“Loriano, you’re really the worst.”
“Nives, my friend. Let him speak. He’s flapping around like a pheasant in the undergrowth. He wanted the moon and now he’s trapped in a snare of his own making. He’s ready to swear that it’s raining from the ground up.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m feeling dizzy.”
“I’m sorry, Nives. Are you feeling okay? Hearts at our age shouldn’t skip too many beats; it’s not pleasant.”
“You’re worrying about her? What about me?”
“Animals like you have strong blood. Just look at the effect the drops have on you, with everything you throw down your gullet.”
“Drops? What drops?”
“It’s not pleasant to watch your husband drink himself to death. Being a sensible wife, I make things easier for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two tablespoons of tranquillizer.”
“What?”
“The one they prescribed me when I had palpitations a lifetime ago. I pour two big spoonfuls into the flask that I put on the table every evening.”
“Are you stupid, or what? A man may never wake up from a dose like that.”
“God willing . . .”
“Donatella, are you saying you drug me every evening with a sleeping draught?”
“Well, at least you’re not drinking two whole bottles that way. They cost money, you know. You hardly make it to the second glass. The evening news theme tune comes on, and you’re ready to lie down in your sarcophagus. You can barely drag yourself into the bedroom.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know. Forever.”
“Forever?”
“Since the day I made it my business to stop you poisoning your liver like a halfwit.”
“That stuff is addictive.”
“In the meantime, you’ve avoided crashing into a bottomless pit.”
“So that’s why I have the jitters . . . ?”
“What jitters, my love?”
“You know, when I wake up in the morning with my head like a brick, and it gets worse through the day. I get into the car as heavily as if I had a sack of cement tied to each foot. Sometimes, I move my eyes and there’s a delay before I see things. It makes me feel sea-sick. I only begin to feel better after two coffees and my first grappa at Momo’s.”
“And that’s how you start your day!”
“You don’t get it.”
“Yes, I do. You’re a drunk. But everyone knows that.”
“If I stopped, I would go crazy.”
“Sillari came back to life when he stopped.”
“I mean the drops. If I stop taking them suddenly after years and years, my entire universe will be turned around.”
“A little like what’s just happened to me this evening.”
“Oh God, I feel terrible already . . .”
“Listen to your wife’s words. This is just the beginning.”
“Oh no! I can’t breathe . . .”
“And yet, until ten minutes ago, our Loriano was feeling as strong as a bull.”
“Nives, fuck off.”
“Dear, don’t pay attention to him.”
“You see what he’s like? I say I’m feeling dizzy, and he goes and grabs the stage. He’s such a drama queen.”
“Has your head stopped spinning? Are you feeling better?”
“I feel like I’m in a dream, Donatella.”
“You’re telling me.”
“In the sense that something’s happening to me. If I tell you, you won’t believe me.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I have gone crazy, after all . . . I’m feeling good.”
“You’re feeling good?”
“Like I’ve never felt before. I feel as light as when I was a girl, with no troubles and no cares.”
“Lucky you.”
“Everything has magically melted away. Should I be worried?”
“My friend, I know what it is.”
“What?”
“You’ve seen what Loriano is made of, and it has disgusted you. Your whole life you’ve been hooked on the notion of an idealized love, and then, in one phone call, you realize you’ve missed nothing.”
“I almost feel like crying . . . Is this what being normal is like?”
“You’ve let go of the deadweight. Which is what I’m going to do now, quick as a flash.”
“There’s no way I’m going to give Laura that letter! I don’t want my daughter to feel she has anything to do with Bottai’s blood.”
“Good for you.”
“If only you could see me now, Donatella. I’m crying and laughing at the same time! Who would ever have imagined? All of a sudden, I feel as though I’ve never made any mistakes. If my knees weren’t done in, I’d start dancing. And listen to this. My image of Anteo, that poor husband of mine who’s never let me want for anything: suddenly, he feels like a saint. I wish he were here now! Even those two blond grandchildren whose names I can’t pronounce feel like a great gift.”
“Because they are.”
“And this farm here, so full of memories. Donatella, it’s all beautiful! Do you know what I hope now, in the midst of all this happiness? I hope God looks down on me and calls me up to him, now that I’m so full of light! Does asking to die sound reasonable to you?”
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
“And you, Loriano! Poor little playboy without an ounce of courage. Suddenly, I feel pity for you. I was just a bit of fun in the bushes for you. Who could resist a girl who’s head-over-heels in love with you, to the point that she’s ready to give herself to you entirely and wreck a marriage? You never chose me, not even for a second. And yet, there you were at our meeting place every time. Spineless little man that you are, you were content with taking home your trophy. As long as you could get your hands on me, you were prepared to make solemn promises, without giving a hoot about the fact that I was hanging on your every word. If you’d only had the vaguest idea of how much love I was ready to give you! Of how our encounters meant little or nothing to me, because I wanted all of you. I would’ve cut my veins to wake up in the morning, find you in my bed, and say, ‘Good morning, my love.’ But no. For you, I was a pastime. A plaything you could badmouth to your drinking pals, calling me an idiot and poor Anteo a certified cuckold, only to shake his hand the next minute. What hell you put me through, Loriano. And what an idiot I was! The same idiot that devoted almost half a century to your memory. Now you’re there in the hall, nailed to the phone. On one side, there’s the woman you disappointed; on the other, the woman you deceived. I can just see you, in your underpants, your hair uncombed, bloated with wine, shocked by the picture we have painted of you. Like in a mirror that reflects things exactly as they are, but in reverse: you’re the one who’s been squandered; I’m the one who’s been saved. Tell me this news isn’t a blessing . . . I may not have been a champion, first as a wife and then as a mother, but all of a sudden, I can shout this out to the world, now, with the clock striking the early hours of the morning: I’ve never deceived myself. Day after day, I’ve been here, gazing at the shards of my broken dreams through misty eyes. There was Laura, and Anteo, and the farm. The humble life of hard-working folk, who care about the little things: Christmas, Easter, birthdays, summer evenings . . . I was the center of this world; even more, I was the queen. But I didn’t pay it any heed, because I was waging another war. Now that I realize I only gave them half of myself, I want to kick myself. And yet, there’s something that warms me from head to toe: knowing that I’ve received a great deal and that it’s all here around me and in my memories. Six lives wouldn’t be long enough to leaf through the golden album that has suddenly opened inside me. I realize I’ve been a fool when I go back and look at the torme
nt I actively cultivated when I was a girl, and later, when I threw away my womanhood. All the while, I was attended to in the most beautiful place in the world, and I didn’t even notice. So, dear Loriano, I have you to thank. If I hadn’t bled myself dry here for you this evening, I wouldn’t have reaped the benefits; I wouldn’t have seen Poggio Corbello as a cathedral. I thank Rosa, and the others, who decided to take possession of a hen this evening and obliged me to dial a certain number, given the emergency. Tomorrow morning, I’ll withdraw half of my pension and send a gift to my grandchildren on the other side of the Alps that will make their eyes shine. Because in the end it has actually happened: I’ve gone crazy. With happiness.”
“. . .”
“Nives, what beautiful words.”
“Dear Donatella, I’m so sorry. Maybe I’m taking everything away from you. Please know it was not my intention.”
“What can I say? I lived with a serenity that was never mine. It’s good that the chickens have come home to roost.”
“Okay, it’s late now. Ciao.” The widow hung up, just like that, without waiting for an answer.
Nives looked at the telephone for a minute longer. After passing the receiver from one hand to the other for so long, her arms ached and her ears were burning; the buzz reminded her of the slaps she would receive as a girl, when she’d done something naughty. More than anything else, though, a peculiar sensation ran through her body: her heart was beating strangely hard, pumping with the kind of euphoria that expert bank robbers must feel when they clutch the haul of the century to their chests as they make their escape. Then she moved, and even that was an odd feeling. Her steps felt purposeful and precise. She realized she was hungry.
Giacomina strutted under her skirt, as if she were off to do the shopping. It was a rare thing to see a mother hen so alert at that time of night. She watched the bird struggling with her chewed-off claw and felt a harmony there that warmed her heart.
The light was still on in the living room. Nives was tempted to do what poor Anteo used to do once a year, when he took it into his head to open the box and smoke a cigar. It was only when he fancied it; never for a special occasion . . . Drawing closer to the armchair, she saw the dent in the cushion where the hen had sat, hypnotized, for so long. The widow started. “Look at that!” she said out loud. “She’s laid an egg.”
Her first thought was that she’d fry it, sunny side up.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sacha Naspini was born in 1976 in Grosseto, a town in Southern Tuscany. He has worked as an editor, art director, and screenwriter, and is the author of numerous novels and short stories which have been translated into several languages. Nives is his first novel to appear in English.
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