“I’m going to be sick.”
“Yes, it could have that effect. Being with Pagliuchi was worse than riding a roller-coaster: immense pleasure, but your knees were like jelly when you got off. Laura was like you in front of a glass of wine: she swore it would be the last time, and then, one minute later, she was begging for more and more. I could see it. Abstinence from Renato was hard on her. A mother knows these things.”
“I’d better not say anything.”
“Take a fresh flower like her and put her in the hands of someone like Amedeo, who’s just woken up to the facts of life and can hardly find his dick to go and piss. Then give her one minute of ass-slapping from a bulldozer like Renato, and you’ll see the mush that’s left at the end. Guided by a hand that knows what it’s doing, it only takes three sessions to turn a girl into a woman. Laura got the complete treatment. Suddenly, a sophisticated side blossomed in her.”
“She became a slut, in other words.”
“Now I’m going to come over and give you a handful.”
“Let’s get this clear: in this game, I have to accept my Amedeo being torn to bits, while your little butterfly can’t be touched?”
“Ours.”
“Whatever. Get on with this pile of shit, will you?”
“You should have seen her. She was no longer herself. There were fewer and fewer phone calls, which Anteo appreciated. On Sunday afternoons, Laura would go into town by bus without waiting for her kissy-wissy boyfriend, who saw himself as a man, to pick her up in his crappy little car.”
“Not that again.”
“Laura was going other places. She’d come back in the evening with bags under her eyes. She’d start on her homework, completely placated. The agreement with Renato was clear: he was supposed to carry on until I was sure disaster had been averted. For him it was fine. He’s always been so obliging . . .”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“One evening, he was there at the front door.”
“Who?”
“Amedeo. I answered. When I opened the door, there he was. With no warning. He was in a bad way. I’ve never seen anyone transformed that way by pain. He stammered something inaudible. The first thing I thought was that he’d faint on the steps. He was looking for Laura. He needed to speak to her at any cost. ‘One moment,’ I said. And left him there.”
“You didn’t even let him come in?”
“In this house, there was really no need for any more Bottais. I went to call our daughter; she was curved over, writing in her secret diary. She snapped it shut. We don’t need to go into the scenes she was probably describing . . . When I told her there was a scared little boy at the door for her, she tossed her eyes. She let out a sigh that confirmed I would soon be singing victory.”
“And then?”
“It took quite a while to shake off the little insect. We could hear him imploring, begging for an explanation, but his appeals were returned to the sender. Poor Anteo pitied the boy: he was racked, breaking into sobs that would end up in a fit of coughing. My poor husband said, ‘Let’s at least sit him down here at the table and talk things through calmly.’ Over my dead body. In fact, I wanted Laura to annihilate him. So that in the Bottai household the cruel pangs of abandonment would finally be felt, the ones that drive you crazy, when heaven and earth no longer have any meaning and you yearn for only one thing: to leave this world. Living with pain like that is crazy.”
“But he was just a boy.”
“When Laura came back in, she made herself a cup of tea.”
“Good for her.”
“Then she went back to her room, and that was the last we heard of it. But I waited to talk to Renato. I let them carry on for another two long weeks. Getting rid of a cry-baby like that is not easy; Amedeo kept on leaving little messages and things like that. Ambushing her, fits of rage. It all played into my hand, as Laura was falling out of love with him fast. One day, she came home in tears. She’d been slapped.”
“Impossible. My Amedeo would never—”
“He raised his hands to her, yes he did. Showing he was an idiot as well as a bore. The affair even turned Anteo against him; he was ready to come over to your place to set things straight, with a few kicks in the ass if necessary. ‘I can’t do it to the boy, but I can to his father,’ he said, moving the furniture around the room to vent his anger. I’ll tell you the truth, though: I liked the idea. I wouldn’t have been sorry to see some trouble coming in your direction, as evidence of an old score to settle. In the end, I calmed him down. I couldn’t lose sight of my objective, though I’d pretty much achieved it by then. Amedeo dug his own grave with that slap.”
“Just so you know, Anteo wouldn’t have done anything of the kind. He was intelligent enough to know how a boy who’d been rejected might behave.”
“He split the wardrobe door in two with a punch. I had to give him the drops I was taking or he would have wrecked the whole house. Then there was you.”
“If you’d seen the state my son was in, you’d be talking less. He locked himself in his room for days. He stopped eating; all he could do was cry.”
“Good.”
“Donatella was worried. She spent her days sitting in front of Amedeo’s door. She was scared he’d do something stupid. No school. No friends. His life was over.”
“I know what you mean.”
“One day I put my foot down. We sent him to Siena to stay with my brother. A change of air would be good for him. Seeing new faces and all that. He finished high school there. Even now he hates coming back here.”
“Same for Laura. I told Renato to stop his therapy; you can imagine the drama. Her grade-point average was down, but she managed to graduate. The first thing she said when she was done was, ‘I want to leave.’ A few days later we took her to Florence to look for accommodation; that’s where she went to college.”
Bottai sighed deeply. “Poor kids,” he said.
“There was no other way. Or would you rather be spoon-feeding a deformed grandchild right now?”
“I don’t know.”
“In my letter, I apologize for that, too.”
“What?”
“I tell Laura how Pagliuchi saved her from committing incest, about her father who isn’t her father, and all the rest.”
“Are you gone in the head?”
“She has the right to know. She may even understand what I, as a mother, had to do. I couldn’t allow my idiocy to have consequences for her.”
“Now, more than ever, you should throw that letter in the fire. You tell her the father she’s still grieving for is a sham and that her real father is still alive. You tell her she made love to her own flesh and blood and that she was used by Pagliuchi, when he was on this way to forty, to avoid irreparable harm. All this in your last will and testament, that is, after the grievous event of your death. Nives, people lose their minds for much less. Even I, when I hang up, will never be the same again.”
“Why is it that everything concerning me has to stay in the shadows?”
“It’s common sense. We shouldn’t talk about our joyriding all that time ago; it’ll ruin our children’s lives. For what? To prove that you’ve had some adventures? It wouldn’t even be revenge against me.”
“Even Rosaltea left the stage in a way that will be remembered. People still talk about it.”
“Now you’re harping on about that poor girl again. Come on, let her rest in peace.”
“Anyway, nobody is going to convince me that Bardo didn’t have something to do with that tragedy.”
“Nives, not everyone’s life has a false bottom hiding the truth, you know. Rosa was madly in love with Renato. She couldn’t imagine life without him; she hated watching him do the rounds between wives, widows, sisters, and nieces instead of being with her. In the end, she did something stupid. By the way—”
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“What?”
“According to the terrible story you’ve told me, Pagliuchi must know all about us.”
“He doesn’t know a thing.”
“You tricked him into courting Laura without an excuse? I don’t believe you.”
“It was enough for him that my daughter had gone soft in the head with love and was putting her education and, more generally, her whole existence in jeopardy with all that humbug about marriage. The boyfriend needed to vanish.”
“And he didn’t bat an eye? Didn’t he think it was crazy?”
“There were reasons enough.”
“To explain why a mother would be trying to sell him her daughter’s precious jewels? There are usually other ways to set a son or daughter straight when they have been waylaid by a crush. You gave him your girl’s fresh untouched panties to play with.”
“You don’t know him.”
“We grew up together.”
“I mean his wolfish expression when he smells fresh meat. Renato has this weakness: if you talk to him about a woman that he hasn’t yet had his way with, he won’t stop until he gets her.”
“Good quality, that.”
“He lives for it. You have your wine; he likes branding young heifers.”
“Only to grow old and die alone.”
“That’s the way his Rosa works.”
“What about yours? Since you’re so great at reciting other people’s curses. What is your Rosa?”
“Solitude.”
Her answer touched him. In the light of all her revelations, the vet understood how his old flame might feel abandoned. “Every one of us has that,” he said, trying to lighten the load for her.
“Today it has manifested itself in its purest essence: the hen.”
“Ah yes, the hen.” Loriano’s head spun; he felt as though he’d just returned from a long journey. Since the beginning of the phone call, he’d raced through a mass of details from his past: from Donatella’s adolescent intrigues to the mystery of Rosaltea; from Pagliuchi’s portraits as Jesus Christ to the artist’s murder; from the cane thicket to the matter of the missed appointment at the road; from the realization he had a daughter to everything else. Now Nives was rewinding the tape and starting from the beginning: the embalmed hen. Her U-turn had been so abrupt that he could almost feel his blood running the wrong way. It felt like a good moment to move the conversation on and change tone. “How is she?”
The widow turned around to check. The receiver fell out of her hand. Loriano sensed that a cataclysm had occurred on the other end of the line. Finally, Nives picked up the phone again. “Listen,” she said, “She’s not there.”
“Not there?”
“Giacomina, I mean.”
“Where is she?”
“How am I supposed to know? She was sitting there, mummified. Now she’s not there.”
“So, she woke up.”
“That’s what it looks like. But I can’t find her.”
“Maybe she went to look for some chicken feed?”
“Dear God, she scares me.”
“Who?”
“Giacomina.”
“You said you were sleeping together.”
“Knowing she’s wandering around the house like a ghost makes me shit my pants.”
“Nives, don’t talk nonsense.”
“Easy for you to say. You have a bugler in your room to keep you company with her snoring.”
Loriano lurched back to reality again; picturing Donatella through all their stories, he’d almost forgotten she was in the house. “Wait,” he whispered. He listened out for her. After a second, he said, “I can’t hear a thing.”
“Why are you talking like a spy?”
“Quiet!” hissed the vet.
“Who?”
“Donatella.”
“What about her?”
“She’s not snoring.”
“She must have turned on her side. She’s built like a ship, so the roaring from her stern is probably drowned in her breasts.”
“You don’t know her.”
“We grew up together.”
“I’ve slept in the same bed with her for a lifetime.”
“That’s news! Wait, let me write it down.”
“I’m saying it’s not a normal silence.”
“Silence is silence.”
“Maybe she’s awake.”
“Don’t be so stupid; it’s nearly two in the morning.”
“And if she is awake?”
“Let’s concentrate on my little hen who’s gotten it in her head to be a ghost.”
“I’ll come over to Poggio Corbello right now and wring your neck and hers.”
“Nice way to say thank you.”
“You’re turning my life upside-down, and I’m supposed to thank you for it?”
“Why are you mistreating me now?”
“I’m mistreating you?”
“To tell the truth, you’ve never stopped.”
“Nives, there’s a second phone in our bedroom.”
“Am I supposed to care?”
“What if Donatella woke up because she realized I wasn’t in bed? What if she picked up the phone, realizing I was still in the hall?”
“Donatella, are you there?”
“What?”
“Donatella, are you listening?”
“Stop it, you idiot.”
“I’m here.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“Carry on, the two of you. This nocturnal melodrama is fun.”
“. . .”
“D-d-darling, I didn’t . . .”
“Ciao, Donatella.”
“Ciao, Nives. News of your hen?”
“I don’t know. It gives me goosebumps. The idea that someone is wandering around my house without my knowing it makes me shudder.”
“I know.”
“Honey, I’ll put the phone down and—”
“Dear, will you come and show me?”
“What?”
“How good you are at clearing out of the house in nine minutes.”
“No, you don’t understand . . . I was joking. Ha! You fell for it!”
“Shoes and all.”
“You don’t really believe that—”
“Nives, I’m really sorry.”
“Dear friend, don’t take it badly. What’s happened has happened.”
“Thanks for Amedeo, too.”
“Mother’s duty.”
“As for Rosa, I agree with you. Bardo will take his sins to hell. In the meantime, he’s sitting in an old people’s home with senile dementia and can’t recognize anyone or anything. While we’re on the theme of revenge, Renato talks to me about it sometimes. He says he’s never been a great fan of prayer, but for the last ten years or so, he’s been lighting a candle for the Virgin Mary every week. He’s praying that his father will live as long as possible. He goes to the home and congratulates the nurses for keeping his body going so perfectly. But the man’s mind is another matter: he has fleeting moments of clarity, which make things more painful for him. Then he forgets everything all over again and most of the time doesn’t even know his own name. He despairs, he cries . . . that’s the price he’s paying for the beatings he gave his son when he was a boy. And for having exploited a young girl when she already had enough problems of her own.”
“It serves him right.”
“Can I say something now?”
“Dear hubby, haven’t you vented enough already?”
“Darling, let me put the phone down now, and we’ll talk about this properly.”
“Stop calling me ‘darling’!”
“Donatella, for God’s sake!”
“Ah, so now you’re getting a
ngry, are you? You’re almost behaving like a man.”
“None of it is true.”
“None of what?”
“You know, come on.”
“I don’t. Not at all.”
“Let’s hang up. Then we can talk eye to eye.”
“I think it’s a good idea for Nives to hear what you have to say.”
“Have you all gone crazy this evening?”
“Nives, are you crazy?”
“I’ve never been saner.”
“You see? Come on dear, what do you have to say?”
“About the suitcase. That cursed October.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t rehearse packing so that I could elope with this crazy woman.”
“But I still remember that sleepless night. I haven’t touched lasagna since.”
“Your stomach upset was the writing on the wall for me.”
“So, it’s true. You were thinking of eloping.”
“I don’t know. We did promise each other we would . . . As a matter of fact, she was the one who insisted. I only said ‘yes’ because I wanted to get down to business with her in that stinky cane thicket.”
“Bastard!”
“Nives, don’t you start, too. We were kids. In any case, the proof is that there was no suitcase at the end of the corridor. Donatella, tell me that’s not the truth.”
“My vision was blurred. There could have been a bulldog there, and I wouldn’t have seen it. Anyway, what were you doing up after midnight, fully dressed and ready to go out?”
“What I told you. I needed some air.”
“Sure.”
“Well, what about the next morning?”
“What about it?”
“The suitcase. If it had been there, you’d have practically tripped over it.”
“I can see you now putting everything back into the drawers in the early hours of the morning, with your tail between your legs. Nives, I repeat, I’m really sorry.”
“No problem.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“Dear, take your wife’s words and brand them onto your forehead. This is just the beginning.”
“Wait a minute. You believe this crazy woman and not me? Okay, the donkey kick I had a hundred years ago was true . . . but all the rest? It was pretty obvious: I was letting her blather on. That’s what experts advise for patients in psychiatric wards.”
Nives Page 10
