The Sense of an Elephant

by Marco Missiroli

  ‘Thank you, but there’s no need.’

  ‘They steal everything in Milan.’ Riccardo put down the chain and made to leave. ‘I forgot, you haven’t by any chance found a leather bracelet?’

  ‘I haven’t found anything, sorry.’

  ‘I must have lost it playing football.’ He went out.

  The concierge waited for him to climb the stairs then went into his flat. Rummaged around in the night-table drawer. Drew out the bracelet he had found in the courtyard and looked closely at the date etched on the back: 14-9-2008. Closed it in his fist.

  When Nicolini the magician arrived, the Bianchi was in several pieces. Pietro had taken it apart and placed the frame on some old newspapers. He saw him enter as he was stirring the red paint in its tin.

  ‘Why do you need to get a look at the courtyard?’

  ‘Magic needs its own space.’

  He accompanied him into the courtyard and as soon as Nicolini began to stroll about, the second floor began to empty. Viola came down with the little girl. Pietro did not greet her and returned to painting the Bianchi. It was the fifth time in forty years that he had shed its skin and given it a new one, and he had yet to learn how to do it properly. He painted in all directions and failed to remove the excess paint from the bristles. Rivulets ran together and clotted, studding the frame with pustules. He tried to burst them by rubbing a rag along the surface. His hands became spattered and he tossed the brush down. Fernando and his mother and the lawyer appeared immediately after. They greeted him, Poppi with a wink, and went out.

  Martini came down with the radiographer when there remained just a tiny bit of painting to finish the Bianchi. As soon as he went to speak with the magician, Riccardo went over to Pietro.

  ‘Faster. If the colour dries on you, you’ll be able to see signs on the frame.’

  ‘Do you want to do it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

  The concierge hastily finished the painting then moved newspapers and frame into the courtyard where a shred of sunshine shone. The magician approached him after Martini and the radiographer left.

  ‘A perfect courtyard for spells.’ He mimicked the flick of a wand. ‘I’ll be happy to set up the day before. I’ll turn you all into toads.’

  The concierge accompanied him to the street door. Nicolini made a half bow in farewell and left the building.

  That was when Pietro saw Snow White. The woman who had let Dr Martini into the house of the pomegranates. She was standing transfixed in front of the intercom grid.

  ‘Pardon me …’ Snow White came toward him, her raven hair strangled by a red ribbon. ‘Pardon me, does Dr Martini live here?’ She was very young and had a foreign accent.

  The concierge nodded.

  ‘So the “Martini” on the intercom is him.’ She brushed the hair from her forehead. Her cheeks showed signs of past acne. She continued to twist a lipless mouth, extended a hand to buzz.

  ‘The doctor isn’t home.’ Pietro took a step toward her. ‘Can I help you?’

  The woman said no and dropped her hand, raised her eyes to the first-floor windows. She tapped the heels of her boots as if shivering, crossed the street and waited on the other side.

  Pietro returned inside to the lodge, opened a cupboard and picked out a cloth and the multipurpose cleaner. Went back outside and began to polish the grid of intercom buzzer buttons. Made four passes from top to bottom and meanwhile watched Snow White out of the corner of his eye. After a while she crossed over again.

  ‘Do you know when the doctor gets back?’ She attempted a smile. ‘He’s not at the hospital, and it’s urgent.’

  ‘You can leave word with me.’

  ‘He’s not picking up his mobile.’

  ‘You can leave word with me.’

  Snow White turned in a circle.

  ‘I’ll write him a note.’

  Pietro told her to follow him, led her inside to the lodge and closed the door. He offered her the back of an advertising flyer and a pen. The woman took a seat at the table. She was even prettier seated, holding one arm as if she had a child in her lap. When she finished writing she folded the sheet of paper four times.

  ‘It’s urgent.’ She handed it to the concierge.

  He immediately placed it in his pocket. ‘I’ll give it to him as soon as he returns.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Snow White left the lodge and continued outside.

  Pietro hurried into his flat, peered out of the small window above his bed. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Then he pulled the paper from his pocket, opened and held it under the light, read Come as soon as you can. It’s important. Sofia.

  He held it in his palm as he took the ‘Back soon’ sign from the table drawer, planted the suction cup on the lodge window.

  He went to look for the doctor.

  12

  He found Dr Martini on the ward, talking with two other physicians and consulting a medical file. Pietro made his presence known and waited for him in front of the bulletin board with the crayon drawings, all shapeless scribbles except an aeroplane with two crooked wings in a fiery red sky. It was signed in the corner, Giulio, every letter a different colour.

  ‘He’ll be a great pilot.’

  Pietro turned around.

  The doctor adjusted his coat.

  ‘Giulio will be a great aerobatic pilot.’ He pushed down on the tack holding the drawing. ‘Two visits in two days, Pietro?’

  ‘There’s a message for you, Doctor.’ He gave him the note from Snow White. ‘She said it was urgent.’

  Martini read it.

  ‘When was she there?’

  ‘Forty-five minutes ago.’

  The doctor read the note again and appeared distracted, then noticed the gift-wrapped package that the concierge was holding at his side.

  ‘Is that for Lorenzo?’

  ‘I saw it in a shop window on my way here.’ He came closer. ‘The woman who wrote the note said it was urgent.’

  Martini looked at him.

  ‘Lorenzo will be happy to see you. Come.’

  He followed him into the waiting room, which was deserted. The smell of soup choked the air. Murmurs came from the patients’ rooms. Pietro heard a rustling, a cry. They went down a narrow corridor and turned into the second room on the left. Weakly glowing overhead lights illuminated two beds. A young couple watched over the first, where a chubby child sat up on a pillow and played with two figures made out of Plasticine. The young woman said, ‘I’m angry with him because he won’t eat anything.’ The doctor greeted her and passed on to the other bed, which was unmade and empty. On the wall above the headboard hung a poster of Donald Duck dressed as a pirate. Two wardrobes occupied the far wall.

  ‘Do you see anyone here, Pietro?’

  The concierge shook his head.

  ‘Our Lorenzo is invisible today. He’s doing it in protest because he wants to go to the lake. But I always know where he is …’ He approached the left-hand wardrobe and opened it, discovering only clothes. ‘Come on out now, where are you?’

  Neither of them had seen Lorenzo watching them from the corner beside the other wardrobe. He blended in with the whiteness of the wall, genuinely invisible, with two fingers in his mouth and his pyjamas askew. Beside him on the night table was a silver-framed picture of him at the beach being hugged by a beautiful woman. Pietro saw the photograph first, then the child. He laid the gift on the bed.

  Lorenzo slipped in and curled up under the covers.

  ‘Did you see what Pietro brought you? Go ahead, open it.’ The doctor turned toward the window and reread Snow White’s message.

  The child hesitated.

  Pietro opened the gift, struggling somewhat to tear through the shiny paper with the blue bow as the little boy peeked out in curiosity. The concierge set aside the paper and pulled a rubber elephant from its packaging. It was the height of his palm, with short legs and a kind of carpet on its back. Lorenzo reached out a hand and seized it, plucked the carpet fro
m its back, chewed on one of its feet.

  The doctor refolded Snow White’s message and stood in a daze before Lorenzo, not seeing him, not seeing either one of them. He awoke suddenly and turned around and began to gather clothes from the wardrobe. Went to the child and kissed him on the forehead, took him in his arms and told Pietro to follow them. They left the room ahead of the concierge, crossed the corridor and entered an empty room. ‘Wait for me in the lobby, Pietro.’ The doctor shut himself inside with the child.

  The concierge did not have long to wait. Lorenzo emerged from the corridor almost immediately, bundled up in a blue down jacket that reached his knees, the shape of his tiny legs impossible to make out inside his jeans. He had a paper bag in one hand and the rubber elephant in the other.

  The doctor took him in his arms and winked at a nurse, said to Pietro to come with them, then exited the ward, continued down the stairs and outside. He led them around the corner of the building. ‘If you feel cold, tell me right away, OK, Loré?’

  The child wasn’t listening to him. The lake was there. Enormous, surrounded by bamboo as sharp as swords, with lily pads on the surface that made floating flowers. He’d seen them the summer he came to the hospital for the first time. With the cold weather the frogs stayed hidden, the water snakes too. Lorenzo wanted to get down. Swung the paper bag and swayed as he made his way to the shore. Sat down on a low wall and waited.

  The doctor held his mobile and Snow White’s message in one hand.

  ‘I’m going to make a phone call, Pietro. Can you keep an eye on him?’

  The concierge walked over to the child.

  Lorenzo had sat the elephant down beside him and was looking at the lake. He inserted a hand into the bag. When he drew it out he held a handful of dry bread. He tossed it toward the shore, ‘Ducks, ducks.’

  Pietro looked for them. They swam at the left side of the lake, massed against the wall of bamboo stalks that surrounded a small inlet. The doctor emerged from behind them, his head and the mobile at his ear visible.

  Lorenzo tossed more bread.

  The ducks didn’t come.

  Pietro walked away. Came to the wall of bamboo, pulled up a small one and stirred the water. The ducks didn’t move. He stirred some more, C’mon, c’mon, to hell with you. He leaned out further, C’mon. He flung the bamboo into the water and the ducks fluttered. C’mon, damn you. The flock broke up and some began to swim in the child’s direction. Three of them, followed by some scruffy ducklings. Pietro remained in a low crouch. The doctor’s voice was clear: ‘I understand, I’m sorry … I’m sorry … not at home. I was clear. I’m not coming, let me be.’

  On the other side Lorenzo had stood up on the wall and was launching arcs of bread confetti. He stretched toward the approaching birds. His face was nothing but eyes.

  Pietro returned to the little boy and picked him up. A tiny pile of bones with fitful breath, he hardly weighed a thing. Pietro closed a hand over one of the child’s hands. There was a scratch on the tiny thumb. He caressed it.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  Lorenzo shook his head, and continued to stare at the ducks fighting over the bread.

  ‘Mama.’

  Pietro continued to caress the small cut. Pinched the boy’s nose and his hands became wet. Lifted them up, saw blood mixed with traces of the paint from the Bianchi. He bent over the child: two dark rivulets of blood issued from his nostrils. He called and gestured to the doctor to come right away, flailed his arms, called him again.

  Martini hurried over. He pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned the boy’s nose and mouth. ‘Let’s go back inside now, little man.’

  ‘Mama.’

  The doctor bent down and pulled him up. The quack-quack of the ducks rose from the water.

  ‘That’s right, he was my father’s son.’ The witch detached herself from the young priest and did up the last button of his nightshirt, crossed her legs. ‘Papa always took advantage of me. Can God keep this secret?’

  ‘God keeps all the secrets of the world.’

  ‘He’s got to tell them to somebody, if not …’ the witch leapt up and tiptoed towards the far end of the church, came to the altar ‘… if not, he’ll explode.’

  The young priest walked towards the far end of the church as well, entered the sacristy. He soon returned with a wafer and half a glass of red wine.

  The witch took the wafer and held it up against the light, ate the wafer and it stuck to her palate.

  He gave her the wine.

  ‘Herein lie the secrets of the world.’

  The witch drank.

  ‘So that’s why it tastes like vinegar.’

  13

  Pietro sat down in the waiting room. The doctor soon emerged from Lorenzo’s room, without his white coat and carrying a document case under his arm. Spoke intensely with another doctor and walked over to the concierge.

  ‘I’m done. I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘How is the boy?’

  ‘Exhausted.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s my fault. I wanted to take him to the lake before his mother came to pick him up. She’s decided to have him cared for at home.’

  Dr Martini descended the stairs. Pietro struggled to keep up. Then they froze in their tracks. The old man in the petrol-pump attendant’s jacket and cap stood in the middle of the path. In the same place Pietro had seen him the previous evening, with the same ravaged face. He extended a hand. ‘Doctor, I wanted …’ He went up close. ‘I wanted … please …’

  Martini walked right past him.

  The old man addressed Pietro. ‘Tell him to listen to me, please, tell him …’

  The concierge stared at him for a time, then followed the doctor down the underground-parking ramp to a dusty car, the rear windows covered with butterfly-shaped curtains.

  Martini got in.

  ‘He’s a poor devil who doesn’t know how to pass the time.’ As he set off he noticed that on the dirty windscreen someone had written with a finger, Wash me, please. He pointed to the glass. ‘It’s Riccardo, he lets me know when I’ve exceeded the limits of decency.’ He drove with the document case on his knees. In the back were Sara’s car seat and a stuffed animal, facing away, with the words Hello Kitty on one sleeve, wrapped in a checked blanket.

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘Riccardo? Yes, for a long time.’ Martini drove two blocks before opening his mouth again. ‘On the first day of school I found myself seated next to this curly-headed kid. “Pleased to meet you my name is Riccardo but you have to call me by my last name Lisi,” he says to me. A real scrapper. They separated us after fifteen minutes because we wouldn’t shut up. Same in middle school. Same in upper school.’ He smiled and now his eyes were visible. They gleamed. ‘At university it was medicine for both of us, and every lesson a cock-up. He stuck to me like a limpet.’

  The concierge rested his hands one in the other, paint from the Bianchi still stuck to one thumb.

  Martini slowed down.

  ‘I was the only one he had left. He lost his parents when he was a boy. Now it’s me, Viola, and Sara.’

  In the middle of the boulevard a line of cars was forming. Just ahead a van was parking and blocking two lanes. They turned down a side street, circled the block and returned to the boulevard, entering ahead of the van. The doctor slipped his arms out of his coat, leaving it on his shoulders.

  ‘I forgot to thank you. For the elephant.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to get for him.’

  The doctor settled back on the seat.

  ‘Lorenzo is partial to elephants.’ He nodded. ‘So am I. Ever since I read that they take care of the herd without regard to kinship.’ He was driving slowly now. ‘All for all. A kind of doctor of the savannah.’

  ‘All for all.’

  The doctor slowed down again, arrived first at a traffic light and looked lost in thought. Then said, ‘I should try again.’

  ‘What’s that, Doctor?’

  ‘Do you have somethi
ng to do right now, Pietro?

  ‘No.’

  Dr Martini veered in the direction opposite to home. The checked blanket slipped off the back seat and he reached back to pick it up.

  ‘My mother made it for Sara. She was very handy with knitting needles.’

  He put the checked blanket on the seat and added the document case. Skirted a piazza with a war memorial and continued along the road that led to the airport. Not much later he turned into a residential street, stopped before an art-nouveau villa with two olive trees in the front garden and putti decorating the balconies.

  ‘This is Lorenzo’s house, I won’t be a minute.’ Then he stared at the steering wheel without moving. ‘Pietro …’ he said, ‘don’t you miss your job as a priest?’

  ‘One can tire of a job.’

  The doctor got out and walked toward the villa. Pressed the intercom button, pressed again and on the lower balcony appeared the woman Pietro had seen in the picture on Lorenzo’s night table. Beautiful like she was in the photograph, with a powdered face and bright red lipstick, she tossed her cigarette and went back inside. She soon emerged into the front garden in bare feet. Remained on her side of the gate.

  The concierge stretched out a hand to the stuffed animal, then to the blanket. The wool didn’t itch. He created a nest from small bits of fluff while continuing to watch the beautiful woman facing the doctor. She held her small, porcelain-like hands to her chest. Began to scratch the back of one hand as the doctor spoke, switched to the other hand and dug more intensely, bowed her doll’s head. Pietro brought the blanket to his nose: the past smelled of nothing. Replaced it carefully on the seat and picked up the document case, unzipped it. Inside were a piece of paper with the hospital logo showing the weekly shifts, a packet of sugarless chewing gum, two fountain pens and four keys on a cord. Also two smaller, identical keys. He held these in his palm, thought about the only locked drawer in the doctor’s study. Put everything back and looked at the beautiful woman again. She was speaking vehemently and her porcelain hands had become livid. She hid them behind her back and the doctor returned to the car.