The Sense of an Elephant Page 7

  ‘It’s my favourite scene.’ Poppi sighed behind the mask. ‘Luca seems so shy but he knows what he’s doing in bed.’ Poppi was the mask. With his cavernous ears he listened to the doctor saying, You and Sara are everything I have. He listened to Viola: Come here, Luca. Come.

  In the middle of the table the candle burned with a tall flame. Pietro lifted it up, held it over his other hand, tipped it and the wax ran onto his wrist. He waited for it to harden then rose and walked to the door. Before leaving he turned, one last time. The mask was bent over the table.

  16

  By the time Pietro reached his flat the lawyer’s wax had dried completely, weighing on his wrist. He collapsed onto the bed. You and the little girl are all I have. He pulled his limbs in. All I have. The rice-paper envelope with Salgari was on the night table. In addition to a letter less than a page long it contained an old photograph of the doctor as a child during a school play, wearing a bow tie and a bowler high on the crown of his head. He stood apart on the stage, looking towards a group of children all older than him, all serious except for him. Luca was laughing slyly, with the air of someone who didn’t give a damn about the play. Pietro caressed the irreverent expression, put away the photograph and dragged himself into the bathroom. Turned on the tap. The wax melted under the hot water. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror until he began to spread shaving cream from his neck to his eyes. They were weary eyes, not Mastroianni’s. The razor passed from cheek to cheek and the cheeks shed their grey. He paid careful attention to the dimple on his chin, the crooked line of his mouth, the folds of his neck. When he was done he realized he had cut his cheek. The concierge rinsed his face, traced the nick with his little finger and continued up to his forehead, where a number of wrinkles cleaved the mostly smooth skin. He never touched his hair, which after sixty-five years parted itself. Pietro hastily dried himself, dressed in elegant clothes and passed into the lodge while tying the new scarf around his neck. The chain from Riccardo snaked around the leg of a chair, the padlock closed and with the key inside. Pietro turned on the lamp and directed it at a section of the table. With the pen Snow White had made grooves in the fake wood surface. Come as soon as you can. It’s important. Sofia.

  He wheeled the Bianchi out of the building. Come as soon as you can. No one saw him leave. Pietro released the brakes and set off down the cobbled street. The mist rose and the chk-chk of the Bianchi pulled alongside a tram, passed it and the tail of his jacket fluttered like a cape. He passed under one of the ancient city gates. Two men at the entrance to the Metro watched him rush by, saw sparks fly against the whiteness. Pietro held on to the slope of the handlebars. At the end of the descent the light changed to yellow and he accelerated, crouching down over the top tube. A taxi honked at the intersection, chk-chk, the gears slipped with the force of his pedalling, the Bianchi turned into a broad street with unlit street lamps. Darkness and fog were everywhere. He darted across the large square where they’d hung Mussolini upside down. The clock atop the mirrored glass tower showed a quarter to ten. He swung a leg over and continued on with both shoes on a single pedal, dismounted in front of the gate with the sign reading ‘Walk bicycles and motorcycles.’ The ink had run and the letters could hardly be made out.

  Pietro pushed the intercom button. ‘Anita, it’s me.’

  He left the Bianchi in a bike rack containing more abandoned wheels than frames. Took staircase B. The stink of fried food issued from the walls and accompanied him to the first floor. Anita was waiting for him at the door, brushing her hair to one side and speaking to a much younger woman. She had removed the jacket with the fabric flower and wore a long woollen dress. ‘Pietro, here you are.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Did you have dinner?’

  ‘I ate something.’

  ‘I know your something. One day you’ll starve to death.’

  ‘Good evening,’ he said to the young woman, who was applying lip gloss to a heart-shaped mouth. Responding with a nod of her chin then lowering her head, she wore a skirt that fell above the knee. Continuing to apply lip gloss, she said goodnight and went into the flat next door.

  ‘Silvia is shy.’ Anita set down the brush and smiled. Below her fleshy face a necklace of pendants jingled. ‘Now tell me, what adorable individual sold you this fantastic scarf?’ She gestured to him to enter, pulled the curtains closed. Her dress hid large hips. ‘He’s the most handsome doctor in Milan.’

  Pietro tried and failed to suppress a smile. ‘The shirt was a hit.’

  ‘I wish I’d been there. And the gloves?’

  ‘An even bigger hit.’

  ‘This Viola is a connoisseur.’ She kissed softly the cut he had given himself with the razor. ‘He has your eyes. Your hands, too. And he’s also awkward like you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That you’re awkward.’ She took his face between her fingertips. ‘His mother must have had an amazing pair of lips. Do you have a photo of them together? I could use one.’

  ‘For your tarot reading?’

  She pulled a face. ‘I need it. Please bring me one.’

  ‘Anita. You read his fortune, didn’t you?’

  ‘In the thirty years I’ve known you, you’ve never been so shameless.’ She caressed his neck. ‘Maybe once during a sermon.’ She disappeared into the other room, returned with a package wrapped in tissue paper and a sticking plaster. ‘For you. Even though what I should be giving you is a mobile phone. Did you lose yours?’

  Pietro turned away and began to unpack. ‘Did you read his fortune, Anita?’

  ‘His fortune was in the first card up: the emperor.’ She unwrapped the plaster and laid it carefully over his cut. ‘The emperor is his future.’

  He tore the tissue paper to reveal a pair of pyjamas.

  ‘It’s a silk blend. I threw your old pair out.’ She moved away. ‘The doctor will have to fight. Emperors have always had to fight.’

  ‘Once there were others who did it for them.’

  ‘Precisely.’ She clasped one of his little fingers and led him into the bedroom, turned on the light on his side and retreated to the bathroom. He waited in front of the dresser. The pile of books had grown by two since the previous week. She had also added an old wedding bouquet to the mirror frame.

  ‘A bride threw it to me a long time ago, but it didn’t work.’ Anita had put on a shiny dressing gown, swayed gently and her slight breasts rubbed against the fabric. Sat down with her legs crossed as she had as a child, when she and her parents would seat themselves in a corner of the church and he was a priest tottering at the altar. Pietro had seen her grow up and she had seen the same happen to the little boy in black who, during confession, instead of guilt asked to hear little stories about people’s families and never gave penance for sins. He and Anita had become friends that way, in the confessional and over all those years, then when she had gone to Milan to study to be a fashion designer they had stayed in touch. She and she alone had been permitted to read the letter on rice paper.

  ‘Even if I had caught two bouquets, it wouldn’t have worked.’ She took his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, undid his belt and trousers, asked him to sit down.

  ‘I can do this myself.’

  ‘I’m doing it.’ She helped him put on the pyjama top. He saw to the bottoms.

  Anita reached one of her hands down.

  And Pietro stopped her.

  So she pressed a cheek against one of his and remained there.

  ‘He’s a talented doctor,’ the concierge said. ‘You should see him with the children at the hospital.’

  ‘You can tell.’ She helped him to stand. ‘C’mon, you’re dead on your feet.’ She pulled the covers down, stretched out on the right side of the bed and occupied half of a single pillow. The other half was Pietro’s. He set his head down beside hers and pulled her into an embrace.

  ‘When will you tell him?’ she said.

  The concierge closed his eyes.

/>   ‘Tell him, Pietro.’ Anita rocked him ever so gently, kissed him on the forehead. ‘He’s your son.’

  17

  The witch’s mother prayed that morning as well. She remained kneeling in the church’s last row and bent down after each appeal for forgiveness. The young priest saw her from the altar. She went up to him and said, ‘May God bless you, Father.’ Then she left the church.

  Pietro too asked for forgiveness, for what he was about to do. He followed her to a terraced house near the station. The mother disappeared inside only to re-emerge with her daughter shortly after. The witch had a pillow in one hand and wore a straw hat large enough to cover her shoulders. Together they took the passageway beneath the station and the boulevard all the way to the sand, then the promenade to the beach in front of the Grand Hotel. The mother stopped under a green umbrella in the third row. The witch retraced her steps and went up to the young priest. ‘It’s a sin to follow someone.’

  ‘I wasn’t following anyone.’

  ‘It’s also a sin to lie. And you need to put some sun cream on.’ She led him by the arm as far as the huts. ‘Here.’ She placed the pillow in a trough in the sand dunes and lay down, turning her face to the sun and closing her eyes. ‘Come.’ She indicated the free half of the pillow.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Come. God won’t strike down a bride-to-be and her priest.’

  He looked at her. The bathing suit barely covered her chest. ‘You’re marrying the boy I saw in church last year?’

  ‘He’s from Milan too. I’ll be with him in four days.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ The young priest sat down against one of the huts and apologized.

  The witch pulled him by the shirt, guided him to the pillow. She took his right hand and laid it against her flat stomach.

  He felt the smooth skin, and the emptiness.

  ‘The one I loved was in here.’

  18

  The next morning Pietro returned late to the condominium. The lawyer was standing in front of the concierge’s lodge. ‘An ugly spectacle last night.’

  ‘What are you referring to?’

  ‘About una checca in maschera, a masked fairy.’ He held up a teetering stack of paper. ‘Here, from the postman.’

  Pietro checked the stack and noticed that the doctor’s newspaper was missing. He frowned.

  ‘Don’t worry, Luca’s already picked it up. He couldn’t wait to get to the gym this morning. Last night wasn’t a great night for him either.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I got.’

  The lawyer peeled off his leather gloves. ‘It happened after you left. It had been a while since I’d heard them like that, him and Madame.’

  Pietro stiffened.

  ‘At first they really went at it, then the eggs began to break. Crack, crack. Madame was crying. I nearly had a heart attack.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Forgetfulness, Pietro. Remember?’ The lawyer pressed the red button to the right of the street door and it clicked open. ‘It seems like your own evening took an entirely different turn, to judge from the sticking plaster …’ He lowered the brim of his fedora and dived into the street, leaving the door ajar.

  Pietro touched his cheek where the cut burned. Pressed the plaster down and went into the lodge and began to distribute the post. There was an envelope for Fernando from the supermarket where he worked and a subscription renewal for Paola’s magazine. The Municipality of Milan had sent two invitations to Viola. Each of the owners had received a notice from the building’s management company. He flipped through the remainder and before heading into his flat looked up.

  Through the lodge window, framed by the open street door, he saw that the old man he had met in front of the hospital was across the street in his Total jacket, holding the matching cap in his hands. He stared up at the condominium, his face’s pallor blending with the facade of the building behind him. Pietro went into the entrance hall to completely close the street door then into his flat to observe from his little window. The old man had moved to stand next to one of the cafe windows.

  ‘Pietro? Are you there?’

  Voices were calling him from the lodge.

  ‘Pietro?’

  He rushed into the lodge. Viola and her daughter were standing before the grid of pigeonholes. ‘Has the post arrived?’

  He gave her the two invitations from the municipality. Viola looked them over while the little girl softly sang a nursery rhyme and stamped her tiny feet one atop the other.

  Pietro greeted her. ‘A snail told me that it’s almost your birthday. Was it telling the truth?’

  Viola lifted her head. She wasn’t wearing make-up. ‘Let’s go, Sara, or we’ll be late.’

  The child did not move.

  ‘I said, we’ll be late.’ She tugged her daughter by the schoolbag, tugged her again toward the exit. ‘Move!’ She yanked at her.

  Sara obeyed but did not take her eyes off Pietro, fluttering a hand goodbye as she went through the door. The concierge was late in reciprocating. He watched through the closing door as mother and daughter crossed the street and passed beside the old man, who had again come closer to the condominium, hesitating on the kerb.

  Pietro went out to meet him.

  The old man, cap in hand, scrutinized him. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ he said, without moving. ‘You know Dr Martini, you know him, I saw you together at the hospital.’ Veins stood out like scratches on his forehead. ‘Is he home?’

  And Pietro said, ‘My son is not home.’

  The old man bowed his bony head, then hid it beneath his hat. ‘Ah, so you’re his father … Tell him …’ he mumbled. ‘He’s a very capable young man, your son. There aren’t many like him. He helped my … Tell Luca that Mario Testi was here looking for him. My son is really talented as well, all you have to do is look at him and you know he is.’ He worried at the collar of his jacket. ‘Tell him that I’ll wait here today, please.’

  ‘He won’t come today.’

  The old man’s face further wrinkled. ‘Is he at the hospital? Because this morning he wasn’t there.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I’ll wait for him here.’

  Pietro walked away. He went back inside the condominium and picked up the most worn-out cloth, wrung it out in the courtyard sink. The Madonna, her face blackened by the smog, poked through the ivy. What binds all fathers? He climbed up to clean the statue, decided against it. He left the cloth in the sink and hung the ‘Back soon’ sign on the lodge window. He went out into the street, back over to the old man and said, ‘Your son is ill?’

  The old man coughed, leaned back against the wall, and Pietro knew that it was powerlessness. Powerlessness in the face of a son’s fate binds all fathers. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘My son Andrea is like yours. They’re two young men on the ball.’ He rubbed his hands together as if underwater. His wedding band spun on his ring finger. ‘With the ball at his feet, he’s amazing. You’ve got to see how he dribbles. Has Luca ever told you about my Andrea’s dribbling?’ He nodded to himself. ‘The doctor came to visit him twice and he understood just how good he is.’ His breath was ragged. ‘Andrea always asks for him now.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you stopped by.’

  The old man straightened up. ‘You would like my Andrea.’ From his wallet he drew a newspaper cut-out, of a boy on a football pitch, a ball under his foot and his arms crossed. Beside him was the old man years before, more fleshed out, with a brown moustache and hair parted to one side. He wore a skinny tie and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. ‘And I’m sure that Andrea would like to meet you too.’

  ‘I’m not a doctor.’

  The old man carefully refolded the newspaper cut-out, placed it between the two halves of his identity card, which he closed with a paper clip. He lifted his head. His small round eyes were red. ‘Sons who are on the ball recognize fathers on the ball. And vice versa.’ He stood with his hands down the sides of his loo
se-fitting jeans. ‘Sofia told me that the doctor lived in a nice building.’ He gestured at the condominium. ‘What floor is he on?’

  ‘Sofia is the woman who came by yesterday?’

  The old man nodded and without warning grabbed his wrist. ‘I bet my Andrea would like to know the doctor’s father.’ He looked at him. ‘Please.’ He set off alone, stopped after a few steps and waited.

  The old man lived in Snow White’s building, beside the railway. With the daylight one could see frost on the improvised garden plots. He pointed at the only one being cultivated: ‘That one’s ours.’ There were an array of cabbages and the two fruitless pomegranate trees. He shook the front gate. ‘The lock is broken.’ He cursed continuously until he managed to open it.

  The hair on Snow White’s statue was patchy with peeling paint. Pietro briefly rested a hand on her head, then followed him in. They climbed the external staircase. Pietro turned toward the row of sycamores along the street, looking for the one that had hid him after he followed the doctor. It alone was bare. Fallen leaves blanketed the grass around the trunk.

  They climbed the stairs to the third floor. The old man’s door had neither a nameplate nor a peephole, just a doormat well worn in the middle.

  ‘It’s me.’

  The entry was a modest diamond-tiled square. Beyond it could be seen a small room with a loveseat and a television set on an empty drinks trolley. The smell of roasting meat hung thickly in the air. The old man hung his cap and jacket on a hall stand that already held a housecoat and a motorcycle helmet. ‘It’s me,’ he repeated and continued into the kitchen and sat down. The table barely fitted in the space and the chairs squeaked beneath foam-rubber cushions. He poured two glasses of wine. ‘Please, sit down, make yourself at home.’

  Pietro sat and the old man pushed a glass towards him. On a shelf above the table were the disassembled pieces of a stovetop percolator and a packet of biscuits held closed with a clothes peg. Also three dried pomegranates in a shallow bowl in the shape of a tortoise. ‘Is your wife still alive?’ said the old man.