The phone rings. It’s eight in the morning. I exhale noisily and go to answer it, extremely slowly. This morning even the simplest movements feel like an unclimbable mountain. As soon as I pick up, I hear Marino’s voice.
‘Cesare, at last! I’ve been trying to call you all night! How are you?’
I’d like to stop the conversation right there. Only Marino could think of asking such a question at that moment.
‘How do you think I am?’ I say irritably.
I should really tell him that my eyes are closing, my legs are shaking, I’m breathless and my stomach is starting to hurt. But I’m not used to complaining. In my place, Marino would have complained already.
‘I have no words for what happened…’ he says after a while.
‘Right,’ I say.
There really are no words.
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps it was my fault we wasted our time. If I’d known how to print…’
I can’t help smiling at the thought of that shabby letter.
‘Marino, it’s not our fault.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he says, ‘but maybe we could have done something.’
His voice is breaking with emotion. Damn it all, I’m trying not to cry, then he comes along and does it in my place. Next time I’ll have to get in ahead of him.
‘Marino, she couldn’t have been saved. That’s the truth!’
He stops talking.
I ruminate on my words. I know they’re clumsy, particularly right now, but they represent what I’m thinking. Part of Emma wanted help. The other part hoped she wouldn’t get it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The bastards who hit women do it because they know they can get away with it. Emma didn’t love herself, and at first she almost thought it was normal to be abused. She basically thought nothing had happened. She thought she deserved it!’
Marino doesn’t reply.
‘You know one thing? Her father beat her…’ I add a moment later.
But the old man still doesn’t say anything.
‘There are various guilty parties in this horrible story,’ I say at last. ‘But we certainly aren’t among them!’
He waits for a few seconds before breaking the silence. ‘Do you want me to come up to yours for a bit?’ he asks.
I would really like to get some sleep, but I know it would be impossible, so I tell him that’ll be fine. I’ll wait for him and give him his pastry – that might be enough to make him feel less wretched.
I come back to the kitchen, open yet another beer and light another cigarette. The pain in my stomach has got worse, and now I’m feeling a pain in my chest as well. I walk towards the sitting room and notice the half-open door of the box room, and remember the romper suit. I furiously take the lid off the box and find that it’s still there. I pick it up and bring it to my nose. It smells good, as if it’s already had a baby inside it. A tear slips down my face, unnoticed. Strange how, over the past few days, the storeroom seems to have become a therapist’s consulting room – it’s the only place where I can give vent to my grief. I should throw the rompers in the bin – what use will they be to me except to remind me of these terrible events for ever? Instead I put them back in their place and close the box.
I try to get back to the sofa, even though I don’t think I can even stay upright. In the dining room I feel a stitch in my chest. I stretch my arm out towards the doorpost, almost as if to check whether my premonition was correct.
Everything is silent.
I relax my hold and slide towards my goal. Another stitch, very powerful this time, crushes my chest. My cigarette falls from my lips as the bottle of Peroni slips from my hand and smashes to the ground. I would like to cry out, but my voice suffocates in my throat, my legs go and I drop to the floor, into the beer that mingles with the urine that is now beginning to wet my trousers.
I’m dying: I’ve had some experience of heart attacks. But this one seems more painful than before. If I weren’t an atheist, I would think it was the right time to go. I might even deceive myself that there is a meaning, that perhaps God is calling me to help Emma, as if I were somehow knowledgeable about what awaits us on the other side. The Lord is using me to help a poor girl, granting me the possibility of again trying to save her. If I were a believer, I would die happy. Instead I’m furious: Emma and I bite the dust while the monster who killed her is still around. It doesn’t strike me as fair, but basically justice is a concept invented by man – it doesn’t exist in nature.
I try to shout, even though no one can hear me, but all that comes out of my mouth is a rattle, not unlike Beelzebub’s purrs when he patiently waits to be served some ham. My eyes are closed and yet I can still see him, Signora Vitagliano’s cat, looking at me from the sitting-room door as if I were an old piece of furniture that can be safely ignored. I stretch out my hand; for the first time I’m the one who needs him. ‘Go and get help,’ I want to say to him. The cat looks at me for a moment, then gets bored, brings his paw to his mouth and devotes himself to a washing session. I’m dying; he’s washing himself. It’s like a joke: lived like an egoist, died because of an egoist. Life has decided to teach me a lesson.
I close my eyes and give up. The doctor always told me not to do it; told me to lead a regular life, not to smoke, not to take the blue pill with Rossana, not to drink. Too many prohibitions, doctor, and life becomes a millstone. And this way Sveva will be able to draw her own conclusions, everyone will be able to think that she warned me and she will have one regret less to live with. She might even laugh with her brother and their friends over dinner as they reminisce about my proverbial pig-headedness. Maybe Rossana will cry. Marino will, though, not least because he will be the one who finds me.
I’m starting to feel cold. I’ve always thought that heart attacks were one of the best ways to go. No years of suffering, therapy, hospitals, people giving you pitying looks, or hiding the truth from you; a quick blow and ‘bye then’. Instead I’ve been on the floor for at least three minutes, pondering existence while the screen goes dark. An unforeseen hypothesis. My life has been full of unforeseen hypotheses.
Beelzebub comes over and starts licking my cheek. If I had the strength I would punch that bloody cat right in the head. Instead I decide to relax and yield to sleep. Now I don’t feel any pain, just weariness.
Marino has the keys to my flat – he could save me. But will he work out what’s happened? And, more importantly, how long will it take him to go downstairs and come back? My salvation is in the hands of a foolish old man with the reflexes of a sloth.
Bye, world. It’s been nice knowing you, even if you really are a total bastard!
Chapter Twenty-nine
I Like
‘You know what I’d like to eat right now?’ I whisper in Sveva’s ear as she bends over me.
She looks at me as she looks at her son. ‘Dad, stop it,’ she says.
‘A bit of prosciutto crudo,’ I continue.
Of all the food that could have come to mind, I chose ham. The older you get, the more you lose your sweet tooth. In every respect.
‘I’d like you to bring me a nice packet of thin-cut prosciutto, the kind that almost melts in your mouth.’
My mouth is watering; in fact, there are days when I eat nothing but slops.
Dante, Leo and Rossana laugh; Sveva gets irritated. I don’t know if I’ve already mentioned this, but my daughter has no sense of humour.
It was Marino who saved me from death. Almost unbelievably, he came upstairs with the front door keys, and when he saw that I wasn’t opening up he came in. When anyone asked him to explain, he said he thought it seemed normal to bring the keys, just in case I’d dozed off on the sofa. He saved my life, although not all by himself.
When I got to hospital, I found out later, I was more that side than this, and they had to keep me in intensive care for three days. I’m better now, but I’ll have to have an operation if I want to go on acting the fool for another few years. In te
n minutes they’re going to come and take me to the operating theatre, then they’ll open up my chest and try to adjust my ailing heart. It’s funny to think of it: perfect strangers are struggling, sweating, shouting, cursing to save my skin, and I just lie there sleeping as if the problem weren’t mine. One of the rare cases in which man entrusts his own life to one of his fellows. Otherwise, we always think about trying to do things better than other people.
But I’m not very frightened. Perhaps because I’ve worked out that dying is really like getting a suntan: you can’t keep your eyes open. That’s it.
‘When you get home, you’ll have that packet of prosciutto!’ Sveva says, her eyes glistening.
‘Don’t cry, little one. I’m not very sure they want me up there. I’m a rotten neighbour!’
When I say the word ‘neighbour’, Emma comes back into my mind. I don’t think I was a bad neighbour to her. I would like to be able to ask her; it would let me swallow the lump of tar that’s been stuck in my throat since that horrible night. The doctors say it’s because of the intubation, but I know that’s not true; it’s the feeling of guilt that I still can’t digest, and which rises up inside me like an acid reflux. I did what I could, Emma. I hope you understood that.
‘How can you be so frosty and facetious, even at a time like this?’ Sveva asks. ‘Sometimes I wish I was more like you. Instead I think I’ve picked up only your shortcomings.’
‘Well, you have to get old before you can laugh at life. At my age you’ll be adorable!’
Maybe it’s a way of staving off the fear of leaving the operating theatre feet first, but I think I can’t help being facetious. There are two ways of confronting things, with despair and with irony, and neither of these changes the cards on the table. We can’t decide the final result, but we can choose how we’re going to spend the last five minutes.
‘Idiot!’ Sveva says and taps me on the arm.
Rossana joins in: ‘The truth is that he can’t help being the centre of attention. The old boy’s pretty pleased with himself !’
This time I do the smiling. If I get through this, I’ll have to set myself the objective of persuading Rossana to retire from her work and tend only to me. I think I’ll have a tough job, but at least it will keep me busy. Dante told me she’d been praying for two whole days outside the intensive-care ward.
Marino didn’t make it in, but he did phone once an hour and wept like a baby the first time I answered. The usual good old heart of steel.
My son is leaning on the edge of the bed. I’d like to push him further away – his aftershave is making me ill – but, damn it, I’ve done so much to get close to him, I can’t ruin everything right now.
‘Listen, I know it’s not the moment, but we’ve got to find a solution after the operation. You either come to mine or to Sveva’s. You can’t stay on your own!’
Good God, not at Sveva’s. But my son’s place doesn’t seem like a great idea either. I don’t dare to imagine the spectacle of him and his artist in their dressing gowns holding hands on the sofa. I should tell him the truth, but he’s so gentle that I can’t reply. Dante, unlike his sister, knows how to deal with me. So I nod; I’m not up to talking about things right now. One problem at a time. First I’ve got to get through this, then I’ll work out which of my children I want to ruin what’s left of my days with.
In fact, there’s another possibility: staying at home with a carer, as long as she’s not too old. But I can’t even say that: Rossana is sitting right next to me, and it wouldn’t sound that great a joke. And then I’ve got one small niggle: if I get through this today, it’ll be time to say goodbye to my old friend down there. Without the little blue pill it’s retirement time. That should be normal at my age, but it isn’t. It’s sad to think that a friend you’ve been so bound to, and who has never betrayed you, suddenly says goodbye. A bloody nuisance, I don’t need to say. At this point in life you begin to lose your eyesight as well, so at least I won’t be forced to watch a spectacle I don’t know what to do with.
In come two nurses. It’s time to get going.
Now Dante seems moved as well, and Sveva has turned away.
‘Hey, kids, I’m not dead yet!’ I manage to say before Dante hugs me.
I’m not really cut out for tear-jerking scenes. If I really had to die, I’d rather do it in my sitting room, with Beelzebub licking my cheek. At least I wouldn’t have had time to get emotional.
One of the two orderlies has to inject something into my drip, so he unhooks the bed and then drags me out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling follow me along my journey. I should close my eyes – there’s nothing nice to look at here. But if I’m going to be dead soon I don’t want to throw away the chance to gaze upon the last things of this world, even if they are nothing but plain white fluorescent lights.
The first person I saw after recovering from my heart attack was my grandson, who stroked what hair I still have left. I was already nervous, I didn’t remember anything and I only wanted to go home. I don’t like hospitals and the very thought of having to stay there for any amount of time was depressing. Then, however, Signora Filomena came to change my drip…and the world smiled at me again. She’s a nurse in her fifties, curvaceous, tanned, raven hair, a lot of make-up, lipstick – and a glorious pair on her! New York has its symbolic Statue of Liberty; we, thanks to Signora Filomena, can respond with our own statue of vulgarity, as long as it bears her features. But, in fact, the nurse has made me cocky again: I like them pretty rough.
The next day I called her and asked her to adjust my pillows. Then I lay there with an idiotic look on my face, enjoying her bosoms an inch away from my nose, as she fiddled around to make me comfortable.
In the end, she smiled and said, ‘Well, sir, we are a one, aren’t we!’
Yes, I do like to be a one. I like to be facetious, to not take life too seriously. I like pretty, voluptuous women. But I like lots of other things as well. For example, I like the smell of cooking that reaches me through an open window, or the curtain in the summer, stirred by a gust of wind. I like dogs that lean their head on one side to listen to you, or houses that have recently been whitewashed. I like it when a book is waiting for me on the chest of drawers. I like jam jars and the yellow glow of street lamps. I like the feel of raw meat and fish. I like the sound of a bottle being uncorked. I like the red wine that clings to the glass. I like old fishing boats with their paint flaking. I like familiar places and the smell of laundries. I like cork floats and butchers slicing meat with regular movements. I like red cheeks and a quaver in the voice.
We’re in the lift. One orderly pushes me; the other one presses the button. Here too the light is white and aseptic. I’m aware of anxiety rising from my guts and swelling in my chest. I close my eyes and go on listing things.
I like the smell of newborn babies and the distant playing of a piano. I like the sounds of feet on gravel and paths that twist like streams through the fields. I like Vesuvius, which makes me feel at home. I like sinking my feet into the sand. I like Sunday afternoon football, the smell of a new bar of soap, fogged windows on cold days. I like it when a woman says ‘I love you’ with her eyes. I like the crackle of chestnuts on the embers. I like the silence of summer evenings and the sound of the waves at night. I like the sound of chirruping outside the window, the water that bathes your feet and the bark of an old olive tree under your fingertips. I like the smell of chimneys as I walk along the cobblestones of a mountain village. I like home-made pasta and writing on walls. I like the smell of dung in a wet field. I like wooden spoons. I like the cactus that knows how to adapt, and the sound of a hidden stream. I like the anchovy fritters sold in front of Dante’s gallery.
Another corridor to go down; it feels as if it will never end. The two orderlies beside me greet their colleagues, chat and joke. For them I’m just another body on its way to the slaughter, just a part of the daily routine. If you look at death beside you every day, after a while y
ou can’t help yawning.
I like the bubbling of the coffee pot on the gas, the stones polished by the sea and the sound of dishes in a restaurant. I like a cat wandering furtively among the cars and the creak of old furniture. I like a wave in the distance and the curious expression of tourists looking at my city. I like tree-lined avenues. I like the smell of old grocery shops that no longer exist. I like people playing music in the street. I like the colour of tomatoes and the smell of cream on bodies. I like summer afternoons accompanied by the song of crickets. I like taking a strand of spaghetti from the boiling water and biting it. I like the smell of fish in a rusty old fishing boat, and the moon painting the wake in the water to reach it. I like photographs that allow you to travel through time. I like the squeak of wooden floors. I like shortcomings. I like an old ruin in a wheat field. I like to look down on a beach carpeted with a thousand umbrellas of different colours. I like old songs that take your breath away. I like crabs scuttling away into the hollow of a rock. I like the goal drawn on an unplastered wall for a game of football. I like feeling a woman’s hand on the back of my neck.
The two orderlies take the edges of the blanket and lift me up. A moment later I’m on the bed in the operating theatre. My heart is beginning to pump more quickly. I try to relax and not think about what will happen in a few minutes. Two doctors come, one holding a file. The other one takes my arm. I close my eyes again. I don’t want to see anything any more; I just want to imagine.
I like birds that take shelter under a gable and wait for the rain to stop. I like the city sleeping, and the sight of a bucket and spade set down on the sand. I like the snail dragging itself energetically to a hiding place. I like bicycle bells. I like the lizards that don’t run away but stay motionless. I like the crosses on mountain peaks. I like the white of seaside houses and old courtyards with the clothes hung out to dry. I like it when a memory seeks me out. I like the wind that moves obstacles aside and the ripe fruit abandoning the branches. I like the ants that drink from a drop of dew. I like a little field on the edge of town. I like the roads that lead to the sea. I like walking barefoot in the summer. I like faces wrinkled by life. I like a man working in the fields in the distance. I like people who love a child that isn’t their own.
The Temptation to Be Happy Page 20