Don't Move

by Margaret Mazzantini

  We went downstairs to Admissions. I turned to Italia, and with a look that must have seemed terrible to her, I said, “Well, ma’am, what do you want to do?”

  She stammered, “I want to go home.”

  I turned to the nurse. “The lady will sign a discharge form,” I said. “Give me one.”

  I took a pen from the inside pocket of my jacket and filled out the form myself, then shoved it under Italia’s gnawed hands and held out my pen. When I looked at her face, I saw that she’d become quite pale again. I lost all certainty about what I was doing and held on to the pen. I was a doctor; I couldn’t put her at risk. Suppose she should have a hemorrhage—what would I do then? I couldn’t let her go like that. I’d get my chance to abuse her later on, but now it was important for her to stay in the hospital, where she’d be safe. I tore up the form. “Let’s admit her.”

  She made an effort to resist, but it wasn’t very forceful: “No—I want to leave here—I’m fine.”

  The other physician was still with us, and she took a step toward Italia. “Ma’am, the doctor’s right. It would be better for you to stay here tonight.”

  We dispatched the admissions process in a hurry and went back upstairs to Gynecology. The elevator doors opened onto the nocturnal silence of the corridor and the usual smells of medicine and soup. I love the hospital at night, Angela. For me, there’s something furtive about it, like a woman without makeup, like the whiff of an armpit in the dark. Italia, however, seemed terrified, practically clinging to the wall as she walked. She still had the beach towel with the starfish wrapped around her butt, like a survivor from a shipwreck. We were left alone for a few seconds, so I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  She pulled the towel tighter around her waist. Her voice trembled as she said, “I don’t want to stay here; I’m all dirty.”

  “I’ll have one of the staff give you something.”

  A nurse came up to us. “This way, miss. I’ll take you to your room.”

  “Go on,” I whispered. “Go on.”

  And I watched her move away down the half-lit corridor, never once turning around.

  Back home, I took off my shoes without undoing the laces and flung them across the room, then lay down on the bed with my clothes on. I sank into a black hole and woke up at dawn, perplexed and still tired. I turned on the shower. Italia was expecting a baby. The water ran along my skin and down my body in channels, and Italia was expecting a baby. What were we going to do now? Naked in the bathroom of the home I shared with my wife, I lathered up the clump of hair in my crotch. I had to slow down and reflect, but instead I was speeding ahead. My thoughts kept overlapping one another, like backdrops in the wings of a theater.

  I got to the hospital very early. I was anxious, because I had a feeling she wouldn’t be there. And in fact, she wasn’t; she’d signed a discharge form and left.

  “When?” I asked the nurse.

  “A few minutes ago.”

  I got back in my car and started driving along the avenue that borders the hospital grounds. I found her at the bus stop. She was wearing a nurse’s smock, and I almost didn’t recognize her. She was leaning against the wall, and my beach towel showed through the top of the plastic bag dangling from her fingers.

  I pulled up to the curb not far from her, but she didn’t see me. The streets were just beginning to revive. I recalled the time I’d waited for her in my car, spying on her. It was hot; she had makeup on; she swung her hips. I’d liked her high heels, liked her vulgarity. And how much time had passed since then? At the moment, her face bore no trace of makeup, she was dressed in an oversized nurse’s smock—she was still losing weight, as she’d done all summer—and, only now, I realized something had changed. Her color was gone; maybe it was my fault that she was so pale. An unpainted clown. And yet, to me she seemed even more beautiful, even more desirable. I could see nothing else: just her, lined up in my sights with her back against a wall. An insane thought assailed me. What if someone is indeed taking aim at her? What if a bullet strikes her in the chest and I watch her slide to the ground, leaving only a streak of blood on the wall behind her? I wanted to shout to her to move away from there, because someone was squeezing the trigger, someone lurking somewhere I couldn’t see, maybe on the roof of the hospital. Her face was like that; it was the face of one about to be struck by a blow she hasn’t got the strength to avoid. Nevertheless, nothing happened, and she moved away from the wall. The bus arrived, shielding her, and before I had time to stop her, she climbed in. I started to tail the bus, keeping my bumper close to its black exhaust pipe, which belched out clouds of reeking smoke. At the next stop, I left my car double-parked and jumped on the bus, looking for Italia. I wanted to make her get off with me, but I found her too late; the driver had already closed the doors. She was collapsed in a seat, with her head against the window. They’re going to tow my car, I thought. Too bad. I said, “Hi, Crabgrass.”

  She jumped, turned her head, caught her breath. “Hi.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the train station.”

  “You’re taking a trip?”

  “No. I want to look at the schedules.”

  We remained silent for a while, staring at the streets, which were beginning to fill up with the first traffic of the day. Italia watched a mother and two children cross at a stoplight. I put a hand on her belly, a big steady hand. Her stomach growled. I said, “How do you feel?”

  “Fine,” she said, removing my hand. She was ashamed to be making that rumbling noise.

  “How far along are you?”

  “Not far. Not even two months.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes were huge and serene. “You don’t have to worry about anything,” she said. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ve already made up my mind.”

  I shook my head, but I kept quiet. Maybe she was expecting me to say something. She looked out the window again as the bus jounced along. “I’ve got only one favor to ask: Let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s too horrible.”

  We got off the bus and walked down the street side by side, not touching each other. Italia was dressed like a nurse, and we were a sorry couple. Inside a shop window, a girl took down the SALE sign and started to arrange the fall display, walking barefoot on a carpet of plastic leaves and chestnuts. Italia stopped and watched the shop girl slip a dress on a mannequin with ruffled hair. “Green’s in fashion this year,” Italia observed.

  We walked toward a taxi rank, where three cabs were waiting. The traffic light was about to change, and we had to run across the street. I opened the door of the first cab for Italia and helped her in, then leaned in myself and put the fare in her hand. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “Don’t worry,” I said in a low voice, not wanting the driver to hear me. “I’ll arrange everything. You just take it easy.”

  She tensed her lips in what was supposed to be a smile, but the result was only an exhausted grimace. She wanted to be alone, and maybe she didn’t trust me anymore. I reached into the cab and passed a hand over her face; I wanted to mollify her wounded, wide-eyed expression. Then I closed the door and the taxi pulled away.

  Left to my own devices, I took a few steps. And where was I going? I needed to gather my thoughts; I needed to get my car out of the middle of the street. I was late for the operating room, but that couldn’t be helped. Right up to the last moment, she’d hoped I’d say something different. I’d seen hope leaning in the depths of her eyes, like a broom forgotten in a corner, and I’d pretended not to notice. I didn’t even have the courage to be pitiless, to browbeat her into making her decision. I let her choose for herself, I let her shoulder all the blame, and in exchange I gave her cab fare.

  20

  Your mother has returned to our apartment in town, and my solitary bivouac has vanished without a trace. The table I used to rest my fe
et on while I read has returned to its place in the center of the carpet, surrounded by sofas and far from my reading chair. And now the inlaid wooden surface of that same little table bears a festive load— glasses with long pink stems, a dish of crudités, a bowl of prunes wrapped in bacon—because Elsa has invited some friends to dinner. I’ve come home late from the hospital, where I performed an operation that went on forever. Several members of the operating room staff were absent because of the strikes, which started up again in September, and I was slowed down by many errors. When I tossed my keys into the ebony bowl in the foyer, I heard the voices coming from the living room. I slipped into the small bathroom in the hall and splashed water on my face before I made my entrance. Hello, hello, hello. Shoulder pats, kisses. Clouds of perfume, shocks of hair, fumes of cigarettes and wine.

  I’m leaning on some bookshelves, and Manlio’s in front of me. He’s speaking on a range of subjects: boats; Martine, who’s in the detox center again; an abdominal suture that came out smooth as a baby’s behind and then got infected and hypergranulated and now has to be done over. Manlio has a cigar in his hand, and that hand’s too close to my face.

  He says, “And how are you doing?”

  “Manlio, that cigar . . .”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” He moves his arm a little to one side.

  “I have to talk to you.”

  He looks at me and expels a large puff of malodorous smoke. “You look like a zombie. What have you done?”

  “We’re serving the pasta.”

  I don’t take part in any of the conversation at the table. I eat, stare at my plate, wield my fork, drink a glass of wine, then reach for the tureen and take a second helping. I’m boorishly hungry. The table is a clamor of sounds and voices. I spy on the tablecloth a fallen rigatone, which I pick up with my fingers. Your mother looks at me. She’s wearing a green watered-silk top with transparent openwork stripes, and a small emerald adorns each of her ears. Her hair is pulled back, except for one loose lock falling across her forehead; she’s very beautiful. I think about that barefoot girl in the shop window, and Italia remarking that green’s in fashion this year. I get up from the table.

  “You don’t want dessert?”

  “Excuse me, I have to make a phone call.”

  I go to the bedroom and dial the number, which rings away. I lie down on the bed. Elsa comes into the room and asks, “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one. The line’s busy.”

  She goes into our bathroom and pees. I can see her reflection in the armoire mirror, her skirt hiked up over her behind. She says “A patient?”

  “Right.”

  She pulls the chain, turns out the light, and leaves the bathroom. “A ‘noteworthy’ cancer?” she asks, smiling. It’s not easy to live with a man who has such a sad profession. Sometimes she uses my jargon, but only to make fun of it.

  I smile in response.

  “At least take your shoes off the bed,” she says as she leaves the room.

  “Hello?”

  “Where were you?”

  “Here.”

  “I called and called.”

  “Maybe I couldn’t hear you.” She’s breathing hard, surrounded by a great roaring.

  “What is that?”

  “The vacuum cleaner. Wait—I’ll turn it off.”

  She goes away, the roaring stops, and she comes back.

  “What are you doing, cleaning house at this hour?”

  “It’s therapy.”

  “I wanted to send you a kiss.”

  Manlio’s outside with me—I’ve dragged him onto the terrace. I tell him, “I operated on this patient’s breast two years ago. Now she’s pregnant, but it’s too risky. She needs to terminate the pregnancy.”

  “She’s in the first trimester?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why doesn’t she go to the hospital?”

  Down in the street, one of the municipal garbage trucks is lifting a rubbish container. Manlio turns up his collar and starts whistling softly. Maybe he understands.

  The party ends on the sofas; eventually, their occupants depart, and all that’s left are the deep imprints left by their bodies, the crushed sofa pillows, the glasses everywhere, and the overflowing ashtrays. Elsa already has her shoes off. “Good party,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  I rise and pick up an ashtray.

  “Don’t touch anything. Gianna will see to it tomorrow.”

  “I just want to toss the cigarette butts so they don’t stink up the room.”

  She goes into the bedroom, removes her makeup, and puts on her nightshirt. I stay in the living room for a while, looking at television in the midst of that cemetery of dirty glasses. Eventually, I join her; I lie on the edge of the bed, make a few adjustments, and settle down, stretched out on one side. Your mother throws a leg across me, and then her warm mouth grazes my ear. I freeze; I can’t do it, not tonight, I really can’t. She searches for my mouth and finds it, but I don’t open my lips. With a sigh, she falls back on the sheet, facedown. “You know,” she says, “maybe we could try making love in a different way.”

  I turn toward her. She’s staring at the ceiling, a strange look on her face. She goes on: “We could try looking into each other’s eyes.” There’s an undertone of spite in her voice that hums proudly around every word.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  It seems to me that her eyes are shining and her chin is trembling. I say, “We look at each other; you know we do. You’re so beautiful, why wouldn’t I want to look at you?”

  I lie on my back and adjust the pillow, but I’m not sleepy. I think, Let the night of conjugal attrition begin; let us dance the retaliation waltz. But what I get is a kick in the stomach, followed at once by another and another after that. Then your mother is slapping me in the face with both hands. I try to ward her off, but her attack has caught me completely unprepared.

  “You! You! Who do you think you are? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Her face is contorted; her voice is hoarse. I’ve never seen her like this. I let her hit me. I pity myself and her, too, as she gropes for sufficiently insulting words. “You’re . . . you’re . . . you’re a shit! A selfish shit!”

  I manage to capture one of her hands and then the other. I embrace her. She weeps. I stroke her head while she pants between sobs. You’re right, Elsa, I’m a selfish shit. I’m ruining everyone’s life, all the people who are close to me, but believe me, I have no idea what I want. I’m simply marking time. I desire a woman, but it may be that I’m ashamed of her, I’m ashamed of desiring her. I’m afraid of losing you, but it may be that I’m doingmy best to make you leave me. Yes, I’d like to see you pack a bag and disappear into the heart of the night. I’d run to Italia, and maybe then I’d discover that I miss you. But no, you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here, clinging to me, to our bed. You won’t go away in the night, you won’t do it, you won’t take the chance, because it could be that I wouldn’t miss you, and you’re a prudent woman.

  21

  The windshield wipers are turned off. There’s a film of dirt on the windshield, a blurry curtain that separates us from the world. The car smells like a car, with its floor mats and its leather seats. (These seem stiffer than usual this morning; they creak every time we move.) There’s also a trace of fragrance emanating from the old tree-shaped, sun-faded air freshener, a little of my own smell, my aftershave lotion, and the smell of my raincoat, which hung on a coatrack all summer long but is with me once again, rolled up on the backseat like an old cat. And above all, there’s Italia’s smell: her ears, her hair, the clothes she’s wearing. Today, she’s got on a flowered skirt with a broad black elastic waistband and a stiff cotton cardigan. There’s a cross on her chest, a silver-plated cross hanging from the tiny links of a thin, thin chain. While she stares through the windshield at the hazy world, which seems so far away, she puts the cross in her mouth. Her hair bristles
with enameled metal hairpins, many of which are cracked and chipped. She’s a little clodhopper who buys her clothes in market stalls, or in those doorless shops with the benumbed, gum-chewing salesgirls. It’s the first Saturday in October, and I’m taking her to have an abortion.

  She’s come into town on the bus. When she saw me waiting at the stop, she smiled. I don’t know if she’s suffering. We haven’t talked about that. Maybe she’s already had several abortions; I’ve never asked her. She seems calm. We didn’t kiss when she got into the car. We don’t take such risks in the center of town. She’s a prudent traveler, a creature in transit, far from its familiar pen. This morning, she seems austere and stiff, like the cardigan she’s wearing. She sucks her silver cross, and I have the sense that she’s missing something, something she’s forgotten back in her little lair. She’s so reserved that I feel somewhat lonely. Perhaps it would be easier for me if she were weepy and depressed, as I expected her to be. Instead, she seems strong this morning, and her eyes are lively and combative. Maybe she’s less delicate than I thought, or maybe she’s just trying to keep up her courage. I ask her, “Do you want some breakfast?”

  “No.”

  The private clinic where Manlio works is a villa built in the beginning of the century, situated on a piece of woodland and surrounded by trees. We turn into the drive, which climbs amid the dark trunks, and reach an open area where other cars are parked. Italia takes in the building with its pale red terra-cotta facade. She says, “It looks like a hotel.”

  I’ve explained everything to her; she knows what she has to do. She’ll go to the reception counter, where they’re expecting her, and state her name. They’ll admit her to the clinic and show her to her reserved room. Naturally, I can’t stay with her—it’s already a mistake to have accompanied her this far. I’ll call her in the afternoon. As we were driving up and she was distracted by the view, I stared at her belly. For a moment, I thought I could see something under her clothes, some swelling. I don’t know what I was looking for—something I wouldn’t see again?—and then one of my wheels slammed into a huge pothole. I quickly veered and accelerated, but I’ve remembered that jolt to this day. Time doesn’t always move in a straight line; sometimes it operates differently, and a whole life can appear in a flash. In that fraction of a second, when I was trying to steer my car out of that depression in the road, I believe I saw the torment awaiting me, and I saw you, too, Angela; I saw your hematoma on the light scanner. I made a leap into the circular room of time, the leap one makes when the unreal appears and becomes permissible. The room has a multitude of doors, all there in the circle, to be entered in no particular order.