We Are Family

by Fabio Bartolomei

  She’s gone mad. The head of the family is going to be Vittoria. How long do I have left to live? Twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the very most. She’ll blow up the house with natural gas or jump on the bed and break my neck. They must have told her that just to prop up her morale after what happened with the Yorkshire terrier, there can’t be any other explanation. Anyway, it’s a secondary matter, the important thing is that this the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. A sign of fate. As long as I’ve been in this world, my folks might have gone out for the evening maybe a dozen times, the farthest they’ve gone is say from Rome to Torvaianica. It’s unmistakable, then, I have a divine investiture. I need to call Raul.

  47.

  We have the whole house to ourselves. Actually, I have the whole house to myself because, two hours after the old folks leave, Vittoria has cut and run. She told me that she was going to go to the university, then to Lorenzo’s to study, then over to Tiziana’s. Her role as the adult head of household with responsibity for my care is evidenced by the following fine list of admonishments left on the table: go to school, lunch is in the fridge, so is dinner, do your homework, turn off the generator before going to bed, don’t set the house on fire. I file the note away in a plastic bag with a label reading “Exhibit A.” Right now I won’t say a word because the situation happens to be to my advantage, but when the old folks come home we’ll have a laugh. Raul will be here any minute, I have a million things to do and I need to get them done fast, if Vittoria goes over to Lorenzo’s, she’s quite likely to come home ahead of schedule. He’s dating Caterina but they’re having troubles, technically it’s as if they had split up, and Vittoria is an ideal specimen to keep falling for such ridiculous stuff. If she shows up again with puffy eyes and starts whining about it, I’ll just ignore her this time. Among the many tasks assigned to me by History, taking care of that train wreck certainly isn’t one of them.

  For certain undertakings, Raul is the ideal partner. Most people might have told me: “You can’t do that,” “It’s not legal,” or “You’re crazy,” while instead he said: “Just think, I always wanted to tell you that you were being idiots about this.” It was easy, after telling him the lie that Agnese and Mario Elvis were in agreement, all it took was six hours of work and seventy thousand lire’s worth of materials. We dug a ditch a foot and a half deep, installed cement conduits, laid the cables, and covered everything up carefully to make sure there were no traces of our intervention. I was a mess afterward, my clothing is drenched in sweat, I have cement in my hair, my fingernails are filthy, and I have a second skin of dirt all over my body. What would a real man do now? Certainly, a nice restorative nap on Vittoria’s bed.

  I cross the living room at a dead run, Papà is right behind me, he tries to pass me, the living room never seems to end, in the middle there’s also the kitchen with Grandma melting soap bars, I’m the first to get to the bathroom door, I yell, I leap in the air till I graze the ceiling lamp, I fly over the tub.

  A thunderous roar. The panes of glass shake. Sitting up on the bed I try to splice together the echoing thunder and the shaking house with the reality I prefer, the one from before, suspended in midair. I run to Mamma and Papà’s king-size bed, I look out at the rain slapping the window, I try to recover from my fright. I’ve never seen a downpour like this one, and look at the rain, it’s not drops but ribbons of water.

  “Vittoria?”

  Wait, how long did I sleep? It’s pitch black outside.

  “Vittoria?” I shout.

  I switch on the light on the side table. It’s two in the morning. Can Vittoria really not have come yet?

  “Vittoria, are you in the bathroom?”

  I need to bolster my courage. I get out of bed, I turn on another light. The noise of the rain on the roof sends shivers down my back. I go back into Vittoria’s room. She’s not there. On the bed I see the outline of my second skin that has disintegrated into the sheet. My fear made me spontaneously shed my skin. But who would leave a brother at home all alone in the middle of such a rainstorm?

  “I’m here, Al. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Casimiro, what should we do?”

  “Let’s get in the big bed with all the lights turned on, and we’ll stand guard until tomorrow morning. We’ll take turns sleeping. Shifts of three hours each.”

  Excellent idea. That way, if Vittoria returns home, we’ll hear her immediately, and if she doesn’t, we’ll be well rested so we can pitch an unforgettable scene tomorrow morning.

  Eight A.M.?

  “It’s eight in the morning, Casimiro!”

  I get out of bed and first thing I do is run to the window. The blue sky, without so much as a trace of clouds, seems to be claiming that it had nothing to do with the tremendous mess of the night before.

  “We can’t be late!”

  I can’t possibly miss school today. We have a class exercise in math today and if the bus comes right away, best case scenario, I’ll get there in time for second period. Right now, there must be a dozen classmates who need my help.

  “I’m losing money by the handful!”

  I ought to get washed up and change my clothes, but I don’t have time to waste on such frivolous concerns. I tear outside, my feet sink into the mud up to my ankles. On the bus everyone looks at me as if any moment I might start singing and begging for spare change. The only two passengers who want to chat are a couple of old people, they talk about the cloudburst, they say that on the seven o’clock news it said that this was the worst storm in the last seventy years. They put on an expression as if to say they were there in 1911 and they can remember the cloudburst in question perfectly. I go into the school, the janitor doesn’t know where to begin and he turns and leaves, throwing an “I didn’t see a thing” over his shoulder, I knock at the classroom door and open it without waiting for the teacher to say “Come in!” and I tell them that I fell over on my bike and landed in a mud puddle, I sit down at my desk, ignoring the gazes of my classmates. I start copying down the equation written on the blackboard which, open square brackets, is a trifle multiplied by, and here open round brackets, the number of my classmates multiplied by their IQ divided by the number of hours they spent getting ready for this written exam, which is to say zero, close brackets both round and square. I turn in the exam without having a chance to pass it around, I return the payments that I had demanded in advance, I get shoved around a little, along with a referral from the gym teacher because I forgot my workout uniform, I trot out the same story about falling off my bicycle to my Italian teacher who sends me to the bathroom to “freshen up a little,” and there I meet Roberta who gives me a discount and, for 4,000 lire, reminds me that maps printed on oilcloth and slate blackboards aren’t the only happy memories I’ll have of high school.

  I devote the trip home to a dress rehearsal of the scolding I’m going to give Vittoria: I’ll make my entrance with a loud door-slam, there’ll be a substantial central section with plenty of shouting and insults, and a grand finale with my disappearance and late-night return after worrying her to death. All pointless, because at home all I find is a short note: “Ciao Al, call me at Tiziana’s as soon as you get home,” which I file away with a label reading “Exhibit B.” Now she’s going to hear from me. Disappearing for two days when she only had permission to stay out until nine at night. What kind of manners are these? Is that how you’re supposed to take care of your brother? Here I am, knocking myself out for the good of mankind, and she doesn’t give a damn. It’s all crystal clear, she had a fight with Lorenzo and now she’s at her girlfriend’s house, licking her wounds. I take five tokens and go outside to let off some steam.

  “Vittoria!”

  “Ciao, Al . . . ”

  “Oh, that’s great, at least you remember your brother’s name!”

  “Sorry, I had to study, things have just been so crazy . . . ”

  “There was a thu
nderstorm and you left me all alone!”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry, but they moved up an exam . . . ”

  “I don’t care what happened, I have my own problems and, believe me, they’re much bigger than yours! Do as you like, all I want is for you to come home when it’s your turn to cook and to let me know immediately whenever Mamma and Papà call. I’m still waiting to find out whether they reached Venice!”

  “You’re right, Al, excuse me . . . ”

  “Would you just quit apologizing? So did Mamma and Papà call?”

  “Did they call? Oh, yes . . . they got there, everything’s fine. And how are you?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine . . . for all that it matters to you! When are you coming home?”

  I take care not to ask her how she’s doing because her voice is a mess, she’s got a gallon of snot in her nose, and she sounds like she’s choking.

  “Listen, I don’t think I’ll be home today, maybe later but I really don’t know. Don’t wait up for me, I might stay at Tiziana’s again . . . after all, the fridge is full.”

  “Living your life at Tiziana’s, eh?” I say ironically.

  “Yes, we’re having fun. Ciao, Al.”

  Exactly. It’s mathematical. She and that boy spend more than half an hour together, and they have a fight. I know how it went. She couldn’t help but ask him whether he had any plans for the future involving her, he must have retorted that he’s a free spirit, and here’s the result. Now, I’m done worrying about Vittoria, here in my human flesh diary I have a long list of things to do.

  48.

  Here she is, here she is! I’m so happy to see her arrive that my whole plan of scolding, tantrums, and sulking vanishes in a puff of air. Maybe later I’ll take the opportunity to launch a few darts of reproof, but right now I’m beside myself, I want to show her the fruits of the past few days of hard work, open her eyes to my great project. Now what I need to put on is a nonchalant attitude. I go out to water the plants. She looks at me, I pretend not to see her. She crosses the street, she stops, she must have seen my latest masterpiece, I hear her footsteps on the grass.

  “Al . . . ”

  “Hi, Vittoria.”

  Oh lord, look at that face. How does she work herself into these states every single time? The circles under her eyes have to be some kind of record, this dark and sallow I’d never seen them, not even when Giancarlo was around. And what’s this? Am I getting a hug from my sister? She’s afraid of my temper, isn’t she? I can feel the tip of her nose on my neck, it’s cold and damp.

  “You’re going to strangle me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It was just a joke . . . ”

  Whatever, the hug is over. By now her attention has been captured by my creation.

  “What’s that?” she asks me.

  “What’s what?”

  “What do you mean, what’s what, that flag.”

  “Oh, the flag . . . It’s the coat of arms of the principality. Just keep in mind that for now it’s only basted together,” I say nonchalantly.

  “What principality?”

  “The principality of Santamaria.”

  It’s so nice to see Vittoria smile.

  “No, wait, you can’t hug me. This is serious business, not just some game!”

  The positive aspect of her state of emotional fragility is that, in contrast with what I expected, she doesn’t tell me that it’s foolish nonsense, quite the opposite: she unfurls the banner, she admires the lion rampant and the stylized Elvis standing back-to-back, surmounted by a crown and the slogan In Elvis We Trust.

  “I had a seamstress make it . . . with my own money.”

  “And what’s it for?”

  “We’ll fly it by the front door. It’s our banner, the Santamaria banner! Do you like it?”

  “The principality of Santamaria?”

  “Did you see that the lion has fringe on his paws just like Elvis’s jacket? Anyway, it’s just a first rough draft, if you want to add anything . . . ”

  “No, it seems perfect just as it is.”

  “Whoa, contain your enthusiasm.”

  “Would you explain to me what it means?”

  This is the ideal moment. The pangs of love make her as biddable as a kitten. She looks at me with glistening eyes, playing tug-of-war with a drop of mucus that appears and disappears at the tip of her nose. I explain to her that, after having sent the last few certified letters to the utilities company to obtain the hookup of electricity, gas, and phone service, and after obtaining the usual silence in reply, our promised home is finally ready to take its first steps toward full independence.

  “Independence from what?”

  “From the Italian republic, from the rest of the world!”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Look here.”

  I turn on the outside light and I point to the lamp over the door like a magician gesturing toward the rabbit he pulls out of the top hat.

  “I don’t understand. The light’s turned on, so what?”

  It’s not her fault. Two geniuses in the same family would be too many.

  “Don’t you hear anything?”

  “No, Al, I don’t hear a thing. Just a few birds twittering, nothing else.”

  “Exactly, Vittoria. You can hear the birds because the diesel generator isn’t working.”

  “Then where is the electric power coming from?”

  I point to the light pole on the street.

  “Oh lord, Al . . . you can’t do that.”

  “Not according to the Italian republic, true, but we are the principality of Santamaria, so we don’t care what they say.”

  I tell her that with Raul’s help, I’ve made an underground hookup to the light post outside and that now we have unlimited quantities of electric power for lighting, to keep the refrigerator turned on day and night, and also for the heating system which, once we’ve bought it, will run on efficient electric heaters. Thanks to this spectacular move, and thanks to her idea of getting her scooter stolen last week, we have freed ourselves at one fell swoop from the bonds of the oil companies, electric companies, and insurance companies. Now we can say farewell to the natural gas as well because with all the electric power that we’ll have, we can reinstall the electric stovetops. For the water, we’ll go on using the cistern on the roof which is supplied by an undeclared pipe, but since that questionable setup was the work of the tire repair guy, the principality declines all responsibility in that connection.

  Still she seems absent, she looks around and grows distracted. She still doesn’t realize the scale of this new development.

  “Did you make any other changes while I was away?” she asks me.

  “Why? You don’t think this was enough?”

  “No, what I meant was . . . I don’t know, there’s something strange. Doesn’t it strike you that there’s more space between the house and the street than there used to be?”

  I’ve disoriented her. Perhaps I was too precipitous.

  “Vittoria, I very much doubt that the street can have moved, there’s just a lot more mud on account of the downpour . . . but is that all you have to say?”

  “Al, it’s really a beautiful idea, I mean it . . . ” It looks as if she’s about to burst into tears, but then she smiles. “It’s just that I don’t think it’s strictly legal . . . forget about the unauthorized electric hookup, I’m talking about the principality itself, I don’t think that you can just take a house and say that it’s no longer part of the Italian republic.”

  “Actually, it was the Italian republic that made the decision in the first place. We don’t exist on the maps, we don’t belong to any district, we don’t have rights to any of the services provided to all the other houses. We’re simply acknowledging the state of affairs.”

  She’l
l need a little more time to get used to it, but in the end she won’t be able to keep from recognizing the magnificence of the concept. The principality of Santamaria. Mario Elvis and Agnese Santamaria: reigning prince and princess. Almerico and Vittoria Santamaria: heirs apparent to the throne!

  “Al . . . what’s that look you’ve got on your face now?”

  “I’m just thinking about Mamma and Papà when they find the coat of arms over the door and discover that they’ve become prince and princess.”

  49.

  “A letter from Mamma and Papà has arrived!” Vittoria tells me when she gets back from the grocery store.

  “What do they say, when are they coming back?”

  “I don’t know, Al, I still haven’t read it.”

  “It was a trap, good for you, you didn’t fall for it . . . ”

  “Do you really think that I’d read it without you?”

  They were as good as their word, in the last phone call to Tiziana’s place, they had told Vittoria that in order to save money, they’d start writing letters. We look for the right place because this is the first letter we’ve ever received from Mamma and Papà, the very first one in our whole lives, and we can’t just read it like this, unceremoniously, standing here. We sit down on the sofa, we try various positions but none of them feel right. We lie down on Vittoria’s bed, first on our tummies, and then with our legs up on the wall, but it’s a nice day and in the end we just go outside, on the lawn behind the house.

  “‘Dear Vittoria and Al . . . ’”

  “Wait, who’s doing the writing?” I ask.

  “It’s Mamma’s handwriting. ‘Dear Vittoria and Al, Venice is beautiful and our feet hurt from all the walking we’ve done in the past few days. We miss you oodles . . . ’”

  “Mamma wrote ‘We miss you oodles’?”

  “Why?”

  “Let me see . . . ”