Eva Sleeps (42 page)

Frau Mayer had left her alone in her office during the phone call. At eighty years of age, the Aztec green of her eyes was still magnetic, and just because the plait around her head was now white, it was no less perfect, on the contrary, it was even better sculpted, if such a thing were possible. And, since Gerda had become more essential and compact, she and Frau Mayer had started looking like each other, as happens with old couples. A little under fifty, Gerda was still a beautiful woman, but she no longer triggered in men the longing she once did, and this, no use denying it, had allowed Frau Mayer to be more kindly disposed toward her. When Gerda told her that she needed to be away for a day, she didn't object. She just commented that she didn't know her father was still alive.

“I didn't either,” Gerda replied.

 

She walked down the corridor that led from the front door of the retirement home to the stairs.

The lower floors overlooking the garden were occupied by guests able to feed themselves, read Dolomiten, fall in love, throw angry scenes of jealousy at one another. On the upper floors were those who were not self-sufficient. The closer or more probable the departure of a guest, the closer their room was to the sky.

Gerda followed the instructions she was given at the reception desk and turned right, but found herself outside a bathroom door: she'd gotten lost. This happened to all visitors the first time they came in: it was easy to misunderstand the directions indicating right and left with all those unexpected turns in the corridors. Gerda retraced her steps, deciding to bypass the elevator and use the stairs instead. She was already halfway down the corridor when she came across a small crowd. A dozen people, care workers, guests, and visitors were gathered around a tall, gaunt figure, agile on his crutches in spite of his age, unmistakable. Gerda was startled: her
Obmann
!

“I guarantee you this,
gnädige Frau
,”
⁴⁸
Silvius Magnago was saying to an elderly lady in a wheelchair, “osteoporosis in the hips doesn't affect your spirit. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. If intelligence were in one's legs, then I'd be half an idiot.”

And the Frau in the wheelchair burst out laughing like a girl who could have gotten up and danced.

Drawing close to eighty, Silvius Magnago was no longer either the president of his province, nor the
Obmann
of his party, of which he only kept an honorary presidency. A few months earlier, in June, Austria had given Italy a declaration which stated that the Italian government had fulfilled its obligations toward the German-speaking minority in Alto Adige. The official term for this certificate was: Discharge Receipt. A legal term, an accountant's term, like a shopping receipt, not one fit for a hero—and perhaps therein lay Silvius Magnago's historical success. His own task fulfilled, he'd found himself another one: visiting the retirement homes of the province and surprising people his own age with the gallows humor no one had ever detected during his years of political activity.

Magnago indicated the cigarette in a young male nurse's hand. “The management has forbidden me from bringing cigarettes, they say they cause cancer. But in the Lana home they've allowed me to, and you know why? They have a very long waiting list there so they need a hand.”

A brief silence, then a collective giggle, liberating, almost wild.

Gerda approached, a lump in her throat. Seeing him there before her, she suddenly felt like the little girl who'd seen him with the crowd at Castel Firmiano eating out of his hand.

“Herr Obmann . . . !” she whispered.

Magnago saw her, gallantly turned around, and shook the hand she herself was surprised she had the courage to proffer. “Beautiful lady, you're too young to be living here. Are you visiting a relative?”

“My father.”

“Good for you. We old people need young people not to leave us on our own. How is your father?”

Gerda's mouth felt dry. Thankfully, at that very moment, after making a great effort to walk across the corridor with a stick, an octogenarian started telling the
Obmann
that he'd wanted to meet him in the flesh all his life.

With a long finger Magnago pointed at his own skinny chest. “In the bone, perhaps, but, sorry, there isn't much flesh left . . . ” He said it like an experienced comic actor, deadpan, with a stern mouth. The public enjoyed it and burst out laughing again.

Confused, Gerda had already walked away.

 

The smell of disinfectant and bleach masked the discharge of a dissolving body. However, the air was still, like when death isn't far away. Hermann's shoulders were still broad and square; at the end of the long legs his daughter had inherited, his feet touched the tip of the bed. The arm stretched out on the sheet, with an inserted drip, was still muscular. He was asleep.

Standing at the door, Gerda hesitated. It was a large, bright room, although of an irregular shape. The space between her and the form on the bed seemed very wide to cross. For a long time, she stood looking at him from a distance. She needed an effort of will to approach, take a chair—of a daring tubular design—place it by the bed, and sit down.

Hermann gave no sign of noticing her presence. The windowsill was covered in figurines made with the soft part of the bread. They stood out against the light, like a little nation against the sky: beyond the glass pane, lenticular clouds with blurred edges drifted across the azure, propelled by the
Föhn
. Gerda didn't call the man who, for a time, had been her father, didn't try to attract his attention. She remained silent and motionless, as though her emotions too had been sterilized with bleach.

How long she remained like this, she didn't know. After a while, her father opened his eyes. He noticed her presence and turned to her. He stared at her with an opaque look at first then, once he'd focused, it became as brilliant as that of a child.

It was her.

Yes, yes, it was her.

The almond-shaped eyes. The high cheekbones. The soft mouth that only knows kind words.Hermann lowered his eyelids with a moan of relief, satisfaction, comfort.“
Mamme
. . . ,” he whispered, with his eyes shut. He'd been waiting for her for so long. A lifetime.

G
abriele has come to pick me up and taken me to his parents' apartment. His mother opens the door. She comes up to my shoulder, has short gray hair that must have once been curly, a heavy build. But she also has luminous green eyes, and music in her voice. “Here you are, finally! You've no idea how much my husband has been looking forward to seeing you!”

Embarrassment? Jealousy? Not even a hint. On the contrary, she comes closer and drops her voice. “Please don't be offended, I'll pretend I don't know who you are. I don't want him to think I'm upset.”

I don't know what to say but she doesn't need me to say anything. She continues, “I'll just finish making him comfortable in the living room, please give me a moment, we're a little slow, I'm not a little girl anymore, either.”

She goes beyond a frosted glass door, the only source of light in a corridor with a dark stone floor.

There's a smell of sauce.

“Would you like a coffee?” Gabriele says.

“Yes, please.”

“I'll go and make it.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, don't leave me alone.”

He lowers his head in agreement; he's not surprised. He puts a hand on mine as I look at him gratefully.

There are various honors hanging on the corridor walls. Gabriele sees that I'm looking at them, and switches on the light.

They are all certificates conferred upon Vito Anania.

BRONZE MILITARY MEDAL FOR LONG SERVICE

SILVER MILITARY MEDAL FOR LONG SERVICE

GOLD MILITARY MEDAL FOR LONG SERVICE

GOLD CROSS FOR SENIORITY OF SERVICE

KNIGHT OF THE ITALIAN REPUBLIC

MAURITIAN MEDAL

There's also a mention in dispatches, with grounds. I start to read it.

Alongside the Special Operations Group, he cooperated successfully with his superior in charge of carrying out complex and risky inquiries into organized crime, concluding with the discovery and reporting of 20 persons with records for criminal association, responsible for 8 extortions, 17 explosive attacks, 7 aggravated damages and other minor crimes, 2 of whom were arrested while dictating over the line the details of delivery of significant sums of money
.

 

“What does ‘dictating over the line' mean?” I ask Gabriele.

“That they were on the phone.” His eyes laugh a little but not his mouth, which remains serious.

Vito's wife comes back through the glass door. She's wearing a jacket and putting a handbag across her body. She says to her son, ”I'm taking advantage that you two are here, so I can go shopping.” To me, as if I'm already part of the family, she clarifies, “We can't leave him alone anymore.” Then she smiles in such a way that I can't help smiling myself.

“She's here.”

Gabriele opens the glass door and lets me in, then I think he goes to the kitchen, but I can't remember.

He is lying on the sofa on a dozen cushions, a shawl over his legs that are resting on a pouf.

“Eva . . . ”

He's so old. He's so ill. Only his eyes are the same, the rest of him is ready to die.

“You came.”

I can't even say his name. He motions to me to come closer. I cross the room; he looks at me, and looks at me, and looks at me.

“You're so beautiful.”

Never before have I realized just how much I look like my mother.

What do you say in these cases? When you see a man who over thirty years ago . . . I don't know.

So I ask, “How are you?”

“Well . . . as you can see . . . ”

“Do have a lot of pain?”

“A little, at night . . . ”

He taps gently on the sofa, as though inviting me to dance.

“Come, sit down, tell me about yourself . . . Everything, I want to know everything.”

Here we go, I think, now he's going to ask me if I'm married, if I have children. Instead, he asks, “So, what work do you do? I'm sure you have a good career. What did you study at university?”

He has the same voice as when he read me the exploits of the Malaysian Tigers, only fainter.

I shake my head. “I didn't finish university. I organize events.”

“Events?”

I tell him I was studying law, that I wanted to qualify in employment law, but that in my second year they hired me at a public relations company. So I didn't take any more exams, started my own business, and now organize events, and I'm doing well financially: I've bought myself a nice apartment. My mother is happy that I don't do the job of a slave, as she puts it.

Vito doesn't comment. He doesn't tell me off for not studying, he doesn't say he's disappointed in me. And he doesn't say: if I'd been there, I would have helped you choose differently. He nods slowly, as though thoughtfully contemplating the already fixed course of things. It's clear, however, that my answer has made him sad.

Neither does he ask if my mother is married. He just wants to know how she is. I tell him. “Does she know you're here?”

“I told her this morning before coming. But . . . I think I went about it the wrong way.”

Again, he nods, in that slow way of his. Something else he doesn't say: give her my best.

He asks about the people he used to know. It becomes increasingly easy to talk. I tell him about everybody. The last one I tell him about is the hardest. Vito's eyes cloud over and, for a while, he can't find the words except his name: “Ulli . . . ”

We remain a long time without speaking, and it's almost lovely to be close together in silence, the memory of the little boy with roebuck eyes between us.

He asks about Nanga Parbat. He remembers the name of our hiding place! The old hayloft was demolished, I say, Sepp and Maria's grandchildren have built a new one, and now the cowshed looks like a research lab.

I tell him about Sigi and his son Bruno, who's become a
Schütze
like his father, and about the parades where he wears a 19th-century three-cornered hat over dreadlocks and piercings. It's so easy to talk to Vito. He also tells me about himself, about his family. But I can see he's getting tired. I'm about to tell him but he pre-empts me.

“You look tired,” he says to me.

I nod. “I haven't slept since . . . I can't even remember.”

He puts a small cushion on the blanket that covers his legs, looks at me, and gives it two little taps, an affectionate invitation. As if to a cat or a little dog. Or to his little daughter.

I take off my shoes, put my head in his lap, stretch my legs, and make myself comfortable. He puts an arm around my shoulders, and plumps up the cushion under my neck.

“I listened to the tape,” I say softly, looking up at the ceiling.

“Did Gabriele give it to you?”

I slowly move my head. “I would have liked to receive it when you sent it.”

“You have it now.”

The belly I'm leaning against resounds with his quiet voice, like a drum. I close my eyes with a deep sigh.

“But it's late now,” I say.

“It's not late. It's just later.”

Sleep creeps up on me like a thief: it was next to me but I didn't see it until I was in its clutches. I can still hear Gabriele coming into the room with the coffee, and Vito saying, “Eva will drink it afterwards. Now, she's asleep.”

A
nd now I'm hugging my mom because nothing and nobody can make up for what we have lost, neither those guilty of these losses, nor those who, directly or indirectly, were their origin or cause. In the end, when all the calculations have been done and it's clear who has taken what away from whom and why, and credits and debits and the whole double entry of faults and resentments is in order and precise, the only thing that counts is this: that we can still hug each other without wasting a single instant of the extraordinary luck of still being alive.