“Don’t eat them all at once, Mamur!” Marisa shouted behind him.
Mamur waved goodbye, already biting into the first one.
Marisa came back and sat by me, immediately noticing my inquisitive look.
“Eh, you can never have enough lighters,” she said, shaking her head.
“Right,” I said.
Then I felt a tic in my left eye like when I’m about to cry, and Marisa asked me if I wanted another juice, but I said “No thanks, I need to get going.”
Above the Clouds
Ginevra called me from Grandma and Grandpa’s cabin in the mountains.
“Daddy, did you know the sun’s out here?”
“I’m glad, peanut. Here it’s a little foggy.”
“Why not here?”
“Because up there you’re above the fog; it’s like you’re above the clouds.”
“Come on, Daddy, the clouds are in the sky!”
“Right, I meant that if the fog was a cloud, you’d be up even higher.”
“Daddy, what would happen if I jumped on a cloud?”
“You’d fall, because clouds are made of vapor.”
“And if I jump on the fog?”
“Fog is just like the clouds—you can’t jump on it.”
“Geez, Daddy.”
“Ginevra, it’s not my fault. If you can’t, you can’t.”
“Put Mommy on and I’ll ask her. You don’t let me do anything.”
The Box (Life with Paola)
I live in a box.
The box has a lid. The lid has little holes in it. The holes let in air and a little light. The air and light make me want to do things. Some days, the desire to do things hits me like a wave. So I take the lid off the box and it becomes a boat. The box sails, propelled by the waves. They’re not tidal waves, more like river currents. They start as sporadic ripples that soon become little whirlpools. The one that manages to suck me in first wins. It’s almost never the whirlpool I initially expect. Inside the whirlpool, I put the lid back on the box. Air and light no longer come in through the holes, only water. The box never fills up all the way. When I reemerge from the whirlpool, I take the top off the box. The whirlpool has gotten me wet, but hasn’t killed me.
I need the box to breathe. I need the holes in the lid to feed my desire. I need the waves to push me away. I need the whirlpools to go to the bottom of the river and realize the importance of the box. The box is the only way I have of doing things. In the silence of the box I dream of the beauty outside. In the beauty outside I miss the silence of the box.
Most people I’ve met have tried to pull me out of the box. Few people have come into the box with me. Those few didn’t last long.
The person I live with now is the only one who ever brought her box inside mine.
To show me that it was actually the same.
Gianni
On the phone with Virginia:
“Daddy, I saw a snake in the woods with Grandpa today.”
“What kind of snake, Virginia?”
“Grandpa said it was called a blind worm.”
“A blind worm. That’s okay then, it’s not dangerous. Kisses, honey, now put your sister on the phone, would you?”
“Okay, Daddy. Bye!”
She passes the phone to Ginevra.
“Hi, Daddy! You know we-saw-a-GIANT-snake-with-Grandpa-today!”
“What do you know. What snake, Ginevra?”
“It’s called Gianni.”
Winning
Observing my daughters is a good way to establish certain things and put life into perspective.
For example, Paola is at the store right now, and we’re playing, racing around the house.
I say, “One, two, three, go!” and they rocket off from the kitchen, go through the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. Then they race back the opposite way.
Virginia and Ginevra, the two older ones, are very serious about the race, elbowing and heckling each other, even accusing each other of cheating, because they truly care about coming in first. Sometimes one wins, sometimes the other.
Melania, on the other hand, runs after her sisters and is always behind. She often gets lapped, and the other two bump into her when they suddenly find her coming from the opposite way. But every time she gets back up and keeps going, laughing like crazy.
Melania doesn’t care about winning. It’s not even a competition for her; she doesn’t even realize it’s a race.
She just likes to run.
My Neighbor Has a Cow
My neighbor has a cow.
We’re separated by a narrow strip of forest, and at this time of year, it’s one big knot of plants, impenetrable to the eye. On the other side, there’s a small stable, and above the stable, like Rapunzel’s tower, sits my neighbor’s house.
My neighbor’s cow loves music. And my neighbor knows that happy cows make better milk. Therefore, around nine p.m. (or three on Sundays), my neighbor starts blasting a series of compilations. The woods resound with “Romagna mia, Romagna in fiore,” “La mazurka del buon vino,” “Volare,” and other trendy hits.
When the cow is a little blue or has had a rough day, my neighbor puts the stereo on for her at night too. After dark, though, he keeps the volume low and changes the repertoire—like night and day, you could say. Then the woods whisper with Chopin and Haydn sonatas, but Beethoven remains the standard.
And there you are at one in the morning, your window open because of the heat, trying to be lulled to sleep by those moos that, mysteriously, are perfectly in tempo with the middle of the “Moonlight” piano sonata.
Then at some point, a wild boar shows up and it would be nice if Wagner started playing, but you can’t have everything.
To Ourselves (Mel & Me)
Melania and I have the house to ourselves till tomorrow.
Today, we spent the morning playing on the terrace, first taking all the stuffed animals and blocks and throwing them down on the lawn. Also on the terrace, we spent an hour exercising as doctors recommend, with her racing around on the scooter and me on the skateboard, but we stopped after crashing into the basil.
For lunch I made a rice salad. Melania managed to eat only the rice, zigzagging around all the other ingredients and filling her little spoon one grain at a time. When she finished her rice, she separated the hot dog and tuna, gathered all the capers on one side of the plate, and sorted everything else by color. She made little towers with the cubes of cheese and knocked them down by rolling baby onions and olives at them. Then she ate one thing at a time, except for the capers, which she just sucked the salt off of and spit them out like bugs that had flown into her mouth. She wanted a roll, and then hollowed it out so much that by the time she was done with it, I could bring it to my ear and hear the sea. She stole the house phone twice. The first time I found it abandoned under the table, where it had been on the line with the pizza place for eighteen minutes. The second time she called the Dylan Dog cover artist. While I was in the bathroom, she stole a marker and drew a huge red X from her belly button to the top of her chest and now she looks like she’s going in for gallbladder surgery. I put her down to sleep around two. She woke up half an hour ago, singing “Frère Jacques” and then shouting “Dormey-voo!” I opened the door and brought her up, she wanted an ice cream, and today she got the ice cream sandwich. One of the cookies wound up stuck to the TV screen, the other took off on an exploratory mission in the mop bucket, and we’re waiting on probe photos like the ones of Pluto. She took the ice cream from the middle, rolled it over crumbs of crackers and chips from this morning, and managed to make a perfect cold dumpling, which she then happily ate, but only half. She insistently offered me the other half and I didn’t want to offend her. Besides the faint aftertaste of marker, it wasn’t half bad.
Now we’re here, done with the Peppa Pig episode w
here George catches a cold, and we’re trying to decide whether to call Grandma and Grandpa, call back the pizza place, or call my publisher and sing all of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” into the receiver. We’ll see.
Face Stickers
As we were having breakfast this morning, Ginevra asked me a question.
“Daddy,” she said, “why do people go to heaven when they die?”
Since she’s been circling around the subject of death for a while now, and because the other day she interrogated her mother on the same topic, I played dumb in order to understand more clearly.
“How do you mean, Ginevra?” I asked.
“Why do we only go to heaven when we’re dead? It would be much better to go there alive!”
“Well, Ginevra,” I said, “it’s because the living are too heavy.”
“Why?”
“Because our body acts as ballast. Do you know what that is?”
“No,” she said.
“It’s a type of anchor, like the ones ships have,” I said. “It keeps us here just like boats docked at port or boats that usually sail in shallow waters. When the anchor disappears, the boat goes out to sea forever.”
“So we’re like boats, Daddy?”
“In a certain sense.”
“Then when we die it’s like going to the sea?”
“Well,” I said. “We’re always at sea, even now. But perhaps when we die, we won’t be afraid to go where the water is really high.”
She paused for a long time.
“But Virginia told me that when you die you become see-through. I want to be see-through!”
“Ginevra, you’ll only be like that to people who don’t know you,” I said. “When you die, the people who love you will see you anyway, even if you’re see-through, you know?”
“How?”
“They see you in their memories,” I said. “It’s kind of like when you look out the window in the car. It’s transparent, but since you put your stickers on it, you’ll always be able to recognize it. So memories, for people, work pretty much the same way.”
“What about when you’re still alive?” she asked.
“What?”
“When you’re still alive, you can’t be see-through?”
“When you’re alive, no,” I said. “Even if sometimes, some days, it can happen that some people don’t see you. It’s as if you were invisible rather than transparent. It’s like when it’s dark out and you can’t see anything.”
“How come?”
“Because to really see other people, every day, you need to look carefully, so you can see even in the dark, even at night, like cats.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“Daddy,” she said. “I can see you at night, did you know that?”
“Me too, Ginevra,” I said. “That’s why I come to give you little kisses while you sleep.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah, because kisses are like face stickers, right?”
“Yes, Ginevra,” I said. “Exactly like that.”
“And that’s why we have to give lots of them,” she said, “so we never become see-through.”
Us Two
“Why do you love me?” she asked him once. He was chopping carrots.
He stopped and said, “Because I do.”
“What do you mean because I do?” she said. “What kind of answer is that?”
He put the knife down and turned to her. “Why do you like Coke?” he asked her.
“What does that have to do with it?” she said.
“Answer me,” he said.
“Because it’s good,” she said. “Because I like it, because it’s Coke!”
“Well,” he said, “I don’t really like Coke, I prefer beer.”
“I don’t like beer,” she said.
“That’s why I love you,” he said.
“Because I don’t like beer?” she said.
“In a certain sense,” he said.
She looked at him, he resumed chopping.
“What are the carrots for?” she asked.
“For the chicken curry,” he said.
“I think chicken curry is gross,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “But tonight I felt like it, and so for you, I ordered a pizza.”
“With olives?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“Did you get me a Coke too?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Give me a kiss,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and he kissed her.
“You taste like beer,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll go brush my teeth.”
And then she said, “Kiss me again.”
The Typical Day of the Comics Artist Father
It goes like this.
It’s five-thirty in the morning. I go down to the studio. I browse through Facebook and have my coffee. I read the headlines in the Repubblica. Check my e-mail, you never know.
I sit at the table and turn on the light. The blank page stares at me. I stare back. We stay like that until one of us decides to look away—usually me.
I get up. I flip through something by Williamson or Boucq, just for a little inspiration. Instead it makes me depressed.
I look out the window. It’s dawn and it’s raining. I sit back down at the table. I start doodling randomly to loosen my hand. They’re not really drawings, more like a jumble of shapes, blobs, pen pressure tests. Faces.
Only at that point do I open the script. I read the page. If there’s dialogue, I read it out loud first, without lingering on the rest. If I can picture the scene, the expressions, without needing to go back to see where they are or why, then it’s done. I skim the other information (setting, frames) and start to jot down a quick layout on regular paper. No reference points, not even the borders, nothing. Just to assess the hard parts.
At that point the real fun begins: I take the layout, scan it, print it on ledger paper. I google various references or inspiration on the work of the masters. Then I’m ready to start trying to define the whole thing on a larger page.
That’s usually the moment when I hear a voice from the stairs.
“Daddyyy!”
Don’t move. Maybe it was just your imagination.
“Daddyyyyyyyyy!!”
Stay put. It’s an auditory hallucination.
“DADDYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!”
Okay, it’s not.
“Yes, Virginia?”
“Melania’s awaaaake!”
“Ah. I’ll be right up. And Ginevra?”
“She went to go pee-pee.”
This around 7:40 or so.
I turn everything off, the panel looks at me longingly, “Take My Breath Away” starts playing in my head. I go upstairs. I give the oldest girl breakfast and prepare milk for the little one. I go to get the middle one. She’s in the other room jumping on the bed next to a dead body. The body opens one bloodshot eye that shines in the dark and stares at me. Fortunately, I’ve studied eye language. It says, “Let me sleep at least one more hour, please. I went to bed at three.” It must be said that in eye language “please” and “go drop dead” are damned similar.
I gather the girls and we go into the living room to watch cartoons. The middle one starts writing on the walls, the oldest tries to get kisses from the youngest who is just sticking her fingers in her eyes and giving her the hold Tatsumi Fujinami used to take down Riki Choshu in ’83. I finish the leftovers of a chocolate Danish, pick up my iPad and start answering e-mails at random.
When Lazarus rises—within a time span that ranges from about an hour to next Wednesday—we split up the girls: the little one comes down to the studio with me, the older girls
upstairs with her. Sometimes, vice versa.
Note that it’s a Tuesday in August, any regular week. The whole summer has been like this.
In ten days, school starts again.
I want to cry.
Open Letter to Fedez
Dear Fedez,
We don’t know each other, so first let me introduce myself: My name is Matteo Bussola, and I’m a father.
I’m writing you because the oldest of my three daughters, Virginia, at the age of eight and a half, has declared herself with preteen confidence “your greatest living fan” (I’ve tried to explain to her that singers don’t have many zombies for fans, but . . .). Then I thought how there are people out there who even like acts like Berlusconi’s crony Mariano Apicella, and so I started to think maybe she’s right. I should also mention that Virginia is convinced that throughout your whole career you’ve only written three songs, which she listens to on repeat on her iPod (the others are excluded due to age), and thus, I think I can say she appreciates you for your music, and not because you’re famous.
Virginia’s biggest wish in the world is to get your autograph. Now, I am unashamed to admit, Fedez, I would have preferred my daughter to be a fan of Julio Iglesias like her dad, or even Force Five: Grandizer, but I know we don’t choose our passions—they just happen—and so here we are. I had thought about sending you a message on Facebook, but I saw that it was impossible, then I thought of writing on your wall, but I imagined you’d never read such a long post even if it were Christmas, so in the end I thought, “Let’s see if that story about six degrees of separation is true; if it’s true everyone is on Facebook and things can happen.” So I told myself maybe it was better to go about it that way; maybe someone in my contacts knows you and would be generous enough to pass along my message, who knows. Among other things, I forgot to tell you I’m a comic book illustrator for Sergio Bonelli Editore and my partner is a script writer for Dylan Dog, so if you’re by chance a fan of comics—do you read Dylan Dog or Tex or Zagor?—for example, maybe I could do an original drawing of your favorite character for you, signed of course, in exchange for your autograph? What do you say? Also, consider that we’re also a little bit famous in our field, nothing comparable to your level, of course, but let’s say, if we were singers, my partner would be a superstar like Biagio Antonacci and I’d be a local favorite like Ivano e Gli Amici del Liscio. Sure, I know you’re thinking, “Ivano who?” but I do my best and that’s all I’ve got. I should also say I watch X Factor from time to time too, and when I saw you so touched by Lorenzo Fragola’s audition the other day, I realized I shouldn’t be afraid to write you. Most of all, when my daughter said to me, “Daddy, what can we do? I have to get Fedez’s autograph!” with a look I’ve never seen from her before, not even the time she begged me to go with her on Oblivion at Gardaland—and I get the dizzies so bad I want to die—it was then I looked her in the eyes and said, “Virginia, let’s try.” But besides the fact that, as the great Yoda says, “Do or do not, there is no try,” I’m reasonably certain that Virginia understood “try” to mean, “Don’t worry. Daddy will handle it.”
Sleepless Nights and Kisses for Breakfast Page 10