The Sense of an Elephant Page 3

  He did the rest in a hurry. Chose a shirt and trousers and an argyle jumper that he threw over his shoulders. He had bought them in Anita’s shop the day before starting the job. He had chosen the colour, grey, she the style, and she had also made him buy an uncomfortable pair of brogues and two cardigans to alternate, because a proper concierge almost never dresses the same two days in a row. Anita had also added a tie and a bottle of cologne, which he had yet to open. Pietro pulled on the jumper, adjusted his shirt collar and went into the kitchen without stopping to look in the mirror. A colour other than black was enough to embarrass him.

  Pietro had always eaten breakfast on his feet. He set up on top of the refrigerator, with exactly two pieces of Melba toast and three squares of dark chocolate. Ate slowly, eyes on the plants awaiting the morning light. ‘You tricked me,’ he said to a recovering ficus that he had given up for lost. Placed it more squarely in the sun’s path and went into the lodge. Checked the notebook with the list of things to remember. Dr Martini’s daughter’s birthday was just a week away. Nicolini the magician would be stopping by in the next few days to work out where to do the show. The concierge would first have to clean out the gutters and prune the hedge. He stood to open the lodge window’s curtains, instead returned to the bedroom and took the keys to the Martinis’.

  Pietro carried the keys in his pocket and occasionally felt to be sure they were still there. He had to wait until the building emptied. The first to leave was the lawyer. On pool days he was always an early riser. Shortly after it was Paola’s turn. She came up to the lodge.

  ‘My Fernando is ill and won’t be going to work today.’ The smell of hairspray struck him full in the face. ‘Would you mind looking in on him every so often?’

  Pietro nodded. ‘I’ll also drop off this cactus. It’s better.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back with dinner.’ Paola put on her hat and went out as the voice of the doctor’s daughter floated down the stairwell. Sara whimpered, cuddled up against her mother’s chest, an invisible bundle with one eye open wide, the other closed. Waved the magic wand and stared at him.

  Viola put her down. ‘She doesn’t want to go to nursery school. What am I to do?’ She buttoned up the girl’s hooded top. ‘Have a good day, Pietro.’ Smiled and went out with her daughter.

  The postman came early. Pietro sped up operations by telling him he would distribute the post to the boxes himself. The postman handed over the lot and the concierge set to work. For Paola there was a fashion magazine with the newest collections and a current-affairs weekly that was mostly gossip. He had come across the previous issue in the wastepaper bin and read it during quiet times. He flipped through this one briefly then continued to pick through the pile. There were also three envelopes for Fernando’s mother, two of them still addressed to her husband. He put them in her box. For the lawyer there was a newsletter from the Rotary club and a child sponsorship update. Remaining on the table was the post for the Martinis. Viola had received an invitation to an art opening. He placed it in their box and turned to the doctor’s post. There was an envelope from a medical conference and the Corriere della Sera, which he came to the lodge every morning to pick up. Pietro removed the plastic wrapper and refolded the newspaper carefully so that the corners were perfectly matched. He spied a front-page article about a Mafioso on the run being arrested, had begun to read it when the doctor came down. With a gym bag over his shoulder and a phone to his ear, the doctor signed to him that he would pick up the paper later. Pietro waited until he left, then checked the time.

  He entered the courtyard. Viola’s gardenia was still in low spirits, Paola’s cactus revived and beginning to flower. He picked up the latter and carried it into the entrance hall. The stairs were silent as a tomb. He began to climb, staggering with the weight of the cactus until the first floor, where he had to pause before continuing up. No sound came from the doors on the second floor. He moved closer to Poppi’s door and heard the low murmur of the television that the lawyer left on every time he went out, put down the cactus on the Martinis’ doormat and rang the bell. Rang again. Drew out the keys, inserted them into the locks and opened the door.

  The photograph of the doctor on the Vespa was as he had left it. He lifted it up and noticed that the child was clutching something in his less visible hand, perhaps a slingshot, perhaps just a piece of rope. Beside the picture frame the basket of knick-knacks appeared piled high even without the bell. He went over to the hall stand and brought his nose to a black trench coat. It smelled of vanilla. He stopped sniffing and lifted his head.

  In the middle of the room were two red couches set at right angles. Bookshelves covered the long wall and surrounded the door to the kitchen. More books strewed the floor. As he stepped over them he read The Razor’s Edge on one cover. He walked around. The little girl’s toys crowded the carpet. Some dolls sat up on a chaise longue beneath the window.

  Through the glass he could see the courtyard, a bit of the Madonna and an arc of his porthole window. He continued to wander, the parquet floor squeaked, he slowed his steps and arrived at a pair of men’s slippers beside a couch. Sat down, took off his shoes and put on the slippers. Wiggled his toes, working them all the way in. They fitted him perfectly. As his feet warmed up Pietro approached the one wall painted crimson. On the right hung a photograph of a lavender field. Among the flowers appeared the doctor and Viola in an embrace, perhaps from when they were at university. He ran a finger along the outline of the pale young man with a patchy beard and a lavender flower over one ear. Viola was looking at the camera and he was looking at her. They were beautiful. On the mantel he spotted their wedding picture: she full of soft curves in her white gown, he a mannequin in morning dress. Another photograph was of the doctor arm in arm with Riccardo, the radiographer, their faces deformed with laughter. A final one showed a man in sunglasses holding a fishing rod, a fish hanging from two fingers. He knew it was the doctor’s father, who had died a few years back.

  The voice of Fernando came through the wall, ‘Papa and Jesus, I will offend you no more.’ Then silence.

  Pietro went into the kitchen. A bouquet of sunflowers hung down from the wall above the table, a card pinned to the paper: To Viola, who passes beneath the windows. He read the doctor’s signature. The a in Luca had a long, curly tail. A shelf held an aquarium with striped tropical fish. Beside it a long, narrow loaf of bread poked out of its bag. He pressed a finger against a crumb and put it in his mouth. The bread was fresh. Then he stood in front of the refrigerator. On the door were a magnet shaped like the Eiffel Tower and a black-and-white Polaroid, the ultrasound of Sara in her mama’s belly. He ran his finger slowly over it, recognizing the upturned nose and little round head, caressed it and noticed a handwritten date in the lower right corner: 14-9-2008. The same as the bracelet found in the courtyard. He pressed the corners down and heard another voice, of the lawyer this time: ‘Theo Morbidelli, where are you? No swimming today because your owner doesn’t feel so good. I’m going into the bathroom, so kindly get out of the way, c’mon now …’

  Pietro checked his watch, went back into the sitting room, and slid open a door leading to the bedrooms. He passed the little girl’s room: the walls were plastered with drawings; a pink quilt covered the bed; a stuffed Winnie the Pooh sat atop the pillow. He continued down the corridor to the last room, the one sharing a wall with Fernando’s sitting room, the doctor’s study. A laptop peeked out beneath piles of papers and books on the desk. The leather armchair was buried in old newspapers. A stringless guitar rested on a stand. On the wall he saw the doctor’s diploma. He walked around the desk and touched the frame, read with the highest distinction and pressed his fingers against the glass. Held them there, then stooped over the desk. Some doodled sheets of paper and a bowl of grape stems. He crouched down in front of the three drawers below the work surface.

  He undid a button of his shirt and felt his throat pulsing. Pulled open the first drawer. Inside were a packet of liquorice gum, a m
obile-phone charger, a pile of cotton handkerchiefs, a leather-bound diary. He closed the drawer. A cascade of water roared in the pipes in the wall and muddied the lawyer’s voice: ‘Here I am, Theo, I’m fine now. Come here and give me some love.’

  He reopened the drawer and paged through the diary. On the first page there was nothing. On the others he read last names, account numbers, payment due dates, more doodles. He went to 8 February, the day of the death of the doctor’s mother. The page was blank. On the next, scrawled diagonally across the page: No frame, Mama, just the memory.

  He paged ahead and noticed that some dates were circled in pen, 9 January several times. Underneath, a line: How will you condemn me, God? He paused. Read again: How will you condemn me, God? Continued to flip through. The third of May was circled as well and bore the same message. He searched the surface of the desk, found a blank piece of paper and a pen, traced the doctor’s handwriting. Folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket. Checked the coming days, pages full of reminders about Sara’s birthday party. The order placed with the pastry shop Madame La Cuisine, the magician Massimo Nicolini’s expenses.

  He opened to today’s date. It was circled. The doctor had noted, 7:00, call first, and lower down, Don’t have the courage. Pietro stared at the writing.

  The second drawer was locked. He shook it and something moved inside. The third was unlocked. He slid it open and a jumble of photographs appeared, on top one of a woman holding a newborn in her arms, her face pressed against the sleeping child, her smile that of someone in her twenties.

  He closed the drawer quickly and left the study. When he came to the Martinis’ bedroom he leaned against the door jamb, then shuffled slowly to the wicker bed and bent down over the two orange pillows. He sank his face into the pillow-case with the smell of Luca.

  This time he breathed.

  8

  Pietro slowly closed the door to the Martinis’ flat and instinctively turned to where the lawyer had surprised him the last time. Saw the giant window above the landing wide open, a stream of light dazzling the cream walls. Picked the cactus up off the doormat and took two steps toward Fernando’s door. Froze. The door was ajar and through the gap poked a loafer.

  ‘You stole.’ Fernando was there. The door of the flat opened completely. Now there were two loafers. They came forward, below pyjama bottoms with elasticated bands stretched around fleshy calves. ‘You stole.’

  ‘I was bringing back your plant, Fernando. It’s better now.’ Pietro called him over but the strange boy took no heed.

  Fernando moved slowly in the thick pyjamas. ‘How do you know it’s better?’

  ‘It made flowers. Come and see how pretty they are.’

  He shook his head.

  It was the first time Pietro had ever seen him without the beret. His hair was short, thinning in the middle and speckled with grey. ‘Come and see, we won’t say anything to your mother.’ He pointed out the bud of a reddish flower.

  Fernando hesitated, then took a quick look. ‘Mama says you heal the plants with prayers.’ He cleaned the toe of one shoe with a thumb.

  The concierge put the cactus back down on the mat. ‘When all the flowers bloom you can give it to Alice at the cafe. She’ll be happy.’

  The strange boy thought about it. ‘Happy.’ He smiled and seized the concierge’s hand, crushing the fingers with his oxlike strength.

  Pietro tried to break away but Fernando refused to let him. The boy drew him into the dimly lit entryway, dragged him into a living room that also contained a kitchen. The shutters were rolled down and the only light came from a small table with five cemetery candles placed in a circle. In the middle lay his felt beret.

  The boy took a folded blanket from the couch and placed it at the foot of the table beside another blanket. He knelt down and made a sign for the concierge to do the same.

  ‘Say a prayer for Papa.’

  Pietro stayed on his feet. He watched the strange boy’s broad back collapse toward the altar, return upright, collapse again. Abruptly he ceased to move, a graceless statue.

  ‘Lie down on the couch, you’re tired,’ said the concierge.

  He did not obey.

  ‘Lie down.’

  He remained motionless.

  So Pietro picked up the blanket, opened and laid it across the boy’s shoulders. Backed away without taking his eyes off this son at prayer.

  The witch crouched in the corner of the confessional, I killed my son, crushed her face up against the grille.

  ‘My baby never saw the light of day. An old nurse and I, we snuffed him out.’

  ‘He has seen the eternal light.’ The young priest moved closer.

  She pulled back. ‘You priests always say the same thing.’

  ‘It’s called faith.’

  ‘Faith … Tell it to someone who’s given birth to a sin.’ She moved away as far as possible.

  ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘Give me this faith as well.’ The witch ran out.

  The young priest called after her, called her again, watched her leave the church. Then he exited the confessional and knelt down on the wood where she had knelt. And instead of praying he gathered up the single long hair left behind in the grille, held it in his left hand.

  Directly he returned home Pietro poured himself half a glass of red wine from the bottle he had brought from Rimini. It had gone sour. He drank it quickly, held it against his palate until it sweetened, closed his eyes and that was his prayer for Fernando.

  He swallowed when he heard knocking at the lodge window. The shiny head of the lawyer emerged out of a cloud of smoke. Poppi had a cigar in his mouth and a dressing gown cinched at his waspish waist. Pietro slid open the lodge window.

  ‘Pietro,’ he said, ‘have you seen one of the Martinis come in?’

  The acidic wine rose from his stomach.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then there’s something funny going on. This morning when I got to the pool, I didn’t even have time to change before my bowels started sounding the alarm – I imagine it’s retribution for having taken the mick out of Fernando at the cafe. I went straight back home and in the bathroom Theo Morbidelli and I heard suspicious sounds. Do you like Theo Morbidelli as a cat’s name?’

  Pietro nodded.

  ‘Anyway, at a certain point Theo Morbidelli and I heard a sound coming from the doctor’s office. Where were you, kibitzer?’

  ‘I took Fernando the cactus. We talked for a while outside his door.’

  ‘Ah. Maybe it was you …’ The lawyer bit his lips. ‘It’s just that I’m always on the lookout.’

  ‘You’re a good administrator.’

  Poppi put out the cigar and pushed his way into the lodge.

  ‘Ever since his mother kicked the bucket the doctor has lost his head. A good administrator … A nurse is more like it.’

  The concierge sat down.

  The lawyer’s voice softened. ‘He got his bearings in life from his mother.’ He settled down next to Pietro and for the first time Pietro got a good look at him. Poppi was a tired man with tiny watery eyes who refused to surrender to old age. He gestured with his hands, let them fall to his lap and continued: ‘And now that the bearings are lost, the ship has no direction.’ He opened the dressing gown slightly, revealing his scrawny chest. ‘In the evenings he’s out of the house a lot, and I’ve heard Viola crying more than once since the kid was born. I’ve heard him crying too. He sounds like a crow when he cries.’

  ‘Maybe the crows don’t want to be listened to.’

  ‘We should have thicker walls.’

  ‘Or more discreet tongues.’

  The lawyer turned his back on the concierge. ‘Maybe you, Pietro, still have God to keep you company and don’t need anyone else’ – he crossed his legs – ‘but let me tell you a story, my friend. When my mother found out that I was a poof, she said that I would be condemned to die alone like one other category of people: priests.’ His eyes now were dry and growing i
n size. ‘My mother was right, except in one point, if I may: we homos are buried without any desires left, you priests with your mouths still spouting sermons.’ He chewed on the extinguished cigar.

  Pietro was silent.

  Poppi feigned blowing smoke. ‘Did you know you’ve got no sense of humour?’ Then he laid a hand on the concierge’s knee and squeezed. ‘Pardon me.’ He bowed his bony head. He once again appeared tired, his arms like twigs and his face fearful. He looked through the lodge window. ‘I promised the doctor’s mother that I would look out for him. Seeing him like this upsets me.’

  Pietro looked through the lodge window as well, saw the geometric designs that decorated the ceiling of the entrance hall. Then a half-flowering cactus came lumbering its way past the lodge, with drooping arms and a trunk inclined to one side. The lawyer jumped to his feet and stared. They heard a buzz and a click.

  ‘Jesus. Come and see this, Pietro.’

  The half-flowering cactus swayed in the arms of Fernando as he tried unsuccessfully to open the door. He had on his beret and a corduroy shirt.

  The lawyer closed his dressing gown and ran out of the lodge.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He kept the door closed with his foot.

  ‘Alice is happy with pretty flowers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alice is happy.’

  Pietro helped steady the cactus in the boy’s arms. ‘It’s not completely flowered yet. We have to wait because like this it’s not a nice gift.’

  Poppi put an arm around Fernando.

  ‘Let’s go home, son.’

  ‘Alice wants pretty flowers.’