And so it goes, day in, day out. The names of the towns and fairs change, but everything else stays the same. Same spiel, same choreographed moves, same smell of roasted pork and sausage saturating the air, and that mix of garlic and fish you can’t wash from your hands. Day after day after identical day. You talk, you demonstrate, you crush, you scale, you pit, you pray.
And then one June Wednesday in San Vincenzo he appears.
There he is, being shoved by the crowds in front of your stall yet still holding your gaze. He couldn’t care less about what you’re selling. He stares straigh t into your eyes. Arms crossed, a flimsy shirt that looks made of canvas, ripped jeans, bare feet. No flip-flops or sandals or anything—he’s actually barefoot. You haven’t a clue how he manages to get down the street. All you know, Serena, is that he can’t take his eyes off of you.
He looks straight through you, so deep that for a second you stop speaking. It’s not the look of someone staring at a person but of someone scanning the horizon. Only you’re the horizon.
Your legs shake, just as your friends always said, those ditzes who come to you for advice when they’re in trouble because they know they’ll find someone who’ll advise them: “Tell him to go to hell, forget about him, don’t waste a minute on that guy.” Giving advice about certain things is so easy, comes so naturally, sounds so true. But it’s not true now. You put down the Super Mondial 2000 and keep looking at him, and maybe it’s all that talk under the blazing sun, or maybe you’re tired after waking up at five, but whatever it is, you’re not yourself. You’re another person, someone you don’t recognize. You don’t know what kind of girl she is. You only know that this girl wants to tell the fish, garlic, olives, and old folks to fuck off, them and their questions about how much this stupid gizmo costs and how come the last olive wasn’t properly pitted. This girl wants to kick over the stall and go to him.
But there’s no need. He comes to you. He pushes past your audience, which is slowly breaking up, unsatisfied. You try to clean your hands with a towel, but he takes them in his. He’s taller than you but not too tall. He smiles but it’s not the smile of someone who’s into himself. It’s the smile of someone who’s into you. He touches your skin, your throat, your wrists, travels up your spine, down your ribs, and, it goes without saying, reaches your heart.
Which is beating fast, but not as fast as you’re moving. Neither of you has spoken a word yet already you’re in the pine grove behind the square. People pass by on their way to the beach, and children chase after each other screaming, but there are several bushes to hide behind, and you’re on the ground, undressed, him on top of you, inside you. But talking is impossible. You tried to at first. You said, “But I, I . . . ” and he pressed his lips against your lips and you began kissing, him kissing you and sucking on your tongue, nibbling your lips, pulling your hair and drawing you close, and he plunges deeper and deeper into you, to a place you never knew existed, but as soon as he gets there it wakes up from its eternal slumber, trembles and melts, and you feel this gigantic wave, as powerful as the waves you rode at the beach as a kid, that spun you around till you no longer knew up from down, and for a moment you felt you were drowning, then finally, breathlessly, you resurfaced, ready to ride another.
You don’t know how much time passes. An hour, a century, a second. And you stay there, lying on your back, him on top of you, his breath warm and salty in your hair, on the nape of your neck. You could stay this way forever, mushrooms could sprout on top of you, insects build a nest between you, it wouldn’t be a problem, go on, grow, just as long as you can stay like this forever.
But five minutes later he draws back, stands, pulls his pants up, and looks at you with his green, almost watery eyes. And you hear his voice, raspy and deep. All he says is “Call him Luca.”
He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket before vanishing in the pines like smoke. And you’d like to get up and run after him but first you have to put your clothes on. You can’t find your shoes, and when you find them you no longer know where he went, or maybe you do, but you don’t know what you’d say to him.
You don’t even know what those three ridiculous words mean: “Call him Luca.” Call who Luca? Maybe you misheard him. Maybe he said, “Call me Luca.” If only it were his name. You made love to a man in a pine grove in the middle of a fair and you don’t even know his name and you don’t understand a thing.
But a month later you do. And you call the baby Luca.
There. That’s the true story of how your son was born. And if a more ridiculous story in the world exists, you haven’t heard it. Actually, there is one that’s even crazier, and it’s the story of how Luna was born five years later.
Five years that could have been beautiful had it not been for your mother. Every day you saw in her eyes the shame and scandal of having a daughter with a fatherless child. As if her eyes didn’t say it all, your mother felt compelled to tell you so, with a hand on her heart and horror in her voice.
Yet one night, five years later, rather than fight about it, you leave Luca and go out with friends. Some are still struggling to graduate, some work as paralegals for this or that law firm, others are clinging to a different line of work. Like you. You no longer work the fair circuit. You do shampoos and dye jobs at a salon and are just beginning to cut hair. The clientele tell you how good you are while the men mostly stick to remarking on your looks. And to get them to leave you alone you tell them you have a kid. Only they don’t leave you alone. They stand there like they’ve been bludgeoned, then come back for more. So you tell them you’re into women. Even after that a lot of men don’t quit. Actually they get turned on. So then you tell them you have AIDS, which isn’t kind and may in fact be a horrible thing to say, but hell, it works. The room clears out immediately.
And that’s fine by you, since the one man you need is always by your side. Luca is five years old and hasn’t cried once, never thrown a fit. It used to make you sad the way every mom thinks her kid is the best thing going on the planet, and all it takes is one “Me go poo” to make her think she’s given birth to a genius. Yet sometimes Luca says stuff so intelligent it scares you. Like yesterday, when you were coming back from work and struggling to steady the bike on its kickstand and he was sitting on the grass in the yard with his back against a sycamore, staring into space. He stood up, walked over to you, and said, “One of these nights you have to go out, Mom. You’re young. It’s only fair you go out with your friends. I’ll keep an eye on Grandma and Grandpa.”
So that Saturday you go out. Your friends couldn’t believe you’d called. They’re thrilled and you’re all excited and you plan the ultimate night out: cocktails, dinner, dancing at a nightclub by the beach south of Viareggio, in an area called Costa dei Barbari, one long strip of bars and clubs, clubs and bars. And it’s like a party, Serena’s party, your friends say so and you say so too. You clink glasses loaded with ice and cocktails and everything is peachy: the jokes, the laughs, the talk of men whom one of them likes but can’t have, or who don’t like her enough, or who like her but she likes someone else. There’s the smell of evenings when summer’s on its way with a glass in hand and the music bumping. There’s the breeze that picks up the scent of jasmine from who knows where and carries it all the way to a bar crowded with people drenched in sweat.
To top it off, he’s there. Out on the street.
You’re about to enter the nightclub, and he’s there alone, smoking by the entrance. He sees you; you see him. For five years you’ve rehearsed this scene, which for all you knew may never have happened. At first you thought that if by some stroke of bad luck it did happen, this asshole would have to get comfy and endure what you had to say for hours and hours, your pure venom, screeds spit up from your throat and chest, where all your hatred had been left to ferment, all your rancor for this man who shows up and takes what he wants and disappears and leaves you with a belly on the brink of exploding and s
hards of a life you no longer know the shape of. But then Luca was born. Luca began to walk, talk, look at you in such a way as to make you feel the reverse, that the world was all wrong and you two, you two alone, were right. So then you decided that if you saw him, you wouldn’t attack him, you wouldn’t even yell at him. No, you’d pretend not to see him. You’d pretend to be someone else. What was important was that he never come near you nor that beautiful boy you call your son, your son, whom he doesn’t even know exists. What are the odds he’d comprehend what a marvel the kid is?
But then you pass him and tell the others, “Go on ahead, I’ll be there in a minute,” and you’re not sure what you want to do. Maybe you’ve returned to your initial idea: acting the adult is all well and good but nothing’s ever gained by it, so maybe you’ll go say something, briefly, and you’ll spit every word, and every word you spit will be a slap in the face. You walk up to him in strides so long your skirt strains underneath, head down, teeth clenched in anger. But he just smiles at you. He smiles calmly, cigarette in mouth. He takes a drag and tosses it. And just as you’re about to lunge at him he opens his arms and you wind up hugging him. You don’t know how or why. If you did, you might at least have a clue about what would happen in the next five minutes (five minutes!) before stretching out on the sand behind some resort beach chairs left out in the sultry night air, with the lights of fishing boats off the shore and a few couples cuddling. You don’t waste time cuddling; no sooner do you get there than he’s wiped out all the bitterness inside you with a kiss. He cups your face and looks at you in this puzzling manner that still takes your breath away. A minute later you feel his hand pulling your hair, turning you around, tugging your dress so hard he almost tears it, while with his other hand he squeezes your side and presses you against him. Another minute and he’s on top of you, inside you, everywhere. And there are people who can hear you, there are a million reasons you shouldn’t be here, yet you feel like screaming, and you yourself don’t even know what you want to scream, and fortunately you’ll never know because he sticks his fingers in your mouth and you feel like biting down on them but instead start sucking them, they taste like cigarettes and something else you like but you don’t know what, you don’t know anything anymore. Every thrust is harder and deeper, a step closer to a world where it doesn’t matter who you are, what you want, right from wrong. And it goes on, this time out of time that lends everything meaning, and you wake up every day and dress and tidy up and leave the house because you know that occasionally, amid the blur of days, a sliver of this moment will surface and justify everything else.
And everything else includes the beach, the sand beneath your knees, the half-torn skirt, his breath on your neck that tastes like smoke and maybe pine trees—that clear, sticky, sweet resin that won’t wash off once it’s touched your skin.
You stand up and look at him, not wanting to be seen like this, disheveled, sweaty, sand all over, your shirt ragged and your face red. You especially don’t want him to see the waves of pleasure running through you, which you can still feel breaking inside you, the brief, slight shocks you can’t make stop.
Suddenly he pulls away and you catch sight of the enormous round moon in the sky. If someone were to ask, you’d say it wasn’t there before, you would have noticed. It’s almost like a pale sun, low-slung and close by. It casts light on the beach while he wipes the sand off his legs, lies down on top of you again, brushes your ear with his lips, and whispers in that rough voice, that voice made of resin, “Call her Luna.”
At the time it didn’t even occur to you to think, “Like hell he’s knocked me up again.” You didn’t even think about fetching that pill which, when you’re in doubt, resets everything.
Not you, Serena. You thought: “Like hell I’m calling her Luna.”
What a stupid name, a name for seventies-era hippies, you’d never call her that. Especially when it turns out your friend Susy knows him. What he looks like anyway. He was a friend of a friend of her boyfriend, but she hasn’t seen him in a century, ever since he went to jail, for drugs or something, people beaten till they had brain damage. His name is Stefano but everyone calls him the Guillotine on account of a tattoo on his chest, a black guillotine with the blade falling, about to finish the job. And when she tells you, you nod, although you don’t have a clue whether it’s true, you’ve never seen the chest of the man who fathered your son and this other baby on its way. And you still don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl or if you’ll even keep it. All you know is you’re not calling it Luna.
Actually, no, there’s another thing you know: you’re done with men. You’re intelligent, practical, sharp, and always clear-headed when it comes to what other women should do with men. But if you think about the men in your life, well, what a horror show. Were you the kind who gave it up to every guy she met, the kind who went home with a different someone every night, or two someones, or three, at least then you could understand. With large numbers it’s normal for there to be a dope, a dick, a mental retard—that’s the price of so many generous acts, of so much action. But not you, Serena, you never give it up. Then one night every thousand years for some mysterious reason it happens, and you give in bad. To men with hang-ups, men who, at forty, still have their mothers lay their clothes out for them so they won’t be baffled about what to wear. Men who tell you every little detail about the getaway weekend they want to spend with you yet can’t find a minute to inform you they have a wife and kids. Men who don’t do anything for work but follow their big dreams to become artists and hang around the beach all day sculpting their abs into their own private symbol of infinity . . . The treasure chest is terrifying. And now, perhaps, complete. All you were missing was a drug-dealing ex-con who has probably already forgotten you.
And that’s just fine. He doesn’t remember and you don’t want to. He doesn’t exist. Nothing this shitty should exist for you two, it’s just you and Luca and this little girl—that’s right, a girl—who will be joining you soon, although for now she’s just a belly so big she could easily have swallowed your feet last month and you wouldn’t have noticed.
Then one day you open the newspaper, out of boredom, to shut out your mom’s voice, to not have to see her shaking her head and thumping the space where her heart should be, and there in the paper is a picture of him, Stefano the Guillotine, next to an older man and a woman staring daggers with an Eastern name. Kaput below the exit ramp for Lucca, at the bottom of the canal. Witnesses say another car was chasing them. The police investigate but everyone has a rough idea about what happened, and you don’t want to know any more than you already do. You cut out the Guillotine’s photo and place it in a drawer. Then one night you take it outside and burn it in the yard, letting the sea breeze carry away the ashes while life carries you away, as only life knows how, randomly and as far away as possible.
And you call her Luna.
SENIORS, NEVER SAY DIE! KIDS, SAY NO TO DRUGS!
GIANT PORCINI IN GARFAGNANA
TOWN TO CELEBRATE
TWO RECORD-HOLDING RETIREES
SERAVEZZA. Two expert mushroom hunters from Seravezza, Gualtiero Stagi and Walter Francesconi, hit the jackpot yesterday. In an area whose location has for obvious reasons been kept secret, the two retirees discovered a porcino mushroom (Boletus aereus) weighing a whopping 3.2 kg.
Connoisseurs have come from all over Italy to catch a glimpse of the record-breaking mushroom, including a representative from the Italian Mycological Union. The University of Pisa has also made a bid to examine the magnificent specimen. Understandably, the two stars of the event are elated.
“We were heading home after a pretty dull day,” said 65-year-old Stagi, a former stonecutter, “when we noticed this weird pile of leaves. We couldn’t see the mushroom just yet, but we’ve been doing this for years, we knew we had to check it out. It was the most beautiful feeling of my life.”
70-year-old Francescani, a former c
ouncilor in Versilia’s Public Works Department, hopes their find will help send a message.
“The same day we found the biggest porcini on record, us ‘geezers’ helped save the lives of three boys who’d gotten lost in the mountains, probably after a night of partying. I’d just like to say to all you seniors out there, ‘Never say die!’ As for you kids, ‘Say no to drugs.’”
For those interested in learning more, the two lucky hunters will recount their adventure tonight at 9 P.M. in the Town Hall Council Chambers.
—Teresa Bartolaccini
“Sons of bitches,” says Sandro. But Rambo’s already said it a thousand times, as has Marino, who never curses because he’s afraid he’ll let one slip in front of the kids at catechism.
“I say we go there tonight and tear them a new asshole,” says Rambo, leaning against the newsstand window. The giant porcini is the leading story in Il Tirreno and appears in La Nazione right below a help wanted ad for five jobs at a large household appliances warehouse.
Rambo had called the others as soon as he saw it. Marino arrived immediately. He’d been riding around on his bike and still had on his traffic uniform. Sandro had been stuck in a teachers’ meeting where he’d said nothing and heard less, but eventually he’d shown up too. They look at the giant photo of those two goddamn geezers holding the King of Porcini in one hand and giving a thumbs-up with the other. “Sons of bitches, sons of bitches!” In their rage they wring the pages of Il Tirreno as if it were the necks of those two goddamn old guys.
“Easy, boys,” says the newsstand lady. “If you crumple it like that I can’t sell it anymore!” Rambo tells her to take a hike.
The lady happens to be Rambo’s mom, and Rambo’s mom happens to own the newsstand. She and Rambo’s dad bought it with the money they made selling their chicken shack to the Esselunga supermarket. Rambo’s sister, Christina, is seven years his junior and lives in Boston. She’s a researcher for medical equipment, the pride of her parents. The only thing that kept them up at night was this older pigheaded son of theirs who was permanently dressed for the trenches. So, with the money from the chicken shack, they acquired the newsstand and a location. And what a location: right in the center of Forte dei Marmi, a hub of foot traffic where even in the dead of winter they stand a fighting chance, and during summer they could spit in their customers’ faces and still turn a profit.
The Breaking of a Wave Page 9