Lost Words

by Nicola Gardini

  “Why aren’t you married?” Andrea asked Ippolito.

  “Not everyone gets married. Do you want to get married?”

  Andrea made a face that meant nothing. The two girls said that they really wanted to get married.

  Mirko picked the Olivetti up from the ground and started playing with it. “Leave it alone!” I shouted, as if a thief were trying to rob me. I had never had the courage to touch the Olivetti. To me it was something prohibited, inviolable. Something divine.

  Ignoring my jealousy, Ippolito slipped a clean sheet of paper under the roller and indicated to Mirko the letters of his name. Mirko hit the keys slowly and clumsily, and then he showed everyone the word, his name, like a trophy.

  Frustrated, I stuttered: “I have to go.”

  He didn’t try to stop me.

  I remained outside with my ear against the door, listening to the snickering of the two boys and the striking of keys at irregular intervals by clumsy fingers.

  *.

  “This is too much!” thundered Signora Vezzali, bursting into the loge.

  We looked at her in dismay.

  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock before entering,” my mother shouted at her.

  “Yesterday the Professor invited my son up to his house!”

  “I know. My son went, too. What of it?”

  “What of it? I’m telling you it’s disgraceful! As a mother I can’t tolerate this. We have to step in and do something. Elvira, don’t you see what happens on television?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. All the Professor did is offer a piece of cake to the children! First you complain that he’s too aloof and now you don’t like that he’s being kind and hospitable. Tell me, what do you want from the poor man? He can’t do anything without you criticizing him! Control yourself, please!”

  “If anyone is going to give my son snacks it’s me! Who does he think he is, this Professor?” Emphasizing the word with sarcasm, as if she were choking on saliva, she added, “The things my Andrea came back and told me! And all that talk about sex! He even told Andrea not to get married when he grows up! Don’t you realize, Elvira, we have to be careful! The world is full of perverts and disgusting maniacs. They entice you with candy or cake, and then . . . I don’t even want to think about it! That worm! We have to stop him! Well what can you expect from someone who killed his own mother?”

  Signora Vezzali stood there in the loge spouting slander, like a rabid beast. Once she got it off her chest, she went back into the elevator.

  We sat there waiting. We were expecting a call on the intercom or a visit from the seamstress, who never failed to appear when she heard screaming and yelling. But we didn’t hear a word from anyone. A bad sign. A very bad sign. She had gotten him in trouble, and my mother was accusing herself. And now? Should she warn him or not? Maybe it would be better to leave it alone. He wouldn’t believe her. Maybe Signora Vezzali was all bark and no bite. All she wanted to do was tell Elvira what a rotten mother she was. In the end, when everything was said and done, they were insults directed at her. Yes, better to forget the whole matter—in case she stirred up even more trouble . . . But why oh why hadn’t she bitten her tongue? Why in the world had she given him such bad advice?

  “We’re such idiots!” she fretted. “The other tenants don’t care for the Professor? So what! . . . Who cares! But no, I had to go sticking my big nose into it. Why, oh why? With all the good things I’ve done, with everything I keep doing for the people in this building—they haven’t changed their opinion of me one bit! Now I look like a woman who can’t protect her own son, who feeds him to the orca! I’m such an idiot! Why? . . .”

  She kept on saying that she was an idiot and asking “Why?” deep into the night.

  Before we closed, Vezzali came downstairs again and delivered a sheet of paper, written in bold, uppercase letters, to be distributed to all the owners in the building. Everyone, that is, except Professor Foschi, for obvious reasons. The flier called for a co-op meeting on Friday, the day after tomorrow, at the parish hall. There was only one item on the agenda: OUR CHILDREN’S SAFETY. QUESTIONS AND STEPS TO BE TAKEN. The doorwoman was urged to participate.

  Fine, she would go to the assembly, since they had asked her, and she would give them a piece of her mind.

  My father, sitting in his armchair with the newspaper, was overjoyed. Let the Professor play the professor, and the parents play the parents! . . . Ignoring or perhaps oblivious to my mother’s drama, he tried to explain to us the historic compromise being forged between Communists and Christian Democrats, the country’s two biggest political parties.

  *.

  Fewer than half of the owners showed up, but not a single one of the most vicious critics failed to appear.

  “My dear fellow owners, thank you for turning out in such large numbers,” began Signora Vezzali, the chair of the meeting, pretending not to notice the many empty seats, “and thank you, Signora Lojacono, for coming forward and testifying about your awful experience. On everyone’s behalf I also wish to thank the doorwoman, who can illuminate certain questions . . . So then, let us begin.” And she started reading from a sheet of paper that Signora Dell’Uomo handed to her.

  “Very troublesome things are happening in our building. Let me begin with the latest. Last Wednesday, October 10, Professor Foschi invited, into his home, some of our children, including my own, and for reasons that can hardly be considered commendable. By means of a tasty snack (a layer cake), this ‘gentleman,’ if he can be called that, tried to ingratiate himself with our young ones. It doesn’t take a policeman to realize that this was a clear attempt at corrupting minors. Who in the world has ever seen an individual of that ilk, who barely nods when he runs into you, go to the trouble of offering a snack to strange children? This reeks to high heaven, that much is clear. I wouldn’t be so concerned had I not observed in Professor Foschi such clear signs of imbalance and perversion. I’ll leave aside his manners, which are so hypocritical and effeminate. I only wish to point out, as you all know, that he didn’t shed a single tear at the death of his mother, that he suppressed the truth about her tragic demise, that he has never been married, that he has no job, or at least not a job he can mention. Nor does he ever receive visitors. Now isn’t it odd that such a man—I can’t even call him that—should invite our children into his home? And why is it that we know nothing about his private life? So much discretion can only hide a depraved and immoral existence. I would very much like to hear the opinions of those of you in attendance. The moment has come to step up. WE OWE IT TO OUR CHILDREN!”

  “You said it was a layer cake?” Paolini specified.

  “Yes,” Vezzali confirmed, pleased with herself. “He also offered them something to drink. My son told me it was orange soda, and God only knows whether there wasn’t some powder mixed in.”

  “You never know who you’re dealing with,” whispered Signora Caselli to Signora Rovigo.

  “And what if Professor Foschi was only trying to do something nice?” suggested Signora Zarchi, getting up from her chair. “Why do we always have to think that bad intentions are lurking behind every kind gesture? I think you’re dramatizing the whole thing. My daughter was there and she told me that the Professor is a very nice man, a good person . . .”

  “Your daughter’s opinion doesn’t count!” Terzoli jumped up. “Little children are gullible. Especially girls! That’s why we’re here. They wouldn’t need our help if they knew how to recognize bad intentions.” And she looked lovingly at the crucifix that was hanging over the door.

  “Signorina Terzoli is right,” Vezzali stepped in. “My son Andrea, who’s a boy, understood perfectly that the Professor was setting a trap! ‘Mamma,’ he told me, ‘if he’d tried to lay a finger on me, I would have kicked him between the legs.’”

  “My Mirko stayed as close to the door as he could
,” Signora Cavallo reported.

  “You yourselves are saying that the Professor never raised a hand to your children,” Zarchi continued.

  “If he’d even dared” the seamstress blurted out, “I would have carved his eyes out with my scissors!”

  “And I’m telling you the Professor is an angel,” Signora Zarchi concluded. “What proof do you have he was a pervert? A layer cake?”

  The two men burst out laughing.

  “There’s nothing to laugh about! Do we want our children to come home covered with cuts and scrapes?” hollered Dell’Uomo, furious, using a possessive adjective that was completely inappropriate. “Bloodied and bruised? Having lost their innocence? Is this what we want? The same thing that happened to Riccardo last year—forgive me, Signora Lojacano—happening to our children?”

  “Signora Dell’Uomo is right. We need to stop this before it’s too late,” said Signora Rovigo, also leaping to her feet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” intoned Signora Zarchi, indignant, “don’t mind me, but I’ll be leaving now. Pardon my saying so, but, honestly, I find this meeting ridiculous. Nothing but gratuitous alarmism.” Without uttering another word, she walked out, leaving a cloud of rosewater perfume in her wake.

  Dell’Uomo looked at the others and shrugged her shoulders. Terzoli tried to whisper something into Paolini’s ear, but everyone could hear it. “Zarchi only talks that way because she’s of the same ilk.”

  “Let’s hear what the doorwoman has to say?” Vezzali proposed. “Elvira, you know the Professor well. You had lunch together in the loge every day this summer, it would seem. Your son, I have heard, spent long hours at his house . . . Doing what exactly?”

  My mother roused herself from a kind of daze. “I know the Professor well enough to consider him a fine person,” she affirmed, with one hand over her heart. “My son, it’s true, spent a lot of time with him this summer, and I can assure you that nothing bad happened to him.”

  “Are you sure?” Vezzali insinuated.

  “Of course I’m sure! My son was helping the Professor write an English dictionary. The Professor is a lexic . . . a lexic . . .”—the word wouldn’t come to her, and I whispered it but she didn’t hear—“what I mean to say is, he writes dictionaries. You think he doesn’t work, but you’re wrong. He works very hard! He’s always hunched over the typewriter, do you understand? Can’t you hear the typing through his door? He defines words!”

  The chairwoman wasted no time commenting on this piece of information. “And your son acted as his assistant, no less? How is it possible that a Professor comes to choose a boy as an assistant? The whole thing sounds like a setup! Don’t you think that maybe the Professor took advantage of your son’s innocence? We all know how certain things go: the older person wins the trust of the younger one through some kind of reward and then, when he asks for something in exchange, the younger one can’t say no.”

  “I wouldn’t even dream of it!” my mother responded. “Do you think I would leave my son in the hands of a maniac?”

  “I’m not saying that you knew . . .”

  “I repeat: the Professor is a good, honest man. There’s not many good people like him left in the world. He doesn’t even see the evil around him! He would never do anything bad . . . He is . . . a genius! None of you understand. If he seems strange, it’s because his mind is occupied with his own thoughts, with Latin, with English. He knows lots of poems by heart. All of literature . . .”

  “You hear what the doorwoman’s got to say?” the seamstress laughed. “You can’t expect her to betray her little Professor. Why don’t we ask her how much money she socked away from their little lunches?”

  “What? How dare you!” my mother snapped. “My money I earn myself, off the sweat of my brow.”

  Dell’Uomo asked her to calm down, but she could not be contained. “You invited me here to cover me with shit!”

  “Nice way to express yourself,” said Terzoli, scandalized.

  A hubbub filled the room. No one had ever seen my mother like this, not even me.

  “Silence! Silence!” Dell’Uomo repeated.

  My mother looked at her, eyes ablaze. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves. You think you’re so high and mighty because you bought yourselves a hole in the wall, but you’re nothing but derelicts! I would never want to be like you. You’re cruel! You wouldn’t hesitate to lock up Jesus Christ himself. Keep away from me! You’re the ones who are perverts, not people like the Professor!”

  Paolini pointed her index finger at her. “Watch your mouth!”

  “We’re not going to let her get away with this,” thundered Rovigo, “write everything down in the minutes.”

  My mother was beside herself. “You’re nothing but a gang of bullies! Dirty liars! You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

  “You sold your soul to the devil!” cried the seamstress. “You’d do anything for money!”

  “You ugly cow!” my mother retorted. And she hurled herself at the woman. If Vezzali’s husband hadn’t stopped her, the seamstress would’ve lost a few teeth in the melee.

  “And the rest of you have nothing to say?” my mother asked the others, who were observing passively, as if they were at the movies. “You let them insult me like that without saying a word? Cowards!”

  She was right. No one said anything.

  “Let’s hear what the son has to say,” Paolini proposed out of the blue. Those few words were enough to restore the silence.

  “Good idea. Let’s hear what the doorwoman’s son has to say,” Vezzali seconded her.

  I stood up and turned in their direction. They were hideous, each of them, even the meeker ones—a rush of ill feelings had left a grotesque frown on their faces. I started to say that the Professor and I were friends, that . . . my tears kept me from continuing. I still felt as if I were in his hallway, waiting for his voice to call me back . . .

  “You see? What did I tell you!” Vezzali exulted.

  *.

  The smell of smoke forced the tenants on the fourth and fifth floors to rush out of their apartments.

  Terzoli, who had more foresight than the others, brought with her a full battery of belongings. The only baggage that Signor Biondo carried was his wife, hanging onto his neck, who, in the commotion, looked like a sack of potatoes. He reminded me of Aeneas fleeing Troy with Anchises on his shoulders.

  “Over there, Signor Biondo,” my mother instructed him. “You can lay her on my bed.”

  The fire truck parked by the fountain. A team raced up the stairs with the water pump and evacuated the lower floors, where the residents continued to ignore what was happening above them. A group of men stood in the lobby to prevent more people from coming in.

  My mother switched off the central electricity and went down to the cellar to turn off the gas before the whole building exploded. Flames came through the three windows in waves, sharp in the darkness of the winter afternoon. Everyone was staring at them from the center of the courtyard. Men and women, tall and short: shocked, silent, as if observing the apparition of a miraculous star. Everyone, except the Professor, who had decided not to come back home that evening.

  The fire was out in a few minutes.

  “Damn him, anyhow!” shouted Dell’Uomo, returning to the lobby with a gaggle of her followers. “A few more minutes and our apartments would have gone up in smoke, too!”

  The sound of the firemen putting out the blaze echoed through the stairwell.

  “Damn him!” repeated Terzoli. “You can smell it all the way down here. For Pete’s sake! What are those guys up to now? I’m afraid they’re going to break into my living room with their axes!”

  And Vezzali. “He’s going to have to pay for us to stay in a hotel!”

  And Rovigo. “But the water damages the walls! I don’t want any leak.”

  And
Paolini. “We’ll have to change everything, from top to bottom, apartments and stairs. Luckily the building’s insured. By the way, Elvira, have your already notified the manager?”

  And Vezzali. “But for Foschi’s apartment, the condominium mustn’t pay a penny! Make sure you tell Aldrovanti, Elvira. NOT A PENNY!”

  They blamed the whole business on the Professor, the only one who had lost everything. No one was thinking, no one dared to talk about revenge, not even the ones who, only two days earlier, at the notorious meeting, had possessed the courage to laugh. Not even Zarchi, who certainly didn’t believe the Professor was guilty of anything, much less the fire. To avoid stoking their anger, she only said that everyone would have to keep their windows open for a few days and the smell would disappear.

  “Brilliant,” Dell’Uomo attacked her, “all we need now is pneumonia!”

  “Pneumonia would be a blessing!” her husband intervened. “All this smoke causes cancer!”

  Once they had finished ranting, they went upstairs and quickly rounded up articles of clothing, and to the beat of carefully-staged coughing, migrated en masse toward the homes of friends and relatives. The only thing left in front of number 15 was our car and the car of the Professor.

  The firemen finished carrying out the debris.

  “You weren’t able to save anything?” my mother asked the chief.

  “What is it we were supposed to save, signora?” he replied ironically.

  *.

  Before Christmas the tenants had another meeting. The result of the vote was announced in a letter from the manager, sent by certified mail.

  This is to inform you that the residents of Via Icaro 15, at their meeting of December 10, 1973, have decided to abolish doorman service for budgetary reasons. The rooms should be vacated by March 31, 1974. You are being offered the possibility to remain in the apartment with your family for a monthly rent of fifty thousand liras.

  They were taking away both her job and her home, punishing her in the most vile manner possible. Yet she, the doorwoman, was not upset. A veil of relief had been spread over her tired soul. Finally she would be leaving that place. Finally she could turn her back on those people—it was an honor to be kicked out!