My Mother-in-Law Drinks (34 page)

I must have jotted down (even though I wasn't all that sure that I wanted to call them back) something like a dozen names and numbers for reporters from local and national publications who expressed just how tremendously urgent it was that I get back to them at any time of the day or night (oh sure, because they couldn't just call me back, right?).

The only one I called back with relative promptness was Paolo Di Stefano, whose questionnaire response column I read regularly in
Io donna
magazine, which comes with the Saturday edition of
Corriere della Sera
, loosely based on Proust's famous parlor game.

I already had my answers ready (I've always wanted to take Proust's questionnaire someday), and so when Di Stefano asked me if I had ten minutes to spare, I said yes without even pretending to think it over (the text of the questionnaire is on pages 286-289).

Even Nives got in touch (that one wasn't a message: I just answered the phone). A slow, disagreeable, shamefully hypocritical conversation that I transcribe here (supplying in italics, in the parentheses that follow the answers I gave her, what I was actually thinking):

“Vincenzo, it's me.”

“How are you, Nives.”

(You know, caller ID has been around for a while now, you idiot, why are you telling me that it's you? Just hurry up, because I have Paolo Mieli on the other line.)

“I thought you didn't want to talk to me.”

“Why would you think that?”

(You're right, I didn't want to talk to you, but I'm hoping that if I'm nice you'll hold off on asking for the alimony payments for at least a couple of months.)

“The kids told me that you noticed I wasn't there.”

“Yes. I did notice. But don't worry, I understand.”

(Do you think I needed some kind of clue in order to notice such oafish behavior, driven entirely by a need to be the center of attention? You didn't like it, eh, having to share the spotlight for once in your life, right?)

“I just couldn't handle it. I'd have embraced you and started sobbing on your shoulder, I swear it on our children's lives.”

When she got to the end of that one, I scratched my balls before answering.

“If it's any consolation, I'd probably have started crying myself.”

(Sure, sure, of course. You crying: no doubt. You're going to try to foist this piece of nonsense off on me, of all people? Christmas 1996: you slammed a hammer down on your left thumb in an attempt to drive a nail into the living room wall—so you could hang, what's worse, a still life that was probably still because it was putrefied, done by a so-called girlfriend of yours who was a painter—and even then you shed not a single salt tear.)

At this point she took a break and sniffed piteously a couple of times (a performance so cringeworthy as to earn her an immediate nomination for the Golden Rotten Tomato); after which she uttered my name emphatically and melodramatically, as if I needed to brace myself for who knows what revelation that any second now would change my life forever.

“Vincenzo.”

(The fuck is it, now?)

“Yes, Nives.”

“The reason I . . .”

(Oh, sweet Saint Anthony. How much longer is this going to take? Here's another thing I can't stand about you: the way you break up sentences to heighten the suspense. We're not doing amateur theater here: just say it, for fuck's sake! The reason you
what
?)

“. . . Yes?”

“. . . The reason I couldn't bring myself to embrace you is that I didn't think you'd let me. And even though I have no right to say this, given that we're divorced, feeling rejected by you still causes me a great deal of pain.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Nives. You know that you're the last person on earth I'd want to hurt in any way.”

(Oh, really? And all the times that it was you rejecting me, dumping me—when I did, in fact, cry—after we'd fucked like rabbits between
your
sessions at work? And all the times that I tossed and turned in bed like an obsessive at the thought of you going home to that architect you were seeing? All the times that I asked you, either directly or indirectly, to consider getting back together—when I asked you indirectly your rejection was even more painful—it didn't hurt you then, did it, you stupid, conceited, egocentric monster? You know what I say to you? That I don't give a good goddamn if it hurts you to be rejected, in fact I'm delighted to hear it; now maybe you'll understand what it feels like to be the one taking it unwillingly up the ass, you who never once in your entire life took it up the ass without wanting it, if I remember rightly.)
 

Uncomfortable pause, during which I dreaded that any second now she'd say what I hoped against hope she wouldn't say: which is exactly what she promptly did.

“I . . . this conversation is becoming too difficult for me, Vincenzo. I know that your . . . partner . . . wasn't there when you got out of the supermarket, and . . .”

“I'd actually prefer not to talk about that, if you don't mind.”

(Alagia and Alfredo: the minute I see you two again, I'll kick your asses, you little bastards.)

“Yes, of course. It was indiscreet of me, forgive me.”

“No, it's just that we're going through kind of an awkward period, and so that's something that's, how should I put it, been on our minds.”

(You can say that again, my dear psychologist, that that was indiscreet of you. I never expected you to sink so low. Of all the self-nominations that you've trotted out so far, that one is absolutely the most devious. Fuck you and your alimony checks. I don't have the money anyway.)

“All right, I don't want to meddle. But if you ever want to talk, I'm here.”

“Okay.”

(Of course, the only thing missing from my life is a regular session with you. What kind of idiot do you take me for?)

“And I want you to know that I really admired what you did in the supermarket.”

“Thanks.”

(Go fuck yourself.)

There followed a very short pause.

“Vincenzo.

“What.”

(Aaah!!)

“I love you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

(Ooh, you can't imagine how much. Esepcially if you forget about those checks I owe you.)

 

I sat there in a trance for I couldn't say how many minutes, waiting for my disgust with myself to subside, until I realized that I'd left the window open.

“Do you think this buffoonery is going to do you any good?” the busybody angel asked me from the windowsill. I'd hoped he'd taken his leave, after the way I'd gone to town on him the last time.

“Now's not a good time,” I told him.

“I heard word for word exactly what you were thinking.”

“Then that means you can hear what I'm thinking about you right now.”

He came over and sat down on a corner of the Jonas, as if I'd said, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Keep it up and you'll just be leading her on, you cretin.”

“That's her problem. I have another woman; it's not exactly a secret.”

And here I have to say that he surprised me, because he refrained from making comments of any kind. A display of generosity that I didn't expect from him.

“You know what your problem is? You let things take care of themselves through inertia.”

“Excuse me?”

“But things develop and grow just the same—what do you think? And it's not as if, when you find them big and fully developed before you, you can just say, ‘Oooh, lookee here.'”

“I don't . . . understand . . . what you're talking about,” I stammered.

“I'm talking about you.”

I dropped my head.

“She's the one who left,” I whined pathetically.

“Yeah, exactly. You see what I'm talking about?”

“I couldn't move. I was there, she was leaving, and I sat there watching her.”

“Well, what if that was the right thing to do?”

“Seriously?” I asked, astonished and beaming.

“Try and look at it from another point of view: for once in your life you were aware of what was happening to you.”

I felt something like a gust of cool air rushing up from underneath me, like Marilyn on the subway grate in that famous movie. I was tempted to clap my hands, I was so enthusiastic about the idea of successfully reenvisioning my status from a dignified point of view—just like that, from one moment to the next.

“Hey, you know that you have a point?”

He nodded and shrugged (implying that this was hardly a new experience for him), then he hopped down off the Jonas and back up onto the windowsill in a way that I wouldn't exactly describe as athletic.

“Okay. I'm going, then.”

“What?”

“Well, for today my work is done, I think.”

“You're already taking off?”

“What do you think, it's fun to look after you?”

I could have answered in kind, but since he'd momentarily earned my gratitude, I let it slide.

Flap-flap.

 

Taking advantage of my sudden surge of enthusiasm I went to court, just to take a walk around and enjoy the situation a bit, if you know what I mean.

And in fact I have to say that I really enjoyed myself. Everyone turned and looked. Everyone said hello. Even the ones who'd never said hello before. Everyone congratulated me. Even the ones I didn't know.

The things they ventured to say as commentary on the hostage taking qua trial made me feel awkward and embarrassed, but to see them cluster around me was a joy, truth be told.

From behind my sunglasses (which I never took off once, and in fact I almost fell down the stairs a couple of times), I gave monosyllabic responses. When someone waved a newspaper in front of my face, as if to say, “You represent us all,” I acted shy and self-conscious.

Just one, shall we say, colleague, an old acquaintance (and pretty old, himself), all things considered a perfectly nice guy, one of those people who could live a peaceful existence if only they didn't feel they were engaged in some perennial competition with the world at large, walked past me repeatedly, ostentatiously refraining from saying hello.

On what was maybe the fifth flyover he came up to me and extended his hand. His jaws were clenched so tight by the effort he was making that I expected him to crack a molar any minute.

I felt as if I could read the subtitles beneath everything he said to me.

“Very moving stuff, Vincenzo.”

(Oh, how I wish a heart attack would strike you down at this exact moment, leaving you conscious just long enough to see me smile as I pretend to call for help.)

“Oh, gee, really?”

“You were very . . . powerful.”

(My God, I hate you so.)

His gaze had taken on the strange fixed expression that is a premonitory sign of a stroke. His ears had even reddened. Any moment now, I swear, I expected him to collapse twitching on the floor.

Luckily, my old friend Massimo came over and frog-marched me off, in defiance of all the rules of etiquette, forcing me to down another expresso.

My sixth that morning.

The principal feature of your personality?

Did you get my last name?

 

The quality you appreciate most in another man?

A sense of humor.

 

And in a woman?

A warm welcome.

 

Your biggest defect?

I tend to brood. But my secondary defects are every bit as impressive.

 

When was the last time you cried?

Just a few days ago, while watching a seventies tearjerker,
L'ultima neve di primavera
(The Last Snows of Spring), on a local channel. Do you remember it? The tagline on the posters was just appalling: . . .
Papà, it's a shame I'll never see you again
.

 

I don't believe you.

That's smart.

 

Who's the one person you met who changed your life?

I didn't remember that this was going to be one of the questions.

*

Excuse me?

Nothing, forget it.

 

Recurring dream?

I'm in an old apartment, I relax and get comfortable, then suddenly I remember that I sold the place and I'm filled with anguish at the thought that the new owners may come back from one moment to the next.

 

The person you'd summon back to life?

Massimo Troisi.

 

Favorite singer?

Sting.

 

The song you whistle most often in the shower?

“Oh! Susanna.”

 

Personal cult film?

The Accidental Tourist.

 

Favorite actor?

William Hurt.

 

Favorite actress?

Emmanuelle Béart.

 

If you had several million euros?

I'd be much better off.

 

Favorite dish?

Spaghetti with
spunzilli
and basil.

 

Spunzilli?

Cherry tomatoes.

 

Favorite drink?

Amarone.

 

Hardly an unpretentious wine.

Now that I have several million euros in the bank, what should I drink, Tavernello?

 

Favorite city?

New York.

 

Your first love?

A total bitch.

 

The television show you love most?