Infinite Summer

by Edoardo Nesi

  She remembered every moment of that hastily organized, poorly thought-out wedding. Everything.

  The two frosty dinners during which she and Cesare told their parents everything. The identical stares, hard as nails, that the two mothers gave her right after being forced to embrace and pretend to be happy, while the fathers became emotional — especially Cesare’s, Giuliano, who hadn’t even finished middle school, and had to say: “Regrettably, Arianna, you are a good girl,” and “Regrettably, you are in love,” and “Regrettably, now this child is going to be born,” and “Regrettably, it is with great pleasure that I say yes to this very good marriage,” because he didn’t know what “regrettably” meant.

  The floods of tears of the morning of the wedding. The apartment invaded by smiling neighbors and Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, which her father had insisted on listening to at full blast. Getting dressed in the living room, continually interrupted by the arrival of crying friends. The unknown, adult Arianna she saw in the mirror staring at her, dressed implausibly as a bride. The car ride to the small country church. The terror of being late. The immaculate and heavenly scented tuberose that adorned the altar. The guests who watched her, surprised and amused because Cesare hadn’t arrived yet.

  The cross-eyed priest who, after half an hour’s wait, had limped over and told her to have faith and not worry, because the wedding day was never an easy one for a man, and he had seen many grooms arrive late, but not one who didn’t arrive. Cesare’s guilty face when he had finally, after forty-five minutes, entered the church almost running, out of breath and unkempt, smiling vainly and apologizing to everyone without even attempting to explain the reason for his lateness. The slow, dignified “Yes” she had said when the moment arrived, and the pathetic mumble that had fallen from the mouth of the man who was about to become her husband. The first kick of the baby who still had no name but had wanted to make his presence felt during the ceremony — because Arianna wasn’t even twenty-two years old when she had fallen pregnant, one summer night in Viareggio, on the beach, under a sky streaked with falling stars that she had watched the whole time, her eyes filled with stifled tears while Cesare fumbled about on top of her, repeating over and over how she drove him mad with desire.

  When Arianna moved on to the wedding album, she realized she remembered each photo perfectly. There was just one of them she couldn’t remember much about. It was the last one in the album, and the only one taken by Cesare. In that small, creased, slightly blurred black-and-white image she was composed and truly beautiful as she rested her bouquet of orange blossom wrapped in tulle on a coffin covered in the American flag: her only memory of when, on a November Sunday in 1963, still wearing her wedding dress, she had insisted on taking her bouquet to the American consulate in Florence, where a memorial was being held for John F. Kennedy.

  She removed the photo from the album and put it in the best frame she had — a rectangular one in silver, a wedding gift — then placed it on a low table in the living room, next to a photo of Cesare lifting a cup. She couldn’t remember why she had wanted to mark the happiest day of her life with an homage to a dead man, to dilute her joy with the pain of the people of another nation.

  Arianna had liked Kennedy, of course. She found him intelligent and fascinating, but only about as much as everyone else, because everybody liked John F. Kennedy. So why? Why this single act of rebellion, the only one of her entire life, just before leaving for her honeymoon? Why give her bouquet to a dead American president rather than throw it to her friends at the party? She couldn’t remember. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she hadn’t known even then. Maybe it had seemed the right thing to do, and no one had stopped her.

  But then, on that desperate morning she had woken up to, she asked herself if that dream of a candid future she had hoped for since she was a child had not disappeared along with Kennedy: being the mother of a large, happy family in which everyone depended on her for everything, with lots of children to take to play at the beach and photograph in the white light of that infinite summer in which the Kennedys seemed to spend their days.

  Because since she had been married, Arianna had never had another dream. Not one. All she had left were her ambitions. Cruel and cutting, impossible to control, they had slowly taken her over, forcing her to crave beauty and money and the cold well-being these bring — a bigger home, a new car, more elegant clothes, longer holidays in exotic locations, a costume jewelry shop. And then they left her there alone, locked away at home in the middle of the morning of an empty day, smoking a cigarette while looking at a painful photograph, asking herself what in her life had gone wrong.

  She quietly started crying, then the telephone rang, startling her. She ran, cleared her voice so her husband wouldn’t realize she was crying, sat on the bed, let it ring a few more times, and then picked up the receiver.

  — Hello?

  — Arianna?

  —Yes?

  — Hi, Arianna, sorry, it’s Ivo. Am I disturbing you?

  — Ivo?

  — Yes, hi. Hello.

  — Oh. Hello, Ivo, how are you?

  — Good, thanks.

  — I’m sorry, Cesare is not here. He left early this morning.

  — No, Arianna…I didn’t want Cesare, I — I actually wanted to talk to you…because there’s something I wanted to tell you. I hope I’m not disturbing you…

  — No, no…Don’t worry, tell me.

  — No, it’s that…All right, okay, I’m abroad. I’m in Montreal, in Canada, and it’s early morning here…Well, very early…The sun isn’t even up, and I think the time difference has got to me this time, because I woke up at four a.m. and now I’m here calling everybody because I just can’t get back to sleep, and…well, I just wanted to call you and say hi…

  — Ah.

  — I hope you don’t think I’m being inappropriate…

  — No, why should I? We’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we?

  — Yes, exactly, it’s just that — yes, of course that’s true, but there’s also something else I wanted to say to you. The thing is that seeing you the other day after such a long time had a strange effect on me, a very strange effect because…well, you really are beautiful, Arianna. Very beautiful indeed…Time hasn’t passed for you, it really hasn’t…

  — Come on…

  — I swear, honestly…You’re magnificent.

  — Now you’re making me blush…

  — Am I making you feel uncomfortable, Arianna?

  — A little, Ivo, yes…

  — Oh, I’m sorry. I hope it’s bearable though…

  — Well, I don’t know. Let’s assume so…

  — I’m sorry, but I just had to tell you, and…All right, I’ll say goodbye now and I’ll go bother the receptionist to see if they’ll serve me breakfast…But it was good to hear your voice and…Just know that I’ve always been a big fan of yours, ever since school. There’s no one else like you, Arianna. You are special.

  — Thank you, Ivo, but I’m totally normal. Believe me.

  — I don’t believe that for a second. Good morning from Montreal then!

  — Bye, Ivo.

  Arianna hung up and looked at the telephone for a few seconds, as if it could reveal the true story behind that phone call, then she took her bag and went out, a curious smile on her face.

  A CRUMB OF LOVE

  CITARELLA’S APE SLOWLY ADVANCES along the tortured dirt track that cuts the field in two. He has to drive in a zigzag to avoid the myriad potholes that would instantly shatter the fragile suspension of his Ape, and the feverish concentration his task requires absorbs Pasquale so much that he only notices at the last moment that, on the other side of the field, right in the middle of the lot in front of Ivo’s, there is an enormous yellow cement mixer surrounded by a dozen workers and a wildly gesticulating Brunero Barrocciai.

  Shocked by this unimaginable sight, Pasquale loses concentration and allows the back wheel to slip into one of the holes, causing
the Ape’s suspension to hit the ground with a loud crack. Brunero and the workers all turn to look at him, as he realizes with horror that he cannot get the wheel out of the hole because it isn’t really a hole but a puddle of mud, and accelerating does nothing more than send dirt flying in all directions into the frozen January air.

  Trapped, his face now tomato red, Pasquale turns toward the group and sees Brunero giving him two thumbs up like Fonzie, then saying something to the workers. There is a loud collective chuckle and three men detach themselves from the group and move toward him. He doesn’t know any of them, they can’t be local. Florence, it sounds like from the accent.

  They don’t even give him time to get out of the Ape. They easily lift the vehicle with him inside and place it down on the track, and one of them — a bearded giant — smacks the roof of the Ape, undoubtedly leaving a dent, before making his way back toward the cement mixer. Pasquale sets off slowly, trying to preserve what little dignity he has left as he pulls into Ivo’s lot, which the rain has transformed into a vast quagmire. He stops the Ape in one of the few grassy areas, turns off the motor, runs his hands through his hair, and grips it tight, his fingers entwined in dry, jet-black locks.

  What should he do now? Get out of the Ape and walk around pretending he came there for a reason? And what is he supposed to do after walking around, all alone in that abandoned field, with no tools? He doesn’t even know why he has come.

  He had been waiting for months now for Vezzosi’s Alfetta to appear on the dirt track. Once he even dreamed of him: Vezzosi was arriving triumphantly, standing on the hopper of a bulldozer and barking orders at a crew of steelworkers who followed him on foot, shouting his name and waving their welding torches: “Vez-zo-si! Vez-zo-si!”

  Cesare hadn’t been seen on site since the morning they were supposed to mark out the new cables, a few days after the bomb. He had arrived an hour late, with a three-day beard, and had spent a long time staring at the bomb-scarred field without saying a word before suddenly leaving, muttering something about a terrible throat ache. He never came back. He made a few appointments he never kept and eventually even stopped answering the phone, forcing Pasquale to drive up to his office where, however, Vezzosi had always refused to let him in, ranting through the intercom about a nervous breakdown and how he required assistance in his hour of need. He went on stammering that he had helped Citarella when he was walking around barefoot begging for work, and that he must never call him again under any circumstances, and especially never come to his office and ring the fucking bell because he was going out of his mind and all he could think about was this woman who had left him — some kind of history teacher, if Pasquale had understood correctly.

  Money wasn’t the problem, because Barrocciai didn’t seem in any way concerned about the state of the site either, and continued to pay his wages regularly. At the end of each month Gabriella would call him, and he would go to the old firm to collect a white envelope with cash inside.

  What was killing him was having to stay at home and put up with Maria’s silence and her concerned looks — and thank God he had managed to find work at a twisting mill for her brothers, who had come up from Panni to work on Barrocciai’s factory!

  Citarella couldn’t and didn’t want to take other jobs because he had given his word to Ivo, and so he had repainted his baiadera, his father’s apartment, Maria’s father’s apartment, and Barbugli’s one-story baiadera.

  After all this relatively unnecessary painting, however, Pasquale found himself with nothing to do, and had to lie to Maria for the first time in his life. He announced that the building site was finally open, and each morning he woke at seven, left the house, and spent the day at the field. If it rained, he would sit in his Piaggio Ape doing the crossword, otherwise he would walk up and down the abandoned lot, chat with Melchiorre, watch the clouds chase each other across the sky, and measure the land with giant steps, ever deluding himself that Vezzosi or Barrocciai were about to arrive.

  Pasquale despairs. Of everything. Of making such a fool of himself with the Ape. Of having to spend his days in a field. Of lying to Maria. Of being paid good money to do nothing. He even despairs of Brunero starting to build before them, because he certainly is not the boss or the owner of anything, and has nothing to do with the rivalry between Ivo and Brunero, but he cares for his employer’s business as if it were his own.

  But most of all he despairs at having put all his trust in such a foolish project, and he despairs of himself, of having even thought he could become a site manager when he only knew how to paint. He had let his pride get the better of him. He had been hypnotized by the thought of all that work, by that bag full of money. He had wanted too much and now would have nothing.

  Pasquale looks at the empty quagmire from which such a wonder was supposed to spring forth and for the umpteenth time he is dismayed by the obscenity of all that waste — Barrocciai had paid hundreds of millions of lira for those ten thousand square meters of land left to radicchio — and he smiles bitterly as he remembers the words he said to Barrocciai in that cramped cubicle: “Everything will be fine, Mr. Ivo. Don’t you worry. It’ll all be fine.”

  Where was that Pasquale? Where was that young man who would have never given in to despair because he had a family to support, and no other choice but to hold on in the face of all adversity? He feels a knot of anger rise up in his throat, and shivers, but the very moment he is about to collapse, he grabs hold of the image of that optimistic and courageous young man who didn’t have a penny to his name but dared to encourage a businessman, and for a moment he smiles, and with that smile he remembers the story Maria used to tell the children at bedtime when they were little: that every smile is a brick you use to build a house, and so a new, fragile chain of positivity is born in his heart, and if Maria is the first ring of the chain, Pasquale realizes that he must be the last one — the guy who lays that brick, or no one else will.

  He is deeply, deeply moved, and tells himself that to restart that courageous enterprise from scratch someone must go beyond the call of duty, and it must be someone who feels a little love for the project, “just a crumb of love,” as Barrocciai used to say, and that person could only be him. Him and no one else.

  So he gets into the Ape and sets off without so much as a glance at Brunero’s workers, who clap at him as he passes by at a snail’s pace. It takes him twenty minutes at full speed to get to Barrocciai Textiles, where he quickly overcomes the obstacle of the frosty kindness of the new girl sitting at reception, who vainly tries to stop him, explaining that Mr. Barrocciai is leaving for Frankfurt and cannot see anyone.

  Pasquale is already racing up the stairs, two at time, unstoppable, and the plebeian noise of his steel-toe-capped boots drowns out the clacking sound of the typewriters and fills the factory’s quiet halls. He stops in front of Ivo’s office, the one that belonged to Ardengo, pokes his large head into the room, and sees Ivo giving orders to three young secretaries. He clears his throat and Ivo raises his eyes, a gesture immediately mirrored by the young, doelike women, each more graceful than the next, who all turn to look at him. Pasquale’s face instantly turns the color of a boiled lobster, but he still manages to speak.

  — Ivo, I need to talk to you.

  — I can’t now, I’m leaving.

  — It’s important.

  — Pasquale, I can’t right now…Wait a moment. So, ladies, I think I’ve answered all your questions. Where are the samples? Ah, here they are. Good. You’ve got the phone number for Frankfurter Hof. Leave me a message at reception and tell me everything that happens today, but remember I won’t get it until this evening, because I’ll be going straight from the airport to the customer, and it’s going to be a long trip and a long meeting. If there’s a real emergency, like the whole place going up in flames, first call the fire brigade, then call me, okay?

  The ladies nod and stand up to leave the office, but the door is blocked by Citarella’s Quasimodo-esque form.

  �
�� Ivo, I need to talk to you right away.

  — Pasquale, I’ve told you. I haven’t got time. I need to go to Pisa to get the plane to Frankfurt and I’m already late. Speak to Cesare. We can sort things out once I’m back, okay? In three days’ time.

  — Ivo, Brunero is laying his plinths today.

  Barrocciai stops, flanked by the girls who follow the conversation, turning their swanlike necks from right to left, as if watching a tennis match.

  — What does that mean?

  — He is laying the foundations, Ivo. He’s starting to build. Before us. And if he starts first, he will finish first…

  — How can he be starting before us? It’s not possible. What does Vezzosi say? Where is he? What is he doing? I haven’t heard from him in months.

  Citarella shakes his big head, just once. Ivo stares at him.

  — Ladies, please go back to your desks. Gabriella, close the door. So, Pasquale, tell me…

  — The field was leveled out after the blast, Ivo, but we’ve done nothing since. We haven’t even relaid the fixed cables.

  — How? In all this time? And Vezzosi?

  — Vezzosi isn’t well. He’s had a nervous breakdown and can’t come to the site. And without him, we can’t do anything.

  — A nervous breakdown? Why? What’s happened?

  — I don’t know, Ivo. He’s shut himself in his office and won’t even answer the telephone. He must be worried about the build…

  — About the build? He hasn’t even started.

  Citarella shrugs.

  — I just don’t understand, Pasquale. I know I should call him, but…Guys, I just can’t do everything by myself. I mean, I have to do sales, building the factory is your job. I — But tell me, what’s the story with Brunero?