My Mother-in-Law Drinks

by Diego De Silva

  “With them,” she replies, pointing to a couple nearby, both of them more or less her age.

  They both nod at me with a sort of approval (which I return) and then, as if they’d (not so much understood as) sensed the direction things were taking, they shoot a quick look of agreement at There’s Something About Mary and slip away into the crowd, hand in hand.

  “Why are they leaving?” I ask.

  “I’ll catch up with them later, don’t worry. Besides, we’re not going anywhere.”

  “Ah,” I comment.

  We look each other in the face.

  “At this point, I ought to ask if you want anything to drink, I guess,” I say.

  “What?”

  “AT THIS POINT, I OUGHT TO ASK IF YOU WANT ANYTHING TO DRINK, I GUESS!”

  “Well, why don’t you?”

  In the “American bar” we just entered you practically can’t see a damned thing. Okay, the idea of reproducing night in a place known, in fact, as a nightclub is a very cool effect; and I understand that semidarkness facilitates intimate interactions, makes the people you meet seem that much more interesting, and all the rest, but when a person walks into a nightclub to get a drink, it seems reasonable to expect that they should at least be able to spot the bartender.

  We flutter like bats to claim a table that Cameron Diaz, who knows how, has already homed in on. I let her lead me, trusting her instincts as we glide through the crowd that occupies the center of the upper level. In here, it seems that the prohibition of smoking is honored more in the breach than the observance. The one positive is that the music being played up here is jazz, which I don’t much like but which at least makes it possible to exchange a few words without having to shout.

  Once we’re seated I do my best to get my eyes used to the partial darkness, using the dim light of a votive candle set in a small glass cube at the center of the tiny table where we’ve taken a seat.

  The beauty of Cameron Diaz from the elbows up is enough to make anyone blush. Every time she smiles, it’s as if a stapler had just punched a staple into my crotch.

  “You like it here?” she asks.

  “Here where?” I reply.

  She gives me a blank look, then gets it and laughs.

  A waiter shows up, ripped, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and leather pants. He hops in place and blows his bangs out of the way as he talks.

  “A sweet evening to you,” he says.

  Oh my God, I think.

  “Ciao,” says There’s Something About Mary.

  The waiter shoots her a gigolo’s come-hither look that makes me want to light his bangs on fire.

  “What can I bring you?”

  “A Negroni for me,” Cameron orders.

  “Margarita for me,” I say.

  “You want that normal or frozen?” the aspiring male model asks me, tapping his pencil on his order pad and leaning on the pretentious English frozen.

  I’d have to guess that, in his imagination, the fact that he addressed me in the informal is quite an honor.

  “Frozen.”

  “Negroni . . . Margarita,” writes the bangs-blower, dictating the order to himself.

  At this point he ought to clear out, but he seems to have something else he wants to tell us.

  “All right. Well then, I’ll leave you two to your synergy. Have a nice evening.”

  I’m so disconcerted by the unholy obscenity that this mental defective with the cascading bangs has allowed to escape his lips that I can’t help but track him with my eyes as he moves off, as if I somehow found the fact of his earthly existence to be an inexplicable mystery at this point.

  When I turn back to Cameron Diaz, she’s already laughing.

  A text comes in for me.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “No worries,” she says, wiping away her tears.

  I read it.

  It’s from Espe.

  WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

  “Is there a problem?” asks There’s Something About Mary.

  “No, it’s my friend from earlier, he’s looking for me.”

  She gives me a confused look as I slip my phone back into my breast pocket.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to text him back?”

  “No, I’ve had enough of him for today, believe me.”

  We look at each other. We’re both pretty uncomfortable, which is a worrisome sign.

  “You know,” she says, “my friends recognized you. I hadn’t even spotted you.”

  “Go on, get out of here.”

  “Really. They said ‘Isn’t that Malinconico?’”

  “Of course, when you think about it, it’s just nuts.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not a successful lawyer, Irene. It’s odd that I’m at risk of becoming one thanks to this whole business.”

  I answered instinctively, without thinking. Something must be happening if this girl can make me speak sincerely just by sitting across from me. The same thing that happened at the hospital, now that I think about it.

  “Yeah,” she says, a note of sadness entering her voice, as if my observation had reminded her of the inescapable nature of the grief that she was doing her best to outsmart.

  “Hey,” I say, taking her hand. “Hey.”

  “It was all wrong, all of it. From the start,” she whispers, talking to herself.

  I shyly reach my other hand toward her and try to stroke her face.

  She squints her eyes as if to stave off a tear; she bites her lip and smiles at me, with a need to reassure me that touches me in a way I’d rather not have been touched.

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was . . .”

  She rubs her cheek against my hand and squeezes the other hand tight.

  “It’s okay. Really. I’m over it.”

  I look at her as if to ask her what to think about the fact that we’re here doing what we’re doing. I ought to change the subject, and right away, withdraw from the intimacy that is growing between us, move the conversation to topics of no particular importance so that I can bring this interaction to an end as quickly as possible and get my ass out of here before it’s too late. Instead, once again, I wind up following my atavistic instincts to do everything I can to ruin my life.

  “Do you know who you remind me of?” I say to her, point-blank.

  She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, as if I was about to say something that she’d heard billions of times.

  “Cameron Diaz.”

  “Wrong answer. An old song by Dik Dik.”

  “What?” she says, astonished.

  “‘L’isola di Wight.’ You know it?”

  She shakes her head.

  “One verse, in particular. Want to hear it?”

  She smiles.

  “Does that mean you want to sing it to me?”

  “What am I supposed to do, recite it? Songs aren’t poems, after all.”

  “Right. Okay, go.”

  She turns her ear to me, all curious, as I lean toward her, clear my throat, and intone:

  Without a suitcase you and I

  Set out one Thursday

  In our eyes was the word yes

  Here I pause briefly, both because that’s how the song goes and because I want to gauge her reaction.

  Her eyes are closed. A way of concentrating, probably. So I continue, moving on to the part that in my mind has the most to do with her:

  A rain of butterflies all around us

  You gave me your youth

  And no one’s stopped me since

  I lean away, announcing the end of the performance.

  She waits a few seconds before opening her eyes. When she does, she looks upset.

  “Let�
�s stop here, Vincenzo,” she says, avoiding my eyes.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “You really don’t get it. Stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise, we’ll keep going.”

  “Ah.”

  “As long as he’s in that condition, I can’t bring myself to, I’m not able to, I . . . Oh, how stupid, forgive me forgive me forgive me.”

  She’s on the verge of breaking into tears. She puts one hand over her mouth.

  I look around, dreading some indiscreet observer (I’m blessing the darkness we’re sitting in), then I stand up, bring my chair over next to hers, and sit down.

  “Hey,” I tell her, stroking her head, “don’t worry, nothing’s happened. Let’s just start over from the beginning, okay? I’m an emotional mess myself right now, and . . .”

  I’m about to finish my sentence but I can’t because, darting like a cobra, she grabs my face with both hands and pulls me toward her, dragging me into a desperate, ravenous kiss. When we’re done, she pushes me away.

  I sit there, astounded and vaguely enthusiastic, while There’s Something About Mary stands up and adjusts the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

  “Please, Vincenzo,” she says, leaning over me.

  “Eh.”

  “If I call you, don’t answer.”

  I look at her and say nothing.

  She kisses me again: no tongue this time.

  I start to stand up.

  She presses her hand gently down on my shoulder, and when she’s sure I’ve gotten the message, she leaves.

  “I can take the Negroni back if you want,” the bangs-blowing waiter says to me, materializing out of the darkness at that exact instant with the tray with our drinks.

  What an ass I’ve just made of myself, I think.

  THINGS CHANGE

  Ever since Alessandra Persiano left, I sleep with my cell phone turned on. Since I no longer hear all that well out of one ear, I keep it under my pillow, and I rely on the vibrate mode, in case any updates come in overnight.

  This ignoble practice has ensured that my sleep is automatically interrupted at preset intervals so that I can check the possible arrival of calls and/or texts: 2 A.M., 4 A.M., 6:30.

  It goes without saying that every time it takes the hand of God to get me back to sleep, so in the end I get a terrible night’s sleep, and my face only starts to reassemble itself around two in the afternoon.

  But last night, as I returned home from my surreal tête-à-tête with Irene, something very strange happened to me. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket; I looked at it; it occurred to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world that there was no rule written anywhere that I had to ruin another night of sleep, and then I turned it off, triggering an exquisitely political sense of relief at the realization of how little it takes to set a caged man free.

  That’s not all: when I brushed my teeth I moved the toothbrush correctly (up and down, rather than scrubbing horizontally like an ignorant donkey the way I usually do), then I switched the light off, I turned my nose up at the small angry mob of guilt complexes that usually gathers in my bedroom when I lay myself out flat on my back and recapitulate the events of the day and the state of my life in general, then I simply closed my eyes and I slept until nine the next morning.

  Absolutely unbelievable.

  I turn my cell phone on at ten (an unthinkable time for a person to get up who is a vassal to his loved ones, and has therefore long since sentenced himself to be available around the clock, 24/7/365), while I spoil the pleasure of my morning espresso waiting for a slow-moving tree sloth of a man to finish reading the one copy of Corriere della Sera offered free of charge to the customers of this café.

  There are three missed calls: two from Assunta and one from an unknown number.

  I’m just calling Ass back when I’m interrupted by an incoming call (the number seems to be the same one I read just a moment ago). I want to reject it, but I’m always getting the commands muddled (for someone who’s used to doing one thing at a time, the multifunctionality of modern cell phones is pure avant-garde) and so instead I take it.

  “Yes,” I answer. As if to say: “No.”

  “Am I speaking with Counselor Malinconico?”

  I’m so frustrated at having postponed the phone call I wanted to make in order to answer an incoming call from I have no idea whom that I have a sudden urge to be rude.

  “No.”

  Pause.

  The guy on the other end of the line is probably trying to make up his mind as to whether or not to believe me.

  “Actually, I wrote the number in my agenda book . . .” he replies, without the slightest argumentative edge.

  “Nice work, Vincenzo,” I say to myself. “You’re such an oaf.”

  And an idiot to boot.

  “You’re right. Forgive me.”

  “In that case, I’m speaking with Counselor Malinconico?”

  “Unfortunately, you are.”

  “Then that’s taken care of. Buongiorno, this is Simone, I work with Daria Bignardi, do you remember me?”

  God, what an ass I just made of myself.

  “Oh, of course, how are you? I was just thinking that I needed to hear back from you about the trip. I’m coming on Friday, right?”

  “Actually,” he says, somewhat embarrassed, “well, that’s why I was calling you. There were some unexpected developments during the preparation of this week’s program and the topic we’d invited you to discuss has been, ahem, crossed off the list, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah,” I say, “why is that?”

  “Well, you see, it’s by and large a thematic issue.”

  “A thematic issue.”

  “Yes, you see, we do our best to offer a minimum of continuity in terms of the subjects that make up the broadcast. Unfortunately, when, as in this case, more than one of the guests drop out before air time, we’re forced to restructure the program around another theme.”

  “Okay. Maybe if you give me half an hour or so I’ll be able to figure out what you just said.”

  He laughs.

  “In any case, we’d be delighted to have you on the show some other time.”

  Sure, I think.

  “Of course.”

  “Daria sends her best.”

  “Thanks, please give her mine. And forgive me for earlier, I’m not usually so rude.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. Please forgive us, rather, for this last-minute change.”

  After we end the call, I enjoy the surprisingly sweet sensation of lightness that this cancellation in midstream has brought me.

  I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but I basically adore cancellations. They suddenly free you of all responsibilities, all expectations. Above all, they reconcile you with boredom.

  Another call.

  This one at least comes from a number I know: it’s Assunta.

  “Who were you talking to?” is the first thing she says, without even giving me the time to say “hello.”

  I give a start.

  “Hey, who do you think you are, my girlfriend?”

  “I try calling you for almost two hours and find the phone turned off the whole time, then I try again and this time it’s busy: with your kind permission, I’m going to go ahead and be irritated, okay?”

  “What’s gotten into you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Where are you? I need you to come over here for a minute. Right away.”

  “Do you know what time it is, Ass? Ten thirty in the morning. You know where I could very well be at this time of day? In court. And you know what I could very well be doing? Arguing a case.”

  “But instead you’re wasting time in some café, right?”

 
Shit, I think.

  I hold the phone away from my ear, then I bring it back.

  “I hereby inform you, my dear mother-in-law, that the countdown has begun for the mission to tell you to go fuck yourself, and I’ve already reached the number four. Three, two, one . . .”

  “Go fuck yourself, Vincenzo.”

  “Hey, wasn’t I supposed to be the one saying that to you?”

  “Get your ass in gear and get over here, I want you to do something.”

  “But what?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Oh, Jesus. But why is it so urgent?”

  “It’s not actually that urgent, but I want to do it before I stop feeling like it. Come on, enough with this debate, just swing by here, now, Christ!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m on my way, fuck off.”

  That she’s decided to undergo chemo, even if it sounds absurd to say so, is good news. That she’s decided to put an end to her reprisal against Nives, likewise. Also because that means we can put an end to my clandestine visits, and she can finally accept the assistance of the person who really ought to be there at her side in the challenging period that lies ahead of her. But it’s not as if I’m really all that eager to take credit for these fine decisions, as she wants me to do.

  I tell her that I have no need of rehabilitation in Nives’s eyes, and in fact I’m not comfortable with the idea of informing her of the fact that all this time I’ve been—let’s go ahead and put it in these terms—taking care of her mother behind her back, but Ass doesn’t want to listen to reason, she demands that her daughter know that if she’s changed her mind, it’s thanks to me.

  “But I didn’t do anything, Ass.”

  “You came to see me in secret and you put up with the ravings of a bitter old woman, Vincenzo. And in spite of all that, you made me laugh.”

  This, I have to admit, I am pleased to hear.

  “You certainly don’t expect me to deliver this whole lovely little speech to her?”

  “There’s no need. There’s just one thing I need, and it’s very simple.”