… They saw a dog, but that had to be a different day, who knows when, late in their life together, anyway. The dog’s name was Vanda — not with a w, just a v, a begging mutt like that. The dog didn’t tell them its name, it couldn’t, it couldn’t even pant any more, but Rosamunda remembered, when she saw the dog up ahead. Look, a dog — it’s Vanda — you remember? They almost hit her — it was dark in the tunnel and they were rounding a curve. Once out of the tunnel, on the straightaway, they pulled to the side to wait, to avoid being rear-ended by a truck, which can happen; Vanda appeared, limping along, head drooping, tongue down to the asphalt, but she was off to the right, well clear of the white line. Her teats swung low, like she’d been nursing, nursing a litter, though this wasn’t possible: just from her lips and teeth, she looked to be at least twenty, even older, which was fine for a person but decrepit for a dog. It’s because she’s so kindhearted, one of them said, I don’t remember who, Vanda’s good, a good girl, she’s spent her life buried up to the neck. They hauled her onto the back seat, the pads of her paws were raw from her journey. They knew she’d gone a thousand kilometers for them to find her, though they didn’t say it, some things you just don’t say; a being has to drill through layers and layers of time, pulling round itself the bits and pieces necessary in order to take shape, until it breaks the surface, a living creature, though perhaps already dying, like Vanda, so fucked from the start, thinking it’s about to start, when it’s already arrived. Christ, he said, what’s the point? A rhetorical question … It was noon and very hot and the sun was blinding — the Mediterranean sun. When things like this happen, it’s always very hot, the sun’s always blinding, and it has to be Mediterranean — that’s a well-known fact. So well-known, you can believe it or not, your choice. And if you feel like believing it, at that moment he was driving slowly, the rocky coast stretched out, reddish, the strip of sea, a deep blue. Vanda seemed to be sleeping, but she wasn’t, she had one eye closed, one eye open, fixed upon the back car door and the ashtray full of butts, as if this ashtray were the meager aleph she’d been granted and in this, her universe of butts, she might discover the sick god who’d created her, the sinister mysteries of his religion. Glancing back at her, he could see the question in her fearful eye, the pupil dilated, and he whispered, the father’s a dark turn, the son’s those spat-out cigarette butts, and the holy spirit’s a time long gone by now — there’s your holy trinity, dear Vanda, accept your fate — there’s nothing you can do. You never wanted children, Rosamunda said, and she seemed to be speaking to the slight haze of heat dancing on the horizon, all those years, your sperm always left on my belly, thrown away, and now my Vanda’s been born, but it’s late, too late. She’ll die tomorrow, he said, but keep her tonight, rock her like she’s your child, offer her your breast, if you want, it’s better than nothing, I threw my sperm away because you lied, so I lied, too … What a strange night, in Taddeo’s
Zimmer. Framed by the window, two ships sliding by, lit up, silent, dreamlike. Only afterwards, when the ships had moved beyond the frame, did they catch a handful of notes on the wind, weak notes, maybe a waltz. Were they dancing on board? Not out of the question: there’s often dancing on board a ship, especially on a cruise, even a short, cheap Sunday cruise like the one that crosses from San Fruttato to San Zaccarino and lasts for only a day. As soon as they can, the people on board start dancing, you have to take advantage of the time you have to enjoy yourself, especially if you bought the ticket, because Monday comes soon enough. Rosamunda tried to offer Vanda her breast, but she wouldn’t nurse. They heard her weak breathing almost till dawn, then it stopped. They buried her there, on the beach, in a pocket-sized cove full of pebbles where a path drops down to the water’s edge, the small waves washing over pebbles, over them again, century after century. With shells and small stones, Rosamunda spelled out Vanda zero zero zero zero on the grave, those zeros referring to the day she was born and the day she died, and also, as Tristano alone would know, filling them with the time gone by from the day Rosamunda had begun to desire a child to that day when her desire had been buried beneath the body of an old dog, because bit by bit, desires also die and wind up buried underground. They stayed to watch the sun rise over that sliver of horizon between two promontories, in that charming seaside resort, which they’d been to other times by bus. The sun was quite strong, and they both understood without speaking, because everything under the sun is old, sometimes very old. Which doesn’t diminish anyone’s suffering, including theirs. Sing me something, she said softly, like you used to. Like what? he asked. Like when we were up in the mountains and you carried me on the handlebars of your bicycle, and you sang to me, remember? I leaned my head on your chest and while you sang, I caught whiffs of garlic — we ate so much garlic in the mountains! — but maybe that was another time, when we ate escargot à la provençal, we’d eat escargot à la provençal, we’d treat ourselves, and those were full of garlic, too. He sang, the olive falls, no leaves fall, your beauty won’t ever, you’re like the sea of waves that grows with wind, but with water, never. It was a lullaby. Hard to say if it was to rock Vanda toward her final nothing, or if it was for them, or for their never-ending dreams.