Born Twice (Vintage International)

by Giuseppe Pontiggia

  “Now stay calm,” she says, gently placing her hand on my knee. “You always said these kinds of tests were unfair indicators.”

  “In fact, they are.”

  “That they’re quantitative and that they ignore the emotional mind-set.”

  “It’s stonewalling,” I say, following her lead.

  “What’s stonewalling?”

  “What he’s doing when he refuses to cooperate.”

  “He does it with you because you don’t know how to deal with him.”

  “No, he always does it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She’s silent for a moment. She’s bitter, edgy, and poised. Then she turns slowly toward him and says, “Paolo, I want you to try with me.”

  Paolo looks at her apprehensively. She’s changing from his emancipator to assuming my role. She grips the arms of the chair.

  I stand up and go to the kitchen. The sky has turned dark; it’s still raining. I run the water in the sink and drink a glass of water. I just heard on TV that even bottled water is toxic and that tap water may actually be a little less so.

  I go back into the living room and watch her shift her hands from her knees to the table. A cone of light from the overhead lamp falls on them.

  “No, Paolo. Now try and stay calm. If sixty times two is a hundred and twenty, what is half of it?”

  Paolo looks at me. He’s lost. He’s looking for help.

  “Answer your mother,” I say.

  He has nowhere else to look. There’s no getting out of it.

  “Fifty,” he answers.

  “No!” she shouts. “You remember fifty because your father said it before. Fifty has nothing to do with this.”

  Paolo lets go of the chair. He turns very red. His lip is trembling.

  “Leave him alone,” I say. “We’ll try later,” I add.

  She closes her eyes. “All right.”

  I sit down at the table. She stands up.

  “Dinner’s in half an hour. OK?”

  “Fine.”

  I take Paolo’s hand in mine. His eyes are brimming with tears, but he doesn’t cry.

  “Now tell me, who’s right? Your mother or me?” I ask.

  The Singing Principal

  When Paolo passes from fifth grade into middle school, I ask that he be placed in a section with some of his classmates. It’s an unorthodox request.

  The principal greets me with white gloves. That’s not a metaphor. No one’s sure if she wears them to distinguish herself or because she’s afraid of catching something. They’re made of white lace. For as long as anyone can remember (which is three years, since she was transferred to this school), she’s never taken them off.

  She’s petite and spirited; she looks positively turgid in her tight dress. She has a bubbly voice. She likes to show off her talent as a singer by performing at the end-of-the-year recital, provoking laughter, confusion, and amusement in the audience. She has a strong character, like most integrated and flamboyant people. She comes toward me in a vaguely theatrical manner, almost like an eighteenth-century dame in an opera by Cimarosa.

  “Oh, Professor Frigerio, I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you and your son Paolo!”

  I bow ever so slightly. “Why, thank you.”

  She motions for me to sit down across from her at her desk. There’s a large vase of yellow flowers on each end. I’m not sure what kind they are; I can never remember the names of plants. They might be gladioli. Behind her is an oriental screen: marsh birds flying diagonally across a background of green stylized plants.

  “Do you like it?” she asks, turning sideways to look at it.

  “Yes, very much.”

  “I brought it in from home. A distant uncle of mine who spent twenty-one years in the diplomatic corps in China gave it to me.” She looks at me for a moment and then adds, “It’s not worth very much, but it breaks up the academic environment. You’ve probably heard how much I detest bureaucracy.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I have.”

  “So there’s no need to worry about your son.” She rests her hand on a pile of gray folders. “He’ll be in class One-C, with an excellent teacher’s aide: Professoressa Molteni. Do you know her?”

  “No, but I—”

  “She’s done excellent work with a child that has—how do you say it?—behavioral problems,” she says, interrupting me.

  “I see,” I say, as I often do when I am entirely unclear about something but still want the conversation to go on. “But that’s not the point.”

  “What is?” she asks in surprise, retreating a bit on her swivel chair.

  “I wanted—that is, I would have liked—Paolo to be with some of the children from his fifth grade class. He’s grown very attached to them.”

  “He’ll make friends with his new classmates,” she says resolutely. “What’s the problem?”

  “Well, you see, he’s the one who asked me about it,” I say with some difficulty. “If it wasn’t right, I’d be the first one to say no. But it seemed like a reasonable request.”

  She looks at me carefully. “How many years have you been teaching, Professor Frigerio?”

  “Twelve,” I say uncomfortably, as if under interrogation.

  “I’ve been teaching for twenty-nine years,” she says, calmly but triumphantly. “I hate to admit it because it reveals how old I really am.”

  She has a malicious air about her. I react too late to what she’s said, managing only the hint of a smile.

  She lowers her voice. “Experience counts. I know your son will be happy with his new classmates.”

  “Is there some kind of bureaucratic impediment?” I insist.

  “Luck of the draw,” she says firmly. It’s the immediate response of a superior who wishes to include an inferior in some secret and at the same time maintain her distance. “You’re not familiar with statute 328 comma 5 of 1976? Well, I suppose not, seeing that you teach at the high school level.”

  She who so despises bureaucracy has suddenly become very serious. There’s nothing like a statute to delight or humiliate a person.

  “What does the statute say?” I ask.

  “That first-year middle-school students will be assigned to their classes based on the results of a random drawing. We’re all equal in the eyes of the law.”

  “Yes, but he’s not equal to the others,” I say.

  “Professor Frigerio,” she says, losing her patience, “this norm was introduced to do away with discriminatory acts. Now you want to introduce one.”

  “Yes,” I say, “that’s right. I’d like to introduce a discriminatory act.”

  I’m beginning to see a way out of this. Paradoxes have always been of great help when reason fails me.

  “Actually, the facts introduce it,” I add. “He’s not equal to the others.”

  “You are insistent, aren’t you?” she says, as if I were insisting on some irregularity. “I never would have imagined you to be the type, Professor Frigerio—”

  “Please, Signora Preside, listen to me,” I say. The use of her title, both stark and bureaucratic, creates instantaneous equality among diverse ranks. “You can surely guess how I feel about discrimination. But that’s exactly why he shouldn’t be considered like the others. It would be a kind of discrimination for the others and a new one for him.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t follow you,” the principal says, shaking her head in a pantomime of confusion.

  “Racism is an altogether different thing,” I say, branching off into a discussion that I should perhaps avoid but it’s already too late. “Recognizing diversity is not a form of racism. It’s a duty we all have. Racism, however, draws its diverse laws from the differences between races. But we believe that everyone should have equal rights.”

  “So far, I follow you,” the principal says, with a sigh of relief.

  I’ve always thought that the best way to change someone’s mind is to convince them that you’re not actually doing
it.

  “As such, my son is allowed to study within the public school system.” There’s another linguistic aid that should help convince the principal: the use of the term “public school system.” “But he also has the right to be treated with special regard. For example, he doesn’t do gym with the other children.”

  “Naturally!” the principal exclaims.

  “And then he’s got the teacher’s aide to help him,” I add.

  “That’s right,” she says emphatically.

  “So, if we want to help him just a little bit more, let’s permit him to be with some of his old classmates.”

  She takes her time to reply, knowing all the while that my eyes are fixed on her. Mustering up all the authority she can, she says, “Did you know that your son has been rather unlucky? There’s only one of his old classmates in his new class.”

  “I know.”

  I say no more. Silence has to work in my favor.

  “Well, what can we do about it? You’re against the most democratic measure that’s been introduced,” the principal complains.

  “No, it’s simply that in this case a random drawing goes against intelligence.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “And what would you propose to do about it?”

  “Violate the law in order to respect the spirit.” I’m surprised by my fearlessness. “Change the results of the drawing.”

  “No,” the principal says, sliding even farther back in her chair.

  I look at her in dismay, aware that I have asked too much. I chose the wrong words, not the wrong objective. It’s always the same thing.

  “Let me think about it,” she says apprehensively.

  There’s a large blue globe on a shelf above her desk. It caught my eye when I first walked in: an unappeased dream of my youth.

  “Would you mind if I brought the parents’ representative in on this?” she asks, pointing toward a door behind her desk. “I asked her to make herself available in case there was a need.”

  “Fine.” I nod.

  I’m not sure whom she’s seeking to help. Perhaps she’s not even sure herself.

  She goes out of the room, closing the door behind her. I look at the globe. The midmorning sun shines down on the play-ground below. There’s a warmth in the air, a brightness, the feel of vacation. I imagine the sound of children’s voices. It would be time for recess.

  “This is our dear friend Professor Frigerio,” the principal says, reappearing at the door and gesturing toward me with uneasy kindness. “This is Signora Matteucci.”

  Signora Matteucci is tall, elegant, and refined. She looks persuasive. She smiles at me knowingly, as if we have already met.

  “I explained the situation to Signora Matteucci,” the principal says. “She has a degree in psychology. Even she was surprised.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to the degree in psychology,” my new enemy says collegially. “I’m not a psychologist. I work part-time in an advertising firm.”

  “I suppose that’s pretty interesting.”

  “Not as interesting as you’d think,” she says; I can tell she really works there. “But let’s talk about your case.” She crosses her legs and folds her hands gently over her knees. Her smile is not promising. “So. You’d like special privileges for your son, is that right?”

  It couldn’t have begun any worse. I smile and shake my head.

  “Well, then, why don’t you explain things to me.”

  “I’ll start with a given,” I say. “The state wants to integrate disabled children into the system instead of isolating them in special schools.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she concedes placidly.

  I’m using the jargon that I abhor, that of my interlocutors. I know it strips me of my strengths and credibility even as I acquire it in their eyes. I alter my course.

  “Look, Paolo is disabled. He’ll have a teacher’s aide,” I say heatedly. “I’d like him to have the aid of his friends too.”

  “Why, Professor Frigerio? Tell me why,” Signor Matteucci says with profound calmness and curiosity. She leans toward me as if I were telling her a secret. “Why does your son need his old classmates so much?”

  “They need him too!” I say. “Naturally, his classmates have provided him with friendship, solidarity, and admiration. But he’s given them a lot as well. Having him in the class has been an added encouragement for them, a kind of stimulus. That’s what his teacher always said. It might have been out of compensation, perhaps, but what difference does that make?”

  “I believe you.” Signora Matteucci nods, opening her eyes wide. Many women do that; they think it has a special effect.

  “It was entirely unexpected,” I go on to say. “A class that benefited from a disabled student as much as he benefited from them. Why do we have to interrupt this experience?”

  “But who’s interrupting it, Professor Frigerio?” Signora Matteucci asks, in an amazed yet pedantic tone. “Your son will enjoy other equally positive interpersonal relationships.”

  “Yes, but he suffers from a particular kind of anxiety.” I’m unsure which point to give more importance. “The thought of losing his friends, who in turn will find themselves together in another class, seems unfair to him—”

  “It’s up to you to convince him otherwise,” the principal interrupts.

  “I agree,” I say, “but why complicate his life more than necessary because of a random drawing?”

  “Now calm down, Professor Frigerio,” the principal replies loudly. “I can understand your frame of mind, but we do not invent the rules.”

  “I understand,” I say. “No one knows that as well as I do.” How did I come up with that one? “But it’s ridiculous to chain ourselves to a lottery.”

  “Why?” the principal asks with genuine surprise. “How often has it happened in history?”

  Now I’m the one who looks at her in amazement. I can tell this is not the path to take.

  “Let’s think about this calmly, Frigerio,” Signora Matteucci suggests gently. She has dropped the title of professor, which gives her leave to speak to me in a more confidential, even intimate, manner. “Talk to me—but be sincere. Please!”

  “All right,” I said, nodding.

  I know from experience that invitations to sincerity invariably hide aggressive impulses.

  “Why do you fear new classmates for your son, Frigerio?”

  “He’s the one who fears them. Actually, no, he doesn’t fear them; he’d just like to be with a few old classmates. They were connected. They protected him.”

  “Now there’s the key word,” Signora Matteucci exclaims with careful enthusiasm, looking up at me. “Protection! You want to protect your son too much. But he has to face life.” Then, as if relinquishing herself to an irresistible novelty, she adds, “Life is all about risks!”

  I listen to her in astonishment. There will always be someone to point out the road that you take every day. They’ll tell you that they do it in your best interest, and ultimately you end up having to thank them.

  Signora Matteucci can’t resist sinking the knife in a little bit deeper. “It’s not that you want to protect yourself, Frigerio, is it? And that the child is a projection of your own fears?”

  “Who, me?” I look down. “No, believe me. The problem is very simple. It’s a problem of common sense.”

  I use this word in desperation. It had always seemed like abnegation to me, but here it’s turning into a conquest. But never jump to conclusions. We credit people with intelligence they don’t really have. It happens all the time.

  The two women are looking at each other, and that seems like a positive sign. But then Signora Matteucci demurs.

  “Frigerio, you’re not taking advantage of your role as a teacher, are you, to ask us for this infraction of the norm?”

  “Taking advantage?” I look up. “I don’t really think that’s the right word.”

  “You’re right, I meant something else, but you know what I
mean.”

  I nod, even if I don’t really understand. Maybe she chose the wrong term on purpose so she could correct herself.

  “Still, it is a problem,” the principal says in alarm. “How do we get out of the drawing? It’s the law, after all.”

  “You don’t have to get out of it,” I say confidently. “It’s just that the drawing will have a more intelligent outcome. Why should we accept a stupid drawing?”

  “Because it’s a drawing,” she says.

  “And we, who are more important than a drawing, can modify it. It’s enough to read a D instead of a C. A pen mark is enough.”

  “How very removed you are from it all, Frigerio!” the principal exclaims.

  She’s given up on the title now, too, and this makes me feel better.

  “What do you think?” she asks, turning toward Signora Matteucci.

  “Nothing. I don’t know a thing about it. Never saw a thing.”

  I lean back in my chair.

  “Section D, you said?” the principal asks, to be sure.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “For what?” she asks.

  Matteucci (I leave off the Signora too, when I say goodbye) disappears again through the little door behind the desk. I have participated in a drama; I’m a wreck, I’m happy, I’m depressed. I’ve won a small victory in a war that is destined never to be over.

  I take leave of the principal. On the way out, I can’t resist reaching up and touching the globe. I spin it slowly in a counterclockwise direction.

  Death of an Actress

  My mother died when Paolo was still learning to walk. I don’t think she’d like that as a start to her obituary. Even though she continued to dedicate her energies toward this goal up to the very end (she helped Franca every day with Paolo’s exercises in an indefatigable competition with my mother-in-law), she always had an exclusive sense of her own personal destiny. Although the love she felt for her grandson was relentless, it still didn’t complete—to use a favorite metaphor of hers—the scene. We tend to think that our parents exist as a function of ourselves, and when they don’t, we repay them with inextinguishable hate—at least until we reach their age, when their perspective becomes ours. But by then it’s usually too late to tell them.