by Edoardo Nesi
They had gone into the lounge to sit on the sofa and wait for the light to come back on, that single candle their only light, and they had told each other silly stories to fight the evil enormity of darkness, always the same ones: either his adventures at school, or Grandmother’s tales from the war about how she would run to hide in the ditches during the bombing raids, and so, bit by bit, Vittorio’s fear of the dark had vanished and he had begun to talk, and asked his grandmother why the light had gone, and she had explained that it was all the fault of those Arab sheikhs who were mean people, because even though they were already so rich, still they wanted to raise the price of oil, and Italy couldn’t pay such a high price and it had to make savings, and so all the electricity had to be turned off, because electricity comes from oil, my treasure, you burn one to get the other.
Vittorio had asked if that was a blackout, because he heard them say on the television that the blackouts would always be longer and more frequent, and when his grandmother had told him it was, Vittorio had shaken his head and begun to cry desperately: he was such an unlucky child because just a few years after Man had walked on the Moon and Mankind was about to start colonizing Space and the Universe — and he would certainly have been one of those brave astronauts flying off to the stars — everything was about to move backward and they would have to renounce all scientific conquests and start lighting candles again at night and traveling in horse-drawn carriages because the oil had run out, and everyone would be poor and would have to economize on everything and stick to the old things instead of creating new ones. Grandmother had smiled and told him not to be scared because the world would go on.
— Vittorio, the world always moves on. Don’t you worry, she had told him, drying his tears with the flower-embroidered handkerchief she always had in her hand.
— It has never been the case that children are worse off than their parents, that the future is worse than the present. It’s not possible. It has never happened. Otherwise there would be no progress, my child, but there is progress, and there always will be. Don’t you worry, Vittorio.
And he remembered her yesterday, just yesterday afternoon, when she’d prepared his afternoon snack, bread with a few drops of red wine and sugar. They sat at the Formica table of their small kitchen, just the two of them, bathed by the light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, barely shaded by a half cone made from beige paper, and as she smoked a Muratti Ambassador and he chewed, their microsounds had seemed to blend together, accompanied by the ticking of a large alarm clock, and Grandmother would puff on her cigarette each time Vittorio took a bite of his slice of bread with wine and sugar. When he had finished, his Grandmother with blue-rinsed hair had immediately started grappling with pans, cartons of milk, and slices of bread to toast in the oven because one slice of bread with wine and sugar couldn’t possibly be enough for a growing boy. He also needed bread with oil and tomatoes.
Vittorio couldn’t take his eyes off her as she meticulously rubbed the tomato into the slice she had carefully cut from the loaf of Tuscan bread so that its core would be of the perfect thickness: it mustn’t crumble in the mouth, nor fall apart when soaked with tomato juices. Then she poured over more oil in a slow S-shaped figure, ensuring not a drop fell onto the plate, and added a pinch of salt, taking care to distribute it as evenly as possible.
From far away, from very far away, he heard his father’s voice.
— Cry if you want to, Vittorio. Go ahead. Don’t hold it in.
And then he saw Grandmother turn toward the cooktop and start staring at the milk, as if she could make it boil faster just by looking at it, because she was from a farming family and always said that if you drank it raw, you might catch a disease. And when he, a steaming cup of milk and coffee in his hand, had once again restarted their perpetual conversation and attempted to convince her of the truth of the theory of evolution, she had smiled as ever, shook her head, and stroked his hair and said that there was no way her lovely grandson had descended from apes.
On hearing these words, Vittorio suddenly felt lost and foolish tears began to roll down his cheeks. He stood up, his legs trembling, and told her, “Nonna, I’ll never leave you.”
For the first time in his life he had realized that Grandmother was an old person, and who knew how much longer she would be with him, and he had been terrified by the terrible thought that his time with her was not infinite, and that he should treasure each day, each hour, each moment with her. Because without her, he would be alone.
— Please don’t die, he told her, and as an indecipherable smile appeared on his grandmother’s face, he launched himself forward to hug her, that nine-year-old stick-thin boy with curls and tears streaking down his face, and she held him tightly in her arms.
— Look what a silly grandson I have, she whispered. Vittorio, don’t worry. I’m not going to die, I’m a tough old bird.
And she took his face between her hands: those wrinkled hands with their delicate, almost translucent, blotched skin which he loved so much to pinch and then watch it remain immobile, a mountain range on the back of her hands.
— Listen to me, little one. I need to tell you something important. Listen carefully.
Vittorio nodded, lifted his chin, and fixed his gaze on the perfect sky of his grandmother’s eyes, which watched him from just a few centimeters away.
— Even if I die, because everyone dies in the end, I will not leave you. I will always be with you, Vittorio. To protect you. And when I need to tell you something, I will come to you in your dreams. Do you understand?
— Yes, Nonna. Thank you, Nonna.
— And there is something else which is very important. Something you must never forget.
— What?
— Don’t cry for me, Vittorio.
— Okay, Nonna.
— Actually, never cry.
She dried the tears from his reddened cheeks and kissed his forehead. Yesterday, only yesterday, just yesterday.
— Let the others cry. Don’t you cry.
Vittorio nodded.
— Never, understand? Never.
THE GUY FOR THE GOOD DAYS
— CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING?
— Of course you can.
— Well, if one of these days I died while we were making love here at the Den…What would you do?
— Come on, Cesare, don’t die…
— But if I did?
— The Beast is immortal.
— No, tell me. What would you do if I died here, in this bed? If I started to pant like a dog and beat my chest and scream for an ambulance and then I stood up and dropped dead on the ground, huh? What would you do?
— Idiot.
— No, really, what would you do?
— I think I’d be furious.
— With who?
— With you, Cesare. Who else?
— And what would you do?
— I don’t know, come on…I don’t know right now…But I’d do something…
— Like what? Would you insult me?
— I might slap you. Maybe a kick, too.
— Really? Where?
— Hmm…maybe in the butt.
— You’d kick me in the ass? When I was dead? Hard?
— No, not hard. A little kick.
— What?
— You’d leave me in a lot of trouble, you know…I might run away. Yes. Actually, I’d definitely run away.
— What? My Historic Baby Doll would run away crying, and leave the Tuscan unranked tennis champion dead on the floor?
— But Cesare, your Historic Baby Doll would be left in a real mess if you died here…What if the police found out that I was with you?
— Ah…
— Don’t you think about me?
— Ah, so I die but I have to think about you?
— Of course. You always have to think about me. Always. Listen, Cesare, let’s make a deal. Don’t die please, okay?
— Okay, I won’t die.
�
� Good.
— Let’s talk about something else. What did you think about me the first time you saw me?
— What’s with all these questions today?
— Tell me.
— No, I don’t want to.
— Tell me.
— Do you want the truth?
— Of course I do.
— That you were old.
— Really?
— Yes…well, I saw you walking into that bar, and I knew who you were, that you were a tennis champion, and I guess I’d thought you were younger.
— Was it because of my hair?
— What do you mean, because of your hair?
— Because I’m losing it?
— What are you talking about? You’re not losing it.
— No, of course I’m not losing it, but…is it because I have a receding hairline?
— You haven’t got a receding hairline. Cesare, poor baby, have I upset you? You’re right, today I’ve been horrible to you, I don’t even know why. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say you were old.
— But why? I don’t understand. How am I old? I’m only thirty-nine…
— Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. Will you forgive me?
— Of course.
— Really, please forgive me.
— I forgive you, I forgive you…
— Thank you.
— But do you know why I forgive you? Because it’s not a problem. And do you know why it’s not a problem? Because I don’t give a fuck about anything you say.
—…
— Because I’m not old, got it?
— I know, Cesare, I’m sorry.
— No, you don’t know. You can’t possibly know. You’re young, and you’re a hairdresser. You know fuck…
— I’m not a hairdresser. I actually have my own beauty salon.
— It’s the same thing.
— Come on, Cesare. I said I was sorry…
— No, listen to me. Because there might be a little bit of truth in it. I’ve had a difficult time. When I saw my first gray hair on the temples, three or four years ago. I said, “Shit, I’m old. I’m finished.” I couldn’t sleep, I would wake up during the night, and sometimes I wouldn’t sleep all night, thinking about all the opportunities I would miss because I was getting old. All the brilliant things I couldn’t do anymore…
— But Cesare…
— Man, I felt terrible then…
— I’m sorry, Cesare.
— Don’t interrupt me, please.
— Sure, I’m sorry…
— And then, one night, I wrote down everything I have, you know? From the first thing to the last. And I calmed down. Because I’ve got a lot going for me. I really have a lot. And the first thing I’ve got is my health. And physically, I couldn’t be in better shape. Just have to get used to someone sticking a finger up your ass every so often…I mean the urologist, darling, of course, for the prostate. Because in the future I might have a problem there, like all men…
— But Cesare…
— And then, when that truly unpleasant sensation has passed…
— Which truly unpleasant sensation?
— What do you mean, which truly unpleasant sensation? The finger up my ass! Well, once that is over, so is everything else…and that is the most important thing. If that is okay, everything else is secondary.
— And what is the most important thing of all?
— Honey, as long as I fuck like I’ve done today, everything is fine. That’s the most important thing. As long as I see you and I feel you come like you did today, like all the times you did today, I will never feel old, and I will never be old, get it?
— Yes, but––
— How many times did you come today?
— I didn’t count.
— You see?
— Cesare, I don’t want to argue, things have been so good. I thought you were joking…
—Well, you know, I was joking up to a certain point, if you were going along with it…
—…
— What are you doing now, are you going to cry?
— No, but…It’s that I’m not okay, and you’re being mean…
— What? What are you talking about? What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?
— No, you’re being mean! I’m fine. I mean, my health is fine, but I…
— You what?
— I’ve got problems, Cesare…
— What problems?
— I’ve got my own problems. Personal problems…I can’t do it anymore, Cesare…
— Do what?
— Anything. This.
— What?
— Doing this with you…We never see each other except here…
— Honey, we see each other as often and as soon as I can.
— Yes, I know, but it’s not enough. I’m always alone…
— Find yourself a boyfriend, honey, what do you want me to say? I’m sorry…You certainly can’t be with me. I’m a married man.
— I know, I know, but I’d like to spend more time with you. I — I can’t go on like this, Cesare…
— Hang on a second. Stop. Stop everything. Stop the machines.
— Huh? What does that mean?
— Do you know who I am? Hey, look at me. Look at me. Don’t you know who I am?
— Who are you?
— I’m the guy for the good days.
— What does that mean?
— It means that if one day you’ve got a problem and you’re feeling bad and you need someone to talk to, I’m not that person. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t even mention your problems to me. I have enough of my own. And if you ever think of telling me about them, if one day you’re just dying to tell me about them…well, don’t. Understand?
— Cesare…
— No, no fucking Cesare. Go take a walk, go for a drive, call one of your friends and go buy yourself a bag or a lipstick or whatever you want, and come back to me here at the Den when you’re happy. And we’ll make love. If I feel like it. And if you feel like it, of course. I’m not going to rape you. You know that I only like it when I can see you are enjoying it.
— I know Cesare, but —
— But what?
— No, nothing.
— Good, then. I’m the guy for the good days, that’s all.
— Okay. I’m sorry.
— No problem. Just as long as we understand each other.
AN INEVITABLE MIRACLE
AS THE SUN SETS behind the skeleton of the house, the temperature suddenly drops and the breath of the boys on the field starts to condense. This causes the game to slow down and become erratic: passes lose precision, controlling the ball becomes difficult, stopping it is almost impossible. Two kids playing defense for the Green Zone pretend to smoke imaginary cigarettes. The game is drawing to a close.
They aren’t tired, because no one that age is ever really tired, nor are they cold or hot: they are indestructible creatures, superior beings forged in iron and pride, and mercury runs through their veins instead of blood. So when the umpteenth attack of the Green Zone begins again, Vittorio gives chase to the short-legged, quick boy playing in jeans and plastic shoes who has already scored three goals, and they look like comets, their heads wrapped in smoky white breath as they run. No one wants to lose this match, which counts for absolutely nothing and has been played for over an hour now on a field where grass survives only in tenacious, isolated clumps on the four corners of the hypothetical rectangular pitch, leaving bare its hypothetical center and even more hypothetical penalty area, trodden into oblivion by an irresistible passion.
Two lines of single-story houses stretch out along the clearing, separated by a dirt track. Many seem to be still under construction, unfinished but already inhabited, with no sign of a plaster veil to hide the hastily thrown-together mosaic of perforated and solid bricks — it’s the Green Zone, an entire illegally built neighborhood in glorious, continuous growth, right in the middle of an immense empty fiel
d full of brambles and punctuated by wild radicchio, which on winter mornings the dew would paint white and cause to shimmer like diamonds.
Arianna is there. The only adult present, she has stayed in her car, leaving the engine on, smoking and chewing peppermint-flavored Brooklyn gum and thinking of her mother.
She keeps seeing the radiant, weary smile with which, toward the end, her mother tried to hide the signs of the bastard disease she indignantly refused to give in to, even in the final days.
Her mother had fought with the strength and courage of a lioness, without asking or wanting anyone’s help, particularly Arianna’s. She had confided only in her doctor, who was her own age and had made a point of minimizing every symptom of the slow progress of the ordeal she was facing, forcing Arianna into the role of the weak daughter from whom it was best to conceal the depth and intensity of the pain and the truth, in an inversion of roles that pained Arianna but from which she did not have the courage to break, despite Cesare’s pleas.
So, every telephone call her mother made to the doctor was followed up by another, wretched one of hers, in which she asked for a report on the progress of the disease. And every blood test result arrived in a crumpled envelope — “That’s enough now! I’m going to make a complaint to the post office!”—because Arianna had already steamed it open and resealed it with great care, trying her best to avoid those cursed creases in the paper, in the hope that her mother wouldn’t notice.
Besides her silent war against that cowardly evil, Arianna found herself fighting the opinion her mother had of her and, in some way, fighting her mother herself, who was always so sweet with her grandson and so harsh on her daughter, stubbornly refusing to recognize her as an adult, a wife, and a mother: a responsible person, finally, after the absolute irresponsibility she had shown by marrying a man who — her mother had wanted to tell her on the eve of their wedding, when an anxious Arianna desperately tried to obtain an embrace that would act as a blessing — didn’t love her and was already cheating on her before getting married, just imagine what he’d be like once they had tied the knot.
