The Purple Room

by Mauro Casiraghi

  “Right. Goodnight, Micky.”

  I go out into the garden to put the deckchairs away before the automatic sprinklers come on. I notice that the ants have disappeared from the crack in the wall. There’s not a single one left. Who knows where they went?

  It’s a clear, bright night. Lucky is curled up in a corner of the portico, sound asleep. I think about Roberto, sleeping downstairs in the bunker, and Michela, still awake in her childhood bed. Tonight my home is once again a little fort, protecting the people I love. There’s just one thing missing to make everything perfect.

  I go up to the master bedroom. Making as little noise as possible, I pull the bed, the night tables and the chest of drawers out from against the walls and cover the parquet with newspaper. Then I get undressed, open the can of paint, pick up the roller and paint all the walls purple. I get paint all over myself, even in my hair, but in the end the room looks wonderful. Once I hang the curtains back up, it will be perfect. I take the plastic cover off the mattress and make up the bed with the linen sheets my mother gave me when I got married. Alessandra always said they were too rough, so we only ever used them once or twice. I’m sure Gloria will like them.

  If I close my eyes and stretch out my hand, I can almost feel her skin under my fingertips.

  17

  I look at the alarm clock. It’s not even eight o’clock yet. That’s why it hasn’t gone off. I get up, take a shower and go down to the kitchen. Michela is browsing through a magazine. She’s wearing her earphones. She doesn’t notice I’m there until I cover the page with my hand.

  “Coffee’s ready,” she says, shifting my hand to continue reading.

  “How come you’re already up?”

  She can’t hear me. I raise my voice and repeat the question.

  “It’s too quiet here,” she snorts, taking out her earphones.

  “And Roberto?”

  “He’s still asleep.”

  I pour some coffee and sit down beside her. She’s put on her makeup. Her eyes are once more two unfathomable slits.

  “As soon as I’ve had my coffee, I’ll take you home.”

  “I’ve just had a great idea,” she says, as if she didn’t hear me. “I’m coming to Tuscany with you.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re staying here to look after the dog, remember? A can of dog food every day.”

  “We’ll take him with us. Me, you and Lucky. It’ll be an adventure!”

  “You’re really funny this morning.”

  “I’ve already told Mom.”

  “I’m curious to know what she said.”

  “I don’t know. I texted her and then I turned my phone off.”

  “She’s probably on her way here to drag you home.”

  “You have to convince her to let me go with you.”

  “Why? It’s against my own interests.”

  “Oh, come on! What’ve you got to lose? Tons of divorced fathers take their kids with them on vacation. You’ve never taken me anywhere.”

  “I haven’t taken a vacation in years, Micky.”

  “So, now you are. You said you want to take pictures. I can help you. I can be your model, okay?”

  She starts posing with her hands under her chin and her eyes turned to the ceiling. A goth version of a Byzantine Madonna. Maybe it would be nice to just drive off, go where we please, stop when we like. For once we could spend time talking together, instead of going around shops like a couple of idiots.

  “I promise you we’ll get another chance,” I say in the end, “but this time it’s not possible.”

  Michela gets up, fuming. She goes out to the garden to feed Lucky. I’m sure she won’t come out from Rome to feed the dog every day. It’s destined to starve to death. The only solution would be for her to take the dog home with her.

  I call Alessandra. There’s one chance in a hundred that she’ll agree to take Lucky.

  “I was about to call you,” she says. She has that irritated tone that never bodes well. “What’s all this about a trip with Michela?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “She’s the one….”

  “She has to come home straight away. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, of course. She just thought she could come with me to Tuscany.”

  “Michela has to learn that she can’t just do as she pleases. If she doesn’t want to go to Paris, she can stay at home.”

  I don’t know why, but I say, “So, if I asked you to let her come with me, you’d say no?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “What’s wrong with me going on vacation with my daughter for a few days?”

  “Don’t start, Sergio.”

  “Explain to me what’s so wrong with that.”

  “You know perfectly well.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She sighs, tense. “For all these years, you couldn’t have cared less about her. If there was a problem at school or anywhere else, you’d say, ‘It’s your problem.’ Handing over a check once a month and taking her shopping once a week has been more than enough for you. Whenever I needed help, you always said no––especially during vacations. I have bent myself over backwards bringing her up by myself. You haven’t the faintest idea of what I’ve had to cope with. And now you come out with, ‘I’d like to take Michela on vacation.’ That’s nice and easy, isn’t it? Great job. Very smart. What do you plan to do then? When you’re tired of playing the part of the model father, will you disappear for six more years? Oh no, you don’t. I won’t let you do this.”

  Everything Alessandra has just said is true. I can’t say she’s wrong, but she doesn’t know what’s going on in my life right now.

  “I’m trying to change some things, Alessandra. There’s a person that… I can’t explain now, but it would mean a lot to me if Michela came with me.”

  “You want to take Michela to meet some woman you’re seeing? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not exactly, but… well, in a way, yes. That’s it.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Ever since you had the accident, you’ve been saying strange things. You worry me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I spoke to your mother. She told me what you did to her hand. Do you even realize what you did? You have to get some help, Sergio.”

  I don’t say anything. I feel like shoving the phone down the drain.

  “Now hurry up and bring Michela home,” she finishes. “I have to go out, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Michela and I are going to Tuscany for a few days.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You wanna bet?”

  “You wanna bet I don’t call the police? You can’t take Michela anywhere without my consent.”

  “We’ll send you a postcard, to you and Ugo.”

  “Sergio! Don’t you dare––”

  I turn off my phone and unplug the landline. Then I go out into the garden and call Michela.

  “Come on. Get your stuff. We’re leaving.”

  She looks at me, uncertain. “Are you taking me home?”

  “No. We’re going on vacation.”

  “Seriously? Is Lucky coming, too?”

  Oh, right. The dog.

  “Yes. All three of us.”

  Michela gives a whoop and throws her arms around my neck. We almost end up on the ground. “Thank you!” Then she looks uncertain again. “What did Mom say?”

  “She voted against it,” I admit.

  “So, it’s the two of us and Lucky against her. She loses, three to one!”

  Michela runs upstairs to get her backpack. I write Roberto a note and leave it on the table with the house keys. I fill a bag with the cans of dog food Nino gave us. Michela arrives with her pack on her shoulder. She puts the leash on the dog. It’s excited, wagging its tail and darting in every direction at once.

  “Let’s go
,” I say. I have a feeling that, at any moment, something could happen to stop us from leaving.

  I pick up my bag and we cross the garden. This time I left the car in the shade. I put the bags in the trunk and we get in. Lucky refuses to stay in the back alone and keeps on jumping up to the front to be with us.

  “Keep that dog still.”

  Michela clambers over to the back seat and Lucky calms down immediately, curling up beside her.

  One by one, we pass the little towns of northern Lazio, nestling darkly behind their walls, dotting the landscape like pieces scattered across a chessboard. Driving makes me feel good. I’m heading towards something that has been there waiting for me all of my life. It’s a bridge to be crossed ever so slowly, enjoying the view. Today I’m glad to be who I am. It’s something so rare that it deserves to be celebrated.

  “Micky, get the restaurant guide out from under my seat. Look for a nice place around Siena.”

  “I get car-sick if I read.”

  “Just take a quick look.”

  “If you want me to vomit in the car.”

  We argue over it a bit, but in the end I give up. Then we argue because she doesn’t like the music on the radio, because I haven’t got a CD player in the car, because the air conditioning bothers her, and because the dog wants to ride with its head out the window, tongue blowing in the wind.

  “You’re letting it lean out too far. It’s going to fall out and get run over by a truck.”

  “He likes it,” says Michela. She lets it do as it pleases.

  In Tuscany, the countryside suddenly changes. The hills spread out and orderly rows of poplar trees follow the rise and fall of the road. Michela shakes off her listlessness. She takes out her earphones and looks out of the window.

  “It’s beautiful here. Where are we?”

  “Montepulciano. Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  I leave the main road for a country one. In half an hour we reach the town at the top of the hill. We find a tavern with tables overlooking the valley. Michela seems to have forgotten her heartache for the moment. She’s engrossed in taking care of the dog. We have a leisurely meal. She has vegetables, cheese and a Coke, and I order a fillet of beef, rare. Michela stares in disgust at the fat sizzling on the grill.

  At the end of the meal, I empty my glass and notice that I’ve drunk the whole bottle.

  “Dad, remember you have to drive,” says Michela.

  “You could drive.”

  “Yeah, right. I don’t even have a license to drive a moped.”

  “You’ll have to learn sooner or later.”

  “When did you start driving?”

  “At your age I could drive, no problem. Remember your grandfather was a bus driver? He taught me all the tricks.”

  “I’ll never be able to get my license. I’m hopeless.”

  “Do you want to try?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  I drive back down into the valley and find a dirt road that runs straight through a field. There’s not a soul in sight.

  “Get in the driver’s seat.”

  We switch places.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here next to you.”

  I show her how the gear shift and the clutch work. For a while, we just practice starting. The car stalls at least ten times. The dog is barking, all excited.

  “You have to let the clutch up slowly, very slowly. Accelerate just a little with the other foot.”

  “I can’t do it. It’s too hard to work the left pedal.”

  “Try again.”

  Slowly, the car starts moving. Michela’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles have turned white.

  “Good, now switch to second gear.”

  “How?”

  “Stop accelerating and engage the clutch.”

  The motor shrieks. The car skids along the dirt road in neutral. I quickly switch from first to second.

  “Now, let the clutch go and push down on the accelerator.”

  Michela does as I say, but she hits the gas too hard. The car lunges forward.

  “Easy!”

  Michela lifts her foot a bit.

  “Good… Keep going like that.”

  “I can’t believe it. I’m driving!”

  “Now third gear, Micky.”

  Michela engages the clutch. She puts her hand on the stick and pushes it forward.

  “Perfect.”

  The car glides smoothly along. There’s no one around, only fields and scattered trees. The warm air coming in through the window ruffles Michela’s hair. She’s wearing a beautiful smile.

  “Wow!” she whoops. “Take my picture, Dad.”

  I turn on Michela’s phone. I frame her on the little screen as she clenches the steering wheel, smiling. I click. In the end it’s not a bad photo at all.

  “Uh oh,” says Michela, suddenly, “there’s a curve.”

  Fifty meters ahead of us, the road curves to the left.

  “Slow down,” I say.

  Michela slams on the clutch, holding it down without changing gears. The car rolls forward in neutral, coming up fast on the curve.

  “Use the brakes, Micky.”

  Michela is frightened. The car starts swerving.

  “Hit the brakes!” I say, holding the steering wheel steady.

  “Dad!”

  I pull up on the handbrake as hard as I can. The wheels jam, the car skids along the dirt road, raising a cloud of dust. The dog is thrown up front and lands on top of me. Michela screams, clutching the steering wheel. The car plows straight into the field and comes to a stop. I can’t see anything. We’re surrounded by yellow dust.

  “Everything all right, Micky?”

  “Yeah, I’m not hurt. And Lucky?”

  The dog is dying to get out of the car. I feel the same way. I get out to check the damage. There’s nothing serious, except for the fact that the front wheels have ended up in an irrigation ditch.

  “I’m sorry,” says Michela, abashed.

  “It’s my fault. I should have been paying more attention.”

  We look around. There’s not a living soul to be seen. I point out a huge oak tree in the center of the field.

  “Let’s go where it’s shady.”

  Michela takes off running. Lucky follows at her heels, trying to bite at her shoelaces. They get to the oak tree and start running circles around it. She’s laughing, while the dog chases after her, barking. I’ve still got Michela’s phone in my pocket. I get it out and take a few photos for my files. The beginning of Sergio Monti’s new life.

  “Come on, Dad.”

  We shoot more photos, hugging each other, cheek to cheek. The dog comes up from behind, thrusting its moist nose between us.

  “Now I’m going to make someone I know jealous,” Michela says. She selects the picture of herself at the wheel, smiling, and sends it to Daniel. Just to let him know she can be happy without him.

  “Let’s send one to your mother too,” I say.

  We choose the one where we’re hugging, pressed close with Lucky licking our cheeks. Michela attaches a message, “Woof! Woof!” and sends it off to Alessandra. She’ll be more pissed off than ever, but I don’t give a damn.

  “If you see anyone coming, wake me up,” I tell Michela.

  I lie down under the oak and gaze at the horizon.

  Down beyond those hills somewhere, Gloria still doesn’t know I’m coming, but I feel like she’s already waiting for me.

  18

  An hour later, Michela shakes me. “Dad, wake up. There’s a guy with a tractor.”

  A farmer’s driving down the road, transporting a load of fertilizer. I dash over and stop him to ask for help. The farmer unhooks his load, takes a strong-looking rope and attaches it to the car. The tractor takes just moments to pull it out of the field and put it back on the road. Throughout the operation Michela stands there watchin
g, holding her nose, disgusted by the smell of manure.

  When we start off again, it’s late afternoon. We pass Siena, and after about six miles we turn off onto a secondary road that climbs up through the Chianti hills.

  “Where are we going, Dad?”

  “A friend of mine lives around here. I’d like to go and see her.”

  “So, she’s not someone you met in a chat room.”

  “No. We went to high school together. Her name’s Gloria.”

  “How boring. I thought it had all started with a blind date, in some hotel room…”

  “Well, it’s not so different from a blind date,” I say, “I haven’t seen Gloria in thirty years.”

  Michela does some math. “You met her when you were about my age. Was she your first girlfriend?

  “Sort of.”

  “Were you in love with her?”

  “I think so.”

  “How did you know it was love?”

  “It’s something you just feel, Micky.”

  “How long did it take you to realize you were in love? To be sure, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” I say uneasily. “Maybe I was only certain years later, when I thought about her again.”

  “Too late, then.”

  My neck’s damp with sweat. I didn’t think that having a conversation with my daughter meant being cornered, interrogated, skinned alive. I get ready for the next question, expecting a knockout blow. Michela, however, has nothing more to ask. She looks out the window and sighs.

  “Do you think you’re in love with Daniel?” I ask after a while.

  “I don’t know. I’d like to figure that out.”

  “It takes time. It’s important not to rush into things. When it’s the right moment, the right person, you’ll realize it by yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Falling in love for the first time is a priceless experience. You have to think carefully before taking certain steps.”

  “You’re laying it on pretty thick, Dad.”

  “I just want you to understand that it’ll be a memory you’ll carry around with you for a long time. It’ll probably influence your future relationships.”

  “You mean that, if you make a mistake, if you make love to someone who isn’t the right person, you’re screwed for the rest of your life?”