Don't Move

by Margaret Mazzantini

  I felt uneasy, so I got up and walked into the shed, intending to pay for my drink and leave. But then my eyes fell on a young man. He had the look of a half-wit, his exceedingly thin limbs were frozen in a spasm, and his fingers were spread apart like prongs. He was moving his head, insofar as he could, to the rhythm of the music, all the while gazing at his companion, who sat in her wheelchair and smiled at him with sharp, widely spaced teeth like those of a fish. She was a young woman; her face bore the signs of an obtuse, slow-moving life, and she was wearing a pair of plastic earrings. She stared back at her friend the spastic, returning his gaze so lovingly, it took my breath away. She paid no attention to his jerking movements; she looked him in the eyes. She loved him, she simply loved him. I had to hurry. The sun had already gone down, and Elsa was expecting me for dinner. I’d drunk at least half a glass of one of Gae’s deadly aperitifs, and I hoped to walk off its effects on the way home. But, with my elbow on the bar and a ten-thousand-lire bill in my hand, I thought that I would gladly leave my post in the ranks of the sound and the healthy to be looked at like that, the way that poor, damaged girl was looking at that spastic, at least once in my life. And it was then, my dear daughter, that Italia made a brief foray into my belly, traversing it like a submarine.

  12

  It was evening again, and again I was alone in the city. I emptied a large box of photographs onto my desk. I came across a snapshot of myself as a teenager, wearing a pair of short pants and a face full of shadows. I was fat; I didn’t remember being fat. Within a few years, I was skinny as could be, as demonstrated by another picture, taken when I was a freshman at the university. As I looked at the old photographs, my curiosity was replaced by a strange distress. I realized that I was a fugitive. My life was there; I could follow it with my finger from one glossy surface to another. But I appeared rarely in the most recent pictures, and then never in the center of the frame: always surprised, always with dazzled eyes. Perhaps the visual record of this gradual but steady flight contained a secret map. I had intentionally escaped from the prison of remembrances. If I should die suddenly, I thought, Elsa would have trouble finding a recent photograph to put on my gravestone. This thought didn’t sadden me; on the contrary, it consoled me. I wouldn’t leave any evidence behind. Maybe it was my disdain for my father’s pathetic self-centeredness that had led me into this shadow, a shadow where a much more devious Narcissus lived. Maybe all my life, even in my most intense relationships, I’d been pretending. I’d prepared the image, then moved out of the frame and snapped the picture. The desk lamp was the only light in the room. I took off my glasses and stared into the dark space in front of me. I opened the French doors of my study and walked out onto the terrace. I pissed on the potted plants, watching the warm vapor rise out of the domesticated soil. The telephone rang, and I went back inside.

  “Elsa, is that you?”

  No reply.

  “Elsa?”

  Then, deep inside the receiver, I heard a gray, familiar breath.

  As soon as I saw her, I threw my arms around her, I imprisoned her in my embrace. She clung to me, breathing heavily, and we stayed like that for I don’t know how long: unmoving, clasped tight.

  “I was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

  She was trembling, shuddering against my neck. I pressed my nose into the dark parting of her peroxide hair; I needed to draw the smell of her head into my lungs. It was the only thing I needed, and at last I felt good again. Her mouth slipped down to my chest. I lifted her by the arms. “Look at me, please,” I said. “Look at me.”

  She started undoing her shirt. The buttons popped out of their buttonholes, running through her fingers like rosary beads. Her little breasts appeared. I held her wrists. “No, not here.”

  Taking her in my arms, I carried her to the bed in her bedroom. I undressed her slowly, moving around her body with unhurried, judicious hands, as if I were readying a corpse for an autopsy. Submissive, she let me do what I wanted. When she was completely naked, I stepped back to look at her. She smiled, but her smile was full of embarrassment, and she covered her pubes with one hand. “Please,” she said. “I’m too ugly. . . .”

  But I grabbed both her hands and forced them up and back over her head, back past her hair, which was spread out on the chenille bedspread. I said, “Don’t move.”

  I slowly moved my eyes over her body, examining her part by part, section by section. Then I got undressed, too, completely undressed, which was something I’d never done in front of her before. I wasn’t beautiful, either—my arms were too thin, my belly was too prominent, and then there was that bent tube dangling from my pubic hair—and I felt ashamed. But I wanted us to be like this, naked and not particularly attractive. Each of us exposed to the other, without haste, without heat, immersed in time. Once inside of her, I kept still for several minutes, looking into her frank, faded eyes. We stayed that way, frozen in that field of fire. A tear slid along her cheekbone; I caught it with my lips. I wasn’t afraid of her any longer. I lay on top of her, weighing her down, like a man, like a child. I said, “Now you’re mine. Mine alone.”

  Later, hunched over at the foot of the bed, she cut my toenails with a little pair of scissors.

  “How old are you?”

  “How old do I look?”

  We fell asleep glued together. I stroked her hair until sleep stopped my hand. But when I woke up, Italia wasn’t there. I found a note on the table: “I’ll be back as soon as I can. The coffeemaker’s ready to go.” At the bottom of the page, there was a lipstick kiss. I kissed that kiss.

  I went into the kitchen and lit the burner under the coffeepot. I opened a cupboard, curious to see what kind of order she kept her things in. There were the stacked plates, the little glasses, the big glasses, the bags of sugar and flour held closed by wooden clothespins. I saw a single-page calendar hidden on the inside of the cupboard door. There was writing on the calendar here and there; certain dates from the past two months were marked with little crosses. I ran back over this period in my mind, but I really didn’t need to, I knew the truth already: she’d marked the dates of our meetings. I made another discovery on top of the refrigerator, where I found a glass jar with money inside of it—several banknotes, some crumpled, others simply folded. I counted them; not a lira was missing.

  I looked out the window. The sun was broiling the viaduct and searing the scrubland beneath it. A Gypsy woman was hanging out her laundry next to a trailer. Three miniature hens with erect tail feathers were walking in single file near the vegetable garden. Its darkened soil showed that it had recently been watered. Italia hasn’t touched my money since she picked it up and stuck it in that jar.

  I took a shower. Then I put on Italia’s bathrobe—the sleeves came to about my elbow—picked up the telephone, and sat down on the bed. I told your mother I wouldn’t be coming to the beach house that weekend. “Why not?” she asked.

  “I have to be on duty at the hospital.”

  The monkey on the wall looked at me, and I looked back. I heard the key turn in the lock.

  “Are you still here?”

  “Of course I’m still here.”

  I embraced her. She carried a different smell, the smell of a different place. I asked her, “Where have you been?”

  “At work.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  “Seasonal work in a hotel. I make up the rooms.”

  The smell she was carrying was the smell of a bus, of a crowd.

  At dusk, we went out. We walked hand in hand, almost without speaking, through that ghostly suburb. We listened to the sound of our footsteps in the silence, entrusting our thoughts to the nocturnal world. I never loosened my grip on her hand, and she never loosened hers. It seemed strange to me to be by the side of this woman whom I didn’t know very well, and yet with whom I felt so intimate. Before we went out, she’d put on some makeup. I’d watched as she bent over
a bit of mirror and hurriedly traced the outlines of those features that must have seemed too delicate to her. Her battery of cosmetics, the platform-soled shoes she climbed onto, her bleached hair— there wasn’t a single thing in her appearance that corresponded to my tastes. And yet she was herself, Italia, and I liked everything about her. Without knowing the reason why. That night, she was all that I desired.

  “Let’s run!” she cried out.

  And so we ran, and we tripped over each other, and we laughed, and we embraced against a wall. We did all the senseless things that lovers do. The next day, when we said good-bye, Italia started trembling again. She’d fixed me an omelette with eggs laid by her hens, she’d washed and ironed my shirt, and now she was trembling as I kissed her, as I turned away from her. New lovers are full of fears, Angela; they have no place in the world; they’re traveling to no destination.

  13

  My cell phone’s vibrating. I’ve got it on the windowsill, because that’s where the reception is best. I don’t answer right away; I need air, and so I open the window before I press the green button. Your mother’s voice is incredibly present. There’s no airport bustle around her, no announcements of flights landing and taking off. “Timo, is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “They told me . . .”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “That someone in my family’s been in an accident—that I have to return at once.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Angela?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She got into a wreck on her scooter. They’re operating on her.”

  “Operating on what?”

  “Her brain.”

  She doesn’t burst into tears; she makes a harsh braying sound, as though someone’s tearing her to pieces. Suddenly, her gasping stops and her voice returns, toneless and subdued. “Are you in the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have they said? What are they saying?”

  “Well, they’re confident. . . .”

  “And you? What do you say?”

  “I say that . . .” A tearful sob closes my throat and slips into my mouth, but I don’t want to cry. “We can only hope, Elsa. We can only hope.”

  I hunch my shoulders and lean out of the window. Why don’t I fall? Why don’t I fall to the ground down there, where two patients with coats on over their pajamas are taking a walk? “When is your flight?” I ask.

  “In ten minutes. British Airways.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “What about her helmet? Wasn’t she wearing her helmet?”

  “She didn’t fasten the strap.”

  “What? What do you mean, she didn’t fasten it?”

  Why didn’t you keep your promise, Angela? Why are young people always so absentminded? Just a smile in the wind and fuck you, Mom. You’ve cut off her legs; you’ve cut off her head. How will you apologize to her now?

  “Timo?”

  “Yes?”

  “Swear to me on Angela that Angela’s not dead.”

  “I swear to you. On Angela.”

  The patients downstairs have interrupted their walk. They’re sitting on a bench, smoking. A middle-aged woman with a brick-colored overcoat is strolling among the flower beds. It’s humanity, my child, humanity swarming and scrabbling. Humanity going on. What will become of us, of your mother and me? What will become of your guitar?

  14

  We’ve made love, and now we’re lying there, unmoving, listening to the sounds of the cars and trucks on the viaduct, so close they seem to be rolling on the roof. I should get dressed and go home, but it’s hard for me to get free. I’m caught in the pitch that’s holding us prisoner. Where are my socks, my pants, my car keys? And meanwhile, I stay where I am. I’m leaving tomorrow for a surgical oncologists’ convention, where I’m supposed to give a talk. I have no desire whatsoever to attend this thing. Italia’s slowly stroking one of my arms and measuring the weight of her imminent solitude. I visualize the conference hall, my glasses, my face above my printed name, my colleagues with their laminated photographs pinned to their jackets, the hotel bathrobe, the minibar in the night. I say, “Come with me.”

  She turns over on the pillow, her eyes wide and incredulous.

  “Come on.”

  She shakes her head. “No, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “Come in your panties. You look great in panties.”

  And later, in the heart of the night, I’m reading through the paper I’m going to give. I go over every line with a red pencil, make corrections, scratch out words, add words, call her up.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “It’s better if I don’t come, right?”

  “I’ll pick you up at six. Is that too early?”

  “If you change your mind, don’t worry about it.”

  And at six o’clock the next morning, she’s already on the street; she’s already put on her makeup. A clown in the gray light of dawn. I kiss her; her skin is icy.

  “Have you been waiting long?”

  “I just got here.”

  But she’s frozen. The shoulders of the short-sleeved black jacket she’s wearing have too much padding; they’re climbing up her neck. The skin of her arms is mottled, like marble. She rubs her hands together between her thighs. I turn on the heat full blast—I want her to get warm right away. She’s got a look of shock on her face; even her eyes are cold. Stiff and immobile, she sits on her side of the car and makes no move to adjust her position. Her upper body leans slightly forward, away from the back of the seat. The car speeds along a deserted stretch of the autostrada, and eventually the heat makes her relax. I touch the tip of her nose. “You feel better?”

  She smiles and nods.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” she replies.

  “How are you doing?” I ask, slipping my hand between her legs.

  It’s a country town of tuffaceous stone, one-way streets, and direction signs with arrows that keep bringing you back to the same circular piazza. I leave the car in a parking lot. I’ve reserved a room for her in her name. We’ve discussed this, and she knows I can’t take the chance of booking us into the same room. Many of my colleagues will be attending this convention, including Manlio. On the street, we walk a little apart. Italia’s more worried than I am. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she squares her shoulders and walks straight ahead. The wheeled suitcase she’s brought is too large for a stay of just a few days; it bounces along behind her, half-empty and listing to one side. Unlike her, I’m accustomed to short trips, and I’ve got a small, functional, elegant leather bag, a gift from Elsa. This morning, I’ve tightened my belt a notch, and my potbelly is gone. I step forward lightly, in an extremely good mood. I feel like a schoolboy on a school trip. From behind, I reach out and touch her backside. “Excuse me, miss,” I say. She’s serious, she doesn’t turn around to look at me, she knows she’s an interloper. In an effort to be less conspicuous, she’s wearing that wretched jacket and a longer skirt than usual.

  I get my room key quickly; Italia’s still talking with one of the clerks at the reception desk. Two colleagues come up to me, and we exchange greetings.

  I want an excuse to remain at the reception counter, close to her, so I ask a question of the girl in the blue vest who has just signed me in: “Is the sauna warm already, or do you have to wait?” The man taking care of Italia is holding a pencil and going over the reservations list. She turns toward me with a look of desperation. I step over to her.

  “Is there a problem with my colleague here?”

  The clerk raises his eyes and looks at me, then casts an exaggerated glance in Italia’s direction. “The lady doesn’t have authorization,” he says. “We’re trying to accommodate her.”

  She’s wearing too much lipstick. Bleach has stripped and flayed her hair. She hunches her shoulders insi
de her little synthetic-fiber jacket and pulls her overlarge suitcase closer to her. She senses that the hotel clerk is judging her. She looks at his bowed head as he works behind the counter; maybe she already regrets coming here with me.

  She crosses the lobby with a brazen, almost hostile expression on her face. Her features seem coarser because of the gloom in her soul. She’s doing the best she can. We take the elevator together. Although we’re alone, I don’t put a finger on her. Now I feel sorry for her; she’s walking down the hotel corridor with her shabby high-heeled shoes, and I feel sorry for her. Our rooms are on the same floor. There’s no one around. Italia comes into my room. She remains standing, not even looking around, and gnaws her hands.

  The convention goes on for four days: lectures, meetings, refresher courses. Italia doesn’t want to leave the hotel; she stays in bed and watches television. I order her something to eat and have it delivered to her room. I eat dinner in the hotel restaurant with my colleagues. I’m not in a hurry; I savor the food, talk, make jokes. A subtle pleasure mounts inside me. She’s upstairs, hidden, ready to slip into my arms. The door is locked, and she’s waiting for me. Every time I knock, I hear her bare feet hurrying across the wall-to-wall carpet. She speaks softly—she’s always afraid that someone can hear us. She feels bad about that other room, the one that’s empty and unused. When she read the price on the door, she turned red. She takes nothing from the minibar, not even mineral water; she drinks from the tap. I get irritated, but she persists. And she doesn’t even leave the room when the maids come to tidy it up; she sits in a corner and watches them. At night, we make love for hours on end; we never fall asleep. Italia twists her neck over the edge of the pillow, her throat trembles, her hair brushes the floor. It’s as if she’s looking for something beyond me, a place where she can be reunited with a lost part of herself. She takes flight; pieces of her flee from my hands. Her eyes watch the window, which reflects the lights in the interior courtyard of the hotel. Down below, there’s a fountain that gets turned off every night at a certain hour. Italia gets out of bed to watch the spouts shut down; she likes to see that final spurt. She doesn’t talk much, she doesn’t lay claim to any position; she knows she’s not a bride on her honeymoon. I’ll never know how many men have loved her before me, but I know that each of them, whether he was good to her or did her wrong, did his part in shaping her, in making her what she is.