One More Day

by Fabio Volo

  Michela closed her book.

  “If there is one thing we didn’t do, it’s sit down and plan something. If you’re here it’s because we’ve always been looking for each other, since the first time we saw each other. Anyway, I was thinking about the same thing last night, and I decided it doesn’t make sense to ask that question. I think that if you feel an emotion you might as well live it. In our case, we know that in a few days, no matter what, we’ll break up, so… Let’s enjoy it. The other night I realized that wondering why it feels so good to be with you and about what will happen when we break up is like taking a motorcycle ride through the country while saying: ‘What if we get a flat tire, what if it starts raining, what if we run out of gas?’”

  What I loved about Michela was her desire to be free and to play. And in those days that game was really giving me a lot: it made me want to open up. Without being rushed. Michela never asked for more than what I was giving her, and so I was the one who wanted to give her more.

  “When the game gives, give into the game,” that is what they say in the casinos, and so I thought that, in a matter of minutes, I wanted to raise the bet. “I see yours and I raise you…” like in poker. I thought about asking her to marry me, as part of the game, but then I remembered that when her ex did it, she dumped him. Plus, Michela had told me she had left Italy also because she was mad at her mother and the other people who wanted her to marry.

  “Are you really against marriage? I remember you were mad at those who wanted you to marry…”

  “I didn’t leave because I was mad at them. I left because my crisis was caused by the fact that I was mad at myself.”

  “Why were you mad at yourself? It seems to me that you have been pretty honest with yourself.”

  “You see, my mother considers me a failed woman, because at my age I still don’t have a family, a husband, and children. That’s the way she is, and there’s nothing I can do about it, but that made me think: in my life I haven’t been able to create something that would prove to her that not having a family doesn’t mean being a failure. I should have built a valid alternative to prove that to her. At least a comfortable existence, a certainty, a conviction. Instead, I’m filled with doubts, insecurities, and have nothing to show for my life. I could see how my mother looked at me, how she was ashamed of me, when she was with her friends. I was and still am a source of embarrassment for her. And she is for me. I shouldn’t have allowed those people to treat me the way they did, but I am the only one to blame for that. I was letting their way of seeing things convince me. I told you about that. I lived the end of my story with Paolo as a failure, because I wasn’t able to do what my mother did. I would like to share the rest of my life with someone, but I can’t do it with someone I don’t love, just because nothing better is available. The silver medal. I know a lot of people who are with a silver medal, the second best, rather than being alone.”

  “I think that all the attention and the importance given to marriage is caused by the fact that it is still seen as a social achievement, so that when you say ‘I’m married’ it’s like saying ‘I’ve got it made,’ if you say ‘I’m single’ you’re just waiting for something.”

  “Exactly, your girlfriends get married because they’re not as honest as you, because they’re weaker, because they settle. On top of that, they look at you as if you were a desperate case. Not all of them, but many of them. Fuck the biological clock, fuck social approval,” she said laughing as if it were a slogan.

  “It’s true, not all of them, but I’ve met many of these married women who wanted to get married at a certain point, never mind with whom, and they just did it.”

  After a few seconds of silence I spoke, “Michela, I have to ask you something. What if we got married?”

  She lifted her head off my chest and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that instead of being engaged for the next few days, we get married. Then we’ll still break up on the day we decided. We can choose where and how to get married, we can make up our own ritual. Always as part of the game. What do you think? If you marry me I’ll teach you how to whistle.”

  “I say I’m in. I’d be happy to marry you. Just for four days, though.”

  “Do you want to get married now, here in Central Park?”

  “Why not… Actually, if you want I can show you a place. It’s tiny. It’s not really a park; it’s more like a garden. I go there often. I’d like to get married there, if that’s okay with you.”

  “I don’t need to see it. I trust you.”

  “You’ll see, you’ll like it… But let’s get married tomorrow, not today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to go home, pick out my dress, and fall asleep thinking that tomorrow I’ll be married.”

  “I see. Should we have any witnesses? Who would you like as your witness?”

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it. I’d like Dante to be my witness.”

  “Dante, who?My friend from high school, the ball breaker?”

  “Who? Dante Alighieri…”

  “Oh, I see… I thought… Never mind.”

  “Or maybe Neruda, or Virginia Woolf… or Mozart… or the manliest man ever, Steve McQueen. I have to think about it. How about you?”

  “Well, I can’t think of anyone at the moment.”

  “What time are we getting married tomorrow?”

  “Is ten okay? We could grab a bite after.”

  “Great.”

  I immediately called Silvia to leave a message on her voicemail, but her phone was on and after a few rings I heard a sort of “Hello.”

  “What are you doing up this late?”

  “I forgot to turn it off.”

  “Sorry. Nothing important, I’ll call you tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you I’m getting married. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I realized she didn’t understand. She was still sleeping. A minute later she called me back.

  “Come on. I’ll tell you tomorrow…”

  “I am completely awake, thanks to your call and your news. Were you kidding?”

  “No.”

  I told her everything. We had a long conversation, and we spoke about other things as well.

  Before hanging up, she asked me to bring her back some wedding favors.

  I remembered that on Spring St., on the corner of Mercer, there was an Asian man who had a small stand that sold bracelets, pendants, and rings. I went there and bought two colored wedding bands.

  They were in a little basket with many others. They cost five dollars. I also bought a silver bracelet for my grandma. When I saw it I thought about her, even though she didn’t wear bracelets: grandma only ever wears her wedding band and a pair of earrings grandpa bought her when they got engaged. I knew she would like the bracelet. It was very simple, without any strange patterns. Plus, when I was little I forced her to wear a necklace I had made out of Silly Putty for a month; I was sure that this time she was going to appreciate the elegance of my gift. It made me very happy, when I was little, to see her wear that necklace and to hear her say that she liked it a lot and that I had been good. It had always been hard to buy her gifts; she never wanted anything. What she really liked was to receive postcards from wherever I went. It was the only thing she would ask for. I sent her postcards from all over the world. Even then, I sent her one from New York.

  I went back to the hotel. I hadn’t found anything nice for Silvia yet. Before going to bed I received a phone call in my room.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Dante. How are you?”

  “Dante… What are you doing up at this hour? It’s five in the morning there.”

  “I was thinking. I went out with a friend and we drank a bit, then I came home and I couldn’t sleep. Plus the neighbor’s dog barks all night. I even tried to hit it with a few stones the other night, using a slingshot, but in the morning the owner found them and yelled at me.”

  “I’m sor
ry. I hope you’re able to fall asleep soon. Talk to you later.”

  “Hold on, I need to ask you something, but don’t get mad.”

  “Why would I get mad? What do you want to ask?”

  “Listen, I was thinking… But… Don’t get mad… Okay… We are the same age, you’re not married, you’re not engaged, your best friend is a woman… I started thinking… Are you gay?”

  “Listen, Dante, why the hell are you minding my business at five in the morning?” That’s what I wanted to tell him. Instead, I told him, “No, I’m not gay. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean ‘I’m getting married?’”

  “I’m kidding. I’m not getting married, but I’m not gay either. You can go back to sleep now.”

  “Oh well, sorry then, I hope I didn’t offend you. When are you coming back? We’ll go out for a beer when you get back. Okay?”

  “Okay, good night, Dante. Use ice.”

  “What do you mean ‘Use ice?’”

  “I mean, instead of stones, load your slingshot with ice cubes… In the morning, they won’t find a thing.”

  “Cool… I never thought of that. Bye, then. I’ll see what I have in the freezer…”

  “Bye.”

  Why did I suggest ice? I regretted it immediately.

  20

  The Wedding

  I got married one morning at the end of April. It was sunny. Everyone should have a date like that, a wedding where the only guests are the husband and bride to be. The park Michela had chosen was called Jefferson Market Garden, on Greenwich Avenue, between 6th Avenue and 10th Street. It was a little garden filled with flowers and plants. There was also a little fountain with fish. At the entrance, two elderly ladies sat at a wooden table and welcomed you, and a sign displayed all the activities organized in the park like flower day, children’s day, the reading of novels, and some small concerts. The park subsists on donations and volunteers. A wonderful place. I sat down on a bench and waited for my future wife.

  I had put on a pair of blue pants and a light blue shirt. I had slicked my hair back, like my grandpa used to do. He used pomade, I used a kind of gel. My grandpa, the pomade one, I never met. My grandma told me about him. She said that he worked a lot during the week, but on Sunday, or “the holiday” as she called it, he would always dress up, with a clean, light blue shirt. He would shave and slick his hair back with pomade. My grandma told me that he did it since he was very young and that the first time she saw him she immediately fell in love with him. They were in the square, during the town festival. He had noticed her and approached her to ask for a dance, but she said no, not because she didn’t want to, but because she was ashamed of her excessive excitement. At every dance he would return and ask her again. On the seventh approach, she said yes. From that moment on they were never separated; the following year, during the town festival, they were already husband and wife. I went to Jefferson Market Garden with the intention of giving Michela an unforgettable memory. I had stopped for breakfast and to buy some flowers for her bouquet. I had chosen Nick Drake as my witness and I had brought the lyrics to one of his songs. I still didn’t know whom she had chosen.

  I saw her coming from far away. I got up. Even though it was a game, I was still nervous. She was wearing a cream-colored summer dress. She was carrying a book and a bag. When she arrived in front of me we smiled at each other. It was our film and we liked acting in it, playing our parts with emotion and amusement.

  Usually, you believe marriage will last forever. Even though forever does not exist. You have to believe it.

  The ritual was brief. We remained silent, looking into each other’s eyes for a few minutes. “I can’t wait to marry you,” I told her.

  “Me, too,” she answered.

  I took out the two rings and we placed them on each other’s fingers.

  At that point I read her the words from Time Has Told Me, a song that my witness Nick Drake had written and that I had chosen for her:

  And time will tell you,

  To stay by my side.

  To keep on trying,

  'til there's no more to hide.

  So leave the ways that are making you be,

  What you really don't want to be.

  Leave the ways that are making you love,

  What you really don't want to love.

  Time has told me,

  You're a rare find.

  A troubled cure,

  For a troubled mind.

  And time has told me,

  Not to ask for more.

  For some day our ocean,

  Will find its shore.

  She started to cry; I could see that. Then she read me a stanza from Sonnet 116. She had chosen Shakespeare as her witness:

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds,

  Admit impediments. Love is not love,

  Which alters when it alteration finds.

  O no! It is an ever-fixed mark,

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark.

  As she was reading it, I had completely forgotten that our marriage was just a game. Those words felt real.

  We kissed.

  “We have to exchange vows. I wrote mine over breakfast this morning,” she told me. She took out a paper napkin and read it, “‘I take you, Giacomo, as my husband, promising to live intensely these days we have left. To taste, with you, the fruit of decisions, of my thoughts, and of my feelings. I choose, as gifts, what I have been, what I am, and what I will be. You are what I wanted to happen to my life.’ Now it’s your turn.”

  “I haven’t prepared anything besides Nick Drake.”

  “Make it up.”

  After a few seconds, I said, “In all loyalty, I take you, Michela, as my wife for the next four days. I promise not to promise you anything, but to live and share, with you, the gift of love and loving you, always spontaneously. You are the woman with whom I’ve felt the most beautiful and what I have seen in me while I was with you will last forever.”

  She kissed me. Then she whispered, “Hello, husband.”

  “If someone knew what we’ve been up to over the last few days, they would think that we belong in an institution,” I told her.

  “That’s the beauty of it. That we are the only ones who can understand it. What do we care about the world? About their judgments, their opinions, their adjectives. Plus, our promises are not as crazy as those made by real married couples.”

  Later, as husband and wife, we went to lunch. The reception was held at Katz’s Delicatessen, on East Houston Street. We ate wonderful sandwiches, with giant pickles and fries.

  In the afternoon we went for a walk and, without planning it, we found ourselves in front of the record store, the one that sells CDs for a few bucks. “Let’s buy a CD for our wedding,” I said. We decided to buy Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald. We thought it was a good idea to choose a duet for our wedding CD. Regarding music, Michela trusts my taste. I was tempted to buy the album Porgy and Bess by George Gershwin, but in the end the only song she knew was Cheek to Cheek, which is not on that album. So we bought the record Ella & Louis. And Cheek to Cheek, from that moment on, became our song.

  As we were heading home we came across a church on East 3rd Street. We went in and we sat down. We were silent. I don’t know what Michela was thinking, but I remember I was thinking about us, my mother, my grandma, Silvia, my dog, and a bunch of other people. When we got up to leave, Michela stopped in front of a statue of the Madonna, she took off her wedding band, she took mine too, and she dropped them in the slot where you put the coins for the candles. She grabbed two of them and we lit them. I didn’t say anything; I was in perfect agreement with her actions. At a certain point I looked at her forgetting about everything else. As if, outside of that church, there was no world to return to, I looked at her without thinking it was crazy to feel that way about a person I barely knew. For a few seconds I went beyond any reason. When
she turned toward me and looked me in the eyes, she gave me goose bumps, a fraction of a second full of intensity.

  Outside the church the daylight forced us to squint.

  “That was a really nice church, wasn’t it?” I asked her.

  “Yes. I like visiting churches. You know, I wrote my thesis on the medieval iconography of the Virgin Mary.

  “Interesting… Well, one day you’ll have to explain to me what that means. Do you believe in God?”

  “I’m agnostic.”

  “Agnostic? What does that mean exactly?”

  “Agnostic means that one admits to having no answers when it comes to God, or that it is humanly impossible to know the answer and thus we can’t be sure about his existence. And how about you, do you believe?”

  “I just realized that I don’t even know if I believe in God or not. When I was little I definitely did, then for a while I didn’t, and finally my faith came back. I go through phases. As a child, it didn’t take much for me to stop believing in God. I used to blackmail him. For example, I stopped believing for a while because I wasn’t growing any pubic hair. My faith is intermittent.”

  “Well, pubic hair seems like a good reason to lose your faith. Anyway, yours is called ‘oligopistia,’ inconsistent, short-lived faith.”

  I gave her a strange look.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll stop before you get a nose bleed. Let’s get some coffee.”

  That evening we had dinner at home and then I slept at her place. The first night in bed with my wife! We kissed, caressed, snuggled, and embraced, but we didn’t make love. We exchanged millions of tender gestures. We fell asleep one on top of the other.

  The next morning, jokingly, I told her, “So it’s true that when two people get married they stop making love.”

  We still had a few days before our separation. As for Cinderella, the ball and the fairytale were going to end soon.

  21

  Snow and Children

  The next morning, as I was walking her to work, we saw Barrow Street covered in snow. On a sunny day in late April, seeing a whole street covered in snow was a big surprise. Barrow is a small street lined with trees and red brick houses. I liked passing through there when I was walking around the area because the Greenwich Music School is on that street, and you can always hear music coming from its windows. It’s almost always played on the piano. That morning, throughout that small street, there was snow on the plants, on the cars, on the sidewalk. It was beautiful, surreal, something out of a Fellini movie. We walked in that direction but we couldn’t get through. It was fenced off.