Temporary Perfections

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  As I was deciding to call Quintavalle the following day, I found myself thinking about Caterina. I thought of her in a manner that was inappropriate, in view of the fact that—as I told myself over and over again with a certain masochistic emphasis—I could have been her father, or at least a youngish uncle of hers.

  Cut it out, Guerrieri. Get a grip: She’s a schoolgirl. Ten years ago, she was thirteen years old, and you were already a grown—a fully grown—man. Fifteen years ago she was eight, and even then you were already a fully grown man. Twenty-two years ago she was just one year old and you’d just graduated from university. Twenty-four years ago you and your girlfriend Rossana spent nearly a month of horrible apprehension, thinking that you’d slipped up and were about to become twenty-year-old parents. That turned out to be a false alarm, but if it hadn’t, you’d now have a son—or a daughter—Caterina’s age.

  At that point, I was caught in a maddening cycle. Since I couldn’t go back in time twenty-four years, I decided the thing to do was to shift my point of view. I tried to remember how long it had been since I’d been with a girl that age.

  The episode I managed to dredge up from my memory proved somewhat confusing. The last twenty-three-year-old with whom I’d had a fleeting and illicit sexual experience, over ten years earlier, was not exactly an inexperienced young girl. Quite the opposite. In fact, I realized as my recollections acquired greater—and increasingly unprintable—clarity, she showed a noteworthy willingness to push the envelope of conventional morality. In fact, she had been quite capable of providing me with instruction in a number of new forms of sexual experimentation.

  I asked myself which category of twenty-three-year-olds Caterina was likely to belong to, and I imagined the answer. Now my thoughts were veering in a decidedly dangerous direction.

  Time to get something to eat—I told myself—time to let those thoughts evaporate.

  17.

  It was cold out. The sky was filled with swollen, threatening clouds that looked as though they might burst into rain any minute. But I didn’t feel like walking over to the garage, handing over my parking stub, asking them to bring up the car, and waiting for it to arrive, so I decided to run the risk of getting soaked and ride my bike.

  When I walked into the Chelsea Hotel, piano music filled the air, along with the voice of Paolo Conte singing the opening of “Sotto le Stelle del Jazz.”

  The place was nearly empty, and there was a strange, agreeable sense of expectation in the air.

  I sat down at a table not far from the entrance. Before long, Nadia emerged from the kitchen, spotted me, and came over to say hello.

  “Tonight, Hans made a tiella—rice, mussels, and potatoes. Care to try it?”

  Hans is Nadia’s partner. He’s a German cook and baker from Dresden. He looks like a former shot-putter who quit training and took up drinking beer instead. I don’t know how he ended up in Bari, but I’d guess he’s been here for a while, because he speaks fairly fluent dialect and he’s learned the secrets of the local cuisine.

  A tiella of rice, mussels, and potatoes is not too different from a paella valenciana, though any Barese will tell you it’s much, much better. Here’s how you make it: You take a cast-iron pan—or a tiella, as we call it—and layer it with rice, mussels, potatoes, zucchini, and chopped fresh tomatoes. Then you add the soaking water from the mussels, olive oil, black pepper, diced onions, and finely minced fresh parsley. Bake it in a hot oven for about fifty minutes. There’s no guarantee it will be any good, though, unless your family goes back at least four generations in Bari.

  “The last thing I’d want to do is offend Hans, if for no other reason than that I’d have to guess he weighs, what, at least two hundred seventy-five pounds, but I have my doubts about how good his tiella is.”

  “Yeah? Why don’t you just try it and tell me what you think.”

  Nadia walked past my table as I was wolfing down the last forkfuls of my second dish of tiella and draining my second glass of Negroamaro. She gave me an ironic glance.

  “So?”

  I held out both hands, palms up, in a sign of surrender.

  “So you were right. Only Old Marietta made a tiella this good.”

  “And who was Old Marietta?”

  “Marietta was an old lady who kept house for us when I was a kid. She lived in the old town of Bari. Sometimes she’d bring us a sauce or homemade orecchiette. And her tiella was the stuff of legend. From now on, as far as I’m concerned, Hans is an honorary Old Marietta.”

  Nadia laughed, and in effect the idea of Hans-Marietta had its comic potential.

  “Can I sit down with you? You’re practically the only customer tonight, and I doubt we’re going to get anyone else in now that it’s raining.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, of course. Is it raining? Great—I rode my bike here.”

  “If you’re not in a hurry to get home, I’ll drive you. I’d say that unless we get a rush of customers, we’ll close at midnight. You can bring your bike inside and come back and get it when it’s convenient.”

  “I’m in no hurry. And thanks, the idea of riding home in the pouring rain doesn’t thrill me.”

  “Are you still hungry?”

  “Hungry? I’m stuffed. If anything, I need a strong drink.”

  “Have you ever tried absinthe?”

  “No. I haven’t tried cocaine, peyote, or LSD either.”

  “Well, we don’t serve peyote or any of that other stuff, but we do serve absinthe. Want to try some? It’s legal.”

  I said sure, I’d like to try some, and she told Matilde—the bartender—to bring us absinthe for two. Matilde, who’s no chatterbox, nodded almost imperceptibly, and a few minutes later she was standing at the table with a bottle of greenish liquid, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a carafe filled with water.

  “What do we do with all this?” I asked.

  “Are you familiar with pastis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same method. This is pure, very strong liquor, 136-proof. You dilute it with three to five parts water and, if you like, you add a sugar cube.”

  I followed her instructions, tasted it, and liked it.

  Hell, I liked it a lot. I immediately poured myself another.

  “Zola said that when you start pouring absinthe, you always wind up with drunken men and pregnant girls. Now I’m starting to see what he meant.”

  She nodded and gave me a mirthless smile.

  “In any case, it’s highly unlikely that the pregnant girl would be me.”

  She said it in a flat, neutral tone of voice, but it was instantly obvious that I had touched on a sore subject. I looked at her and said nothing. I carefully set the glass—which I’d just picked up to take another sip—down on the table.

  “Two years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer, and they removed everything I’d need to become a pregnant girl. It’s not like there was this long line of suitors asking to become the father of my son or daughter, but in any case, I’d say now the matter is settled once and for all.”

  Why on earth had I quoted Zola? No matter what, now that I thought about it, it had been an inappropriate thing to say, as well as embarrassingly vulgar. I really felt like a fool.

  “I’m so sorry. Forgive me, it was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Relax. No need to apologize. If anything, I should apologize for bringing it up. There was no reason for me to dump all that on you, tell you about my personal problems, without fair warning.”

  I sat there with no idea what to say. She looked at her empty glass for a while. Then she decided that she felt like having another drink. She prepared a second glass of absinthe. Diluting it with three parts water, maybe less. She drank it slowly, methodically. When she’d finished her glass, she turned to me.

  “Do you mind if we leave now? I feel like smoking a cigarette. Maybe we could go for a drive before heading home. Hans and Matilde can close up.”

  Five minutes later we were outside, in the rain.

/>   Nadia had a compact minivan; I slipped into the front passenger seat quickly, without noticing the make or model. As Nadia was climbing in on her side, I thought I noticed something moving in the back of the car. I turned to look, and in the darkness I glimpsed a white gleam in the middle of an enormous dark mass. I looked closer, and realized that the white gleam was a pair of eyes, and that the eyes belonged to a black dog, the size of a young calf.

  “Cute. What’s his name, Nosferatu?”

  She laughed.

  “Pino, his name is Pino.”

  “Pino? As in Pino Noir the Killer Canine? Is that a name to give a beast of that size?”

  She laughed again.

  “I never would have thought it, but you’re actually pretty nice. I always thought you were good at your job, reliable, even handsome, no question. But you never struck me as funny.”

  “No? Wait until you see me dance.”

  Third laugh. She put the car in gear and pulled out. I was looking straight ahead, but I knew that behind me, Pino Noir the Killer Canine was eyeing me, deciding whether to swallow me whole.

  “What kind of dog is that?”

  “The only officially recognized breed of Pugliese origin.”

  “And exactly what is this Pugliese breed? Demon hound of the Murgia highlands?”

  “He’s a Corso.”

  “Which means …”

  “… which does not mean dog of Corsica. Corso comes from the Latin cohors, for courtyard or enclosure. The Corso dog is a descendant of the ancient Pugliese Molossian. Pino’s ancestors stood guard over the courtyards of the farms of Puglia, Basilicata, and Molise. Or else they fought bears and wild boars.”

  “I’m pretty sure that neither the bears nor the wild boars were thrilled at the prospect. So you like little lap dogs?”

  “Ha ha. A friend of mine gave him to me. She trains and re-educates dogs.”

  “Re-educates dogs?”

  “That’s right. Pino was a fighting dog. The Carabinieri seized him, and many other dogs like him, when they broke up an illegal betting ring.”

  “Once I served as counsel in a trial for illegal dog fighting.”

  “You defended one of those bloodthirsty bastards that run dogfights?”

  “No, I was representing the civil plaintiffs, an association for the prevention of cruelty to animals—they were assisting in the prosecution.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief. I was thinking of letting Pino loose so you could argue your case with him directly.”

  “Are you sure that taking a fighting dog with you everywhere you go is wise?”

  “My friend Daniela re-educates these dogs. The courts assign custody to her—she runs a kennel—and she very patiently deprograms them. She turns them into companion dogs.”

  “She deprograms them? That’s what your friend does for a living?”

  “She runs a kennel and a school for dogs: She trains them. Basic dog training—you know, sit, down, heel—or else trains dogs to work as guard dogs or for defense. And then she re-educates criminal dogs, which is what she calls them.”

  “Criminal dog strikes me as a very appropriate description of this canine piece of work.”

  “Pino is a very sweet, well-behaved dog. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s not especially interested in flies,” I said, craning my neck to glance back at the big black monster, who continued to eye me as if I were a piece of raw steak.

  We pulled up along the waterfront not far from my house. Nadia stopped on the roundabout near the Grand Hotel delle Nazioni and lowered her window. There was no wind, and it seemed as if the rain might be stopping. She lit a cigarette and smoked with such evident enjoyment that I regretted having quit. Then she started talking without looking at me.

  “Maybe I put you in an uncomfortable situation tonight when I suggested leaving together. Maybe you’re not all that eager to be seen around town with a former prostitute. And there is no such thing as former, in this world. Once a whore, always a whore.”

  “Say that again and I’ll get out and walk.”

  She turned to look at me. She took a last drag on her cigarette and then tossed the butt out the window.

  “So what I just said is bullshit?”

  “I think it is.”

  She registered my answer. Then she pulled out another cigarette, but didn’t light this one.

  “The rain is stopping.”

  “Good. I don’t like rain.”

  “You feel like taking a short walk? It would give Pino a chance to stretch his legs.”

  “As long as we don’t give him a chance to stretch his jaws.”

  We got out of the car. Nadia opened the rear hatch and let Pino out. Unleashed, unmuzzled.

  “You think it’s a good idea to let him roam free like that, off the leash? I mean, I know they can do miracles these days with prosthetic devices and everything, but still, if he tears an old lady or a little kid limb from limb, there’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”

  Nadia said nothing. Instead she whispered something to the dog that I was unable to hear. Whatever it was, once we started walking, the beast followed close behind us, sticking close to his mistress’s left leg, as if he were on a tight, invisible leash.

  His gait verged on the hypnotic; it was like watching a big cat prowl, rather than a dog out on a walk.

  The dog’s head, missing almost an entire ear, was the size of a small watermelon, and muscles taut as bungee cords rippled and sprang beneath his glistening black coat. Altogether, the dog conveyed a sense of lethal, well-disciplined power.

  We walked a few hundred yards without speaking, as the last few drops splattered down and then it stopped raining entirely.

  “So why did you name him Pino? That’s not a very common name for a dog, especially not this kind of a dog.”

  “Daniela named him. She always gives human names to the dogs she re-educates. I think it makes her job easier, psychologically.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Three. You know why I really like having this dog with me?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s a constant reminder that it’s possible to change and become something completely different than what you used to be.”

  I nodded. She stopped and the dog, obeying a silent command, sat expectantly at her side.

  “You want to pet him?”

  I was about to make another joke about how dangerous the dog was, but at the last minute I stopped myself and just said yes. She turned to Pino and told him that I was a friend, and I could have sworn the dog nodded in agreement.

  “Before I pet him, I want you to know that I refuse to call him Pino. I understand your friend’s ideas about naming dogs, but I really can’t call him Pino.”

  “What would you rather call him?”

  “Arthur Conan Doyle would have liked this fellow. I’ll call him Baskerville, if you don’t have any objections.”

  She shrugged and cocked an eyebrow, the way people do when dealing with someone a little odd.

  I stepped over to the big dog and stroked his head, which felt like petting a small boulder. My open hand couldn’t entirely cover it.

  “Hi there, Baskerville. You’re not as vicious as you look.”

  Pino/Baskerville looked up at me with a pair of eyes that were terrifying from a distance, but close up appeared to be filled with melancholy sweetness. I scratched behind his remaining ear, then slid my hand down toward his throat, soft and glistening. As I did, the dog closed his eyes and slowly lifted his muzzle, as if he were about to emit a doleful howl, offering up his throat to me, vulnerable and exposed.

  And then, as a certain French gentleman once wrote, suddenly the memory revealed itself.

  Raising his muzzle, offering his throat like that, was something that my grandfather Guido’s German shepherd, Marcuse, used to do, more than thirty years ago.

  It’s not like memories dissolve and disappear. They’re all still there, hidden under
a thin crust of consciousness. Even the memories we thought we’d lost forever. Sometimes they remain under the surface for an entire lifetime. Other times, something happens that makes them reappear.

  A madeleine dipped in tea, or a huge dog with melancholy eyes that offers you his throat to be stroked, for example.

  That dog’s act of total, deeply moving trust summoned a tidal wave of memories that, as if following a very precise pattern, took no more than a few seconds to array themselves in a coherent and unified map of the long-ago past.

  I am not usually able to conjure up memories from my childhood except as unrelated fragments, like so many indecipherable pieces of flotsam and jetsam, bobbing on the surface. But now everything was scuttling obediently into place as if performing some mysterious choreography of images, sounds, smell, names, and concrete objects. All together.

  My old record player, ice cream bars, four-color-ink retractable ballpoint pens, Pippi Longstocking, Fruit of the Loom undershirts, “Crocodile Rock,” Il Corriere dei Ragazzi magazine, Rin Tin Tin, Ivanhoe, the Black Arrow TV show, E Le Stelle Stanno a Guardare with Alberto Lupo, Hit Parade, A Thousand and One Nights with the theme song by the Nomadi, cartoon superheroes with the theme song by Lucio Dalla, The Persuaders with Tony Curtis and Roger Moore, a yellow-and-orange dirt bike with a banana seat, tabletop soccer, golden Saiwa cookies dipped in milk, four at a time, the smell of cotton candy at the Fiera del Levante, popsicles that left your tongue various colors, coils of rope licorice, Capitan Miki, Duck Avenger, Tex Willer, The Fantastic Four, Sandokan, Tarzan, tossing stink bombs into neighborhood shops and then running away as fast as your legs could carry you, spotting a green Prinz driving along was bad luck, Mafalda, Charlie Brown and the Little Red-Haired Girl, except she was real and didn’t have red hair and never noticed me at all, soft putty erasers, playing soccer after school with a Super Santos soccer ball, the Mickey Mouse Club, pinball, foosball, the little boy who was just like us but who never had a chance to forget all these things because his father fell asleep while driving the family home from vacation in their Fiat 124, winter hats with earflaps, Lego, Monopoly, trading soccer cards, one television station, and then two and that was it, kids’ shows, sticky paste, squares of pizza, milk delivery, the dim flickering light bulb in my grandparents’ kitchen, those single textbooks that covered all of our subjects, plastic book bags, pencil cases, the smell of other kids, the smell of snacks, of Play-Doh, the silence on the playground as we lined up after recess, Lego and toy soldiers, Rossana sucking candies, Super-8 home movies, slides, birthday parties with fruit juice and mini-pizzas, Polaroids, soccer cards, the roller-skating rink in the pine woods, Carosello with its ten minutes of advertising disguised as entertainment, baked pasta at my grandparents’ house on Sundays.