Infinite Summer

by Edoardo Nesi

  Vittorio lifted his eyes from the plate, announced he felt unwell, got up from the table, and went to his room, followed by his parents’ stunned gazes. He lay down on his bed, picked up the phone book, and decided there would be no music during this final push. Perhaps it was the music that had distracted him. He quickly finished the T’s and the brief U’s. At the V’s, he found the resident of number 30, via Frilli: VAIANI David.

  He had now found the number of all of the residents of via Frilli! All of them but her, and the phone book was nearly finished. There were three columns of V’s left, and a page and a half of Z’s. Vittorio left the room, went to his mother, who was watching television on her own in the living room, and told her that, from tomorrow, he wanted to start dressing differently: no more flannel trousers, no more penny loafers, no more lambswool sweaters. He wanted to wear jeans every day and fade them himself, he said. He wanted to buy Camperos and denim shirts with mother-of-pearl buttons and lumberjack shirts and a Levi’s jeans jacket with fleece lining and a whole load of other really cool things he liked and never told her about. It was important, he said.

  Arianna stared at him, taken aback by that sudden announcement, perturbed by her son’s unheard-of ultimatum-like tone, offended by his attack on her sartorial choices.

  — Yes, of course, whatever you like.

  Vittorio smiled, hugged her, and added that he would no longer be cutting his hair, too, and went back to his room. He lay down on the bed, picked up the phone book, and started to read through the names in the comfort of an unburdened soul. And there, right at the end, he found it: ZUCCHI Dante, 40 v. A. Frilli…3 40 05.

  He didn’t feel as thrilled as he had expected. It still meant nothing. He had to call her right away, even if was a bit late, or he never would. If he started to think about it, he would find a dozen reasons to postpone the call, and then it would become too difficult. It was now or never. So he got up, tiptoed to his parents’ room, sat on the bed, and dialed the number.

  His heart was beating like a drum, and he closed his eyes while the connection was established. A light click, the ringing tone, and a young female voice answered. Vittorio introduced himself and excused himself for the impertinence — using exactly that word, “impertinence”—then said that he absolutely had to talk to her because she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. When he heard her laugh, he told her how he had come to find her — the story of the phone book and Pink Floyd — and confessed that, despite all his research, he still didn’t know her name.

  When she said she was called Milena, he answered that it was a truly beautiful name, and then he told her many other things, and the phone call went very well indeed.

  MONTE CARLO

  WHEN IVO INVITED ARIANNA to Monte Carlo to see the finals of the international tennis tournament, she laughed and said that he was truly, truly mad, but couldn’t help imagining just how beautiful Monte Carlo had to be in early spring, with the perfumed breeze that slips over the calm sea, the cool champagne, the oysters, the Hôtel de Paris, and all the other marvels that Ivo had just finished describing to her.

  In the short pause that followed, he added that without her it wouldn’t just rain but hail, the breeze would become an Arctic wind, the oysters would be smell of gasoline, and the champagne would be flat and tepid.

  Please come, he said, and she answered, No, thank you, but Ivo noticed that she had enjoyed the call. So he called straight back asking to speak to her husband, who upon being invited to go to the country club in the Pagoda to see Borg playing against Guillermo Vilas accepted immediately, filled with excitement, and couldn’t stop telling him how sensational that tournament had been up to that point.

  — All I’ll say, Ivo, is that the world’s top players were there. Not only Borg and Vilas. There were Lendl, Clerc, and Gerulaitis, and all of them, think about it, lost to Borg without winning so much as a set, and then there was old Orantes, and Gildemeister, Victor Pecci, Connors, who lost to an unknown French player, Panatta, Bertolucci, Barazzutti. Even McEnroe! All of them!

  Ivo arrived to pick him up at eight o’clock the following morning. It was Easter Sunday. Arianna came to the window to wave them off, and couldn’t help smiling when she saw Ivo, with Cesare already in the car, getting out of it with the excuse of removing a single pine needle from the windshield, turning toward her, putting one hand on his heart and pretending to faint.

  When he got back in the car and found Cesare sitting there, Ivo realized that he wouldn’t enjoy himself at all, and decided to bring Citarella along.

  — Citarella in Monte Carlo? They won’t let him in, for sure…Where’s he going to sit?

  — Well, I’ve got a spare ticket because Andrea Vecchio told me at the last minute he couldn’t make it. We’ll put him on the backseat. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable, but he’ll fit. Come on, let’s go. Where does he live?

  When Ivo Barrocciai arrived in the Green Zone, he was filled with excitement. He had never been there, and immediately loved it.

  — You see, Cesare? You see what these people have done? They built themselves an entire neighborhood without asking anyone’s permission. And they were right! Who should they ask, the pope? Aren’t they the people? And who does the land belong to, anyway? It’s theirs, they bought it with their hard work! And why shouldn’t they build a house on their own land if that’s what they want? Can’t you see, Cesare, that these people are making their dreams come true? Can’t you see that this is the real Italian dream? They left everything behind: their towns, their houses, the land, their families, their traditions…Cesare, these people have made a biblical exodus to escape poverty, do you understand that? In the hope of a better life! Isn’t that fantastic?

  Vezzosi nodded doggedly while Barrocciai slipped through the middle of the Green Zone in his Pagoda at walking pace, with the roof down, and he smiled and greeted everyone. And how he enjoyed himself pointing out to Cesare the boys who whizzed in front of them on their bikes and played soccer in the middle of the street; the men in their work clothes who, despite the fact it was Easter morning, were climbing into their Piaggio Apes overflowing with tools and trundling away; the couples in their Sunday best making their way slowly toward the church; the women shouting from balconies emblazoned with drying sheets!

  — Look, Cesare! Look at life! The wonderful, amazing adventure that is life! These people are heroes, all of them! Without them, Italy would be nothing! They wake up in the morning and work all day and go home only when it’s dark, just in time to dine with their families and watch television and fall asleep, and the next morning they set off again, and so it goes for years and years, and they live the happiest of lives without even realizing it, without even worrying for a second about happiness, because all that counts for them is their duty, for fuck’s sake, and the future! Can you see them? For them there is no past and no present! Only the future! They have nothing, but instead of despairing they find joy in every small victory! And they never moan and never cry…Look at them! While they save themselves and their families from poverty, they’re building the future of a whole country! My God, if I wasn’t who I am, I would want to be one of them!

  As they arrived at Citarella’s house, Ivo climbed out of the Pagoda and rang the doorbell. A boy quickly came to the window and went straight back in, then a robust, not totally unattractive, not particularly tall woman appeared on the balcony and looked out at them.

  — Good morning, Mr. Barrocciai! I’ll get Pasquale for you right away!

  — Good morning, dear Mrs. Citarella. Have we already met?

  —With that car, you couldn’t be anyone but Mr. Barrocciai! Pasquale talks about you all the time. Good morning, Mr. Vezzosi, how are you? Pasquale! Pasquale! He’s just getting dressed for Mass…Would you like to come in for a coffee?

  — Thank you, madam, but I’ll have to take you up on that some other time. We have come to get your husband. Today he’ll have to miss Mass. We’re going to Monte Carlo!

/>   — To Monte Carlo? Really? Pasquale! Put on your best clothes, you’re going to Monte Carlo! Put on your white shirt!

  Pasquale came running down the stairs just two minutes later, buttoning a white shirt, and didn’t ask why they were going to Monte Carlo, nor did he once mention the extreme discomfort of having to contort himself to fit on the rear jump seat of the Pagoda. He thanked Ivo profusely, and spoke only when asked a question.

  There was traffic on the highway, and when they got to the border at Ventimiglia there was an awkward moment at passport control when it transpired that Citarella didn’t have — actually had never had — a passport, and hadn’t said so earlier because he thought that Monte Carlo was in Italy. The policeman brought his head close to the car window, looked at Citarella, shook his head, and said that without a passport he couldn’t cross the border.

  Pasquale whispered to Ivo to let him out for a moment. He walked up to the policeman and began to talk to him in a totally incomprehensible dialect, gesticulating wildly. The policeman responded by gesticulating even more. After a while, they shook hands, and Pasquale returned to the car.

  — We can go, Ivo. There’s no problem. He’s a paisà, from Bovino…

  They arrived at the country club around one and took their courtside seats. When a pale sun emerged from the clouds, Ivo and Cesare put on their black Wayfarers and Pasquale slipped on a glamorous, totally unexpected pair of mirror-lens Ray-Bans, and they watched the merciless psychological destruction of Vilas by Björn Borg, 6–1, 6–0, 6–2, and Citarella couldn’t stop sniggering at the sight of all those rich people turning their heads like windshield wipers to follow every shot.

  Immediately after witnessing that disappointing mismatch, however, they had the good fortune of watching one of the best doubles matches of all time, in which Adriano Panatta and Paolo Bertolucci surprisingly bested Vitas Gerulaitis and John McEnroe, 6–2, 5–7, 6–4.

  During their journey home, Ivo wanted to stop for dinner in the famous seaside town encircled by the smallest mountain range in the world, and while they ate their penne agli scampi and drank Gavi di Gavi, he launched into an excited, confused speech.

  Ivo said that Panatta and Bertolucci’s victory over two champions like Gerulaitis and McEnroe had been a real marvel, because it went well beyond tennis. It gave him great hope for the future and was a huge inspiration for his work. That triumph over the world’s top players had enlightened him — his exact words — and had shown what a perfect Italian victory is: one achieved with talent, class, style, spontaneity, elegance, and a profound knowledge of the game.

  — It’s no coincidence they won in Monte Carlo, boys, because this is really our house and it doesn’t belong to the French at all…On that slow red clay, between the pines and the palms, beneath the soft spring Mediterranean sun, refreshed by the breeze that, if you smell it properly, you can tell has traveled over the sea from here…I’m sure that in Forest Hills or in Boston or in Cincinnati, Panatta and Bertolucci would never have won against two beasts like Gerulaitis and McEnroe…They wouldn’t have even gone to play in America in the summer, with that ridiculous humidity, to wear out their knees and ankles on that gray earth which is harder than cement…Not when they could stay here and enjoy the sunsets and the sea bass and the Gavi di Gavi. Speaking of which…

  He got the waiter’s attention by holding the bottle upside down and smiling, to get him to bring them another.

  —What was I saying? Yes, because Panatta and Bertolucci are fundamentally, even genetically different from the other greats like Hewitt–McMillan, Newcombe–Roche, Smith–Lutz, Gottfried–Ramirez, McEnroe–Fleming…And this is exactly where their greatness and their absolute Italianness lies…Those two aren’t just professionals, they’re artists! The best amateurs in the world…Lazy, brilliant, indolent, free…Yes, they’re free and couldn’t be freer, and incapable of devoting their lives to just one thing, not even to the sport they globally excel in. They may win a little less than the others, yes, but on certain days it is impossible to beat Panatta and Bertolucci, and do you know why? Because winning in Monte Carlo or at the Foro Italico in Rome means so much more to them than winning in Cincinnati, and so they give their very best, but you can’t give your best every day, you know? And so when they win like they did today, they are no longer just tennis players, they become something more…They come to embody absolute class and, therefore, the very best of Italy. The spirit of the time, even. Yes, the spirit of the Italian time, that is…I don’t know if you’re following me, guys. I don’t think so, both of you have blank faces…But it’s all crystal clear to me, obvious even…

  He poured himself an ice-cold glass of Gavi di Gavi and drank it in one go, right to the last drop.

  — Here, today, there is a great lesson to be learned, and the lesson is that this is Italy’s time in the world, and we have to do everything we believe in, and in our own way, because everything is going to be fine! A good star is shining over us, understand? It’s impossible to get it wrong! Life is now! Today!

  Ivo fell silent and stayed quiet for a whole minute, breathing in deeply with his eyes closed, then he announced that his dream would be to live just like that. His entire life.

  — With this wonderful abandonment, he went on. After a full day of work in my new factory, if God willing I’m ever able to get in there…

  He raised his glass.

  — With my friends…

  And he pointed at them.

  — In incredible places like this…

  He stretched out his arms to indicate the magnificent waterfront and the seemingly infinite beach and the pure beauty of the smallest mountain range in the world, whose marble shone brightly in the light of the full moon, and remained for a full minute in that position of Christ the Redeemer.

  — And with the women that I like, he added, this time without managing to look at anyone.

  Then he instructed the waiters to bring another bottle of Gavi di Gavi and three lobsters alla catalana.

  CINZIA’S PARTY

  AFTER ALL THE HARD WORK to find Milena and the many brilliant phone calls that had followed that first one, at Cinzia’s party Vittorio found himself completely tongue-tied. It took him half an hour just to go and introduce himself, and then, once he was standing in front of her, all he managed to do was say “Hi, I’m Vittorio,” smile like an idiot, and hold out his hand as if she were a friend of his mother’s or a teacher.

  When Milena shook it, her friends started giggling and he felt terribly embarrassed and moved away without a word, and could not find the courage to go back to her again, even though Milena hadn’t laughed at all when he had held out his hand, and even if that hand-shaking thing had seemed a bit strange, she thought it was a somewhat old-style, respectful gesture, and had actually liked it.

  It was Cinzia’s fifteenth birthday party, and after the cake and the happy birthday sung in chorus, someone turned out the lights, turned on the Technics amplifier, and started playing slow songs, one after the other, over and over: “A mano a mano” and “Storie” by Riccardo Cocciante, “I giardini di marzo” and “E penso a te” and “Il mio canto libero” by Battisti, “I Can’t Tell You Why” by the Eagles, “Moonflower” by Santana, “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago, and “Stay” by Jackson Browne, and the boys and the girls — all the same age, all at the first dance party of their brand-new lives — started to dance slow.

  Following an ancient ritual, a boy had to get up from the line of chairs he was sitting on, walk the five meters that separated him from the chosen girl, and ask her to dance. If and when the girl accepted, the newly formed couple moved toward what had become (with the table full of snacks and Coca-Cola now moved against a wall) the dance floor and started to sway back and forth, experiencing for the first time both the charm of those songs and the absolute novelty of the closeness between bodies, which was, however, still relative, because the girls held out their arms and rested their hands on the shoulders of the boys, who in tu
rn rested their hands on the girls’ waists, thus establishing a distance that, by the end of the song, had almost always been somewhat reduced.

  Milena was in high demand — second only to Beatrice, who had a reputation for being easy — but she only agreed to dance with two boys, who were kept rigorously at arm’s length, and never for more than one song at a time. Every so often, Vittorio thought she was throwing furtive glances in his direction, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He had developed a complicated procedure for looking at her: as he didn’t want her to notice him doing so, he pretended to look out of the window, where he could see her reflection in the glass as she spoke with her friends and giggled and kindly declined the offers to dance from the boys who approached her. Every so often, however, damn it, it really looked like she was looking at him all alone, with his back turned to the party, pretending to stare at the sky like a convict.

  He was embarrassed. Once again. For all sorts of reasons. Because he had held out his hand to her as an old uncle would do. Because he could not find the courage to speak to her. Because he was watching her reflection in the window instead than talking to her, though in the glass she was truly, truly beautiful. Because he was showing himself to be completely different from that brilliant boy who had found her number in the phone book and then called so many times to tell her all kinds of brilliant and funny and highly personal things.

  Only when the sky started to turn yellow did Vittorio notice the sunset. His gaze changed focus: it left her reflection and turned to the sky in flames. He realized that it was, in a way, his first sunset, as in his whole life he had never looked at one for more than a few seconds, and he found that he couldn’t bear both its indescribable, superhuman beauty and the fact that the world put on such a magnificent show every evening for anyone to watch, and nobody cared. It seemed a terrible waste, exactly like his boyhood, and then he thought that if the sun was setting, the party would soon be over.