The Pity Palace
Antonio Vieri’s wife had left him for the famous American author who wrote those best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York, and Antonio Vieri was feeling sorry for himself, so very sorry for himself that his friends warned him that if he did not stop feeling sorry for himself, he, Antonio Vieri, would become famous for it throughout Florence (they lived in Florence), the way the Uffizi was famous for its Michelangelo, Il Duomo for its duomo.
“This is not possible,” Antonio Vieri said. “I do not ever leave my apartment.” This was true. Antonio Vieri hadn’t left his apartment since his wife had left him for the famous American author. The only thing he did was eat the food his friends brought him and read the famous American author’s best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York. They had once been Antonio Vieri’s wife’s novels, and she had loved them, and he had loved that she’d loved them, until finally she loved the novels too much, for too long, and he got jealous and told her that if she loved the novels so much, then maybe she should leave him for the famous American author who wrote them. And so she did that. Now that his wife was gone, Antonio Vieri read the best-selling novels himself. Maybe there was something in the best-selling novels that might help him get her back. That was his hope, his plan. It would work, too; of this, Antonio Vieri was certain: it would work, because it had to. Until it did, Antonio Vieri was going to stay in his apartment and read the best-selling novels and eat the food his friends brought him and feel sorry for himself, and nothing or no one could convince him to do otherwise. He told his friends, “I cannot become famous for anything if I don’t leave my apartment.”
“You are wrong,” his friends told him. “We are warning you.”
“But I miss her so much,” Antonio Vieri said.
“We know, we know,” they said.
“I miss everything about her,” Antonio Vieri said. “I even miss the way she ate her insalata mista.”
“You must stop this,” his friends said.
“She ate her insalata mista so delicately, one leaf at a time,” Antonio Vieri said. “She ate her insalata mista like an angel.”
“We’ve warned you,” his friends told Antonio Vieri. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
“Go—what is the expression?—fornicate with your own bodies,” he told them. Antonio Vieri had learned this expression from the famous American author’s best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York. Antonio Vieri could speak and read English adequately, but he could only find the novels in their Italian translations. Sometimes, Antonio Vieri wondered about the accuracy of the translations, especially of the American vernacular.
“What?” his friends asked. “What did you tell us to do with our bodies?”
“Please just go away,” he said.
“For how long?” they asked.
“Forever,” he said.
“Gladly,” they said. “But don’t forget that we warned you,” and then they disappeared into the place in hell reserved for friends who think they know best.
ONCE HIS FRIENDS had gone away, Antonio Vieri was alone. All alone! Antonio Vieri remembered the last time he was all alone. This was before he’d found his wife, his friends. He had been sitting in this very same apartment, surrounded by these same cracked plaster walls, without even the famous American author’s best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York to keep him company, and he’d said to himself, out loud, in the manner of the truly lonely, “Antonio Vieri, if you do not find a wife, if you do not find friends, then you are going to end up in this apartment all alone for the rest of your life. You are going to end up as the saddest man in Florence. I am warning you.” That was a bad feeling, and it had caused Antonio Vieri to find himself a wife and friends. But now Antonio Vieri’s wife had left him and he’d told his friends to go away, and this feeling was much worse: the only thing worse than being all alone was to have some other way of being to which to compare your loneliness, and then to lose it. All alone again, after not being all alone for a little while! Antonio Vieri ran to the window, with the intention of throwing it open and shouting to his friends, “Come back. I am all alone again. Please come back!” But once Antonio Vieri got to the window, he saw something in the piazza below that made him forget about his friends. It was the famous American author who’d written those best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York, sitting at an outdoor café, drinking red wine. Out of all the outdoor cafés in all the piazzas in all of Florence, the famous American author had to drink red wine in this one, and he’d been out there every day since Antonio Vieri’s wife had left him. As for Antonio Vieri’s wife, he had not seen her since she’d left him. But then again, the Italian gangsters in New York liked to keep their women out of sight; Antonio Vieri assumed this was true of the famous American author who wrote best-selling novels about them, as well. That it was the famous American author, Antonio Vieri had no doubt: even though Antonio Vieri was four stories up, and the famous American author was sitting at the far edge of the piazza, it was definitely him, definitely the same man whose photo was on the back cover of the novels. He was the sort of fat man whose neck wouldn’t permit the top two shirt buttons to be buttoned; he was bald, except for a wild swoop of thin hair meant to cover up the baldness; his glasses were so big, the lenses so thick, he could have worn them while welding. Yes, it was definitely the famous American author in the piazza drinking red wine, taunting Antonio Vieri just by sitting there. Antonio Vieri almost shook his fist in anger at the famous American author. But, no, that would be feeble, most feeble, especially since Antonio Vieri was four stories up and the famous American author was sitting at the far edge of the piazza and wouldn’t be likely to see the fist-shaking. Besides, why shake your fist at the man who’d stolen your wife, when instead you could read the man’s best-selling novels and find a way to get her back? So Antonio Vieri turned away from the window and did that.
THE NEXT DAY, Antonio Vieri was reading one of the famous American author’s best-selling novels—The Patriarch of the Gangsters was the title, in translation—and trying to decide which of the character types his wife might want him to become if she were to return to him (hotheaded or levelheaded? red-blooded or cold-blooded? black-hearted or yellow-bellied?) when he heard a knock on the door. Antonio Vieri wondered who it could be. If it was his wife, he would welcome her back, no questions asked, and ask her to forgive his appearance, which was gruesomely unkempt and pathetic in the way of all jilted, self-pitying men. If it was his friends, and they had groceries for him, then Antonio Vieri would let them in, also no questions asked, and eat their food, and then, if they started warning him again about how, if he didn’t watch out, he would become famous for self-pity, Antonio Vieri would ask them to go away again, forever, until the next time he was hungry. If it was the famous American author, Antonio Vieri would—what was the expression?—strike him with an athletic stick until he was murdered.
But it wasn’t his wife, or his friends, or the famous American author. Instead, standing in the hallway, was a young man, an American who looked like—what was the expression?—a fragment of excrement. His hair was unwashed and brown, or brown because it was unwashed, but in any case it was dirty, so very dirty that it wouldn’t lie quietly on his head but instead rose to a filthy, bristling ridge of hair, as on the back of a certain type of fighting dog or on the head of a certain type of fighting cock. When the American shucked his overlarge backpack (there was a Canadian flag patch stitched on the backpack, which was how Antonio Vieri knew he was an American), there were thick lines of sweat on his T-shirt where the straps had just been. The sweat-striped T-shirt was gray but had likely once been white and, in any case, was adorned with a banana and a thick-bodied worm, facing each other, apparently about to do battle. Both the banana and the worm had two eyes and a mouth and two arms and, at the end of the arms, overlarge black boxing gloves. The banana was haughty, the worm irate—this was conveyed through their eyes, their mo
uths. Underneath the banana and the worm were the letters UCSC. Antonio Vieri understood that the U and the S stood for “United States,” but he couldn’t understand what the C and the other C signified, and why one was placed between the U and the S. Perhaps the banana was responsible for the disorder of the letters, and perhaps that explained why the worm was so furious with the banana. This American smelled, too, of something rotten, only partly obscured by something chemical and sweet. The smell was considerable and stood between them, like the door would have if Antonio Vieri hadn’t already opened it.
“Are you Antonio Vieri?” the American asked.
“It is I,” Antonio Vieri said. It seemed fruitless to deny it, especially since on the door, next to the number of his apartment (8) was his name: ANTONIO VIERI.
“Excellent,” the American said. “How much?”
“How much?”
“Yes,” the American said. “What will it cost for you to let me inside?” He said this slowly, as though Antonio Vieri didn’t understand English, or as though there were something wrong with Antonio Vieri’s head, which was, in fact, the case. Antonio Vieri was so hungry he couldn’t think correctly: all he could think about was food, food, and how he didn’t care if his friends brought it to him, or if it was just some filthy American who wanted, for some reason, to enter his apartment.
“Do you have any food?”
This American nodded, shucked his backpack, unzipped its front pocket, and removed something in a shiny metallic wrapper. Antonio Vieri took the object from this American, unwrapped it, saw that it was something candy-bar-like, but granular and thus probably better for you. He shoved the thing into his mouth, waved the American into his apartment, and shut the door behind them. The American immediately began walking around the apartment. He looked at the two framed and mounted caricatures of Antonio Vieri’s wife—in one of them, she was eating insalata mista delicately, one leaf at a time, like an angel; in the other she was reading the famous American author’s best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York—both of which Antonio Vieri had drawn himself, crudely but with all his heart. The American gently ran his hands over the piles of unwashed clothes on the floor, on the back of Antonio Vieri’s chair, on his couch, on his kitchen table; he walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed, the bed that Antonio Vieri hadn’t slept in since his wife had left him; he opened the faucet and ran the water over the unwashed dishes and cups. The American picked up the paperback copies of the famous American author’s best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York, all nine of them, all of them read and reread so many times that they looked like something that had been punished. At one point, the American dropped his own healthy candy bar, bent down to pick it up, and then stayed there, on his haunches, looking for a long time at the dusty wooden floors, as though Antonio Vieri were a snail and the American could see the trails of self-pity Antonio Vieri had made as he’d dragged himself around the apartment.
“Wow,” the American said.
“My wife has left me for the famous American author,” Antonio Vieri said by way of apology and explanation.
“Yeah, yeah. I know that,” the American said.
“You do?” he asked. “How?”
The American answered by pulling a piece of paper out of his backpack and handing it to Antonio Vieri; it was a mimeographed flyer that read:
NOW OPEN TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC:
The Pity Palace, home of Antonio Vieri, the saddest man in Florence. His wife left him for the famous American author who wrote those best-selling novels about Italian gangsters in New York. Please pity him.
Antonio Vieri knew who was responsible: his friends. Those—what was the expression?—diseased conjugal acts, thought Antonio Vieri. He wished he could bring his friends back so that he could tell them to go away again, but this time more forcefully.
“Where did you get this?” Antonio Vieri asked.
“A bunch of old coots were handing them out, outside the Piazza della Repubblica.”
“Old what?” Antonio Vieri asked. “Coots” he didn’t know. But old? He had never thought of his friends as old, which is to say that he’d never thought of himself as old, either. Antonio Vieri had always imagined he and his friends were more or less the same age. “Am I an—what is the expression?—old coot, too?”
“You sure are,” the American said.
“Is that another reason my wife left me?” Antonio Vieri wondered. “Because I am an old coot?”
“It might be,” the American said. “It’s amazing. I feel better about myself just being in here.”
“You do?”
“I do,” the American said happily and wide-eyed, as though in a dream, the good kind. “My girlfriend dumped me two weeks ago. Not for anyone in particular, either. She said she’d rather be alone than with me. We were supposed to take this trip together, so I decided to go by myself. Yesterday, that seemed like a big mistake. Yesterday, I couldn’t look at a naked statue—not even the guys—without thinking of her. But after being here, seeing you, I can’t even remember what she looks like.”
“I miss my wife so much,” Antonio Vieri said automatically. “I miss the way she ate her insalata mista.”
“Her what?”
“She ate her insalata mista so delicately, one leaf at a time,” Antonio Vieri said. “She ate her insalata mista like an angel.” He pointed in the direction of the caricatures; the American turned and looked at them once again, for a long time, his face shifting in phases—puzzlement, wonder, pity—before turning back to Antonio Vieri.
“Dude, did you draw those yourself?”
Antonio Vieri nodded. “Crudely,” he said, “but with all my heart.”
The American looked at Antonio Vieri the way, a moment earlier, he’d looked at the caricatures. Antonio Vieri could see the pity in his face, sloshing around in his eyes. The pity seemed to make the American taller, more erect, less sickly, as though the American were an undernourished plant and pity, just the right kind of plant food. He even smelled better, as though pity were the most effective type of deodorant.
“And she really left you for Mario Puzo?” the American asked.
“You are not allowed to refer to him by that name in this apartment!” Antonio Vieri shrieked. “You may call him ‘the famous American author’ or you may call him nothing at all.” The way Antonio Vieri figured, the famous American author had something Antonio Vieri did not—his wife; but by always calling him “the famous American author,” Antonio Vieri had something the famous American author did not—a full and proper name. Antonio Vieri would have explained this reasoning to the American if the American had asked. He didn’t. He just stood there smiling at Antonio Vieri, rubbing his hands together as though he’d been cold and Antonio Vieri was a fire.
“Do you have any buddies?” the American said, placing his right hand on Antonio Vieri’s shoulder.
“Buddies?”
“Pals, amigos, friends,” the American said. “Someone to help you.”
“I did, but then I told them to go away forever.”
“Well, you’re definitely going to need some help, and pronto,” the American said. He removed his right hand from Antonio Vieri’s shoulder and stuck it in Antonio Vieri’s direction, and Antonio Vieri shook it. “Good deal,” the American said. “My name is Brad.”
BRAD WAS RIGHT: Antonio Vieri was going to need some help. This was in Florence, after all; it was the first week of July, and there wasn’t an empty room in the city. The tourists were a hundred deep at Il Duomo. They were turning away people at the Uffizi. Even the lesser Medici houses were full to the point of suffocation. Competition between guided tours had become fierce. Just the day before, Brad told him, ten guided Germans had been trampled by twenty guided Swedes trying to get into an obscure Franciscan monastery whose monks were notable for nothing except their unusual methods of cheesemaking. There were too many sightseers, and all of them needed to see something, anything.
�
�You’re going to be famous, man,” Brad told Antonio Vieri. He was busy making the apartment even more pitiable than it had been. Brad picked up a few of Antonio Vieri’s soiled clothes off the chair, ran them across the dusty floor, crumpled them up into loose balls, and then threw them against the front door, where they struck with soft, soiled thuds, then slid to the floor. The dirty clothes wads would be first thing someone would see, or not see and thus step on, when they walked through the door, the new doormat for the newly opened Pity Palace.
“I do not ever leave the apartment,” Antonio Vieri said. “I cannot become famous if I don’t leave my apartment.”
“Yes, you can,” Brad said. “I’m telling you.”
“Are you warning me?” Antonio Vieri said. “My friends warned me, and that’s why I told them to go away.”
“You’re one sad piece of work, aren’t you?” Brad said, shaking his head appreciatively. “I’m not warning you at all. Just relax, OK?”
“If I’m going to be famous in my apartment,” Antonio Vieri said, “maybe we should clean up a little.” He felt nervous and a little giddy, as though he was about to go on a date—which he’d never done—or as though he was about to go out and find a wife and friends, which he had.
“Absofuckinglutely not,” Brad said. “We want you to be as pitiable as possible. Let me take care of everything. Will you just let me take care of everything?”
“Are you—what is the expression?—telling me a playful but harmless lie?” by which Antonio Vieri meant, Of course. Please take care of everything. That is exactly what I want you to do. It was some sort of miracle, if you thought about it: Antonio Vieri had had friends to take care of him until they wouldn’t stop warning him and he sent them away. And then just after he’d sent them away, Brad showed up, willing to take care of him but with no desire to warn him at all. It was as though all you had to do was need someone to take care of you, and then they would show up and do that. Was this the way the world could work? It seemed that it could, and that made Antonio Vieri happy, but only for a second. Because the problem with someone taking care of you is that there is always someone else you’d rather have take care of you. Once someone is taking care of you, you can’t help but think of the someone who isn’t.
Price of the Haircut : Stories (9781616208240) Page 16
