The Hawthorne Season

by Riccardo Bruni

  She crosses the dark hallway and stops at Viola’s door.

  “I made you coffee. I have to go out for a while this morning, remember?”

  No answer.

  “Viola, I’m going to be late. Can I come in?”

  After a few years they came to a compromise: Grazia can enter Viola’s room, but only when she’s there and absolutely not unless Grazia has Viola’s permission.

  She knocks again.

  No answer.

  Viola wouldn’t have gone out without saying goodbye.

  Grazia opens the door. The acrid odor of stale smoke. Clothes strewn across the desk. Viola is under the duvet. The white cord of her iPhone charger runs from the outlet near the nightstand into her down cocoon. She’s fallen asleep with her music on.

  There’s a notebook by the nightstand with a drawing of a violin key with the moon in the background and a big spider dangling from a spiderweb. Next to that, a succession of chords and notes written out on a staff. A whole world her mother hasn’t had access to for a long time.

  Grazia picks up a sweatshirt and sniffs it. It reeks of smoke. Last night they played again, and when they hole themselves up in a room together, that’s how things end. But for some time now the usual smell seems to have acquired a hint of something new.

  She’s not bothered by the fact that Viola smokes a few joints now and then as much as she is by the thought that in order to do it, she has to hang out with that half-wit dealer. It must be Solfrizzi, the son of a former classmate and a prime example of how genetic heritage can doom you from birth without relief, benefits, or a reduction of sentence. With his half-wit mother and his half-wit father, Solfrizzi would have defied all the laws of science if he hadn’t grown up to be a half-wit too. He’s the one who goes off to the city and brings weed back to the village. But the alternative is for Viola to find another source. And that wouldn’t be any better, because that kind of incentive usually corresponds to an advanced stage of consumption. Unless Diego, the band’s bass player, can arrange something. That guy always has red eyes and looks a bit tired. If only she could find a gram somewhere . . . but she still hasn’t had any luck. New priority.

  She approaches the duvet and pulls it back.

  Viola opens her eyes. This time she’d fallen asleep with all that metal in her face. Through her ears, her eyebrows, her nose, and her lip. Grazia was certain that sooner or later she’d get used to the piercings that riddled her daughter’s face, but she hadn’t yet.

  Viola squints up at her and takes off her headphones. “What?”

  “I brought you coffee. I have to leave early this morning.”

  “Put it there.”

  She grabs the duvet to pull it up, but Grazia holds it back and stops her.

  “Maybe you should shower before you go out today.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You reek of smoke. A lot.” She rests the cup on the nightstand. “We’ll discuss this tonight.”

  Viola sits up and clasps the cup. “Diego’s the one who smokes when we play. The room is tiny. Of course I stink.”

  “I could run a urine test, you know.”

  “Are you seriously threatening to bring your work into this?” Viola sips her coffee.

  “Try not to put me in that position,” says Grazia.

  “Bye, Mom. You’re going to be late.”

  “We’ll discuss this tonight.”

  Viola shrugs, looks up, and smiles. Grazia knows that body language. It’s her way of saying “Fine, no problem,” when saying it aloud wouldn’t sound convincing enough.

  Grazia brings her face close to Viola’s. She plants a kiss on her forehead. She sniffs her hair.

  “Take a shower,” she repeats as she leaves, closing the bedroom door behind her.

  Her daughter spends too much time at home alone. After seeing the dirty plates in the sink, Grazia is already awash in a second wave of guilt. Since the day has hardly begun, there’s room for another, which is surely on its way.

  Grazia pulls her hair into a low ponytail. She takes her hat from the rack next to the door and puts it on as she descends the stairs to the door of the building. The golden flame. She zips her jacket with its carabinieri logos up to her chin and opens the door. Parked in front of the building is a car from the carabinieri station she runs. Sitting behind the wheel waiting for her is Donato Esposito, or Esposito Donato: there are several interpretations and theories regarding his name.

  “I’ve been in these parts before,” says the driver of the car that is bringing Giulio back to the Gherarda. The carabiniere gestures toward the road on the right that ascends to the summit. “Four years ago, the day of the tragedy, when that bus . . .” He’s still talking when he notices that the chief is staring at him.

  “My aunt was on that bus,” says Rodari.

  “Seriously?” asks Scalise.

  “Seriously. Bridge Day. That’s what they call it around here. It’s a little ironic, since that’s the day the bridge ceased to exist.”

  “I came two years later,” says Scalise, “but I remember seeing it on the news.”

  “Me too,” says Rodari. “I tried to come, to get someone to drive me—because I don’t drive—but the road was all jammed with emergency vehicles, and they made us turn around. I only managed to get here the day after it happened.”

  “A real tragedy,” says Scalise.

  “The kind you were talking about, Colonel. The kind that have no explanation.”

  Viola emerges from her chrysalis, wearing panties and a tank top. She surrenders to the air’s impact, allowing it to give her goose bumps, and then uses the shudder through her body to wake up the rest of the way.

  In the bathroom she stares into the mirror, checking that all her piercings are still in place. The hair on the sides of her head is starting to grow out; she’ll have to run the razor over it soon.

  “Cheer up, we have a long fucking day of work ahead of us.”

  And she makes a punk face in the mirror, giving herself the finger and sticking her tongue out as far as it will go.

  “What’s the new book about?”

  Scalise is one of those people who make the use of headphones essential for avoiding a conversation.

  “I’m not quite sure yet.”

  “Did I tell you that my kids have a few? My youngest is getting to them now.”

  “Yeah, you said.”

  “When I found out it was you, I wanted to tell my kids, but then I thought that given the circumstances . . .”

  Giulio turns to face him. He looks for signs that betray his Martian origins. He wants to ask him if by chance he has fallen asleep lately next to a huge pod, like in the Body Snatchers. Maybe people like Scalise really are aliens who have come to Earth with a set of behaviors designed in a lab, speak like they’re in one of those live soaps where none of the actors bother to study their lines.

  “Because of the fact you were arrested, I mean . . . ,” Scalise says. “Because maybe, well, under different circumstances, you might have signed one of my copies, right? My kids—” But a sneeze prevents him from finishing his sentence.

  “Bless you, chief,” says the driver.

  “Tha . . . than—” And he sneezes again.

  “It’s freezing out, chief. If you want, I’ll turn off the air-conditioning.”

  “God, please no,” says Giulio.

  “No worries,” says Scalise. “No heat. Noted. The artist here has already said he gets carsick without air-conditioning. We’ll warm up at the hotel.”

  “Around here they say to put a chestnut in your pocket,” says Giulio, feeling guilty that everyone has to freeze just because he gets carsick.

  “A chestnut?”

  “Yeah, it stops you from catching a cold.”

  “Oh right, a chestnut! Now that you say it, I think I read that somewhere.”

  “I referred to it a few times in my gnome stories.”

  Scalise sneezes again.

  �
�Maybe the next time you come you can bring one of your books,” says Giulio, “so I can sign it. You can always tell your kids we met some other way.”

  “You’re very kind. I’ll do that.” He pauses before continuing. “Can I ask you something? Because there’s one thing about your story that has me thinking.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you really not remember anything? I mean, you’ve been accused of murder and you don’t remember a thing. Partial amnesia, they called it. From drinking, if I’m not mistaken. Funny thing, and it happened to you once before. You asked me if I think your arrest is a mistake. But I have a question for you: What do you think? In all your forgetfulness you must have some theory about who the killer is, right?”

  He was correct. According to the defense, the amnesia was from drinking. Giulio had only drunk alcohol once before. He was a kid. And that time, like the second, he awoke with a black hole in his memory. But that’s just a theory. The prosecutor will use another. Amnesia provoked by a removal mechanism over what he had done.

  “Sorry, Colonel,” says Giulio, “but my attorney said I can’t discuss it.”

  “Of course. Pardon me, it was my curiosity speaking.”

  “We’re here, chief,” says the driver. “That’s the Gherarda Hotel.”

  Giulio turns. The car slows to a roll. His mother is walking outside accompanied by a corpulent man with a mustache. It’s Akan, the Kurd, a castaway on the mountain, who has helped his mother since she found herself alone. Giulio looks at the Gherarda. He tries to determine the last time he was here, but he can’t.

  “Magnificent place,” says Scalise, through a completely stuffed-up nose.

  TWO

  The bus stop is located in the square at the entrance to the village. At the shelter, colorful down jackets, clouds of smoke, someone who talks and laughs too loudly, a backpack flying into the middle of the street.

  Viola took the back way and slipped into Bar Fuga, or The Escape, a name that reflects her current plan. It’s practically at the intersection with the street. From the counter, she can see the square, but the angle and the glass ensure a degree of protection. And it’s better this way, because at the shelter, among the others waiting for the express bus to the city, is Minetti, and if that brat spots her, she could have problems. Viola can just imagine it: their teacher calling roll, Minetti innocently saying something like “Weird. I just saw her this morning. At Bar Fuga, I think. Maybe she missed the bus, poor thing . . .”

  The fact is that she needs time, because the songwriting is going slow, and at this rate they risk not being able to record. Because Lilith has an expiration date. Their breakup has already been decided, and it’s approaching fast.

  Arturo, the drummer, is having a breakdown over graduation. This is March and final exams are in sight. And that’s not all. For September, his parents are already house-hunting in a city a half a day away by train so he can attend the same university as his father, who has already planned for him to graduate in pharmacy. His destiny is written just a few feet away from the bus stop, a few numbers down from Bar Fuga, in letters that remind Viola of a cough syrup label: NOVELLI PHARMACY. He can’t escape it. Arturo isn’t bad; he has a good relationship with the tom-tom and sometimes manages to get a nearly tribal sound out of it. Among other things, he’s the owner of the agricultural annex turned practice room that has served as Lilith’s home base. But he’s one of those who play out of passion, not necessity. One of those whose fate is written elsewhere, a future with no sharp turns, a bank account at the ready, a shiny, polished car to drive into town on Sunday afternoons, and his drum kit for those occasions when he needs to blow off steam, never to realize that all his possessions are worth as much as a sandcastle before the tide comes in.

  Diego, the bassist, is capable of a deep conversation. He understands music. He’s always on YouTube, coming up with stuff that’s trending all around the world. His issue is that he’s increasingly stoned, in the sense that he smokes joints like they’re Skittles. One after the other. He’s been known to nod off in the practice room. His parents work at the health spa, not far from the village. His mom is a masseuse, and his dad works the storeroom. It’s not much, but sometimes they’ll get a free pass to the thermal baths. His surname, Chessa, won’t be written over the entrance to a pharmacy anytime soon—at least not until they legalize medical marijuana. In the end maybe he’ll turn out to be one of those types who prefer to listen to music, perhaps sitting at the foot of an old, worn-in sofa, with a rum and coke at his side and a half pipe of the Old Toby, his name for weed, apparently from The Lord of the Rings. This is probably also why his beard is so overgrown lately, and why he started using a pipe to smoke weed, and why, at every practice session, to which he invariably arrives late, he announces that “a wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.” But even he has a plan for when school is over: to go abroad and live with his cousin for the summer to work in his ice cream parlor. Officially, the reason is to have an educational experience in another country, which nowadays is worth more than a diploma. The fact that the ice cream parlor happens to be in Amsterdam is incidental.

  The members of Lilith have been playing together for years now. But the group is about to break up. It had been a tough decision, but after everyone announced their plans for life after the Galileo Institute, they all agreed that the distractions wouldn’t have done justice to the band’s good name. Before they call it quits, however, they have a job to do, something important. Their song. There can’t be a group with a name and a story, no matter how short-lived, without a song of its own. But practice days are hard to come by now, and it’s more and more common for them to play two gigs in a row. Which is why, since they have another job to do before tonight’s rehearsal, Viola decided to take the day off. As she waited for the bus to carry off Minetti and the rest of them, she took her cappuccino, with its dusting of cocoa powder prepared by Gerri, and slipped into the bar’s dark room, where the last pinball machine resists in a corner, besieged by the slot machines that one by one have replaced all the video games that once stood here.

  No one is sitting at the slots yet, but soon the room will start to smell of vinegar breath and days-old sweat.

  Lining the wall, like a small shrine, are the archery trophies Gervaso Torloni won before he closed himself off behind the bar for good. In the photos, Gerri still has hair, twenty pounds less belly, and a smile that must have diminished over the years, fading like the name of the bar on the sign outside. The 1999 regional championship gold medal rests between two photos that commemorate an awards ceremony to be remembered.

  It’s exactly the sort of thing that induces anxiety in someone like Viola. It’s the worst horror film she could watch. It’s enough to look at the poor guy who just made her cappuccino and know how life can crush you if you spend it in the wrong place. And how anxiety overcomes you. The fear of not making it out in time. Knowing that before you go there’s at least one thing you have to do.

  Viola slips a bobby pin into her bangs so they don’t fall into her eyes, revealing the buzzed lower half of her head. She banishes her ugly thoughts, fishing a token out of her jeans pocket. She slides it into the pinball machine. With her fingertips left exposed by her open-tipped wool gloves, the ones she also uses to play when the practice room is too cold, she grips the controls. And the game begins.

  The background is inspired by the Ninja Turtles. Raphael has gone, however: the lever representing him has collapsed over time, and knowing how to use it requires a certain affinity with the machine. But Viola knows how to move the ball, and in a few minutes she’s activated Master Splinter, who gives her a bonus. Cowabunga. After the first game, the music clicks on. And the bar door slams behind the person who just walked in.

  “You left the car on an empty tank.” Viola recognizes the voice of Gerri’s wife, Katerina. Six feet of blonde imported from the East who, according to the bartender, had managed a restaurant
at some resort. It turns out that when the ski slopes are closed due to lack of snow, somebody still might wander in for a spritz, but the stroke of luck Katerina hoped to have had with Gerri proved to be rather different from what she’d imagined.

  “Hey, I don’t even remember the last time I drove the car.” The stroke of luck Gerri thought he’d had with her had sadly been put into perspective over time.

  “Exactly. You never fill it up. I always have to do it when I need the car. Make me a coffee. They postponed my massage. Can you believe it? They sent me a text this morning an hour beforehand to say they’re opening late. But I say, does no one around here know how to work? Back home this kind of thing would never happen. Anyway, this coffee sucks. You need to change the machine or I’ll open a tab at another bar that doesn’t poison me every time I sit down. Give me a fifty, I don’t want to get out of the car to pay with a card when I get gas.”

  Leonardo shoots the ball into the hole, and Master Splinter’s whiskery face lights up again. Cowabunga. The front door slams, Katerina’s heels fade out, and the pop of the cork on the sparkling white that Gerri opens behind the bar announces that, for the bartender, the time has come to open the ceremonies, and accompany his disappointments by getting as wasted as God commands.

  THREE

  “I’d stay here in a second, boss.” Donato Esposito is a twenty-four-year-old boy. He keeps his uniform perfect, his hair looks like it’s made of Legos, his shave is impeccable, and his nerves are always wound up from being overworked and invincible. “I mean, if they confirm me for more time, I’ll call my wife, make her join me, and have her popping ’em out in no time.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Grazia is in the passenger seat, in the car issued to the carabinieri station under her command. She’s still thinking of Solfrizzi, who probably sells weed to her daughter. She knows where he lives; she could wait for him outside his house and lock him up on a whim. “Stay away from Viola or this is what happens every night, you hear me?” That could work. Or maybe something more in the style of Clint Eastwood is in order.