Clapas hadn’t understood a thing. However, Cary had discovered how to keep depression at bay. See and listen. A few drops and every thread in the fabric of the world appears before you. The winter of his discontent made glorious summer by that lysergic sun.
V London, 20 September
Dear Professor Fanti,
I am not good at writing like you, I have never written enough in my life and above all I started too late. But I will try.
I would like to tell you that I can’t thank you enough for all the trouble you have taken. You write that you did it out of your friendship for Pierre, and I believe you, but that alone cannot justify everything. You are a good person, one of those you seldom meet in life.
The lodging that you have found me in the home of the family of your poor wife is very fine. I have a great deal of difficulty with the language, but have already managed to buy the book of translations you recommended, and am applying myself to it day and night. For the moment I only tend to the house, but Mrs Jean has said she wants to find me a job (or at least that is what I think she said). The money you sent me from Pierre, minus my first expenses, I have put in the bank until I decide what to do with it.
It seems incredible that my pain is fading. Perhaps I have merely managed to contain it, to lock it up at the bottom of my heart, where I can keep it along with my memories of Ferruccio. But perhaps this is only natural. Life goes on, and the things you have written to me about the loss of our dear ones are said by someone who has been through the same ordeal as myself. Thank you for that as well. They were beautiful words.
You tell me that you have received a letter from Pierre, from Mexico, and that he is well. I am happy. For now, please tell him my news yourself, tell him that I want for nothing and that I am well too. That I have kept his address and when I feel capable of doing so, I will write to him straight away. Mexico. How far away is Mexico? On the other side of the ocean.
You know, it’s strange, but I don’t miss Italy at all, the bad memories are still too recent. Apart from displacement, I am happy to be here, where I know no one and everything has to be started over again. I am the kind of person who is able to adapt. Just imagine, I have even started eating bacon and eggs for breakfast!
I don’t know if this was the right decision. To tell you the truth I don’t know anything at all. Perhaps I was only acting out of instinct, driven by the pain and the sense of betrayal. But it doesn’t matter any more. I’m here, and I have to think about this new life.
I still can’t find the words to thank you for everything, professore.
Write to me again and give me some news.
Affectionately,
Angela
VI Bologna, 2 October
Renato Fanti stared at the card for a long time. A pre-Columbian pyramid standing out against a grassy plain.
On the back, a familiar handwriting.
Mexico City, 4 September 1954
Dear Professor,
There are teachings that we carry within ourselves, even on the other side of the world.
There are people you can’t forget.
I think that the only way a pupil has to pay his debts is to confront life, bringing to fruition what he has learned.
I hope that I will succeed in demonstrating this. I hope that one day we will meet again, although I am not sure we will.
We will be the same, but we will be new.
Really, thanks for everything,
Robespierre
Fanti hid his emotion behind a half-smile. He chose the right record and put it on. He picked up his pipe and filled it with the tobacco he smoked on major occasions. As he took the first few puffs he watched the scented smoke rising in blue whirls, mixing with the notes of Stan Kenton, flying over the books, the English ornaments and the jazz records, 23 Degrees North and 82 Degrees West. The coordinates of the future. Havana. The tropics.
He murmured, ‘Good luck, Pierre. Good luck.’
VII Bologna, 4 October, St Petronius’ Day
‘You don’t think Capponi’s gone as well?’
On the lowered shutter, no sign, no ‘Back soon’, nothing, some people are driven to suppositions.
‘Gone? Do you think he’d go away like that, without saying anything to us?’
‘Why, what did his father do? He packed up everything, lock, stock and barrel, and went to South America.’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish, excuse me? Pierre had to get his father out of the country, he won all that money in Monte Carlo and he didn’t think twice. And Capponi isn’t a tramp like his brother.’
La Gaggia hears the voices slipping under the door and pokes out his head to see what’s happening.
‘Tell us, Gaggia, you don’t know where on earth everyone’s gone? Did the patron saint tell them to shut up shop?’
‘St Petronius? Benassi has never closed for him. And remember that Capponi isn’t from Bologna to boot, and I haven’t seen him this morning, but even Garibaldi and Bottone don’t know where everyone’s got to.’
‘I bet someone’s died!’
‘Hasn’t Bottone been having troubles with his liver lately? I know he was persuaded to take “Chinese mushrooms”.’
‘That’s enough bollocks about dead people and Chinese fungus, come on, let’s be serious now, what could have happened? You don’t think the cops came back?’
This allusion to the constabulary immediately prompts a change of subject. Because in early summer, in our place, but also in the streets, the shops and the other bars, any excuse is enough to talk about the Scelba government, whether it will survive, or whether it’ll be packing its bags, whether it’s going to be the turn of another Christian Democrat, or whether we’ll be voting again, but in the spring, because there’s no point even thinking about having elections in Italy between June and April. Someone’s convinced that there is a reason, an anti-communist strategy put together by the CIA, but no one is able to explain it. Others merely say you can’t have them in the summer because people want to think about enjoying themselves, and not in autumn and winter because people are too pissed off. With the bad weather, the cold, work, nobody’s in the mood to think about politics, ending up in a rotten mood, digesting the usual pap, listening to the stuff the big shots come out with. But in spring, ah, that’s something completely different, it’s a bit warmer, the days are nicer, you start thinking about your holidays and work is less of a burden. And according to Bottone there’s the question of luck: in 1948 the priests won because it was spring and now they’re fixated on that date, no getting out of it, if you move it to some other time of year the harvest will be postponed.
La Gaggia has already forgotten all about work, all the urgent stuff, because it’s soon going to start raining seriously and we all have to get our shoes on. And anyway, as we know, Scelba has two problems: first of all there’s Trieste, because right now they’re signing the treaty in London. They say it’s going to be provisional, but they won’t get us to swallow that: Tito has acted the lion and we Italians have been the lambs, because that was how it suited America. And the other issue is the one about Wilma Montesi, a terrible scandal, Minister Piccioni had to resign, his son went to jail along with that man Montagna, the police are passing the buck, the chief of police in Rome nearly ended up in the slammer as well. These days La Gaggia is the most sought-after expert in the whole bar, apart from Melega and Bortolotti, the match has only just begun, and on the Montesi issue our cobbler is the only one who knows everything inside out, because he has been following the story from the beginning, and he always told us that a few things would come out sooner or later.