Imperfect Delight

by Andrea de Carlo

  When she reaches the valley, the emptiness increases further: she’d like to go back up to the top of the hills so she could come down again and lose herself in the curves, and once down go back up again and then come back down, never having to decide on a direction, never having to decide on anything. But she can’t make up her mind to go back up; she goes around and around the traffic circle: six, eight, ten times, like on a merry-go-round or a slow spin cycle, until her head begins to spin and she’s forced to take an exit. She drives along the straight road out of pure inertia, so slowly that a car behind her blasts its horn, surpasses her with a surge of acceleration. She continues driving for several dozen yards, pulls off into the turnout in front of several ugly new buildings housing a real estate agency and a florist and a bakery, a medical supply store. She turns off the engine, sits there still, in the displaced air of every car and truck that passes. She wonders whether Viviane has gotten up yet, what state she must be in. Will she already be searching for her, up and down the stairs of their vertical house, in the glass-ceilinged patio? Already outside, on the streets of the town? Will she go back inside to explore the kitchen, to see if she’s at least left her a note somewhere? (She didn’t; she would have needed a few dozen pages at least, and she still wouldn’t have been able to explain anything.) Will she jump in the car and drive along the high road to Fayence, thinking she’ll find her at the gelateria? To tell her what? That she’s shameful, that she’ll never be able to forgive her? That she’s already forgiven her, despite the fact that she really hurt her? That what happened can be forgotten if they both really want to? That their plan is still intact, and that on Monday they can begin the procedures at the center in Grasse? That she wishes her the best, whatever she decides to do now?

  Milena Migliari sits still in the van for maybe half an hour, maybe an hour; other cars park beside her, people get out, go into the stores, come back out, the cars back out and leave, more cars arrive. Her ideas are no clearer than before, her questions find no answers, not even attempts at answers; her heartbeat does not return to normal. She’s reminded of what Nick Cruickshank said yesterday afternoon or evening, about how they resemble each other in that they’re both wrong with respect to the world. She doesn’t know about him, but she certainly has no doubt about being wrong, as wrong as you can be: 1,000 percent wrong, without even the smallest portion of right. As a little girl she would sometimes look at herself in the vertical mirror near the front door of her parents’ house and think (every now and then she would say it, too), “I’m all ugly,” because nothing about her appearance seemed right, much less her thoughts, her dreams, her interpretation of things.

  When she can’t bear sitting there in the van any longer she turns the engine back on, turns around, gets back on the straight road through the valley, barely touches the accelerator with the tip of her toe. She turns to look at the nursery, the pseudo-Provençal houses built on new lots of turned-up earth, the sign for the supermarket, the sign for the retail outlet for construction materials. She registers each element of the landscape as if she might be able to get something useful out of it, but all she receives is a growing sense of foreignness. It’s like she’s inside her worst recurring dream, the one where she finds herself in a place she doesn’t know and no longer has her purse or phone or wallet and she wants desperately to get back home but doesn’t have the slightest idea where her house is or even if she has one, and no matter how hard she tries she can’t remember any names of streets or cities or countries, any numbers, anything. Viviane told her that the dream certainly has to do with having changed her life and residence so many times without ever putting down roots, and that the only possible remedy is to stay put in a place and build something, establish a system of solid and durable points of reference. It worked for a while, here, even though she was skeptical at the beginning; but now she’s in that terrible recurring dream of hers for real, in an unrecognizable territory, lost, her heart in her throat and her breathing labored.

  On the right is a sign that says Aérodrome, which for some reason seems vaguely familiar, though she doesn’t know why, though she doesn’t even want to know. She drives so slowly she doesn’t even have to brake: all she needs to do is turn the wheel, follow the road between the fields and built-up lots.

  Up ahead the houses end and the meadows extend out into the valley as far as the eye can see, with mountain chains on two sides, like great protective walls. She stops the van among the parked cars behind the airfield building, gets out. It’s windy, the sun is getting a little stronger, but the air is still cold. She half closes her eyes, walks on the gravel and then on the grass, hands in her coat pockets, looking down, chin against her chest. Whatever it was that happened yesterday, it’s left her feeling dazed, like she had a serious accident and has yet to receive a reliable picture of the consequences.

  Over on the grassy field are some gliders, resting on one wing: white, slender, soft-lined, smoothed over as if by a process of natural evolution.

  Closer to her are trucks and vans, several workers putting up the structure of the stage for the concert tomorrow: the platform where the Bebonkers are going to play, the towers of metal poles for the lights and speakers. On the field in front of the stage, boys and girls as well as older-looking people have spread out blankets and sleeping bags, to ensure themselves a place beforehand. There’s even a police car: two cops are talking with a small group of fans, probably to try to get them to pack up, but they’re unable to persuade them, and they too look uncertain. It seems like they’re all uncertain this morning: the cops, the fans, the workmen putting together the stage, the airfield technicians, the glider pilots. They’re all moving around as if they have to overcome some inner resistance, a fundamental lack of motivation.

  Milena Migliari observes the gestures and expressions of the people on the field and wonders if they know that Nick Cruickshank is getting married today. She wonders how the fans really feel about him, coming all the way here from who knows where to wait for him at least a day and a half ahead of time. Do they have the slightest idea who he really is, beyond the part he plays in public? At least the most devoted and longtime fans, the ones who’ve followed him for decades, listened to all his songs, read everything that’s been written about him, seen all his photos and all his videos? Do they know about his curiosity, his attentiveness, his sense of humor, the surprising sensitivity of his observations? Do they know that he knows the scientific names of plants and the stories behind them? Do they know that he’s read the Odyssey? Have they ever seen him listen to someone with that intent expression? Or are they content with the image of the artist-outlaw who’s all instinct, the shaman of the stage, the anarchic iconoclast? Do they prefer not even to think about there being anything else, prefer to believe that the character coincides perfectly with the person? And do they have the slightest clue about the bad feelings between the members of the band, or do they continue to consider them a glowing example of brotherly friendship that has survived the test of time and the waves of success and adversity?

  Milena Migliari looks at the sky, thinks that she’d like to see at least one glider twirling around up there. But there isn’t even one, though she turns in every direction, her nose up in the air. How much of her life before yesterday is recoverable? Will she and Viviane ever be able to reassemble the pieces of what they had? Or should they go on living together, a black hole exercising its destructive force of attraction every time they come anywhere near Chemin de la Forêt? And the two of them aside, what about her? In the folds of her sensations, at the back of her thoughts, would she be forever left with the idea of having briefly gazed upon the imperfect marvel, and then lost it immediately? Should she propose to Viviane a change of scenery, a different country, anywhere else? Portugal? Ireland? Costa Rica? But would it ever be enough, or would they be haunted everywhere by what happened here? And how would they get by? She might be able to open another gelateria elsewhere, but Viviane’s work is rooted in this area,
it’s taken her so much effort to build up a reputation and a good clientele. Then there’s the loan on their house, and the one for the gelato equipment. How would they manage to pack up and start over again somewhere else when their baggage is so weighty, tied together by so many cables, anchored by so many stakes? In any case, wouldn’t it be a much better idea to confront her problems openly and resolve them, instead of running away? Hasn’t she already run away far too many times before meeting Viviane? As a child, as a teenager, as an adult? Isn’t it thanks to Viviane that for the first time in her life she’s been able to build something, day by day, with visible results? Is it possible that instead of being destroyed by what happened yesterday their relationship could come out of this even stronger? Maybe not tomorrow, not even the day after, but in a few months? In a few years? Is it possible that coming so close to the edge of the precipice might make her more aware of the importance of having her feet firmly planted on the solid ground of reality? Or is it already too late, her life condemned to be forever full of regrets? Regrets for what? Sensations grazed ever so slightly or simply imagined, and not reproducible in any case?

  She’s standing still on the airfield, her head full of questions, her heart heavy, when she feels someone touch her shoulder. She whirls around.

  Nick Cruickshank is hidden behind a pair of very dark sunglasses and the hood of a sweatshirt underneath his jacket, but it’s him. He motions toward the stage under construction, smiles. “Did you come to make sure you get a good spot?”

  Milena Migliari shakes her head, smiles, but she isn’t amused; not at all. She struggles to steady herself on her legs, struggles to gesture toward the gliders on the field. “Did you come to fly?”

  Nick Cruickshank shakes his head, more or less like she did. “It’s early, for the updrafts.”

  They’re both silent. A cold wind has blown in from the mountains to the north and swept away any trace of mist; now the air is far too clear, the light too intense. It’s an absurdly rarefied morning, when even breathing seems difficult.

  Nick Cruickshank looks around cautiously, not wanting to be recognized by the fans. He smiles again, but he doesn’t feel comfortable either. “What were the odds of us meeting here, now?”

  “I don’t know. Low? High?” Milena Migliari thinks that when she turned off the main road she imagined him still in bed with his now almost-wife, or already focused on the preparations for the wedding party; or here.

  “So?” He takes off his dark glasses, looks at her with that strange unfiltered intensity of his.

  “So what?” She feels a potential inner bursting, the anticipation of a breakdown of defenses with incalculable consequences.

  “Shall we walk?” Nick Cruickshank gestures: not one of his theatrical gestures, just a movement of the hand, with no emphasis, but as determined as his gaze.

  Milena Migliari tries to decide what to do, and it feels like she can’t; but she looks down at her feet and sees that they’re moving of their own accord, right next to his.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANDREA DE CARLO was born in Milan, Italy. After completing a degree in contemporary history, he traveled extensively, living for long stretches in the US and in Australia. He was discovered by Italo Calvino, who wrote the foreword to his first novel, Treno di panna. He has worked with Federico Fellini and with Michelangelo Antonioni. A musician in his own right, he has recorded two albums, Alcuni nomi and Dentro Giro di vento. His nineteen novels have sold millions of copies and have been translated into twenty-six languages.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Giunti Editore S.p.A.

  Originally published by Giunti Editore S.p.A., Firenze-Milano in Italian as L’Imperfetta Meraviglia by Andrea De Carlo

  English-language translation copyright © 2018 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  First 37 INK/Atria Paperback edition June 2018

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  Interior design by Rhea Braunstein

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-5011-7977-8

  ISBN 978-1-5011-7978-5 (ebook)