City

by Alessandro Baricco

  Prof. Taltomar didn’t even open his eyes.

  “Take care, my boy.”

  More or less around the same time, Shatzy negotiated the purchase of a secondhand trailer, a ’71 Pagoda model. Inside it was all wood-paneled. Outside it was yellow.

  “How did you happen to choose a yellow one?”

  “May I point out that it’s you who are buying it, not me.”

  “I know, but twenty years ago it was you who bought it. You’re not going to tell me there were no other colors?”

  “If you don’t like yellow you can always repaint it.”

  “I like yellow.”

  “You do?”

  “I do, yes. But in general a person has to be a retard to buy a yellow trailer, don’t you think?”

  Prof. Bandini inclined his head, reminding himself that he had to be very patient with this girl. He had to remain calm, or he would never get rid of the damn trailer. He had been trying to unload it for months. There aren’t many people who have at the top of their wish list a ’71 Pagoda trailer. Yellow. He had put ads everywhere, including the newspaper of the university where he taught. It was Gould’s university. Gould had cut out the ad and stuck it among the others on the refrigerator. Then it was Shatzy who decided. She preferred Catholics and intellectuals: usually they were embarrassed to talk about money. Prof. Bandini was a Catholic intellectual.

  So one day, while he was giving a lecture to a hundred students, in Classroom 11, he saw the door open and that girl came in.

  “Are you Prof. Michael Bandini?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Shatzy waved the newspaper clipping.

  “Are you the one selling a used trailer, ’71 Pagoda, fairly good condition, price negotiable, no exchange?”

  Without exactly knowing why, Prof. Bandini was embarrassed, as if someone were returning to him an umbrella left in a porn movie house.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Can I see it?, the trailer, I mean, can I see it?”

  “I’m in the middle of a lecture.”

  Only then did Shatzy seem to become aware of the students, who filled the lecture hall.

  “Oh.”

  “Would you mind coming back later?”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Can I wait, maybe I’ll just sit here, do you mind? I might learn something interesting.”

  “Please.”

  “Thank you.”

  Prof. Bandini thought to himself that the world was full of lunatics. Then he continued from where he had left off.

  “Usually,” he said, “the porch is situated at the front of the house. It consists of a roof, varying in width—but seldom wider than twelve feet—which is held up by a series of posts, and covers a wooden platform whose elevation with respect to the ground is generally between eight inches and five feet. A railing and the necessary access steps complete the basic framework. From a purely architectural point of view, the porch represents a rather rudimentary development of the classical idea of the façade, the expression of an affluent poverty and of a primitive luxury. From a psychological, not to say moral, point of view, on the other hand, it’s a phenomenon that makes me crazy and that turns out, upon close analysis, to be poignant, yet repulsive and, finally, epiphanic. From the Greek epiphaneia: revelation.”

  Shatzy approved with a slight nod of her head. In the West, in fact, almost every house had a front porch.

  “The anomaly of the porch,” continued Prof. Bandini, “is, obviously, that it is inside and outside at the same time. In a sense, it represents an extended threshold, where the house no longer exists, but has not yet vanished into the threat of the outside. It’s a no man’s land where the idea of a protected place—which every house, by its very existence, bears witness to, in fact embodies— expands beyond its own definition and rises up again, undefended, as if to posthumously resist the claims of the open. In this sense it may seem the ultimate weak place, world in the balance, idea in exile. And it’s not impossible that its identity as weakness contributes to its attraction, since man tends to love places that seem to incarnate his own precariousness, the fact that he is exposed, a creature of the borderland.”

  In private, Prof. Bandini summed up his argument with an expression that he considered it imprudent to use in public, but which he regarded as a happy synthesis. “Men have houses: but they are porches.” He had once tried saying it to his wife, and his wife had laughed until she was sick. That had rather wounded him. She later left him for a translator, a woman twenty-two years her senior.

  “However,” Prof. Bandini continued, “it is curious how this condition of ‘the weak place’ dissolves as soon as the porch ceases to be an inanimate architectural element and is inhabited by men. On a porch, the average man sits with his back to the house, generally in a chair equipped with a special mechanism to make it rock. Sometimes—if we are to compose the picture with pinpoint precision—the man holds a loaded gun on his lap. Always, he looks straight ahead. If we now return to the image of precariousness which was the porch considered as a simple architectural element, and enrich it with the presence of the man—his back to the house, rocking in the rocking chair, a loaded gun on his lap—the image will shift noticeably toward a sense of strength, security, determination. One could even say that the porch ceases to be a frail echo of the house it is attached to and becomes the confirmation of what the house just hints at: the ultimate sanction of the protected place, the solution of the theorem that the house merely states.”

  Shatzy especially liked the detail about the loaded gun.

  “Finally,” continued Prof. Bandini, “the man and the porch together constitute an icon, secular, and yet sacred, too, which celebrates the human being’s right to possess a place of his own, removed from the vague state of simply existing. Further: the icon celebrates the human being’s right to defend that place, using the weapons of a methodical cowardice (the rocking of the rocking chair) or of a well-equipped courage (the loaded gun). The entire human condition is summed up in that image. Because exactly this seems to be man’s predestined dislocation: facing the world, with himself in back.”

  This was something that Prof. Bandini believed, beyond any academic necessity—he simply believed that things were that way, he believed it even when he was in his bath. He thought, indeed, that men are on the porch of their own life (and therefore in exile from themselves), and that this is the only possible way for them to defend their life from the world, since as soon as they venture to re-enter the house (and therefore be themselves) the house is immediately reduced to a fragile refuge in the sea of nothingness, destined to be swept away by the wave of the Open, and the shelter becomes a fatal trap, for which reason people hurry out again onto the porch (and therefore out of themselves), taking up the only position from which they can block the invasion of the world, and save at least the idea of a house of their own, even if they must resign themselves to the knowledge that that house is uninhabitable. We have houses, but we are porches, he thought. He looked at men and in their poignant lies he heard the creak of the rocking chair on the dusty planks of the porch; and the outbursts of pride and painful self-assertion—in which, in others and in himself, he saw the sentence of perennial exile hiding—were, for him, ludicrous loaded guns. It was all very sad, if you thought about it, but also moving, because, in the end, Prof. Bandini knew that he felt affection for himself and for others, and compassion for all the porches he was surrounded by there was something infinitely dignified in the endless delay on the threshold of the house, one step in front of you nights when the fierce wind of truth rises, the morning after you are forced to repair the roof of your lies, with perfect patience, but when my love returns everything will be all right again, we will watch the sunset together drinking colored water or when a man, in his weariness, asked you to sit before him, and he opened his mind to you, dragging out everything, truly everything, and even then you understood that you were sitting on his porch but he had not let you enter the house, he
himself had not gone into the house for years now, and this, paradoxically, was the reason for his weariness, as he sat there, in front of you those evenings when the air is cold and the world seems to have retreated, you suddenly feel silly there on the porch, standing guard against no enemy, and it’s exhaustion that gnaws at you, and the humiliation of feeling so pointlessly foolish, finally you get up and go back into the house, after years of lies, of pretenses, you go back into the house knowing that you may not be able even to orient yourself inside, as if it were someone else’s house, and yet it’s yours, it still is, you open the door and enter, a curious happiness you didn’t remember, your house, how marvelous, this warmth a womb, peace, myself, at last, I will never go out again, I put the gun down in the corner and learn again the forms of the objects and the shape of the space, get used again to the forgotten geography of the truth, I will learn to move without breaking anything, when someone knocks at the door I will open it, when it’s summer I will throw wide the windows, I will stay in this house until I am, BUT

  BUT if you wait, and from the outside watch this house, maybe an hour goes by, or an entire day, BUT in the end you will see the door open, and, though you will never know or understand, ever, what could have happened inside, you will see the door open and, slowly, the man emerge, invisibly pushed outside by you will never know what, BUT surely it must have to do with some vertiginous fear, or inadequacy, or condemnation, so pitiless that it pushes the man out, onto his porch, gun in hand, I adore

  I adore that moment, said Prof. Bandini, the exact moment when once again he takes a step, gun in hand, looks at the world before him, feels the sharp air, turns up the collar of his jacket, and then—marvelous—returns to his chair, sits, and, leaning back, sets it in motion, the gentle swaying that had ceased, the reassuring roll of the lie that now rocks again the regained serenity, the peace of the craven, the only one we get, people pass by and greet us, Hey Jack, where did you go? Nothing, nothing, I’m here now, Take it easy, Jack, one hand caressing the rifle butt, he looks into the distance, narrowing his eyes a little, how much light, o world how much light do you need, the tiniest flame was enough for me, in there, when?, I don’t remember when, BUT it was a place I said farewell to, and then no more, he will never speak of it again, as he rocks forever on his painted wooden porch if you think about it, think of the empty houses, by the hundred, behind people’s faces, behind their porches, thousands of houses in perfect order, and empty, think of the air inside, the colors, the objects, the changing light, all happening for no one, orphaned places, the ones that should be THE PLACES, the only true ones, but destiny’s odd sense of urban planning has made them the wormholes of the world, abandoned cavities beneath the surface of consciousness: if you think about it, what a mystery, what about them, the true places, my true place, what about ME while I was here defending myself, doesn’t it ever occur to you to ask yourself? Who knows how I am, ME? while you’re there rocking, repairing bits of the roof, polishing your rifle, greeting passers-by—suddenly that question comes to mind, who knows how I am?, I want to know only this, how am I? Does anyone know if I’m good, or old, does anyone know if I’m ALIVE?

  Shatzy went up to the lectern. The students were leaving and Prof. Bandini was arranging his papers in a briefcase.

  “Not bad, your lecture.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seriously. There was a lot of interesting stuff.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “You know what it made me think?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s what I thought, Hey, that professor is, unfortunately, right, I mean, that’s how things are, men have houses, but in reality they are porches, I don’t know if I’m explaining myself, they have houses, but they are . . .”

  “What did you say?”

  “When?”

  “Just now, about houses.”

  “I don’t know, what did I say?”

  “You said that sentence.”

  “What sentence?”

  They walked down the street together, Shatzy and Prof. Bandini, talking, then they said goodbye and he told her that the trailer was in his yard, and if she wanted to come by that afternoon he would be there, and she said fine, so that afternoon in fact she went, and it was then that they started discussing the color and, to be exact, what Shatzy said was:

  “How did you happen to choose a yellow one?”

  “May I point out that it’s you who are buying it, not me.”

  “I know, but twenty years ago it was you who bought it. You’re not going to tell me there were no other colors?”

  “If you don’t like yellow you can always repaint it.”

  “I like yellow.”

  “You do?”

  “I do, yes. But in general a person has to be a retard to buy a yellow trailer, don’t you think?”

  Twenty yards away, Gould, Poomerang, and Diesel stood in the shade, leaning against the side of Prof. Bandini’s garage and watching the scene.

  “He doesn’t know it, but he’s crazy about her,” Poomerang didn’t say.

  “Where did Shatzy get that awful blouse?” Diesel asked.

  “A strategic blouse,” said Gould. “If she coughs the top button comes unbuttoned and you get a glimpse of her tits.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, you have to know how to cough the right way. Shatzy practices in front of the mirror.”

  Poomerang began to cough. Then he looked at the buttons of his shirt. Then he looked again at the two who were going in and out of the trailer, discussing.

  “What happened in the end with Mondini? Does he take him to the world championship or not?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not clear.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not clear?”

  “Now some people came from the Tropicana, the casino, and offered to put a lot of money on a match between Larry and Benson.”

  “Really? Benson?”

  “Benson.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Right. Except that Mondini said Thanks a million, another time.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. He says that first Larry has to have one more fight.”

  “Is he crazy?”

  “It’s not clear what he has in mind. All he says is that first Larry has to have another fight, and then they’ll see.”

  “But Benson is a shortcut to the championship, if Larry beats him . . .”

  “Nothing to do about it, Mondini’s deaf in that ear.”

  “He’s gone mad, the old man.”

  “No, he’s got something in mind. The other night, Larry went to him directly and said Maestro, you owe me an answer. Mondini looked at him and then he said: After the next fight, Larry, and I’m going to choose it.”

  “Come on . . .”

  “Then Larry put on a smile and said All right, OK, whatever you like, Maestro, who am I supposed to take out?”

  “Right, who the hell is he supposed to take out?”

  “Now comes the best part.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mondini is a weird guy, it’s hard to tell what he has in mind.”

  “What on earth do you mean, Gould?”

  “With all the fighters to choose from, it’s odd, really, incomprehensible . . .”

  “So who the hell did he choose?”

  “You’d never guess.”

  “So, come on . . .”

  Gould turned for a second to look at Shatzy, over there with Prof. Bandini. Then he said softly:

  “Poreda.”

  “Who?”

  “Poreda.”

  “Stanley Poreda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poreda the one with the broken arms?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I said you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Poreda?”

  “Stanley Hooker Poreda.”

  “
That son of a bitch.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Poreda . . . fuck.”

  “Poreda.”

  POOMERANG: Stanley Poreda had retired two years earlier. To be exact, he had had to retire. He had sold a fight, only things had gone wrong. His opponent was a guy related to a boss in Belem. His form was good, but in terms of power he was a disaster, he couldn’t have beaten a drunk. Poreda was an artist in simulating the KO, but in the first four rounds he didn’t take a single hit that bore the slightest resemblance to a real blow. He would have liked to go down and head home. But there was no way to get a decent punch out of that worthless wimp. So, just to do something, at the end of the fourth round he went in with a jab and doubled it with a hook. Nothing special. But the wimp went down. Saved by the bell. When Poreda returned to his corner, a very well dressed guy appeared, with a gold-filtered cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t even take it out of his mouth when he leaned over and whispered: You worm, try that again and you’re fucked. He only took it out when, a second later, he spat into the water bottle and said to the corner: Give the boy something to drink, he’s thirsty. Poreda was, in his way, a professional. He grabbed the bottle and took a drink without turning a hair. Then the bell sounded. The wimp got up, staggering a little, but, when he got to the center of the ring, he had the strength to say to Poreda: let’s get this over with, you creep. Right, Poreda thought. He opened his defense with a couple of jabs, then went in with an uppercut and ended with a right hook. The wimp flew backwards like a puppet. When he landed he looked like someone who had fallen from a tenth-floor window. Poreda took off his mouthpiece, went straight to the wimp’s corner, and said: Give the boy something to drink, he’s thirsty. Ten days later, two thugs with guns came to his house. They broke both his arms, crushing them, one after the other, in the door. End of the line, Poreda thought.

  DIESEL: He had started out with Mondini. Two or three fights, then the Maestro had caught him going down on a ridiculous punch, and had understood. It’s a profession like any other, Poreda had said to him. It’s not mine, Mondini had said. And he had thrown him out of the gym. Mondini had continued to follow his progress, from a distance. He wasn’t a great fighter, Poreda, but he was like an animal that has found in the ring its habitat. He knew all the tricks, he had even invented a few, and some he executed with indisputable perfection. Above all: he was strong. He was strong like almost no other active fighters. It was a skill. When he decided to, he was capable of unloading in a single punch all hundred and eighty pounds of himself, it was as if for one instant every ounce of his body went into that glove. Even his butt, Mondini said. He had a kind of admiration for him. So, when this business of Larry and the world championship started up, that was who came to mind: with all the other fighters around: him.