The Sense of an Elephant Page 10

  ‘This way.’

  From the end of the hall came a series of coughs, ending in a rattling wheeze.

  ‘My husband can change his mind, right?’ she asked.

  Luca kept his gaze on the stone eagle outside the French doors of the large sitting room. ‘He can change his mind whenever he likes.’ He laid his leather bag on a table and his coat over a chair.

  ‘My husband is not a believer.’ She turned toward Pietro. ‘But I am.’

  ‘I’ll need the professor’s signature.’ Luca handed her a sheet of paper. ‘I’ll also need a glass.’

  She read the document, left and returned with a glass, left the room once more with the paper. Luca pulled from his bag two glass vials, a tourniquet and a small bottle. Pietro stood next to a mantelpiece supporting a large bowl full of chocolates. Above it hung a shelf with a line of records from the 1970s (De André, Venditti, Dalla), beside it a small table with a book of poetry and a worn copy of the Gospels. The bookmark was a bus ticket.

  Luca put on plastic gloves and poured two drops from the bottle into the glass. Looked at Pietro. ‘It happened with my mother as well.’ He drew out a syringe and a stethoscope.

  The little old woman had meanwhile returned with the signed document and was now leaning against the door jamb. As soon as Luca nodded she led him to her husband. ‘The doctor is here, Luigi,’ she murmured as she entered.

  Pietro saw his son enter the room at the end of the hall.

  ‘Moriturus te salutat,’ said a weary voice.

  ‘Mr Morelli,’ said Luca.

  ‘The doctor said that you can change your mind whenever you want,’ his wife insisted.

  ‘The doctor was an excellent student with his head in the clouds. I remember him well.’

  The woman went into the hall and from there into the bathroom.

  ‘I promised her that we’d meet again, even if she’s not very romantic these days.’ The weary voice paused. ‘“But even as we press together tightly / and keep the crowding menace from our eyes / it maybe hides in you or hides in me / because our spirits live by treachery”. My wife agrees with the poet Rilke. She thinks that I’m betraying her. This time with death.’ He coughed and spat into a basin beside the bed. ‘I’m exhausted, doctor.’

  ‘I have a friend of mine outside. Your wife told me that she would appreciate having a word with him.’

  ‘My wife maintains that if I don’t repent, we won’t meet again. Death on demand separates the ignorant souls from the ungrateful ones, she says. I’ve always been ungrateful, so what difference would it make?’

  Pietro was halfway to the room when the teacher said, ‘Now tell me what I have to do, Luca.’

  ‘Drink from the glass and set it back down on the night-stand. Nobody must touch it. Then I’ll come.’

  The little old woman came out of the bathroom, hugged the wall as she approached the room containing her husband, entered.

  ‘Come here,’ said the teacher.

  Luca stood aside.

  ‘Come here, my love.’

  In the house of the two eagles could be heard her cry. She squeaked like a tiny animal, Don’t do it, her wail strangling her into an almost silent whimper. Abruptly the woman left the room and retreated as far as Pietro. He placed an arm around her and together they walked back to the sitting room. ‘Tell me that we’ll see each other again, Father.’

  Pietro did not look at her.

  ‘Tell me that we’ll see each other again.’

  The doctor joined them and bent over her. ‘If you want, you can go and talk to him, ma’am. He has just drunk.’

  ‘What did he drink?’

  ‘Sedatives.’

  The little old woman went and Luca took the two vials from the table. He shook them gently and filled the syringe, returned to the teacher’s room while Pietro fished out a chocolate with a red foil wrapper from the bowl. Slipped it into his pocket and walked into the hall. Listened to the weary voice rise in pitch, the woman’s break, ‘I love you.’

  The teacher inhaled noisily, breathed out with a wheeze, inhaled noisily again. There was an attack of coughing. Then the inhalations stopped, and in the house of the two eagles nothing more at all could be heard.

  Luca emerged with the syringe pointed at the ground, didn’t look at Pietro, disappeared into the sitting room. The concierge walked forward and came to the door at the end of the hall. Saw him. A skeleton with a recently shaved face. The woman held him in her short arms, rocked him side to side, and one of the man’s legs slipped out of bed. The toenails were perfect.

  ‘Bless him,’ implored his wife. ‘Bless him.’ She continued to rock him.

  Pietro dragged himself up to the old man with greenish skin and open eyes. He closed them.

  ‘Bless him.’

  And the priest did.

  The young priest sought the witch’s mouth and the shadow of the parrot dissolved. She pulled back and he murmured, ‘Sorry, I don’t know what I was doing.’

  ‘You tried to kiss me.’

  ‘I’m a priest.’

  ‘You’ve got lips.’

  ‘I’m a priest.’

  ‘Who tap dances.’

  He buried his feet in the gravel.

  And she swung hers. ‘They say that you didn’t have any choice but to go with God.’

  ‘They found me in front of a convent. I’m an orphan who’s never had any other father.’ He rubbed his lips. ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘Who knows.’

  ‘Does the groom know about your son?’

  The witch massaged her belly and shook her head. Then she took his hand and ran with him to the Tiberius Bridge. They stopped in front of a tavern with the roller shutter pulled halfway down. The witch knocked and a man came out with a broom in his hand.

  ‘Do you have two chocolates?’ she said.

  ‘You blind? We’re closed.’

  ‘Do you have dark chocolate ones?’

  The man shook his broom. ‘A guy works all day, and at the end of the night he’s gotta talk to crazy people.’ He disappeared inside and immediately returned, handed her two chocolates.

  The young priest’s had red foil. She watched him chew and swallow.

  ‘Do you want mine too?’

  He nodded.

  The witch unwrapped it for him and said, ‘Your mouth is dirty.’ She wiped a corner of his lips with her thumb. From across the street her mother’s voice cried out.

  26

  The teacher’s wife inclined her head goodbye as they left the villa. When they were outside they realized it was raining. The doctor pulled an umbrella out of his bag, and also the recorder belonging to the old man from the petrol station. ‘I can’t, not with him. Please give it back.’ He moved off, stopped for a moment and said, ‘Thank you.’ Repeated, ‘Thank you.’ Then started down the street of horse-chestnut trees, soon becoming lost among the other umbrellas. Before opening his own, Pietro removed the chocolate from the red foil wrapper and placed it in his mouth. It was dark chocolate. The bitterness dried up his mouth as he turned toward home. He took a long time to complete the trip, and when he came to the condominium’s street he turned in the opposite direction. Went towards the university and followed the railway all the way to the home of the old man in the petrol-pump attendant’s uniform. Marched past the Snow White statue and the pomegranate trees dripping with rain. Continued down the main street until he reached the petrol station at the next junction. The station’s plastic canopy struggled to cover the two cars in the queue. The old man, bent low, held a nozzle to the first car’s tank. When he caught sight of Pietro he hurried over to him. ‘Oh, what a surprise, what a surprise.’ Wiped a hand on his trousers and extended it to the concierge. ‘How are you, Pietro?’

  The horn of the car being refuelled began to sound.

  ‘They’re in a hurry. Can you wait a moment? Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable inside.’ He pointed to what looked like a metal shipping container with the word Total on it and ran
to finish the job, whirled his long arms about the tank. Returned to him in a coughing fit. ‘Forty years of cigarettes.’ Covered his mouth. ‘Please step inside, Pietro.’

  Pietro did not step inside.

  The old man entered alone. The container was furnished with two stools and a row of canisters of motor oil. ‘Are you familiar with the story of the man who wants to stay outside at any cost?’

  ‘I don’t know it.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘There’s this man who, ever since he was born, is terrified that something will fall on his head, so he lives as much as possible outside his house, outside his office, outside the cafe where his friends go. At most he stays half in and half out, like you right now. He doesn’t care that his wife is about to leave him, his boss is about to fire him, and his friends make fun of him. He’s happy because nothing can fall on his head.’ The old man pulled a bottle from a cabinet, poured a splash of liquor in two plastic cups. ‘One day there’s a football match on TV and our man goes to watch it at the cafe as usual, that is, he stands outside the cafe because his friends arrange the TV so that he can see it through the window. That day it rains but he stays there with an umbrella over his head and his eyes fixed on the match. Then a lightning bolt comes and strikes him right in the head.’ The old man choked back a laugh and drank the liquor. ‘The lightning mows him down, understand? Gets him right in the head, can you imagine?’ He handed the other cup to the concierge. ‘Surely you don’t want to get a lightning bolt in the head yourself?’

  Pietro clutched the recorder in his pocket. Closed his umbrella and stepped inside. ‘I spoke to my son.’

  On the container wall hung an Inter Milan calendar. The old man rose unsteadily and stumbled into it. ‘Oh, yes, tell me.’ He began to cough with his hand over his mouth. When he pulled it away it was wet with saliva. The old man dropped it to his side. ‘Your son listened to the tape of Andrea? Please, tell me.’

  ‘You’ll have to be patient.’ Pietro left the recorder in his pocket. ‘Sooner or later, he’ll come.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The old man went up to him, took hold of his arm. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You have to be patient, and leave him in peace.’

  ‘Certainly, of course, we’ve got all the patience in the world. I don’t know how to thank you and your son, all the patience in the world, I don’t know how to thank you both.’

  Pietro exited the container. Picked up his umbrella and before opening it looked up. The sky was empty of lightning.

  The witch’s mother cried out, ‘Celeste!’ She crossed the bridge and came towards her daughter.

  ‘It’s my fault.’ The young priest took a step forward.

  ‘You, Father, you stay away from this scourge.’

  The witch scratched at her stomach and her ballerina’s legs crossed. A tear fell from each eye.

  Two tears fell from the mother’s eyes as well.

  His own eyes remained dry. They watched her move away en pointe, dragged by the person who had brought her into the world. She disappeared into the mist coming off the sea while the choooo of the lighthouse started up again.

  27

  During the night before the birthday party, Pietro woke from the nightmare that had been following him for a lifetime. Opened his eyes wide and saw, in place of the ship without a sea, the Bianchi glimmering in the flashes of lightning. The nightmare continued and a clap of thunder reached him. He waited for another. As soon as it came he wrapped himself in the bedspread and went to the two plants to the right of the refrigerator. Carried them outside and placed them with the others next to the stage that the magician had had built. Waited with them for the rain, bedspread over his shoulders.

  The rain did not come. Fernando did. He appeared in a flash of lightning, wearing pyjamas and his beret. Huddled against the wall like a thief, he set off along it and stopped below the alcove containing the Madonna. Stood on tiptoe and attempted to grab hold of the statue. Failed, leapt, failed again. Knelt down and held his hands in prayer. When the sky flashed he covered his eyes and then pulled himself up. Dragged over a tower of stacked chairs, climbed on top and grabbed hold of the Madonna by the arms. He tottered and a whimper escaped his mouth. Tottered again and clutched wildly at the plaster veil.

  Pietro was too late: the crack of thunder came and Fernando lost his balance. He and the statue landed on the boxes of decorations for the following day’s party.

  ‘Fernando …’ Pietro rushed over to him. ‘Fernando.’

  The boy was motionless. Holding the Madonna to him and muttering, ‘Mama is crying.’ His glasses were twisted. ‘Mama says that she doesn’t laugh any more, she doesn’t live any more. It’s all your fault, because you’re my son, your fault.’

  Pietro helped him up. ‘Come on.’ He covered him with the bedspread and tried to lead him inside but Fernando wouldn’t budge. They remained at the centre of the courtyard and the rain began to fall.

  ‘Let’s go, Fernando.’ He raised the bedspread above their heads. He and the boy shivered and watched their feet lit up by the flashes, Pietro’s terrycloth socks in holey slippers, Fernando’s beach sandals. Between them the Madonna, her veil chipped and halo askew.

  ‘Let’s put her back,’ said the concierge.

  Fernando held on to her tight.

  Pietro put his mouth to Fernando’s ear. ‘Ask her for what you want one last time, then let’s put her back.’

  The sky thundered. ‘For Mama to laugh.’

  The rain came at them diagonally, along with something else that wasn’t rain. They were snail shells, falling from the ivy.

  ‘Now let her go, Fernando.’

  He didn’t obey. ‘You ask for what you want, too.’

  The rain slowed.

  ‘Ask her for what you want,’ he repeated.

  The bedspread was heavy with cold water. Pietro lowered it and they saw that fog had settled everywhere, swallowing them up. The concierge advanced with the statue in his hands and the snail shells under his feet, replaced it in the alcove. The ivy leaves shook in the wind. Rain streaked down the Madonna’s black face.

  He brought Fernando home. He had him sit down in the kitchen and told him to wait there. The strange boy’s face was red and his beret soaking wet. When Pietro returned with a towel he found him gazing into the refrigerator.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Fernando straightened his glasses. ‘I need to pee.’

  ‘I’ll take you back to your mother now.’

  ‘I need to pee.’

  He led him to the bathroom. Before entering, the boy stared at the Bianchi leaning against the wardrobe, beside the bed. ‘It sleeps with you.’ He pointed at the bicycle and went in.

  Pietro went back to the kitchen. Put a pan of milk on to heat and took some stale biscuits from the pantry, placing them on the table. Then dried his head with the towel as the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom.

  ‘All done, Fernando?’

  He looked. The bathroom door was open, the bedroom door wide open. He rushed first to the bathroom. Water was running into the washbasin. Fernando was missing. The concierge turned off the taps and headed for the bedroom. The boy had switched on the lamp and was kneeling over the suitcase. ‘Three, four,’ he counted the boxes.

  Pietro yanked him up, tried to lead him away. ‘Let’s go, it’s late.’

  ‘Are these your jewels?’

  The concierge adjusted his pyjamas and replaced a sandal that had come off. ‘Let’s go.’

  Fernando looked him up and down. ‘You stole them from Dr Martini’s flat.’ Then he knelt again, ran a hand over the open boxes and made to pick something up. He touched the rusty bell, the notes, the envelopes, the red foil wrapper from the chocolate saved from that afternoon.

  ‘I’m taking you home, Fernando.’

  Then the boy made a fist and pulled out three fingers as he had learned at Alice’s cafe. He moved them beneath the lamp. On the wall appeared the shadow of a blotch.
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br />   Pietro straightened the index finger and the blotch was transformed into a lopsided parrot. The manchild dissolved it and embraced Pietro with his bull’s strength, then the smell of scalding milk reached them.

  28

  Pietro stayed shut up in his flat until early afternoon. The lawyer knocked and said, ‘I just wanted to let you know that some brute is moving your plants because they don’t figure in the birthday plans. Pietro, can you hear me?’

  Pietro heard him, held a handkerchief to his runny nose and a pen to a crossword puzzle, one across: word read from the left and from the right, ten letters. The concierge didn’t reply to the lawyer, as he hadn’t responded to the decorators that morning who had wanted to ask him about the set-up. He had stayed in bed until he heard the doctor say to Viola, ‘I’m going to go ask in the pastry shop. Make sure they arrange the chairs in herringbone rows.’

  Pietro wrote P in the first square and sneezed, then went into the lodge. Through the gaps in the curtains he saw the first guest arrive. It was a chubby child who hesitated and came to a stop in the middle of the entrance hall, carrying a gift larger than he was and accompanied by two parents fresh from the tailor’s. Viola was there. She crouched down and stroked his cheek. Had him put on a paper hat shaped like a cone. ‘Go right on up to the second floor. My parents are there. I’ll be up soon, then we’ll come back down now that the sun is back, thank goodness.’ Viola stood in a corner and as soon as the guests went up leaned against the wall. She wore a dark wrap and held the cluster of hats by their elastic bands. Let her arms fall to her sides, and the hats hit the floor.

  Pietro went into his flat and pulled Riccardo’s leather bracelet from the night-table drawer and returned to the entrance hall. He could see Nicolini the magician rehearsing on the stage, in front of the plants shoved to one corner. The concierge showed the bracelet to Viola. ‘Do you know who might have lost this?’ He sneezed.