The Sense of an Elephant (15 page)

The concierge rested the tray of petits fours on the Bianchi's handlebars, pocketed the photograph of the woman and newborn and went out into the courtyard with the bicycle. On the stage were three long balloons trampled flat. And Riccardo.

He blended in with the evening, until his cigarette glowed. The concierge turned to leave.

‘Teach me how to make the shadows.' The man sat on the edge of the stage, dangling his legs. ‘Teach me the parrot too.'

Pietro leaned on the top bar of the Bianchi. ‘I can't do the parrot well any more.'

‘Or whatever shadow you want …' He tossed the cigarette to the ground and hopped down from the stage. ‘As long as it's different from my own.' The lamplight in the courtyard projected him on the ground in sharply angled silhouette.

‘I can't do any of the shadows well any more.'

The radiographer came closer to him, stopping directly below the lamp. Pietro saw him clearly then. And recognized himself. Riccardo was an orphan. In the graceful gestures that smoothed the edges of an eternal awkwardness, in the cowed, anxious eyes from which he now brushed away curls. ‘I trip over my own shadow.' He sniggered without smiling.

‘So do I.' Pietro nodded as he had the first time they met. He knew that the awkwardness of this kind man was his own awkwardness. To be always alone. He laid a hand on his arm, just for a moment, and squeezed. Then he turned the Bianchi round and when he faced the street door he noticed a drawing stuck to the lodge window. Looking closer he made out a man sailing through the air on a red bicycle. Above the figure soared two lopsided birds with spikes on their heads. He pulled it down and read at the bottom,
Fernando and Sara
. Turned around and spied Fernando and Sara half hidden behind the stairs.

‘For me?' the concierge asked.

The little girl ran to Pietro and tugged at the edge of his jacket, laughing, gap-toothed. Fernando stepped forward. ‘It's a jewel,' he said, pointing to the drawing.

‘Thank you very much.' The concierge ran a hand through the boy's hair. ‘I'll hang it over my bed.'

Riccardo came over to them. ‘They didn't know how to thank you, so they set to drawing as soon as the guests left.' He picked up the little girl.

Pietro stared at them, searching in the one, then in the
other. Sara had her mother's nose and eyes, her hands and way of laughing.

‘I'm sleepy,' she murmured.

The concierge searched again. The child laid her head on Riccardo's shoulder and Pietro found the telltale sign. The pointed ear. A piece of cartilage sharpened her ear as it sharpened his. In the same curve, in the same way. Riccardo kissed her. ‘Everyone to bed.'

Pietro caressed Sara's back, climbed his hand up to her shoulder, to her face. Brushed the ear there, said goodnight.

They went upstairs and he glanced at the Madonna in the alcove.

He asked now. That you might protect my son.

The entire ride, Pietro steered with one hand. The other steadied the tray of petits fours on the handlebars until he arrived at Anita's front gate, which had been left ajar. He buzzed. No one responded but he entered anyway, left the Bianchi in the rack and went up to the first floor. Rang at her door. The young woman came out of the flat next door. ‘Anita will be here soon.'

‘Thanks.' Pietro waited on a chair on the landing of the communal balcony. The young woman remained in the doorway of her flat, fiddling with her mobile phone, applying and reapplying lip gloss like the first time he'd met her. She wore a fringe nearly down to her eyes and two silver hoops in her ears. Pietro rested the tray on his knees, glimpsed the small cakes through the gap in the paper: they had all overturned. He uncovered the tray and began to right them. When he
arrived at the strawberry petit four he looked up. The woman was smiling.

‘Do you like the ones with fruit?' Pietro held out the tray to her and she chose the cake with the smallest strawberry. She nibbled at the edges and kept the fruit for last. ‘Have you known Anita for a long time?'

‘A lifetime.'

Her mobile rang and without answering the woman went to the intercom, pushed the button while she finished the petit four, looked down. Into the courtyard came a man in his fifties with his coat collar turned up. The man climbed to the second floor and hurried directly into the woman's flat. She followed him and before closing the door said, ‘My name's Silvia.'

‘Pietro.'

‘Very pleased to meet you.' She locked the door and drew the curtain of her one window facing the communal balcony. The curtain was made of voile and through it he discerned her helping the man remove his coat and tie. Pietro stopped watching and stood up.

Anita smiled from the stairs. ‘You were nice to Silvia.'

‘Where were you?'

She showed him a bottle opener. ‘I'd loaned it to my upstairs neighbour. I enjoyed your gallantry.' Anita lowered her voice: ‘That's her third client today. Poor girl. Just think that I've seen her become like that in a year. Before she just studied and that was it.'

Pietro finished rewrapping the tray and gave it to her.

Anita kissed him on the cheek. ‘What is it?'

The concierge waited until she opened her door, then as soon as they entered, embraced her. Dug his nose into her hair. Anita smelled of goodness.

‘Something happened with your son, didn't it?'

The concierge pulled out the photograph of the woman with the newborn. He put it on the table.

Anita brought it up to the light. ‘It's her. She's really beautiful.' She went over to Pietro and enunciated each word: ‘Give the letter to your son. Tell him the truth.'

Anita took his hand. Led him into the bedroom, took off his jumper and trousers, unbuttoned his shirt. Went into the bathroom and when she returned he was as she had left him. Together they lay down on the bed, resting their heads on a single pillow. She pressed her breasts against him and he felt the tired flesh. They looked at each other. Pietro allowed himself to be kissed. Anita's lips tasted of goodness, too. Slowly he undressed her. Pushed her against the pillow. Anita said, ‘Leave it to me,' but he held her still and himself above her. His hands roamed and fumbled. He sat up and they returned to his sides. She took his member in her hand, closed her fingers around it and gently shook the soft, yielding form. Pietro leaned forward to caress her neck. Began to squeeze it. ‘Gently,' she said. Pietro squeezed and released, lowered himself onto her and took her broad face between his palms. Kissed her on the eyes.

Anita kissed him on the eyes as well. ‘You deserve your son.'

Pietro pulled back. ‘He deserves his daughter.'

Pietro left Anita's house at dawn. Before leaving, while she slept, he placed two marzipan petits fours on a small plate and prepared the stovetop percolator. As soon as it began to sputter he turned off the flame, went down into the courtyard and walked out with the Bianchi. He had always sought the dawn. In Rimini he would wake at night's end and walk down the Corso d'Augusto from the centre to the Tiberius Bridge, down into the fishermen's village with its pastel houses and low roofs. Emerge from the other end of the village and see the first slice of the harbour. Rimini at dawn is on tiptoe. He would tiptoe as well, waiting for the sun there, heels high, while the light lengthened the shadows of the only mother he had, his city.

From Anita's house the way was all downhill. The Bianchi flew through the large square with the clocks on skyscrapers and skirted the remains of the old city walls of Milan, arriving at the condominium as Alice pulled up the roller shutter of the cafe. She greeted him first, her eyes sleepy and the deliveries from the bakery piled up at the entrance. Pietro carried them in for her.

Alice turned on the lights above the counter. ‘I saw you with the doctor the other evening.' She lifted an apron over her neck and fiddled with the cash register.

He looked at her, a woman full of grace who merely grazed the world as she moved. She unwrapped the pastries
and arranged them in the display case as if without touching them. ‘There's some Mastroianni in the doctor as well … The three of you resemble each other.' She blew the powdered sugar from her hands. ‘How about a croissant and some hot chocolate? What do you say, Marcello? It's on the house. These are my last days on the job.'

Pietro smiled at her and backed away. He left the cafe and directly he arrived in the street ran a hand over his face, over his nose and over his mouth. Brought the Bianchi into the condominium and started up the stairs. Touched his ears and his forehead, his hair. Reached the first floor and the second, climbed further and his fingers continued to seek out the resemblance with his son. He climbed the stairs to the top, found the iron door slightly ajar, opened it wide and arrived on the terrace. Slipped between the sheets and waited for the sun as he had waited for it for years. When it rose he clicked his heels and returned onto his toes, clicked them again, the start of a routine that had no need of any music. He finished abruptly and the moment he came to a stop, someone applauded. Pietro turned around, saw no one. Ducked under a sheet. The lawyer sat on the parapet wall. ‘Celeste told me about the rhythm in those shoes.'

The young priest saw the witch again at mass. She sat in the third row with her mother, head bowed and hands interlaced on her belly. He looked at her from the altar, then raised up the blood and body of Christ, consumed them. Began to place the wafers in the mouths of the faithful. The organ played hallelujah, hallelujah. The witch was the last in line. He
continued to place the wafers in mouths, in the mouths of the faithful, in the mother's mouth, then he found the witch standing before him. Picked up the wafer and offered it to her. In exchange he received a strip of paper. The young priest looked at it when he returned behind the altar. Hallelujah, hallelujah. He read:
Tonight at 11, the fountain with the four horses
.

The lawyer rose from the parapet. He was in his dressing gown and smoking. ‘Don't be so surprised, my friend.' His face was severe, unadorned, old. ‘I have the spirit of a confessor. Celeste, on the other hand, was a sharer of confidences.'

Pietro remained motionless, then swiftly hid himself behind a flannel sheet. The scent of fabric softener was everywhere. His voice wouldn't come, came and was barely audible. ‘What confidences?'

‘I'm sorry, I forget.' Poppi came forward in his silk slippers. ‘The passion for dance – this I remember.'

‘I don't know how to dance.' Pietro found himself face to face with the lawyer.

‘Neither do I.' The slippers rose up on their heels. ‘Except when I'm scared. Or I miss my Daniele.' He passed through the sheets until he reached a kind of chimney at the centre of the terrace. It supported two satellite dishes. He pointed to the concrete base. ‘We would come here to smoke. He didn't want us to in the house.' There was something written in chalk on the concrete:
Giovanni Poppi & Daniele Izzo
. ‘Memory makes the feet move, isn't that right?'

The concierge looked at him.

‘Tell me why God carried away the love of my life, Pietro.' His lips trembled. He tossed the cigarette. ‘Tell me what's left behind. Ask your god, c'mon.'

‘It's not my god.'

‘What's left, Pietro?'

The concierge went to the parapet. Down in the street, he could see, Alice had turned on the neon signs. A few of the tables were already filled. ‘Memory is what's left.'

‘The great lie, that's what memory is.' Poppi screened his eyes against the light. ‘Let the Lord try to get by on memory, then he'll know what punishment is.' And without warning he approached Pietro, took and raised his hands, began to lead him in a weary waltz. Pulled him over to the sheets. ‘Do you know what the Jews say, my friend?
Mazel tov
. Good luck.' They continued the unsteady dance. ‘
Mazel tov
to us survivors.' They stopped and the scent of Poppi enveloped the concierge. Poppi's mouth brushed Pietro's ear, his hands still in Pietro's hands: ‘Go and find Celeste, I'll tell you where she is. Less than a metre of earth won't keep you apart.'

Lorenzo died that morning. The lodge phone rang around ten. Pietro did not hear it. He was working in the courtyard with the radio on, cleaning up the mess from the birthday party. When they called the second time the concierge had returned to his flat to change. He put a towel around his shoulders and went into the lodge to answer. ‘Hello,' he said. The towel slipped to the floor and he remained bare-chested with the receiver at his ear.

Paola passed by in that moment, spotted him and opened one of the newspapers she had just bought, pretended to read it as she approached the lodge.

The concierge was facing away from her. ‘What's the address?' he asked into the phone, writing the reply on a supermarket flyer. ‘I'll come right away.' He hung up.

Paola entered the lodge. ‘Oh, pardon me, oh … I wanted to check if any post had come for me, I didn't see you.'

‘The phone rang while I was changing.' Pietro picked up the towel and opened her letterbox, gave her three letters.

She placed them in her purse. There was an acrid smell. She breathed it in, removed her hat, breathed again. ‘You were an angel to show my Fernando how to make the shadows.'

‘I have to go, Paola.'

‘I haven't seen him like that since his father was alive.' She laid a hand on his naked shoulder.

‘I have to go.' He left her there, went back into his flat and
finished changing in a hurry. The Bianchi wouldn't do. When he came out again the lodge was empty and the acrid odour mixed with that of paint.

He went into the street and waited at the light. Two engaged taxis passed. He hailed the third one. Got in and read out the address he had written down.