Ties Read online

  Have I summarized it well? Now can I give you my opinion? It’s a stupid metaphor, you can do better. Nevertheless, I’ll indulge you. In your usual overwrought way you wanted me to know that we were once happy, but that our happiness gave way to routines that, on the one hand, enabled days, months and years to pass by without much trouble but, on the other hand, suffocated both of us, as well as the children. Great. But now you have to tell me what the upshot is. Do you mean that, were it possible, you’d gladly go back fifteen years, but that one can’t go back, and furthermore your thirst for a new beginning is so powerful that your only resort is to restart with Lidia? Is this what you mean? If so, I want to tell you something. I too, for some time, have felt that the joys of the past have faded. I too, for some time, have thought we’ve changed, and that this change hurts you, me, Sandro, and Anna, that the whole family runs the risk of leading a tortured life under one roof. I too, for some time, have feared that if we’re reduced to limping along together and raising our children, we act against ourselves and against them, and that therefore it’s best that I leave you. But I, I, unlike you, don’t believe it’s your fault we lost the keys to earthly paradise, and that therefore I’d better hook up with someone less absentminded. I don’t obliterate the three of you, I don’t deny your existence, even to free myself. And to free myself how, exactly? By forming another couple and another family the way you’re doing with Lidia?

  Aldo, please, don’t play with words, I’m worn out, it’s the last time I’m going to try to talk sense into you. Regretting the past is stupid, just as it’s stupid to keep running after new beginnings. Your desire for change has one possible outlet, the four of us: me, you, Sandro, Anna. It’s our duty to take a new step, together. Look at me, really look at me, please look at me when you see me. I’m not nostalgic about anything. I’m trying to climb up your wretched steps in my own way, and I want to move forward. But if you don’t give me or the children a chance, I’m going to court, and I’ll ask for full custody.

  7.

  You’ve finally made an unequivocal move. You didn’t flinch before the judge’s order, you did nothing to reclaim the fatherhood you kept invoking. You accepted that I alone would care for the children, disregarding the fact that they might need you. You’ve dumped their lives onto me, officially distancing them from your own. And because silence amounts to consent, these minors have been entrusted to me. Effective immediately. Bravo, you make me so proud of having loved you.

  8.

  I killed myself. I know I should write, I tried to kill myself, but that would be inaccurate. For all intents and purposes, I died. Do you think I did it to force you to come back? Is that why, even under those circumstances, you were careful not to show up for even five minutes in the hospital? Were you afraid of getting backed into a corner? Or were you afraid of looking straight-on at the mess you’d made?

  Jesus, you really are a weak and confused man: insensitive, superficial, the opposite of what I thought you were for twelve years. You’re not interested in people, in how they change, how they evolve. You use people. You only accommodate them if they put you on a pedestal. You’re only fond of them as long as they grant you prestige and a role that’s worthy of you, only as long as, by celebrating you, they prevent you from seeing that you’re actually empty, and afraid of your emptiness. Every time this mechanism jams, every time people step back and try to grow, you destroy them and move on. You’re never still, you always need to be at the center of something. You say it’s because you want to be a man of your times. You call this frenzy of yours involvement. Oh, sure, you’re involved, you take part, you take part a little too much. But really you’re a passive man, you pick up words and ideas from books that appeal to the masses and you put them in play, you’re entirely subject to the conventions and trends of people who matter, whom you quickly hope to associate with. You’re never yourself, when have you ever been? You don’t even know what it means. You’re only trained to take advantage of opportunities when and if they arise. In Rome you were offered a lectureship at the university and so you started to be a lecturer. Student protests hit, and so you started getting political. Your mother died, she was clingy, and since I was there in the role of your girlfriend, you married me. You had kids but only because, once you were a husband, you thought you needed to be a father too, because that’s what one does. You came across a respectable young girl close at hand and in the name of sexual liberation and the dissolution of the family you became her lover. You’ll go on like this forever, you’ll never be what you want, just what happens by chance.

  I’ve tried, throughout this whole hellish period—three years of torment—to be helpful to you. I struggled night and day to examine myself, and I urged you to do the same. You didn’t notice. You listened to me, distracted; I’m almost certain you’ve never even read my letters. While I recognized that, yes, the family is suffocating, that the roles it imposes obliterate us—while as a result I was making a herculean effort to arrive at the crux of the matter, changing, changing and evolving in every way—you didn’t even realize it. And if you did realize, you were disgusted, you scurried away, you destroyed me with barely a word, a look, a gesture. The suicide, my dear, was validation. You killed me a while back, not in my role as wife but as a human being who was in her richest, most sincere moment. That I in fact survived, that according to public records I’m still living, isn’t fortunate for me—not at all—but for my children. Your absence, your lack of interest even at this critical juncture have proven to me that, had I died, you would have gone your own way in any case.

  9.

  I’m answering the questions you ask.

  In the past two years I’ve worked in various capacities, for generally little pay, both in the public and private sector. It’s only of late that I have a steady job.

  Our separation is, by definition, sanctioned by official family records and by the declaration of custody that you signed. I don’t see the need for further steps.

  I regularly receive the money you send, though I’ve never asked you for anything, not for myself, not for my children. I try, within the bounds of my financial circumstances, not to touch it, setting it aside for Sandro and Anna.

  The television hasn’t worked for ages and I’ve stopped paying fees.

  You write that you need to reestablish a relationship with the children. You believe, now that four years have gone by, that it’s possible to face the problem calmly. But what is there left to face? Wasn’t the nature of your need precisely defined when you absented yourself, robbing us of our life? When you abandoned them because you couldn’t handle the responsibility? In any case I’ve read them your request and they’ve decided to meet you. I remind you, in case you’ve forgotten, that Sandro is thirteen, and Anna nine. They’re crushed by uncertainty and fear. Don’t make it worse for them.

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  1.

  Let’s proceed in order. Shortly before we left for vacation, Vanda, who had a wrist fracture that wasn’t healing, consulted her orthopedist and rented an electronic stimulator for two weeks. She’d settled with the company on a price of two hundred and five euros, and it was supposed to be delivered within twenty-four hours. And so the following day around noon the doorbell rang, and since my wife was busy in the kitchen, I went to open the door, led, as usual, by the cat. A young woman, thin, her short black hair perhaps a bit lank. Lively eyes—without makeup—dominated a pale, delicate face. She handed over a gray box. I took the package, telling her that my wallet was on the desk in my study. Just a moment, please, I said. She followed me into the house, though I hadn’t invited her to enter.

  —Gorgeous, she said, addressing the cat. What’s his name?

  —Labes, I replied.

  —What kind of name is that?

  —It’s short for la bestia, the beast.

  The girl laughed and, kneeling down, stroked Labes.

>   —It’s two hundred and ten euros, she said.

  —Wasn’t it two hundred and five?

  She shook her head, still totally charmed by the cat, tickling him under the throat and murmuring sweet nothings. Then, still crouched down, she spoke to me with the gentle tone of someone who, going from house to house for work, knows how to placate the anxieties of old people when a stranger knocks at the door. Open the box, she said, the bill’s inside, you’ll see that it’s two-ten. And all the while, tickling the cat, her eyes were roaming, curious, past the door of my study.

  —Lots of books.

  —They’re for my work.

  —Must be a nice job. And so many figurines. That cube up there is an amazing blue, is it wooden?

  —Metal. I bought it in Prague, years ago.

  —You have a lovely place, she said, straightening. Then she motioned once more to the box. Have a look.

  I liked the light in her eyes.

  —It’s fine, I said, and gave her two hundred and ten euros.

  She took the money and said bye to the cat, warning me:

  —Don’t knock yourself out reading. See you later, Labes.

  —Goodbye, thank you, I said.

  That was it, nothing more, nothing less. After a few minutes Vanda came out of the kitchen wearing a green apron that nearly reached her feet. She opened the box, stuck the plug into the charger, checked that the generator was working, and examined the solenoid to figure out how to use it. I, in the meantime, out of curiosity, glanced at the bill. The girl had cheated me.

  —Something wrong? asked my wife, who notices when my mood changes even when she’s distracted.

  —They wanted two hundred and ten euros.

  —And you gave it to them?

  —Yes.

  —I’d told you, two hundred and five.

  —Seemed like an honest person.

  —Was it a woman?

  —A girl.

  —Pretty?

  —I guess.

  —A miracle she only filched five.

  —Five euros isn’t a huge amount.

  —Five euros were ten thousand lire in the old days.

  Tightening her lips, which is what she does when she’s irritated, she went on to study the instructions. She’s hung up on money. She’s been obsessed with saving it all her life. Even today, in spite of all her aches and pains, she’s quick to bend over and pick up one cent from the grubby sidewalk. She’s one of those people who never neglects to emphasize, as a reminder intended above all to themselves, that a euro is worth two thousand lire and that if, fifteen years ago, two people spent twelve thousand lire to go to the movies, today, at eight euros a ticket, they spend thirty-two thousand. Our current well-being, and to some extent that of our children, who frequently ask us for money, is owed less to my job than to her toughness. As a result, the fact that a stranger, a few minutes ago, appropriated five of our euros must have galled her as much as it would have thrilled her to find the same amount next to a parked car.

  As is often the case, her disappointment aggravated my own. I’m going to write an email to the company, I said, and I withdrew into my study with the intention of reporting this little scam. I wanted to calm my wife down; her disapproval has always plagued me, never mind the sarcasm about how, at my age, I’m still foolishly prey to sweet-talk from women. And so, turning on the computer, I mulled over the gestures, voice and words of the delivery girl. I thought again about the appealing way she’d said, gorgeous cat, lots of books, and I remembered the solicitous, almost tender way she’d urged me to open the package and check inside. Apparently one look was enough to tell her that it would be easy to cheat me.

  Realizing it bothered me. I mentally traced a line between how I would have reacted a few years ago (don’t waste my time, this is the amount we’d agreed upon, goodbye) and how I’d reacted now (the cat’s named Labes, the books are for my work, I bought the cube in Prague, it’s fine, thanks). So I resolved to type up a few harsh sentences. But a perplexing lack of motivation soon settled over me. I thought: who knows how this girl gets by: precarious, poorly paid jobs, parents to support, an exorbitant rent, the need to buy makeup and a pair of tights, an unemployed husband or boyfriend, problems with drugs. If I write to the company, I told myself, no doubt she’ll lose this little gig, too. What were five euros in the end? A tip that, behind my wife’s back, I’d have gladly given her. And besides, if, in these economically depressed times, the girl keeps going around inflating prices for her own gain, soon enough she’ll find someone who’s less forgiving than I am, who’ll make her pay for it.

  I gave up on the letter. I told Vanda that I’d sent it and then I forgot about the whole episode.

  2.

  A few days later we left for the sea. My wife packed the bags and I dragged them downstairs, to the car. It was scorching hot. The street, usually busy with cars, was empty. The surrounding buildings were silent, the windows and balconies shielded, for the most part, by bars and lowered shutters.

  I was covered in sweat from the effort. Vanda wanted to help and since I told her not to—I was worried that her bones were too fragile—she gave me instructions about how to arrange the suitcases. She was nervous; leaving the apartment made her anxious. Though we were just spending seven days by the sea in a hotel near Gallipoli—bed and breakfast at a decent price, nothing to do other than sleep, walk along the shore, enjoy a swim—she kept saying that she would have gladly stayed at home to read on the balcony between the lemon tree and the medlar.

  We’ve lived in this house for three decades and every time we have to leave it she acts as if she’ll never come back to it again. Over the years convincing her to treat us to a little break has become increasingly complicated. In the first place, she believes she’s wronging the children, the grandchildren. But above all she doesn’t like to leave Labes; she loves him and he loves her. I, too, needless to say, am fond of our pet, but not to the point of letting it ruin my vacation. And so I have to convince her, cautiously, that the cat will damage the furniture in the hotel, trample through our room, bother the other guests with his nocturnal mewing. And when she finally resigns herself to the separation I have to make sure that the kids will drop by to fill the bowl and clean out the litter box. This tends to distress her considerably. The kids don’t get along well, and it’s usually best to avoid forcing brother and sister to meet, for whatever reason. There were always tensions between them, from early adolescence on, but things got worse about a dozen years ago, when their aunt Gianna died. Vanda’s older sister, in the course of her troubled life, didn’t have children, and she was particularly fond of Sandro, so in the end she left him a handsome nest egg and Anna some knickknacks of negligible value. A dispute was born. Anna demanded that the last wishes of her aunt be ignored and that the inheritance be divided equally; Sandro refused. As a result they don’t see each other anymore, something that, along with the myriad other problems in their haphazard lives, makes their mother suffer deeply. In order to avoid that they even cross paths when they’re taking care of Labes, therefore, I study the turns and schedules, and Vanda, who has no faith in my organizational skills, oversees them, making sure that each child has the keys to our apartment. This is just to explain how laborious it all is. But now here we are, she and I, with our luggage. We’ve lived together for fifty-two years, a vast length of coiled time. Vanda, seventy-six, is an artificially energetic lady, and I, at seventy-four, am an artificially distracted man. She has always organized my life without dissembling, and I have always followed her orders without protesting. She’s quite active in spite of her aches and pains, and I’m lazy in spite of my good health. I’ve already put the red suitcase in the trunk, but my wife objects, she doesn’t agree, better to put the black one below and the red one on top. I unstuck the shirt from my back with my finger, I pulled out the red suitcase. I put it down on the asphalt, with an
exaggerated groan, in order to pick up the black one. It was then that a car pulled up.

  It was impossible not to notice, given that not only the street but the entire city seemed empty, the traffic lights uselessly changing colors. You could even hear the birds chirping in the treetops. The car pulled up beside us, a few feet away, blocking us in. A second, two: I distinctly heard the sound of the gears shifting. After the rapid whine of reverse, it stopped where we were.

  —No way, exclaimed the man seated at the wheel, his eyes recessed, his teeth starting to age. I’m driving along and what do you know: you, it’s really you, here on the street, just like that. When I tell my dad he’ll never believe it.

  He was animated, chuckling with contentment. I put down the black suitcase and tried to conjure up some trait of his—the nose, the mouth, the forehead—that would help me to remember who he was. But I couldn’t, the emotions playing across his face caused his features to blur. And he spoke without stopping, he showered me with a torrent of words about his father, who remembered me with respect and affection, and about certain difficulties I’d helped him deal with when he was a boy, and about how finally things were okay, in fact they seemed to be getting better. He kept saying, It’s so great to see you. And though I had no idea if it was him I’d helped out, or the father, or both, I quickly convinced myself that he must have been one of my students, maybe during that brief phase of my youth when I’d taught at a high school in Naples, or maybe the longer phase when I’d taught at the university in Rome. It often happen that I encountered cheerful, unknown people, and in their adult faces, often quite marked, I sometimes recognized—though, more often than not, I only pretended to recognize—former students. Yes, I concluded, it’s the most likely story, he must be a former student. I didn’t want to hurt this man by not recognizing him. I put on a cordial look, I concluded by asking: