The oranges of Dubai

by Quelli di ZEd

  Chapter 13

  When I wake up, Teresa is not in the room. On the pillow, in her place, a note. Her and the children are in the restaurant hall, having breakfast. She proposes to spend the morning at the beach. From the large glass wall of the living room, the sun invades, illuminating the clear furniture and the dust that fluctuates lightly. In the sea, several boats become smaller on the horizon, leaving foamy wakes that dissolve slowly. On the bridge that goes from the second floor of the hotel to the beach there is a great ferment of little dots marching toward the sea.

  In front of the bathroom mirror, a face scrutinizes me with great attention. A face that I know by heart, in its usual unnatural expression of observations from the mirror. It’s a face with which I work, eat, sleep, quarrel, reassure, which has a different shade for each of these actions, yet in the mirror there is always and only this suspended expression, without inclinations, without determination. I try to hop and run on the spot for a few minutes, the parquet fluctuates under my bony feet. My breath is that of a fifty-year-old man who never competed against his body. Less than ten minutes and the athletic man parenthesis is closed. Through the glass I examine the sun, already high. The air-conditioning of the room doesn't allow me to assess the external temperature. I look at my inactive hands of surgeon on vacation. My fingers drum on the windowsill, pacing the slowness of these hours, and I bask in the idea to laze around for the whole day, as I haven’t done in a while. But I am certain that I won’t be granted that.

  When I reach the lunch room, they are still there. Teresa is on the phone, she is talking to someone about a meeting at noon at the tourist dock. I turn an interrogative look to the children, but they gesture for me to wait for her.

  When Teresa ends the conversation, she welcomes me with the first of the "happy birthdays" of a day that promises to be a long celebration.

  «Yesterday afternoon I took this leaflet in the hotel hall. It’s about a boat trip to Little Palm Island. I wanted it to be a surprise, so I phoned to book. They wait for us at noon.»

  She hands me the leaflet. Little Palm Island is a totally artificial island built at little distance from the coast. It is a scrub of thick vegetation in the middle of the sea, that offers deluxe relax on beaches with a very thin white sand, artificial as well. Another taste of fictitious exoticism in this auctioned portion of the world. As boys we played Monopoly, where you buy and sell plots, build houses, then demolish them and replace them with deluxe hotels. I wasn’t a great strategist, so I always ended up accumulating debts, mortgaging and losing. At some point we became ourselves one of those playing cards, a plot to be purchased for a good price. And, like in the game, since we didn't belong to anybody we have been auctioned. Come on, make an offer gentlemen!

  I point to Teresa the price of the trip, printed on the bottom of the leaflet. She smiles and tells me that today is a special day, and it must be celebrated in the most beautiful way, without minding expenses. I insist to know if only I consider it excessive.

  «I would never imagine that even in Palermo we could come to pay astronomic figures for anything. It is too much!»

  I believe I pronounced these words quite loudly, because I feel eyes and ears around me capturing me in their curiosity. I instinctively lower my head, as if this were enough to escape attention. Teresa reminds me that we are in a tourist heaven for rich people only, and that the same figures never impressed me anywhere else.

  My phone rings. “Anna M.” Is flashing on the display.

  «Hey, happy birthday, doctor. By now it’s official.»

  «Thanks», I tell her, becoming aware that my face will be rubbed for the whole day in the fact that now I am fifty years old.

  «The meeting is at eight o’clock», she continues, «there will be everyone except Matteo Messina. The conditions of his mother have gotten worse, it seems. She was discharged from the hospital two days ago, but the situation is critical. He and his sister watch over her together every evening».

  There is a silent pause before Anna starts speaking again. In that pause I think about Matteo, a rebellious teenager who smoked joints, paid for sex, got drunk every Saturday evening and at times didn’t go back home, leaving his mother in the deepest dismay, praying for her son to return, badly off but alive. A picture that strongly overlaps that of the sober seller of musical instruments, father of two children, faithful husband, that, according to Anna, he has become in the last ten years.

  «I’m sorry that he won't be with us. I will pay him a visit as soon as possible», she restarts with a sigh, then her low tone dissolves, replaced by a feverish organizational mania, «However I was calling you for another reason. Tonight I couldn’t sleep. I felt that something was still missing for this so special occasion in which we will be all together again to be perfect. Then an idea came to my mind. We need a theme for the evening.»

  Life tries people. It changes some of them completely, for better or for worse, depending on the way in which events mix with their predispositions. Others it doesn't even brush, just stressing more their features. While probably Matteo belongs to the first category, Anna is for sure part of the second. After thirty years, she is still the same class leader she was once, a volcanic and determined planner. So, it seems, besides my birthday and the reunion of old schoolmates, according to our friend the evening needs a theme.

  «What do you think of something like... nostalgia?»

  «I believe it’s implied in a reunion of more-than-mature high school students, isn’t it?»

  «Yes, but I would like it to be more explicit... I mean... that every one of us tried to express it as he pleases.»

  «And what should we do?» I ask her, sipping a good ristretto.

  This morning the lunch room is more crowded. The weekend favours the flow of new groups of tourists.

  «Easy, all it takes is bringing something concerning the theme, anything. A photo, a memory of the past, a song, a poetry. Everything is allowed, provided that it speaks of nostalgia.»

  She pronounces the last word with such an emphasis that it makes even her laugh. I imagine her with her face stretched, looking at the ceiling, a raised eyebrow, with a mature woman frown and a self-assurance quite different from the embarrassed shyness of when she was seventeen years old. Teresa laughs, amused by my expression that is a mixture of perplexity and disgust.

  «And if I don't think about anything? Also because where am I supposed to find a photo or some old heirloom now, a thousand kilometres from my house?» I hazard.

  «You pay supper for everyone... but consider that we will be quite a lot.»

  «Can I offer you a sandwich?!»

  «Sorry, I already booked the restaurant, and I assure you that it’s not a cheap sandwich store.»

  «I imagine that you still have to inform the others. Let’s see what they think of it.»

  «Sorry again, I already sent an SMS to everybody, and I only received positive answers. Therefore, doctor, start to rack your brain. See you tomorrow.»

  Without allowing me to reply, she ends the conversation.

  Teresa finds the idea more amusing than it is to me. I would have been surprised otherwise.

  We join the procession of ants moving toward the beach. It is a catwalk of multicoloured sarongs, of caps with rigid visors, fashionable sunglasses, cloth bags and rubber flip-flops. Under us, cars dart in the two opposite directions.

  Giuliana counts the white hairs on my head.

  «One, two, three, one hundred, one hundred and thirty, two hundred and fifty, three hundred and six. They almost doubled in just one night, Dad. But fear not, you are always charming. Middle-aged men have other weapons than comeliness. You could talk about the nostalgia of when your hair was all dark.»

  And between a wink and an affectionate shove with her shoulder, my daughter drags me to the beach to plunge in a clear and calm sea.

  Punctual, at noon we are on the dock of the small tourist port where the Elios – the boat that offers the trip to Little
Palm Island and a lunch of local fish below deck – is moored. We get in methodically. A crew member, on top of the ladder, helps the ladies, repeatedly offering his hand with a respectful gesture. In a few minutes the deck is full of excited tourists looking around to admire the gilded reflexes of the sun rays on the crystal-clear surface of the sea. We gradually get used to the fluctuating surface under our feet. Marco holds to the parapet and makes grimaces of disgust that make Giuliana laugh.

  «I hate sea sickness», he comments, laconically.

  «Breathe deeply, and if the nausea worsens try to chew something solid, but avoid to drink», his mother suggests, passing one hand in his hair, tussled by a weak wind.

  He always accepts docilely the contact with his mother, he’s not a finicky teenager with her.

  A few minutes of wait and the Elios makes route toward the small island.

  The trip in the sea is worth a lot more than the price we paid, and not only because we will visit the artificial islet to discover its wonder, neither only because the sea floor is splendid, the sea crystal-clear, the sun warm just right. I smell saltiness, that scent I don’t happen to smell often. I see the coast become more distant, the old and new buildings in Palermo, the tall masts of the sailing boats in the tourist dock.

  I think about Paris, a city right for me, for my need of order, of classical, of centrality. I know it very well. I like to dine in the Latin district, to sip an espresso in a literary cafe, to look at the paintings of the street painters in MonMartre. After Torre, it is the place in which I lived for the longest part of my life. I feel it familiar. But a few days in Palermo have been enough to remember the meaning of the word belonging. I am looking for those roots sunk in the sand and cut so long ago. The wind whips my face, compresses my hair on my wrinkled forehead, on my half-shut eyes. The other passengers go below deck, from where they will admire the landscape, sheltered against the wind. Only a few stay unprotected. I squeeze in my blue jacket, I put on my anthracite-grey sunglasses. I enjoy the return from the long exile. In my ears, Anna's words about nostalgia.

  I think about what my mother must have felt in the long years of exile. Even though we lived in splendid cities, places where a lot of people would like to spend their lives, she was enveloped in a thin veil of melancholy. Boston offered her beautiful job experiences, she liked Paris a lot, but in each of these cities she lived like a passer-by, waiting for the very desired return to the base. She missed Sundays in Torre, when the square under our house was filled with people at the end of the mass. It was like a picture with multiple copies; same people, same pleasantries, the smell of household kitchen that flooded the alleys, inebriating the passer-bys. That was her world, her people, her very life. To me, then, all of this didn't mean much. I was a young ambitious graduate. Torre was only a cage too narrow for my aspirations, a crib for my golden childhood but nothing more. The upheavals of that years, besides, made every future prospect even more difficult, from my point of view. I couldn’t stay.

  Seagulls fly low on the sea looking for fish. Their chirps are the voice of nature, together with the hiss of the wind, to the waves that break in the distance. Being part of it in this moment is a state of grace.

  The disembarkation at Little Palm Island is accompanied by a happy chatter. Like the leaflet promised, the shore is made of thin white sand, and thin palms stretch up toward the sky. The hiss of the wind is weaker. The group timidly scatters in every direction while the guide gathers on one side those who are interested to a guided tour of the islet.

  Even my family divides. Giuliana and Marco join the other children for a free exploration. Teresa and I follow the guide.

  But immediately after our young guide – a slender figure with thick round glasses framing large blue eyes – starts to narrate the history of the building of this artificial floating heaven, instinctively, without reasoning too much, I pull Teresa away from an arm, inviting her to sneak discreetly away from the group. She looks at me with an expression of amazed condescension and furtively leaves the orderly line.

  «What happens?» she asks me, making a visor with both her hands on her forehead to protect her eyes from the sun.

  «Did you really feel like knowing the whole history of this islet? I don’t. I would like to find a calm corner and stay there to think together with you. There are so many things on which to reflect, don't you think?»

  «For example?»

  «Memories, first of all. Memories of the past that resurface one after another. They are loaded of strong and conflicting emotions. They confuse me.»

  «Why?»

  «They make me call so many things into question.»

  «Which things?»

  «The choices I made in my life. I am afraid to realize what I become. I have had all that I wanted, but maybe without consideration for the others. I can't stop asking myself whether I have been unfair and selfish.»

  Teresa listens silently. She sighs a long sigh; the wind pushes her hair forward, covering her cheeks, violently getting into her mouth. Calmly she takes from her bag a rubber band and gathers her tussled hair, that keeps escaping on every side, then surrender to her tight hold. She sits down, her legs folded up, the points of her feet stretched on the sand, her red enamel speckled by thin grains of sand. I sit close to her, my left side against hers, the reassuring feeling of not being alone.

  Often the most beautiful moments are without words, without either subtitles or voice-overs. The simple presence is enough, and every explanation is superfluous. Teresa’s head slips on my chest and stays there, abandoned, moving to the constant rhythm of my breathing. Then, as if thinking out loud, she says, «I don't regret any of my choices. Neither you should».

  «You don't have anything to reproach to yourself. You have been even too generous with everyone.»

  «I have been faithful to myself, just as you have been. Why should the past be really incompatible with the rest? This was your world up to a certain moment of your life. Then there were other roads for you. You didn’t deny anything, in my opinion. This was the springboard that cradled you, that made of you a capable and determined individual. There is a lot of this place that you have been bringing with you for a long time, without even realizing.»

  Then her head slips again on my chest and stays there, because in this moment she doesn't need anything else. And neither do I.

  «Dad, this is our present», Giuliana tells me.

  While she is speaking, she hands me a cube wrapped in an elegant golden paper, on which the name of a famous jewellery of Paris is printed. Marco, a few steps behind her, looks at me and hints at a smile. I sit down on the bed, next to Teresa, who is looking at me excitedly. Giuliana takes place next to me, Marco with his mother. I pull a flap of the blue velvet ribbon that ties the package. They are all waiting for my reaction. I remove the golden paper, and finally open the casket, which smells like brand-new leather. It’s a wrist watch, the one of a famous advertisement. From up close, it seems a little smaller than on TV, where the shot distorts the sense of proportions.

  I look at their faces one by one. They seem to me illuminated by euphoria, and for an instant this strikes me like a fist to the stomach, because once more I don't feel I have deserved this.

  «Come here», I just say, allowing myself to sink in their engulfing embrace.

  I would like never to resurface from it, to hide a beginning of human weakness. I feel their hold, their breaths, Marco’s curls in my neck. He seized me more than everyone else, as if taking advantage of the fray to enjoy that intimate contact without nobody realizing.

  «So, what do you think of it?» Teresa asks, coming out first from the fray, reddened and uncombed.

  «Sober and elegant, as I like it.»

  I wear it and I turn my wrist several times, so they all can admire it. It’s since my old watch disappeared at the hospital that I haven’t been wearing one.

  «This way», Giuliana adds with a warning, «you can count better the passing hours, and may
be you will even be able to find more time for us».

  Teresa nods with an eloquent expression.

  "But is my presence really so important for you?" I would like to ask, but I know that it is not the right time, that the atmosphere is that of a family party, and that I will have to find the time for explanations in some other occasion.

  «I believe you’ll cut a great figure tomorrow with your new watch, and not only for that. You are a charming man», Giuliana says. «I wish I could see how many of your old friends are stainless fifty-year-old people like you. Mom, you will have to tell me everything».

  «Have I lost anything? Won't you be with us at the dinner?»

  «I believed that Mom had already told you. If you don’t mind, Marco and I would like to stay at the hotel tomorrow evening. There is a disco. They are organizing an evening for young people.»

  «I don't know. I thought you would come with us. It will be a beautiful evening.»

  «Surely it will be for you, Dad. But we don't know anyone, and you are all adults, we would certainly get bored there.»

  «Actually...» my wife takes her side.

  Obviously I can’t do anything other than agree. Too many times I missed appointments that were important for them. And Giuliana is right, I don't know what could be tempting for them in finding themselves at the same table of elderly schoolmates like us.