But I was wrong: not a single party, no guests for dinner, no birthdays. The couple next door were as quiet as the grave; never a word out of place; the TV was never on too loud; no stinking bag of rubbish was ever left outside the door. An invisible couple, you might say.
Until today.
Before them there was a little family made up of wife, husband and three young children. It was hell: the little pests cried uninterruptedly for four years, the worst of my life. Being the neighbour of a family that pops out a new baby every year was a disaster: like becoming a father for a second time, or rather, taking Sveva and Dante into account, a third, a fourth and a fifth time. The real disaster was that their bedroom was adjacent to mine. I live in Vomero, a hilly part of Naples where the air is quite clean and it’s cool in the summer. However, there’s a problem, a big problem. My building went up in the 1960s, during the economic boom, with little accuracy and a lot of superficiality. In short, the walls only separate – they don’t isolate. You’re constantly sharing with your neighbours: the crying of the children next door, the peeing and flushing of the lady upstairs, a coughing fit from Marino, the old (the word is appropriate) friend who’s under my feet. Here, if you’re a light sleeper, even a burp two floors up can wake you.
After the first three sleepless nights I grabbed my pillow and moved to the sofa. Then one day my kind neighbours invited me to dinner, perhaps because they thought I was an old man on his own and in need of help. It’s true that I’m on my own, but I don’t need anybody’s help. In any case, I was obliged to say yes and spend an evening in the company of those absolute pains who had robbed me of my sleep. They thought my heart would be softened by the sight of those little creatures, that I was one of those stupid old men who, to keep from thinking of death, attach themselves to those who have a future ahead of them. All in all, they hoped that my heart was less rough. They were mistaken. Generally speaking, it is said that time sweetens the character, particularly where men are concerned. Many strict fathers turn into affectionate grandfathers. The opposite happened to me: I was born sweet and will die grumpy.
But I realize I’ve strayed from the subject. I was talking about the new neighbours, and the fact that he, as far as I can tell, hits her. As I’ve said, I don’t sleep much, and I sleep badly. The other night I was tossing about under the covers when the two of them started arguing. At first all that could be heard was her raised voice, then, at some point, he started shouting as well. After a while I heard a thump, as if a heavy object had fallen to the ground, then silence. My curiosity was roused, and I put my ear to the wall. I don’t think I’m mistaken in saying that she was crying and he was consoling her. The next morning, while I was opening my mailbox, Emma turned up. She was wearing dark glasses and looking at the floor. As soon as she saw me she turned round and climbed the stairs.
‘Hello,’ I said, but she was already far away.
I was sure she had a swollen black eye, so once I reached our floor I thought I would knock on the door to check that everything was all right. I reached for the bell, then changed my mind at the last moment. I’ve always minded my own business and that seems fine to me, so why poke my nose into things that don’t concern me? After all, my neighbour is an adult, she’s a grown-up: if her husband thumps her she’s free to leave. I forgot all about it until, this morning, I found the girl standing on the landing with her back to me, turning her bag upside down looking for her keys. She replied to my greeting with a hurried smile that didn’t allow her to hide her swollen, bruised lip.
It’s true I’m an old curmudgeon, and if one of my children ever had the courage to stand up on that thing where you deliver homilies, and launch off on a list of my best qualities, I don’t think they’d be able to call me a sociable fellow. I don’t hate people, it’s just that I’m too caught up with myself to attend to anyone else. Even Caterina always said the same thing: ‘You’re not bad, you’re just an egoist.’ I’ve never agreed with that. An egoist is someone who pursues his own well-being at all costs, whereas I’ve never attained well-being. I’ve even failed as an egoist.
But we were talking about my neighbour. Violence against women is one of those topics you hear about on the news, something remote from us ‘ordinary folk’. A bit like murder. It’s unlikely that one of my acquaintances is going to be murdered; it’s more likely that they’ll be struck by lightning while adjusting their satellite dish.
In short, this woman is really starting to annoy me, because this time I can’t pretend nothing is happening, particularly if she insists on strolling around the place with her face all swollen. That’s why I’ve decided to intervene, even though I don’t yet know how.
I think I’ll talk to Marino – he might come up with something.
Even if it’s more likely that the sun won’t rise tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
The Things Not Done
Marino is one of those old pains whose grandchildren take the mick out of him something rotten, who’s always repeating the same things, who can’t hear, doesn’t understand young people’s language and doesn’t know how to use a computer. But unlike many of his contemporaries he does have a computer, and very fine it looks on the desk in his study. I’ve always wondered what it was for, given that a typewriter is a leap in the dark as far as he is concerned, but then I discovered that it belongs to his grandson Orazio, who often goes and studies there in the afternoon.
Marino is past eighty, his breath stinks, his dentures mangle just about every syllable and sometimes he even pees himself. A disaster. And yet he’s a very good person, and he’s company. Admittedly he won’t have you splitting your sides, but he’s someone you can talk to, who listens even if he can’t hear, and sometimes he even gives good advice. In my life Marino is a figure half-way between a therapist with whom I pull apart my anxieties and a priest in whom I confide my sins. The great thing is that I’ve never been able to stand either of them, priests or psychologists.
‘And what if he works out that we were the ones who sent the letter? What if he traces the handwriting?’ Marino asks agitatedly.
I snort. I forgot to add that Marino is also a very anxious individual, and that anxious individuals make you anxious. So sometimes you end up with this vicious circle that generates attention without any real reason for it and, above all, you can’t tell who was responsible for it in the first place.
‘Apart from the fact that I don’t think the secret services would go out of their way over a message from us, I’ve thought of that as well. That’s why I’m here today.’
He looks at me quizzically, even though he’s used to my strange outpourings by now.
‘We’ll use your computer!’ I add with a mischievous smile.
He doesn’t understand; he tilts his head from side to side and strikes his hands against the worn arm of his chair. I’ve known Marino for about forty years, half his life. And yet in all that time I’ve never seen him change so much as the seat cover of his beloved armchair.
In the end, he stammers, ‘You’re mad! You know that with a computer it’s the easiest thing in the world to trace the perpetrator? They’d catch us the next day.’
I think for a moment. He seems so certain that I’m almost convinced.
‘And how do you know that, when you don’t even know how to turn on a computer?’
‘Orazio explained it to me.’
So it must be true. We’ll have to go back to the original plan: handwrite a letter and slip it through the letter box. The idea came to me last night, while I was tossing and turning in bed as usual. I was thinking that the bastard who’s hitting his wife should be aware that someone knows, so that the next time he’ll think twice before raising a hand.
I’ve glimpsed the girl again, in the supermarket below our flats. I was wandering among the shelves; she was at the sausage counter. When she noticed me, she suddenly turned round so that her back was towards me, like last time. I think she’s ashamed – perhaps she’s worked out
that I’ve worked it out.
At any rate I couldn’t miss the opportunity. I picked up a couple of the tins of tuna on offer and walked towards her, passed behind her and whispered, ‘I know.’ Then I continued on my way as if nothing was wrong, without turning to check whether she’d heard me or not.
I like acting mysterious.
‘But I wouldn’t even know how to print a letter with that thing there. Are you absolutely sure about what you’re saying? You can’t accuse a man of abuse without proof. We’d ruin his life!’
There’s another aspect to Marino’s character that I haven’t mentioned: he’s good – too good. Sometimes I feel as if I’m talking to Federico, my grandson. Perhaps it’s true that life goes in a circle and at the end it comes back to its starting point; in an eighty-year-old man and a baby, if you look carefully enough, you risk spotting the same fears.
‘We don’t need to report him. We just put a bit of pressure on him. If it isn’t true that he’s hitting his wife, and I’ve only suggested as much, he will laugh about it and move on. If, on the other hand, he is guilty as I believe, he will start looking round.’
‘Cesare, you like playing the detective. Certain situations amuse you but they don’t amuse me. I want to be left in peace – rash moves aren’t my thing.’
It’s true: I enjoy playing at being an investigator. Not just that. I love turning myself into other people, assuming different identities, living in a fantastical way. It’s because up to a certain age I lived a relatively ‘normal’ life, without any particularly strong emotions. The problem is that as you approach the end, a lot of irritating little voices pay you a visit in the night, and whisper insistently: Shift yourself. Don’t rot at home. Do something crazy. Try and make up for everything ‘not done’ in your wretched life.
There it is: the things not done. It’s taken me over seventy years to work out that I’m there, amidst the things not done. My true essence, my desires, my energy and instinct are stored in everything I would have liked to do. It isn’t nice to hear people telling you over and over again that you’ve been wrong all your life, that you’ve played your cards wrong and withdrawn from the table when you should have stayed to keep an eye on the game even if you risked losing all the chips you had in front of you. And it’s never easy to recover lost time – in a few years you have to bring a life to an end. It’s almost impossible. Strange how, just as you begin to understand how things work, the gong sounds, as if you were in a TV game show and started going for it in the last thirty seconds, after spending the previous three minutes staring at your fingernails.
‘Marino, you’re eighty now, and as far as I know you’ve never made a rash move in your life. You’ve been sitting in that armchair for ten years and if you get up your outline is still imprinted on it. Don’t you think that before you die you might like to do something crazy?’
He stares straight at me and drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. I hold his gaze, so much so that I know he will be the first to give in. And sure enough, after a while, he lowers his head and whispers, ‘Fine. But I warn you: if I get caught it was your idea!’
Classic Marino, doing things by halves. He probably left things unfinished when he was having sex as well. I bet that at school he was one of those boys who settled for satisfactory. He lacked the courage not to study, but at the same time it wasn’t important for him to know things; he just wanted to reach the goal as soon as possible, so that he could be left in peace. If he was a topic, Marino would be a two-page essay, the statutory minimum. I, on the other hand, even in this case, could assume two different guises: an eight-page essay or a blank page. I would accept both possibilities.
‘We don’t have to go into a bank with balaclavas on. We just have to write a warning letter. And we’re doing it for a good cause. Don’t you want to help a poor girl?’
He nods, but clearly he isn’t very convinced.
‘Have you really not understood what we’re talking about? Have you never met her on the stairs?’ I ask, startled.
He merely shakes his head.
‘OK, obviously you couldn’t have seen her. How long is it since you’ve poked your nose out of this molehill?’
‘It isn’t a molehill!’ he replies, thrusting his chest out towards me.
He’s right, it isn’t a molehill, but my friend needs a good sharp slap.
‘Yes, Marino, this house is a molehill. Your life is a molehill. You aren’t dead yet – can you get that into your head? The world is still out there – an asteroid hasn’t collided with the world in the last ten years. There are still streets, trees, shop windows and beautiful women.’
He should be furious. In his place I’d get up and grab the arm of the person talking to me; I would hurl insults at him; I might even smack him one, after which I’d throw him out of the house. But then I’d put my coat on and charge down the stairs. Marino doesn’t do any of those things: he doesn’t get angry; he doesn’t hit me; he doesn’t move from his armchair. He looks at me and smiles. The old twit is fond of me, as I am of him, but I won’t die in here just to keep him company.
I get up and walk towards the door.
He blocks my path.
‘I was thinking…perhaps we could call Orazio, see what he thinks – whether they really could trace us through the computer. He could help you write the letter.’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say. ‘That seems like a good idea to me.’
‘Then I’ll call him tonight and let you know.’
I shut the door and walk upstairs. I don’t use the lift; I have to keep in training if I’m going to go on being an idiot.
At the first step my phone rings.
‘Dad?’
‘Hi, Dante,’ I reply wearily.
Either I speak or I confront the stairs. I decide to stop a few steps away from my destination.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘OK, the other day I forgot to tell you that on Saturday evening there’s the opening of an important exhibition. What are you up to? Will you come?’
‘Will there be food?’
‘Yes, there will be food, or else I wouldn’t have called you,’ he says, and sighs slowly.
‘Fine. Who’s the artist?’
‘Leo Perotti, an emerging painter who has already shown in Berlin. I’d like to introduce you to him.’
Never heard of him in my life – I admit I’m not a great art expert. If they were showing not Perotti but Picasso I would receive the news with the same frame of mind. Dante, on the other hand, seems euphoric; his voice is slightly too high, almost strident, like a premenstrual woman.
‘Fine, I’ll be there,’ I tell him.
I’d like to be more enthusiastic, but I can’t do it. Every time I propose behaving in a different way towards Dante, when I see him or speak to him on the phone I don’t move an inch. Being grumpy with my children is the only tool still at my disposal; changing my approach would require a considerable waste of energy. And I need my energy for other things.
‘Is Sveva coming too?’ I add.
‘I don’t know,’ he snorts. ‘I told her to drop in if she can.’
I say nothing. I have nothing to say.
Luckily he takes the next step.
‘I can’t wait to see you on Saturday. I’m really excited!’
I can’t imagine what he could be excited about, not even if it were his exhibition. My son has an art gallery in the middle of the old town – a nice, fashionable venue, with a rather strange clientele, if I’m being honest. But I like his work, even though I’d never dream of telling him. I know it’s wrong, but that’s just how I am: I can’t say what needs to be said. Sometimes I’ve tried, but the words stay on the tip of my tongue before trickling back down my gullet.
‘I’m happy for you,’ I say without much conviction.
He seems to notice, because he says nothing for a moment, then says goodbye and hangs up.
I’m proud of Dante – of his personalit
y, his job and the way he goes about things. In some respects I now think he’s better than his sister, and yet I still have more confidence in her. It’s easier to interact with a woman, even if my daughter has her foibles. When they were little, Caterina told me off for my open preference towards Sveva, because she, to balance out the affection, was closer to our second-born son. In fact, I didn’t choose. Dante arrived just as Sveva was becoming a little girl and starting to relate to me, talking, playing, hugging me. Dante struck me as resembling one of those dolls that look at you inertly from shop windows. So, without meaning to, Caterina and I shared out our children and our tasks. She looked after Dante; I looked after Sveva. He became homosexual; she egocentric and neurotic.
‘If you were here, we could swap roles now. Perhaps that way we could compensate a little bit for the damage done!’ I exclaim.
My words echo down the empty corridor.
‘Although I think it’s a bit late now. We should have thought of it before. It’s your fault – you didn’t want to change, you never had doubts and you thought that life had one track to follow. I must admit, even then I tended to kick out. If you’d listened to me, perhaps things might have turned out differently.’
The walls don’t reply. It’s better that way – at least they can’t disagree. Meanwhile, the clock in the kitchen goes on ticking away the seconds. I had never realized before, but silence is the master of this house.
The Temptation to Be Happy Page 4