All people, he had once told her, are neurotic or psychopathic; it was just a question of degree. Half of humanity was stuck in its own childhood, the other half in its adolescence. The people who were stuck in adolescence could be reasoned with. Not so the people stuck in childhood, which, he solemnly informed her, included all the psychopaths.
And him.
The chewing gum incident. Now that was scary. In one of his increasingly frequent raids into the kitchen, he had come across a tube of Air Fresh Vigorsol chewing gum. Hers. He didn’t even like chewing gum. He had often told her so, which she took as a criticism of the fact that she did. But he chewed his way through the entire contents. She had complained about it the morning after, and he had been very dismissive. She had perhaps upped the ante a bit too much, turning the gum into a casus belli.
That evening, she had opened the cupboard to take out some pasta, and there, occupying the entire top shelf were five industrial-sized sealed plastic packs of chewing gum. Hundreds of packets. Thousands of pieces, enough for a lifetime.
She knew he had his answers all prepared. ‘I thought, seeing as chewing gum means so much to you . . .’ She could almost hear him saying it. So she said nothing. She never touched or mentioned them, and two weeks later threw them all out.
Whereas she should have thrown him out instead.
Three weeks later, he apologized for his stunt.
Fool me a hundred times, shame on me. When she thought of him now, she saw him standing in the kitchen gulping down water, slightly stooped to de-emphasize his height, his big face wracked with despair and the pain of migraine as he tried to pretend he was just fine. Except he wasn’t there, was he? That’s why she had to imagine him standing by her bedside. Nor could she relax in the knowledge that he would be there for Elia, protecting him if something terrible happened her, as it almost had. He was not to be trusted.
He was no father to Elia, but he might learn to be a father yet. She knew he wanted to become one. Once, after they had made love all afternoon, she had found a used condom under the bed. He was usually so fastidious about getting rid of them. He hated them. He made jokes about it being like ‘washing your feet with socks on’ and all the usual masculine objections, but they revolted and frightened him. She could see that from the way he had to leave the bed immediately and remove them, wrap them up, throw them away, and wash. Except this once, when they had spent almost an entire day in bed, and he had begun to relax, and she found one, used, curled up like an onion peel under the bed, and she had picked it up with considerable less fastidiousness than he did, only to find it was split. Split and therefore relatively clean of semen.
She did not confront him with it, gave him no opportunity to disappoint her with a lie, and went on the pill. One evening, when he was muttering and struggling with a condom, she told him.
Thereafter, he told her, sex had been far better for him. No comparison, he said. But it had become immeasurably worse for her. He was rough and demanding, pushy, careless, and arrogant that time and the next and the next, until she had cried out, and then cursed him. She issued him with a warning, and began to train him, always amused at his debilitating embarrassment as she put into plain words acts that he had absolutely no compunction about putting into deed. She coached him into becoming gentler, slower, and more considerate.
But she did not forget those three of four times in which she had been assaulted by a man who was angry she was denying him the fatherhood for which he was evidently unprepared.
Then she skipped the pill for two weeks. No reason. Motivation follows action, as Blume liked to say, preferring to illustrate the truth of his point with cheerfully explicit references to gruesome acts of violence.
She had the beginnings of an explanation for her foolishness. It started when her gynaecologist observed that she was now 36 years of age, which was a time when a lot of women considered coming off the pill. Her blood pressure was a little high, and a blood test suggested she was building up levels of visceral fat. So she had come off it, and concentrated on diet, and said nothing to the Alec the first few times, as if some magic aura protected her. Then she told him, and he sulked and refused to go back to condoms.
Her following actions had been even more mystifying for her. The first missed period she put down to getting the timing wrong. The second she attributed to the considerable weight loss she had achieved thanks to the Dukan diet, and she even interpreted it as a good sign. And then the morning sickness had started and she attributed this to all the eggs she was eating.
And then she knew. She woke up after a nightmare involving spiral staircases and Elia, and lay in the bed, looking through the top of the window at the cold sky and listened to Alec breathing steadily and quietly, for once, and she knew with absolute certainty, and marvelled at how she had ever thought otherwise.
She had felt happy, relaxed, and ready, despite everything. Her thoughts were crystal clear all morning long, and she was able to look evenly and calmly at the idea of quitting her job. Almost miraculously money was not going to be a problem. The rent Alec would get on his house covered her lost earnings, and she was about to receive a large lump sum from a young woman called Emma, whose inheritance she and Blume had once helped save. She had always known that as soon as she accepted that money, her career in the police would almost certainly have to end, which is why Blume had completely refused to countenance it. He had to pretend to need his job so he could say he hated it.
New motherhood. Still getting up at all hours, but to feed and cuddle rather than step out of a bed into nightmarish scenes of human decrepitude and brutality. All those reminders of how futile, fragile, and ugly human life could be superseded by evidence of the opposite. Except for the fragility. That was a constant.
Everything had seemed so clear that morning, and then the sky darkened and the rain had started, and then Blume had had one of his homicidal moments in the car, and she postponed telling him. The sky continued to darken, and a few hours later, as she stepped out of the barber’s shop, once again ready to invite Alec to the next level, a motor scooter slipped on the greasy road just as she lost her balance. It had been painful, too.
Now nothing was clear any more, not even if she shared the doctors’ anxiety to save the child inside her. She had told the doctors to say nothing to her mother, though Caterina had caught her that morning looking at her differently.
A series of tests mid morning, then she would, probably, be free to go home and stay in bed for three days, ordered to rest for three weeks. Those were the recommendations. And she still had not talked to him about it. She did not even know if he knew. Almost certainly not, for even he could hardly be so –
Someone knocked softly on the door of her room and the knot of anger in her stomach immediately began to unravel and she sat up expectant, ready to forgive and be fooled again.
But it was Chief Inspector Rosario Panebianco who walked in.
The disappointment must have been written all over her face, because he immediately apologized for being who he was, and for intruding.
Panebianco sat down at the head of the bed, in the seat she already considered her mother’s.
‘Are you all right, Caterina?’
That was nice of him. Panebianco had difficulty in using first names.
‘Fine, thanks. But I won’t be back at work for a while. Three weeks at least. And then a few months until – look, can you prop up the pillow behind me?’
Panebianco did so, then sat down again, and, as she feared he might, took up the conversation from where she had trailed off.
‘Until when? Have you applied for a transfer or something?’
‘Now there’s an idea. So, how are you all managing without me?’
‘Fine. Operation Full House has been cancelled – or suspended.’
‘Really? What happened?’
‘The gang seems to have gone quiet. It now seems evident that they have abandoned the planned Ostia heist. It’s as if they knew
we would be waiting.’
‘Someone tipped them off ?’
‘Or they have logistical problems. We’ll see.’
‘Too bad,’ said Caterina. ‘We were working well with the commissariato in Ostia.’
‘Yes, I’m sure we’ll get another chance. And the cooperation with our colleagues in Ostia . . .’
‘Very useful,’ said Caterina.
‘Fruitful and valuable,’ said Panebianco. They had reached the end of subjects in common.
‘You know you don’t have to stay here for my sake, Rosario.’
Panebianco bounced out of his chair like a man released. She thought and hoped he was on his way out, but instead he marched back and forth across the narrow space a few times, banging his open palm with his fist, then spun round and addressed her from the end of her bed.
‘There is something I need to tell you.’
‘OK.’ If she didn’t know he was gay, she might have expected a declaration of anguished love.
Panebianco glanced around to check they were alone. ‘It has to do with your accident.’
He paused again.
‘Go on,’ she prompted.
‘First thing, the Vigili Urbani have just caught the kid who ran you over and fled the scene leaving you and his friend on the ground.’
‘He’s only a kid. How’s his friend?’
‘Fine. Actually, I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything, or tried to find out. But seeing as it was you they hurt, I didn’t want to leave the investigation entirely to the vigili, and so I detailed two men to ask a few questions, and I went to talk to the barber myself.’
‘That idiot barber is too stupid to know if he’s a witness or not,’ said Caterina. ‘I wouldn’t depend on him.’
‘As a matter of fact, he was able to supply the number plate, make of the scooter, a description of the kids, and an almost perfect estimate of their ages. When he saw them getting up after the crash and preparing to ride away, he even went after them. A good citizen and an excellent witness.’
‘Which is the exact opposite . . .’
‘I know,’ interrupted Panebianco. ‘I know.’ He drew a long breath, and she shut up. She could see he was trying to tell her something. ‘The barber withdrew his testimony and Magistrate Martone ordered you to go to him and apply a bit of moral pressure. I know all about that.’
Panebianco paused again. ‘When I was talking to him, he said, “Oh, so now you want me to be the perfect witness because a cop got hurt.” That pissed me off, and I told him we treated all cases equally.’
‘Even if you just told me you went all the way out there because I am police,’ said Caterina.
Panebianco glanced sharply at her, and she realized that she had just made it easier for him to tell her something she was not going to like.
‘I pressed him on his attitude, and started asking him about the other case, too, and why he had withdrawn the statement he gave you about Lambertini. And he told me he had been pressured into it. I asked him by who, and he claimed it was a policeman. So I asked him if the policeman had identified himself and he said no, but that the policeman had claimed to be your boyfriend.’
Caterina felt a wave of nausea pass over her. Her hands and feet felt cold and clammy underneath the bedclothes, which minutes ago had seemed too warm.
‘So,’ continued Panebianco, ‘I asked him to describe the policeman, and the description he gave fits Blume. It was him. I checked the day and time, and Blume was out of the office then.’
‘It’s not as if there is any doubt.’
‘No, I’m sorry, Caterina. Blume asked the barber to withdraw his testimony.’
‘Have you confronted him?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. Just you and me and him. And the barber, of course. I need to know what you are going to do, Caterina.’
‘Do you think I am going to report him?’
‘Forgive me if I’m getting this wrong, but from the look on your face a moment ago, I think you might.’
Chapter 32
It was past three when he arrived at the hospital only to find Caterina’s room empty, as he knew he would. Casually, he asked at the nurses’ station if they had any idea when she might be back. They didn’t. They were able to tell him, however, in bright tones, that he had just missed her and that she had had a visit just before him.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Fairish hair, neatly dressed. Clean, he looked very clean.’
Panebianco. Blume felt grateful.
‘I can’t say how long I she’ll be. You can wait. Not as long as that book’s going to take you – at least I hope not!’
Blume had Pitagora’s book under his arm. Twice on his way up he had considered just leaving it on a counter somewhere. Maybe someone else would like it.
He sat down on a bucket seat in the corridor and considered that he was the one responsible for sending Caterina to where she was injured. The worst of it was that he did not even know if he was going to tell her. It was not only his cowardice that was bothering him; it was that he did not know how he himself was going to behave.
He resolved that if Caterina lost the child, then he would tell her. He would admit what he had done when his admission would be hardest. That way, he could be sure he was no coward. If everything worked out for the best, he would maybe tell her some other time. When the baby was out. When he would have a son. A male heir. A mate for Elia. He did the maths. It would be a long, long time before they would be mates. But the arrival would mature Elia, bring them all very close, and all this would be true even if it turned out to be a girl, which he doubted.
Pitagora’s magnum opus sat on the seat next to him. He bent down and pulled the Kindle out of his bag.
In the year 1596, an Italian Jesuit called Matteo Ricci set out to teach the method of the memory palace to three Chinese students, sons of a wealthy provincial governor, who needed to pass a difficult examination to enter the upper echelons of the bureaucracy of the Ming dynasty. To do this, he had to write in Chinese, which he had learned using the very same memory palace.
It is possible to learn a language using the techniques given in these pages. The reason people do not, I think, is that they are as unfamiliar to people today as Matteo Ricci’s memory palace was to his Chinese hosts, and as their ideograms were to his Italian mind. People shy away from what seems strange. One helluva pity, in my opinion. Sometimes strangers and strange things can simplify our lives.
Look at this Chinese ideogram signifying war.
Blume did, and decided that this just went to show that e-books were useless. The spatial aliasing was distracting, the image was in the wrong part of the page, and too small to see properly. The painkillers had eased his headache for half an hour, but now it was on its way back.
How did he remember that symbol? Well, I can give you a sneak preview by saying that the right part of the image looked to him like a curved sword and the two upright lines on the left side were the hands of a man grabbing hold of the wrists of another man wielding the sword in an attempt to stop himself being killed. If you have seen Saving Private Ryan, you might remember the hand-to-hand combat scene between the American and the German soldiers in the closed room. Personally, I can never forget it, the American kid saying, ‘Wait, wait’ as the German leans down with the knife inches from his chest before plunging it in. I digress? That’s the point. I want you to digress like that. Let the images take over and the words fade.
Words are overrated, by the way. Next time you’re looking for a really good book, one that you can really get into, consider this: there are many very good writers out there, but there are very few good storytellers. In fact, you might find that your favourite storyteller isn’t much of a writer at all – and will be despised by the critics and the clever people. But he – or she – shouldn’t be. A good storyteller is far harder to find than a good writer. And what do storytellers do? They put ima
ges straight into your head. The images take over, and the words fade. That’s why I’m not so worried if some people dislike my conversational and folksy style here. I could be more academic, but I want you to learn!
A word of warning, folks. We don’t like bad memories and nasty images, and our brains will play all sorts of tricks to suppress them. So save the traumatic images for traumatic words like war, OK? Right, back to how to learn a language.
The peg system, which we looked at in Chapter 4 and will look at again in Chapter 9, is the first step. What is the peg system again? What, you forgot?! No problem. A peg is something you hang a memory on, but you know what? I don’t like the term. I would have liked to call it the ‘cloud’ system, but nowadays everyone thinks of the cloud as a place where you store your files remotely. But think of how a cloud forms. A droplet of moisture attaches itself to a piece of dust, which attaches itself to another droplet, and a piece of dust, to another piece of dust, and so on. Eventually you have a big dark cloud ready to burst and rain down information. The point is everything we know now we learned by associating it with something else. At some stage, you say, like when we were really small babies, there must have been a moment when we just learned something without associating it. That’s actually a pretty deep question of the type that gets Greek philosophers and Noam Chomsky worked up, so let’s not go there. Let’s just say that the basic rule is this: anything you learn you learn by associating it with what you already know.
One of these Greeks was a man called Protagoras, who is supposed to have said that man is the measure of all things, a point of view I agree with. He is also credited with inventing the genders masculine, feminine, and neuter for nouns in those languages that make such distinctions. Jacob Grimm (fairy-tale guy) did the same for German. My point is they might as well have called them air, rain, and sand nouns as masculine, feminine, and neuter. Like plant classifications, it is a system made up by humans, and essentially arbitrary. The word ‘table’ is feminine in Spanish, masculine in German, both in Italian, nothing in particular in English. It is arbitrary – though, obviously, words like mother and woman are going to be assigned to the ‘feminine’ gender.
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