside the hospital and I had to go pick it up, but I couldn’t make up my mind to move. It struck me as impossible that I couldn’t do anything else for Graziano. But there really was nothing more I could do for him. Nothing at all.
* * *
By the middle of August the swallows had gone. They’d never before left so early and when I went out on the balcony in the evening to wait for the wind, the sky was empty and silent. The newspapers claimed the birds had gone because of the poisoned air that hung over the city, but that was a childish explanation. The truth is, the higher you go, the better you can see things.
I didn’t read, didn’t go to the movies, didn’t do anything. I spent my days waiting to go to the newspaper office. The one thing I was proud of, the one thing that kept me going, was that I wasn’t drinking. I’d even bought a bottle of Ballantine’s and kept it in full view on the table without touching it. Then, ten days before the beginning of September, I received a letter from Arianna. Dear darling Leo. Hey, where are you? What are you doing? Who with? Not hearing anything from you worries me. Everyone’s really nice to me here, but I’ve been through some rough patches. I kept waking up at night, afraid I was suffocating, and wanted desperately to go back to the clinic. For the whole of the first week, Eva bombarded Livio with phone calls. Then she came. There was an unpleasant scene, at the end of which they went off together. To hell with the two of them. I’m fine now. All I do is eat, I’m afraid I’ll get very fat. But I also swim, and I go on wonderful excursions out to sea on board a lovely boat. I’ve discovered I’m crazy about boats. Today it’s raining, though, and I’m sad. I’m aware of how alone I am in the middle of this vast, terrible world. I don’t know where to go. What will I do with my life? Why don’t you get the hell out of there and come fetch me? I beg you, I beg you, I beg you.
There was a return address, and two days later I asked the paper for time off and set out in my car. I didn’t take the highway—the best thing of all about highway
s is that they leave normal roads clear. The old Alfa Romeo thundered as it climbed the slopes of the Castelli Romani, surrounded by a landscape that was wild and arid but already taking on the first faint colors of fall. Once past the Castelli, a long descent began, and at last, after a very long, straight road lined with plane trees, the sea appeared. I drove without hurrying in the noonday sun. The farther south I drove, the more magnificent the coast became. The road, wide and direct, ran across bare, stony mountains, sometimes high above the sea that glittered below in little rocky inlets, sometimes dipping to run alongside beaches that were white and deserted. Then the Saracen towers appeared, hanging sheer over the sea. And it was at this point that I saw the bay.
It was wider than the others, and you could see for kilometers along the two blue arms of land that extended into the sea. Low undergrowth separated the beach from the road, and on a rocky promontory a dark Saracen fortress rose in the sun. I stopped the car and stripped off my clothes, then walked barefoot into the undergrowth until I found a gap leading to the beach. The sand was scorching hot, but the water was cool and clean. I dove in and swam until I was out of breath. Then I turned on my back and played dead, listening to the swish of the water around my ears. I felt good, I couldn’t remember ever feeling that good. Then I turned back to the shore, swimming calmly in the direction of the mountains.
I dried myself in the sun, then got back in my car and set off again. I drove barefoot, and as the water dried it left a layer of salt on my skin. When I felt hungry I stopped to have some fish at a roadside trattoria. Resuming my journey, I started asking for information in all the built-up areas I passed through. Finally, a young boy said he knew the villa I was looking for and offered to show me the way for a thousand lire.
The villa had been built around a Saracen tower and was low and very white, shaded by maritime pines and oleander bushes. In front of the gate there were some sports cars and some official-looking cars. I left the old Alfa Romeo there, although it was neither a sports car nor an official car, and pulled on a small chain that stuck out of the wall next to the gate. A bell rang in the distance, followed by the barking of dogs.
After five minutes a butler in a white jacket appeared. “There’s nobody home,” he said. “They’re all out boating. The master’s in his studio but can’t be disturbed.”
“Giacomo, who is it?” a voice cried from the tower.
“It’s for the signorina!” Giacomo yelled back, and then the voice shouted that I should make myself at home.
The butler led me along a concrete path to a terrace overlooking the sea. It was full of white chairs adorned with arabesques and brightly colored cushions. “Would you like a tall drink?” the servant said. I was still drinking it when a quarter of an hour later the host appeared. I knew him, it was the second time I’d seen him. His name was Arlorio and his paintings—seascapes, sailboats, freight cars, harlequins—filled the drawing rooms of half of Rome. He was as tall as I remembered him, lean, with a semi-halo of gray hair around his sinewy neck. He looked like Picasso, only taller and harder, and without Picasso’s luminous smile. “They’re all on the boat,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for them.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
He had bright, quick eyes, like a bird of prey’s, and long, sinewy, probing fingers. He was sunburned, and was wearing only a skimpy swimsuit with white and red flowers on it. His knees bore the marks of old wounds, those unmistakable scars left by childhood battles. I was surprised that someone like him could ever have been a child. When he sat down he pinched his thighs, the gesture of someone who’s not used to sitting down without his pants on. If I’d wanted to, I would have laughed. “What was the weather like in Rome?” he said.
“August.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Very hot. I don’t know why Arianna wants to go back. She’s so unpredictable,” he said, choosing just the right adjective. “I assume you’re great friends. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Just friends?” he said. I looked him in the eyes, and he laughed, if only halfheartedly. “She told me you’re a journalist. At the Corriere dello Sport, I think. Do you like it?” he said hurriedly, “because I have lots of friends who are journalists and I think I could do something for you.”
“I like it a lot.”
“Better that way,” he said, opening his hands wide. Then he looked around. “Better that way,” he said again. “Would you like a drink?” I said no, and he smiled. Then he excused himself, saying he still had a little work to do but that I should make myself at home. If I wanted to take a dip, I just had to ask Giacomo for a swimsuit. Besides, the others shouldn’t be much longer. Anyway, he really had to go. He apologized again and walked away, whistling for the dogs. Soon afterward, the music of a Bach chorale wafted down from the tower.
* * *
It was four when a throbbing came from the sea. A boat appeared, gradually revealing itself as a large cabin cruiser. It moored at the jetty below the cliff and a few people disembarked, all in the same white and red flowered swimsuits. Among them was Arianna, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders. Her harmonious, touchingly girlish body was dark and shiny. She looked very happy. I heard her voice as they climbed the steps carved into the rock. She was saying something about how tired she was, and a blond young man wearing a necklace of shells put an arm around her shoulders. They vanished into the coastal vegetation and when they reappeared their voices were very close. All at once, they were on the terrace.
Arianna was amazed to see me. “My God! It’s over! It’s over!” she cried theatrically and kissed me on the cheek. “How’s Graziano?” she said.
“Fine.”
“What a fucked-up son of a bitch,” she said. “Not even a postcard. But what are you wearing?” she went on, looking at my khaki pants. “Didn’t you have a pair of jeans? Come on, let me introduce you to the others. Have you already met Mauro?” she said, referring to Arlorio. I shook several hands. Everyone was very casual and tanned. Just then Arlorio appeared at the top of the tower and made a broad gesture as if blessing them. “Introibo ad altare Dei.” Christ! Everyone laughed, but Arianna’s face turned serious for a fraction of a second. Then she took me by the hand and smiled. “You already know each other, I assume?” she said in her conceited way. Arlorio nodded gravely and blessed me too. “I have to pack,” she said. “Will you come with me to my room?” We went back along part of the concrete path, between the oleanders, then turned onto another path that was very short and led to a room isolated from the rest of the house. It had a large window that looked out on the sea and was filled with light. The furniture consisted of a table, an antique pier glass, and a bed covered in the same white-and-red-flowered material as the swimsuits.
I watched Arianna as she filled a suitcase in silence. She acted as if I wasn’t there, and when she took off her swimsuit, I felt humiliated. Not bothering with panties, she put on a very threadbare pair of jeans and a transparent lace blouse and red rubber sandals on her feet. “I’m ready,” she said.
We went back to the terrace. They were all lying on white chairs and when they saw us they raised a chorus of protests. “What a bore you are!” one girl said. “Couldn’t you have left with us on Sunday?” Arlorio, leaning on the parapet that overhung the cliff, smiled and said we should both stay until Sunday. Arianna glared at him, then started saying good-bye to the others. That took a while, as it involved making appointments for when she would be in Rome. The last person she said good-bye to was Arlorio. He was still smiling, which irritated her. “Bye,” she said to him. Then she turned because the servant had appeared with her suitcase. “Shall we get the hell out of here?” she said to me and set off. We’d reached the end of the terrace when we heard Arlorio’s voice again. “Arianna!” he called. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What, according to you?”
“You know perfectly well,” Arlorio said, holding out a hand.
For a
moment, Arianna stared at him with her big eyes, then started searching in the pockets of her jeans. They were very tight and she had to struggle to pull out the pack of cards. She handed it to the servant, who in turn carried it to Arlorio. He took it, weighed it in his hand, and, still smiling, threw it over his shoulder, sending it sailing down the cliff. Then even Arianna smiled.
We followed the servant in silence. When we reached the old Alfa Romeo, I went ahead of him and opened the trunk. The servant put in the suitcase and then dusted off his hands. “Good-bye, signorina,” he said. “I hope to see you again in Rome.” Arianna nodded and got in the car.
For the first hundred kilometers neither of us spoke. Arianna was silent, looking out the window at the stony mountains as they faded in the sunset. The sea was taking on the color of pearls. There was great sadness in the speed at which the days were getting shorter. As if they were trying to redeem something that was irredeemable. With a sense of heartache, I thought about September, when the ferocity of summer would abate.
“Why did you want me to come and get you?” I said.
She didn’t reply immediately. Then she said, “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
I knew perfectly well why she’d done it. She’d wanted to show me off to Arlorio just as she’d shown him off to me that evening outside the gates of Sant’Elia’s villa. Arlorio’s advantage was that he didn’t know. But, then, I guess he had all the advantages. For me, it was over.
The road was running alongside the railroad tracks now. It was getting dark. In the dark it wasn’t too difficult to keep quiet. The straight, tree-lined road was full of shadows and the wind came in cool through the windows. We came to the lights of the first little town on the Castelli, where we stopped at a trattoria and had a quick bite. Then we left again immediately and within an hour we were on the outskirts of Rome.
Last Summer in the City Page 14