The Sense of an Elephant Page 11

  Viola looked at him. ‘Did you catch cold from riding your bike?’

  ‘From the rain last night.’

  She took one of the paper hats and offered it to Pietro. ‘Are you coming to the birthday party? Sara is really counting on it.’

  He returned to the bracelet. ‘There’s a date engraved on it: 14-9-2008. Do you know who might have lost it?’

  She placed a hat on her own head, at an angle. It slid down over her eyes. She did not straighten it but stayed leaning against the wall with the cone of shiny paper covering her face. When she pulled it up her eyes were shining. As Viola settled the hat atop her head a tear dirty with mascara trickled down as far as her cheekbone. She wiped it away. ‘Pardon me, it’s just one of those days.’ Then she took hold of the edge of his shirt. Pietro had seen her for the first time two days after his arrival at the condominium. The doctor’s wife had introduced herself, taking his hand between her two. Had not said anything further, merely smiled. Paola had warned him that the doctor was in love with a flirt who only cared for herself and outfits that looked like gift wrap.

  He removed her hat. ‘Fernando and I have a surprise for Sara.’

  Viola abruptly let go of the edge of Pietro’s shirt and put her right arm behind her back. She looked intently over Pietro’s shoulders.

  The concierge turned.

  The doctor was at the entrance. ‘The treats are on their way, ten minutes …’

  ‘Perfect.’ Viola hurried up the stairs while in the courtyard the magician reached into his top hat and pulled out a walking stick topped with a silver knob.

  Luca went over to Pietro, saw the bracelet in his hand.

  The concierge held it out to him. ‘Riccardo must have dropped it.’

  ‘Let him come and get it.’

  Pietro waited for the doctor to get inside his flat then went to find Fernando. There was no need to ring the bell. Paola stood in the doorway wearing shoes the colour of cyclamens. She was adjusting her silk scarf as she saw him. ‘They’ve invited half the city.’

  The concierge asked if he could come in. She motioned for him to wait and hastened to close the door that separated the living room from the bedrooms.

  ‘Please come in,’ she said, returning.

  ‘I want to ask something of Fernando.’

  ‘He’s fallen ill. He’s always sleeping without the covers on and last night he came down with a cold that I’d advise you to steer clear of.’ She looked at his red nose. ‘But perhaps you’ve fallen ill as well?’

  From the Martinis’ flat came the voices of the guests. Pietro stepped further into the entryway, which smelled of rotting flowers. They arrived in the living room–kitchen. The room overflowed with knick-knacks and costume jewellery. A year-round nativity scene stood on artificial moss.

  ‘Will you come to dinner one evening?’ Paola took a few steps toward him. ‘Fernando is so fond of you. He’s changed since you came.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to him now.’

  ‘We’ve all changed a bit since you came.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to him.’

  Paola lowered her eyes and disappeared through the door to the bedrooms. The guests were beginning to go down into the courtyard. Pietro approached the small table where he had seen Fernando pray. The blankets were piled up on the couch.

  She returned. ‘He’s resting. He’ll join us later.’ Hardly had she finished speaking when a tapping came at one of the glass-paned doors. Fernando pressed his face up against the glass. Paola went over to him. ‘Go back to bed, you’re worn out.’

  ‘Not worn out.’ Fernando opened the door and passed under his mother’s arm. He greeted Pietro with eyes swollen from the cold, wearing a cardigan and loafers. He began to lead the concierge around the house. ‘Choose one of my jewels.’

  ‘Fernando, don’t start,’ Paola said.

  The concierge bent over him. ‘Do you remember Sara’s gift?’

  ‘Gift.’

  ‘What gift?’ Paola poked her head between them.

  The boy stretched out his fingers, showed them to his mother.

  ‘Pietro, tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with that poor girl at the cafe.’

  When they came out onto the landing Fernando raced down the stairs. Paola followed in pursuit. ‘Cover yourself, you’re ill!’

  Pietro stopped in front of the Martinis’ door. It was half open and inside one could see the tables set with pink cloths and stacks of paper cups. The doctor’s voice just reached him: ‘What are the haemoglobin levels? Are the platelets holding steady? Are there blast cells in the formula?’ Pietro went down. The guests were seated, filling the courtyard in herringbone rows. Viola was next to her mother. He waved to Sara in the front row, surrounded by other children and Fernando. Riccardo was speaking with Paola between the stage and an improvised prop holding a speaker.

  ‘Girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen, welcome!’ The magician Nicolini wore a tailcoat with a yellow bow tie and a shiny top hat. He showed his empty hands to the audience, closed and reopened them three times, on the fourth time one hand held a silver knob. He shook it and out popped a walking stick. The guests applauded and so did the lawyer. Poppi was on the other side of the courtyard, Theo Morbidelli in his arms.

  ‘So then, who wants to be my magical assistant?’ Nicolini pointed his walking stick at the audience. All the children waved theirs arms to be chosen, as did the lawyer. The magician chose the birthday girl. ‘A round of applause for Sara, a very special sorceress.’ The child looked for her mother and started to laugh, looked for her father but didn’t see him. Then she climbed timidly on stage.

  Luca came down into the courtyard when his daughter was in the midst of the big finale. Held his mobile to his ear and watched Sara wave the magic wand that the magician had given her. She aimed it straight at the top hat, repeated abracadabra, and all the guests repeated abracadabra too, until from the top hat Nicolini pulled a dove, who perched on the little girl’s shoulders. She screwed up her eyes in fright. The guests exploded with applause. Luca put away the phone and cheered on his daughter, then called Viola aside. He said something to her, they conferred, he walked away alone and returned up the stairs.

  Pietro left the show when he realized the doctor was not coming back. Slipped into the entrance hall and glanced up the stairwell: no one. He could hear only the magician Nicolini announcing the number of flying handkerchiefs. The concierge climbed to the second floor. The Martinis’ door was still open. In the living room Luca was pacing back and forth with a raincoat over his shoulder and rummaging in his leather bag.

  Pietro knocked. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘It’s Lorenzo …’ The doctor was out of breath. ‘He’s worse. I received a call from the doctors attending him at home. I have to go right away.’ He dropped the coat and bag and disappeared into the kitchen and returned with three trays of sweet pastries that he disposed haphazardly on one of the tables. ‘Sara will never forgive me … At least I can make it so they’ll find it all ready … All ready.’ He was in a manic state. A tray slipped from his hand and he caught it in mid-air. Set it down and pulled away the wrapping paper.

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’ Pietro tugged the second tray from his hands.

  ‘Sara will never forgive me.’

  ‘I’ll take care of things here. Go.’

  ‘OK, to hell with it.’ The doctor picked up his bag and raincoat, turned on the threshold. ‘You’ll really take care of it?’

  Pietro nodded and when Luca left stood alone at the centre of the living room. They had rearranged the furniture and removed the photo of the lavender field. He began with the longer trays, arranging them on the right-hand table and unwrapping them. Mixed petits fours, some with marzipan. He brought in other trays from the kitchen, one with cream meringues, another with Sicilian cannoli. There were also packaged cakes and other platters. He moved on to a strawberry tart, letting the ribbons and wrappers fall to the floor. The last items he found were
cream puffs and iced rolls, which he squeezed onto the far edge of the central table. He touched his finger to the icing on a chocolate cream puff, broke off a piece and put it in his mouth, struggled to swallow. Lorenzo is worse. Knelt down to collect the tray wrappers, too late. Voices came from the landing. ‘He left it open.’ The voice was Viola’s.

  Pietro looked around, slipped into the hallway leading to the bedrooms, and backed his way as far as Sara’s room. Pressed himself against the wall as footsteps entered.

  ‘What a mess Luca made of things,’ Viola grumbled. ‘You can never depend on him. What a mess.’

  The concierge squatted down behind the child’s bed. It was covered with dolls. More peeked out from beneath. The footsteps continued. He moved toward the foot of the bed, where the Pooh doll sat now.

  ‘The little boy’s condition must have taken a turn for the worse last night.’ The other voice was Riccardo’s. He gathered up the wrappers from the trays and gave them to Viola.

  Pietro stretched out then retracted his legs. Squashed a cheek against the parquet floor, breathed in dust, sat up again.

  ‘Sara will take it very badly.’ Viola paced back and forth in the kitchen. ‘Luca promised her he’d be here.’

  Pooh’s nose hid the woman’s head. Pietro edged himself beyond the bed and saw her better. Viola took off her wrap and folded her arms, thrusting her chest forward. Riccardo’s hands remained on his hips. ‘Viola, listen to me.’ He went up close to her. ‘I can’t take it any more.’

  ‘Sara wanted all of us here today.’

  ‘I’m not talking about today.’

  Pietro slid forward.

  Viola dropped her arms to her sides. ‘Sara wanted all of us.’

  ‘Sara says “father” to a man who is not her father.’ Riccardo smothered a shout.

  The concierge remained motionless.

  ‘We’re not going to do anything, Riccardo. Not now.’

  ‘You want to keep deceiving him?’ He cut the air with his hand. ‘I won’t go on like this.’

  Pietro took hold of the foot of Winnie the Pooh.

  ‘What’s the point of telling him now …’ Viola’s voice was barely audible. ‘What’s the point, tell me.’

  ‘A daughter …’ the man said, ‘ours.’

  She leaned into Riccardo and he ran a hand over her hip, caressed her stomach and her chest. The hand undid a button of her blouse, slipped in, grasped. A breast emerged, white and majestic. They kissed.

  The concierge turned: a tiny desk with crayons in a giant Smarties pot. He stared at the pot, the coloured bands at top and bottom. The voices in the living room died away and returned. Hers said not now, please, we have to go downstairs.

  Riccardo left first. Viola fixed her shirt and covered herself again with the wrap, then she too left.

  Pietro brought a hand to his eyes.

  The mother of the witch did as her daughter did. That night she tossed a handful of gravel against the young priest’s shutters. He got out of bed and saw her through the slits. He rushed to open the door to her. She removed a jumper she had wrapped around her head. Her face was red from the wind and her eyes were puffy. ‘I couldn’t wait, Father.’

  He gestured for her to enter the church.

  The woman went to the confessional.

  ‘Forgive my sins.’

  ‘Which sins?’

  ‘A husband’s.’

  ‘Sins can’t be passed on.’

  ‘I’ve covered them up for years. Now they’re mine.’ The woman picked at the holes in the grille with her fingers. ‘And my daughter’s.’

  He smelt the wine on her breath.

  ‘My daughter leads others into temptation.’

  The young priest touched his lips where they had kissed the witch. ‘It’s not your daughter’s fault.’

  ‘Whose is it, then?’

  He backed away from the grille, hid himself in the shadow of the confessional. ‘God’s.’

  Before the birthday party was over the guests were welcomed into the Martinis’ living room, where the lawyer announced: ‘This is Pietro and Fernando’s gift for our guest of honour.’

  The concierge had lowered the shutters and directed a lamp against the wall, set up two chairs in front of the light and returned to the kitchen. He came out with Fernando shortly after. The strange boy had his hands like Pietro had taught him. He sat down on one of the chairs and the concierge sat down on the other.

  The guests applauded. Fernando sneezed and said, ‘I’m scared, I’m scared.’ He looked at Pietro, looked at his mother standing beside the door. Paola urged him on, along with Poppi, and blew him a kiss.

  Fernando’s parrot appeared on the wall, its mouth closed and missing its crest. The big boy’s hands shook. The parrot threatened to become a flightless blotch. He straightened an index finger, it crumpled, the parrot fell. It rose again at the approach of Pietro’s parrot, which was smaller and had its crest. The two met. The hands of the concierge brushed against Fernando’s. The boy’s parrot opened its beak. The crest emerged.

  The guests applauded and Fernando turned towards his mother. His mother was laughing.

  Pietro said, ‘Fly away.’

  Fernando moved his thumbs and spread the bird’s wings. The concierge did the same, and they flew.

  Pietro looked for her now. Viola was one silhouette among the others, picking at an apple torte, looking away to avoid his gaze.

  29

  Pietro returned from the birthday party with a kiss from Sara on his cheek and a tray of petits fours wrapped in crinkled paper. Through a gap he saw the top of a meringue. He slipped a finger into the package, found the whipped cream. Plunged in and brought the finger to his mouth as he looked at the ficus next to the refrigerator, entirely revived by the rain of the previous night. Took a pair of scissors from the table and knelt down. He pruned one green leaf after another, every leaf except the one with the shell. The snail had left a trail of slime across the veins.

  The concierge rested the tray of petits fours on the Bianchi’s handlebars, pocketed the photograph of the woman and newborn and went out into the courtyard with the bicycle. On the stage were three long balloons trampled flat. And Riccardo.

  He blended in with the evening, until his cigarette glowed. The concierge turned to leave.

  ‘Teach me how to make the shadows.’ The man sat on the edge of the stage, dangling his legs. ‘Teach me the parrot too.’

  Pietro leaned on the top bar of the Bianchi. ‘I can’t do the parrot well any more.’

  ‘Or whatever shadow you want …’ He tossed the cigarette to the ground and hopped down from the stage. ‘As long as it’s different from my own.’ The lamplight in the courtyard projected him on the ground in sharply angled silhouette.

  ‘I can’t do any of the shadows well any more.’

  The radiographer came closer to him, stopping directly below the lamp. Pietro saw him clearly then. And recognized himself. Riccardo was an orphan. In the graceful gestures that smoothed the edges of an eternal awkwardness, in the cowed, anxious eyes from which he now brushed away curls. ‘I trip over my own shadow.’ He sniggered without smiling.

  ‘So do I.’ Pietro nodded as he had the first time they met. He knew that the awkwardness of this kind man was his own awkwardness. To be always alone. He laid a hand on his arm, just for a moment, and squeezed. Then he turned the Bianchi round and when he faced the street door he noticed a drawing stuck to the lodge window. Looking closer he made out a man sailing through the air on a red bicycle. Above the figure soared two lopsided birds with spikes on their heads. He pulled it down and read at the bottom, Fernando and Sara. Turned around and spied Fernando and Sara half hidden behind the stairs.

  ‘For me?’ the concierge asked.

  The little girl ran to Pietro and tugged at the edge of his jacket, laughing, gap-toothed. Fernando stepped forward. ‘It’s a jewel,’ he said, pointing to the drawing.

  ‘Thank you very much.’ The concierge ra
n a hand through the boy’s hair. ‘I’ll hang it over my bed.’

  Riccardo came over to them. ‘They didn’t know how to thank you, so they set to drawing as soon as the guests left.’ He picked up the little girl.

  Pietro stared at them, searching in the one, then in the other. Sara had her mother’s nose and eyes, her hands and way of laughing.

  ‘I’m sleepy,’ she murmured.

  The concierge searched again. The child laid her head on Riccardo’s shoulder and Pietro found the telltale sign. The pointed ear. A piece of cartilage sharpened her ear as it sharpened his. In the same curve, in the same way. Riccardo kissed her. ‘Everyone to bed.’

  Pietro caressed Sara’s back, climbed his hand up to her shoulder, to her face. Brushed the ear there, said goodnight.

  They went upstairs and he glanced at the Madonna in the alcove.

  He asked now. That you might protect my son.

  The entire ride, Pietro steered with one hand. The other steadied the tray of petits fours on the handlebars until he arrived at Anita’s front gate, which had been left ajar. He buzzed. No one responded but he entered anyway, left the Bianchi in the rack and went up to the first floor. Rang at her door. The young woman came out of the flat next door. ‘Anita will be here soon.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Pietro waited on a chair on the landing of the communal balcony. The young woman remained in the doorway of her flat, fiddling with her mobile phone, applying and reapplying lip gloss like the first time he’d met her. She wore a fringe nearly down to her eyes and two silver hoops in her ears. Pietro rested the tray on his knees, glimpsed the small cakes through the gap in the paper: they had all overturned. He uncovered the tray and began to right them. When he arrived at the strawberry petit four he looked up. The woman was smiling.

  ‘Do you like the ones with fruit?’ Pietro held out the tray to her and she chose the cake with the smallest strawberry. She nibbled at the edges and kept the fruit for last. ‘Have you known Anita for a long time?’

  ‘A lifetime.’