The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (36 page)

The last year had been pure hell for her. Because now there was this new girlfriend, the redhead. This one wasn't like all the others, the whores he'd pick up, play around with for a couple of days, and then discard; lunch, an expensive dinner, a hotel, and a bouquet of roses the morning after, roses that he'd send me to buy, slipping the money and a note into my pocket, shooting me that fucking wink. This one was different.

I noticed it the very first time, when she came to the office for some work-related matter. A tough one, no-nonsense, aggressive. He gave her the usual melting glance, and she smiled the way all the others usually smiled, but in her smile I could see the wild animal that had spotted its prey. I wasn't surprised when they became a couple.

She found out about it immediately, of course none of her friends could wait to tell her. Poor Cecilia. She tried to tell herself it would end, but it didn't.

I think she clung to the idea that she was still, in spite of everything, his wife; that he might have his flings, but he'd always come home to her in the end. That with the other women he was killing time, enjoying himself, trying to forget the fact that he was getting old; but she, she was his safe haven, where he could show his weaknesses and curl up in Mama's arms. Maybe
he
was actually the son they'd never been able to have. Maybe she felt like the mother; and after all, you never abandon your mother.

But that one, the redhead, wasn't about to let herself be treated the way he treated all the others. The redhead wanted him, she wanted him all for herself. She needed him: prestige, money, connections. In the end, he'd found himself a woman who was just like him. Even worse.

She's intelligent, the redhead. She's cunning. Little by little, she even forced him to show her off in public, she didn't care how it made him look, how it made his poor wife look. When a woman like her makes up her mind, she doesn't let anyone stand in her way.

One day, she asked to have me pick her up, and I found her puffy-eyed from crying, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses. He hadn't come home that night, and he hadn't even bothered to call; she'd called him herself, and he'd told her, Quit bothering me. And on the phone she could hear a woman laughing in the background. She told me the story, in despair, at our little place down by the water. I did my best to comfort her. She said to me: I should have found a man like you, I really should have. I looked for a man who wasn't part of the world I grew up in, because that world disgusts me: but I should have found a man like you.

It was then, only then, that I started to think. Before then I hadn't even dreamed that a woman like her, a queen, a goddess, would do so much as look twice at someone like me. But she'd said it, right? She'd said it herself, that should have found a man like me. So?

She always used to say that, one fine day, she was the one who'd run away. Far away, someplace by the sea, with white sand and palm trees. She'd laugh and say she knew that was the dream of every shopgirl and shampooist, and she'd say that maybe deep down she really was a shampooist. And I'd say that maybe I'd take her there, me of all people, and she'd laugh and laugh. She'd say that to get there we'd have to stow away in the hold of a ship, like African slaves in America. She was so pretty when she laughed, you can't even imagine.

Then one day the thing with the redhead took place, the day she walked into the firm, went into his office, closed the door, and started screaming like a lunatic, everyone in the firm could hear her. Rea got a look on her face, you've seen her, she's obviously head over heels in love with the notary, as if someone like him is going to even notice someone like her; she came that close to storming in there to defend him. So anyway, the redhead was screaming that now, with a baby on the way, she'd no longer tolerate being hidden in the shadows. That she was giving him a son, something that poor old woman never did for him, and so she wanted the position she deserved. Those were her exact words: that poor old woman. When they heard that, Imma and Marina, those two idiots, looked at each other and burst out laughing. Intolerable: two silly geese laughing at the best woman in the world, all because that bastard couldn't manage to keep his pants zipped.

Then, that's when I made up my mind. I had the money, little by little I'd set it aside; but not enough for the trip. For that I'd have to use the firm's money, the account we use for the promissory notes, where we keep the cash that comes in. The notes are for a lot of money, there's always a sizable overage, it would have taken them at least a month before they realized it was missing and by then it would be too late, by then she and I would already be on the beach. Happy. At last. Because if we could be happy at Bagnoli, sitting at a rusty table next to a polluted beach, in that magical spot we'd be in paradise.

I made the reservations in his name, but I asked how late I could change the name of one of the travelers. I had all the time I needed. Now I only needed to tell her.

I waited for the right moment, when the bastard was organizing his usual nice weekend with the redhead. I had driven them myself; I knew they wouldn't be back before Monday. I prepared carefully, I'd have to tell her gently, but also firmly. It would be a difficult decision, I knew that well. But it was necessary, don't you see? The only way for us to find a little happiness, too; and after all we had a right to happiness, no? Didn't we have the right to a little happiness of our own?

So I decided to take her an apt little gift, to show her that she could count on me. I went to the shop on Via Duomo, the one where she was a regular customer. We went there often, she so loved those snow globes, the
boules de neige
, as she called them in a perfect accent. One time I asked her why she liked them so much: and she said that when she looked into them she could dream of a future that didn't exist, and it would all seem real. She was beautiful when she smiled; but I told you that already, didn't I?

And so I went to the store, and I looked for a glass ball that would tell her about the place I wanted to take her. That's how I wanted to tell her. Now she had to stop lying to herself, she couldn't go on pretending to ignore reality: the redhead was about to have a baby, and he was going to leave her. That was clear.

In that case, we might as well beat them to the punch and run away together. Let him keep all the money, I'd take care of her, I'd do something, I'd find a way.

She opened the door immediately, and there was fear in her eyes. Outside, the storm was raging, the sea was in the air, even up on the fifth floor, and she'd shut herself in. But she opened the door immediately when she heard it was me, and the first thing she wanted to know was if something had happened to him. To that bastard. Not much of a beginning, eh? Maybe I should have understood from that question alone, and stopped right there. At least she'd still be alive. And I'd be a free man. But free to do what?

I told her no, he was fine, doing much better than she and I put together, in fact. That as usual he was holed up in some villa in Sorrento, naked, drinking champagne with the redhead, thinking of the future that awaited them, a future as a happy family: him, her, their child, and Cecilia's money. I was harsh: it seemed to me that the time had come for her to open her eyes and understand what was already clear to me. Blindingly clear.

She listened to me. She looked at me without speaking. I had to raise my voice, outside the wind and the sea were pounding on the windows as if they wanted to get in. It was like being in a movie.

I told her that we should run away together, that we, too, had a right to be happy. I told her that I'd already made reservations, that she didn't need to bring anything, just herself, that I'd take care of everything. She ran her eyes over all those snow globes, you've seen them yourselves, no? Hundreds of heavy glass snow globes, organized by country, each full of an imaginary future like a gypsy fortune-teller's crystal ball at the carnival.

At last, she spoke. And she told me that in her heart, in her future, there was no room for happiness without him. That she loved him, that she had always loved him. That he would come back, that he had always come back. That she'd take him back, even with another woman's child. That in the end money would take care of everything, the way it always had in the past. That she was very sorry for me, very; but that she had no intention of going anywhere.

And she turned her back on me.

I don't know whether it was her words—that she was sorry for me—or because she turned to go. I felt I'd been erased, expelled. And mocked. How dare she turn and walk away? Was I nothing, no one? Didn't I deserve, I don't know, at least a caress, a tear? A sign of regret?

I remember the rage of that moment. I don't remember what I thought, I don't remember doing it. But I did do it. I was standing there, in the middle of the room, still wearing the gloves I use when I drive this car, the bag in one hand and the glass ball with the hula dancer in the other. And she turned around and walked away.

Maybe I wanted to stop her. Maybe I just wanted to get rid of the glass ball, which represented all my illusions. Who knows. The fact remains that I threw it. At her, as she was heading for her bedroom, to sob into her pillow like she did every night.

After I don't know how long, I saw her lying there on the floor, no longer breathing. So I tried to think fast, I was afraid. I took some silver, just the first few things I could get my hands on, I tossed them into the bag, and I left. Then I found a dumpster and I tossed it all in. And then I sat down on a low wall, hoping that the waves would be big enough to sweep me away. Maybe all the way to that island.

Maybe I'd find her there, on the beach, waiting for me with a smile.

She was pretty when she smiled. Beautiful.

Did I tell you, how beautiful she was?

 

 

B
rother Leonardo, the parish priest of Santissima Annunziata, heaved a theatrical sigh: “Teodo', would you get it into your head once and for all that we're monks? You can't come to me every day asking what we want to have for lunch, suggesting dishes you can't even find in a restaurant. You do what you think best, but try to economize because we're short on cash, as you know all too well.”

Brother Teodoro scratched his bald head: “What are you trying to tell me, because we're monks we can't eat? I respect all the precepts, Leonardo, and you know it. I know what we can eat and what we can't, I know we're supposed to avoid meat when we can, and I spend as little as humanly possible. But what's wrong with trying to spruce up even a bowl of lentils? It's still God's bounty, isn't it?”

Leonardo stood as tall as his four foot eleven would allow and struck a pose of heartbroken chagrin. He knew that getting in an argument with the monastery's cook was the worst thing he could do, especially when there were worshippers outside the sacristy waiting to say confession.

“All right, do as you think best, Teodo'. I have to go and hear confession, and by the way it wouldn't be bad if every so often you tried to help me out with that, too, instead of hiding behind your responsibilities in the garden and the kitchen; otherwise our congregation will start to change their minds, and instead of confessing their old sins, they'll go commit new ones.”

Teodoro, who, unlike Leonardo, was a big, strapping man, with a sizable belly, blushed: “You know very well, Leona', that if I can, I like to . . . avoid hearing confession. It embarrasses me, I couldn't say why, but it does, and we've talked about it a number of times. I feel like I'm peeking into people's homes, into their darkest rooms.”

The minuscule monk stopped midway through the process of donning his vestments and turned to stare at his brother: “Teodo', I hope you're just pulling my leg, because that would be a very grave sin. It's a vow, a sacred duty for any priest, to hear confession. I know it isn't easy, in fact, it's our most burdensome obligation, but can you imagine if we didn't do it? Who would comfort all those tormented souls? Who would help them to find peace? I don't want to hear you say anything like that again!”

Teodoro looked down at the floor in embarrassment: “You're right, I know it. But if it's possible, I'd like a dispensation; I can take care of all the other things that need doing, and after all you have Pietro, Roberto, and Samuele, no? That is, if it's necessary I'm always here, but if it's possible to avoid it . . .”

Leonardo felt sorry for that enormous man with such a fragile heart. He walked over and gave him a pat on the back.

“Don't worry, Teodo', it's all right. I know you don't like it, and if I can keep from asking you, I do. Now let me go, though; and for lunch, as usual, do as you think best: I'm certain that it will be as delicious as ever, and we'll all think to ourselves that we made the right choice when we decided to become monks, for our bellies as well as for our souls.”

He walked out into the cool, welcoming church. The angry sound of pouring rain was muffled here, and the large stained glass windows let in a grayish light. His expert gaze roamed over the pews: aside from the three little old ladies who came in every night to kill time by reciting rosaries, there was a small group of young people with a couple of guitars, rehearsing songs for Sunday, and several people waiting by the confessional farthest from the altar.

The monk shot a quick wink at an old woman, her head covered with a handkerchief, and stopped to talk to the young people, praising them for their hard work on the countermelody to
Laudato si'
; at last, he went over to those who were waiting to confess.