The Purple Room

by Mauro Casiraghi

  Once, when I was complaining that I couldn’t find a job, my father said to me, “In this life, Sergio, one day to be born and another to die are all we get for free. All the rest we have to earn for ourselves.” Maybe old Gigi Monti had it wrong. Maybe we have to work to win the day we die, too. Just like everything else.

  Slowly, I unbutton my shirt. I toss it away. The wind catches it, filling it up like a sail, pushing it up in the air before letting it fall at the water’s edge. I take off the rest of my clothes, dropping them on the sand. Then I walk into the sea. I battle against the waves that assail me, beating against my chest, pushing me back. The water comes up to my chin. I stay like that for a moment, positioned precariously, moving with the waves that lift me up, then set me down where I can still touch the bottom. The sea, black and steel gray, merges with the sky. You can’t see where it ends, as if the water has risen up above the horizon to form a lid over the earth. Then I empty my lungs and dive forward. I plunge straight into a wave bigger than the others. It submerges me. I go under, where I roll over and over until the undertow flips me over, propels me upwards. I resurface. I breathe. Beneath my feet now there’s nothing but emptiness. I stay afloat, treading water. I can feel the force of the sea, taking me and dragging me away from the shore. My heart’s pounding in my chest. I’m afraid. I let the current pull me out to sea like an empty bottle.

  As I drift further out I think of my mother. I imagine her with tears in her eyes, clipping the little article out of the paper: “Disappears in an Etruscan tomb. Body mysteriously found at sea.” I think of the anguish of whoever will have to identify my body, all swollen and disfigured with fish bites. I think of Alessandra, a widow at last, and Michela, who will never understand and will never forgive me. And I think of Gloria. The memory that I have of her, in the purple room, will disappear with me. There will be nothing left. What’s been the point of getting this far? I’d like to be able to ask those who are still pushing on, driven by some incomprehensible force. Roberto and Loredana, clinging to each other in the hope of a child. Nino and Sabrina, wrapped in each other’s arms in a hotel room in Majorca. Franco seeking comfort in Petra’s young bosom. Silvia, in love with her insects. Simonetta, with her lovely voice, full of regrets. Luisa and everyone who frequents her dating agency. Marilena. Antonella. Even Jenny and her twenty customers per night. All willing to pay in the hope of finding something that might not even exist. Trying so hard to love and be loved. Only to lose it all, end up alone, cry, suffer. Then start all over again, driven on by the hope that this time it will be better or, maybe, convinced that it will be worse, but determined to plunge right back in, up to their necks. Maybe to end up like me––staggering towards the memory of a state of grace, of a purple room on a sunny afternoon that no one will ever be able to give back to me.

  I glance towards the retreating shore. Lucky reappears on the beach. When it sees me, the dog lunges forward as if it wants to come and save me. The waves force it back, but it doesn’t give up. It barks louder, challenging the breakers. Then it throws itself into the water. I can see its little white head bobbing like a cork, appearing and disappearing amidst the waves. It’s trying to swim towards me, so I try to take a few strokes towards it. The current is very strong. I swim with more energy, propelling myself as hard as I can with my arms and legs. I take at least fifty strokes against the current, giving it everything I have.

  When I lift my head, I find Lucky floating right in front of me. It takes advantage of its position to lick me on the face. The dog’s happy. It doesn’t realize that we’re both at the mercy of the waves now, or that I’ve started to feel tired. I raise my legs up and float on my back. Lucky’s exhausted, too. The dog can’t keep swimming any longer. I grab it by the scruff of the neck and lay it on my chest, as though I were a raft. I try to stay afloat with little movements of my arms, letting the current carry me along.

  I feel like laughing. It’s all so absurd, and yet, isn’t this what I’ve been doing all my life? Haven’t I been floating for all these years? Haven’t I struggled against a force greater than myself every day, with no hope of ever winning, but managing to survive? I can do that now, too. I just have to let the current transport me, and not panic. Yard by yard, a few short strokes at a time.

  Hang in there, Lucky. Sooner or later, if we just hold on, we’ll be back with our feet on the shore.