‘Nervous?’ my companion asks as we prepare to press the buzzer.
‘A bit,’ I say, and leave it at that.
In fact, I’m very tense, and not because in all likelihood my son is going to tell me something tonight that the rest of the family has known about for thirty years, but because I’ll have to pretend to be something I’m not: an affable, sympathetic chap. Sympathy is overvalued anyway, and sometimes serves to cover up loads of rotten things, but that’s how the world goes, and if you’ve gone to all the trouble of having two children you soon learn to mask boredom, pain and depression when they’re around. Unless you want to make them unhappy too.
Dante has bought a place in Chiaia, in a little square at the end of a narrow, twisting alleyway, an elegant apartment in an old building with thick walls which, unlike some I could mention, protect you from your neighbours. Unfortunately, however, the flat is on the fourth floor and there’s no lift. A lot of these little buildings, in fact, have no room for elevators. So I have to climb the stairs and sweat proverbial buckets just to hear my son tell me to my face that he’s gay.
He’s waiting for us on the landing with a big smile on his face. I wonder who he got all this excessive bonhomie from, whether I haven’t transferred all the supplies in my possession to him, but a moment later he has already introduced himself very warmly to Rossana, even though it’s the first time he’s seen me with a woman by my side since Caterina left us. Neither, of course, has Sveva. I thought for a long time before taking this step, but recently I haven’t cared much what other people thought. I mustn’t allow the world to ruin the last days of my holiday.
So here we are, in my son’s flat, which strikes me as just as strange as he is, in a tastefully furnished sitting room in which everything is in the right place – there’s even a sofa at dachshund height, on which I have made the mistake of sitting down. I’m going to need some sort of crane to get myself back up again. That in itself demonstrates that there isn’t much of me in Dante. I’ve never owned a house in which the objects were neatly arranged in the right place; I don’t think I’ve ever even had a tastefully furnished sitting room. I’ve always delegated to other people – so much so that it was my wife who decided what I liked.
There’s some jazz coming out of the stereo, and the air is perfumed with incense, and if there were a little stream running through the middle of the house I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. There are paintings, prints, digital art on the walls, as well as sculptures and installations. One of these is right in the middle of the room: aluminium threads running from the ceiling to the floor. Each one holds a little manikin made of papier mâché. I lose myself in the tangle of metal wires until my son takes me by the arm and leads me to the kitchen, occupied by the scent of ginger and almonds and the presence of Sveva and Leo Perotti, the sociable artist who welcomes me as if we were two great friends meeting up again after years apart.
Rossana is smiling and open; she shakes hands, looks around, enchanted, and seems to be enjoying herself. ‘It’s lovely, this house is. It’s like a hotel!’ she says excitedly.
I turn around covertly and notice Sveva, leaning against the fridge with her hands clasped in front of her, darting rather surprised glances at my companion.
I look away and concentrate on Perotti revealing what we’re having for dinner, which couldn’t be more different from what I anticipated: farro risotto with saffron and carrots, sardines in tempura, pea and anchovy tart with red salmon caviar. I look around for a normal slice of bread, but the closest thing I can see is some rice crackers. Luckily there’s a bottle of red wine on the table. I just fill the bottom of my glass to avoid a scolding, and meanwhile I glance furtively at Rossana, who doesn’t seem to have noticed Sveva’s rather ugly scowl, and is listening attentively to the gay artist as he explains the more recondite secrets of his dishes.
Dante comes over and whispers in my ear, ‘Your Rossana seems nice.’
‘Yes’ is all I say, before the valiant Leo draws me into a conversation about macrobiotic cooking and the Mediterranean diet, two topics not especially close to my heart. In fact, everything concerning health and well-being leaves me cold, so while Perotti expatiates I find myself yawning loudly. I’ve forgotten my manners, the polite smiles and pointless discussions. I’ve been marked by years spent among the world’s rejects; I know how to talk to a prostitute, but I don’t know how to hold a conversation with a brilliant man. Sometimes I think that if you’re born one way, you can’t die another way. You spend a lifetime deluding yourself that you’ve changed direction, and at the end you discover that the shortcut led you straight back to the path you were already on before.
Luckily Rossana intervenes in the discussion with all her feminine energy, and I’m able to slip away inconspicuously. I go out on to the balcony and stand and watch the streets below. In Naples, in fact, your sense of hearing is of more use to you than your eyesight: it’s a city that reveals itself through sound. In the alleys of Chiaia, for example, on summer evenings you can hear women’s heels stepping confidently on the cobblestones, laughter in the distance or two glasses clinking just beyond the alleyway. Posillipo, on the other hand, seems mute, with its wide, deserted boulevards spreading silently over the hill, while the city just below seems wrapped in cotton wool. You need to know how to listen carefully to the nuances of the posh districts if you want to get to know them. In the old city, on the other hand, you need to be able to distinguish things; you need to pay attention only to the things that interest you, to separate out the sounds, like mixing recorded tracks on a piece of music. That way you can enjoy the clamour of the students wandering among the ancient alleyways, the rattle of cutlery from the trattorias, the bells that ring out on Sunday morning, the calls of the street vendors, the hoarse, unsteady voice of an old man playing the accordion at the foot of a battered and forgotten basilica. But to enjoy all of that, you have to cancel out the buzz of the mopeds that infest the streets, the shouts of women getting worked up about nothing, the voice of a Neapolitan singer bursting from a car window.
‘Come here. I’ve got something for you,’ Perotti says as he appears on the balcony and takes my arm.
I’m about to claim my limb back when, once again, I notice Sveva standing beside the fridge, scrutinizing me severely. She’s been keeping her eye on me and Rossana since I came in. I don’t think she’s too impressed with my companion, but to be honest I didn’t expect anything else. Sveva is too angry with life to enjoy its many facets. As far as she’s concerned, everything is black and white, and she could never socialize with someone who doesn’t share her social background.
Luckily my old artist friend steals me away from such thoughts and drags me into the sitting room. I’m leaving Rossana at the mercy of my two children, which isn’t really a very nice situation for her to be in. But she’ll know where to find me – if she can hold an old opportunist like me at bay, she can deal with a shark like Sveva.
‘I thought you liked it the other evening,’ the artist says, pointing to the picture of Superman that’s resting against the wall, ‘so I thought I’d give it to you as a present.’
I look first at the painting, then at him. Superman and Leo Perotti have the same conceited expression on their faces. It seems too much. ‘Now, I can see that you’re keen to make an impression, but this really seems too much!’
His smile vanishes as if by magic, and only the superhero goes on enjoying the scene with an amused smile.
‘Because, look, you don’t need my permission, and you don’t need to be nice whatever the cost. Dante is an adult, and luckily his choices don’t depend on me.’
‘I was just trying to be nice,’ he says, a little less affable now than he was two seconds ago, ‘and not because I’m interested in having your permission, but because I love Dante and I like to see him happy.’
Perhaps I’ve been underestimating the painter. Now that I’ve insulted his dignity, he seems a bit tougher.
‘And he’s happy if you and I agree. Is that right?’
Now he looks at me with a hint of superiority. ‘No. Dante would be happy if you really accepted his way of life.’
‘And who says I don’t?’
‘Well, if he’s never talked to you about me until today, there must be a reason.’
I’m starting to develop a soft spot for good old Perotti.
‘If he’s never talked to me it’s because he didn’t feel like it. I’ve always respected his will. I’ve never forced him to tell me anything.’
‘But you’ve never encouraged him either,’ he replies stoutly. ‘Maybe that’s all Dante needed…’
Just see if I’m going to let my son’s partner treat me like an idiot at my age. Among the many accusations over the past few days, the last one I needed was that I’d never encouraged Dante to tell me about his sexual tastes. I’m about to reply in my own way, but Sveva comes into the sitting room holding a dish. Damn it all, from the frying pan into the fire! I half close my eyes and for a minute I think I’m about to apologize to Perotti, not because I think I’ve made a mistake but to escape Sveva’s look of rancour behind my back. So I take a step forward to move away, but she grabs my arm. Everyone seems to want a part of my arm this evening. I turn around, smiling, but Sveva isn’t smiling at all. In fact, she looks worried.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
She takes the glass of wine from my hand and begins impetuously. ‘If you hadn’t spoken your mind about Enrico the other day,’ she says under her breath, ‘I wouldn’t say anything about this Rossana that you’re consorting with.’
A slightly shrill laugh from my friend emerges from the kitchen and reaches the sitting room.
Sveva half closes her eyes and frowns as if she had just heard someone scraping their fingernails down a blackboard.
I go on smiling.
‘Where did you find her?’ she asks.
‘Why, don’t you like her?’ I say, increasingly amused.
‘Well, let’s just say she’s a little bit exotic…’
‘Yes, you’re right. That’s the right term, the one I’ve never managed to find. She’s exotic, extravagant, colourful.’
She looks at me, perplexed, and says nothing.
‘You see, daughter of mine, this old man that you see in front of you needs a bit of extravagance, a bit of colour to keep from suffocating. It would do you no harm either.’
‘Why do you always have to act the clever clogs? Haven’t you thought about us? About how humiliating it might be for your children to see you in the company of a woman like that?’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask, not smiling now.
She only lowers her eyes for a moment, then she answers harshly, ‘She’s not right for you, not right for this family. And I think that her presence here is offensive to our mother’s memory as well.’
At that point I explode and stifle a shout. ‘Don’t talk to me about offensive. What’s offensive is that no one came to tell me that my son is gay. That’s offensive! It’s offensive that my wife had an affair with someone else for five years. And what you’re doing to your husband is offensive too, if you want my opinion. We all offend someone else. You’re not all that different from me.’
She goes on staring at me in silence, her eyes full of grievance and humiliation.
‘Now, let me live what’s left of my life in a bizarre way. I’ve spent a whole life surrounded by normality, and just smelling the stench of it turns my stomach.’
A moment later, the others come into the sitting room carrying plates, broad smiles on their faces. I look at them mutely and sit down at the head of the table. It has only taken my companion five minutes to be accepted by Dante and his partner, while during the same amount of time my daughter has come to despise me even more. It’s strange, the more advanced I get in years, the quicker things tend to go for me; I’m like a marathon runner racing against himself, constantly trying to get better. By the time I’m on my deathbed people are going to hate me the second they look at me.
But Leo Perotti, rather than sitting as far away from me as possible, chooses the seat next to me. I give him a respectful look, because basically he’s not a coward.
‘Did you like your present?’ Dante asks as soon as he sits down. ‘Leo wasn’t sure – he thought you wouldn’t accept it. But I know you well: if you like something you’re not going to turn it down!’
That’s right. You know me really well, my dear Dante – about as well as I know you. Strange, and yet it seems to me that the only person at this table who really knows me is Rossana.
I smile again at Perotti, who smiles back, unconvinced. A shame, he’s already given up the fight. So I dedicate myself to my regular adversary, the hardiest one of all.
‘How come Diego isn’t here? Another sudden work meeting?’ I say, putting my napkin on my knees.
But Sveva doesn’t even glance at me and instead serves Rossana, who immediately comes out with another of her comments: ‘Mmm, this risotto looks delicious.’
Dante and Leo look at each other, amused.
I turn towards my daughter, waiting for yet another condemnatory look, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she decides to surprise me and says kindly, ‘It’s farro. It’s a bit like rice, but it isn’t actually rice.’
I don’t know if it was my tongue-lashing, but now Sveva looks calmer and more benevolent. Everyone seems calm, and determined to have a pleasant evening. Everyone but me.
‘So, tell us,’ Dante begins. ‘How did you two meet?’
I knew it: my son is a dreadful old gossip who can’t keep his nose out of other people’s business.
‘Rossana was a nurse of mine a few years ago,’ I explain.
‘Yes, of course. That’s where we’ve met before,’ my daughter says, and I can’t work out whether there’s a veiled intent behind her observation, and whether she somehow wants to ruin my dinner.
But it’s Dante’s evening – we’re here for him – and I don’t think she would do that to her brother. Nonetheless, I feel obliged to intervene to get my companion out of a sticky situation, so I decide to get straight to the point.
‘So, what were you going to tell me that’s so important?’
Dante looks at me, dumbfounded. Perhaps he thought I would have been satisfied just to have worked it out, that the penny would have dropped once I’d seen his artist friend. No, my dear Dante, for once in your life show a bit of courage and confront your old man, who is already quite nervous enough this evening.
But he doesn’t speak.
Sveva is the one who butts in, as always, and gets her brother out of his difficult spot. ‘It’s fine. I’ll tell you later, in private.’
‘No, let’s do it a different way,’ I say, and stare at Dante. ‘Let me relieve you of the task. I’ll speak!’
Then I take a long sip of wine and put my napkin on the table, ignoring yet another furious glare from my daughter.
Rossana kicks me under the table, but I’m already off.
‘Dante, you’re a homosexual! Everyone knows it. You’ve told everyone, even your mother. I was the only one who was left out, perhaps because you thought you would wait until I was dead. And yet I have two important pieces of information to give you this evening. The first is that I have no immediate plans to kick the bucket. The second is that I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss about your sexual tastes. I love you and I will always love you, even if I’ve never said so, even if I’ve made so many mistakes with you and it may sometimes have seemed as if I didn’t care about you at all. I admire you, as a man and as a son. I admire and love you and Sveva in the same way, you can be quite sure of it. There, that’s what I had to tell you – to tell both of you –’ I glance at my daughter too, ‘and at last I’ve summoned up the courage. Now, if you like, we can go on stuffing ourselves with your food for the rest of the evening, or else I’ll get up, take this lady by the arm and go.’
I lower my head and start eating, even tho
ugh my trembling hand doesn’t allow me to hold my fork still. Sometimes it’s a huge effort playing the part of the curmudgeon.
When I look up, I see that Dante’s eyes are glistening, Sveva is wiping away a tear, Rossana is staring at her plate and Leo Perotti is staring at me.
I smile at him again, and he takes my hand and exclaims, ‘You know, until a moment ago I thought you were a total bastard! You’ve changed my image of you in only two minutes!’
This Perotti fellow is a terrific chap.
I shake his hand and say, ‘Well, if it comes to that, I’ve rethought my view of you as well. Now we’re equals!’
Then we burst out laughing. Rossana joins in, and Sveva and Dante have no option but to play along as well.
The dinner continues at an even tenor, and even Perotti’s macrobiotic cuisine seems good. I relax, not least thanks to the wine, and listen to the others telling stories and talking about themselves, something that seldom happens to me.
When I get up to go to the bathroom, Dante comes after me, turns on the light in the toilet and stands there staring at me.
‘What is it? Do you want to help me take a crap?’
He smiles and replies, ‘I wanted to thank you for your words. I know it must have been a great wrench for you!’
‘You have nothing to thank me for – you’re still in credit!’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You weren’t a bad father in the end.’
‘That’s not what Sveva thinks…’
‘You know Sveva – she likes to complain and blame other people for the choices she’s made.’
It’s only now that I realize I’ve been wrong for the past few years. I should have been spending less time with my daughter and more with her brother.
‘You’re getting more and more like your mother,’ I say with a sigh.
The Temptation to Be Happy Page 14