The man was in a T-shirt and boxers, his feet bare. Disheveled gray hair.
Hello, Jonathan, the woman said.
You, the man said simply, as if answering a question. Then he turned to look at the boy. He did it with his eyes half-closed, because he wasn’t yet used to the morning light.
This is Malcolm, the woman said.
The man examined him for a moment. Then he turned to look at the woman.
Is he mine? he asked.
The woman didn’t understand right away.
Is he by chance a son of mine? the man said, calmly.
The woman burst out laughing.
What the hell are you talking about, he’s a boy, that’s all, do you think I would have hidden a son of yours for thirteen years?
You’re very capable of it, the man said, but still calmly. Then he took a step toward the boy and held out his hand. Hello, Mark, he said. You’re rather small to go around with such beautiful women, he said. Look out, he added.
Malcolm, not Mark, said the woman.
Then they went into the house and the man began to prepare breakfast. There was a single big room, full of objects, which served as a kitchen and living room. Somewhere there must be a bedroom. The woman knew where things were, and started to set the table. What she had imagined was exactly that, a breakfast made for the boy on a carefully laid table. Meanwhile she told a little of the story, but not all of it. The man listened without interrupting and every so often he gave the boy something to do, as if they weren’t talking about him. You should keep him here a few days, the woman said, just until his uncle arrives from the North. A few days, she repeated. Of course, the man said. There was a delicious smell of French toast.
Only when they had eaten and cleaned up everything the woman said she really had to go. She went to the car to get the boy’s things, the jacket and the other things, and put everything on the sofa, in the house. She simply shook the boy’s hand, because she was a detective, and gave some orders that made him smile.
Keep an eye on him, from time to time, she said in a low voice. He can make messes that you can’t imagine.
She and the man parted without saying anything, a kiss on the lips. Just a little long—and he closed his eyes.
She got in the car, first brushing the popcorn off the seat. She buckled the seat belt, but then she sat there, without turning on the engine. She looked at the house in front of her, and thought of the mysterious permanence of things in the unceasing current of life. She was thinking that, living with them, one always leaves on them a sort of thin coat of paint, the color of certain emotions destined to fade under the sun, in memories. She was also thinking that she would have to get gas and retrace that whole road, by herself, and it would be a colossal pain. At least it’s not dark, she said to herself. Then she saw the door of the house open and the man came out, still in a T-shirt and bare feet, walking slowly toward her. He stopped next to the car door. The woman turned the key and lowered the window, but not completely. He placed a hand on it.
The wind is right, he said. Maybe we could go out on the bay.
The woman said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the house.
You’ll leave tonight, what will happen? said the man.
Then the woman turned to him and saw the same face she had seen so many other times, the crooked teeth, the pale eyes, the boyish lips, the hair spiky on his head. It took her a while to say something. She was thinking of the mysterious permanence of love, in the unceasing current of life.
ALESSANDRO BARICCO is an Italian writer, director, and performer. He has won the Prix Médicis Étranger in France and the Selezione Campiello, Viareggio, and Palazzo al Bosco prizes in Italy.
ANN GOLDSTEIN is an editor at the New Yorker. She has translated works by, among others, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Alessandro Baricco, Romano Bilenchi, and Elena Ferrante. She is currently editing the Complete Works of Primo Levi in English, and has been the recipient of a PEN Renato Poggioli translation award and a Guggenheim Fellowship.
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