The Sense of an Elephant (11 page)

Mama

He closed the envelope. Struggling to replace it at the back of the drawer, he touched something else, understood what it was and once again felt cold. It was a crucifix, the Christ figure smooth and without a crown of thorns. He grasped it and the top of the cross sliced his finger.

He gently closed the Martinis' door behind him and heard a clamour coming from the courtyard. He looked out from the window on the landing. Fernando was a bouquet of flowers and Paola a lilac trouser suit giving chase. The strange boy in his beret held the roses to his chest, protecting them as he skipped away from his mother.

The concierge waited. The cold in his bones was even colder. He picked up the cloth and descended the stairs. Found the lawyer at the entrance to the courtyard. He was wrapped in a trench coat and held a hand to his forehead. ‘I've never seen such vulgarity.'

Pietro greeted him.

‘The roses, I mean. No one gives roses any more. And the upsetting thing is that our Fernando is about to give them to her.'

‘To Alice?'

‘My God, yes.' Poppi turned around. His freshly tanned head gleamed. ‘His mother just bought them for him. In other words, she's as good as sending her son to the slaughter. I tried to dissuade her but I could have used a right-hand man like you, my friend.'

‘I was working on the stairs.' He tossed the cloth in a corner.

‘You really have a thing for those stairs.' Poppi crossed into the courtyard. ‘What have you two decided to do with
those roses? I would put them in a vase at home and call it done.'

‘We're on our way to give them to her now.' Paola took her son under the arm. Fernando raised the flowers and greeted Pietro. ‘Today I'm getting married to Alice,' he said on his way out.

They crossed the street together, Fernando waving the bouquet to stop the cars. The cafe was crowded with people at the counter. The tables and armchairs were empty. They chose the corner close to the photograph of Sophia Loren in
Two Women
and sat down. Fernando was champing at the bit but the lawyer held him back. ‘It's not with flowers that one seduces women.'

‘With flowers,' repeated the strange boy.

‘You just have to be nice,' said Paola. ‘You've got your father's charm.'

‘Of course, that's all there is to it.' The lawyer turned to the concierge. ‘Do you have a plan for the imminent catastrophe?'

Pietro sat apart from the others, wedged into a corner of the couch. The cold had become ice. He took the bouquet of roses from Fernando's hands. The wrapping paper was wrinkled. He smoothed it out. Then stared at Alice behind the counter as she prepared two espressos.

Fernando stood up.

Poppi tried to hold him back.

The manchild gripped the bouquet, tipped his beret and started off. Cleared the tables and marched to the other end of the cafe. ‘Alice.' he called out.

Alice had his back to him as she tidied the bottles of
liqueur. She wore a silver-coloured hairband and pearl earrings.

‘Here we go.' The lawyer covered his face and peeked through his fingers.

Fernando swayed in his loafers, held out the bouquet and kept it suspended over the counter. ‘Alice.'

She turned. Her gaze sought the back of the cafe. Pietro nodded. Everyone instantly went quiet.

Alice accepted the flowers. Fernando planted his elbows on the counter and waited for something that would not arrive. Waited some more, his face reddening, his heavy thighs straining against his trousers.

The young woman thanked him repeatedly, placed the roses atop the refrigerator and returned to the liqueurs. Fernando didn't move. Mumbled something, bounced up and down as if he were about to leap across the counter, growled.

‘I'll go and get him,' said his mother.

‘Let me,' said the lawyer.

Poppi went. He approached the strange boy, who wouldn't hear of moving, spoke to him and slowly but surely convinced him to leave the counter. Fernando ran to his mother.

‘Come here, my baby. You just want your mama.' Paola made room for him at her table and kissed him on the cheek.

The boy wasn't listening to her but just stared at the floor,
Alice
, exhaling loudly from his nose,
Alice
.

‘You just want your mama,' Paola repeated.

Fernando left her there, darting to the couch and curling up beside Pietro's flank. He was shuddering, his hands rigid like talons, his hat askew and hanging down over his face. The
concierge stroked his back, stroked him again and placed an arm around his shoulders, slowly. Leaned into him, brushed his cheek with a hand and lifted the beret. Lifted it carefully and before the incredulous eyes of Poppi settled it down as it should be. Then he grasped three fingers. They were still talons. He stroked them and a little at a time he closed them. Reopened them and showed him how he must hold them in order to make the shadow of a parrot under the light in his beloved's cafe.

Pietro collapsed into the sunken middle of his mattress and slept for the entire afternoon. That evening when they knocked, he didn't hear it immediately. They knocked again.

He woke and pulled himself up. ‘Who is it?'

There was no reply.

Pietro slid the door open. A coal-black eye came through the gap.

‘Sara.'

The doctor's daughter was tightly wrapped in her little coat and had her hair loose. She smiled, a finger in her mouth.

‘Wait a moment.' The concierge slid the door closed again and put on a jumper over his tracksuit. He stepped into his slippers. One of his big toes stuck out through a hole. He opened.

The child came forward. Held one closed hand behind her back and peered around inside, pointed at the two plants near the refrigerator. Pietro made way. ‘It's a tiny, tiny house, for one person.'

She rushed in and circled the table and leaned on the wicker chair, all without saying anything. Continued to hide her closed hand, then all at once opened and showed it to him. Inside was a half-melted piece of chocolate with a card stuck to it.

‘For me?'

The child handed it to him and bent down, touched the
big toe emerging from the hole in his slipper. She laughed, Pietro laughed too, then he unwrapped the chocolate. It had golden foil and contained tiny pieces of hazelnut. He popped the entire piece into his mouth and opened the card. Read the doctor's handwriting aloud: ‘
Mr Pietro, you are invited to my birthday the day after tomorrow. Will you come?
' He looked up. ‘Of course I'll come. Thank you.'

But she was already across the room, seated on the edge of the mattress. She bounced in place, slid down into the sunken middle. Glanced at the night table. The rice-paper envelope lay below the pomegranate.

‘I'll take you home, come on.' Pietro attempted to catch her but she squirmed away and first stuck her head into the bathroom, then hopped toward the bedroom.

He beat her there and closed the door. ‘I will most certainly come to your birthday – with a lovely gift.'

The child tried to enter the bedroom.

‘With a lovely gift.' Pietro picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, set her on her feet on the table.

She stood and looked at him from up there. Began to smooth down his hair, tugging a lock at his crown then pressing it down, one after another, then descending to the comb-over he'd worn for a lifetime. As she tried to brush his hair he held her hips. She was a Viola-faced munchkin. He pressed the child to his chest and she squeaked.

‘Pardon me …' From the doorway emerged the doctor's top half. ‘Sara, I got fed up with waiting for you.' He came in. ‘Please excuse the invasion, Pietro. But with her it's always like this, she entertains herself.'

‘Now I'm an officially invited guest to her birthday.'

‘Now you have no way out.'

The child leaned in the direction of the closed room. ‘He's got a chamber of secrets,' she said. Her voice was a murmur.

‘A chamber of secrets, that's all we need.' The doctor went to his daughter and she began to brush her father's hair as well. Then back to Pietro's. And then the doctor's.

‘Mama's waiting for you.'

Sara had herself lowered down and waved a hand goodbye.

‘Bye, honey.' The doctor gave her a kiss, and when she had left, watched to see that she went up the stairs. ‘She's been obsessed with that invitation all day today.'

‘She's a quiet child.'

‘And a very curious one.' Luca adjusted the raincoat over his shoulder, held his medical bag with two fingers. Put the bag on a chair, opened it and withdrew a bunch of five crumpled daisies. ‘They were for Viola, but I didn't give them to her.' Placed them in an empty jug. His face was wan, mottled with shadow. He peered around like his daughter. ‘Do you sleep there?' He pointed at the bed in the living area.

‘I like cubbyholes.'

‘And secret chambers.'

‘Every priest has one.' Pietro went to the night table, pulled out the handheld recorder he'd received from the old man. When he turned back to Luca he saw that the doctor had sat down and that below the daisies lay loose petals. ‘Night shift?'

‘In your secret room, do you keep the sins of others?'

‘How's that?'

The doctor plucked a petal. ‘In your secret room …' Plucked another. ‘Do you keep the sins you heard as a priest?'

‘The sins of others are to be forgotten.' The concierge filled two glasses of wine. ‘I keep my own in there.'

Luca drank immediately. ‘I should have a secret room of my own, then.' He looked Pietro directly in the face. ‘Nice and big.' Pietro looked back. The doctor struggled to keep his eyes open.

Pietro placed the recorder on the table and slid it toward the doctor. ‘The old man in the petrol-station uniform came by.'

The doctor tugged at two petals simultaneously. ‘I asked you not to listen to him.'

‘He waited at my door. And he wasn't going away.'

‘I asked you not to listen to him!' he shouted in a voice not his own. It was a frightening rasp. He poked a finger at the side with the microphone. The recorder spun like a top. He prodded it again, pressed play. The voice began and he turned off the recorder immediately. He bowed his head and held it between his hands. ‘Did you listen to the tape?'

‘I listened to it.'

‘Did he take you to his house?'

The concierge nodded. ‘Yes, I met his son.'

Luca lifted his face. ‘Andrea …' One of his hands returned to the daisies and began to climb the stems. When he arrived at the flowers, he plucked. Plucked the petals one by one. ‘The sins of others are to be forgotten, isn't that what you said?' One daisy stripped, he moved on to another. Plucked some more. ‘It's our own sins that we keep.' Nothing but the stem
remained. He moved on to another flower. When he finished there were five bare stems. ‘I'm afraid.'

The petals curled on the table.

Pietro stared at him. ‘I know.'

‘No, you don't know.'

The concierge stood up.

The doctor said, ‘I have to go.' But didn't move.

Pietro moved closer and Luca covered his face. The concierge removed the doctor's hands and replaced them with his own. Luca straightened his neck, from his mouth came the hoarse squawk of a crow, he drew a breath. ‘It's not the hospital I'm expected at tonight, not the hospital.'

Pietro sat down.

The doctor looked him in the face. ‘I won't make it tonight.'

Pietro held him.

That night the young priest got into bed as the
choooo
of the lighthouse blew. He ran a hand through his hair. The sand was gone. The witch's face was not.

He turned to the other side of the bed and slipped from the sheets. Dressed feverishly,
Forgive me, Lord
, opened the street door and ran through the piazza,
choooo
, ran down the boulevard to the station, took the street leading to the witch's house. As he approached, he saw that all the windows were dark except for one at the rear. The light struck the ceiling, where he saw the shadow of an enchanting profile, recognized the hair tied back. Beside the profile emerged two hands, intertwining. The shadow of the hands became a dog with its jaw open, a parrot with a raised crest.

He took a handful of pebbles from the ground and launched them against the glass.

The parrot dissolved and the witch opened the window. She stared down at him. ‘You put on your nice shirt.'

The young priest stood with his arms at his sides.

Their punishment began there, with her finger held up to say, wait.

The doctor asked to use the bathroom. He splashed water on his face while Pietro hid the rice-paper envelope in the night-table drawer. When Luca returned his eyes were puffy and fixed on the closed bedroom door. He immediately started off, only noticing just before going out that Pietro had put on his jacket. Slowed to wave goodbye. The concierge did not return the gesture but simply followed him. They passed through the entrance hall, Luca in front, the old man's recorder swelling a pocket, his medical bag inclining him to one side, Pietro's shadow close on his heels. In the street Luca walked as if he were alone, only occasionally turning to see if the concierge was there. They travelled the street that passes under the ancient city gate, continued in the direction opposite that of the hospital. Pietro was a step behind, pulling up to the doctor at busy intersections. They didn't look at each other and each set off again on his own. They walked the length of Corso Vittorio Emanuele II and arrived at the cath edral, ivory under the extinguished sunset. They skirted the Piazza del Duomo, continued down a cobblestone street that ended in a six-way intersection. The doctor took the street that circled the Castello. Approached a
stately building with a recently renovated facade, Pietro still holding back. The doctor buzzed and the street door opened immediately. Above them two stone eagles perched on the lowest balcony's balustrade. A little old woman stood behind the one with the beak worn away. Scrutinized them.