Then and there he raised his eyes. The water was swelling. It swelled and he went to meet it. Climbed up onto the first rock, onto the second. Climbed down onto the third, and the water submerged the blue trousers up to his ankles. He stamped his feet once. The fog covered him and in the whiteness he began with the heel, continued with the toe.
39
Pietro returned along with the breeze that dissolved the fog and collected the leaves. That strewed dead dry leaves over the beach and the gardens of the Grand Hotel. Inside the main hall two musicians in livery were at the double bass and the violin. A pianist played with his hair dishevelled by the draught coming in at the door. The hall was crowded. Pietro saw them at the first table. Paola held a glass of wine in her hand, her gaze on her son seated at the bar. Fernando was dressed up. Every so often he would lean over on the bar stool and adjust his jacket without ever taking his eyes off the bartender.
‘The best always arrive first – fashions have changed.’ The lawyer came to meet him in a dinner jacket, bowed and noticed Pietro’s trousers, wet to the ankles, and the jar of sand. ‘One day you’ll have to tell me what you do in your spare time.’ Then he whispered in his ear: ‘Ask Paola to dance. She’s been dying for it all evening.’ He led him to the table, in the middle of which stood a card with the crest of the Grand Hotel and the words ‘Reserved for Deluxe Vans’. Luca sat apart from the others and dandled his daughter on his knees. Sara noticed the concierge and held up the plastic dolphin that Fernando had given her after his trip in the dinghy. The entire time, Luca did not turn his head.
‘Update on our doctor …’ The lawyer drained a flute of champagne. ‘Instead of Madame, Riccardo called him, but he wouldn’t answer. Shall we dance?’
‘No.’
‘Come.’ He took the jar from his hands and set it on the table, dragged the concierge onto the dance floor, held him as if to begin a waltz. Pietro tried to move away but soon gave up and allowed himself to be led. Poppi waltzed him once around the floor, then nodded to Paola.
She rose to her feet, her long dress trailing along the ground and barely covering her withered breasts. She came closer, a mass of curls atop her head, came closer still. Pietro found her in his arms in place of the lawyer. Paola clutched him with cold hands, the odour of face powder rising from her wizened face, yanked him into a turn. ‘It’s very easy, follow me.’ She led him according to the notes played by the dishevelled pianist. ‘Follow me.’ Pietro followed her, watching past the curls as Fernando got down from his bar stool and went over to a vase of flowers at reception. Paola laid her cheek against the concierge’s, breathed in deeply and said, ‘See how easy it is, it’s all a question of mutual understanding.’ Fernando lifted a rose from the vase at reception and returned to the bar while his mother whispered in Pietro’s ear, ‘And there’s no shortage of understanding between us.’ Paola caressed the back of his neck. Her son attempted to do the same to the raven-haired bartender but she stepped aside with a smile. Paola smiled as well, ‘I feel so safe here with you,’ extended her lips to his neck. Fernando climbed over the bar, ‘I want to marry you, Alice,’ and the bartender backed away. The boy pushed his glasses up and held out the rose: ‘You’re my sweetheart.’ A waiter stepped between them and pushed Fernando back. The boy persisted, crying, ‘Alice, Alice,’ as the mother was saying to Pietro, ‘It’s beautiful to grow old together, Pietro. There are so many things that we can do, you and I.’ Fernando faced up to the waiter and swung the rose at him, slipped away and went after the girl. Caused her to fall, tumbling as well in the process and upturning a shelf of bottles onto himself. The concierge turned toward the bar. Everyone turned toward the bar except for Luca, who passed Sara to the lawyer and rushed up the stairs.
The pianist paused, smoothed back his ruffled hair and told the other musicians that they must distract the guests. He began to play but no one was distracted from the strange boy being subdued by two waiters.
Pietro left the dance floor when Fernando was already back on his feet and being attended to by Paola. He reached the stairs and climbed to their floor. The windows on the corridor were all wide open. Sand floated in on the wind. Luca was at the far end on the phone, saying, ‘Everything’s fine, Sara’s fine. What did you want to tell me today? Tell me now, tell me for God’s sake. I said, tell me. What does it matter, tomorrow or now?’ He leaned out over the windowsill and the wind ruffled his hair. ‘Tell me,’ he shouted into the phone. ‘I don’t want to be told in person, I want to be told now, hello? Viola? Hello, hello?’ He brought the mobile away from his ear, looked at it, dropped it to the carpet and noticed the concierge. Ran a hand over his hair and covered his face. ‘Would I look out of that window to fall in love again?’ he asked in a thread of a voice.
‘You would.’
‘For my daughter?’
‘For what you’ve become.’
Luca picked up the mobile and slid it over the sill to him. ‘A doctor who competes for souls with God? What else?’
Pietro drew out the old man’s recorder and handed it to him. ‘A father.’
The rosary sank down and settled into the sand. Celeste was also swimming along the bottom. Pietro felt her near his legs, twitched. She stroked his feet and came up. She placed her hands on his scarred ribs and said, ‘What we’re doing is just a form of prayer.’ She wrapped her legs around him. ‘Our prayer.’
Pietro stopped twitching and looked at her. Witches have Milanese accents and frightened eyes that are more beautiful still. He stared at the sky, then filled his hands with what they had never before touched, sought her glorious breasts, her thighs, her legs and worked back up.
Celeste stopped his hands at her stomach. Their prayer began when he entered her.
The doctor returned to the main hall of the Grand Hotel. Pietro stood at the window. The cruise liner illuminated a slice of sea. At the end of the jetty the lighthouse was dark. The only light remaining was the glow of a restaurant on stilts.
‘Luca told me you were here.’
Pietro turned around. Paola advanced awkwardly in her high heels, faltered. Her cheeks were plastered with make-up and her lips dry at the corners.
‘How is Fernando?’
She leaned her head on his shoulder, her breath smelling of wine. ‘He’s with Poppi.’ Hugged him close. The piano downstairs started up and Paola took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to do with him.’ Hugged him closer. ‘I never have.’
The lights of the restaurant on stilts went out as well.
Paola tugged at the hem of his jacket. ‘Come with me to get Fernando’s pills?’
‘I’ll wait for you here.’
She found the keys in her handbag, took him by the hand and dragged him to room 314. Opened the door and pulled him inside, pushing the door not quite closed. Rested her forehead on his chin as if they were still dancing.
The concierge held her up. ‘The others are waiting for us.’ He tried to lead her out but Paola pushed his hands aside. She took a deep breath and knelt down. Unzipped his trousers and burrowed a hand inside. Pietro backed away but she was quicker, taking his sex into her mouth. She kept on, mascara streaking down her cheeks, kept on until Pietro pushed her face away. ‘The others are waiting for us.’
She collapsed backward, spread her arms out on the carpet and remained still. The concierge pulled her up, Paola burbling. As he laid her out on the bed a bustling came from the corridor, then a knock. The lawyer entered with Fernando clinging to his neck. The boy’s glasses were askew and he had a sticking plaster on one temple.
‘One and one makes two, the complete set,’ he said upon seeing the wine-addled woman. Arranged the boy beside his mother and kissed him on the forehead, went out.
The concierge followed him into the corridor. ‘It must be the iodine.’
Poppi took his arm. ‘I always knew you had a sense of humour down there somewhere.’
40
Pietro slept in room 318, his face peeking out above a sheet p
ulled up to his chin. His legs were drawn up to one side and he snored faintly. The night before as he climbed into bed he managed to hear Poppi: ‘Goodnight, dear friend, and thanks.’
The concierge fell asleep immediately after that. The lawyer never did. His hands were folded over his silk dressing gown, his cheeks whitened by anti-wrinkle cream. He had stayed in bed, motionless, and then all of a sudden murmured, ‘Mazel tov,’ then nothing again for the rest of the night.
In the middle of the night Poppi gritted his teeth, sighed, pulled his hands outside the sheets and brought them to his nose. For once he was not afraid, just ashamed. The old man slowly rose to his feet. Unbuttoned the pyjama top to discover the bottoms wet with urine. Closed himself in the bathroom as Pietro opened his eyes and looked to the windows. The chooo of the lighthouse had returned. Fernando opened his eyes as well in room 314. His mother put her arms around him and the boy tried to free himself from that embrace that seemed to come from a wife rather than a mother. Chooo, the lighthouse blew, and the last to hear it was Luca in room 316. He woke abruptly, the bundle of Sara pressed up against his side. She slept, still. He drew her hair away from her face. Pulled himself up and went to the French doors. Rimini in the winter is a great lady. His jacket hung from the coat rack. He searched in one pocket, then another, found the recorder and went out onto the balcony. Turned it on. The lighthouse started up again. Beneath that blast of sound each of them discovered the courage they had never before had.
‘My name is Andrea Testi. I am thirty-four years old and I know how to dribble. You have to have strong ankles to dribble well, and I have strong ankles. But what really counts is your eye. Look straight at your opponent, straight at him. Then ankle, ball, ankle. I can dribble right past people. I want to do it again. Ask Daniele Bucchi how I dribble, he’s my captain, a real bear of a defender. When you’ve got the ball and he comes at you, he takes it off everyone but yours truly. In training, I swear, he’s never taken the ball off me. I’d say to him, “I dare you,” and he’d say, “Look out.” He has never once taken the ball off me. Daniele Bucchi says I’ll be coming back to dribble him again, and that he’s training twice as hard for when I get up from the wheelchair and return to the field. The captain is always talking bullshit. After the wheelchair I’m headed for the bed. It’s written on my chart at the hospital. It also says I won’t speak any more. If that’s the way it goes, God’s lucky he’s not a defender. If that’s the way it goes, ankle, ball, ankle. Look straight at your opponent. Better to snuff it. I say it and this is my voice. My name is Andrea Testi and I know how to dribble. I swear, it’s better to snuff it.’
41
The lawyer’s team won. When they were still on the motor-way he came to the end of the alphabet with the ‘z’ on a billboard for Zapis Thermal Baths. Poppi played alone. Paola stared out of the window with a scarf over her head and knotted under her chin. Fernando was in a virtual trance the entire trip. No one from Pietro’s team had been up for it. Luca travelled with his daughter on his knees: ‘Did you like the dolphins, honey?’ She nodded. ‘Will you take me on the dinghy?’
Pietro watched them in the rear-view mirror. The rosary swung when they sped down the bridge over the River Po. In the other direction the guard rail was still broken. Paola pointed it out. Fernando closed the case with his camera inside. The last picture snapped was of Alice at the Grand Hotel whose name was actually Nicole and whose boyfriend was a lifeguard in the summer and a night-club DJ in the winter. She had winked at Fernando and he had taken her picture. You’re my sweetheart – Me? Sorry, I’ve already got a sweetheart.
Luca’s mobile rang as they came to the end of the bridge. It had rung as soon as they left Rimini, then twice more, and he had not answered. He did so when they reached the toll booth for Milan. ‘Come by tomorrow morning at nine-thirty and tell me what you have to say. I’ll take Sara to nursery school.’
The little girl stared at her father and tapped her nose with the feather. She dropped it when they arrived at the studio flat. Got out and fluttered three fingers to say goodbye. Fernando reciprocated with three fingers at the window.
‘It breaks my heart to see the doctor like this.’ Paola unwound the rosary from the rear-view mirror and gave it to the concierge. ‘You keep it, it will make me happy.’
Pietro put the rosary in his pocket and before they arrived home fastened it to his wrist. He had to park right next to the tram stop. The petrol-blue SUV took up the two spaces near the street door.
‘Golden curls doesn’t waste any time.’ The lawyer pointed to Riccardo, who was struggling to unload a shopping bag from the luggage compartment. His right leg was in a cast up to his knee that visibly threw him off balance. ‘How sorry I am,’ Poppi sniggered. ‘He’s hurt himself, the poor lion.’
No one got out of the van.
‘She’s there as well,’ said Paola.
Viola could be seen at the entrance, holding more bags.
‘Everyone out.’
Fernando was the first. He gathered up their bags and went in without saying goodbye. Paola was the last. After the lawyer got out she spoke with the scarf over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry about last night, Pietro.’
‘Can I take Fernando out tonight?’
‘Him?’
‘Him.’
Paola sighed. ‘If he’s not tired. I’ll let you know.’
The concierge returned the keys to the lawyer and went over to Riccardo, picked up the remaining shopping bag.
It was filled to the brim with stuffed animals. He also spotted a pair of children’s pyjamas, a bathrobe and towel set. ‘What happened to your leg?’
‘Five-a-side football isn’t made for someone almost forty.’
The concierge closed the SUV. ‘I’ll come up with you.’
They climbed the stairs together, Riccardo relying on his crutches. After the first flight he leaned on the concierge’s shoulder. ‘How was it going back to the sea?’
‘A bit of fresh air for everyone.’
‘Including Luca?’
Pietro helped him start up again. ‘Let’s go.’ Supported him all the way up to the second floor.
Viola stood on the threshold. ‘Pietro.’
Riccardo pretended to swipe at her with a crutch. ‘If it weren’t for him …’ He smiled.
‘I was on my way.’ She had the concierge hand her the bag. ‘Please come in, both of you.’
‘I need to go, I forgot my prescription pad at the office.’ Riccardo started off and Viola followed him. ‘You’re going how?’
‘I’ll take a taxi.’
She waved goodbye uncertainly, then invited Pietro inside. ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘I already had two at the Autogrill,’ he replied as he followed her in. They stopped in the living room, where he looked at her. Her hair was recently cut, layered toward the bottom, her face gaunt. She nibbled at her lips and crossed her arms, pushing her breasts forward. ‘Did you have a good time at the sea?’
‘We took Sara to the Dolphinarium. She had fun.’
Viola, not knowing where to look, stared at a slice of the couch. The polka-dot gloves were balled up between a cushion and the seat back. She picked them up and smoothed them between her hands, twice, before laying them on an end table. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Pietro.’
‘What am I thinking?’ He looked for the photograph of the lavender field but it was gone, replaced by a pale rectangle.
‘That I’m throwing everything away.’
‘All Luca needs is the child,’ he said point-blank.
Viola motioned for him to sit down. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’
He did not sit. Found the lavender photograph behind the door, atop a pile of cardboard boxes. Pointed to it. ‘What’s left of that?’
Viola continued to stare at the gloves. The wrinkle persisted. She smoothed them out once more. ‘At a certain point I stopped loving him.’ Then she touched a pocket of her jeans.
‘What’
s left of that?’ He pointed at the lavender.
Viola once again brought a hand to her pocket. ‘In the end they’re just things, Pietro.’ She pulled out a mobile that was vibrating. Read the message. ‘I knew it’ – she held her breath – ‘Riccardo is going over to Luca’s.’
Pietro and Celeste remained one inside the other and he ceased to gasp. She continued to gasp and her legs were no longer those of a ballerina.
‘They’re shaking.’ Celeste ran her fingers lightly over the bruises on his chest. ‘My legs are shaking because God is offended.’ Drew herself away from him and disappeared underwater, resurfacing with the beads. ‘Mama says that God is in things.’ Handed him the rosary.
The Sense of an Elephant Page 16