— Perhaps if you raise your head, I’ll understand better, said the man, I can’t hear you very well.
The girl looked up, her face was red and her eyes damp.
— Do you like war? she murmured.
— No, he said, I don’t like it, do you?
— So then why’d you do it? asked Isabella.
— Like I told you, I didn’t, I was there to watch, but I also asked you a question, do you like war?
— I hate it, exclaimed Isabella, I hate it but you talk like all grown-up people and you’re making me have a developmental crisis, because last year I didn’t have any developmental crises, then at school they taught us about the various kinds of war, the bad ones and the good ones, and we wrote three essays about it, and it was only after that when I started having these developmental crises.
— Take your time explaining yourself, said the man, tell me calmly, in any case the fettuccine all’arrabbiata is being kept warm under the halogen lamps, I didn’t even ask you what grade you’re in.
— I just finished seventh grade, but after ninth grade I’ll go to ginnasio so I’ll also be studying Greek.
— Wonderful, but what does that have to do with your crisis?
— Maybe nothing, said Isabella, the thing is that throughout the year we studied Caesar and also a bit of Herodotus, but most of all whether war can serve peace, that was the theme in history class, am I being clear?
— Not quite.
— In the sense that sometimes war is necessary, unfortunately, she said, war sometimes is useful for bringing justice to countries where there isn’t any, but then one day two kids came from that country where they’re bringing justice and the kids were hospitalized in our city, and it was my class that brought them candy and fruit, that is, me and Simone and Samantha, the best students, am I being clear?
— Go on, said the man.
— Mohamed is right around my age, and his little sister is younger, but her name I don’t remember, though when we entered the little room in the hospital, the thing is that Mohamed didn’t have any arms and his little sister …
Isabella broke off.
— His little sister’s face … she murmured. I’m afraid if I tell you about it, I’ll have another developmental crisis, their grandmother was with them, keeping them company because their mother and father died from the bomb that destroyed their house, and so I dropped the tray with the kiwis and tiramisu, I started crying and then I had a developmental crisis.
The man didn’t say anything.
— Why aren’t you saying anything? You’re like the psychologist who keeps listening to me and never says anything, say something to me.
— In my opinion you don’t really have to worry, said the man, we all have developmental crises, each person in his own way.
— You too?
— I can guarantee you, he said, despite what the doctors think, I believe I’m right in the middle of a developmental crisis.
Isabella looked at him. Sitting cross-legged now, she seemed calmer and no longer had her hands buried in the sand.
— You’re kidding, she said.
— Not at all, he answered.
— Wait, how old are you?
— Forty-five, answered the man.
— Like my father, that’s late for having a developmental crisis.
— Absolutely not, objected the man, the developmental period never ends, in life we don’t do anything other than evolutionize.
— The verb evolutionize doesn’t exist, said Isabella, we say evolve.
— Right, though in biology it exists, and it means each one of us evolutionizing has his own crisis, your parents have theirs too.
— And you, how do you know that?
— Yesterday, said the man, I heard your mother talking with your father on her cell phone, and it was easy to understand that they’re right in the middle of a developmental crisis.
— You are such a spy, exclaimed Isabella, you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations.
— Sorry, said the man, your umbrella is three meters from mine and your mother was talking as if she were at home, what should I do, plug my ears?
Isabella’s shoulders shivered again.
— The thing is they aren’t together anymore, she said, and so I was left in my mom’s custody and Francesco in my dad’s, one for each is just, said the judge, Francesco was born after they’d stopped waiting, but I love him like I love no one else and at night I feel like crying, but my mom cries at night too, I’ve heard her, and you know why? Because she and my dad have existential disagreements, that’s what they call them, does that mean anything to you?
— Sure, said the man, it’s a normal thing, everybody has existential disagreements, there’s no need to get worked up about it.
Isabella had her hands in the sand again, but now she seemed almost jaunty, and she giggled a little.
— You’re clever, she said, you haven’t told me yet why you spend your days under the umbrella, you know everything about me and you don’t talk about yourself, but why did you come to the beach if you spend your days in a beach chair taking pills, what are you doing?
— Well, murmured the man, to put it simply, I’m waiting for the effects of the depleted uranium, but that takes patience.
— What do you mean?
— It’s too long to explain, effects are effects and to understand the results there’s nothing to do but wait for them.
— Do you have to wait for long?
— Not so long now, I think, about a month, maybe less.
— And meanwhile what do you do all day long, here under the umbrella, don’t you get bored?
— Not at all, said the man, I practice the art of nefelomanzia.
The girl opened her eyes wide, made a face and then smiled. It was the first time she’d really smiled, showing little white teeth crossed by a metal thread.
— Is that a new invention?
— Oh no, he said, it’s a very ancient thing, imagine, Strabo talks about it, it has to do with geography, but you won’t study Strabo till ginnasio, in junior high you only study a bit of Herodotus as you did this year with your geography teacher, geography is a very ancient thing, dear Isabèl, it’s existed forever.
Isabella was watching him, doubtful.
— And what would this stuff consist of, what’s it called?
— Nefelomanzia, said the man, it’s a Greek word, nefele means cloud and manzia, to foretell, nefelomanzia is the art of predicting the future by observing the clouds, or rather, the form of the clouds, because in this art, form is substance, and that’s why I’ve come on vacation to this beach, because a friend from the air force who deals with meteorology assured me that in the Mediterranean there’s no other coast like this one where clouds form on the horizon in an instant. And as quickly as they take shape they dissolve again, and it’s right in that instant that a real nefelomant must practice his art, to understand what the shape of a certain cloud foretells before the formation dissolves in the wind, before it transforms into transparent air and turns to sky.
Isabella had gotten to her feet, mechanically shaking the sand from her thin legs. She combed back her hair and threw a skeptical glance at the man, but her gaze was also full of curiosity.
— I’ll give you an example, said the man, sit in the chair next to mine, to study the clouds on the horizon before they vanish you need to sit and focus carefully.
He pointed toward the sea.