Then, the next year, that day came, the most terrible of all. He received a phone call from England early in the morning. Sebastiano had died in a car crash. Those were frightening months. Marino was a skeleton who only managed to keep walking by inertia, just because his wife needed him. He seemed to be getting old at twice the speed of everyone else, as if he lived in the body of a dog and one of his years equalled seven of ours. As for me, I tried to help him as best I could, at work and at home, but he didn’t even seem to notice.
Four years later, Paola died too, and my friend found himself on his own in the big flat that had been filled for decades with laughter, shouting, tears and grumbling. Antonia tried to make him move in with her, not least because Marino had retired by then, but the stubborn old fellow wouldn’t hear of it. But in the evening he ate at our house, watched a bit of television and then went back downstairs. I found myself feeling sorry for him, even though over time that pity turned into admiration. I didn’t think he would get over all that had happened, but with the passing months he managed to stand his ground. Life has not been kind to him, and yet Marino has kept going. That was when I worked out that it’s not that some people are braver than others, it’s just that some people confront pain when it needs to be confronted.
But one day he called me and asked me to come and see him. I stepped into the silence of a house that I didn’t recognize.
‘I wanted to tell you that from now on I’m not coming to yours for dinner,’ he announced with a smile.
I returned the smile, thinking that he needed to get his autonomy back.
‘Tell me the truth. You’ve found some company that’s better than ours,’ I said with a wink.
He laughed the way he used to, but then he immediately grew serious again and replied, ‘Cesare, I’m too old for these things. It’s just that I’m tired of running away.’
I could have insisted, and perhaps if I’d only guessed that his house had become his tomb, I would have done. Instead I thought that basically he was right, and I went on joking, as we always did: ‘There are some things you’re never too old for, Marino. And in the meantime, they’ve invented these magic pills.’
He poured me some wine and didn’t reply.
During those years, Eleonora Vitagliano’s husband had moved on to a better world as well, and for some time I had found myself thinking that the two of them might have kept each other company. She had stopped teaching, she didn’t go out much and she was starting to develop an unfortunate fixation with cats – to the extent that I often bumped into her on the landing with a cat she had just picked up in the street. There is more than one way to confront loneliness: some people lock themselves up at home; some become too fond of animals; and some learn to commune with silence.
‘You haven’t thought of taking up with Eleonora Vitagliano?’ I asked Marino after a while.
‘What are you on about?’ He jumped up from his armchair. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘Well, you’re both widowed and alone, you’ve known each other for ever – why not keep each other company for a while?’
‘Cesare, don’t talk nonsense. And have you seen what she’s like these days? She seems to have gone off her rocker. I can’t even bring myself to invite her in for coffee – she stinks of cat food.’
I smiled.
He was right: desperation has its limits too.
So I said, ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Loneliness is better,’ and held out my glass for a drop more wine.
We said goodbye when it was dinner time.
When I told Caterina the news that Marino wouldn’t be coming to ours any more, she observed irritably, ‘Shame, I’d got used to his silent company.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said as I went to the toilet. ‘He’ll be back in a few days, you’ll see. He can’t just bury himself away at home!’
Eight years have passed since that evening. Long enough for Marino to make friends with grief.
‘I came up to give you this…’ Marino sighs eventually.
‘Me first,’ I say.
He looks at me curiously. His cheeks are red and his breathing is heavy.
‘The girl is expecting a baby. I wanted to tell you before…’
Marino sits with his glass half-way to his lips for a second, then leans back.
‘Does she plan to keep it?’
‘That’s what she says.’
‘I was right: we shouldn’t have got involved. I’m old and fed up with hearing people’s problems.’
‘What was I supposed to do? I’m just helping an unfortunate woman.’
‘You’re getting too mixed up in the whole thing. The letter is one thing; having her sleep at yours is quite another.’
The laughter of a few minutes before is now a distant memory.
‘And what if he somehow found out?’ he goes on.
And blow me if old Marino doesn’t start shaking like a jelly.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve already thought of something to take the wind out of his sails.’
‘You’re crazy, you know that? You’re just a poor old man – you should pull yourself together and accept the fact sooner or later.’
‘No, I’ve decided to accept bugger all. If old age claims to have won the day, it’s still got a bit of work to do!’
Marino looks at me uncertainly as I fill his glass once again.
‘So?’ I ask. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
He sets down the glass and stares at me, then, in a proud voice, he replies, ‘I’ve brought you the letter. Orazio and I managed to print it!’
Something that would be an ordinary action for the world becomes a mountain peak to climb for us. The truth is that technology should have more respect for old people. I take the envelope and turn it round in my hands. Sometimes the wild gale of initial enthusiasm fades away to become a light spring breeze. I pick up the bottle again and pour out the last finger of wine left in it.
Marino doesn’t complain: he’s on my side now.
‘To Emma’s safety,’ he says, then raises his glass and brings it close to mine.
He is so happy to be able to help a girl in difficulties that I can’t bring myself to tell him that the letter drenched in the sweat of his efforts will end up in the bin a moment after he leaves.
‘To her safety…’ I say.
We clink glasses, then I walk him to the door. Perhaps I should walk him all the way home – he seems a bit tipsy. But then so am I, and I’m old too. But, unlike Marino, I’m doing everything I can to forget the fact.
I throw the letter in the kitchen bin and go back into the sitting room.
Until you experience pain in the first person, you can’t understand it. And yet how many people use the words ‘I understand you’ incorrectly? ‘You don’t understand a bloody thing, my friend’ – that’s what we should really say. I was playing cops and robbers; Emma was facing reality.
I turn around. I lie down on the sofa and put my plaid blanket over my legs. Then I half close my eyes, in spite of the smell of mildew that seeps from the wool. In this house even the objects smell of old age. The tough thing is to get used to it.
Chapter Twenty-two
In My Own Way
I’ve just made myself comfortable when the doorbell rings again. My peace is over, and it’s my own stupid fault. Now I can’t even rest my gaunt buttocks on the sofa for a moment without someone coming to look for me.
This time it’s Eleonora.
Clutching her stick, she looks me up and down and begins: ‘The estate agent’s coming up. You told me I could call you…’
I run my hand over my face and put on a jacket. When I come out on to the landing, the man selling flats is already in the doorway of the Vitagliano household. In his wake are a young couple looking around with a perplexed expression. I walk up behind them, trying my best to breathe through my mouth, until the estate agent becomes aware of my presence and suddenly turns around.
‘He’s a friend of mine,’ t
he cat lady says.
The man holds out his hand, and I shake it, looking at him and his clients, who give me a chilly smile. I would like to explain that Eleonora really is only a friend and that I have nothing to do with the stench filling the scene, but I have more important things to do.
Meanwhile, as the couple walk from room to room with Eleonora, I take my man by the arm and say, ‘I need to talk to you.’
He studies me and replies, ‘Tell me.’
‘How are the viewings going? I mean, is anyone really interested in the flat?’
‘Not for the moment, no, but it’s a good area, the building is elegant. Someone will turn up to buy sooner or later – we just have to wait. Of course, if the lady would present the house in a better condition, everything would be easier,’ he concludes, amused.
I’m not amused at all. ‘That’s exactly what I was trying to get at. I am a patient and understanding man – I know we all have to work – but the next time you’re so bold as to tell the lady how to look after her apartment, I’ll throw you out. You and your lovely clients.’
His sly smile vanishes from his face in an instant. ‘I was saying it for her benefit. To ease the sale. I’m just doing my job.’
‘There you are, good man. You do your job and don’t give unwanted advice.’
He lowers his head.
‘Because…You want to know the truth? The lady has no intention of selling.’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘No, you do. You’re not stupid. You know very well that the order to sell doesn’t come from here. And you also know that for an old woman, seeing strangers coming into your home every day isn’t exactly reassuring.’
‘Listen, I don’t know who you are. I’m just respecting my mandate…’
‘Exactly, your mandate. That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve got to give up your mandate, and never bring anyone here ever again.’
This time the estate agent loses patience and puffs out his chest. ‘My client is not you. It’s Signora Vitagliano’s niece. If anybody does, she would have to be the one to ask me to call off the sale.’
I sigh. I had hoped I wasn’t going to have to do the quick-change thing, but the little chap was being unnecessarily stubborn. I look at him and smile, not least because he gives off a pleasant smell, and in circumstances like these, such details are of some consequence. He stands there motionless, waiting for my reaction, with his nice grey suit and his green tie, his little file full of useless sheets of paper and his hair full of gel.
Then, a moment before the young couple interrupt us, I reply, ‘I don’t believe we have understood one another. I am a retired general of the financial police. If you don’t stop spewing people into this lady’s house every day, I will find myself obliged to ask my former colleagues to pay you a visit at the first opportunity. I don’t believe your employer would be terribly pleased with that.’
He turns bright red and doesn’t reply, not least because, incredible though it might appear, his clients, in spite of the stench and the zigzag path they have to cut among the cats, seem to be keen on the property.
‘We like it,’ the young woman begins, and smiles at each of us in turn.
Eleonora anxiously opens her eyes wide, so I am forced to give her a reassuring wave, and a moment later I address the estate agent once again.
‘Fine, we’ll get out of your way,’ he says and walks his clients outside.
But the girl doesn’t seem to want to give up. ‘Shouldn’t we talk to the lady? We’re interested in the flat,’ she says once she’s out on the landing.
But the agent stops her straight away: ‘No, let’s go to my office and I’ll try to explain.’
‘They really seemed interested this time,’ Eleonora says once we are on our own.
‘No, I had a word with the estate agent and he understood that he should stop bothering you, because you’re not selling the flat.’
‘What?’
‘He knows not to come here again,’ I say, ‘because you’re not selling.’
She looks at me, perplexed. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘What? Aren’t you pleased? Isn’t that what you wanted?’
Eleonora comes over to me, her hair ruffled and her mouth twisted into a strange grimace. ‘I never asked you to tell the truth. I just didn’t want the estate agent to make any more comments about the house. You were only supposed to stand beside me. And my niece is going to be furious!’
I half close my eyes and try to calm the fury that’s starting to seethe in my veins. What an idiot I am for bending over backwards to help a woman who’s confided in me about a problem she has. The fact is that I have my own way of resolving problems but – I don’t know why – women don’t always like it.
‘Eleonora, listen,’ I say. ‘You told me to help you, to come to your aid, and then you change your mind. I don’t have time to waste!’
‘I just wanted you to tell him not to bother me at all hours.’
‘Then you expressed yourself badly,’ I say, and set off towards my own flat, while one of her cats, taking advantage of the moment of confusion, slips between my legs and hurtles downstairs.
‘Cesare, don’t be a stubborn old fool. Come here. We have to call the agency and explain the situation properly.’
I turn and stare at her in disbelief.
By way of reply, she lowers her head and adds, ‘Come on, damn it. Help me to resolve the problem.’
‘I’ve already helped you,’ I say with infinite patience.
‘What am I going to tell my niece?’ she says, on the brink of tears.
It’s the first time in forty years that I’ve seen her like this. She has always been an energetic woman who’s used to speaking her mind and issuing orders, first to her husband and then to the cats. But the Eleonora in front of me now is an old woman who’s still playing at being strong, even though she no longer is.
‘The truth,’ I say. ‘Be honest. At our age lies are short-lived.’
Then I leave her in the doorway and close the door behind me.
Nearly eighty years I’ve had – still not enough for me to understand women.
Chapter Twenty-three
An Unstoppable Flow
‘Open the door!’
It’s one o’clock in the morning and the voice on the entryphone is Sveva’s. Puzzled, I stare at the receiver. What on earth can have happened? I hurry out to the landing and hear her movements a few floors down. She’s just called the lift. I lean over the stairwell and see my grandson’s little hand clutching the banisters. In spite of the countless hypotheses that have poured through my mind in a matter of seconds, I can’t think of a single valid reason why my daughter should turn up at my house in the middle of the night.
Unless she’s running away.
If at a certain age you come back to sleep at your parents’ house, there are two possibilities: either they’re not around any more, or you’re in trouble. And since I don’t yet consider myself deceased, I opt for the second hypothesis.
‘Don’t ask!’ she says as she emerges from the lift.
I pause with the question mark still on the tip of my tongue. No, my dear Sveva, that’s too easy. You turn up at this time of night, with your dazed and sleepy son, and you still refuse to answer my questions? But obviously I keep all that to myself. I kiss Federico and take the little suitcase that Sveva is carrying behind her and follow them into the flat.
She slips off her jacket and turns towards me. Now at last she’s going to tell me what’s happened.
‘Where can we sleep?’ she asks.
I study her before answering. Her eyes are swollen with tears, her hair dishevelled and her lips are trembling. She can’t have had a great evening. I turn towards my grandson, who can hardly keep his eyes open, and I feel terribly sorry for him. In all likelihood he’s been dragged out of bed, he’s witnessed yet another row between his parents and now he finds himself at his old grandad’s hous
e, without his father, his little bedroom, his toys.
You and your husband can hurt each other as much as you like, but keep Federico out of it. Bring him up far away from your hatred, keep him far from your regrets, hide him from your loveless glances. And if you really can’t do that, then split up. A child growing up without one of his parents may be an incomplete and insecure adult, but one who grows up surrounded by hatred and violence will never be able to love. And there is no greater wrong that a parent can do.
‘You can have my room,’ I say harshly.
‘And what about you?’
‘I sleep little and badly. I’ll be fine on the sofa.’
She takes the little one by the hand and goes to my room. I carry her suitcase in and find her with Federico lying on the bed, nervously trying to take his shoes off. I walk over and, without saying a word, move her aside and take over the job. Sveva is still holding his pyjamas and she throws them on the bed, then takes something from the little bag at her feet and goes into the bathroom. My grandson and I are left alone. He’s already asleep, and I wish I was too. I slip him under the covers, then go to the cupboard and take out an old pillow that hasn’t encountered a human face for God knows how long and bring it to the sofa, on which I have already put a blanket. I lie down and turn out the light, even though I already know I’m not going to get a wink of sleep – I’m too agitated. After a few minutes Sveva comes out of the bathroom and takes refuge in the bedroom. I hear her opening drawers and whispering something to Federico before the squeaky bedsprings tell me that she too has finally gone to bed.
It’s strange. My daughter is in there, the same woman whose nappies I changed, whose bottom I wiped and whose tears I dried, and yet I feel embarrassed, as if my privacy had been violated by a stranger. Intimacy is created not by bonds of blood, but by living together. Even a mother, with time and distance, becomes a bit more of a stranger.
‘Are you asleep?’
I suddenly look up and notice that she’s in the doorway. I can’t make out her face in the dark, but I’m sure she is wearing the penitent expression she always had when she did something wrong as a little girl. I remember once that when she was climbing on the dresser she knocked over my sister-in-law’s whole dinner service. Caterina started shouting at her, so Sveva ran to me with the same grimace on her face as I saw this evening. Every time her mother told her off she ran to me, knowing that she would be safe. I’ve never been good at playing the part of the strict parent – it didn’t come naturally to me; after the first two sentences I would burst out laughing and Sveva would join in. Then Caterina would come along and accuse me of being irresponsible, convinced that I was going to ruin my children’s lives by making them grow up without an authority figure. Well, I had an authoritarian father and I didn’t grow up any better than Sveva and Dante.
The Temptation to Be Happy Page 16