When I finished reading and taking notes I sometimes went to bed, and fell asleep immediately.
At other times – when I felt sure I wouldn’t get to sleep – I’d go out for a walk and a drink. I went to places where no one knew me and avoided those I’d been to with Margherita. Like the Magazzini d’Oltremare, where I might meet someone who asked me what I was doing, where I’d been all this time, why Margherita wasn’t with me, and so on.
Sometimes I’d meet people and spend a few hours listening to strangers telling their stories. I was in a strange place, an unknown area of my consciousness. A black-and-white film, with a dramatic, melancholy soundtrack, in which ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ by Green Day stood out. I often listened to that song, and it echoed almost obsessively in my head during my nocturnal walks.
Once, in a little bar in the old city, I met a girl named Lara. She was twenty-five, short, with a pretty, irregular face, and insolent, occasionally restless eyes. She was doing a research doctorate in German literature, she spoke four languages, her boyfriend had just left her, and she was getting drunk, determinedly, methodically, downing straight vodkas one after another. She told me about her boyfriend, herself, her childhood, her mother’s death. The atmosphere in the bar was slightly unreal. There weren’t many people, the few there were were talking almost in whispers, the stereo was playing Dvorak’s New World Symphony at low volume, and there was a slight smell of cinnamon in the air, though I had no idea where it was coming from.
After a while, Lara asked me to take her home. I said OK and paid the bilclass="underline" one vodka for me, five for her. We walked through the city to her place, which was in Madonnella.
Madonnella is a strange neighbourhood. There are beautiful houses there and horrible municipal housing blocks, millionaires’ residences and shacks inhabited by pushers and other members of the underclass, all cheek by jowl. In some parts of Madonnella you have the impression you’re somewhere else entirely.
In Tangier, for example, or Marseilles, or Casablanca.
Outside her front door, Lara asked me if I wanted to come up. I said no, thanks. Another time, maybe, I added. In another life, I thought. She stood there looking at me for a few moments, surprised, and then burst into tears. She wasn’t crying over my polite refusal, obviously. I felt a kind of distant tenderness towards her. I hugged her, and she hugged me and cried louder, sobbing.
“Bye,” she said hurriedly, detaching herself from me and going inside. “Goodbye,” I said a few seconds later, to the old wooden door and the deserted street.
26
Ever since Margherita had gone away, the hardest day had been Sunday. I’d go out, read, or drive out of the city, and then eat alone in some restaurant where no one knew me. In the afternoon I’d go to the cinema and then wander around Feltrinelli’s bookshop. Then back home in the evening to read. At night I’d often wander the streets again, or take another trip to the cinema.
It was on a Sunday morning-a cold, beautiful day, lit by a blinding sun, three days before the start of the appeal hearing – that I finally couldn’t help myself and phoned Natsu.
“Guido!”
“Hi. I wanted to-”
“I’m pleased you called me. I’d like to see you.”
I’ve always envied the naturalness of some people – some women mostly – who can openly say what they think and what they want. I’ve never been able to do that. I’ve always felt inadequate. Like an intruder at a feast where everyone else knows how to behave.
“So would I. Very much.”
There followed a few moments’ silence. She was probably thinking, quite rightly, that if I wanted to see her, and had actually called her, I could at least make an effort and suggest something. In the end, she yielded. She must have concluded that I was an incurable case.
“Listen, seeing as it’s such a beautiful day, I’m taking Midori to the park. If you like, you could meet us there.”
“The Largo Due Giugno park?”
“Yes. See you in half an hour at the little lake, is that OK?”
Fine, in half an hour at the little lake. Bye, see you soon. Bye.
I dressed like someone about to go for a walk in the park on his own. That is, according to my idea of someone about to go for a walk in the park on his own. Jeans, trainers, sweatshirt, worn leather jacket.
I cycled over there and arrived early. I chained my bike to a bicycle rack and went through one of the gates into the park. It was eleven and there were a lot of people. Families, young boys on rollerblades, adults on rollerblades, people jogging and others doing fitness walking. All wearing jumpsuits, expensive shoes and very serious expressions, as if to say, let’s be clear about this, we’re doing sport, we’re not just out for a stroll.
The basketball courts were all full. On a level stretch of grass, a group of girls in kimonos, all black belts in karate, were performing a kata. It was a beautiful sight.
I went all round the park three times, to kill time. Then at last I saw Natsu, dressed much the same way I was. Her daughter was near her, in a pink down jacket, puffing away on a bike.
I waved at her and she waved back, cheerfully.
“You remember Guido, Anna?”
I wondered if she remembered that night. Then I realized how stupid that was. She hadn’t even woken up. How could she remember anything?
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Anna, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Do you like my bike? Mummy bought it for me and I can already do without the stabilizers.”
“You’re very good. At your age I didn’t even try to take off the stabilizers.”
She looked at me closely for a few seconds, to see if I was pulling her leg. Then she must have decided that I did in fact look like the kind of person who would have had difficulties removing the stabilizers from his bicycle.
“And why did you come to the park? Did you bring your children?”
“No, I don’t have children.”
“Why?”
Because I was too much of a coward to have them, when I had the chance.
“Guido isn’t married, sweetheart. When he decides to get married, he’ll have children, too.”
That’s right. Guaranteed.
The girl set off on her bicycle again. Natsu and I walked slowly after her.
We passed a little stand selling ice cream and drinks.
“Mummy, will you buy me an ice cream?”
“Sweetheart, if I buy you an ice cream you won’t eat it.”
“Please, mummy. A little ice cream. The littlest one they have. Please.”
Natsu was about to say something. She looked as if she was giving in. So I asked her if I could buy Midori an ice cream. She shrugged. “Just a little one.”
“OK. A little one.”
I told the little girl to come with me and she followed me docilely. Natsu didn’t come after us.
For a few seconds – the time it took for us to go together to the little stand, for her to choose the ice cream, and for me to pay for it, take it, and give it to her-I felt an absurd, commonplace, perfect emotion.
I was that little girl’s father. We had come here together – the girl, her mother and her father – for a walk in the park. I was buying her an ice cream.
I was going mad, I told myself. And I didn’t give a damn. I was happy to be there, happy that we were there, and I didn’t give a damn.
The little girl took the ice cream and asked me to carry her bicycle for her, and so we resumed walking along the avenues, all three of us. Like a family.
“Anna has a party this afternoon,” Natsu said.
“Uh-huh,” I said, with the most stolid of my expressions.
“If you don’t have anything else to do, I could come and pick you up after I drop her at her friend’s house. What do you think?”