‘Say it again.’
Little kisses on her left breast.
‘You’re beautiful.’
Little kisses on her right nipple.
‘Again. Say it again.’
Little kisses on her left nipple.
‘You’re beautiful.’
Little kisses on her stomach.
‘Swear that you mean it.’
Little kisses on her navel.
‘I swear. You’re the most beautiful thing I know. And now, may I proceed?’
And the kisses resume.
129
Pietro slipped through head first like a fish into a barrel.
He reached out his hands, put them flat on the tiles and moved forward, taking his weight on his wrists.
The floor was wet and his T-shirt got soaked.
He found himself lying next to the bidet.
In a bathroom.
Music.
‘… but I went out searching for you, in the streets, among the people, and I turned as in a dream, and you were there again, and the words still linger with me: You’re beautiful!’
Loredana Berté.
He knew that song, Mimmo had the CD.
He got to his feet.
It was dark.
And very warm.
He began to drip with sweat.
And there was a smell… an unpleasant one.
For twenty seconds he was almost blind. He was in a bathroom, no doubt about it. There was a lamp but it was covered with a cloth and gave out no light. Everything else was in semidarkness. His pupils contracted and at last he could see.
Miss Palmieri was lying in the bath.
In her hands she was clutching an old cassette recorder, one of those with a black plastic case, which was blaring out: you’re beautiful. An electric wire ran right across the bathroom and ended in a socket by the door. The place was a mess. Clothes heaped on the floor. Wet linen in the washing machine. The mirror smeared with red marks.
Miss Palmieri switched off the cassette recorder and looked at him. She didn’t seem surprised. As if it were the most normal thing in the world that someone should climb into her house through the window.
But she didn’t look normal.
My God, she doesn’t.
For one thing, her face was different, much thinner (those faces of the Jews in the concentration camps …), for another, floating in the water were bits of soggy bread, banana skins and a copy of This Week on TV.
She asked him, with the barest hint of surprise: ‘What are you doing here?’
Pietro lowered his eyes.
‘Don’t worry. I’m past being shy. You can look at me. What do you want?’
Pietro raised his eyes and lowered them again.
‘What’s the matter, do I disgust you?’
‘No, n …’ he stammered in embarrassment.
‘Then look at me.’
Pietro forced himself to look at her.
She was as white as a corpse. Or rather, as a wax statue. Yellowish. Her breasts were like two big scamorzas resting on the water. Her ribs stuck out. Her stomach was round and swollen. Her pubic hair red. Her arms long. And her legs long too.
She was scary.
Flora looked up at the ceiling and called out: ‘Mama! We have a visitor! Pietro’s come to see us.’ She turned her head, as if someone were speaking to her, but no one was. The house was a tomb. ‘No, don’t worry, it’s not the one who came before.’
She’s crazy, Pietro said to himself.
130
‘We’re good together, aren’t we?’
Flora smiles.
‘Well, what do you say? Are we good together or not?’ he persisted.
‘Yes. We’re good together.’
They are locked in an embrace on a sand dune thirty metres from the shore. In a basket there are sandwiches wrapped in tin foil and a bottle of red wine. The sea is sad, so grey, ruffled by the wind. The same colour as the sky. And the air is so clear that the tall chimneys of Civitavecchia power station seem an arm’s length away.
He picks up his guitar and starts playing. One riff is difficult. He practises it a couple of times. ‘It’s a milonga. I composed it myself.’ He stops playing and frowns. ‘Ouch! What’s that sticking into me?’ He puts his hand in his trouser pocket and pulls out a little blue velvet box. ‘Oh, that’s what it was. Amazing, the things that get into your pockets.’
‘What is it?’ Flora shakes her head.
She’s twigged.
He puts the little box in her hand.
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Open it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because otherwise I’ll have to throw it to the fish. And next summer some scuba diver’s going to make a lucky find.’
Flora opens it.
A ring. White gold and amethyst.
Flora puts it on her finger. A perfect fit. ‘What is it?’
‘A formal request for your hand in marriage.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Absolutely. If you don’t like it, you only have to say so, the jeweller’s a friend of mine, we can change it. There won’t be any problem.’
‘No, it’s lovely, I like it.’
131
‘Well, what have you come for?’
‘Er …’ To play a practical joke on you, but in view of the state you’re in I don’t think … Pietro didn’t know what to say.
‘So it’s true that you break into other people’s houses at night like a burglar? Were you planning to smash my TV? If so, go ahead. Feel free, it’s in the sitting room. I haven’t watched it in ages. This time, though, I don’t think anyone has forced you to break in, have they?’
There’s somebody downstairs who …
The door was there. He could get away.
‘Don’t even think it. You’re here now and you’re not leaving till I say you can. We haven’t had many guests to talk to lately.’ Then, addressing the ceiling: ‘Have we, Mama?’ She pointed to the plastic bag tied to Pietro’s belt. ‘What have you got in there? Something’s moving …’
‘Nothing,’ said Pietro, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Nothing.’
‘Let me see it.’
He moved closer. The sweat was pouring off him. Even behind his knees. He untied the plastic bag and held it out. ‘There’s a snake.’
‘Did you want it to bite me?’ she asked, interested.
‘No, it’s a grass snake, it won’t bite,’ Pietro tried to justify himself, but without sounding too convincing. It was her, she made him uneasy.
He felt her madness envelop him like a toxic cloud that could drive him crazy too. She no longer had anything of Miss Palmieri, the nice Miss Palmieri he had talked to that winter’s evening in the Co-op. She was a different person and what’s more she was madder than a mad cow.
I want to get out of here.
The teacher put the cassette recorder on the edge of the bath and took the plastic bag. She opened it and was about to look inside when the snake’s pointed head, followed by the rest of its sinuous body, shot out, and it fell into the bath and began to swim about between her legs. Miss Palmieri kept quite still and it wasn’t clear whether she was frightened, or pleased, or what.
Then the reptile slithered over the edge and flashed out through the bathroom door.
The teacher burst out laughing. Her laughter was forced and unnatural, like that of a second-rate actress. ‘Now it’s free to wander round the flat. I’ve never had a pet. It’s the right one for me.’
‘Can I go now?’ Pietro implored.
‘Not yet.’ Flora stuck a wrinkled foot out of the bath. ‘What can we talk about? Well, I can tell you that the last few months haven’t exactly gone well for me …’
132
She has finished cooking. Everything’s ready. The roast is in the oven. The tagliatelle is covered in sauce and is getting cold on the table. Where has he got to? He’s usually so punctual. Perhaps the Milanese interior designer has kept h
im late. He’ll soon be here. Flora has bought a video of Gone with the Wind at the newsagent’s. He gave her a video recorder.
And at last he arrives.
But he’s in a hurry. He’s evasive. Strange. He barely kisses her. He tells her he’s had some problems with the jeans shop (what an ugly name). That he can’t stay to dinner this evening. What problems? She doesn’t ask him. He says he’ll call her tomorrow morning. And tomorrow evening they’ll watch the film. He kisses her on (and not in) the mouth and leaves.
Flora eats the cold tagliatelle and watches Gone with the Wind.
133
‘Since that evening with Gone with the Wind I’ve never seen him again,’ said the schoolmistress, with a loud laugh. ‘Never seen him. Or even spoken to him.’
What evening? And who? What’s she talking about? Pietro didn’t understand, but he certainly had no wish to inquire further.
(Let her talk.)
‘It’s funny when you think about it now. But at first you’ve no idea how … oh, forget it. The next day, not even a phone call. In the evening not a word, it seemed the day would never end. And I knew. I already knew what had happened. I tried to call him on his mobile but always got his voicemail. I left messages. I waited three days, then rang him at home. And his mother tells me he’s not there. And that she has no messages for me. And then she lets slip that her son has gone away, that’s all she knows. What do you mean, gone away? Gone away where? That’s all she knows, can you believe it? He didn’t even leave me a message.’ The schoolmistress began crying quietly, then splashed some water on her face and smiled. ‘No more crying. I’ve cried too much. And crying doesn’t help. Does it?’
Pietro shook his head.
Why did I come here? What a fool I was … What a fool … If Gloria could see her, see what a state she’s in. But who did she fall in love with?
‘He’d left. Gone. Without a word to me, without saying goodbye. I knew he was no good. He was a buffoon, my mother said so from the start. I was well aware of it. That’s what hurts so much. He’d bewitched me with his words, his music, his wonderful plans, the engagement ring. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He tortured me. He made me believe in him. And now I’m going to tell you something – something amusing. You’re the first person I’ve told, young man. You should feel honoured. Our friend left me a little souvenir.’ She grasped the edge of the bath and pulled herself up.
‘I’m pregnant, Pietro. I’m expecting a baby.’
And she burst out laughing again.
134
Flora puts her hand in her coat pocket and squeezes the little plastic bag which has told her the truth about those attacks of nausea, about that delay, about that lassitude which she imputed to her broken heart. She gets in the car and drives to the Biglia haberdashery. She switches off the engine. Switches it on again. Switches it off again. She gets out of the car and enters the shop.
Gina Biglia is standing behind the counter talking to two customers. When she sees Flora, she opens her mouth and signals with her eyes. The two women move into a corner, peer into the button drawer but don’t leave. You bet they don’t! Ears pricked up like wolves.
‘Where’s he gone?’ gasps Flora in a broken voice. ‘I must know. I’m not leaving till you tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’ Gina Biglia fidgets. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
Flora sits down on the stool, covers her face with her hands and starts trembling, sobbing convulsively.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Biglia ushers the customers out of the shop, then locks the door. She comes over to Flora. ‘Don’t take on so, please. Don’t cry, for the love of God. Don’t cry!’
‘Where’s he gone?’ Flora seizes her hand and holds it fast.
‘All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you all I know. Just stop, please, stop crying, calm down. He’s gone to Jamaica.’
‘To Jamaica? Why?’
Gina Biglia lowers her eyes. ‘To get married.’
‘I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew …’ Flora repeats, then takes the pregnancy test from her pocket and holds it out.
135
‘Now go away. I don’t want you here any more. I’m tired.’ Flora picked up a floating piece of bread and began to mash it to a pulp.
Pietro turned and was about to leave when, without intending to, without wanting to, he said: ‘Why did they fail me?’
‘So that’s why you came. Now I understand, at last.’ She picked up a hairbrush to tidy her hair, but then dropped it in the water. ‘Do you really want to know? Are you sure you want to know?’
Did he want to know? No, he didn’t, but he turned round anyway and asked again: ‘Why did they do it?’
‘It was bound to happen. You don’t understand. You’re stupid.’
(Don’t listen to her. She’s evil. She’s mad. Go away. Don’t listen to her.)
‘But you said I was doing well. You promised me …’
‘You see how stupid you are? Don’t you know that promises are made to be broken?’
She was a witch. With those grey eyes sunken in their purple orbits, that pointed nose, that madwoman’s hair …
You’re the wicked witch.
‘That’s not true.’
‘It’s true. It’s true,’ said Flora, listlessly throwing a banana skin on the floor.
Pietro shook his head. ‘You say these things because you’re upset. Because someone’s dumped you, that’s the only reason you’re saying these things. You don’t really think them, I know you don’t.’
136
Flora is lying on the bed. She isn’t angry with him any more. If he comes back she’ll forgive him. Because she just can’t go on like this. Graziano’s mother said those things to hurt her, because she’s an evil woman. They’re not true. It’s not true that Graziano has got married. He’ll come back. Soon. She knows he will. And she’ll take him back. Because without him she can’t do anything, and nothing makes sense any more. Waking up in the morning. Working. Looking after Mama. Sleeping. Living. Nothing makes sense without him. She calls to him every night. She can make him come back. She knows she can. With her mind. If she can talk to her mother, who is banished to another world, with him, who is only on the other side of the ocean, it will be easy. She tells him to come back at once. Graziano, come back to me.
137
Flora opened her mouth over her set of yellow teeth and foamed: ‘Be quiet! Do you know why they passed Pierini? Because the sooner they get rid of him the better. They never want to see him again. They couldn’t have failed him, that boy would be quite capable of taking their precious school apart brick by brick. And I don’t blame him either. They’re scared. Do you know what he did to me? He set fire to my car. A little reward to me for reporting him. Now you want to know why they failed you. Well, I’ll tell you. Because you’re immature and infantile. Let me see now … How did the deputy headmistress put it? A boy with serious personality disturbances and with a problem family and difficulties of integration into the school community. In other words, because you don’t react. You’re shy. You don’t join in. You’re not like the others. Because your father is a violent alcoholic and your mother is a nervous wreck who takes too many medicines and your brother’s a poor idiot who failed his school assessment three years running. You’re going to become like them. And I’ll tell you something, you can forget about high school, forget about university. The sooner you understand who you are, the sooner you’ll get better. You’ve got no backbone. They failed you because you let other people make you do things you don’t want to do.
(And it was Gloria who made me come in here …)
‘You didn’t want to break into the school, how many times did you repeat that phrase in the head’s office? And every time you shot yourself in the foot, showing how weak and immature you were.’ She stopped for breath for a moment, looked at him scornfully, and added: ‘You’re like me. You’re worthless. I can’t save you. I don’t want to save you. Nobody saved me. And they??
?ll walk all over you because you don’t reac …’
A moment.
One dreadful moment.
The moment when the show-off decides to walk along the parapet.
The moment when you heave the rock off the bridge.
The moment when you reach down to get out your cigarettes, sit up again and in front of you, beyond the windscreen, there’s an open-mouthed silhouette frozen on the pedestrian crossing.
The moment that never returns.
The moment that can change your life.
The moment when Pietro reacted, put his foot on the electric wire and tugged and the cassette recorder fell into the water with a simple …
Plop.
138
The emergency switch, by the meter, cut off with a snap.
The bathroom went dark.
Flora leaped up with a scream, perhaps thinking she’d been electrocuted, perhaps just out of instinct, at any rate she leaped up, stood for a second balancing on one foot, then another second, and another in which she realised she was going to slip and she slipped backwards and, throwing out her arms, fell back into the darkness.
Crack.
She felt a terrible blow on the back of her head. A sharp blow which jolted her jaw and the rest of her skull.
The edge.
If she had glued on to the bottom of the bath those plastic flowers she’d seen in Orbano which cost twelve thousand lire each (too much for such ugly things), she might not have died, but perhaps even they wouldn’t have saved her. After three hours lying still in water your legs are like logs of wood.
She was lying in the bath again.
With one hand she felt the back of her head. She didn’t understand. She felt something sticky which matted her hair. And she felt the edges of the wound swelling. And if she put her finger in she could feel that it was deep. The blow had been violent.
She didn’t understand. It didn’t hurt. There was no pain at all. But she told herself that serious wounds don’t hurt at first.