“But do you realize that comics artists are poor? Huh? Do you realize that, at least? Do you realize they don’t get retirement? And when you have kids? Huh? How will you get by then?” the father insists.
“That’s not true,” the son says. “There are comics artists who’ve become millionaires! Not that many, but they exist. And anyway, Dad, are you so rich?”
“What does that matter?” the father says.
“And you had kids, right?” the son says.
“. . .” the father says nothing.
“See?” the son says.
“All right, I get it! Make your comics then! But at least get a degree first!”
“What do I need it for, though?”
“To make better comics,” the father says. “And to have something to rebel against. If you don’t, you’d risk making crappy comics.”
The son looks at the father, incredulous. The father looks at the TV, incredulous. They’ve been interviewing some disgusting politician on the news for five minutes. He has an urge to write a poem.
“Anyway,” the father says, “don’t you become one of those millionaires. Do me a favor. Make comics, if you really have to. But just aim for a normal life.”
“Huh? Why?” the son says.
“Because millionaires are all assholes,” the father says. “And I’ll already have a comics nerd son. But at least he won’t be an asshole, not that.”
The son bursts out laughing. After a minute, the father laughs too.
For a moment it’s as if they’re the same age.
“Coffee” Coffee
I changed to a new coffee brand.
I buy it at the discount market. It’s called “Coffee” coffee.
“Coffee” coffee comes in an ochre yellow package and it’s next to the cleaners. But it’s never on sale; you always pay full price: ninety cents. With better-known coffee brands, when you read the ingredients on the back of the package, they usually say: 70 percent robusta, 30 percent arabica. Or vice versa. Roasting level, bean origin, an awkward attempt to describe aroma and characteristics.
On the “Coffee” coffee package, it says, INGREDIENTS: COFFEE.
But let me tell you, although the name proudly asserts the opposite, I’m not so sure it’s really coffee coffee. In fact, when I open the bag, instead of being hit by an aromatic gust of roast and caffeine that fills my nose for a full thirty seconds and invariably takes me back to my nonna’s tiramisu, “Coffee” coffee just emanates a faint singed smell, like burned toast.
When I put it in the pot I’ve been using for seventeen years, “Coffee” coffee displays two distinct colors, like the stripes in Colgate. There’s a darker brown line and a visibly lighter one. They don’t mix, their nonfluid state condemns them to this sedimentary separation.
They coexist.
The theory I’ve developed is that the lighter one is actually coffee coffee, whereas I have two hypotheses for the darker one: the first is that the manufacturer roasts not only the beans—the lighter part—but also other parts of the plant, like the pods, the leaves, or the stems (at the moment I don’t know exactly what a coffee plant is like, sorry). The second hypothesis is the same one you’re thinking.
“Coffee” coffee, when it rises in the pot, doesn’t make that proverbial hiss that consecrates waking up in the morning. It just rises. That depresses me a little. But at five-thirty in the morning it has the advantage that I can make my coffee in total silence.
“Coffee” coffee, when you drink it, tastes like coffee. But it’s a mystery. If you smell it from your steaming cup, it’s like sniffing a tire that’s been lit on fire with grappa. Yet the taste is unmistakably coffee.
Having tried this, I decided that next week I want to try “Chips” chips. Even if they smell like fried bananas when you open the bag, they shouldn’t be too bad.
Suddenly I imagine a world of redundancies where everything is called by its name twice. Where there are coffee coffees, house houses, shit shits. A world that doesn’t care about synthesis, where it would take twice as long to speak, where Facebook debates would be interminable, and where watching an entire episode of Crossfire would drive you to suicide.
But also a world where Good Will Hunting would last four hours and Murakami’s Norwegian Wood would give me shelter for my whole summer at twenty-two, like a shadow. Where songs would be very long and slow dances would go on forever.
An imaginary world where we could look deep into the eye eyes of that one woman and tell her, without being afraid of feeling ridiculous:
“I love love you.”
No comparison.
Braids
In the car, on the way to nursery school:
“Daddy, why did Mommy get up this morning even though she has a fever?”
“Well, Ginevra, she got up just to do your braids, imagine that.”
“Why didn’t you do them for me?”
“Because unfortunately, dads aren’t very good at braiding hair.”
“Daddy! What do you mean?”
“It’s true, Ginevra. Generally, dads are a disaster with hair. I am, for sure.”
We go in, sit down on the bench, and I put on her little smock.
Across from us there’s a father fumbling with his daughter. He just took off her hat, evidently in a hurry—amateur—demolishing the fine handiwork of his wife, or grandmother, or older sister, I don’t know. Clearly not his. His desperation is painted on his face.
“Jesus, Emma. Over here! Come here so I can fix you, Jesus!”
He’s trying to fix two little ponytails with some ninja technique I can’t figure out. It’s incredible, it’s almost like he can’t wrap the elastic around twice, one of the three basic techniques of the samurai hairdressing school. He’s sweating.
At some point he turns to me with a pleading look on his face, whether intentional or not I’m not sure. Maybe he’s just staring into space trying to remember the second law of thermodynamics.
“Need a hand?” I ask instinctively.
“Oh! Yeah, sure, thank you! I’m not so . . .”
“Don’t worry, me neither.”
We smile in complicity, to relieve our sense of inadequacy.
We work together for a few minutes, him on the left ponytail and me on the right. Emma enters the classroom as if she’s just come out of the dryer, but he appears satisfied.
When the other dad leaves, I take my daughter aside.
“See that, Ginevra?”
This is on purpose, glancing over at the girl as if to say, “I told you, dads . . .”
My daughter studies the girl’s hair, with a gleam in her eyes and a dreamy expression.
“Yeah! That girl’s hair looks so pretty!”
Okay, it’s decided: I’m on braid duty starting tomorrow. Or it’s back to the old pirate bandanna.
Maybe I’ll bring a few extra. I bet I’d make a killing at the cubbies.
What Women Don’t Say
Last night I fell victim to the worst stomachache I can remember.
It came on suddenly after dinner, numbing my body, gradually taking my breath away, like being punched over and over. All I wanted to do was lie still under the covers with my hands on my stomach. But that night Melania, who usually sleeps soundly without any problem, kept waking up. She would wake up and start to cry. We brought her to bed with us, but she kept on. She didn’t want milk or cookies or cartoons, nothing. She nodded off five times and we put her back in her crib, but started crying again after a couple minutes. So I said to Paola, who hadn’t felt well herself that day, that since my stomachache was keeping me up anyway, it didn’t make sense for us both to stay awake with the baby—at least she should get some sleep. I picked up the crying Melania and she held her arms out to me like she always does, in that way that fills a father’s heart with paternal pride. Savi
ng some damsel from a tower could never compare to the feeling of saving one’s daughter from the darkness of her crib. We went into the living room and I tried putting on some cartoons and rocking her a little, but it was no use. Then I lay down on my back and put her on my chest. I pulled the two blankets on the sofa over us and we curled up like cats. Melania closed her eyes. After a while, the warmth of her body began to dull my pain, as if she were a little hot water bottle. Her breath on my face, her head nestled in the crook of my neck, our diaphragms moving in unison, the uncomfortable yet perfectly natural position of our bodies transported me into a calm, dense dimension. These are the sort of in-between moments that fathers know well. The privileges of men who embrace their maternal side. Holding back a sob in your chest, feeling it melt away and be overtaken by a restless and then a deep sleep. Giving in to the precipice of the present and being there, body to body at three in the morning, cartoon jingles in the background, the living room lamp in your eyes, the awkward pillow you want to adjust but can’t. Quickly realizing that a chance position can become the perfect one, the best observation point for everything else.
What mothers don’t imagine is that when fathers get up at three in the morning to comfort their children, it’s not to be considerate or let them sleep. It’s to get back that feeling. Breathing, snuggling, enjoying the moment. To feel a little closer to something that deep down they never had and never will.
Because what women don’t say is nothing compared to what men don’t know.
Eyes Like Andy Garcia
I go pick up Virginia from school because she has volleyball on Thursdays.
While I’m out front waiting for the bell to ring, I notice a mom glancing over at me every now and then. She’s glancing around looking lost. Then she turns back in my direction and eventually comes over. She’s blond, wearing a gray jacket with dark-bordered pockets and a soft white hat. She looks about forty. Once she’s up close I see some faint freckles. She has blue-rimmed glasses that make her eyes appear bigger. I look like Santa Claus in regular clothes, waiting to hear back about his prostate exam.
“Hi,” she says. “Do you happen to know if they’re getting out late today?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
“Because they’re usually out by now, right?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t wear a watch. I just go wait by the plane tree.”
“Oh. How . . . Zen.”
“No, no, not Zen. I just hate watches, that’s all.”
“Oh. Well, you must have a cell phone to check the time, right?”
“I do,” I say. “It’s on my desk at home.”
“Ha ha.” When she laughs I notice a slight gap between her incisors.
“Anyway all the parents are here and they don’t seem worried,” I say. “So I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“It is strange, though. They should have gotten out by now.”
“Look, maybe you should ask someone else. I only come on Thursdays, and honestly I don’t know if there’s been a change in the schedule.”
“Okay.”
She doesn’t move. She folds her arms over her chest and waits beside me under the tree. Five minutes go by and nothing happens.
“Anyway, I’m Francesca,” she says, offering her hand.
“Matteo,” I say.
“What class is your son in?”
“Daughter.”
“Oh, you have a daughter too?”
“I have three.”
“Wow!”
“Yep.”
“Sorry, can I tell you something without you taking it the wrong way?”
“Shoot.”
“You have eyes just like Andy Garcia.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks?”
“Yeah, I meant it as a compliment,” she says. “Definitely.”
The bell rings. The teachers lead the children single file into the yard. Virginia sees me, asks permission to leave, then comes running over.
“Hi, Daddy!” she says to me.
“Hi, sweetheart. We have to hurry; otherwise you’ll be late for volleyball.”
“Okay!” she says.
I turn for a second to say goodbye to the mom, but she’s no longer there. I catch sight of her near the gate across the yard. She’s holding a little girl by the hand, a fifth grader or so, in any case certainly older than mine. Before leaving, she turns in our direction. She waves goodbye. I do the same.
“Daddy,” Virginia says.
“Yes?”
“You have a giant booger hanging out of your nose.”
“Really?”
I wipe my nose with my hand and then with a tissue. I go over the entire conversation I just had, picturing myself with a giant booger hanging out of my nose.
“What do I care,” I think. “I have eyes like Andy Garcia.”
A Christmas Story
I’m at the doctor’s.
I’m sitting in the waiting room with about twenty other people. I have a long beard, a wool cap over my face, a fever, and red eyes. The room is infernally hot and dry, making me cough nonstop.
The others give me dirty looks like I’ve got the plague. The lady sitting next to me gets up to pretend to look for a magazine, then goes and sits somewhere else.
After about twenty minutes, the door opens and a man walks in. He’s about seventy-five, shabbily dressed, disheveled, with dirty pants and an accent so thick it tests my own knowledge of my native tongue. As he’s talking to the receptionist, I notice he has only two teeth. She looks at him with a mix of incredulity and disdain—as if he were homeless or something. The others share the receptionist’s expression.
The man is holding a blue plastic bag with holes in it. The only clearly comprehensible thing he says is, “Is the doctor here yet?”
He goes on, like a chant: “Is she here yet? Is she here yet?” And the receptionist says yes, but he’ll have to wait outside because she’s busy at the moment.
But he persists: “Is she here yet?” pointing to the office door and giving the impression that he wants to go in now.
Some of the others start to look anxious; we’re all waiting and some think the man wants to cut the line. At some point the man says something that sounds like: “Just a second, I just want to see the doctor for a second,” and the receptionist says no, he has to wait. Outside, she says.
I say, if he wants, if it’s really only for a second, I’ll let him go before me. Everyone else in the room manifests their disapproval.
So he makes a slight gesture like “Fine, I’ll wait.” I stand up and let him have my seat. He sits down and flashes me a two-toothed smile. The young receptionist, who had imagined him waiting outside since all the seats were taken, gives me a dirty look.
Five minutes later, the man gets up and heads over to the reception desk again, holding his blue bag out to the woman. “You have to wait,” she says. But he doesn’t give up, holding out the bag with near urgency, saying he doesn’t need an exam and can’t stay but just came by to wish the doctor merry Christmas. The receptionist musters a close-lipped smile and says, “Ah.” The man hands her the bag and goes out the door, telling everyone, “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,” and smiling with his two teeth.
A heavy silence suddenly falls. The young woman sets the blue bag down and then switches it with a yellow bag that has no holes. For a moment, she empties the contents on the reception desk.
Inside the man’s bag were two bottles of unlabeled wine, a discount panettone, and a little red flower.
Minestrina
I’m at the living room table inking a page. Ginevra is looking out the window.
“Daddy, why is the sun out if it’s winter?”
“Ginevra, the sun comes out when it wants to; it’s not like all winter it rains or there’s only fog.”
&
nbsp; “But you said when the sun came out we would go to the beach!”
“No. Well, yes. But I meant when the summer sun comes out.”
“And how long is it till summer, Daddy?”
“Six months, more or less.”
She pauses. I can see her thinking.
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“Is it six months before Sunday?”
“No, Ginevra, I didn’t say six days, six months is a lot longer.”
“Oh, good.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Grandma’s making me minestrina on Sunday.”
God and Rapunzel
“Daddy, what’s a Muslim?”
“Someone who believes in a God called Allah.”
“Is he different from ours?”
“Yes and no, Virginia. Let’s just say he wears different clothes.”
“What do you mean?”
“How can I explain? You know how Ginevra dresses up as Rapunzel sometimes? She acts different and talks different, but you know that underneath she’s still your sister. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
Our Birthday
Today is our birthday.
Virginia turns eight, and Paola and I celebrate eight years as mom and dad.
Every morning when I wake her up for school and she climbs down the stool from her bed grumbling and leaps into my arms in the dark, my mind wanders back to me in my dumpy bachelor pad, when Paola took my hands and said, “There are three of us on the couch.” I instinctively looked over my shoulder and thought, “That cat must have come through the window again.”
That cat was Virginia. She wasn’t behind me; she was inside Paola. Not over our shoulders, but in front of us, tracing our path together and establishing us as a family.
Sleepless Nights and Kisses for Breakfast Page 4
