Involuntary Witness (3 page)

Finally it happened to me in the office. It was one afternoon and I was speaking to my secretary about something when I felt the tears welling up and a painful sensation in my throat.

I set myself to staring dully at a small patch of damp on the wall, answering meanwhile by simply nodding, scared stiff lest Maria Teresa should realize what was going on.

In fact she realized perfectly well, suddenly remembered that she had some photocopies to make and very tactfully left the room.

Only a few seconds later I burst into tears, and it was no easy matter to stop.

I felt it was not a good idea to wait for a repetition, in the middle of a trial for example.

Next day I called my doctor and got him to give me the name of that specialist.

The psychiatrist was tall, massive and imposing, bearded and with hands like shovels. I could just see him immobilizing a raving lunatic and forcing him into a straitjacket.

He was kindly enough, considering his beard and bulk. He got me to tell him everything and kept nodding his head. This seemed reassuring. Then it occurred to me that I too used to nod my head while clients were talking and I felt somewhat less reassured.

However, he said that I was suffering from a particular form of adjustment disturbance. The separation had worked in my psyche like a time bomb and after a while had caused something to snap. Caused, in fact, a series of ruptures. I had made a mistake in neglecting the problem for so many months. There had been a degeneration of the adjustment disturbance, which was in danger of evolving into a depressive state of moderate gravity. Such situations ought not to be underestimated. There was no need to worry, though, because the fact of having come to a psychiatrist was in itself a positive sign of self-awareness and a prelude to recovery. I was certainly in need of pharmaceutical treatment, but, all in all, after a few months the situation would be decidedly improved.

A pause and a piercing look. They must have been part of the therapy.

Then he began writing, filling a page of his prescription pad with anxiolytics and antidepressants.

I was to take the stuff for two months. I must try to find distractions. I must avoid dwelling on myself. I must attempt to see the positive side of things and avoid thinking there was no way out of my situation. I must hand over 300,000 lire, there was no question of a receipt and we’d meet in two months’ time for a check-up.

From the doorway as he showed me out, he advised me against reading the descriptive leaflets enclosed with the drugs. He was a real authority on the human psyche.

I hunted for a chemist’s a long way from the centre of town, to avoid meeting anyone I knew. I didn’t want a client or colleague of mine present when the chemist yelled out to the assistant in the back some such phrase as “Look in the psychotropic cupboard and see if we have extra-strong psychiatric Valium for this gentleman.”

After cruising around a bit in the car, I selected somewhere in Japigia, on the outskirts of the city. The chemist was a bony young woman with a rather unsociable air, and I handed her the prescription with averted eyes. I felt as much at my ease as a priest in a porn shop.

The bony chemist was already making out the bill when I recited my little speech: “While I’m here I’ll get something for myself as well. Have you some effervescent vitamin C?”

She looked at me for a second, without a word. She knew the script. Then she gave me the vitamin C along with the rest. I paid and fled like a thief.

When I got home I unwrapped the package, opened the boxes and read the enclosed leaflets. I found them
all interesting, but my attention was irresistibly drawn to the side-effects of the antidepressant. Trittico with a trazodone base.

The patient began with simple dizzy spells, passing swiftly on to dryness of the mouth, blurred vision, constipation, urinary retention, tremors and alteration of the libido.

It occurred to me that I had already seen to altering my libido on my own, then I went on reading. I thus discovered that a limited number of men who take trazodone develop a tendency to long, painful erections, what is known as priapism.

This problem might even require an emergency surgical operation, which in turn might result in permanent sexual impairment.

But the end was reassuring. The risk of fatal overdose of trazodone was, fortunately, lower than that resulting from the use of tricyclic antidepressants.

Having finished reading, I fell to meditating.

What do you do in the case of a prolonged and painful erection? Do you go to a hospital holding the thing in your hand? Do you put on
very
comfortable underpants? What do you say to the doctor? What does permanent sexual impairment amount to?

And again, how much does one need for a fatal overdose of trazodone? Are two pills enough? Or does it require the whole packet?

I found no answers to these questions, but the Trittico ended up down the bog, along with the rest of the medicines prescribed by my psychiatrist. My ex-psychiatrist.

I conscientiously emptied all the packets and pulled the chain. Into the rubbish bin went the boxes, phials, ampoules and descriptive leaflets.

That done, I poured myself an ample half-glass of
whisky –
avoid alcoholic beverages
– and put
Chariots of Fire
into the video machine. One of the few cassettes I had brought away with me.

When the first pictures started coming, I lit up a Marlboro –
avoid nicotine, especially in the evening
– and for the first time in a very long while I almost felt in a good mood.

When I was a boy I used to box.

My grandfather took me along to a gym after seeing me come home with my face swollen from the beating it had taken. Administered by a fellow bigger – and nastier – than me.

I was fourteen then, very skinny, with a nose red and shiny from acne. I was in the fourth form at grammar school, and was perfectly convinced that there was no such thing as happiness. For me, at any rate.

The gym was in a damp basement. The instructor was a lean man approaching seventy, with arms still lean and muscular and a face like Buster Keaton’s. He was a friend of my grandfather.

I have a precise recollection of the moment we entered it, at the foot of some narrow, ill-lit steps. There was not a voice to be heard, only the dull thud of fists hitting the punch bag, the rap of skipping ropes, the rhythm of the punch ball. There was a smell I can’t describe, but it is there in my nostrils now, as I write, and a thrill runs through me.

That I was going in for boxing was long kept secret from my mother. She only learned it when, at the age of seventeen and a half, I won the welterweight silver medal in the regional junior championships.

My grandfather, however, never got to see me on that pasteboard podium.

Three months previously he had been walking through a pine wood with his Alsatian when at a
certain moment he stopped and calmly sat down on a bench.

A lad who was nearby reported that, after stroking the dog, he had leaned his head on the back of the bench in an unusual fashion.

The carabinieri had to shoot the dog before they could approach the body and identify him as Guido Guerrieri, former Professor of Medieval Philosophy.

My grandfather.

I won other medals after those regional championships. Even a bronze as a middleweight in the Italian university championships.

I never had a deadly punch, but I’d acquired a good technique, and I was tall and lean, with a longer reach than others at my weight.

Shortly before I took my degree I gave it up, because boxing is something you can keep up for long only if you are a champion, or if you have something to prove.

I was not a champion and it seemed to me I had already proved what I had to prove.

Having decided to get along without modern psychiatry, I searched my mind for some alternative. And I found what I needed was a spot of fisticuffs.

Thinking it over, I realized that it had been one of the few solid things in my life. The smell of glove leather, the punches given and taken, the hot shower afterwards, when you discovered that for two whole hours not a single thought had passed through your head.

The fear as you were walking towards the ring, the fear behind your expressionless eyes, behind the expressionless eyes of your opponent. Dancing, jumping, trying to dodge, giving and taking ’em, with arms so weary you can’t keep your guard up, breathing through your mouth, praying it’ll end because you
can’t take it any longer, wanting to punch but being unable to, thinking you don’t care whether you win or lose as long as it ends, thinking you want to throw yourself on the ground but you don’t, and you don’t know what’s keeping you on your feet or why and then the bell rings and you think you’ve lost and you don’t care and then the referee raises your arm and you realize you’ve won and nothing exists at that moment, nothing exists
but
that moment. No one can take it away from you. Never ever.

I searched for a gym that catered for boxing. The old basement of nearly twenty-five years before was long gone. The instructor was dead. I consulted the Yellow Pages and saw that the city was full of gyms for the martial arts of Japan, Thailand, Korea, China and even Vietnam. The choice was vast: judo, ju-jitsu, aikido, karate, Thai boxing, taekwondo, tai chi chuan, wing chun, kendo, viet vo dao.

Boxing seemed to have simply vanished, but I didn’t give up. I rang the local office of the Olympic Committee and asked if there were any gyms in Bari that did boxing. The chap at the other end was very efficient and helpful. Yes, there were two boxing clubs in Bari, one near the new stadium, housed by the council, and the other, which used the gym of a secondary school just round the corner from where I lived.

I went to take a look at it and found that the instructor was an acquaintance of mine from the old gym. Pino. But to remember his surname was obviously beyond me. He had started at the basement shortly before I gave up. He was a heavyweight with not much technique but really powerful fists. He’d even had a few bouts as a professional, without great success. Now he had a number of occupations: boxing instructor,
bouncer in discothèques, head of security at rock concerts, mass events, festivals and the like.

He was glad to see me, and of course I could sign up, I was his guest, he wouldn’t hear of my paying. And in any case a lawyer might always come in useful.

In short, starting the following week, every Monday and Thursday I left the office at half-past six, by seven I was in the gym, and for nearly two hours I was boxing away.

This made me feel a little better. Not what you might call well, but a little better. I skipped, did the knee-bends, abdominal exercises, punched the punchbag, and fought a few rounds with lads twenty years younger than myself.

Some nights I managed to get some sleep on my own, without pills. Others not.

Sometimes I even managed to sleep for five or six hours at a stretch.

Some evenings I went out with friends and felt almost relaxed.

I still burst into tears, but less often, and in any case I managed to keep it under control.

I went on not taking the lift, but this wasn’t a great problem and nobody noticed anyway.

I passed almost unscathed through the Christmas holidays, even if one day, perhaps the 29th or 30th, I saw Sara in the street in the middle of town. She was with a woman friend and a man I had never seen. He could well have been the friend’s fiancé, or her uncle, or a gay as far as I knew. All the same, I was convinced at once that he was Sara’s new boyfriend.

We waved to each other from opposite pavements. I went on another step or so and then realized that I was holding my breath. My diaphragm was obstructed. I felt something, something hot, rising up in me to
spread across my whole face, into the roots of my hair. My mind was a blank for several minutes.

I had trouble breathing for the rest of the day and got no sleep that night.

Then even that passed.

After the Christmas holidays I started working again, at least a little. I recognized the catastrophe that was threatening my practice and above all my unsuspecting clients and, ploddingly, I attempted to regain a modicum of control over the situation.

I began once more to prepare for trials, began to listen – a little – to what my clients were saying, I began to listen to what my secretary was saying.

Slowly, in jerks, like a worn-out jalopy, my life began to get moving again.

It was a February afternoon, but it wasn’t cold. It had never been cold, that winter.

I passed the bar downstairs from the office but didn’t go in. I was ashamed to ask for a decaffeinated coffee, so I went to a dismal bar five blocks away.

Ever since I’d started suffering from insomnia I didn’t drink proper coffee in the afternoon. I had tried barley coffee a few times, but it really was too disgusting. But decaffeinated coffee seemed like real. The main thing is not to be seen ordering it.

I had always looked with a certain condescension on people who ordered the decaffeinated stuff. I didn’t want the same sort of looks to be cast at me now. At least, not by people I knew. I therefore avoided my usual bar in the afternoons.

I drank the coffee, lit a Marlboro and smoked it seated at an ancient Formica-topped table. Then back five blocks and up to the office.

As far as I could remember, it was due to be a rather quiet afternoon: only one appointment. With Signora Cassano, due for trial the next day for maltreating her husband.

According to the indictment, this gentleman had for years come home from work to hear himself called, at the best, a shitty down-and-out failure. For years he had been forced to hand over his wages, allowed to keep only some loose change for cigarettes and other personal expenses. For years he had been humiliated
at family gatherings and before his few friends. On numerous occasions he had been slapped about and she had even spat in his face.