“What do you mean by that?”
I raise my voice. “I mean that if I go to the supermarket sometimes, it doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. A lot of the time I have to buy food for three extra guests.”
“Hey, calm down—”
“I’m calm, I’m very calm. I keep my mouth shut and I don’t complain and I go to the supermarket. I trust I’m not offending anyone.”
“You misunderstood me—”
“I don’t think so,” I yell. I’ve gotten to my feet and I’m yelling. Carlo is floored by my reaction; his mouth is hanging open. “I don’t think I can misunderstand you, I know you too well to misunderstand you!”
“Come on, cut it out,” he murmurs.
“I’m not doing anything; I mostly keep my mouth shut, and I stay quiet, and occasionally I go to the supermarket.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, forgive me.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You can go to the supermarket all you want. But don’t yell, you’ll wake the kids.”
“I’m not yelling, I rarely talk, and for once I’m talking and not keeping my mouth shut.”
And I sweep out theatrically; finally I’m being melodramatic too; I go up to my room to sleep. Actually, I lie on my bed for two hours with my eyes open in the dark, bewildered, asking myself what got into me.
The next day I took the kids over to Malik’s. We finally met the new Doberman, Kalki. He was supposed to be a companion for Durga, but they were being kept apart for the time being. I told Malik that this Kalki had a strange expression, that he didn’t seem very likable. Malik chuckled and said that I didn’t like him because I was in love with Durga and I was jealous. The dog was so stripy that it looked like his stripes had been painted on. “It’s a little bit fake,” said Malik, whispering in my ear as if the famous photographer might hear. Momo kept saying, “Sake, sake,” and Filippo was very worried. “Will he be a good husband?” he asked us. Ever since Kalki had arrived, Durga had been restless again. She hadn’t seen him, but she smelled his scent, and they barked canine messages to each other day and night. “What do they say?” Filippo asked. Malik always takes Filippo’s questions seriously; he said they talked about their kids, the children that they would have someday. “How many do they want?” Filippo asked. “Oh, a lot. But they’re afraid the babies won’t be stripy and their owner will get mad.”
Before dinner I surprised Carlo as he was fiddling with his cell phone, writing a text message. Later, but not as late as last time, just slightly after midnight, I heard someone open and shut a car door with excessive, useless caution, and then an engine start up and tires crackle on gravel. I got up and went to check that Carlo wasn’t in his room, but we were the only adults in the house — who else could it have been? Unless someone had just stolen a car from us.
I went down; Carlo wasn’t in any of his armchairs. At first I thought I’d wait up for him and ask where he’d been, and for half an hour I tried to prepare a speech; it’s not like I’d never meddled in his business — I certainly had — but I’d never done my meddling directly at him, so it was hard for me to find the right words. But why wait for him to come back? I could talk to him on the phone, I could call right away. So I called him; I was sure that if he were with a woman he wouldn’t answer. But he answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Claudio,” he said, and he paused. “Claudio, I need you.”
“Where are you? Why did you go out?”
“Claudio”—now I could hear that he was scared. “Claudio, I need your help.”
“Okay, but come home, I’ll wait for you here.”
I hung up and laid the phone on the arm of the chair. I looked at the cold, sooty fireplace.
Breaking the silence is always a bad idea, I thought; never do that again. Words set things in motion: any equilibrium of whatever kind is always shattered by words. So many more words are needed to bring back the peace.
This was basically why I didn’t tell Elisabetta Renal all about myself, and I understood her resentment, because she couldn’t accept that I didn’t want her involvement.
Carlo got home at 1:30. With him was a girl about twenty years old, or maybe eighteen. He was very agitated, and he kept trying to reassure her by saying, “Don’t worry, you’re safe here, calm down.” She had a bruise under her left eye. She was blond, thin, and tall. She wore a leather jacket, a miniskirt, and clunky Doc Martens boots.
They ignored me for the first five minutes. Carlo seated her in the armchair. The girl took off her boots and curled up to hug her knees, trembling, with her face turned to the wall. Carlo asked her whether she wanted a glass of water or a real drink. She said a glass of water.
I followed my brother into the kitchen. “Now I’ll explain,” he said.
But he didn’t explain anything. I had never seen him like this.
He asked whether he could keep her here for an hour or two.
I closed myself in my study and waited until they left. I leafed through rose catalogs the whole time. I was still awake when Carlo came back from driving her to I don’t know where. But he didn’t feel like talking anymore.
The next day they left right after lunch; it was election day, and Carlo wanted to go vote. He hadn’t said another word about what had happened. He seemed much calmer. I had prepared myself in the shower and figured out what I would say. As time went on and the morning became lunchtime and lunch gave way to coffee, I felt a growing unease. I was afraid he no longer needed me, as he had said he did over the phone last night. “I need you.” That’s what I had liked, what had thrown me into turmoil. We were the first people in our family to say such things to each other. Before us, no one had ever confessed that he needed another family member (not even my father had used such a strong expression when he asked me to help him with his work), and I was afraid that Carlo had already forgotten it.
I was still nervous on Monday morning; further agitated because I hadn’t heard from Elisabetta — her cell phone was always off. We got to the Villa Renal, and the cars, even the Ka, were all parked in the garage, and I unloaded the stuff with Witold and we set off for the garden. We began working in two different spots: he was by the cistern, setting up the circulating pump, and I was near the cotoneaster hedges, calibrating the drip irrigator.
I don’t know how the man could have crossed through the garden without my realizing it, but he must have passed just a few feet away from me. At about 8:30 I heard a splash in the water and a frightened shout, or maybe a call for help, and I began running downhill, cursing the maze of paths I had designed. When I got to the cistern, I found Witold standing in waist-deep water, the motorized chair overturned against one of the cones of crushed glass, and Rossi floundering in water up to his neck, flapping his arms on the surface like a duck about to take flight.
5
IF SHE AND I WERE MERELY TELLING FAIRY TALES — WITHOUT TOUCHING ON THE REAL truth, or including only bits of the truth — then I could play the game too. My favorite one of the Tales Told was “The Three Musicians.” Two nights after Rossi’s accident we were in bed: she was leaning back against a couple of pillows, and I was lying on my side, supporting my head with my left hand. As I told my story, I ran my right index finger along her skin.
So: there were three musicians — the first played the violin, the second played the trumpet, and the third played the flute. They traveled from town to town and performed in the piazza wherever they went (my finger danced across her thighs).