Hooold it right there.
I take a long pause. Long enough that I have all the time to cough, pant, think back over what I just said, listen to an entire verse of Espe’s rendition of “Con te partirò” coming from the shower.
“You know what, Vincenzo?” Alessandra Persiano finally says decisively (though she’s already a little less high and mighty than before). “I don’t think I want to put up with your vulgarity anymore.”
If I had my druthers, I’d start shouting again, but I collect myself and try to refine my argumentation.
“Ooh, I beg your pardon with my face pressed down in the dirt, baroness. So you find curse words repugnant? Has the trip to Milan already disinfected your language? Well, now I’m going to give you a tip when it comes to vulgarity: putting your man on standby without even taking the trouble to let him know whether or not you’ve dumped him is much, and I mean much more vulgar than merely invoking cocks and asses with accompanying instructions as to their use.”
Another very long pause.
Hey, even though I feel culpable for the disaster I’m provoking, I’m proud of myself.
“Okay, thanks for the lecture,” she resumes once she thinks that I might have cooled off enough to listen to her retort. “You were brilliant. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other things to do.”
And with that, she hangs up.
Whinnying with rage, I immediately dial her number, ready to rattle off a machine-gun burst of insults, but just as I expected the coward has already turned off her phone. Maddened by frustration, I hurl the phone against the wall at the very instant that Espe, barefoot and dripping wet, one towel wrapped around his head and the other around his waist, appears in the door.
The cell phone smashes into the wall, the back panel detaches, the battery flies spinning out of its compartment, shooting to one side and smacking into the floor.
It’s not broken, I think to myself.
“What’s gotten into you?” Espe asks, raising his gaze from the scattered phone parts to me.
“What’s gotten into me is that Alessandra is an asshole!” I shout into his face, forcing him to recoil, gripping the bath towel to his waist. “An arrogant asshole. And she’s spoiled too. She can go fuck herself!”
I pick up the pieces of the phone.
“Hey, calm down. Just tell me what happened, okay?”
“To hell with my guilt complexes, Espe. Do you remember all the whining I did over the phone? Well, I take it all back. I’m not sorry I screwed another woman; in fact, you know what I say? It’s a good thing I did.”
I slip the battery back into its slot.
It fits.
Let’s see if it turns on.
“So she wanted to pull the sly move of taking off and leaving the idiot here to wonder if she’d ever come back? Well, the idiot answered his own question: we’re finished. Game over.”
It won’t turn on.
Shit.
“And let me tell you something else: if after this remarkable piece of performance art from a stuck-up blue-chip grande dame she thinks she can change her mind and go back in time with a snap of her fingers, she’s miscounted her cards. Because if she dares to call me ever again, even if it’s just to apologize, she’ll come face-to-face with the most resounding fuck-you of her life. Why on earth are you looking at me like that?”
Wait, wait, it’s turning on.
“It’s just that right now you’re too pissed off to keep any of the promises you make.”
“No, I assure you, Espe, look at me, I’ve never been so clearheaded in my life. I’m tired of this subalternate status, this kowtowing to women, I mean it. I want to regain my dignity, I won’t let myself be treated like some pathetic asshole anymore, I’ve had it I tell you, I’ve had it!”
“What can I tell you? If you’re really so convinced . . .”
“You know what I say to you? That I’m grateful to you for pushing me into accepting this invitation to dinner tonight.”
“That’s my boy.”
“Fine. Then I’d better get ready.”
“Just one thing.”
“What.”
“I need you to lend me something to wear.”
REALITY NEVER OUTSTRIPS THE IMAGINATION,
IT JUST BRINGS IT DOWN TO ITS LEVEL
As I take a shower myself while Espe plunders my Aspelund wardrobe, I review the reasons for my tirade against Alessandra Persiano, since I’m already beginning to fear the moment when—once my post-screaming-fight excitement subsides (that typically fleeting confidence destined to crumble to dust over the course of no more than four, maximum five hours)—I’ll be overwhelmed by the knowledge that our affair is now irremediably finished, in the aftermath of the charming compliments I saw fit to bestow on her.
In the angel’s absence, I’m on a first-name basis with myself.
First of all, don’t feel guilty. Sure, you flew off the handle and told her go fuck herself. There’s really nothing surprising about that, you behaved like a human being. In fact, you want to know what I think? It was about time. Because if there’s one mistake you’ve made, especially lately, it was agreeing to abide by this sort of romantic standby state in which she, with glaring impunity, accorded herself the unilateral right of rescission at any moment of her choosing. Don’t you think that in a lion-vs.-lamb arrangement like this one you were bound to get fed up sooner or later? It’s just a good thing you still have some small shred of personal dignity.
Second, did you hear how she was treating you? “Don’t shout,” “Let’s not talk about this right now,” “I need to focus on the trial”: who the hell does she think she is to talk to you like that? Fuck her, you did the right thing, absolutely.
Third, the fact that she hung up on you proves—leaving aside any questions about her complete lack of manners—that she didn’t know what to say. Because it’s obvious that if someone has a point to make, they don’t run away from the argument: they argue. Too easy to think you can get away with just hanging up. Far, far too easy.
Fourth (and here we come to the point that’s got you most upset): okay, it’s over, so what? The irreparable can actually be a great source of relief, if you look at it from a different point of view. You’ll suffer for a while, sure, you’ll have your year or so of self-pity and pissing and moaning, and when you’re done complaining you’ll make peace with yourself and you’ll start your life over. I’m not saying it will be easy. But we’re also not talking about moving mountains. Alessandra isn’t indispensable. You don’t need her to go on living. There, say the name: Alessandra Persiano. Say it again. Repeat it until it becomes the mark of a woman no better or worse than any other. Can you see how the edge of drama and tragedy is already blunted?
Fifth (and here we’re taking a step back, or actually, a step down): free yourself of your miserable little fear of loneliness. Stop clutching feverishly at broken relationships. Cut it out. You’re absolutely fine without a woman at your side, okay?
Eh, I say. Okay.
Bah.
As long as I’m at it, I try to come up with a preview of the evening that lies ahead of us. And so I close my eyes, bow my head, flatten my hands against the walls of the shower, abandoning myself to the cleansing force of the gushing water, and I mentally jot down a quick treatment and outline.
Jennifer Lopez’s apartment is bound to be one of those places where every room is a different color. As soon as we walk in, we’ll be handed Martini. I’ll look around for an ashtray in which to discard my olive pit without finding one. The table will be set in an ocher-yellow lunch nook, lit—and I’m not sure that’s the right term—by a few guttering candles about to give up the ghost. A subtle, pungent scent of incense will be in the air, designed to create—along with the partial darkness—that fake mystical atmosphere that as soon as you recognize it you think: “Okay, tonight I’m
getting laid.”
Next to the window there’ll be a little corner den with a small desk, an iMac, and a Billy bookshelf displaying the spines of the entire library of la Repubblica. One wall will probably feature a Kandinsky poster. The lady of the house will probably have put on a Brian Eno CD that no one likes (especially not her or her girlfriend) but which is a must for these kinds of dinners. We’ll eat sushi, sashimi, and skewers whose flavor will be impossible for me to figure out. I won’t like any of it because I don’t like Japanese food.
Jennifer Lopez (and since I haven’t yet met her, I’m going to have to just stick with the original, her namesake) will probably have loosened her long blonde-chestnut hair over a T-shirt that’s not even tight but still sufficiently snug to accommodate her curves in a way that can’t be ignored. She’ll have full lips and will laugh at anything you say. She, as the lady of the house, will be the one to make sure everything’s ready and will bring the food to the table. Espe will no doubt follow her on her frequent trips to the adjoining kitchen, helping her with every task and investing everything he’s got into the objective of ending the evening sprawled between her legs.
Anna Karenina will certainly wear a pageboy cut, light makeup, and a black sheath dress that gives an embarrassing prominence to her, ehm, balcony. She’ll display a detached, meditative interest in me. She’ll put on an attitude of open indifference to her friend’s obliging hyperactivity, taking it for granted that she will take care of everything. She won’t bother to take a single dish to the table and she’ll loiter listlessly between the dining room, the kitchen, and, from time to time, the bathroom, with the nonchalance of someone who feels very much at home. This openly avowed layabout ethic will make me dislike her, and I’ll speak to her only in monsyllabic grunts, especially at first. She’ll look me up and down as if to say: “Well, just take a look at this asshole,” and by so doing she’ll immediately drive up my stock quotations, because there’s nothing like rudeness to stir the flame of a woman who’s already interested in you. During dinner we’ll bicker constantly over any and all subjects while Espe and Jennifer Lopez cheerfully get drunk, methodically preparing for the ensuing diversions.
Later, Anna Karenina will ask me to see her home. I’ll pretend to resist but make it abundantly clear that my implicit consent is unmistakable. As soon as we’re in the car we’ll stop being so argumentative. When we get to her place she’ll ask me if I want to come up for one last glass. I’ll point out to her that she’s just committed one of the most persistent film clichés of the past thirty years and she’ll reply: You imbecile, you’re the one who’s writing the screenplay; and I’ll say: Ah, right, that’s true; and she’ll say: Well, what are you going to do, you coming up or not coming up? And I’ll say: Are you kidding? There’s nothing I like better than clichés.
At this point I abandon the story, I turn off the water, I step out of the shower, I put on my bathrobe, and I go into the bedroom, where I find Espe, who is once again dressed in his cologne-reeking clothing and is standing with his shoulders slightly bowed.
“Well?” I ask, briskly drying my hair and massaging my scalp with the hood of my bathrobe.
He doesn’t answer. The look on his face.
“Hey. What on earth’s wrong?”
“Those sluts called me,” he slowly enunciates. “Dinner is off.”
“What? We were just about to leave.”
“Yeah.”
“But why?”
“I can’t even remember the excuse, that’s how ridiculous it was.”
“That’s nuts.”
“The part I found most humiliating is that they wanted your cell phone number.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, it couldn’t be any clearer. The one they wanted was you. One of them had to give right of way to the other, and neither of them was willing to yield.”
I hold up my forefinger, like I’m trying to orient myself.
“So you’re saying that . . .”
“If one was for you, the other was for me.”
“Well, of course,” I say. I look at Espe and I fall silent, drawing the obvious conclusions along with him.
“Am I that unattractive, Vince’?” he asks me, depressed.
“What are you talking about? All you do is pick up girls.”
“The decline has begun, Vince’. I’ve suspected it for some time now. I’ve never been flunked so resoundingly. These are very clear signs.”
“Hey, cut it out now, okay? I’m already complaining all the time, and I’m not looking for competition. As for those two, they’re just ignorant bumpkins, and it’s not worth wasting another word on the subject.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
In the moments of silence that ensue, I sense the urgency of goading my old friend into doing something before he relapses into his depression.
“You know what we’re going to do now, you and me? We’re going to go out anyway.”
His face lights up.
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Let’s go have some fun. And those two harpies can go fuck themselves.”
“Oh, now that’s the Espe I know.”
“Come on, get ready,” he says, galvanized.
“Okay.”
I pull some clean underwear and socks out of the drawer of the Leksvik dresser, and then I have a moment of, how to put this, hesitation.
“Ah, Espe.”
“What.”
“You didn’t by any chance give them my cell number?”
“Of course not.”
“Thanks. You’re a pal.”
CASUAL
The evening out with Espe is, without exaggeration, tragic. A couple of losers in a birreria, one of them reeking like an aging whore, exchanging their respective states of depression practically without uttering a word the whole time.
It’s not as if the other clients of the place (those who are our age and over, I mean to say) are much better off, in fact, quite the opposite seems to be true. Just to tell you: it’s stunning to see how many men aged 50+ enter and exit on a hunt for pussy. Because there’s no mistaking the fact that that hunger is stamped on their faces and, most particularly, on the clothing they wear. There are lots, and I really mean lots and lots and lots, of men well along in years and pathologically obsessed with youth. It’s stronger than them, and they all want at least a taste of it. They throw on the attire of youthfulness however it happens (and it generally happens badly), abdicating any personal sense of the ridiculous. They wear torn blue jeans and Hogan shoes, their hair is thinning but still long, they wear hip glasses, sky-blue or off-yellow, with BlackBerrys blinking in the pockets of their unbuttoned shirts, revealing white chest hairs and jutting bellies.
The tragedy of these latter-day monsters is not that they feel young: it’s that they want to seem young. My opinion is that this sort of conscientious objection to the facts of the registry of vital statistics implies a sort of desperate yearning to grab a few crumbs from the surrounding banqueting table of sexual abundance, as if, by disguising oneself as a young person, it was possible to fool the world into giving up some of its treasures without realizing it.
By the time I can no longer stand sitting there wallowing in the act of expiation, inhaling (though by now I’m inured to it) Espe’s pestiferous scent, and wandering off into zooanthropological speculations concerning the surrounding bestiary, I finally suggest to my office-mate that we give up the long-since shipwrecked idea of having fun and simply make our separate ways home.
And so we emerge from the birreria to immerse ourselves in the youthful throngs (with the exceptions mentioned above) swarming along the long line of clubs, pubs, and bars that remain open and jumping until dawn along this thoroughfare, the site of the city’s movida (as the local press likes to call it), and those throngs seem to part for us, open
ing immediate and generous gaps for us to pass through, thanks to the filthy and bestial scent my friend is emanating.
It is just as we’re breaking up one of those many groups of merrymakers bivouacking on the sidewalk that I feel someone tug at my arm. I turn around as Espe is being swallowed up by the next surge of humanity, vanishing from my sight. The exact words that come into my head when I lay eyes on There’s Something About Mary just inches from my face, are: “Now you tell me, doesn’t she look like the girl from the hospital?”
“Ciao,” she says, bestowing upon me a faintly embarrassed smile. I have the impression that her eyes are glittering, and I also get the feeling that it’s more than just an impression. Here and now, I couldn’t describe the clothes that she’s wearing, but I know for an absolute certainty that I find her fabulously elegant.
I’m going on instinct there, obviously.
“Oh, ciao,” I say, reciprocating her informal tone and deafened by the roar of voices around us.
“I’d never have expected to find you here.”
“You’d be right,” I shout. “I never come here.”
I get up on my tiptoes in search of Espe, but I don’t see him anywhere.
“Why not?”
“Do you have any idea how old I am?”
“No, none at all.”
I raise my right hand, fold over my thumb, and flash four twice. Once for forty and and once for four.
“Really?” she says, startled. “My compliments.”
Jesus, I’d forgotten how much noise people can make just by talking. More than hearing what she says, I read her lips.
“Compliments for what?”
“What did you say?” she asks, putting her ear next to my mouth and letting me inhale the scent of her hair.
“FOR WHAT?” I shout.
“For the way you look at your age.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“Are you here alone?”
“Actually I was with a friend, but I think I’ve lost him. What about you?”
My Mother-in-Law Drinks Page 33
