Right. So…maybe we could er…do something with the rest of the day? Fine, no problem, we can go on avoiding the Uffici, but… couldn’t we maybe take in…ah…(she checks the map)…the Archaeological Museum? They’re off.
Gatto
All of a sudden Ingrid announces that she feels thirsty and wouldn’t mind stopping somewhere for a Coke.
No, thinks Rena. I will not scream with impatience. I will not rant and rave at this couple’s mind-boggling force of inertia. I will not protest at how they keep pitilessly plunging me into banality.
On the contrary, Subra puts in, you should take advantage of this rare opportunity to study banality at close range. The tiny stuffed kitten dangling from the key to the ladies’ toilet, for instance. Now, there’s an object that unquestionably plays a minor role in the history of humanity…But since the signora who runs the café felt it deserved to be attached to a key, it must hold meaning for her. Did she buy it herself or receive it as a gift? Did it remind her of a cat she loved when she was little, but that unfortunately got run over by a car or savaged by a dog? You are here, Rena, and nowhere else. Why are you always convinced the important stuff is happening elsewhere?
Oh, poor, banal moment of my life — will no one ever sing your praises? Sitting on the toilet, Rena takes a few photos of the ridiculous stuffed kitten. That moment fades and vanishes, and the next one comes into being. It’s Ingrid’s turn to pee while Simon and Rena wait for her outside, leaning against the wall, side by side.
Silence between the two of them. The sun is at its zenith. Its golden rays pour down over the church steeple, warming the wall behind them. This moment she does not photograph — but it, too, fades and vanishes. She’ll remember the stuffed kitten for the rest of her life and forget the church wall, warm and luminous.
Cartoline
Here they are in the Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, and once again — there’s nothing for it — Rena seethes inwardly with rage.
Most Holy Annunciation, my eye! My ass! Mary didn’t get knocked up by a whispered word from the angel Gabriel, she got knocked up by some guy’s tool. Same goes for your mom — and yours — and yours!
Oh! Shocking! Subra laughs.
Enough already! When will we finally cut the bullshit? When will we stop propagating the ridiculously immature fairytale of immaculate conception, invented by Neolithic human males? Like all mothers, Mary got herself shtupped. Whether she was well or badly shtupped, whether her deflowerer was a brute or a delicate lover no one knows for sure; what we do know for sure is that a man came along and ploughed her furrows, so when oh when will we put an end to all this nonsense about virgin mothers? That’s where East meets West. Pornographers want eroticism without procreation, Talibans want procreation without eroticism; the idea of orgasmic moms is unbearable to everyone.
She hesitates. Decides to ask a passer-by.
‘Excuse me, is this the Archaeological Museum?’
‘No,’ he says, ‘this is the Hospital of the Innocents.’
‘I see…’
Scratching her head, she checks it out in the guidebook.
Not half bad, either. Also designed by Brunelleschi. Painting gallery, arcades, Della Robbia medallions. Suddenly she feels dizzy. Why go here rather than there, visit this rather than that, guzzle down these facts rather than those? What is it we are hoping to see? What are we looking for in this city — and, more generally, in life?
At the thought of giving in to indifference and starting to flounder through the same fuzzy, amorphous time as Simon and Ingrid, Rena begins to panic. She clings desperately to their ‘plan’ (devised a mere three minutes ago) to visit the Archaeological Museum. Bravely following the passer-by’s directions, they strike off down the Via della Colonna. As usual, the footpaths are too narrow for them to talk or walk together, and trucks and buses keep thundering past. As usual, her father finds any number of things worth paying attention to along the way. As usual, Rena takes the lead, walks too quickly, and has to stop every few yards to wait for them. Seeing an Italian flag up ahead, she tells herself it probably marks the museum entrance. Oh, but it’s hopelessly far away, we’ll never get there, ever. Might as well turn around and go back right now — first to the hotel, then to our respective countries — this whole trip is one enormous mistake…
Her mobile rings. It’s Thierno.
‘Hey, kid.’
‘Hi, how’s it going?’
‘Good!’
Incredible, Rena thinks, to have this sort of laconic exchange—’How’s it going?’ ‘Good!’—with a person who once lived inside you and whose development you supervised for twenty years, a person you taught to speak, to whom you read a thousand bedtime stories, for whom you cooked countless meals, whose homework you helped with and whose ill health you nursed, whose problems you listened to and whose friends you welcomed into your home. Incredible to end up exchanging platitudes with your own children.
Yes, says Subra. Don’t forget, though: you were terse over the phone with your own folks, when you were a teenager.
‘Where are you?’ she asks Thierno. (This, too, she has learned to say.)
‘Still in Dakar. Quick, remind me — what are the rules for three-man crib?’
‘Well, there are two schools of thought. Either you deal five cards to each player plus one to the crib and each player puts a card in the crib, or else you deal six cards like in the regular game — in which case the dealer puts two cards in his crib and the others put one in the crib and another on the bottom of the pack.’
‘Which way’s the most authentic?’
‘The first. Your dad and I invented the other one. Generally speaking, it results in superior hands and inferior cribs.’
‘Got it. Thanks, Ma. Take care.’
‘Bye, my love.’
By the time Rena has finished shaking her head at the idea that this card game, originally a pastime for idle Victorian ladies, has spread all the way to Senegal via Australia, Canada and France, they find themselves at the ticket desk of the Archaeological Museum.
Gioielli
The minute they enter the first room, though, she feels like turning around and walking out again. Damn it all to hell, what are they doing in ancient Egypt? They’ve come here to see Tuscany, not ancient Egypt. They can see ancient Egypt any old day, in Boston, New York or Paris, whereas Tuscany…
Whereas Tuscany what? Subra queries. What would seeing Tuscany be like?
Well…I suppose we might as well take a look, since we’re here.
Gold, planished 5600 years ago. One display case after another of precious stones — necklaces, bracelets, earrings — a bedazzlement. As they move through the cool calm rooms, Ingrid’s voice drones on and on about Rotterdam yesterday and today, the harshness of the post-war years…Stop it! Rena refrains from screaming at her. What have you come here for? Do you want to see these wonders or don’t you? Look — right there, before your very eyes — planished gold and precious stones from ancient Egypt! Enjoy them or I’ll kill you!