The Purple Room

by Mauro Casiraghi

Suddenly the house feels huge and silent.

  I go out into the garden. The wind is brisk. The trees are swaying and the sky is clouding over. The grass is getting long again and needs to be cut. Some things grow all by themselves, stubbornly, without needing any help. The lawn. My beard. Hair. Nails. Children. We try so hard to keep them in check, to keep them how we want them, but they just keep growing.

  Under the cedar tree, there’s a bird’s nest. It’s a soft weave of twigs, down, and pine needles. There are five eggs in it, small and pale, with little spots. They must have shattered when they hit the ground. A miniature omelet. In a fold of the nest I notice a sixth egg. It’s intact. The tree has low branches that are strong enough to hold me. I get a chair and then climb as high as I can, holding the nest in one hand. I reach a wide, sheltered branch that looks promising. I set the nest delicately among the needles and pull my hand back. Proud of myself, I’m about to climb down when a gust of wind sways the branch. The nest rocks like a little boat in a storm. I stretch out to grab it, but it slips out of my grasp and falls to the ground.

  The last egg smashes, like all the others.

  Inside, the phone rings. It’s Franco.

  “Hey there, bud. What’re you up to?

  “Well, I found a nest in the garden, and all the eggs were broken except for one. I put it back up in the tree, but it fell again, and now that one is broken, too.”

  Franco laughs. He thinks I’m joking.

  “What else are you up to, aside from messing around in your yard? How’re you feeling?”

  “Great.”

  “Is your memory back to normal?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “It’s just a matter of time. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah, you told me that.”

  “Hey, listen, I wanted to ask you to come out for dinner. Roberto’s coming, too. There’s this new place along the road to Ostia.”

  “I don’t really feel like going out.”

  “I’ll come pick you up. I have to drive out your way anyway, to pick up an order of olive oil. Be ready by eight.”

  “Franco, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Don’t piss me off. I’ll be there at eight. If I don’t see you coming out, I’ll drive my SUV straight into your gate.”

  “Come on.”

  “Eight. See you then, bud.”

  At eight on the dot, my buzzer rings. I can see the huge SUV through the window, headlights aimed at my gate. Franco revs the engine menacingly and honks at me until I come out.

  “I knew you wouldn’t be a dick about it,” he says, opening the door. “Get in.”

  I climb into the passenger seat and he floors it. I feel like I’m in an airplane. There’s even a TV on the dashboard.

  “Nice, right? Stops me from getting too bored in traffic.”

  Franco turns on the news. Headlines scroll across the bottom of the screen. A prisoner apparently glued his hand to his girlfriend’s when she visited him in jail. “The authorities have not yet been able to separate them,” it reads.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “A new place. They do seafood couscous and stuff. There’s a belly dancing show. And a dance club. Now that the word’s out, half of Rome will be there, but who cares? We have a reservation. Tonight you’re going to have fun, you’ll see.”

  After my divorce, Roberto dragged me to play five-a-side soccer every week. He said we had to stay in shape for scuba diving, but really he was trying to distract me from my problems. Franco played for the rival team, and I didn’t know him. He was big and heavy, like a bull. Instead of dodging his opponents on his way to the goal, he would move them out of his way. One good shove and the defense would topple like bowling pins. We complained about those fouls, but he didn’t care. Franco would just run straight to the goal and score.

  The one time we argued about it, Franco stormed off the field in a huff. Everyone went for pizza after that game. I’m not sure how I ended up talking to Franco about my divorce. Roberto had told me that Franco was unmarried and constantly surrounded by women. I had always thought of him as immature, the kind of guy who at forty still wasn’t ready for the responsibility of a serious relationship. But Franco didn’t brag about his sex life that evening. He wanted to hear about what had happened between Alessandra and me. He asked lots of questions about my broken marriage, and I found myself telling him things I had never told anyone.

  When it was his turn to talk, he told me about Carla, a woman he’d met years before. She was a doctor, too. They got along so well that they decided to move in together after only a few months. On the weekends, they’d take Franco’s motorcycle and go on trips. They were on the highway near Barberino del Mugello when a semi started to pass them and swerved. A wheel hit them at a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour, sending them spinning into the air. The truck was carrying a load of live trout, and when it tipped over, hundreds of fish scattered all over the road. Franco got right back up, absolutely fine. Carla stayed lying on the road, surrounded by wriggling fish. She didn’t move. She’d broken the vertebrae in her neck.

  After the accident, Carla didn’t want anything to do with Franco. She didn’t blame him. It was just that she couldn’t handle being with him. He reminded her of everything she’d wanted, everything she’d lost.

  We drive down the road toward Ostia. Long rows of maritime pines, black against the sky, flash past us. We slow down when we get close to the sea, and we turn into a parking lot.

  The restaurant is full of couples dining by candlelight. Strange. Usually Franco hates places like this. A waitress shows us to our table. Roberto is already there. He isn’t alone; Loredana is with him. The table is set for six.

  I give Franco a look, waiting for an explanation.

  “You’ll see,” he says, winking.

  Loredana greets me a bit coldly. She was always my wife’s friend more than mine. We exchange a stiff handshake. Roberto, on the other hand, pulls me into a bear hug. His white shirt brings out his tan. I ask if he’s been to the beach.

  “No, I went to a tanning salon,” he says. “I’m done with the sea.”

  We barely have a chance to sit down before the waitress brings two more people over to our table––a blonde in a skin-tight dress and a tall, thin woman with a mass of chestnut curls.

  Franco does the introductions.

  “Loredana, Roberto, Sergio, this is Petra and her friend Silvia. You’ll never guess what they do for a living,” he says, hinting at something illegal or obscene.

  “Research at the university,” the blonde one, Petra, cuts him off.

  “See who I got to join us?” says Franco. “Two scientists! Entomologists! Ever dined with cockroach experts?”

  Franco puts his arm around Petra’s waist and whispers in her ear. She laughs.

  Silvia sits down next to me, stiff as a rod. She nervously smooths her napkin out on her lap, never looking me in the eye.

  Roberto shoots me a look that says, “Not my fault. It was Franco’s idea.”

  Silvia looks uncomfortable. Thirty-nine, single, five foot nine and a hundred and ten pounds of shyness. Her slightly bulging green eyes dart around, looking for some kind of escape. Given her job, I can’t help but think of a praying mantis. Although I doubt she’s the type to devour a man after sex.

  “Would you like some wine?” I ask, holding the bottle ready over her glass.

  Silvia fidgets. She shakes her head, then changes her mind, picking up her glass and knocking over her water all at once.

  “Oh my God! I’m such a klutz!” She dabs at the water and bumps my glass, tipping it over too. “Oh, God! I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s just water,” I say. “Let me help you.”

  I move the glasses and press my napkin to the tablecloth. Silvia braces her hands against the seat of her chair, as if she’s ready to jump up and run away at any moment.

  After dinner we move into the bar and club area. Franco, Petra, Robe
rto, and Loredana start dancing. Silvia hangs back in a corner.

  “Do you like strawberries?” I ask her.

  “Yeah… I love them.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I head to the bar and order a strawberry caipiroska for her and a screwdriver for me. I go back with the drink and find her with her nose in the air, looking at the ceiling. She’s watching a gecko on the hunt. It slowly stalks a moth, getting closer and closer, and then lunges and eats it.

  “Fascinating,” I say, handing her the caipiroska.

  Silvia buries her nose in the glass and guzzles the whole thing down.

  “How was it?” I ask.

  “Good,” she replies, licking her lips.

  “Want another one?”

  “Please.”

  I rush off for another cocktail. Franco and Roberto are watching us from the dance floor, trying to gauge how it’s going. The music is blasting at full volume. Two male dancers, wearing glittery gold skirts and covered in oil, climb on top of the counter and start spinning around like whirling dervishes. Silvia observes them like she observed the gecko. It looks like she’s wondering what they would look like soaking in a big jar of formaldehyde.

  “They totally tricked us,” I say when I get back.

  “Who?”

  “Our friends. I bet they set this whole thing up just for the two of us.”

  Silvia blushes. She sticks her nose into her new caipiroska.

  “They didn’t warn you, either?”

  “No…”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t make you dance with me. I’m harmless. If I’d known what Franco and Roberto were up to, I never would have come. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have, either?”

  Silvia nods and looks at me like I just took a huge weight off her shoulders.

  “I’d drive you home right now,” I add, “but my car’s not here.”

  “Mine is,” she says. “I drove us here.”

  “Well, why are you still here, then? Petra is with Franco; you’re free to go.”

  “I don’t like driving at night. And I’m starting to feel these drinks.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Near Piazza Bologna.”

  “Perfect. I’ll drive you home and then grab a taxi.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My mom lives near there, on the Tiburtina. I can sleep at her place.”

  “What should we tell them?” Silvia asks, glancing at the dance floor.

  “Nothing. We’ll just leave.”

  Silvia digs through her bag and then hands me her keys. We wave to Franco and the others. They’re all happy to see us leaving together.

  Outside the restaurant, we run into tons of people who are just arriving, all dressed up for an evening out. We start looking for the car in the parking lot. Silvia’s tipsy. She stumbles on the gravel and leans on my arm.

  “It’s a blue Fiat 500,” she says. “It must be here somewhere.”

  We can’t find it. We wander through the maze of cars for a while before Silvia finally recognizes it.

  “There it is! That one.”

  Two women are getting out of a nearby car and coming toward us. Even though it’s dark, I recognize one of them by her athletic figure. It’s Antonella. I wonder if she left the dating agency and is back to her old method of picking up guys in clubs. For her sake, I hope so. Her new way of choosing men like a soccer coach—this one yes, that one no—was pretty intimidating.

  I’m considering going and apologizing for that phone call when she recognizes me, too.

  “Look, Miriam!” she says to her friend. “That’s the guy I was telling you about.”

  Silvia is next to me, waiting to get into the car. Antonella looks her up and down, then turns to me with a vicious smile.

  “So I was wrong, then. You’re not an impotent fag. You’re an impotent manwhore.”

  She looks back at Silvia.

  “If you’ve been going out for a while, then you should know that this bastard cheated on you. We slept together last week. If, on the other hand, he picked you up tonight, I should warn you that he’s a lot of work. You’ll have to go down on him for half an hour before you can really get started. And I’d advise kicking him out the second you’re done. Otherwise tomorrow you’ll find yourself waking up next to a worm.”

  Silvia glances at me, wide-eyed, scared, confused.

  “Get in,” I say, opening the door for her.

  “You don’t think I’m going to let you get off that easy, do you?” Antonella takes a step toward me.

  “Come on, forget it,” says Miriam, taking hold of her arm.

  “Fuck that!” She wriggles free. “I’m not letting this go.”

  It occurs to me that Antonella and I have something in common: failed marriages. Two, in her case. We’re both veterans of ruthless wars, atrocities committed on both sides. Now, suddenly, facing her rage, I feel like I’m fighting with my wife again. Here we are, back in the trenches. I wonder if Antonella feels the same way. If she’s reliving all the worst moments of her past marriages. The outbursts of anger, the furious shouting, the verbal violence. The physical violence.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” I try. “I don’t know if Luisa explained it to you, but I only said that stupid thing because—”

  “Luisa said you were sick and a lot of other bullshit. It’s pretty clear how sick you are!”

  She glares at Silvia through the car window and adds, “You really will fuck anything with legs, won’t you?”

  “Watch it, that’s my sister.”

  “Your sister?” she says scornfully. “You’re not a man, you’re a gutless liar. A sewer rat. A disgusting, fucking rat. You know what you deserve?”

  Her handbag slams into my temple. It doesn’t hurt much. It must be mostly empty. Two or three more hits follow, equally painless. I figure I might as well let her keep hitting me with her bag until she runs out of steam, but then a punch lands on my ear. That hurts. I shield myself with my arms and take it, hoping that someone will come to my rescue. Miriam tries to drag her away, but Antonella keeps punching me.

  The horn makes us all jump.

  Silvia is throwing her weight into it, pressing down on the wheel with both hands. The sound is deafening. I take advantage of the confusion and scramble into the car with her. I lock the doors. Antonella takes off a shoe and pounds it on the windshield.

  “Coward! Get out of the car!” she screams.

  “Let’s go!” begs Silvia.

  I manage to get the key into the ignition. I rev the motor and turn on the headlights. Antonella plants herself in my way, hands on the hood.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “Move!” I shout from inside the car.

  “You want to run me over? Go ahead! You limp dick! Do it!”

  I take my foot off the clutch. The car lunges forward.

  “He’s trying to kill me!” shrieks Antonella, backing away. “The bastard wants to run me over!”

  She slides her shoe back on and takes off through the parking lot. I didn’t think that would be so easy.

  “Now we can go,” I say to Silvia.

  I pull out and head for the exit.

  We’re almost at the gate when I see Antonella again. She’s digging through the trunk of her car. She pulls out a heavy metal object. A pedal-club lock with steel clamps.

  “What’s she doing?”

  Antonella starts running toward us, holding the pedal-club over her shoulder like a baseball bat.

  “Watch out!” yells Silvia.

  I slam my foot on the gas and swerve. The tires skid on the gravel. Antonella hurls the club at us and it hits the windshield, shattering it. Glass shards fly everywhere. They’re in my mouth, in my hair.

  I stop the car and look in the rearview mirror. Antonella is standing there with her hands on her hips. She’s waiting for me to get out.

  “I should call the police.”

  “No,” says Si
lvia. “Let’s just go, please. I don’t care about the windshield.”

  “She’s insane. We have to do something.”

  “Please. I just want to go home.”

  “Fine.”

  I chuck the pedal-club out of the side window and take off, skidding on the gravel.

  10

  We drive in silence through the night. The hot and humid summer air blows through the shattered windshield. Bugs and mosquitos keep flying into my face.

  Silvia stares straight ahead, eyes wide. She’s still shaking with fear. She’s probably asking herself how she ended up in this mess. Antonella and I must seem like monsters to her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can explain if you want.”

  “I’d rather not know,” Silvia cuts me off.

  She’s right. We should forget about it. Still, I am sorry it had to go this way. I would have liked to make the most of the evening. It’s been mortifying, but it’s still a beautiful early summer night.

  Resigned, I hug the white line on the road, focusing on the intersections and overpasses we speed by on our way back to the city. A huge moth comes through the windshield. It flutters around my head and flits up against the roof of the car. I try to flick it away with my hand.

  “Stop!” says Silvia. She turns on the inside light and waits for the moth to settle on it. She examines it, then exclaims,

  “It’s an Amata phegea!”

  She tells me everything about the moth, which she refers to as a lepidopteran.

  “See? It has unusual coloring—blue and yellow—to warn predators that it’s toxic.”

  I ask her a few questions about her work, and suddenly she gets talkative. She explains how male scorpion flies attract mates by giving a gift of prey to the females. She tells me that dragonflies reproduce in flight, and that the shape of their joined bodies looks like a heart. Silvia immerses herself in the details of insects’ sex lives without any embarrassment. She’s lost all her shyness, and she seems like a totally different person.

  I ask her about ants. I’ve been fighting them for sixteen years now, so I figure I should learn something about them. Silvia explains how the hierarchy of an anthill works, how the queen lives at the top, followed by the males and then the workers at the very bottom.