The Sense of an Elephant

by Marco Missiroli

  ‘For me?’

  The child handed it to him and bent down, touched the big toe emerging from the hole in his slipper. She laughed, Pietro laughed too, then he unwrapped the chocolate. It had golden foil and contained tiny pieces of hazelnut. He popped the entire piece into his mouth and opened the card. Read the doctor’s handwriting aloud: ‘Mr Pietro, you are invited to my birthday the day after tomorrow. Will you come?’ He looked up. ‘Of course I’ll come. Thank you.’

  But she was already across the room, seated on the edge of the mattress. She bounced in place, slid down into the sunken middle. Glanced at the night table. The rice-paper envelope lay below the pomegranate.

  ‘I’ll take you home, come on.’ Pietro attempted to catch her but she squirmed away and first stuck her head into the bathroom, then hopped toward the bedroom.

  He beat her there and closed the door. ‘I will most certainly come to your birthday – with a lovely gift.’

  The child tried to enter the bedroom.

  ‘With a lovely gift.’ Pietro picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, set her on her feet on the table.

  She stood and looked at him from up there. Began to smooth down his hair, tugging a lock at his crown then pressing it down, one after another, then descending to the comb-over he’d worn for a lifetime. As she tried to brush his hair he held her hips. She was a Viola-faced munchkin. He pressed the child to his chest and she squeaked.

  ‘Pardon me …’ From the doorway emerged the doctor’s top half. ‘Sara, I got fed up with waiting for you.’ He came in. ‘Please excuse the invasion, Pietro. But with her it’s always like this, she entertains herself.’

  ‘Now I’m an officially invited guest to her birthday.’

  ‘Now you have no way out.’

  The child leaned in the direction of the closed room. ‘He’s got a chamber of secrets,’ she said. Her voice was a murmur.

  ‘A chamber of secrets, that’s all we need.’ The doctor went to his daughter and she began to brush her father’s hair as well. Then back to Pietro’s. And then the doctor’s.

  ‘Mama’s waiting for you.’

  Sara had herself lowered down and waved a hand goodbye.

  ‘Bye, honey.’ The doctor gave her a kiss, and when she had left, watched to see that she went up the stairs. ‘She’s been obsessed with that invitation all day today.’

  ‘She’s a quiet child.’

  ‘And a very curious one.’ Luca adjusted the raincoat over his shoulder, held his medical bag with two fingers. Put the bag on a chair, opened it and withdrew a bunch of five crumpled daisies. ‘They were for Viola, but I didn’t give them to her.’ Placed them in an empty jug. His face was wan, mottled with shadow. He peered around like his daughter. ‘Do you sleep there?’ He pointed at the bed in the living area.

  ‘I like cubbyholes.’

  ‘And secret chambers.’

  ‘Every priest has one.’ Pietro went to the night table, pulled out the handheld recorder he’d received from the old man. When he turned back to Luca he saw that the doctor had sat down and that below the daisies lay loose petals. ‘Night shift?’

  ‘In your secret room, do you keep the sins of others?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  The doctor plucked a petal. ‘In your secret room …’ Plucked another. ‘Do you keep the sins you heard as a priest?’

  ‘The sins of others are to be forgotten.’ The concierge filled two glasses of wine. ‘I keep my own in there.’

  Luca drank immediately. ‘I should have a secret room of my own, then.’ He looked Pietro directly in the face. ‘Nice and big.’ Pietro looked back. The doctor struggled to keep his eyes open.

  Pietro placed the recorder on the table and slid it toward the doctor. ‘The old man in the petrol-station uniform came by.’

  The doctor tugged at two petals simultaneously. ‘I asked you not to listen to him.’

  ‘He waited at my door. And he wasn’t going away.’

  ‘I asked you not to listen to him!’ he shouted in a voice not his own. It was a frightening rasp. He poked a finger at the side with the microphone. The recorder spun like a top. He prodded it again, pressed play. The voice began and he turned off the recorder immediately. He bowed his head and held it between his hands. ‘Did you listen to the tape?’

  ‘I listened to it.’

  ‘Did he take you to his house?’

  The concierge nodded. ‘Yes, I met his son.’

  Luca lifted his face. ‘Andrea …’ One of his hands returned to the daisies and began to climb the stems. When he arrived at the flowers, he plucked. Plucked the petals one by one. ‘The sins of others are to be forgotten, isn’t that what you said?’ One daisy stripped, he moved on to another. Plucked some more. ‘It’s our own sins that we keep.’ Nothing but the stem remained. He moved on to another flower. When he finished there were five bare stems. ‘I’m afraid.’

  The petals curled on the table.

  Pietro stared at him. ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t know.’

  The concierge stood up.

  The doctor said, ‘I have to go.’ But didn’t move.

  Pietro moved closer and Luca covered his face. The concierge removed the doctor’s hands and replaced them with his own. Luca straightened his neck, from his mouth came the hoarse squawk of a crow, he drew a breath. ‘It’s not the hospital I’m expected at tonight, not the hospital.’

  Pietro sat down.

  The doctor looked him in the face. ‘I won’t make it tonight.’

  Pietro held him.

  That night the young priest got into bed as the choooo of the lighthouse blew. He ran a hand through his hair. The sand was gone. The witch’s face was not.

  He turned to the other side of the bed and slipped from the sheets. Dressed feverishly, Forgive me, Lord, opened the street door and ran through the piazza, choooo, ran down the boulevard to the station, took the street leading to the witch’s house. As he approached, he saw that all the windows were dark except for one at the rear. The light struck the ceiling, where he saw the shadow of an enchanting profile, recognized the hair tied back. Beside the profile emerged two hands, intertwining. The shadow of the hands became a dog with its jaw open, a parrot with a raised crest.

  He took a handful of pebbles from the ground and launched them against the glass.

  The parrot dissolved and the witch opened the window. She stared down at him. ‘You put on your nice shirt.’

  The young priest stood with his arms at his sides.

  Their punishment began there, with her finger held up to say, wait.

  The doctor asked to use the bathroom. He splashed water on his face while Pietro hid the rice-paper envelope in the night-table drawer. When Luca returned his eyes were puffy and fixed on the closed bedroom door. He immediately started off, only noticing just before going out that Pietro had put on his jacket. Slowed to wave goodbye. The concierge did not return the gesture but simply followed him. They passed through the entrance hall, Luca in front, the old man’s recorder swelling a pocket, his medical bag inclining him to one side, Pietro’s shadow close on his heels. In the street Luca walked as if he were alone, only occasionally turning to see if the concierge was there. They travelled the street that passes under the ancient city gate, continued in the direction opposite that of the hospital. Pietro was a step behind, pulling up to the doctor at busy intersections. They didn’t look at each other and each set off again on his own. They walked the length of Corso Vittorio Emanuele II and arrived at the cath edral, ivory under the extinguished sunset. They skirted the Piazza del Duomo, continued down a cobblestone street that ended in a six-way intersection. The doctor took the street that circled the Castello. Approached a stately building with a recently renovated facade, Pietro still holding back. The doctor buzzed and the street door opened immediately. Above them two stone eagles perched on the lowest balcony’s balustrade. A little old woman stood behind the one with the beak worn away. Scrutinized them.
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  Luca paused for a moment on the threshold before entering. Left the door open a crack.

  Pietro followed him.

  The internal courtyard had a diamond-shaped flower bed with a palm tree at its centre that appeared ready to snap in two. There were two bicycles against one wall and in a corner a small fountain surrounded by a low wall of azulejo tiles. The concierge sat down on the fountain wall. A single drop spilled over from the fountain’s upper basin into the larger, already full one below. A second drop spilled. The doctor passed through a glass-paned door and climbed red-carpeted stairs. On the first floor, two windows lit up.

  23

  Twenty minutes later the doctor came down, walked past the concierge and leaned his back against the inside surface of the street door. The leather bag swung from his index finger. Pietro hadn’t moved from the azulejo fountain, now went to Luca and lifted the bag from his hands. On the first floor, the two windows had gone dark. The concierge accompanied the doctor into the street, back through the Piazza del Duomo, the polychrome Madonnina statue atop the cathedral defying the blackened sky. They returned up the Corso one behind the other, not stopping until the hospital. When they arrived, the accident and emergency department sign was lit.

  ‘I want to say goodbye to Lorenzo. Starting tomorrow he’ll be cared for at home.’ The doctor took back his bag and lifted up his face, all sharp angles. Stepped towards Pietro but did not face or look at him. ‘The woman on the balcony is the wife. He was my teacher in secondary school. He has intestinal cancer. He’s tired.’ Luca straightened his raincoat. ‘His wife asked me who you were.’

  Pietro buttoned his jacket. ‘Who am I?’

  ‘You’re the priest who’ll be confessing him tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not a priest any more.’

  ‘You will be tomorrow.’ The doctor stared blankly at the emergency department sign. ‘Because tomorrow I’ll be helping him to die.’ He looked now at the concierge and truly saw him for the first time. Pietro was a tiny man whom the evening was nevertheless incapable of covering. Luca sought him with fearful eyes, then closed them. Together they walked through the hospital’s front gate. They arrived at the entrance to the ward.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ the doctor asked, heading off without waiting for an answer. Pietro didn’t move. He looked for something to support him, struggled to catch his breath, leaned against one of the fir trees. Then he raised his head. The windows glowed. He sought out a window on the first floor, confident he would see him, and he did. Lorenzo was there. Pietro drew a breath and waved with his hand hanging from his nose. The child pressed himself up against the window, hesitated. Then he returned the gesture, creating his own trunk.

  Pietro headed back out to the street without entering the ward. He paused when he reached the pavement. An ambulance went past, its flashing lights staining him turquoise. When the lights were turned off, on the emergency department ramp, he started home. The concierge walked without haste, before his breathlessness forced him to stop altogether. He needs me. The effort choked him, choked him still after he arrived at the lodge and sat down in his kitchen. He felt for the drawer below the table and opened it without lowering his head. Felt some more, found a sack containing a scrap of bread. It was dry. He set it down on the table. Cut a slice thin enough to see through. Held it in the palm of his hand as he poured half a glass of wine from the bottle he had brought from the sea. With the bread and the wine he went into the bathroom. Standing before the mirror he saw what his tears looked like. Two rivulets trailed into his shirt collar. He lifted up the bread, broke it in two, lifted the glass and drank. The pasty mix swelled his cheeks. He needs me. He swallowed it down.

  24

  The witch opened the window and climbed out. Clung to the gutter. ‘Be careful,’ said the young priest. She began to descend. ‘Witches fly, didn’t you know?’ He remained stock-still, hands stretched wide, ready to catch her.

  She came down slowly. Her skirt lifted as she leapt and he saw two tapered legs, four sticking plasters on one knee.

  ‘My mother doesn’t want me to go out.’ She took his arm, which was cold. Rubbed it warm and he could only grimace. Rubbed it more quickly and he laughed.

  ‘Come on … Your name is Pietro, right?’ She led him into the street, flitting noiselessly, a dragonfly dragging a horse. They flew to the Corso d’Augusto and the Tiberius Bridge, crossed it and continued down the gravel path to the park. There was a lamppost and a bench, four dark trees losing their leaves. He did not sit down but the witch did, and the leaves ceased to fall. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a pair of legs from Milan?’ She raised her hands to the light of the lamppost. On the gravel appeared the blurry shadow of ten fingers. They closed into a fist and became a parrot. Then a dog, barking.

  ‘It bites priests,’ she said.

  ‘Who taught you how to do that?’

  ‘My father.’ The witch stroked his fingers, spread them from palm to fingertips. They were uncommonly long, and made of iron. ‘You can tell that you pray with these and nothing more.’ She stroked the backs of his hands, drew them into light. And while he stared at her lips, on the ground appeared a species of crestless parrot. The witch tugged on his middle and ring fingers and the crest emerged.

  ‘Move its beak,’ she said.

  He wiggled his thumb.

  As the parrot’s beak opened the young priest sought the witch’s mouth.

  That night, after he heard his son return from the hospital, Pietro started up the stairs and climbed slowly until he came to the iron door on the fifth floor. Opened it with some difficulty and went through. Walls of damp white sheets hung from the wires. He passed between two and felt the coolness on his face, arrived at the parapet. The narrow street was deserted, the sky a lightless pall. He continued to look up. Will I go to his teacher’s tomorrow? he asked of the only father he had ever had in his life, the father who had remained cowardly silent throughout that same lifetime. The concierge slipped off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves. Walked to the centre of the terrace, between the sheets once again, and stretched out his arms.

  25

  The next morning Pietro left the building with the Bianchi and pedalled slowly to Anita’s shop. It was still closed. He waited in the saddle, leaning a shoulder against the wall and keeping his feet on the pedals.

  ‘Pietro.’ All of a sudden she stood before him.

  He smiled and took the keys from her hands, helped her with the roller shutter.

  ‘I was about to come to you, you scoundrel. You keep your mobile off, and …’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’ He kissed her on the head and ushered her in.

  Anita had on a dress with a bow on the back. ‘What happened?’ She settled in behind the counter and turned on the shop’s display lights. ‘Tell me.’

  Pietro laid a hand on the deck of cards, which was surrounded by balls of yarn. ‘Shuffle.’

  ‘You’ve never believed in it.’

  ‘Please, shuffle.’

  She laughed, restrained herself, laughed again. Watched him as she shuffled: he was a child, his eyes consumed with sleep and impatience. ‘You’ve never believed in anything.’ Anita held out the deck to him.

  The concierge cut it in half.

  She looked at the bottom card. ‘You’re challenging him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘God.’

  She showed him the card, a woman forcing open the jaws of a lion. Uncovered for him too the middle card, a man on a throne. ‘You’re doing it for him.’

  ‘The emperor.’

  ‘Your son.’ She spread the deck out on the counter, as far as the yarn. Exhaled noisily. ‘Whatever it is you wanted to ask me …’ Nibbled at a fingernail. ‘The answer is no. Don’t do it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘The Lord doesn’t forgive twice.’

  Pietro did not listen to Anita’s cards. For the rest of the morning he monitored the preparations for Sara’s birthday. In the courtyard the magici
an Nicolini was directing the construction of a small stage. The lawyer stopped by the lodge around eleven with a brochure in hand and a haggard look. ‘It’s a disaster, my friend. It seems that Fernando won’t ever set foot in the cafe again.’

  ‘He’ll get over it.’

  ‘I hope so. Meanwhile …’ He showed him the brochure, which showed two jockeys on horses. ‘I’ve consoled myself with a gift for little Sara – riding lessons. The younger the better, in such cases.’ He tittered. ‘What did you come up with?’

  Pietro bit his lip.

  ‘If you forgot, you can always go in with me.’ Poppi left the brochure with him and continued into the courtyard to inspect the operation. He stayed more than an hour, going back up to his flat only after the magician had gone.

  Pietro set to sweeping the courtyard until he caught sight of the doctor coming down the stairs. Then he made sure he was in the entrance hall to greet him. Held open the street door and said, ‘I’m coming with you.’ Then, as on the previous evening, Pietro trailed Luca all the way to his former teacher’s house. They stopped below the imposing balcony. The little old woman was there, wrapped up in a coat, her face greyer than the two stone eagles. She went back inside and Luca said, ‘Why did you agree to come?’

  ‘Why did you ask me to?’

  ‘For my mother.’ The doctor entered the building.

  Pietro remained in the street, tried to clasp his hands together to stop them shaking, then crossed into the courtyard. More drops overflowed in the azulejo fountain. Beside it Luca, a stork swaying on the steps, waited for him. They went up together, stopping in front of a door with a brass nameplate reading Morelli-Lai. The door opened.

  ‘Hello.’

  The two-eagles woman welcomed them, bowing a chin covered with sparse down. She was a twig dried up by the years. The woman looked at Pietro, looked at the doctor. ‘This way.’ She indicated a room halfway down the hall. On the walls hung several lithographs and two Indian ink drawings of Milan in the last century. A stick of incense burned on a large wooden chest.