The Temptation to Be Happy

by Lorenzo Marone

  That hint of a smile enrages me, and for a moment I really consider opening the door, going to my neighbour’s flat and beating him up, whatever the cost. Then I remember that he isn’t there.

  ‘Have you been seen by a doctor?’ I ask.

  ‘No, but I think my cheekbone’s broken. I put ice on it from time to time.’

  I walk over to her and, without a word, rest my finger on the bruised bone. The skin is purple and swollen with fluid. Emma doesn’t flinch.

  ‘If you don’t report him, I will!’ I say at last.

  ‘No, please don’t. I’m scared. And I’ll be homeless and jobless. He doesn’t want me to work.’

  I sigh. Another woman coming to me with a problem, who won’t accept a solution. Except that this time I can’t look the other way and pretend nothing’s wrong.

  ‘It’s ready,’ she says at last.

  I pass her the plates. Emma fills them with swift, sure movements.

  We sit down at the table. The spaghetti is really good, much better than I had anticipated.

  ‘For some reason mine is never as good as this,’ I admit.

  She smiles, ignoring the pain this time. Good for you, Emma, smiling even when it hurts.

  The cat starts wailing. I’d forgotten him. I get up and take a slice of cheese and a bit of ham from the fridge. Beelzebub is monomaniacal on the subject – if it was up to him we’d only eat meat. I’d be really curious to know his triglyceride levels, although I very much doubt that they’re higher than mine. I stopped analysing blood when I worked out that by checking my levels I was deluding myself that I could control my life. I would have been wasting my time if, at my age, I hadn’t realized that nothing can be controlled and the only thing we’re given to do is live.

  ‘Is that your cat?’

  ‘Heavens, no. It belongs to Signora Vitagliano, our neighbour. The poor mog manages to escape her clutches every now and again.’

  Emma smiles again, then the sound of forks on plates dominates the scene for a few minutes.

  ‘Do you live alone?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘Yes, I do. My wife died five years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers and dives back into her food.

  With her head lowered and her long dark hair falling to her knees, she looks more than ever like Sveva. Incredible, but I’ve only just realized that my daughter has never come for supper at my house. It’s hard for her to come here – too many memories of her mother. I think the fact that I’m still alive is a mere detail.

  ‘I have a daughter older than you who looks very like you,’ I say.

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and for a moment I’m tempted to talk to her about the humdrum nature of my daughter’s life.

  ‘And then there’s Dante, who you’ve met.’

  ‘Is he married too?’

  ‘No, he’s gay,’ I say, before bringing the glass to my lips. It was a pointless clarification, but it’s stronger than me – every time I talk about him I find myself spontaneously slipping out with something.

  ‘I could tell,’ is all she says.

  ‘Why don’t you go to your parents’ house?’ I ask once I’ve cleared my plate.

  ‘I ran away from home at fourteen. My dad drank and picked fights with me and Mum. That’s why I left as soon as I could. Just think, I swore to myself that I would never be bound to a man…’

  Some lives run along pre-established tracks and there’s never a dramatic scene that changes the direction of things. Even life sometimes manages to be banal.

  ‘But I don’t feel like talking any more today,’ she adds firmly.

  I nod. I like this girl. Like Rossana, she doesn’t mince her words.

  ‘Why don’t we watch a bit of television?’

  ‘Television?’

  ‘Yeah. You must have a TV, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply and get to my feet.

  She’s acting as if she were my granddaughter and this house her place of refuge. Grandparents’ houses are often places where runaway grandchildren can seek shelter.

  I don’t watch much TV, and then only documentaries. Sometimes I actually have to force myself to turn it on – partly because I don’t want to end up like Marino, partly because I’ve watched it too much in my life.

  We sit down on the sofa, side by side, and I find myself smiling. Life really is strange: suddenly you find yourself sharing your table and your sitting room with people who wouldn’t have acknowledged your existence the day before.

  A few moments later, Beelzebub jumps on to the sofa and curls up between our bodies.

  ‘I’m happy when he’s not there,’ she says as she changes channels. ‘Even if the house is sometimes too quiet,’ she adds a few moments later.

  ‘I’m here if you need me,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she replies, not even turning round.

  A few moments more, and I start again.

  ‘You want to know something?’ I ask, and this time she looks at me. ‘A woman I loved very much had the same name as you. Emma.’

  She draws up her knees and says, ‘Your wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’ her face seems to ask.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I add and turn back to face the television.

  We sit there in silence, watching the screen, until I notice that my eyes are closing. It’s bedtime really – at the end of the day I’m old, after all.

  I turn round and find Emma curled up fast asleep. It makes her look even more defenceless. For some reason some people have no guardian angels. I’m a long way from being an angel, and yet it feels natural to get up and find her a blanket. I wrap Emma in warm plaid, turn off the television, then the light, and go to bed. In the silence of the flat, the only sound is the purring of Beelzebub cuddled up by the feet of this defenceless creature who has decided to wake me from my torpor.

  I would like to come to your aid, to help you to save yourself, Emma. Really I would. But I fear I’m not up to it. One life wasn’t enough for me to learn how to hold out a hand without trembling.

  Chapter Twelve

  Superman in a Skirt

  In my day the guests at a party were treated with respect – they were served reverentially. Now we’ve got buffets, a way like any other to complicate the lives of the poor people who have already been forced to don their best clothes, take a taxi and appear at the party with forced smiles. As far as I’m concerned that’s not how it actually worked: I didn’t put on special clothes, just the things I put on every day. I stopped complicating my life in that way when I reached old age, given that no one is ever going to tell an old man that he’s dressed inappropriately. But the people around me are rather smart. They walk around the room pretending to admire Perotti’s paintings, but in fact they’re much more interested in the trays of food. The problem is that it’s impossible to get anywhere near the table: some of the guests have managed to make it to the front and are not about to budge. Luckily I’m old, and old people sit down to wait for their relatives to bring them a nice plate of food.

  ‘Here you are,’ says Sveva, handing me one.

  That’s what a daughter is for. Dante doesn’t really think about food – he wanders from one painting to another, smiling, supplying explanations, shaking hands, greeting people obsequiously.

  ‘Why is your brother so reverential with these people?’ I ask provocatively.

  ‘Reverential? I don’t think so. He’s just being nice.’

  ‘There’s a subtle difference.’

  ‘Yes, and you don’t know it.’

  My daughter can’t stand me. I’ve got to take control and do something. But even thinking about confronting the problem bores me.

  ‘What about your husband?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘He’s working till late.’

  As ever, once a marriage hits the rocks, people start working late, having meeting after meeting, being suddenly called away on
business.

  We sit in silence, side by side. She looks at the people; I look at her. For some reason Sveva hates me. And yet, when she was little I paid her lots of attention. Perhaps if I’d left her in the care of her mother she’d be different now. If you try to bring up a child you can only get it wrong; if you let things be, you may end up with an adult who doesn’t blame you for their shortcomings.

  ‘What’s up? Are you having difficulties?’

  She turns round, her eyes wide with alarm. And I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked her such a question before. Caterina was there for that.

  ‘Why? What makes you think so?’

  ‘Well, there’s never any sign of him and if I ask you questions you give me irritable replies.’

  ‘When do you ask me anything? When have you ever asked me anything? What’s this new thing that’s happening?’

  ‘You see? You’re being aggressive. Women do that when they think they’ve been cornered,’ I reply casually, before grabbing a glass of Prosecco offered to me by a pleasant waiter.

  ‘What a joke, you talking about women!’ she says, and takes the glass from my hand. ‘Will you stop drinking? Or are you determined to kill yourself ?’

  I snort. ‘Sveva, you’re boring.’

  She smiles and takes my hand. I want to pull it back, so that I don’t look like a senile old man being consoled by his patient daughter, but she’s gripping it too firmly.

  ‘In fact, I’m doing just fine. But how are you getting on?’

  ‘Very well, as ever.’

  ‘Yes,’ she answers bitterly, ‘it’s true.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re very good at being on your own. It’s only in company that you’ve got a few problems.’

  My daughter knows me well. Which is very useful: I don’t need to explain things to her. I like women who don’t ask any questions.

  ‘I’m not drawn to people, I admit it.’

  We watch the people munching canapés as they stroll from one painting to another, until eventually Sveva gets up and says, ‘Why don’t you go and talk to Dante for a while? You’ve been sitting on this chair since you got here.’

  ‘Well, it’s comfortable. And if I get up someone will take my place.’

  ‘Do as you like. But I think he’d like a comment from you, or even just a smile.’

  Then she disappears into the crowd. I’m no longer the right age for being a father: too many responsibilities. I’ve been unlucky: if Caterina were here now she’d go and congratulate Dante and listen to the story of Perotti’s artistic career, and I could sit here drinking Prosecco and watching people. If my wife had been here, she would have gone to pick up Federico from school the other day, and I wouldn’t have seen the SUV driver’s hand on my daughter’s thigh. Instead my wife is dead and she’s washed her hands of everything. It’s just as well I was the selfish one.

  I get up, take another glass of Prosecco and walk over to a painting, a kind of photograph retouched on the computer: in the background the American flag and in the foreground Superman with a big ‘S’ printed on his chest and…wearing a miniskirt!

  ‘What do you think? Do you like it?’

  I turn round. Beside me there’s a man in his forties with a beige velvet jacket, holding a glass of red wine. He’s wearing a top hat.

  ‘Well, let’s say it’s amusing.’

  He smiles. ‘Yes, I think so too.’

  I turn back towards the painting, trying to shake him off, but he soon launches off again: ‘You’re Dante’s father, aren’t you?’

  Christ, there’s nothing worse than a sociable person. What’s so great about meeting a new individual? We’re all the same anyway, more or less, a collection of shortcomings walking along the street and trying to avoid similar collections.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dante talks about you a lot.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies.

  He’s pleased to have captured my attention. The poor thing doesn’t imagine that my attention is focused entirely on a woman behind him, with an enormous bosom like Rossana’s. If I were younger, I would have to try and work out the source of that fixation and maybe read Freud, but I’m old, so I can just get on with staring at breasts without worrying too much about it. At any rate, I need to shake that fake artist off my heels. I swallow the last gulp and hand the glass to my interlocutor, who looks at me curiously.

  ‘Will you hang on to it for me? I need to go to the toilet.’

  He smiles awkwardly and takes the glass. I go to the toilet, blow my nose, look in the mirror, fart, flush and open the door. Waiting by the washbasins is the beautiful woman with the big bosom, who studies me severely. Perhaps she heard the noise. She asks if she can go in, but I try to stop her, at least until the fetid stench of my colon has faded away. The lady looks at me impatiently as I go on smiling at her like an idiot.

  ‘So, can I get past?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ I reply and move away.

  At least she has achieved her goal. When I get back to the gallery, the man in the top hat has been swallowed up by the crowd. I take advantage of the fact to go over to Dante, who is talking to a little group of four people who are listening to him attentively. Every now and again he turns towards the painting behind him and points out a detail. He’s gay – that’s just how it is. I don’t understand why it is that if you prefer cock you have to move and gesticulate like an imbecile. Women don’t have attitudes like that. His audience must have noticed by now. Perhaps they don’t care. It seems to me that it’s getting worse and worse by the day.

  And yet, as I said before, the role of father no longer appeals to me. Over the years I’ve become too sincere, with myself and others. If my son bats for the other team I’m going to mention the fact, even if I think he should behave as he sees fit. I just wish he had the courage to admit it to me. What does he think I would say? When I couldn’t care less if he went to be with some crazy tart or a hairy bald man? Christ, I shudder to imagine the scene.

  Dante notices me and beckons me over so that he can introduce me to his guests. I shake hands without listening to names that I would forget in a second anyway.

  Once we’re on our own, he comes out with the classic question: ‘So, do you like it?’

  I look around and say, ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

  ‘I thought the paintings might be a bit too surreal for your taste.’

  ‘That means you don’t know me very well. I like all things surreal. It’s reality that bores me.’

  Dante seems pleased by the reply.

  ‘But I wanted to ask you: who’s the lady in blue?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one with the huge bosom,’ I say and point precisely at her.

  He darts at my finger like a cat.

  ‘What are you doing? Have you gone crazy? She’s the wife of one of my best collectors.’

  I try not to stop and think about the sudden pink haze that has enveloped his voice and reply, ‘Well, I think the best piece in your gallery is made of flesh and blood.’

  Dante giggles contentedly, but I really don’t think he’s happy about my behaviour. If Sveva had been in his place, how paternal I would have been!

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say quickly, ‘I was joking.’

  Which isn’t true, but I don’t want to embarrass my son. In fact, I wish that he, just once in his life, would embarrass me. But I realize that this business is pretty complicated.

  ‘Come on,’ he says a moment later and takes my arm. ‘I want to introduce you to the artist, a great friend of mine.’

  He leads me to the other side of the room and plonks me in front of the man with the beige jacket and the top hat. I look first at him, then at my son.

  At last I ask, ‘Is this the artist?’

  Dante nods proudly and introduces me to Leo Perotti, the sociable man I escaped from with a hackneyed excuse; he still has the same calm, confident expression on his face. If all
it took to be content with life was the ability to paint, I’d sign up for a course, but I fear that for some the beauty they encounter as adults doesn’t erase the foulness they’ve been carrying inside them since childhood.

  Perotti shakes my hand and says, ‘I’m glad you didn’t say you hated the painting!’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘But don’t you worry – if I’d thought it, I’d have said it.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Perotti replies. ‘Sincerity helps us to live a better life!’

  I would love to flee this sterile discussion, but Dante grips my arm more tightly than the situation requires, as if we were on a subway train with no handles to hold on to. He is agitated, I notice, because he keeps closing his eyes tightly, a tic he’s retained from childhood. Very handy for a father. A simple lie was enough to bring it into the open. I remember that Caterina wanted to take him to a specialist. That’s what they called them in those days – the word ‘psychologist’ didn’t exist, or if it did it was considered too ‘strong’. If you dragged your son to see a psychologist, it meant he was mad, there was little to be done. A different matter if you took him to a specialist. Dante went to neither. And this is the result.

  I don’t know how to continue the conversation into which I have been catapulted in spite of myself. Unfortunately I have to accept that with Dante I can’t be myself; I never know what to say or do.

  Sveva comes over and takes my free arm. I don’t know whether my children think I’m so doddery that I can’t stand up, or whether they are the ones in need of support.

  ‘Dad, I’m off. Do you want a lift?’

  Good old Sveva, turning up just in time!

  I say goodbye to Dante and his excessively cordial friend and leave with her.

  ‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ I say as she turns on the ignition.

  ‘You really are a grumpy old sod. Dante was so handsome, the exhibition was brilliant and the artist is really good. You should be proud of your son!’

  ‘And who says I’m not?’

  ‘Then you don’t show it.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t show it because I don’t know how.’

  ‘That’s what you like to think – it’s easier that way.’