The Measure of Time

by Gianrico Carofiglio

  “When your dream is to write and you manage to find a publisher, a real publisher, not those vanity ones, for your first novel, you have the impression you’ve arrived, that from then on everything will be plain sailing. In fact, the hardest part has only just begun. Do you know the shelf life of a novel in bookshops if it isn’t an immediate bestseller? Thirty, forty days. Then the booksellers remove it to make room for other new releases.”

  “How do you mean, remove it?”

  “It’s no longer displayed in a visible way. Nobody sees it and nobody buys it, unless you’ve gone into the shop specially. And after a few months the booksellers return the unsold copies to the publisher, who after a few more months sends everything to be pulped.”

  What felt wrong in this conversation? Basically, it was an interesting subject, it was about books, which are my great passion. And yet there was a discordant note in Lorenza’s words, as if she were reciting a script she had repeated too many times. It was an artificial speech, devoid of truth, even if the events she was telling me about had really happened, more or less. She was acting, and it didn’t matter that I was the one who was listening. I was an audience like any other for a threadbare, mediocre repeat performance. Then I realized something else, something I had never thought about and that appeared to me all at once, as clear as a revelation. When after a long time you meet again a person you shared part of your life with, a person you actually thought you were in love with, it’s inevitable they should seem different. They’ve changed, as we all change, and this strikes you as normal. Then, sometimes, if you look carefully, if you don’t look away, you realize to your dismay that the person isn’t different.

  They’re the same, at least in their basic characteristics. It was in the past, when you met, that they seemed different. You projected your desires, aspirations and needs onto them. In a way, you invented them, you created them, you told yourself a complex, cogent lie that’s difficult, very difficult to untangle.

  Lorenza hadn’t changed, except physically. She had aged, but she hadn’t changed. She had the same attitude as when I had known her and spent time with her: a lack of interest in other people, a total focus on herself, a sense of resentment towards a world unable to recognize talent – hers, obviously.

  Another characteristic that didn’t seem to have changed was her tendency to express extreme, clear-cut opinions about everything. Definitive, trenchant judgements on any and every political, philosophical or literary subject. Even on personal matters, matters of the heart. Other people’s opinions only mattered to the extent that they matched hers.

  Years later I came across the perfect expression – coined by David Foster Wallace – to describe this attitude, this difficulty in recognizing a space for other people’s interpretations and positions: ambiguphobia. Lorenza was a perfect specimen of an ambiguphobic person.

  When you think about it, changes only happen when you really interact with another person. They may just be fleeting moments but they have a crucial importance in our autobiographies. We’re almost never aware of them. Even if we remember these moments for their perfection, we don’t understand how vital they are to the changes in us. We think it is time, slowly and persistently, that changes us. But time in itself doesn’t change anything – at most it ages us. People incapable of really interacting with other people, like Lorenza, don’t change.

  I wondered how much this might also apply to me. What am I now that I already was back then? Not a single cell in my body existed then; no cell from then exists now. But what about my identity? Was it the same or had it changed?

  While I was thinking this, she was talking and drinking.

  “I make my living from substitute teaching, I’m the classic temp teacher because I never wanted to take the exam. I thought teaching would be a temporary job, that it wasn’t worth it. But now, it’d be convenient to be a permanent member of staff. In any case, I have to make ends meet, and the salary’s not enough, especially now with Iacopo’s trial and all the costs. So I give private lessons, and sometimes, when I can, I provide assistance to elderly people. Only if they’re self-sufficient, though. But you already know this, it’s in the file.”

  When I had known her, it struck me now, she was twenty-nine and had already been doing substitute teaching for a while, had already been an independent, adult working woman for a while. That was what had fascinated me about her back then in 1987, when for a short time, depending on her whims, she had let me into her life.

  Now she was pushing sixty and was still a substitute teacher. It made me sad.

  “What about Iacopo’s father?”

  “We lived together with the child for a year, or just over. In Bologna, in an old building with other people. Then he left.”

  He’d left from one day to the next, without giving any explanations, unconcerned about the insignificant detail that he had a son.

  After a few years in which he hadn’t felt the need to visit Iacopo, let alone contribute to his upbringing, and after various adventures (some of which had aroused the interest of the Carabinieri), he had ended up in Cancún in Mexico, running a bar on the beach. One evening, as he was on his way home, his car had been hit by a truck and that was the end of that. Iacopo, to all intents and purposes, had never known him: that first year was beyond the scope of his memories.

  As she continued to tell her rather painful story in the tone of a police report, I suddenly remembered an evening we’d spent together on a beach, at sunset.

  We were with two girlfriends of hers, we had wine and pot. We talked – actually, as usual, Lorenza was doing most of the talking – about books, films, ideas. I don’t remember exactly what the specific subject was – maybe it wasn’t clear to anybody or maybe my capacity for concentration was too compromised by the alcohol and the cannabis – but I do remember thinking how exciting this bohemian life, the life of a poète maudit (yes, at the time I was lacking in a sense of the ridiculous) that I found myself leading – how exciting it was, what with drugs, poetry, sex and great literary discussions.

  I was a confused, directionless young man who liked stories, fascinated by the idea of having the kind of experiences you read about in novels. When as an adult, at the age of forty or fifty, I try to remember my adventurous youth – this was what I told myself – it’s evenings like this I’ll think about.

  That hadn’t happened. I’d soon forgotten all about Lorenza and that world of chipped cups, kitchens with unwashed dishes in the sink, fake anti-conformism, rooms that weren’t very clean or tidy (because cleanliness and tidiness were bourgeois and philistine) and books read – maybe – without any pleasure and without any interest in what they contained, just to be able to show them off.

  She continued talking and drinking, and the second bottle of wine was also polished off, although I hadn’t contributed a great deal to the undertaking.

  When we left the restaurant she suggested we walk a little, to chat some more. Her eyes were a little clouded and softened by the wine. She looked almost cheerful, but there was an undertone I’d have preferred not to catch.

  “It’s late, I have a hearing tomorrow,” I lied. And before she could say anything else: “I’ll call you a taxi.”

  As we said goodbye, she thanked me, smiled and gave me a kiss on the lips.

  It was a clumsy kiss, and it seemed out of place. I walked home, thinking that dinner hadn’t been such a good idea.

  13

  Two days later, at exactly 9.30, I walked into the courtroom of the appeal court. As usual, there was nobody there yet, not even the clerk of the court, even though the time indicated on the summons was in fact 9.30. I thought of walking out again and grabbing a coffee. Then I told myself that I didn’t really want a coffee and that the idea of getting one was just a way of telling myself: I’m not here to wait on the pleasure of the judges, the prosecutor, the clerk of the court; if anything, they should be waiting for me. So, to free myself of these childish impulses, I decided to make my way to
the defence bench and take out the book I’d brought with me in anticipation of slack moments.

  It’s something I’ve been in the habit of doing for a few years, having a book with me to read when I go to a courthouse for a hearing or some other commitment. I started in order to fill the breaks, but I soon discovered that having a book is also an excellent antidote against pains in the arse – of the human kind.

  You’re waiting for your case to be called, and next to you there’s, let’s say, Avvocato Canestrari (actually, I don’t know if there is a lawyer of that name in Bari). He’s also waiting for a case of his to be called, and in the meantime he’d like to chat with you. Not because he particularly likes you – a fairly questionable privilege, being liked by Canestrari – but because he’s bored waiting. His favourite topics are Bari’s soccer team (a subject that holds as much interest for me as the cultivation of organic corn in the central Ukrainian plain or the latest developments in phrenology) and the restaurants in Bari and its province where you can eat the best raw seafood, included banned varieties such as date mussels. The fact that serving date mussels happens to be a crime doesn’t bother Canestrari – or many others like him, to be honest.

  But since I started bringing a book with me to read – an object that arouses mistrust and suspicion in many of my colleagues – the risk posed by the Canestraris of all kinds has lessened considerably.

  When the judges are late arriving, or when they’ve been deliberating longer than anticipated in the case preceding mine, or when they’re about to deliberate on my case, I sit down at the end of the defence bench, open my book and, as they say, immerse myself. Some people, with amazing insight, ask me things like: What are you doing, reading? Or else: Lucky you, Guerrieri, having such a clear head you actually feel like reading. But mostly they leave me alone.

  That day there were no individuals like Canestrari, no pests to get rid of, but I had with me a book I’d been wanting to read for ever, which I’d bought the week before from my bookseller friend Ottavio and which I found really fascinating: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.

  One of the greatest novels ever written, according to Schopenhauer.

  To be precise: a very great novel of digressions, according to me. Digressions are my passion, in every field, and reading that book was a giddy pleasure.

  After a quarter of an hour the clerk of the court appeared, and a few minutes later the assistant prosecutor.

  Having put Tristram Shandy aside, I approached the latter, greeted him and informed him that I would be requesting an extension. I was about to explain the reasons, but he relieved me of that task with the gesture of someone who has important things to think about and doesn’t want to waste time on pointless words.

  “Thank you, Avvocato Guerrieri. Judge Marinelli has already informed me and I won’t make any objection. Apart from anything else, this isn’t my case. I’m only here today to replace the colleague who’ll be dealing with it. In fact, if we get it over with quickly I’m more than happy.”

  “Thank you. May I ask who will be dealing with the case?”

  It was Assistant Prosecutor Gastoni. She had spent a long time in the Prosecutor’s Department in Trani before joining the Public Prosecutor’s Office. A lot of stories were told about her, none of them especially flattering – among them, that she’d once had the telephone number of her husband’s supposed lover inserted in a list of numbers to be tapped in a police drug investigation. There had been a criminal investigation as well as a disciplinary one, but nothing had come of either. That hadn’t put an end to the rumour.

  Gastoni was a beautiful woman, with a certain compulsion to flaunt her charms – I don’t know if with a particular aim in mind or just to boost her self-esteem. I’d never liked her, but professionally she was perfectly competent. All things considered, it could have been a worse choice.

  The court entered.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Marinelli said, adjusting his robe, which was falling from one shoulder. So, today we have just the Cardace case. Is the accused in court?”

  “Your Honour,” I said, “the accused has forgone his appearance, just for this hearing. There should have been a message from the prison.”

  Marinelli turned to the associate judge, Valentini, who nodded to confirm what I had said.

  In two minutes they got through the preliminaries while I looked at the jurors, trying to get a few pointers. With their sashes in the colours of the Italian flag, they looked, as jurors always do, slightly out of place.

  Three women and three men. Two of the women were unassuming ladies in their fifties, who were looking around with bewildered expressions on their faces; one resembled a catechism teacher of mine who’d been in the habit of searching us at the start of the lesson ever since a joker had let off a stink bomb in class (more than one, to be honest).

  I wondered what they did and couldn’t think of anything more original than: housewives.

  The youngest of the women had a nondescript face but bright, penetrating eyes. The minimum age to be appointed a juror is thirty, but she looked much younger, and in any other context I would have taken her for a university student.

  The men were very different from each other. One was a gentleman in his sixties, in a jacket and an unbuttoned shirt, sporting a seventies hairstyle. I could imagine him haunting dance halls back then. Another one looked like a sacristan and had a nervous tic: every two or three seconds he touched first his chin, then his chest, with his right hand. There was something morbidly hypnotic about it, and I had to force myself to look away. The third one was a tanned, friendly looking man in his forties; I pegged him for a sporty type, maybe a yachtsman. I decided it would be good to address my remarks mainly to the young woman, both during the testimonies and during my closing statement.

  I made my requests, reducing my arguments to the minimum given that we were already in agreement, and the assistant prosecutor made no comments. Judge Marinelli, after quickly exchanging a few words in a low voice with his associate, dictated an order extending the time limit for adding grounds to the appeal and submitting new evidence. Then he adjourned until 7 April. Even longer than the month he’d promised.

  I thanked Marinelli and Valentini, nodded to the jurors, looking at all of them, one by one, for a moment or two, shook hands with the assistant prosecutor and walked out.

  Lorenza

  By the time I got home, my head was all over the place – to put it euphemistically. I kept being hit by waves of narcissistic exhilaration: a beautiful, fascinating woman, older than me – a grown-up – had noticed me at a party, had approached me, had found my conversation amusing, had gone to the trouble of conducting an investigation to track me down, had come to fetch me – technically: to pick me up – at my place of work and had taken me first to dinner, then to her place, with all that had ensued.

  The exhilaration, however, was mixed with a sense that I had totally lost control. An awareness that my part in what had happened had been completely passive, that my intentions – let alone whatever decisions I might have made – had been completely irrelevant.

  And there was another aspect. One that was more substantial – I can’t think of a better word. Being with Lorenza, that night, wasn’t like being with the other girls I had known and dated up until then.

  It’s hard to explain the difference. I can only think of one example, which some will consider inappropriate. Once, a professional boxer, who had actually fought in the Italian middleweight championships, came to visit the gym where I trained. At the request of the coach, he changed and sparred a little with us boys. It was a game, totally relaxed (at least he was) and sportsmanlike. And yet for the two minutes I was in the ring with him, I felt I was dealing with a creature of a different species. Made of different material. With loose, almost casual movements, he’d land these blows on your helmet, your arms, your ribs, that felt like stones; you tried to hit him and he dodged your blows as I could have done with a child’s;
there was an uncommon truth in the way he moved, dodged, parried, punched. There was total mastery; there was harshness and truth. He gave you the impression that whatever we did, in our training and our fighting – training and fighting hard, we thought – was little more than a pillow fight.

  Well, Lorenza, that night, conveyed a similar feeling to me. The idea that all my previous experiences had been child’s play.

  When I got home, I realized to my annoyance that I hadn’t even asked her for her telephone number. True, I knew where she lived, but the idea of staking out her building in order to make contact and arrange another date didn’t strike me as very practical. Although, now that I came to think of it, I didn’t recall noticing a telephone in her apartment.

  Mixed up as I was, I went to bed and fell asleep a few seconds after laying my head on the pillow.

  That was how it worked in those days.

  I don’t care too much about the fact that I’d become an adult, a real adult. Many things about me at that age seem strange to me now; I don’t feel particularly sympathetic to the young man I was then and I wouldn’t be very interested in chatting with him and hearing his opinions, which were often marked by an arrogant scepticism. But I do envy him his sleep. The ability to yield in a few seconds to that total loss of consciousness that lasted, uninterruptedly, joyfully, until the following morning. A wonderful ability, lost for ever.

  All right, I’m sorry, I’ve digressed.

  The next morning I went to court to attend a couple of hearings, but found it hard to concentrate on legal matters and court procedure. All I could think about was how to meet her again without having to pathetically stake out the area around the Casa delle Rose in Via Eritrea, waiting for her to come out or go back in.

  The one brilliant solution I managed to come up with was to go to her building and ring her bell. I did that early in the afternoon. When I got there, I realized I didn’t know her surname. So I rang every bell in the building and asked if Lorenza was there. Those who answered – mostly old people, their heavily accented voices filled with hostility – told me there was no Lorenza there and that they didn’t even know who she was. There remained two apartments from which I didn’t receive an answer: Delle Foglie and Pontrelli. So now I had reduced her likely surname down to two, and the next time I would at least know which bells not to ring.