While the Shark is Sleeping (6 page)

‘Maybe one day we can go to those places on my Vespa,’ I say, pointing out the marvels on the postcards.

‘Ask someone if they know the way!’ she replies, getting enthusiastic already.

Once again, Mamma’s not eating in order to punish herself for no longer working. And the less she eats, the more often she loses money, or things, or messes something up. And the more that happens, the more she punishes herself by not eating.

Mamma says that Zia’s true boyfriend will be like the snow that seemed it would never come in that poem she used to read us at Christmas when we were little. Sleet would come and just melt, whirling snow would come and turn into mud, and when everyone had eventually given up hope, all of a sudden the snow came ‘shyly splendid, confidently thick’. Zia’s boyfriend will come like that, all of a sudden; we will have no doubt and we will recognise him.

In the end he phoned me.

‘I’m trying to put this crappy marriage back together,’ he told me.

‘That’s the right thing to do,’ I said in a firm and resolute tone. ‘Happiness can’t be built on other people’s unhappiness.’

Not even my father’s God would put up with that.

Mamma is back in hospital and when I went to see her it was a stunning day but it was wasted on me.

As always, she was waiting, nicely dressed and sitting on the perfectly made bed. So that she wouldn’t see I was upset I went and looked out the window.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

‘Good.’ But I didn’t turn around because I was crying.

‘Why are you crying?’

I spun around and hugged her, weeping.

‘That man, the one in your stories – he hasn’t been in touch? Sorry for reading them, I found them one day when I wanted to tidy up your wardrobe a bit. And I know about the paintings too. One time Papà was talking so loudly on the phone . . . The thing is, you think I never notice anything.’

It was very late when I left. So, my mother had gone through my drawers, she who never wanted to know anything for fear the truth would be ugly. And it was ugly. Maybe that’s why she had no longer wanted to eat. I asked my father’s God, my mother’s God, Nonna’s God – crying the whole time – the reason why we inevitably hurt one another all the time, even those we love most.

‘You just have to endure it,’ I told myself. ‘You have to get used to eating shit because, like in the concentration camps, there’s always someone who makes it through.’

Just now when Mamma’s in hospital, the residents’ committee has summoned us all and said that they have obtained permission to add a storey to the building. There’ll be an apartment in place of the garden and a bit of money for everybody.

Out of nine, there are seven votes in favour of the new apartment and two against – mine of course, and that of the lady downstairs. Everyone else says it’s no big deal – we’ll divide up the pots and planters, the canopy, the awnings, the trellises and we’ll put them on our balconies and it’ll be just as nice, plus we’ll all get a bit of money. They’re sorry for the signora, who’s done so much work, but you’ve got to be a bit practical in life.

It was a period when Mamma was well and was eating. She had a cheerful air and seemed stronger.

The only thing was, she’d hang out her own clothes with wooden pegs that I couldn’t attribute a meaning to and she no longer went into my brother’s room to bring him juice while he was playing the piano. Sometimes she wouldn’t eat with us, she’d leave a note on the kitchen table where everything was ready.

‘I’m very tired, I’m going to lie down. Don’t worry, I’ve already eaten.’

Papà, when he was around, would go into her room and make jokes under his breath. He knew if she was pretending to sleep she’d burst out laughing. But she wouldn’t laugh. Not even when he’d whisper to her, ‘Nyum nyum nyum nyum nyum nyum nyum nyum’ or sing the rude words to ‘I am easy’.

She really was sleeping.

Then one day she decided to leave, in accordance with her idea of beauty. For a while she’d been saying she didn’t like the posts supporting the canopy on the terrace, that they were rusty and needed repainting.

So, I reckon, one morning she set up the whole scene. She bought the paint and the anti-rust and flew away brush in hand. It was clear to everybody that she’d got dizzy and lost her balance. But why had she put on her favourite dress? Why was her hair freshly washed and perfumed and the house all in order? Was it because she didn’t want our family to look bad?

Besides, she’d always been strangely interested in covert suicide. One time she’d heard that you can die by grating a whole nutmeg into a meal and she’d said that was a nice way, that everyone would think the suicide was a glutton who liked strong flavours and had overdone it. Another nice idea, one for the autumn, was to cook yourself a poisonous mushroom after having feigned a great passion for picking them. In the summer, if you wanted to die without giving others the hassle of remorse, you could simply go off into the sea, and not come back.

I know she would never have done that job at that hour. It was an afternoon in late spring, hot and hazy, with the sun unable to shine. We saw Mamma down below, in one of the unused courtyards where no one ever goes and people leave their rubbish. She was beautiful in her floral dress with her girlish blonde plait and her thin arm under her head as though she was sleeping.

I know she went without despair, or anger. I know that towards the end she’d seemed strong because she knew it would be over soon. She’d simply understood that she was one of those who wouldn’t make it through and she’d fled from life just like she ran out of cinemas when the scenes were too much for her.

Papà went down there without haste and without a word. He took her in his arms and brought her up. He never said anything more. He no longer wanted to listen to us. He often sat in front of the mountain of cigarette butts, alone, practising sad pieces on the guitar with his splendid hands.

Then, one time when the light was out, it was because he’d left.

For Mamma’s funeral, Doctor Salevsky sent lots of flowers, all the ones she liked best. And those were the only ones, because none of us were in a position to think or to organise anything.

The priest also allowed him to get two musicians who played a tango full of nostalgia and beauty that always made Mamma cry as she did the ironing. Then I understood that he’d decided not to see Zia any more because he’d fallen in love with Mamma and dancing the tango with her meant a tormented and impossible yearning for happiness.

Tidying the wardrobes I found, buried under Mamma’s nightdresses,
Earth from Above: 365 Days
. I took off the red ribbon and noticed that something was written on the inside of the wrapping paper.

‘My bright little star, I’m giving you this book because I want to share with you, who have never travelled, all the places I have seen in my life and all those I would like to see. If I didn’t give you this book, I wouldn’t care at all about all those places. Instead, they become happy memories because you can see them too now, and they can intrigue me because now they intrigue you too. My sweetness. My darling. My friend. My child that I never had and that I would have given, by strange coincidence, your very name. Every time you talk to me about your life I feel I’m living that same life. Every time you dance with me I feel I have your skin and no longer my own. I wish love were only a question of pheromones, because then I could have a shower and you would be gone. But you remain. I can assure you that you remain, even though you think you’re not anything to anyone because you don’t dance, you don’t ride horses, you don’t climb mountains, you can’t swim and you’re not a hot babe. Sorry if I’m not expressing myself well in this language, but who gives a shit? In my life I’ve dived way down into the depths, into the darkness of underwater caves, and I’ve been dazzled by the light in the mountains, I’ve ridden horses, I’ve been the doctor on ships travelling to the end of the earth, I’ve been with many women and some have been hot babes. But if, before I was born, the Eternal Father had asked me to choose what I preferred and he’d shown me you, from my angelic perspective back then, looking down on you as you hung out the washing on your little terrace, all bundled up in your floral dresses (but splendid, I assure you), I would have chosen you. But no one asked me. So here I am, instead of screwing some woman or masturbating over a photo from
Playboy
, I do it thinking about how it would be if I could have you soft and naked in my bed, at least once. And at that point, just screwing you and nothing else would seem like a crime. I’d want to take you travelling, climbing mountains and diving underwater, all between my sheets.

‘When you came in for a consultation, that first time, and we became friends at once, I shouldn’t have let you go. Or else I shouldn’t have followed you. But you were so happy to introduce your sister to a boyfriend and so proud that thanks to you, something good had happened to one of your loved ones, that I let you do as you wished. But it was your special intensity that I wanted, your eyes and your lips and your breasts in that floral dress, the low-cut one.’

And then it was signed by Doctor Salevsky.

I couldn’t put the book down and in this state of emotion I went looking for the little island in the Sulu archipelago. There I found a little sheet of paper with the same handwriting.

‘My child, to whom I would say “Good night” a thousand times in the tone you most desire, why do you say I use the word love carelessly? I do not use any word carelessly. I know that you love me and not carelessly, and I’m a good talker. I could surround you with words even if my Italian is not perfect. With my words I could poison your world and take you away with me. I could show you what you can’t see, for example, a future that would be impossible without me. With you, the words flow like a river, easy, right, effortless. With words I could take you away, but instead I keep quiet.

‘I can’t risk hurting you. But my punishment is not knowing what would hurt you. Stealing you away or leaving you here?

‘I will talk instead to your sister and my words will be perfectly chosen, they must achieve my goal: a river of bullshit. The poor thing, I care for her. I will have to tell her that I’m made that way, that I like all women and no woman, that travelling is my life and I can’t stay put in one place, that I’m a man made to live alone.

‘But with you I felt comfortable, you kept me company. You are inside me and I can take you anywhere. I have never talked to you in order to convince you of something, and I do not wish to do it now. I talked to you for the pleasure of talking to you, and so I listened to you. We found each other. I think that is love and I do not say it carelessly. It’s just that I don’t know what I should do. The things I’ve studied in my life – the adventures, the risks, the women – are not enough to clarify my ideas: that is, to tell me whether I should take you away, or not.’

A summer and a winter have passed since Mamma died. I’ve finally found the beach at Punta Is Molentis. A thin strip of sand broken up by rocks that look a bit like our Mamuthones characters at carnival time and a bit like Knights of the Round Table. Where the earth replaces the sand and the juniper is fragrant. A magical turquoise place. The seagulls sleep on the water, they’re so tranquil it seems impossible. And the absence of wind in the inlet seems equally impossible, when just behind the promontory you’ve got the gale that is the mistral. I’ve finally arrived in Paradise and it’s wasted on me, dirty and bloody as I am. He asked me to do it one more time, just once before we broke up, and in return I asked him to take me to the place in the postcard.

One day when he’d come over and no one else was home I’d shown it to him and he’d said that he knew the way, in fact he went there often, but he couldn’t go with me. So now I was happy.

But something happened, I don’t know, I can’t remember a thing, someone was coming and I couldn’t get away. Nor did I manage to follow his instructions: dive into the sea, follow him. I remember that he said to wait in that little grotto, to call him on the mobile as soon as the people had left and he’d come back straight away.

But then, I don’t know why, I think of something Mauro had said when he’d come to visit us after Mamma’s death. Actually, he’d come to visit the urn with her ashes, because Mamma doesn’t have a grave. She was afraid to be locked away in the dark with no air, and always said that should she die, we were to put her in an urn and keep her at home with us, near a window with a view and a whole spectrum of colours.

So he’d sat down and stared at the urn in silence and I’d said to him, ‘What an ugly thing life is, Mauro.’ And he had replied that life is neither beautiful nor ugly, it’s simply a thing that – once we’ve been born – we have to do. ‘So let’s do it!’

Mauro had understood that the thing with Mamma wasn’t an accident.

And this thought that comes to me, of Mauro, of what he said, of all the times he got married and remarried and so as to maintain his children or not argue with his girlfriends he gave away the bigger house and took a smaller one, smaller each time, becoming a bigger man each time, well, with this thought something else pops into my head . . .

So I take the mobile phone out of my pocket and instead of making the call to him, I phone Mauro for help. I only say the name of the place and he arrives quickly, bringing a tin can filled with water, as well as shampoo, towels, disinfectant and one of his own shirts, because I’ve only been able to get the worst of it off in the sea. I’m infinitely ashamed, but soon I don’t feel so bad because we talk as he helps me.

‘Do you actually like having sex like this?’

‘I did it because I loved him. And he loved me too.’

‘I’d say he’s given ample demonstration of that today, I can see for myself!’

And even at this tragic moment, I can’t help laughing.

‘I was happy because if I followed all his instructions it would last forever, even when I become old and withered.’

‘Being tortured forever – that’s a nice fate. But hang on, wasn’t that Hell?’