Sweet Dreams

by Massimo Gramellini

  After her death it was worse than being left on his own. He was in a desert with a little boy to look after. I would have gone to pieces in his place. But he lifted me onto his shoulders and started off again along the road. He kept tripping up and losing the way: he’d got the wrong shoes on; he chose inappropriate traveling companions. But somehow or other he succeeded in bringing me to safety.

  He had really loved me. More than Mom. Because he’d stayed. The person who stays always shows more love than the person who leaves.

  His masterpiece has been the construction of the myth of the departed mother. He’d inculcated me with the myth so that I wouldn’t come to hate her, with the result that all the affection he deserved was spent on an imaginary woman.

  The thought of my mother made me shake with anger, but at the same time I felt an almost painful tenderness for her.

  She’d been weak. No glory awaits those who escape their responsibilities.

  That headline kept going through my head:

  MOTHER THROWS HERSELF FROM FIFTH FLOOR

  A headline always attempts to sum up the gist of a news report. Here what was important was not that some woman had killed herself, but that she was a mother.

  That’s what had really struck the reporter who’d written the piece among the printing machines, surrounded by panettone cakes that had done the rounds and colleagues wishing each other a happy new year as they hurried off home. That a mother had been so selfish as to sentence the child she’d brought into the world to a life without her . . .

  In the hospital in Sarajevo I’d seen wounded women fight like lionesses against the approach of death, stretching their arms out in the crazy hope they could once more embrace their dead children.

  I’d been in the room next door—alive. But that hadn’t stopped Mom. She’d only thought of herself.

  * * *

  I got home. Billie avoided me. When I tried to stroke her, she went and hid in a cupboard with her tail between her legs.

  I took off my shoes and stood barefoot on the sitting-room carpet. I caught sight of my mother’s photograph on the mantelpiece, the one I used to hide in a drawer when I was a boy and which I’d always carried around with me as I’d moved from place to place—the one with the beatific smile I’d used to construct an entire myth.

  I turned my back on it, only to see Elisa facing me. She too was barefoot: she’d come up behind me without my noticing.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. That question mark, unusual for her, spoke volumes.

  “She wasn’t the mother I thought I’d had.”

  “I’ve always thought of her like that. Like a jewel box full of passions and fears.”

  “Just think about it. Choosing to kill yourself when you’ve got a child.”

  “It happens. You’re a journalist. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “I don’t read that kind of news. I’ve always been turned off by it. Now I see why.”

  “If the child is really small, the mother usually takes it with her.”

  “I mattered so little to her that she didn’t want me around.”

  “She knew you’d survive without her.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense! She rejected me.”

  “She didn’t reject you: she rejected life.”

  “But I was her life!”

  Elisa stroked my hand in the way only she can.

  “Her life, that’s right. But your mother wasn’t living in the real world anymore: she was possessed by imaginary ghosts.”

  “Couldn’t she have been rescued?”

  “Perhaps. She needed to be brought out from that world and back into this one.”

  “What could have done that? Or who?”

  “There’s no point in wondering about that now. What I’m trying to say is that fear always kills love. Even a mother’s love.”

  We fell silent, looking down at our feet. Then she pointed at something.

  “Your heels!”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re on the carpet.”

  I lifted them immediately.

  “Where else would they be?”

  “You know very well: half raised.”

  “You mean I’m no longer an elf?”

  “Perhaps you’re an elf who’s evolving.”

  “Evolving? Regressing, more like. While I was living a lie, I thought I could forgive her. Now I know the truth, I’ve realized I’ve never forgiven her.”

  Elisa raised her voice, as if building a dam to contain a rush of emotion.

  “Stop playing the victim! Or the role of the injured son!”

  “It’s not a role! You can’t just erase certain memories.”

  “But you can take the pain of them away!”

  “How?”

  “By learning to forgive—that’s how!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Only by forgiving can you make contact with the energy of love again. I’ve experienced that many times. And I’ve read it in many books. Yours included.”

  “But how can you forgive a deserter?”

  “It’s obvious you’ve never suffered enough to want to die. It takes an extraordinary willpower to get up every day with the thought that life is an ordeal which you must face even when you’re sure you’re the victim of a terrible injustice and you’re scared you’re not going to make it.”

  “So now it’s an act of heroism to choose to live!”

  “Of course it is! A constant act of heroism. Your mother decided to give up. Just as you have, in a way. Since you refuse to face reality.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ever since you were a little boy, you’ve lived with the same monster who killed your mother. But now you must defeat it, otherwise your mother’s sacrifice will have been pointless.”

  A silence fell on the room—so deep it seemed to absorb the intensifying explosions of the fireworks. Then, as if from some mysterious cave, I heard the sound of my own voice emerging.

  “What was she thinking about when she stubbed out her cigarette, took off her slippers and climbed onto the windowsill? As she stood there balancing, breathing in the snow before leaping off? While she was falling, at least, would she have thought about me?”

  “Is it so important?”

  I turned round to look at my mother’s photograph and saw it as if for the first time.

  “No, it isn’t. Not anymore.”

  “Get rid of the weight round your heart, Massimo. You’ve tormented yourself—and your mother—your entire life over this. I’ve felt it hanging over us all the time we’ve been together. It’s time to stop! Give her your love and let go of her at last . . .”

  Outside, the snow was beginning to fall. Elisa’s hands moved inscrutably round my head, and her voice uttered words I could not comprehend. But someone inside me understood perfectly what they meant: Belfagor.

  I felt him shrink inside me like a shriveled sponge and then disintegrate into a dust of particles immediately swallowed up by the dark.

  I closed my eyes and saw Mom come into the room where a little boy was fast asleep.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at me for a long time in silence. She stretched out her hand to stroke me, but soon withdrew it so as not to wake me.

  She tucked the blankets in, leant over me and whispered something in my ear.

  Sweet dreams, little one

  At that moment I smelt the fragrance of her hair and felt all the energy within her leave her body and penetrate my heart.

  She stood up, took off her dressing gown, folded it carefully and placed it at the foot of the bed. Then she went towards the light.

  I wished her a safe journey; I opened my eyes and I put my arms round Elisa.

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that. But at a certain point I felt life rising up like a fresh breeze blowing round my ankles.

  I looked down and there was Billie, wagging her tail—light as a feather.

  acknowle
dgments

  All the names in the book are the real names of the persons involved. I have changed only the names of the girlfriends, apart from Elisa, who is Elisa.

  My main debt of gratitude goes, as always, to her. But this time the list of people to thank is a long one, starting with Giuseppe: it is in his office that the idea for the book took shape.

  I’d gone to see my publisher, Longanesi, to discuss plans for my next book. It was going to be about how we might begin to dispel the attitudes of inertia and resignation—a result of our fears—with which we seem to face the present historical situation. The title would be: Nessun dorma.

  In order to make the moral high horse a bit sturdier, I’d thought of adding, by way of a preface, a short autobiographical piece explaining how I had dealt with my mother’s death. While I was telling the story to Giuseppe some colleagues from the editorial team—Alessia, Fabrizio, Guglielmo—came into his office. By the time I’d finished, there wasn’t a dry eye among them. Seeing their reactions I realized this wasn’t the preface to another book but a book by itself, the history which had been developing inside me for forty years.

  The moment had come to confront it and bring it out into the open—to turn it into a book, a novel made up of facts which had really happened.

  I drafted the plan of the book overnight, and the writing of it was also unusually fast. The work—every day over three weeks—was visceral: I drew the story out of myself like copying out from a tape recording. Then I spent six months rereading it—a hundred, two hundred, perhaps three hundred times, adding and cutting each time, making continual adjustments like some psychoanalytical tailor.

  Throughout the work, I was helped a lot by chewing vitamin C tablets (writing about my mother brought on a continual sore throat), Mozart’s piano concertos in Daniel Barenboim’s recording and the brilliant team of colleagues I’ve now been working with for years: Stefano, Cristina, Luigi, Valentina, Alessia, Elena and, of course, Giuseppe and the courteous but ruthless Guglielmo. I’ve kept the text messages they sent me after they’d read the first draft of Sweet Dreams. They’ll bring it luck.

  I forgive the people mentioned in this story who’ve done me harm, and I apologize to those I have harmed.

  A special thanks must go to my godmother, the dea ex machina of the story. If this has taken its present form, then the merit (or blame) must be shared equally between me and her, as well as between the team at Longanesi and the parallel team of friends who contributed with their suggestions.

  1. Piula, Arianna and Arnaldo, who persuaded me to rewrite a couple of chapters.

  2. Fede, who advised me to remove some unnecessary flourishes.

  3. Marco, who cheered me on so that I’d expand the scenes to do with the Toro and with Dad.

  4. Annalaura, who’s in the biscuit tin.

  5. Gabriele, who was moved.

  6. Irene, who was amazed.

  7. Francesca, who wanted more song titles.

  8. Duilio, who wanted the book to be called The Photo in the Drawer.

  9. Mirella, who whenever she calls me is always convinced she’s talking to a writer.

  10. Alexandra, who read the book up in the air.

  11. Fabio, who read it while the snow was falling.

  12. Annalena and Mattia, who read it and together arrived at the heart of it.

  That makes twelve, my favorite number.

  Turin, January 2012

  sweet dreams and after

  I’ve managed to write one of those books that change your life. The day after I went on television to talk about it, I had to be taken to hospital. I had a temperature of forty and an infection in my lower abdomen which made me howl like a werewolf.

  Yet the evening before I felt fine. While getting ready in the dressing room for a TV interview I’d met one of my idols, the head of Equitalia, the Italian equivalent of HMRC. He’s a noble and sensitive soul trapped behind a villain’s mask. The schedule for that evening’s program was really upbeat: an interview with him on taxes followed by one with me on what it’s like to be an orphan.

  After regurgitating, on live TV, the bitter memories of my childhood, I left the TV studio visibly affected by the ordeal. On my way out I found the passage blocked by a line of huge policemen loaded with guns. My performance must have gone even more badly than I thought, seeing they’d already come to get me.

  I was looking round for an escape route when the Rambo-like bodyguards parted like the Red Sea and the Moses of the nation’s tax returns appeared in the middle. He’d been crying, and his glasses had steamed up. Seeing the sobbing face of a man who’s more used to making others shed tears is—believe me—a moving experience.

  He came up to me and wagged his finger in admonishment: “Just remember, Gramellini, I’ve got my eye on you!” In order to reassure him, I swore by all I held most sacred—the Holy Inland Revenue and the blessed Annual Tax Return—that I too would soon be weeping and shell out tax on royalties till my last breath.

  * * *

  The next day I noticed people giving me commiserating smiles as I walked along the street. I didn’t understand why, but I smiled back. It was only when a woman came up and stroked my cheek that I realized something was up. But I didn’t have time to work out what it was, since I had to be rushed off to the hospital that same afternoon. After examining me, the doctor said: “So it’s true that TV is bad for you.”

  He sent me home clutching a long list of antibiotics I had to buy at the chemist’s. As a practicing homeopath, I obeyed with great reluctance. I see having to swallow down any chemical substance as an intrusion. I went and got the prescriptions and paid with a fifty-euro note, but instead of handing me my change the lady pharmacist behind the counter gave me a queer look and holding the banknote up to the light asked me sharply: “Are you Gramellini?”

  It was one of those existential questions that put you on the spot.

  “Please come with me a moment.”

  I wobbled after her on weak legs, passing a line of customers waiting to hand in their prescriptions. They cast disapproving glances. One old lady murmured: “They go on the box to tell others how to behave and then they try to pay for things with counterfeit notes. What is this world coming to?”

  Once we got to her office, the pharmacist changed expression. She became a picture of mournfulness. She looked at me as if she’d found her long-lost twin, or as if we belonged together: she was the sacrificial roast lamb while I was the roast potatoes (somewhat burnt). She stroked my beard, offered me a mint to suck and wept on my shoulder (not necessarily in that order). Then, completely ignoring my groans of pain, she started to tell me about her family.

  She’d had a highly strung daughter who’d taken leave of existence by downing a bottle of bleach—and a granddaughter who’d been told a lie about her mother’s death when she was little—“Your mom ate some contaminated fish by mistake”—and who was now a fifteen-year-old anorexic who refused to eat food because she associated it with dying.

  The pharmacist offered me another mint.

  “What should I do? Should I tell her the truth and risk making the situation even worse? Please tell me what you think I should do, Mr. Gramellini . . .”

  * * *

  And that was just the beginning. From that day onwards, hundreds of stories of sick and unhappy lives poured down on me. I was the pharmacist they were queuing up to see.

  I think it’s called empathy. People see themselves reflected in a true story, disguised as a novel but without a trace of reticence, and it’s a green light for them to respond by telling their own stories. Not to their nearest and dearest, but to the friend they’ve met on the pages of his book, the companion they’ve found for the ups and downs they’ve experienced in their own lives.

  I was told all kinds of stories. Despite the bleak subject, some of them were even entertaining. A friend I’d known in my teens wrote to me: “Just like you I found out a family secret by coming across a newspaper article.” And he t
old me how, when he’d had to do some research in the archives for some court case he was preparing, he’d come across a file with his surname on it. Inside he’d found a yellowing newspaper cutting from which he learnt that his father—who’d been universally regarded as the most upright and honest of men—had been sentenced to prison when he was a young man for theft. No one had ever had the courage to tell his son. “And yet,” he wrote, “I knew subconsciously. Now I’m able to confess it to you, Massimo. As a boy I was a kleptomaniac. Do you remember those skis of yours which mysteriously went missing?”

  Didn’t I just! I’d left them for a moment propped up outside the chalet when I went to have a pee and came back to find them gone.

  “I stole them,” my friend confessed to me (about thirty years after he took them). “Then I sold them. But I also want to let you know that I gave the proceeds to charity.”

  * * *

  Another letter arrived postmarked from a holiday resort which years before had been in the news because a fire had broken out in a hotel where the hotel’s owner had ended up dying.

  The writer of the letter told me that the owner had been his father. He’d made sure, by inventing some excuse, that all the guests and staff had left the building, then he’d set fire to the wooden walls and gone up to the attic to wait for the end to come.

  A few months later his mother had died of a broken heart. My pen pal found himself on his own with his entire life in ruins around him. He’d used his father’s savings to rebuild the hotel in the same place where it had formerly stood. In this work of rebuilding his life—not just the hotel—he’d had a girlfriend. But as soon as life seemed to be getting back to normal, Belfagor piped up.

  In my novel, Belfagor is the name I gave when still a boy to the monster who lives inside us—an ugly spirit who seemingly has our best interests at heart, but is in reality a pernicious influence. In order to protect us from suffering, he shuts us up in a cage of fears: fear of living, of loving, of believing in your own dreams.