by Edoardo Nesi
— Ivo, it’s ridiculous, believe me. I’ve never played this badly in my entire life. I’d lose to a kid from the tennis school, to my son even. My forehand always ends up inside the service line, as limp as a monk’s dick. I can’t control my backhand anymore: one hits the net, the next the sky. I serve at least one double fault in every game, and I’m hitting two second balls. I’m always late on the ball, I get tired at once and sweat like a waiter. I’m a mess, Ivo, a mess. I’ve decided to quit, maybe forever.
Cesare didn’t have the heart to tell Ivo he’d also lost to his doubles partner, just the evening before, 6–2, 6–2. He had been beaten by Dante Zucchi, the never-ranked architect with a forehand as soft as lard who had consistently lost every singles game in the Coppa Italia. Nor could he tell him of the supreme disgrace: the set he had lost that very morning against Marmagli, the least talented club member of all, the dried-up lawyer who, upon seeing his umpteenth weak backhand roll into the alley, fell to his knees in the middle of the court like Bjorn Borg and burst into tears of joy.
— Ivo, it’s a total mess, and I’ve come to ask your advice because I don’t know where else to turn…
A pause.
— I was cuckolded by my Historic Baby Doll, he confessed, finding the courage to turn on himself the cruelest of all locker room jokes, the one he had always enjoyed inflicting on every poor soul that crossed his path, and after that confession Cesare suddenly fell quiet, his eyes closed and his head bowed, overwhelmed by the relief of being free of that burden.
Ivo immediately knew the perfect response to give him, but he decided that no, he couldn’t. Absolutely not. He couldn’t and he shouldn’t. It was a stupid, cruel idea. Really too cruel. But then, however, he said it, and immediately regretted it, embarking on a long speech that was both fraternal and paternal, heartfelt and timely, during which he first flogged and then masterfully cured the Beast’s madness.
Barrocciai spoke at length of the infinite absurdities love can drive a man to commit, even the toughest, most determined, and most shrewd of men, as Vezzosi certainly was. He threw in a few fake memories of his own past infatuations of youth and laughed about them, taunting that young and tenderly enamored Ivo who had never existed.
Then he ordered Cesare to look him square in the eyes and asked him if he had ever entertained the idea, even for a moment, of leaving his beautiful, faithful wife and his boy who was showing great promise at both tennis and school; if he had ever thought of abandoning his splendid family, the only true wealth a man can ever have, for such a free young woman.
Ivo held a magisterial silence, leaving time for that terrible adjective to sink into Vezzosi’s traumatized soul, then he dug the knife in and repeated: “Free, very free. Perhaps too free.”
How could he not think that while she — this hairdresser — was with Cesare, she wouldn’t also have other entanglements, other adventures, perhaps even many other adventures, none confessed, besides the one with the idiot who was now her boyfriend?
Cesare waited for a while, his eyes wide and his mouth half open, before realizing that Ivo wanted an answer, and so, stunned by that onslaught of lucid common sense, by that heartfelt ode to family that had just been given him by the city’s most unrepentant bachelor, he lied and said no: he had never thought of leaving Arianna.
Barrocciai welcomed this announcement with a regal smile and proclaimed that Cesare should immediately banish all sadness and start to see this inexperienced guy’s arrival on the scene as manna from heaven, because — he leaned over the polished surface of the rosewood desk to get closer to his friend, who did the same thing, and so they found themselves face to face, closer than they had ever been before — How in hell was he going to put an end to all this, otherwise? When would he have ever left her, this hairdresser who was incredibly and fortunately never impregnated despite the fact that, in the fire of their passions, they never — that’s right, isn’t it? — took any precautions?
Cesare looked away, closed his eyes, breathed in until his lungs were filled with air, and exhaled with the power of a narwhal, then reopened his eyes and smiled for the first time since he had set foot in that office. He stood up and held his hand out to Ivo, who stood up and shook it. Ivo said that Cesare was a very lucky man, and he reminded him of the limitless crop of beautiful and available young women who populated this marvelous Italy of ours, and who certainly couldn’t wait to have some fun with a guy as handsome as the Beast. Cesare hugged him, filled with gratitude, and thanked him for having helped in a way no one had done before.
— Thank you so much. Really, Ivo, thank you. You are a real friend.
He left Barrocciai’s office with a light heart, and only when he got in his car did he remember — though only for a moment, before instantaneously batting them away — the surprising words Ivo had begun his speech with: that strange, cutting introduction that, for a few seconds, if truth be told, had upset him. “Believe me, Cesare, in life there is worse, a lot worse, than being cuckolded by a lover.”
AT THE BANK
IT WAS OBVIOUS that the bank sitting in the middle of the field, which at that very moment was being furiously leveled by a yellow, inexorable bulldozer had been a farmhouse.
Maria saw it straightaway, and smiled to herself because its peasant origins made it feel less foreign, almost friendly. One aspect she found particularly reassuring was the fact that those thick walls would have made heavy work for any potential thieves. Pasquale, on the other hand, terribly on edge as he was, only noticed when he walked in. He looked around for a few seconds and started to point out to Maria how many of the interior features of the house had been hastily torn out. The atrium of the bank, which was roughly cut in two by the cashiers’ desks, had undoubtedly been a large kitchen where the farmworkers would have eaten with their families, he told her, and there was a big fireplace that could still be glimpsed behind the cursory whitewash of the plasterboard that partially covered it.
The Citarellas waited obediently in line at the desk for ten minutes only to be directed to the second floor, and went slowly up those stairs. They were very intimidated by all that silence, which was broken only by the tapping of typewriters and the hushed incorporeal voices deep in telephonic conversation, so full of obscure words they found entirely incomprehensible.
Upon reaching the second floor they found no one there to welcome them. Two employees brushed past several times without giving them so much as a smile, while the Citarellas stood there in the middle of the narrow corridor, waiting for a sign.
It was the first time they had ever entered a bank, because it was the first time they had money to deposit. Maria had never had any, and everything Pasquale had earned up until that point had been immediately spent on maintaining the family, buying the land, building the baiadera, expanding it, paying for the Fiat 128, and repaying Vezzosi for the properties Pasquale had bought so that their families could finally leave the rented attics.
When Pasquale pointed out the four offices in front of him and said that they must have been the farmhouse’s bedrooms, Maria turned to face him: with his hands in his pockets, his face flushed by the emotion of being in a bank, her husband would have stood there in the middle of that corridor until closing time, without saying a single word. She had to take the initiative, because she was the one who had insisted on depositing their money in the bank rather than keeping it hidden in the kitchen, behind the packets of pasta.
One evening, at dinner, she had even said that, if given to the bank, that money would have earned them interest, meaning it would have grown significantly. Perhaps by even ten percent. The table had fallen silent and her three men had all looked at her — Pasquale and Dino were speechless, Tonino extremely interested — and she had been asked to explain what she meant. She had announced that on TV they had explained that money costs, but it also brings rewards. Both things. Seeing her men blinking in perplexity, Maria had continued.
— If you borrow money from a bank, they char
ge you interest, but if you take your money to a bank, the bank pays the interest to you. Do you understand, Pasquale?
Upon hearing that he too would be able to earn money without lifting a finger like the gentlemen in the movies — the ones who play tennis in the morning, watch horse races in the afternoon, and spend the evening at the theater — Pasquale had smiled and ended the conversation, saying it seemed impossible to him, but that he would give it some thought. The next morning, goaded by Maria, who could no longer sleep with the thought of all that money hidden in the kitchen, Pasquale said he would ask Vezzosi, but when he saw her shaking her head disappointedly, he seized his courage with both hands and did exactly as she had suggested: he called Barrocciai.
When Ivo explained to him that of course money should go straight to the bank, and that Pasquale could actually go to a small branch that had recently opened next to the old factory and say that he had sent him, Pasquale told Maria to call and make an appointment with the bank manager.
So that is how they ended up there, standing in that corridor, dressed in their Sunday best, anxious and silent, alone and ignored, with Pasquale’s pockets and Maria’s handbag full of banknotes which they wanted to deposit but no one in that bank seemed interested in taking.
When she saw the yellow bulldozer starting to move toward the bank as if it were about to flatten it, then suddenly come to a halt, sink the shovel into the black earth, and uproot a big thicket of briar, Maria moved toward one of the offices, followed closely by Pasquale.
She stopped on the threshold and saw a man in shirt and tie sitting at a small desk perusing a newspaper printed on yellow paper, so she went in and asked to speak with the manager. The man lifted his head in surprise, revealing a face like a setter, and replied that he was the manager.
— Right, good morning, then. Our name is Citarella and we have been sent by Mr. Ivo Barrocciai. We wish to open an account. My husband here needs to deposit four million lire.
—Welcome. Please sit down. I’m Mr. Ciapini.
Upon hearing Ivo’s name, the bank manager had stood up with a big smile on his face and moved straight toward Pasquale to shake his hand, while Maria received no more than a nod.
They sat down and began to pull out the banknotes: Maria extracted a bundle from her bag in one go, while Pasquale had to contort himself on the seat to fish them out of various pockets. The bank manager’s smile grew steadily wider as he counted them. When he reached three million, he called an employee by surname and ordered him to count them again and immediately prepare the paperwork for Mr. Citarella’s account. Pasquale, hearing himself referred to as Mr. Citarella, turned violet. It was the first time anyone had called him that in earnest, and not as a joke.
After a few minutes of embarrassed small talk, during which he tried to gain as much information as possible on Pasquale’s work and, in particular, his relationship to that great man, Ivo Barrocciai, Mr. Ciapini lowered his voice and looked him in the eye: he explained that they could happily deposit all of their earnings, even the unofficial ones, because, luckily, in Italy, banks maintained full secrecy and he wasn’t required to report anything to anyone, except the magistrates, of course, but — he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, lit a cigarette—“they’re not going to be concerned with respectable people like you and me, Mr. Citarella.”
Pasquale nodded seriously and stayed silent. He hadn’t understood much of what the bank manager had said, but he knew he didn’t like it at all. What was unofficial about his work? He was a decent person. He was an honest man. What did the manager mean? And what did magistrates have to do with it? Perhaps he was alluding to his being from the South. Was he insinuating he was involved with criminals? He gave a confused look in Maria’s direction: he saw her smiling, serene, and felt reassured.
The employee returned with the documents and passed them to the bank manager, who then passed them to Pasquale and pointed out where to sign, tracing a minuscule x next to a blank line. Pasquale, who was now irritated, stared at the x, which offended him because it reminded him of how the illiterate sign their names with a cross, so he lifted his eyes from the page and threw the bank manager a look as hard as stone.
— And whose name will this bank account be in?
The bank director asked him for his identity card. He found it and showed it to him.
— The account will naturally be in your name, Mr. Citarella!
Pasquale shook his head.
— No. That won’t work. The bank account will have to be in the names of Pasquale and Maria Citarella.
The bank manager’s smile froze.
— Mr. Citarella, I’ll be honest with you. This is the first time anyone has ever made that request.
Ciapini leaned toward him and, sniggering, glancing swiftly over at Maria, whispered, “Best to keep women away from the money…”
Maria saw her husband stiffen. His violetness was gone, along with any emotion or shame.
— I will not be signing anything unless the bank account is also in my wife’s name. I will take my money and go home. Or rather, I’ll go to another bank.
— No, you see, Mr. Citarella, perhaps it’s not…Let’s be clear, I was saying it for your benefit…You could authorize your wife to use it, make her a joint signatory…so that she can sign but always and only if you have signed too…It’s to ensure peace of mind. For safety’s sake.
Pasquale shook his head, looking the manager straight in the eye until he once again shouted the employee’s surname and instructed him to redo the documents.
Maria didn’t say a word. Her heart was beating fast. The moment she had heard her husband proclaim the words “Pasquale and Maria Citarella” into the stale air of that poky office, she was moved, because they hadn’t discussed whose name the account would be in, and she had never once thought that Pasquale would have asked for it to be a joint account: he was the head of the family, he had earned the money, she was just a wife and a mother, a housewife…Well now, I see I must have done something right for our family over all these years, she said to herself, and, to avoid crying, she started digging around in her handbag pretending to look for something, blowing her nose every so often, as if overtaken by a sudden cold.
When it was her turn, Maria signed with a beautiful flourish, concentrating hard on signing the second-most important document of her life with the princesslike signature she had perfected at middle school. She didn’t notice the tender smile on her husband’s face as he watched her, and when he passed her the checkbook the bank manager had given him, she placed it delicately in her bag, with a care that she would have shown a love letter, if Pasquale had ever written her one.
They left the bank arm in arm. During their brief walk to the car she laid her head on his shoulder, and Pasquale held her, telling her it was an important day, that October 31, 1978. One to mark down on the calendar.
THE SUMMER OF ’79
AT THE END OF JUNE, when she arrived with Vittorio at the seaside for a vacation that would last until mid-September, Arianna realized she was sick and tired of spending every summer in the same refurbished lemonary they rented every year.
She could not stand anymore the little town she had liked so much when she arrived years ago, with a newborn Vittorio. It now seemed to her a defective imitation of the famous seaside town just a few kilometers away — a five-minute bicycle ride. The sand was coarser and the names of beach establishments more insipid and the pine trees not as tall and the streets narrower; even the inhabitants, even the tourists seemed uglier than those of the famous seaside town, where the houses for rent became small villas, the seafront was decorated with palm trees, the beach was one hundred meters long, the sand as fine as silk, and the people, well, they were on an another level.
Arianna would take refuge there at any opportunity. She felt comforted just by hearing the accent of the Milanese women who populated and commanded that famous seaside town, and studied them with an obsessive attention to detail: their clothes, bags, shoe
s, hairstyles, even their sayings. She memorized it all.
She was setting them in her sights, certain that if everything kept on going well, she too would soon be able to move to the famous seaside town, and sunbathe in one of those beach establishments with lofty-sounding names such as Royal and Augustus and Imperiale, and Cesare would take her to dance at that exclusive nightclub that looked like a house, where it was said the Milanese ladies and gentlemen went to play cards from the afternoon until dawn, interrupting the game only for their oysters-and-champagne dinner, and they were used to losing large amounts of money to each other without getting angry because it would all start over again the next day, and the loser would become a winner.
A bored prisoner of the small seaside town, Arianna read all of the books she had brought from home, ventured out on long walks on the beach, never smiling at the comments and shouts of appreciation from lifeguards and tourists, tanned as never before, and became as beautiful as beautiful can be — then she realized it was still the tenth of July.
Vittorio saved her summer. Long gone the times when he would spend his days playing soccer on the shore, now he spent his afternoons at home lying on the sofa, immersed in that blessed otium that gives thoughts time to leaven. He interrupted it only to read the three books of Dune and undertake lengthy conversations with his mother, who had never seemed as understanding and tolerant and serene and intelligent as when they exchanged opinions on the bright future that awaited him. The rest of the time he spent listening over and over to the first album he had ever bought: The Stranger by Billy Joel.
The idyll was interrupted one morning in early August, around nine, when a tarpaulin-covered truck with BAROCCIAI TESSUTI s.p.A. painted on the side stopped in front of the lemonary, and out of it came Moreno Barbugli and Cesare.
