by Fabio Volo
Their main issue was that they were both in love with the same person. Him.
With Egoardo, Silvia had lost some weight, she looked haggard and completely out of her mind. He was a lunatic. Lunatic and addicted to cocaine. There’s no other way to describe it. When their relationship finally ended, Silvia was a mess, and Carlo offered her a bit of tranquility. When I tried to tell her that, in my opinion, her decision to marry Carlo was a reaction to her relationship with Edoardo, Silvia swore to me that she was in love with him. And I think she really was at the time, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility that she wasn’t.
“Do you remember how mad you would get when he looked at other women?”
“Of course I remember, but that’s not why I’d get mad. Of course I didn’t like him looking at other women, but what really upset me was the fact that when I’d tell him to stop, he’d tell me he wasn’t looking. What really drove me crazy was that he wouldn’t admit doing it.”
Thinking of Edoardo, Silvia got quiet.
“I think that was the reason. It was because of Egoardo. It’s hard to admit that my toxic and morbid love for him will always remain a mystery to me.”
“But what does your mother say about the situation with Carlo, other than that it is normal?”
“As usual, she started projecting her fears on me. Basically, she has always been and still is my father’s maid. I can picture them in their own home: they never talk to each other.”
“Why don’t you bring it up with your father?”
“When my friend Giulia got separated, I won’t tell you what my father said. She turned into a whore in a matter of minutes. I already know that when I leave, my dad will never speak to me again.”
“Well, we both have a great family behind us… What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. For example, earlier, when you were with your mother, it made me sad to see the kind of relationship you have with her. I know the issues you have and I know the kind of person she is, but tonight it really made me sad seeing the two of you like that.”
“What do you think I should do, Silvia? I’m tired of fighting.”
After saying those words, I don’t know why, I felt my eyes welling up. I was about to cry. I managed to hold back the tears. “I’m tired of fighting,” was a phrase that really struck a nerve.
“Our entire generation is tired. I can’t help it, I can’t talk to my mother. I freeze up, I shut down. I’m more comfortable with a stranger than with her. What the fuck, she yelled at the movers for two scratches on the wall, behind an armoire she’ll never move from there.”
“I know it’s not easy. Think about what I am going through with my parents at this point. Our parents put themselves through hell to give us everything while we really needed very little to be happy. A word, a touch, a hug, an encouraging look.”
“There’s something wrong here, Silvia.Something’s got to change.”
“Right now, I am focused on changing my own life, making sure Margherita is happy. You could go find Michela.”
“What does Michela have to do with it? Besides, she didn’t leave alone.”
“Well, since it’s just us talking, I don’t think you’ve ever had a problem going out with another man’s woman. Michela has everything to do with it because she’s the first woman in many years that’s shaken you up a bit.”
It was a few days after that night in the emergency room that I decided to go to New York and find Michela. I remember the exact moment I made the decision. I was sitting on a bench in the locker room at the gym. Suddenly everything became clear. I was sitting on that bench in my underwear, rolling my sock to put it on, when I froze up. I placed my elbows on my legs, the sock still in my hand. I sat still with my gaze lost in the void. I heard a voice in my head. It swept away all my confusion and everything became crystal clear, as transparent as water. I had to go to her. That was the right thing to do.
One day my grandma told me, “Old age is the place where you live on memories. That’s why you need to make beautiful ones while you’re still young.”
After hearing my grandma say that, every time I did something beautiful, or something really dumb, I would say to myself, “Oh well… This is one I’ll tell my grandchildren.”
That’s it. I was leaving for New York because, no matter what was about to happen, it would be nice to one day remember and retell what I had done for a stranger. I wanted to become a hunter of emotions and memories.
In the locker room at the gym, I had a revelation. It wasn’t the first time I noticed something mysterious about that place. I had often witnessed a phenomenon regulated by incomprehensible mechanisms, the mysterious law of the locker room. It’s very simple, and yet inexplicable: even though the room has a thousand lockers in it, there's always one other person in there, and that guy's locker is always across from mine, and that guy will always be there changing the same time as me. Unfathomable mysteries.
Come to think of it, the world of locker rooms is a strange one. Complete strangers walk around naked and take showers in front of you while sometimes not even members of your family have seen you naked. Some men tuck their shirts inside their briefs so much so that the bottom comes out above their thighs like little skirts. There are men who put anti-wrinkle cream around their eyes, dry their hair with a blow dryer, and get dolled up before working out, as if they were about to step on stage. Others who have bad body odor even before they start sweating, don’t even shower. There are those who say they’ll take a shower at home, but in the meantime they put on a shirt and tie, and who knows if they’ll really ever shower.
The best are those who, as soon as they find a reflective surface, stop to check themselves out. First they look at their muscles and then at their hair. Sometimes they run into others like them and they pay each other compliments about how toned they are.
And yet, that’s where I had my revelation, the gym had been my sacred place.
I got up, I put my clothes on, I rinsed my flip-flops and then I left. I always rinse my flip-flops because one day, when I got back home, I realized that there were hairs stuck to the soles. The small curly type that never comes from arms. It’s one of the things that grosses me out the most in the world.
I called Silvia and told her about my decision.
“I’m going to New York.”
“Great. Later, I’ll give you the list of things I want you to buy me while you’re there.”
“That’s why you insisted so much, you had your own agenda.”
“Naturally. I’m out with Margherita, are we meeting for happy hour?”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
It’s not like I left the next day. But at least the decision had been made. I needed a couple of weeks to properly prepare; I had to make arrangements at work. I would go to the office early. With this, as with everything else, Alessandro proved to be a real friend, and he helped me out.
One of those mornings Alessandro came to the office with his tennis bag.
“Don’t even think about going to play: there’s too much work to do here,” I told him jokingly.
“I’ll go at lunch, don’t bust my chops.”
“You’re too old to play so much.”
“I chose a weak opponent. Pietro.”
“You always told me he was a tennis champ.”
“He used to be, but lately he’s been having a few problems and can’t focus. And he’s always tired. His wife’s been making him sleep on the couch for the past two months.”
“But Silvia told me that the other night at dinner Patrizia kept hugging him, so much that she felt her own marriage was a failure.”
“I know. Even though they haven’t been speaking to each other for a year, Patrizia demands that, at least in public, he’s nice to her, in order to hide their problems from everyone. Pietro is about to explode.”
“Why doesn’t he leave her?”
“He’s waiting for the right moment. The house is i
n her name.”
“What a mess… Oh well, I’ll make a call and we’ll get down to business.”
The night before I left, I stopped by Silvia’s to say goodbye. As I was talking to her, Margherita came out and said, “Uncle Giacomo, don’t go away, stay here and play with me.”
“I can’t, I have to go, but I’ll be back soon.”
“Uncle, come here, I have to show you something.”
I went to her room and I played with her a bit. When I went back to the kitchen, Silvia was crying. I hugged her tightly.
“I’ll be back soon. That’s why you’re crying, right? It’s because I’m leaving.”
She cleared her throat and smiled at my joke.
I don’t know if I ever loved anyone as much as I loved Silvia. I kissed her on the forehead and she walked me to the door.
“Don’t forget to bring me my cinnamon candy.”
I walked home, thinking.
I was leaving for New York to find a woman whose face I was beginning to forget. At the time she was always on my mind, but when I thought about her I couldn’t really recall her face.
A woman who, more likely than not, was engaged.
And yet I had to go. It was time to live part of my life in someone else’s company.
Michela had been wearing on my curiosity for too long.
8
Who Knows Where You Are
I’m not afraid of flying, but let’s just say that I’m happier when I’m finally on the ground. It’s not exactly fear, it’s like feeling you have a fever but then you don’t have one.
I don’t take any pills to calm me down or make me sleep. I just try to be very tired before it’s time to depart. The flight to New York was scheduled for ten in the morning. I packed my bag the night before, very late, after I had taken a walk around the city. Beautiful. That night, like every time I take a walk,I felt an emotion I’ve never been able to name. It’s a mixture of melancholy, sadness, dissatisfaction, anxiety, happiness. Whenever I experience it, I feel like crying. It used to happen often in the past. Something that escaped my understanding and that I felt especially when I was alone, when I stopped to think. I would feel it creeping up on me, like the pain of a hit. At five in the morning, when I got home after the walk, I closed my suitcase and fell asleep on the couch. Then I woke up suddenly. I took a shower and I left. A few minutes before I felt like I was ahead of schedule, but as soon as I closed the front door, as I was coming down the stairs, I felt like I was already late. Then I felt like I was forgetting something. RE-LAAAAAAAAAAX!, a voice shouted in side my head. I went over the list of fundamental things: Ticket, IDs, credit card. When you have these three things you can go anywhere, the rest can be taken care of later.
The anxiety of being late, I believe, is a legacy from the times I travelled by train with my mother or grandmother. That’s one of the few things they have in common: they have to arrive at the station an hour ahead of time. If the train was scheduled to leave at seven we would be there on the platform at ten to six, “Better to be there a little early.”
When I got to the airport, I wasn’t late. I checked in, dropped off my bag, after having transferred books, notebook, music, and toothbrush to my carry-on. Then I went for some breakfast. As I was in line at the café, an old lady cut in front of me. When someone does that I don’t mind it too much, but when it’s an old person doing it, it really makes me sad. That’s because when it’s old people who do it, it makes me think that it isn’t true that we get better as we get older. And then she gave me such a look… I didn’t say anything: there was no need to. She knew. Anyway, as I was waiting in line, thinking it would have been better to have tea instead of coffee—otherwise what did I stay up all night for—I received a message on my phone. Camilla: “I’m glad we ran into each other and had a chance to talk. Have a nice life.”
Strange. A message from her the day I was leaving. Every time I take a plane, I always think that all coincidences and unexpected events are signs. Camilla sent me a message… now the plane is going to crash. I read the message again.
I didn’t like that “Have a nice life.” Usually it implies a sort of criticism, for instance, that you haven’t answered previous messages or that someone wants to make you understand that you’re losing them, and instead of writing “You’re an asshole, fuck you,” they write “Have a nice life.” This time however, it did seem that way. You have a nice life, too, Camilla. I put the phone in my shirt pocket, and distracted by the old lady and the message, without realizing it, I ordered a coffee. Only when I saw it in the cup did I realize my mistake. To try and fix it, I poured in some milk. “That should take some of the kick out of it,” I thought. As I reached for the sugar I locked eyes with the old lady, and her expression confirmed that she knew she had done something wrong.
Then I went to the bathroom. Usually I pee at the urinals, I prefer them. That morning, however, the janitor was cleaning them, so I used the stall. I saw a hook on the side of the stall and I decided to hang my bag on it. As I raised my arm, my cell phone slipped out my shirt pocket falling exactly where it shouldn’t fall. Plop!
Son of a bi…!!! What the fuck am I going to do now?
In the end I went and asked the janitor if I could borrow his rubber gloves.
“What for?”
“I need to fish my phone out of the toilet.”
“Let me see.”
He took a net from his cart, one of those for grabbing fish.
“You know, you’re not the first. I’m prepared for this sort of thing. Sometimes they just leave them there.”
He scooped it off the bottom and then gave it to me. I unraveled 12 yards of toilet paper and received it in my hands like a small bird in the nest. I placed it next to the sink and I quickly washed my hands. I didn’t know whether I should rinse off the toilet water, thus getting it wet again, or rather dry it off immediately.
That’s irony for you. When I go to a public bathroom I always think that men, after peeing, touch the handle to flush and then the doorknob, so I usually do everything with my feet. I look like a samurai: I push the handle down with one foot and then, with the same foot, I pull the door open.
I was left with a phone that plunged into the toilet and I was hoping it wouldn’t die on me, that it could still work. In the end I didn’t rinse it, but I put it under the hot air stream of the dryer.
The janitor didn’t look particularly interested in my situation, perhaps because he was working, or perhaps because it was nothing new to him. Anyway, as he walked by, he told me, “It probably won’t work again. I’m afraid you’ll have to throw it away. If you’re lucky you’ll be able to salvage the SIM card, otherwise… too bad.”
I dried it off some more then I tried to turn it on. The lights came on but the screen was the color of the rainbow. Without any legible writing.
I wrapped it up and put in my bag.
Son of a bi…!!!
Before getting to the gates, where I had seen Michela by the café, there was a zigzag path marked by blue lines. Those paths that make you feel like a lab rat. Sometimes, when nobody’s there, I cut underneath the ropes because I already feel like a dork when I’m waiting in line, but when nobody’s there it’s even worse. I always imagine there’s a room behind a glass wall where men dressed in white lab coats take notes on my behavior. I waved to the imaginary men.
Son of a bi…!!! Michela’s work address is in the phone. If it doesn’t work, what am I supposed to do? I hope Silvia saved it on her phone.
Boarding the plane I realized there were a lot of us. The plane was huge. A gentleman sitting in front of me got up to help a woman stow her luggage. I liked that. I always like it when I run into a kind person. It makes me want to say: human beings are nice people. In spite of what the news says: describing people as monsters, never talking about the kind people, the polite and quiet ones. Even with the old lady at the café. I also feel like helping others. I don’t think it’s a question of being good. I
don’t think I am good, or at least I don’t consider myself as such. When I fly, at the check-in, I hope they give me either a window or an aisle seat, and most of all, as I board, I always hope that the closest baby will be a few miles away from me. My prayers are often answered regarding the seats but they’re almost always ignored when it comes to babies. I must be a magnet for them, I attract them as if, instead of using a stick of deodorant, I used a lollipop. This time was no exception: on the flight to New York, who was sitting behind me kicking my seat? He must have been about five. When his mother told him to stop—in her words I was a “gentleman”—she said, “Enrico, keep quiet, you’re bothering the gentleman.”
The plane left almost an hour late. It was huge, heavy, there were a lot of people, a lot of luggage. “How does it do it?” I’d always ask myself. I never really understood it.
After a few minutes I went to the bathroom to do what I couldn’t manage to do earlier. Actually, at that point, I also had to do something else. It must have been the fact that I rarely take milk with my coffee. The intestines must be kept clean. Why didn’t my mother, when I was little, give me a macchiato instead of all those enemas?
I went as soon as they turned off the seat belt sign, in order to take advantage of the fact that it was still untouched and immaculate. As I was sitting there doing my thing, I heard the captain apologize for the delay, adding that we would make up the time in the air. I thought, “But if the plane flies faster to make up for the delay, why doesn’t it go faster even if there is no delay? That is, if you can go faster and get there earlier, why wouldn’t you do it?” Who knows!
My thoughts are always sharper in the bathroom. I also realized that if my phone didn’t work, I didn’t know one single number by heart. Even at the office, I always use my cell phone, I look for the name in my contacts and then I press call. I haven’t dialed a number in years. Maybe I could track someone down on the Internet. “Let’s hope it works,” I kept telling myself.
Lost in my existential doubts, sitting on the toilet, I made a mistake. I flushed while I was still sitting there. The toilet on the plane works differently from the one in your house. Not only is the water drained, but also (and this is what I hadn’t factored in) the air is sucked out, like in a vacuum cleaner, with the power of twelve thousand atmospheres. When I got up the hair on my ass was stretched out, as long as a horse’s tail. To put my pants back on, I had to braid them. Looking at myself in the mirror, I had the feeling my eyes were closer to my mouth. My lungs were surely in my stomach. That flush really sucks hard.