The Purple Room

by Mauro Casiraghi

  “There’s nothing to explain,” she says over the phone. “I don’t want to go and that’s it… I said no… I don’t feel like it anymore, okay? I’m free to make my own decisions… What can I do about it? It just means you won’t have to give me a present at Christmas… Actually, don’t give me any gifts anymore.”

  She blows out her cheeks and widens her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m listening to you… Where do you think I am? With Dad… Because I felt like it… Okay, here he is…”

  She hands her phone to me. “Careful. She’s pretty pissed.”

  I take the phone and say brightly, “Hi, Alessandra.”

  “What’s going on?” she fumes.

  “I don’t know, actually. Michela just got here and she still hasn’t told me––”

  “I’ll tell you, then,” she interrupts me. “At the last minute, your daughter has decided not to go to Paris. The flight’s the day after tomorrow, it’s all been planned. I paid in advance and now she doesn’t want to go.”

  I look at Michela. She’s sitting on the couch and has turned on the TV.

  “Why doesn’t she want to go?”

  “Who knows? This morning, out of the blue, she said she didn’t want to go anymore.”

  “All right, let me talk to her. Then I’ll call you back.”

  I sit down beside Michela. She’s watching a music video.

  “What happened between you and Daniel?” I ask.

  She stares at me as if I had a crystal ball or something.

  “Who told you it has to do with him?”

  “Well, does it or doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. But how do you know?”

  “You were going to Paris for him, not to study French. We both know that.”

  Michela turns away, her eyes riveted on the screen. I can’t think of anything else to say. We sit there in silence. After a while I see a black tear trickling down her cheek. She’s crying again. The corners of her mouth are turned down and her chin is trembling, just like when she was little. Sometimes she used to cry for no reason, as if she just needed to give vent to her emotions. I never did know how to console her in those moments. Just like I don’t know how to now.

  “Micky…” I say, without the slightest idea of how to continue the sentence.

  Michela leans against me and sobs. I put my arm around her shoulder and hug her. Her tears wet my shirt.

  “I hate him!” she rages. “He’s a bastard!.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He’d been kind of strange for a couple of days. He wasn’t calling. He didn’t turn up for a date. Then last night he said, ‘Let’s meet tomorrow morning in the square.’ I went, like an idiot, thinking he wanted to apologize. Instead he had this speech all prepared. He doesn’t know if I’m the right person for him at this point in his life. Bullshit like that. In the end he said it’s best for us not to see each other in Paris. Do you get it, Dad? That bastard dumped me right before we were supposed to leave!”

  “Um...” I nod.

  I hold her in my arms a little longer. When she starts snuffling, I get up and bring her some tissues. Michela blows her nose and dries her eyes. Her black makeup stays on the tissue.

  “Oh God, what a mess.”

  She runs into the bathroom. I stick my head in the door while she’s rinsing her face at the sink. “I’m sorry, Micky. I know you were looking forward to this trip with Daniel. We’d already bought the books and everything. Still, I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t for the best, in the end.”

  Michela lifts up her dripping face. She looks at me in the mirror without understanding.

  “To be honest,” I continue, “Daniel just seems kind of like a pretty-boy to me.”

  “A what?”

  “A pretty-boy,” I repeat, “with that ridiculous car and that hair cut––a spoiled little rich kid. I just don’t think he was right for you. You deserve someone better than that, Micky. You really do.”

  Michela stares at me, squinting like it’s hard to bring me into focus, and says, “You don’t understand shit, Dad.”

  Then she kicks the door shut in my face.

  Around seven, I start making up some pasta sauce. Michela’s outside sending text messages, bombarding Daniel with insults.

  The telephone rings while I’m peeling a clove of garlic.

  “Is it all right if I come to pick Michela up in an hour?” Alessandra asks.

  “Actually, she asked me if she could stay over. Didn’t she tell you? She said she would.”

  “No… What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. She just wants to sleep here.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That it’s okay with me.”

  “And does that seem right to you?”

  “She’s got her room upstairs. I don’t see the problem.”

  “This is no good, Sergio. This wasn’t our agreement.”

  “What agreement are you talking about?”

  “How come all of a sudden you’re taking an interest in Michela?”

  “Look, she was the one that came here. I didn’t force her to come.”

  “It’s no good,” Alessandra repeats. “I don’t like it at all.”

  “What’s wrong with her staying here? I’ll bring her back home tomorrow.”

  “Watch what you do, Sergio. Don’t go messing up my life again. Are we clear?”

  “Completely.”

  “Put Michela on now.”

  “She’s on her phone.”

  “Well, tell her to call me back. And tomorrow morning you’re bringing her home. Understood?”

  I’ve barely begun to sauté the garlic when the phone rings again. This time it’s Roberto.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he asks. He’s in his car.

  “I’m making some pasta for Michela and me. A surprise visit.”

  “I see. So you’re busy?”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to ask if you could put me up for the night.”

  “What’s the matter, Rob?”

  “Loredana was busting my balls and I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave. I don’t want to go back home tonight.”

  “Come on over. There’s plenty of room.”

  “But I’ll ruin your evening with your daughter.”

  “Michela’s just split up with her boyfriend. You’ll be great company for each other.”

  “All right,” he says. I can tell that he’s glad. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Roberto arrived while I was draining the pasta. Michela had set the table out in the garden. She’d even found two candles, goodness knows where. When I told her that, in my opinion, she was much prettier without all that black eye make-up on, she huffed and hid her face behind her hair.

  When we’re about to finish our meal, Nino drops by. He has Lucky on a leash. “How sweet!” says Michela. She picks the dog up. “What’s his name?”

  Nino tells her, then adds, “If it hadn’t been for Sergio, this dog would have ended up roasted.”

  Michela and Roberto both ask him what he’s talking about. Nino’s amazed that I haven’t said anything about the fire. Then he tells the whole story.

  “I can’t believe it,” says Michela. “Dad hates dogs. He was bitten when he was little.”

  She insists that I show everyone the scar on the nape of my neck, under my hair. I must have been about five. We were away camping and I was playing in the gravel with some other children. Suddenly, an old shepherd dog that had never hurt a soul came up and bit me on the head. I ended up in the emergency room. The owner of the campground put the dog down.

  “Feel how soft he is,” Michela says, putting Lucky on my lap. The dog wags its tail and tries to lick my face. I put it right back on the ground, then I ask Nino how Sabrina is.

  “She’s packing our bags.”

  He tells us that his wife was listening to the radio the other day, a game show. The questions were about Italian songs from the Sixties. Sabrin
a called in, just to see what would happen, guessed all the right answers and won a trip to Majorca. A week for two in a luxury hotel.

  “The problem is that the plane leaves tomorrow,” Nino says, “and we still haven’t found anyone to take Lucky.”

  “What about your son?”

  “He spends the whole day in the shop and then sleeps at his girlfriend’s place in Rome. He doesn’t want anything to do with the dog.”

  “Can’t you take it with you?” I ask.

  “The hotel won’t take him. I know it would be a nuisance for you, but it’s only for a week. You only have to open a can of dog food once a day. He’s a really good dog.”

  “Come on, Dad, we can keep him,” Michela says.

  “You’re going back to your mom’s tomorrow,” I say, “and the dog would die of starvation with me.”

  “I’ll come and feed him every day.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “I promise! I’ve got nothing to do for two weeks. Please?”

  Michela looks at me with those big eyes and swears she’ll look after the dog. In the end, fool that I am, I say yes.

  After dinner, Michela resumed her war with Daniel, a battle fought with text messages. Roberto and I sat down outside to drink screwdrivers. The dog lay down under my chair and has refused to move ever since.

  “What have you and Loredana been fighting about?”

  “About everything, really. The main reason is always the same––kids. In September we’ll have been together ten years. We made a deal, right from the beginning, a very clear agreement––no kids. I’ll admit it, I just don’t feel like I want to be a father. It doesn’t make sense to bring children into this world. Loredana always agreed with me. Then one day she woke up and started saying that she wanted a baby. She’s just turned forty, you see. I haven’t changed my mind, though. If anything, I’m more certain than I was before. Do you know what she keeps on repeating, day and night, like a broken record? ‘You’re just afraid of growing old’,’ she says. ‘You don’t want children because watching them grow up will make you notice the time passing. Don’t you understand that the only way to live forever is to have children?’”

  He broods in silence for a while, then asks me, “Do you think I’m just scared of getting old?”

  “I don’t know, Rob. I think that everyone has to do what they feel like doing. What they think is right. That’s all we can do, really.”

  I realize that what I’ve just said doesn’t have much meaning for Roberto. I was thinking more about myself. After the disappointment at the hospital, I’m afraid to keep looking for Gloria. Still, it made me understand that I was painting a false image of her for myself, like in an ad, instead of thinking about her as a flesh and blood person. Looking for her, I run the risk of destroying my memory of the purple room. At the same time, I know perfectly well that the memory won’t last forever. It’s destined to vanish anyway––with old age, with death. I know I don’t want to die without having seen Gloria again, at least once.

  “I’m going in to make up your bed,” I say, standing up.

  “I’ll come and give you a hand.”

  “No, stay out here and enjoy the cool air.”

  The dog jumps up and follows me to the kitchen door. I leave it outside and go down to the bunker.

  First, I change the sheets and pillow case on the sofa bed. Then I sit down at the desk, pick up the phone and call Gloria Decesaris. The one in Montemori, in the province of Siena. It rings once, twice, three times. On the fourth, someone answers.

  “Yes?” says a woman’s voice.

  It’s her. Even after thirty years of not hearing her voice, I recognize it immediately. The exact same way of saying, “Yes.”

  “Who is it?” she asks.

  I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. My tongue won’t move. I’m paralyzed.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” Gloria asks again. “I can tell there’s someone there. Who are you?”

  Who are you? That question––your question––and the reply you gave yourself that afternoon, when you said, Now I know who you are. I didn’t understand what you meant. Who am I? It’s me, Gloria, the boy who kissed you and caressed you inch by inch. I’m the man who hasn’t forgotten you, and who tomorrow will knock on your door. I’ll bring together two distant points in time and make them touch for an instant, like a photograph, a picture, a perfect image of the two of us together.

  It’s useless. I can’t say all these things to her. Gloria is getting anxious. Maybe she thinks it’s a prank. I don’t want to frighten her. I put the receiver down without having said a word. I’m sorry to, but what else could I do? Bye, Gloria. Goodnight. Until tomorrow.

  I check the address: Gloria Decesaris, Lesi-Uliveto, Number 6, Montemori, province of Siena. Lesi-Uliveto must be a tiny outlying district. I get the road map. Montemori is a little town in the Chianti hills. I can get there without even taking the highway. I only need to get on the old Cassia road going north and keep going straight. I grab a bag out of the closet and throw in a few essentials: underwear, T-shirts, a pair of pants, a comb and my toothbrush. My camera, too. I take the alarm clock, set it for eight o’clock, and carry everything upstairs.

  As I’m passing through the kitchen, the phone rings again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sergio. It’s Loredana.”

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “All right. Sorry to bother you, but… Is Roberto there at your place?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good news. I was a little worried.”

  “Didn’t he tell you he was coming here?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Do you think he wants to talk to me?”

  “I’ll see.”

  I go out into the garden. Roberto and Michela are on deck chairs pointing out the constellations to each other.

  “Loredana’s on the phone, Rob.”

  “You shouldn’t have told her I was here!”

  “She was worried.”

  “Well, tell her I just left. Make something up.”

  “Come on. Go and talk to her.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Roberto jumps out of his chair. “Why can’t I ever get some goddamn peace? Jesus!”

  Michela and I stay there, looking up at the sky, the shouts of Roberto on the phone drifting out from the kitchen. To think that he said Loredana was the hysterical one.

  “What deal did Loredana break?” Michela asks, puzzled. “Are they fighting about money or something?”

  “No, a personal kind of deal. She broke an agreement they made. And it’s not nice to listen in on other people’s conversations, Micky.”

  “How can I not listen? He’s yelling so loud they’re going to hear him back in Rome. Anyway, if Loredana broke a deal, Roberto is right to be pissed off.”

  “Did you and Daniel have a deal?” I ask, without missing a beat.

  Michela doesn’t answer. She studies a lock of her hair, holding it to the light, hunting for split ends.

  We sit there in silence until Roberto comes back from the kitchen.

  “Sorry if I was a little loud,” he says. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. What are your plans for tomorrow, Sergio? Want to do something?”

  “Tomorrow morning I’m taking Michela home, then I’m heading out of town.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Tuscany. I want to take some pictures. I don’t know how long I’ll be away. You can stay here as long as you like. I’ll leave you the keys.”

  “Thanks, Sergio. It’s nice here,” he says, sucking the night air into his lungs. “Well, goodnight.”

  “Sleep well, Rob.”

  I wait a few minutes to see if Michela wants to talk. Once I’m sure she doesn’t, I get up and go into the kitchen to wash the dishes. After a little while, Michela comes in, too, and perches on the edge of the
table. She just watches, without lifting a finger.

  “Don’t you use the dish washer?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you always eat alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s it going with her?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The woman you’re always thinking about. You don’t want to tell me who she is?”

  “No.”

  “Does she ever come here to eat with you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you meet at her place?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s someone you met in a chat room, then.”

  “Are you done interrogating me?”

  “That’s it! I knew it! Did you get her to send a photo? You know, it could be a man. That happened to a friend of mine. He’d started chatting with this girl and then––”

  “That’s enough Micky. It’s time for bed, for both of us.”

  “Tomorrow you have to tell me everything.”

  We go upstairs. Michela’s room is still the same as when she was little. Alessandra bought all new things for their apartment in the city. The twin-bed and closet set, the lamp in the shape of a butterfly, and the little desk where Michela used to do her homework, they all stayed here. On the wall are the pencil marks I made to keep track as she grew taller. The first one is at just twenty-seven inches. A garden gnome.

  “There are whole pounds of dust in here,” says Michela, looking around in disgust. “Don’t you ever clean?”

  I open the window to air the room out. “There’s a lady who usually comes up from town, but it’s been a while since I called her.”

  Michela inspects all the little knick-knacks and plush toys on the shelves. She studies the photos of when she was little, her framed drawings.

  “What’s it like, seeing your room again?” I ask while I’m making up the bed.

  “I don’t know,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s like it’s some other little girl’s room.”

  She pulls her earphones out of her backpack and puts them in.

  “Do you want a T-shirt to sleep in?”

  “No, I’ve got everything.”

  “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, Dad. I’m not three years old. If I’m thirsty, I’ll get up.”