The Breaking of a Wave

by Fabio Genovesi

  “Enough! I don’t give a shit!”

  Sandro shouts, and the words come out all gnarled due to a sharp pang that runs across his skull and mangles his mouth. Every noise, every movement, is a merciless thrust of the blade. Including the creak of box springs and, worse, this beep-beep coming out of nowhere.

  It’s the cell phone in his pants pocket. They say you shouldn’t keep it near your balls or your heart or your head—where should you put it then? Sandro sees he’s got a new message, and even the little screen light is like a glaring needle being thrust into his eye. But then he reads the message and a smile crosses his lips.

  1:10 P.M.: Hey teach, this place rocks! I’m seeing everything, tasting everything, experiencing it all, just like you told me to. And I’m doing it all for you too. L.

  The L. stands for Luca, his favorite student. Sandro knows teachers shouldn’t play favorites, but then students shouldn’t be so different. A kid this smart and hip shouldn’t exist among all those mean little shits. Right or wrong, he favors Luca, who’s the spitting image of himself at sixteen.

  Exactly the same, only smarter maybe, more alert, better looking, more— All right, maybe they’re not exactly alike, but they have the same inner spirit, the same mortar of passions that can wipe out this dismal puny world. And to hell with this little town we were born in, to hell with parents, to hell with school and grades and designer clothes and Saturday afternoon strolls downtown to see and be seen and all the other bullshit around here, slowly closing in on them, growing narrower and narrower until the day they clamp a hook around your neck and before you know it you’ve become a slave like everybody else.

  “Sandro!” Now his dad joins in, his mouth full. “I’m starting without you, you hear!”

  “Knock yourself out, old man.”

  Case in point: lunchtime, the mindless fear that the food will get cold and his dad will start without him and the world will come crashing down. One of the thousand bits of horseshit that pile up and pound you into the ground. And Sandro fell for it. Maybe Sandro let himself be fooled. But not Luca, Luca still has time, he can save himself.

  Right now he’s in Biarritz, France, for a week, sleeping in a camper and surfing with friends. A fairy tale, one of those trips when you’re happy because it seems as though at that moment your real life is spreading out before you, that it’s just a step away and waiting for you in all its splendor. But then time passes and you realize that life wasn’t spread out before you, that that there was life, those very days, those nights, you thought it was a step away and instead it was right in front of you. You thought it was just a taste, a warm-up before you reached that incredible age when you’re fully grown and you don’t have to obey anyone and everything’s grand. You wait, you hope, and you don’t realize that true bliss is this right here, and by the time you understand that, it’s already past you and you’re left alone to remember how things once were.

  That’s why Luca had to go surf in Biarritz. His mother hadn’t wanted him to go. She’d said now wasn’t the right time, that he was still underage, she trusted him but not the world. And then there was the matter of money—he’d need money to go—and at that moment they had none . . . That’s what Luca’s mom had said and that’s precisely the problem: there are always loads of perfectly good reasons that lead to making the wrong decision, to taking a kid full of talent and potential and opportunities on the horizon, a young eagle with talons poised to take life in his clutches, and plucking him one feather at a time, slowly, imperceptibly, so as not to hurt him, so he doesn’t even realize, until one day that hawk has been transformed into a farm-raised chicken, ready to be roasted on society’s spit.

  It’s happened to many people. Maybe it had even happened to him. But Sandro doesn’t want to think about it now. He’d rather think about the fact that in the end he’d convinced her otherwise, Luca’s mom, Luca’s beautiful mom. She’d come to the parent-teacher conference and he’d told her what the deal was. Thanks to him Luca’s now in France conquering the ocean and French girls, with their bright skin, their buttery bodies, their dazed eyes that wander at random but always land on the right spot. It’s thanks to Sandro if tonight Luca’s laying one down on the beach and pouncing on life, tugging on those soft yet firm breasts swelling with possibility, plump with the future.

  But better than any French girl is Luca’s mom, Serena, the most mesmerizing woman Sandro has ever seen in person, or, for that matter, in the photos and dirty movies he’s watched over the years, and that’s a lot of years, a whole lot of movies. But he had actually seen her before. She had gone to the same high school. Then for a long time their paths hadn’t crossed, and now here she is, more beautiful than before. And this is an incredible sign. It means that there’s hope, that beautiful things can happen even when you no longer expect them to. Yes, Sandro, maybe there are always beautiful things awaiting you, maybe your chances haven’t dried up, maybe even when your own horizon looks drab and dispiriting and you think there’s nothing left to see, that’s when the surprises ambush you and turn your life upside down . . .

  But a deafening ring right beside his ear crushes that thought, like a slipper pulverizing a mosquito in the night. This time it isn’t the cell phone, it’s the landline on the nightstand, and it rings again. And again.

  Sandro never answers the landline. It’s always either someone looking to sell you junk or an old ballbuster asking for his mother, and if Sandro answers they’ll ask him how he’s doing, if he’s found a job yet, if he has a girlfriend. Only the phone beside him continues to ring and it’s drilling a hole in his head, so he picks it up and spits out two words.

  “What now?”

  “ . . . ”

  “I said, what now?”

  “Uhm, yes, hi . . . ” A woman’s voice. Pretty too. “I’d like to speak with Sandro Mancini.” He can’t believe it, but he believes it a little. Because, goddammit, sometimes it really does happen: you’re thinking of a person and that person calls you. It is her. Luca’s mom. She wants to thank you for having convinced her to send her son off, that it was the right thing to do, that the problem with her is that she never knows what she ought to do, that life is tough and she lacks confidence, she’s alone, she has no one beside her to give her advice, to get close to, and—

  “Yes, speaking, this is Sandro. Hey, Serena!”

  “ . . . ”

  “Serena? Can you hear me?”

  “Actually I’m calling on behalf of RAI.”

  “RAI?”

  “Yes, Italian Radio and Television. I’m calling about your TV subscription. Your bill is overdue.”

  “You’re not calling about this bullshit licensing fee again, are you? You’re killing me. I already told you, I don’t owe you anything. My mother already paid for it!”

  “There’s no need to raise your voice, Mr. Mancini. I’m practically calling you of my own volition. I’m under no obligation to call. But I asked you to send a fax to my attention and—”

  “In fact, I sent it.”

  “Yes, you did, but what I’d asked for was a sworn statement declaring you live with your parents. All you sent me were recommendations for new programming. And insults.”

  Sandro doesn’t answer right away. First he tries to remember what he wrote in the fax, but it’s a total blank. He only knows that he’d been edgy that day. He had gone with Rambo and Marino to deliver supermarket flyers, and lots of people had shouted from inside their homes that they didn’t want them, not to stuff their mailboxes with trash. Many gave him the finger. And while he was writing the fax he got more and more pissed off about living in a country so backward and crusty that people still use fax machines, just because well-connected people legacied into public sector jobs don’t know how to read an email—some progress, some fucking progress we were making—

  “Sandrooo!” His mother from the kitchen again, increasingly plaintive. �
�It’s getting cold!”

  Sandro grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and continues. “Look, I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I’m sure I put down that I live with my parents.”

  “Yes, but there’s no address, there’s no information about your parents. No dates, no fiscal code, no RAI subscription number. Nothing.”

  “Shit, look them up yourselves. Where did you mail the letters you sent me asking for money? To my house is where. Therefore you already have the address. And can’t you see that it’s the same address as my mom’s, who’s only been paying you your licensing fee for, like, a million years?”

  “True, Mr. Mancini, true. All you need to do is send me a fax declaring that you reside with your parents and I can take care of everything. I assure you I’m going out of my way to make this call. But I understand your point and am trying to help. You send me this fax declaring that you live with your parents, that you don’t have a place of your own but still occupy your little room, and you’ll see—”

  “Whoa there. Let’s not get carried away. That makes it sound like I’m ten years old.”

  “I apologize, that wasn’t my intention. But isn’t that your situation? In other words, if you live at home with your parents, then I imagine you have a room.”

  “Yeah, but you called it ‘little,’ for Christ’s sake. That makes it sound like I’m some dumb kid.”

  Again his mother from the kitchen: “Sandro, the rice is cold. I’m putting it in the bain-marie!”

  “Not the bain-marie, I hate the bain-marie!” he shouts, clutching his throbbing head. “Hello?” says the woman from RAI, “Hello? What was that?” Sandro no longer has the energy to keep up appearances, but he tries to save himself all the same. “I said, it’s not a little room. It’s a private room with its own bathroom. It’s separated from the rest of the house. I’m free to go as I please.”

  “Ah, interesting. So you’re saying it’s a home with separate living quarters?”

  “Right, exactly, separate living quarters.”

  “Well then, aha, Mr. Mancini, aha. That changes the situation. That explains why we billed you. Living with your parents is one thing. But, if I’ve understood you correctly, I would categorize your situation as a duplex. Does it by any chance have a kitchenette, Mr. Mancini?

  “No, there’s no kitchenette, but I could have one if I wanted.”

  “You see? Then that fits the description of a duplex to a T. I’m afraid that means you’ll have to pay a separate TV licensing fee.”

  “What? You’re joking. How’s that possible?”

  “You don’t live with your parents, Mr. Mancini. You may live in the same building, but there are two different residencies inside the building. Therefore you must have a TV subscription for your parents, and another for what I imagine you have in your duplex.”

  “But I don’t have a TV in my room.”

  “No, but perhaps you have one in your kitchenette, or your private bathroom.”

  “If I don’t have a TV in my room, do you really think I have one in the john? And I don’t have a kitchenette. I don’t have the money for one and I’ll never have it if you steal my money for some stupid unjust licensing fee.”

  “That’s the law, Mr. Mancini, you own a duplex and therefore—”

  “Knock it off with this duplex nonsense, knock it off! I live with my parents in one house. There’s a kitchen, bathroom, hallway, and two bedrooms. My parents sleep in one and I sleep in the other. There’s not even a living room. There’s nothing. Happy now? Don’t make me shout again, my head’s about to explode.”

  “I’m the one who should be asking you not to shout. And that you address me properly. I’m a doctor. Dr. Catapano.”

  “Oh, a doctor, shit. Well, I’ve got a title too, believe it or not. I’m a professor. Chew on that. Professor Mancini. And where does that leave us? Does that make an impression on you, in your little world of M.D.s and esquires and bullshit titles?”

  “All right, Professor, at this point I’ve gone above and beyond. I’m hanging up now. I suggest you fill out the form and go to the post office to pay your bill and your late fee, since you’re past due. At this point your late fee amounts to—”

  “Yeah right. I’m not going to the post office. I don’t have time to waste.”

  “Of course you don’t, Professor, I imagine you’re a very busy man. You better run off to lunch now, your rice is getting cold and mommy’s upset.”

  Just like that. That’s exactly what that bitch said. Sandro blinks, wrings the phone like it were Dr. Catapano’s neck, opens his lungs to capacity to suck in all the air he needs to gun down this moron with insults. But just as the first “fuck you” reaches his lips, he hears the dry, merciless click of the line. The bitch hung up.

  And so Sandro, with all the air and rage left in his breath and the pain in his head shuttering his eyes, slams the phone down. But that’s not good enough. He picks it up again and slams it harder. He picks it up once more and pounds it into the cradle so powerfully that he hears a mix of buzzing and cracked plastic and doesn’t need to lift it to his ear again to know that the telephone has split in two.

  His mother, from the kitchen: “Sandro, what happened?! Have you hurt yourself? Sandro! Sandrino!”

  YOUR NAME IS SERENA

  Your name is Serena but Serena doesn’t suit you.

  So what your parents named you that—what did they know? Your mom died when you were over thirty, your father this September, and they still hadn’t understood you. Fat chance they had a clue what you were like when you were born.

  Sure, they might have picked a less risky name, but that’s what happened and now you’re stuck with it. Like women named Joy or Gay. Like your friend Allegra who’s been depressed all her life. Like your cousin, who may go by the name Angelica but she’s the biggest slut on the coast from Genoa to Orbetello.

  But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters on a day as sunny as today. Some people couldn’t care less about the weather; the sun could shine or rain fall for a month straight and they’d hardly notice. They’re relaxed or edgy for reasons of their own devising, impervious to water and a lot else that turns up in the sky.

  Not you. Today the sun’s out and that’s enough to make you smile. Plus it’s Tuesday, and Tuesdays you don’t work, you go fetch Luca and Luna from school. All the other hairdressers are closed Mondays. Maybe because women only want to get their hair done for important functions, and nothing’s ever going on around here on Monday night. Subtract two months of summer and nothing’s ever going on here, not on Tuesdays or Wednesdays or any day of the week. So Miss Gemma can close shop when she feels like and pray the place will ride things out, otherwise Gemma’s Hair Studio will be converted into yet another hole-in-the-wall with tinted windows where people play video poker and slot machines, and for you, Serena, every day will be a Tuesday: the whole week free to spend with your kids, parked on the curb, clutching an accordion, a hat turned up for handouts.

  But it hasn’t come to that yet, so there’s no sense in thinking about it. The only thing that makes sense is to hang a right for Luna’s school, even though you’re in the habit of driving straight and stopping at the high school to pick up Luca first. Luca’s not there today.

  Luca’s in France. You think about it and it feels weird. You’re happy because he’s happy. He sends you these amazing text messages that, like a fool, you spend your nights rereading, but then you imagine him up there facing the ocean, no, in the ocean, in the middle of the cold, gigantic waves, and you’re seized by fear. He’s only seventeen, you could have told him no. But how can you say no to Luca? Everything he does is always so perfect and natural. Saying no to him is like saying no to the arrival of spring. You can stand in the middle of the road and say, “Stop right there, Spring, don’t come any closer,” and try to block every bud from blossoming on the branches, to squeeze s
hut every flower opening in the parks, but Spring doesn’t even hear you, she scatters to the winds and warms the air and colors explode and animals go nuts and in five minutes she’s caught hold of you too.

  Enough is enough. Luca is happy and you have to be happy too. Now go get Luna, order a pizza, and eat it someplace out of doors. That is, by the sea. Luna always wants to go to the sea, just like her brother. Even if she shouldn’t, even if the sun is really not good for her and she has to wear a hoodie and sunglasses on top of a thick coat of sunscreen . . . of course you left the sunscreen at the house. You’d set it on the kitchen table so as not to forget it, and then you forgot it there.

  You ass! You airhead! How is it possible you’re always thinking so much you never remember a thing? An ass and an airhead, an airhead and an ass . . . Meanwhile you’ve arrived at school, but you’re so busy putting yourself down that for a moment you neglect to notice something’s off: no one is outside, the schoolyard sits empty, the front door on the far side of the building is closed.

  Oh God, maybe today is one of those idiotic national holidays. Maybe they’ve evacuated the school in an emergency. Or perhaps they’d recently relocated and Luna had told you as much but you forgot. Who knows, anything is possible. Crazier things happen in the world every day. In fact, you look at your watch and realize something even more incredible: you’re early.

  Ten full minutes, almost a quarter of an hour—the effect is disorienting. Inside, the teachers are still lecturing, the gate’s shut. Just now the custodian is opening it. She sees you parked out front and waves. She’s not all there, permanently grinning from one corner of her mouth and toting a small pink backpack over her shoulder, the contents of which no one knows. She keeps waving at you, touches her forehead, and gives you the A-OK sign, her way of saying your bangs look good. You smile and thank her. “Not too bad yourself,” you shout. She bursts out laughing, covers her face with her hands as if to say no, it’s not true, tucks her hair behind her ears, and finishes opening the gate.