*.
The summer smothered all this malice beneath its muggy dome. Now the hens had something else to keep their minds occupied. They complained that they were broke, although they were still unwilling to give up their vacations. Some were going to the seaside, some to the mountains, others to the countryside. The doorwoman had better keep an eye on their property! They even expected her, in their absence, to inspect—around the clock, on a daily basis—every lock, floor by floor, from cellar to roof.
“They’ve got me confused with a night watchman . . .” my mother grumbled.
As for tips, they were a lot more meager than in years gone by.
By the end of July we were the only people left in the building, apart from the Biondo’s, who hadn’t traveled for years because of her illness. Poor woman! So she might enjoy at least a little bit of summer, her husband would move her to the balcony after lunch, leaving her there for hours, propped up by mounds of cushions and sheltered from the sun by a straw hat with a brim as wide as a beach umbrella. I could see her from the courtyard through the foliage of the plane tree. More than once, even if I knew that paralysis prevented her from moving, I had the distinct sensation that she was wiggling her numb hand toward me in a vague signal of warning.
My father continued to go to the factory. He preferred to be a scab rather than deal with my mother’s moods.
“Can you feel the peace and quiet? This is better than the Riviera,” she would say. “I don’t envy the folks who are going away—no, not at all. What kind of a vacation is that, with all the noise and traffic? Everyone in cars like idiots! Beaches so crowded you can’t even walk . . . Now this is what I call a vacation. No one around, no more ‘yes signora, of course signora, right away, signora . . . Feel how peaceful it is! Smell the fragrance!”
In the morning and afternoon we would sit on the shaded steps, spending long hours—she observing, me reading. When it got too muggy we would stay inside. I would’ve been happy reading under the plane tree but she always wanted me by her side, using the same old excuse that it was too hot outside. “With this heat,” she would say, “the crazies sprout like mushrooms. It would be better not to be outside by yourself in the courtyard . . . With all the awful things we hear on the television . . . you don’t want to wind up like Paul Getty, do you?”
Inside or out, it was all the same to me. I read all day, without stopping. I even forgot to breathe, and when my eyes were too tired I would imagine what would happen in another month: I would soon be starting the Classical Lyceum, where I’d meet new people, learn ancient Greek, go downtown every day . . .
On the eve of the Feast of the Assumption, the Professor moved to Via Icaro. Unlike his mother, he brought a lot of stuff with him. Out of the moving van came an avalanche of boxes and suitcases of every size. The movers were two black men who spoke with him in English. My mother was mesmerized by them. She had only ever seen dark-skinned people on television.
“I barely noticed the move,” she started to tell my father at supper. “Every time someone else moved I had to clean for days and days after, fixing tears in the runners, rubbing out scratches on the walls and in the elevator, skid marks on the floor . . . Do you remember Signor Puxeddu, Paride? What a mess! He was moving back to Sardinia because Milan made him sick to his stomach. You were still little, Chino . . . Well, the morning that he finally moved out—I still hadn’t opened the loge—he left this huge turd in the middle of the lobby! I slipped on it and almost killed myself! . . . But those two negroes swept everything up, dusted the walls, and wiped them down. They could teach the people who live here a thing or two about manners! And they weren’t bad-looking! On the contrary. Two handsome young men—tall, well-built. And the arms on them! . . .”
“Negroes are big down there, too . . .” my father muttered under his breath.
She continued to extol the polite manners of the Professor and his movers. She talked and talked more than she had in months.
*.
“You can hear the water fountain . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“And the streetcar, too . . . Listen, Professor Foschi. It’s so peaceful! Another coffee?”
“No thank you.”
“It seems ridiculous to keep the loge open in this wasteland . . . What’s the difference between a weekday like today and a holiday like the Feast of the Assumption? . . . None! But the rules say that the loge can only be closed on the fifteenth—fine, keep it open, for heaven’s sake. The burglars won’t even have to trouble themselves by sneaking over the gate and climbing up to the balconies by the trash chute . . . Free entry!”
“So you should close, Signora Elvira . . .”
She placed her hand over her mouth, as if she had just heard a dirty word.
“Close! . . .”
“Who’d stop you from doing it? Besides you and your family I’m the only one here . . . Right?”
“The Biondos are also here, on the fourth floor. She’s been paralyzed for years. At some point she came down with a strange illness, I don’t know what it was . . . a rare disease . . .”
The Professor lowered his gaze. He wasn’t interested in gossip.
“So call Signor Biondo and ask him if he would mind if the loge was closed for a few days.”
“Basically it’s about security.”
“Security?”
“Yes, of course. There’ve been a few burglaries here. They wanted to break into the loge one night. What a scare! And they almost succeeded. But my husband chased them away. Every now and then he rises to the occasion . . . And the burglars had already robbed two apartments at 18 Via Icaro.”
“I never lock my door . . .”
“Not even at night?”
“No, not even at night. If someone has evil intentions, one way or another they’ll find a way in. Someone who wants to ransack your apartment is obviously not going to check whether your doors are locked. So there’s no difference between a closed and an open door. The difference lies in the intentions of the person outside. And what can we do about the intentions of other people?”
His argument was too subtle for my mother.
“So, with your authorization, I’m going to call Signor Biondo and tell him that I’m thinking of closing.”
“With my authorization?”
“Yes. Did I say something wrong?”
“Well. You did get one thing right. I have no authority . . .”
“Yes, you do, you represent the condominium.”
The Professor’s face darkened. “Signora, who do you think I am?”
My mother didn’t know where to turn. She took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. “Alright. Please, not another word. It would be much easier to stay open.”
“Signora,” he pressed on, determined to be completely clear. “I don’t represent anyone. I can barely represent myself. And that word, ‘condominium,’ please stop using it, at least with me. It makes my skin crawl . . . The last thing I wanted to say is that you don’t need my permission. Go ahead, take the day off, leave . . .”
The last part of the speech almost sounded sweet.
“If it were up to me, I’d already be an apartment owner,” my mother said, slightly reassured. “Be that as it may, if you don’t mind, I’ve never found the word so awful. There are words that are worse. ‘Doorwoman,’ for instance. Do you think it’s been nice for me all these years to hear myself called a doorwoman? People can’t say that word without adding a little venom. I wish they’d call me an apartment owner . . . Did you know that before your arrival I was about to buy myself a home? I really wanted to leave, you can’t imagine how badly. But in a family, in the end, it’s the husband who decides.”
“I’m sorry,” the Professor said.
That was all. He didn’t ask a single question. The private affairs of other people made him feel uncomforta
ble.
“You keep telling me to leave . . .” my mother resumed, forcing herself to sound cheerful and friendly, “but why aren’t you going anywhere?”
“I have to work. I have to finish something that I’ve been dragging out for a long time. Otherwise, of course I’d go away.”
“Go where? I wouldn’t know how to choose . . . Italy is so big! To think that going from my hometown to Milan takes eleven hours on the train! And it takes just as long to go back . . . Then there’s Sicily, Sardinia . . . But I’m not interested in vacations or trips. All I ever wanted to do was retire to my own home, close the door, and not see anyone. Like now . . .”
She had suddenly become more beautiful, the way she used to be. Even my father noticed. I hadn’t heard their mattress springs squeak that way in months.
*.
Click click click click click . . . Click click click click click . . . Hunt and peck . . . Click click click click click click . . . Ding! . . . Click click click click click . . . The letters fell on the sheet of paper like drops of rain, the page wrote itself. Ding! . . . Ding! . . . Ding! . . .
I decided to knock. The sound of the typewriter came to a stop.
“Come in . . .” said the youthful voice of the Professor.
I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“My mother would like to invite you to lunch,” I said from the doorway.
From where I stood, the interior seemed to have changed. The Professor was seated at a desk that hadn’t been there before and a new light, the light of summer, shone on every surface.
He stood up from the desk and came toward me.
“How kind of you. I’m happy to accept . . .”
In the elevator he kept looking at me, but he didn’t say a word.
My mother, certain that the Professor would accept the invitation, had already set the table for three. She had taken out the blue linen tablecloth and the tall glasses. Her lips were red with lipstick.
“Professor Foschi! Welcome! Do come in!”
“Would you please stop calling me Professor! My name is Ippolito . . .”
She poured him a glass of wine.
“But I thought you were one. With those boxes and boxes of books you brought! Well, I hardly know what to call you . . . if I can’t call you a ‘co-owner,’ or a ‘professor.’”
“Actually I did teach, once upon a time . . .” he admitted, with a bashful smile. “Where should I sit?”
“Wherever you like . . . there, in my husband’s place. And what did you teach?”
“A little bit of everything, but mostly English.”
“Just like the Maestra . . .so, you are a Professor! Why deny it? You’re always denying the obvious. You’re the owner of an apartment and you say you’re not an owner. You taught and you say you’re not a professor. Make people respect you, you’ve got every right! Others wouldn’t think twice about flaunting their titles, with ‘contractor’ or ‘accountant’ engraved on their name plates . . .”
She was referring to Caselli and Dell’Uomo. The Professor nodded.
“They can write whatever they want on their name plates, if that’s what matters to them. I don’t care about titles. I think they’re a form of insecurity. Even at school, when I used to teach, the kids would call me by my name, Ippolito . . .”
“But that’s not right,” my mother protested, while piling his plate high with rice salad. “You need some distance. Otherwise the kids take advantage and lose respect . . .”
“That’s not true. My kids always respected me. Respect is a question of feeling, not of titles . . . What difference does a title make if we don’t associate it with what our feelings dictate to us? Otherwise it’s just a sound, a lie . . . I don’t need lies. We already hear enough of them from politicians, don’t you think?”
Lies! Lies! Lies! as the Maestra used to say.
“Can we please not talk about politics? I already hear enough about it from my husband! In my opinion, you, Ippolito, think people are better than they actually are. You don’t know how awful they can be, from the moment they’re born. They tease you, disobey you, treat you like a servant . . . Listen to me, I know a thing or two about it. People are cruel!”
“You’re exaggerating! . . . sometimes they’re cruel, but only sometimes . . . Children know right from wrong—if we’re honest with them. If they don’t learn from their parents, they can learn somewhere else . . . At school, on the street, from anyone. We can’t give up hope . . .”
My mother placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Ippolito, you’re talking like a priest!”
He fidgeted in his chair. “You really need to label me, don’t you? And now you’re calling me a priest?”
“You’re not offended, I hope?”
“A little,” he said, ironically. “I have a hard time putting up with priests . . .”
“So I was wrong to think you were a good person . . . you’re better off the way you are! Every good deed is punished. Take me, for example.”
“Are you a good person?” he asked.
My mother was speechless. How dare he! Of course she was good! Wasn’t she feeding him? If she hadn’t been good, would she have spent the whole morning slicing hot dogs, opening cans of peas, and boiling rice? Couldn’t the professor see for himself?
“I think I am,” she replied. “I don’t hurt anyone. I’m good. Absolutely. And others take advantage of me . . .”
“What others?”
“What do you mean ‘What others’? The tenants, the folks who have turned into co-owners. They think I’m their servant . . .”
“And who lets them think that?”
“Don’t look at me!”
“Are you sure you’re not imagining things? That it’s not one of your fears?”
My mother was starting to fret. So was I. The Professor was enjoying twisting things around too much.
“Why should I be afraid? And of what? I’m not ashamed of who I am!”
“You’re confusing things. Fear is one thing. Shame is another. So let’s settle this by saying you’re a very proud woman . . .”
I recognized the Maestra in his love of making distinctions. It was an annoying argument, but I liked it.
“Yes, you’re right. I am proud,” she conceded.
Thanks to that adjective, which sounded almost like a compliment, her good mood was restored. To celebrate she poured a little red wine into her own glass.
“Why isn’t Chino at the seaside like all the other children his age?” the Professor asked, suddenly shifting the conversation to me.
“Where would I send him? I don’t have any family.”
“There are summer camps.”
“Please. The camps are for poor children whose mothers don’t want them around. Or for the handicapped kids from the asylum! Luckily my son is healthy and intelligent. And I enjoy having him home with me. We get along great, don’t we? . . . Luca is used to staying in Milan. He keeps his mother company. By the way, his name isn’t Chino. His real name is Luca. That’s what the Maestra always called him. So it’s about time that the rest of us called him Luca, too. By now he’s almost a man . . .”
“Would you mind telling me who this Maestra is?”
“Your mother—Miss Lynd!”
The Professor turned his head toward me, giving me a severe look.
“Did you know the . . . Maestra?”
“Did he ever!” my mother responded for me. “He went upstairs to see her every afternoon. If I’d let him, he would’ve stayed there overnight!”
“She taught me English,” I explained.
“Do you know English?!”
“So-so . . .”
“Don’t be so modest! Tell the Professor how many words you know! He was so crazy about English! Day and night with his notebook open
. Sometimes he’d even start speaking English with me, didn’t you, Chino? Do you remember?”
“How many words do you know?” the Professor asked me.
“Five thousand,” I said.
He swallowed his last gulp of wine. “Then you’re just the person I need, Luca.”
*.
I helped with the unpacking this time, too. I took out lamps, musical scores, fans, pitchers, cups, clocks, dozens and dozens of useless, bizarre objects that spoke of distant places and times, of long-gone days and occupations. And papers! A sheet of paper here, a card there, a little notebook. Those big boxes contained the last splinters of the glorious wreck!
How often I’d imagined what the Maestra’s dictionary might look like. Here was imagination transformed into reality, the coveted second chance . . . No, it was not lost, as she had wanted me to believe and—who knows!—maybe she herself believed. Her son had taken the trouble to rescue it! And I, by some twist of fortune—if my name really meant what the Maestra had wanted it to mean—found myself helping him in the final phase of the rescue.
I shook with emotion: that fundamental part of the Maestra had arrived, through countless roads, all the way here, to the sadness of Via Icaro, where I lived, and now, finally, at the end of its adventure, it was revealed to me.
Ippolito couldn’t imagine how happy I was, and I didn’t feel right in telling him about it. I pretended not to know the meaning of those yellowed pieces of paper, whose story, for that matter, he hadn’t even bothered to explain to me. In that final phase of his venture, I was a simple assistant, an extra: the triumph belonged to him, and to him alone, the true son . . .
Sitting in his living room, near the window, I started dictating. The definitions were written very clearly. Most of them were the work of copyists, but many had been written by the Maestra herself. Through my lips passed, one syllable at a time, some of the definitions that my second mother had conceived in a long-forgotten time, when she was in love with humankind and still fooled herself into thinking she could help humanity grow through certain definitions . . .
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