100 Days of Happiness

by Fausto Brizzi

“No,” he replies, in a daze. He’s in my hands: he doesn’t even know whom he’s talking to, a depressed man or a bloodthirsty killer.

  I leave and buy myself an ice-cream cone, with three flavors of gelato.

  Pistachio, chocolate crunch, and vanilla—together.

  If you ask me, much more useful and cheaper than a psychologist.

  −70

  By now the Dino Zoff notebook is full of notes, sketches, and projects. It’s become my inseparable companion in my misfortunes. I check off the days as they rush past in the countdown to oblivion. A countdown that has only had a statistical meaning. Until today.

  The first person to know is Massimiliano, my new friend at the Chitchat shop, and by now my preferred confidant. As he knows so little or almost nothing about me, he’s often able to give me better advice than Umberto and Corrado, who are emotionally involved and therefore less objective.

  The first words I say to him are pretty self-explanatory: “I’ve decided to kill myself.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not about to jump out the window, and I’m not going to hang myself from the ceiling of your shop. I’m talking about assisted suicide, in Switzerland. I’ve already researched it thoroughly. I’ve even picked a clinic; it’s in Lugano.”

  “Why?” he asks, with heartfelt concern.

  “A thousand good reasons, but here are the main ones: I don’t want to watch myself fall apart physically, but most of all, I don’t want to make my wife and children witness that. I want them to remember me in tiptop shape, or something close to it. I think that’s my right.”

  “What about the diet?”

  “It’s working. I’m losing weight and that’s helping to alleviate the pain. But the tumor markers in my bloodstream are rising constantly, I’m afraid. I received new test results just the other day. I discovered my buddy Fritz too late.”

  “Your buddy Fritz?”

  “That’s what I call my cancer. It takes some of the sting out of it, no?”

  “It sure does. I have to say, I hope you change your mind about this.”

  “Not a chance. I’ve been trying to come to this decision for a month now. It’s the only possible way out. I don’t want to rot in a hospital bed.”

  “Have you told your wife?”

  “No. We’re having a pretty hard time of it lately, you know.”

  He pours me a glass of iced peach tea. Homemade, by him. Organic peaches and mineral water. Even Madonna would approve.

  A minute later the depressed Giannandrea from last week joins us. By now he’s a regular client. This time I learn that he’s a tailor and his wife left him for a gas station attendant from Udine.

  We play cards, an Italian rummy game called Scala Quaranta. I hadn’t played Scala Quaranta in I can’t remember how long. I can barely even remember the rules. It’s a recurring motif of my new life, that I do things I haven’t done in years or that, in some cases, I’ve never done at all. At last, an upside.

  −69

  Corrado and I swing by to pick up Umberto at the clinic. We’re going to enjoy an aperitif suitable for certified good-for-nothings in a bar in the center of town.

  I haven’t yet told my friends what I’ve decided.

  I’ll do it after our first Spritz.

  “In sixty-nine days I’m going to Switzerland.”

  “That’s great, are you going to take a little spin?” Corrado doesn’t get it. I might not have made myself clear.

  “I’ve made a reservation at a clinic for assisted suicide.”

  At the word “suicide” a surreal silence descends on the table. For a couple of minutes there’s no sound except for the distant notes of a hit by Oasis. Even my cough stands shyly on the sidelines.

  “Why sixty-nine days?” asks Umberto, just for something to say.

  “I’ve run a countdown. From a hundred to zero. It’s symbolic but it has a certain statistical meaning. Sometime in the days around zero, my situation is going to reach a critical point. The weeks after that are only going to be deeply humiliating for me. So I’m going to make sure day zero will be my last. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Are you giving up?” Corrado can’t wrap his head around it.

  “No. It’s just that I don’t want to watch my body fall apart. And I don’t want my children to remember a withered father who’s a prisoner of a recliner chair.”

  “Does Paola know?” Umberto asks me.

  “Not yet.”

  “Tell me that you’re not serious!” Corrado insists, incapable of taking the idea in.

  “I wish I could. Can you imagine? Friends, I don’t have cancer at all; it was all just a practical joke to get a little more affection. No, it’s true. And now I’ve decided to enjoy to the fullest the remaining two months and change that remain to me.”

  “That remain to us,” a melancholy Corrado corrects me. “There were three musketeers, after all.”

  “Actually, there were four. And D’Artagnan was the most important one of all,” Umberto points out.

  We launch into a heated debate over Dumas’ mistaken choice of a title and we fondly think back to Andrea, an old friend of ours from high school days, who was our D’Artagnan but who emigrated many years ago. With him, we made an unbeatable quartet. Then we drink another Spritz and comment on the derriere of a girl leaning against the bar in a position that lets us glimpse her thong. A conversation split into two parts, as if we were deliberately steering clear of the topic of my buddy Fritz.

  −68

  “In sixty-eight days I’m going to kill myself.”

  Paola freezes.

  “What are you saying?”

  “My buddy Fritz has practically beaten me. Every day I feel a little weaker. According to the doctor, in a couple of months I’ll have to live flat on my back in bed, filled to the gills with painkillers, and then the final phase will begin. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I’ll leave before that can happen. Elephants do it. I’ll do it too.”

  She’s devastated. I know it, I can see it in her face. I should have come up with a better way to tell her. I didn’t think.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “I made a reservation in a clinic in Lugano.”

  “Euthanasia?”

  “Assisted suicide is the more accurate term.”

  “When did you decide this?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me about it?”

  “It’s not like we’ve been talking much lately.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  We remain in silence for an unbelievably long time. Then Paola grabs her purse and leaves.

  I remain in the apartment.

  Mourning over our lost complicity. I want it back. But I have to wait. For Paola.

  I’ve lost so many people because of my criminal affair with Signora Moroni, and all of them live inside Paola: my wife, my best friend, my lover, my accomplice in life, my biggest fan, my everything.

  My everything.

  Paola is my everything. That’s the correct definition.

  But right now, what am I for her?

  A burden, a roommate, the father of her children, a traitor.

  I know that she still loves me—I can feel it.

  That’s the main force driving me forward.

  The phrase in the Dino Zoff notebook.

  Get Paola to forgive me.

  −67

  I’m on the way to the pool when my car mutters something. It’s having a hard time climbing the Janiculum Hill, like a cyclist with cramps on a steep incline in the Dolomites. Then it belches a cloud of black smoke and jerks to a silent halt. Great.

  I back into a parking place, and then I head down the steps that lead to Trastevere. I step into a car repair place an
d a bored mechanic who looks about eighteen tells me that “when the boss gets back, someone’ll go get your car.” I entrust him with the keys and take a seat in a nearby café. This is an out-of-the-way corner of Trastevere I’ve never visited before. The barista, Nino, immediately wins me over. By the front door, a windowless wall overlooks the sidewalk, covered with a mural that Nino came up with. The wall, stretching about thirty feet, is divided in two: on one side, written large in red paint, is THINGS I LOVE, while on the other side, in midnight-blue paint, is THINGS I HATE. His intention was to create a collective diary of all the things we love and hate, open to anyone who felt like writing something. Next to it, Nino has written three or four little rules on compiling the wall. You’re not allowed to write anything insulting or offensive, and it’s forbidden to talk about soccer teams and political parties—otherwise, anything goes. I order a pineapple juice and start reading the mural. The wall is covered with colorful phrases of all sizes, both anonymous and signed by name.

  The best ones?

  In “things I love” I’d choose the following:

  “The grated apple my grandmother used to make, Renato”

  “When Fonzie hits the jukebox and starts a song, Lorenzo”

  “Thunder” (anonymous)

  “The happy sight of Mariasole’s tits, Guido”

  “The crackling of a fire, K.”

  “The sea in winter, Enrico”

  In the section “things I hate,” the winners are:

  “People who drive around Rome in an SUV, Martina”

  “Everyone, Gianluigi”

  “The idiots who go on Big Brother” (anonymous)

  “My hips, Loredana”

  “Whoever stole my moped, Fabio”

  An assortment of opinions, points of view of the world, some of them light as gossamer, others lapidary and profound. Someone really ought to photograph this wall and preserve it for posterity. A thousand years from now, Nino’s wall will tell the story of this Italy to our descendants better than most history books.

  I drink my pineapple juice and I write something of my own.

  I love: life.

  I hate: death.

  Obvious but true.

  I’m going to leave you two mural pages for your own personal loves and hates. When you find this book in the attic, years from now, you’ll reread them with a hint of sadness, probably discovering that you still love and hate the same things.

  THINGS I LOVE

  THINGS I HATE

  −66

  Today I’m feeling optimistic. And I do my best not to think about the end.

  Of course, that doesn’t work out.

  I still have more than two months. Lots of time. It could have been worse. What if there were a courtesy service that alerted you only ten minutes before you died. Maybe they’d send out a handy self-deleting text message or else a courier service with messengers on mopeds would go from house to house to deliver the news.

  “Hello, we just wanted to let you know that you’re going to die in ten minutes!”

  “Oh thanks, darn it, I’d just put some pasta on. It takes thirteen minutes to cook.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have enough time. Unless you want to eat it al dente.”

  “Too bad, I like it cooked thoroughly. Do you think I have time to use the bathroom?”

  “I don’t know—is it something quick?”

  “Well, I did want to take a quick shower. You never know whom you’re going to meet in the afterlife . . .”

  “Look, sorry to burst your bubble, but there is no such thing as the afterlife; that’s just an invention of organized religions. I hope you enjoy the next nine minutes of boiling pasta.”

  “What? I didn’t steal, I didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, I didn’t covet my neighbor’s wife . . . and now? You say there’s no reward?”

  “No, I’m just sorry for you, that you didn’t take your chances!”

  As he goes on talking, I nod off.

  Like I told you, I’m feeling optimistic today.

  −65

  The Dino Zoff notebook is starting to be badly wrinkled. On day sixty-five I see a stain of tomato sauce, or of something reddish. Maybe it’s cherry jam.

  Time flows along like this. I can’t seem to figure out the right things to do or not do. I go on living, dragged along by the current of the stream. I coach my team as it continues its battle for the championship finals; I help Lorenzo and Eva do their homework; I play with Shepherd, who, by now, has accepted me into the nuclear family because he considers me a harmless rival. Paola is less upset these days, taken as she is by the routine of school and her responsibilities as a mother.

  A few days ago, I commissioned Roberto to write a pirate story, a novel about corsairs, to be exact. I don’t know why, but I love books set among the galleons that plied the Caribbean far more than I do those set among Malaysian praus. In other words, I prefer the Corsaro Nero to Sandokan. I hurry over enthusiastically to pick up my book. I feel like Lorenzo the Magnificent, a patron of the arts who finances unforgettable artworks from his favorite artists.

  I pay my twenty euros, I grab the brand-new copy of The Galleon of Dreams, and I leave. I stretch out in the sun on a meadow in Villa Borghese. And I open to the first page.

  The pirate galleon cut through the waves, scudding along before a lazy trade wind too weak to let it long flee the speedier Spanish brigantines. A cannon shot rang out in the distance, and the ball went whistling past the bridge.

  That’s what I call getting straight to the point. The next two hours are a succession of boarding crews taking ships, treasure hunts, cannibals, traitors, firing squads, and all the usual paraphernalia of any self-respecing adventure novel. For once, the plot isn’t copied from Emilio Salgari. The main character is a haunted galleon that imprisons in its hold the dreams of its passengers. When they land, the unfortunate victims find themselves stripped of the will to live. A piratesque variant on the old tale of Pandora’s box and so many other myths.

  As I read the last line, I realize that, perhaps without intending to, Roberto has written a wonderful allegory of my present condition. The galleon sickness has imprisoned my energy, deleted all my dreams, and slackened my vital pace. Instead of stimulating me, it has decidedly sapped me of all vigor. The truth is, in spite of all my best intentions, I can’t seem to savor the time left until the end.

  But starting today, I’m turning over a new leaf.

  −64

  I write a very short text message: “Prank time.” And I send it to Corrado and Umberto. This is our code for a call to arms. It means that it’s time to roll up our sleeves and head out to play pranks, just like Count Mascetti and his best friends in the movie Amici miei. It has been far too long.

  The prank that Corrado, our unrivaled leader in terms of messing around with other people’s minds, most loves to play when he’s working without accomplices, is this one: He lands at Fiumicino airport, changes out of his captain uniform, and with his suitcase in hand, blends into the crowd at International Arrivals. Then he starts scrutinizing the signs held by the waiting chauffeurs: MR. KLEBER, HELVETIA HOTEL, JAMES HELSENER, FARLES MEETING, and so on. He chooses his target—say Mr. Kleber—and walks up armed with a straight face and speaking a fractured Italian with a strong Anglo-Saxon accent. Nine times out of ten he hits a bull’s-eye: the poor driver has never met “Mr. Kleber” and ushers him to the car without thinking twice. And that’s where the real adventure begins for Corrado: Where is this mysterious Mr. Kleber heading? Is he expected to address a crowded conference? Or will he be housed in a fabulous suite and then ushered to a movie premiere? Or is there a table reserved for him in a charming local restaurant? Or does he have an invitation to attend an exclusive cocktail party with the high nobility of Rome? For the most part, before the switch has been uncovered (which is when Corrado is always ready t
o take to his heels), our hero has already eaten and drunk his fill, and generally enjoyed himself at Mr. Kleber’s expense. Of course, there are times when the fraud is sussed out early, right in the airport parking lot, but it often works out wonderfully well. Once or twice, he’s actually managed to spend the night in a hotel, pretending that he’s lost his passport and other ID, making use of a room meant for someone else; and one time he actually enjoyed a marathon sex session with two prepaid Byelorussian girls from an escort service.

  * * *

  Umberto and Corrado meet me at our café. Corrado has just landed after flying in from London, while Umberto has shut down his clinic early.

  Sipping our three mixed-fruit shakes, we decide our next move. Umberto is always the most cautious of the three—he always comes up with a thousand legal and ethical quibbles, but then he never shrinks from the dare.

  I’m the one who suggests today’s prank, and it’s carried by an absolute majority.

  I utter a single word.

  “Vatican.”

  An hour later, we pile out of Corrado’s Mercedes in front of a famous little restaurant near the Vatican walls: the very expensive and very exclusive Al Vicoletto. We are greeted by an excited restaurateur with an accent eloquent of his Ciociarian roots.

  “Pleased to welcome you, Your Eminence.”

  He’s addressing Corrado, who’s attired in the garb of a cardinal, a rental from a theatrical costume shop owned by a friend. Umberto and I do outstanding jobs of playing his driver and his assistant. Clothes make the man, or in this case, the cardinal, despite the prelate’s relatively youthful age. Corrado, with his musketeerish appearance, seems like a latter-day Richelieu, proud and dismissive. The staff welcome us into the restaurant with all the honors of the occasion. We ask to sample the specialties of the house, knowing full well that it specializes in raw bar delicacies. We start with an antipasto of oysters, the completely illegal and endangered date mussel, and a culinary triumph of extralarge mussels and clams. Corrado also orders the most expensive wine on the menu and sends it back twice, saying it’s corked. No one dares to contradict His Eminence. There’s not a thing we see that we don’t order, what with appetizers and entrées, in defiance of any imaginable diet. We finish off with the renowned house prickly pear sorbet. A real delicacy. When the restaurateur brings us the check, for 630 euros, we don’t blink an eye. I take a piece of paper and write down the phone number of my father-in-law’s pastry shop. Then I hand it to the restaurateur with a half smile.