My Mother-in-Law Drinks (44 page)

“I can take the Negroni back if you want,” the bangs-blowing waiter says to me, materializing out of the darkness at that exact instant with the tray with our drinks.

What an ass I've just made of myself, I think.

E
ver since Alessandra Persiano left, I sleep with my cell phone turned on. Since I no longer hear all that well out of one ear, I keep it under my pillow, and I rely on the vibrate mode, in case any updates come in overnight.

This ignoble practice has ensured that my sleep is automatically interrupted at preset intervals so that I can check the possible arrival of calls and/or texts: 2
A.M.
, 4
A.M.
, 6:30.

It goes without saying that every time it takes the hand of God to get me back to sleep, so in the end I get a terrible night's sleep, and my face only starts to reassemble itself around two in the afternoon.

But last night, as I returned home from my surreal tête-à-tête with Irene, something very strange happened to me. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket; I looked at it; it occurred to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world that there was no rule written anywhere that I had to ruin another night of sleep, and then I
turned it off
, triggering an exquisitely political sense of relief at the realization of how little it takes to set a caged man free.

That's not all: when I brushed my teeth I moved the toothbrush correctly (up and down, rather than scrubbing horizontally like an ignorant donkey the way I usually do), then I switched the light off, I turned my nose up at the small angry mob of guilt complexes that usually gathers in my bedroom when I lay myself out flat on my back and recapitulate the events of the day and the state of my life in general, then I simply closed my eyes and I
slept
until nine the next morning.

Absolutely unbelievable.

 

I turn my cell phone on at ten (an unthinkable time for a person to get up who is a vassal to his loved ones, and has therefore long since sentenced himself to be available around the clock, 24/7/365), while I spoil the pleasure of my morning espresso waiting for a slow-moving tree sloth of a man to finish reading the one copy of
Corriere della Sera
offered free of charge to the customers of this café.

There are three missed calls: two from Assunta and one from an unknown number.

I'm just calling Ass back when I'm interrupted by an incoming call (the number seems to be the same one I read just a moment ago). I want to reject it, but I'm always getting the commands muddled (for someone who's used to doing one thing at a time, the multifunctionality of modern cell phones is pure avant-garde) and so instead I take it.

“Yes,” I answer. As if to say: “No.”

“Am I speaking with Counselor Malinconico?”

I'm so frustrated at having postponed the phone call I wanted to make in order to answer an incoming call from I have no idea whom that I have a sudden urge to be rude.

“No.”

Pause.

The guy on the other end of the line is probably trying to make up his mind as to whether or not to believe me.

“Actually, I wrote the number in my agenda book . . .” he replies, without the slightest argumentative edge.

“Nice work, Vincenzo,” I say to myself. “You're such an oaf.”

And an idiot to boot.

“You're right. Forgive me.”

“In that case, I'm speaking with Counselor Malinconico?”

“Unfortunately, you are.”

“Then that's taken care of.
Buongiorno
, this is Simone, I work with Daria Bignardi, do you remember me?”

God, what an ass I just made of myself.

“Oh, of course, how are you? I was just thinking that I needed to hear back from you about the trip. I'm coming on Friday, right?”

“Actually,” he says, somewhat embarrassed, “well, that's why I was calling you. There were some unexpected developments during the preparation of this week's program and the topic we'd invited you to discuss has been, ahem, crossed off the list, I'm afraid.”

“Ah,” I say, “why is that?”

“Well, you see, it's by and large a thematic issue.”

“A thematic issue.”

“Yes, you see, we do our best to offer a minimum of continuity in terms of the subjects that make up the broadcast. Unfortunately, when, as in this case, more than one of the guests drop out before air time, we're forced to restructure the program around another theme.”

“Okay. Maybe if you give me half an hour or so I'll be able to figure out what you just said.”

He laughs.

“In any case, we'd be delighted to have you on the show some other time.”

Sure, I think.

“Of course.”

“Daria sends her best.”

“Thanks, please give her mine. And forgive me for earlier, I'm not usually so rude.”

“Don't give it a second thought. Please forgive us, rather, for this last-minute change.”

After we end the call, I enjoy the surprisingly sweet sensation of lightness that this cancellation in midstream has brought me.

I don't know if I've told you this, but I basically adore cancellations. They suddenly free you of all responsibilities, all expectations. Above all, they reconcile you with boredom.

 

Another call.

This one at least comes from a number I know: it's Assunta.

“Who were you talking to?” is the first thing she says, without even giving me the time to say “hello.”

I give a start.

“Hey, who do you think you are, my girlfriend?”

“I try calling you for almost two hours and find the phone turned off the whole time, then I try again and this time it's busy: with your kind permission, I'm going to go ahead and be irritated, okay?”

“What's gotten into you, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Where are you? I need you to come over here for a minute. Right away.”

“Do you know what time it is, Ass? Ten thirty in the morning. You know where I could very well be at this time of day? In court. And you know what I could very well be doing? Arguing a case.”

“But instead you're wasting time in some café, right?”

Shit, I think.

I hold the phone away from my ear, then I bring it back.

“I hereby inform you, my dear mother-in-law, that the countdown has begun for the mission to tell you to go fuck yourself, and I've already reached the number four. Three, two, one . . .”

“Go fuck yourself, Vincenzo.”

“Hey, wasn't I supposed to be the one saying that to you?”

“Get your ass in gear and get over here, I want you to do something.”

“But what?”

“I'll tell you when you get here.”

“Oh, Jesus. But why is it so urgent?”

“It's not actually that urgent, but I want to do it before I stop feeling like it. Come on, enough with this debate, just swing by here, now, Christ!”

“Okay, okay, I'm on my way, fuck off.”

 

That she's decided to undergo chemo, even if it sounds absurd to say so, is good news. That she's decided to put an end to her reprisal against Nives, likewise. Also because that means we can put an end to my clandestine visits, and she can finally accept the assistance of the person who really ought to be there at her side in the challenging period that lies ahead of her. But it's not as if I'm really all that eager to take credit for these fine decisions, as she wants me to do.

I tell her that I have no need of rehabilitation in Nives's eyes, and in fact I'm not comfortable with the idea of informing her of the fact that all this time I've been—let's go ahead and put it in these terms—taking care of her mother behind her back, but Ass doesn't want to listen to reason, she demands that her daughter know that if she's changed her mind, it's thanks to me.

“But I didn't do anything, Ass.”

“You came to see me in secret and you put up with the ravings of a bitter old woman, Vincenzo. And in spite of all that, you made me laugh.”

This, I have to admit, I am pleased to hear.

“You certainly don't expect me to deliver this whole lovely little speech to her?”

“There's no need. There's just one thing I need, and it's very simple.”

She tells me what it is.

“Okay,” I tell her when she's done.

“Thanks,” she says.

“A quick shot to celebrate?” I ask teasingly.

She smiles.

“Your Jack Daniel's is long gone.”

“You're not the one who's been drinking it, am I right?”

“Let's just say that Miorita really enjoyed it.”

“I knew it.”

“But you can't even begin to imagine how much good it did me to see you walk in here with that bottle in your hand.”

Alagia? Alfredo? I wish you were both here right now. Ears wide open.

 

I pull out my cell phone, I dial the number.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Vincenzo,” she says, happily surprised.

“Ciao, Nives. Do you have a minute?”

“I . . . yes, of course, why not. I'm happy to hear from you, I wanted to . . .”

“We can talk later. Right now there's a person here I want you to talk to.”

“A . . . person?”

“Yes.”

And I hand the phone to her mother.

 

As I leave Ass's building, I catch myself thinking how odd it is that a person who feels damaged deep inside can still be deserving of someone's love. Whether it's a terrible father sleeping in an oxygen tent or a sad sack like me who does nothing but rack up one failure after another doesn't much matter. We're all the same. Unhappy in different ways, doing what we can to make sure that not everything is a dead loss.

I never asked love to save my life. All I wanted was for it to be there when I felt its absence, to never abandon me entirely. Even when it was ramshackle and ridiculous, I never gave up on it.

 

My phone rings.

I glance at the display.

It's Alessandra Persiano.

For a second my heart leaps up into my mouth, then it sinks back to its proper location unassisted, without my having to do anything to persuade it. Perhaps it simply no longer cares that much.

That's what I would have said to Paolo Di Stefano, if he'd asked me, “How do you want to die?” during Proust's questionnaire.

I look at the phone in my hand as it squeaks and vibrates. It's like holding a mouse. Alessandra Persiano's name keeps blinking, like a cry for help.

I put the phone back in my pocket, I start walking again, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I avail myself of the right not to answer.

This is a work of fiction (it's odd that novels so often point out this fact: have you ever purchased a couch and found a notice, perhaps on the consumer safety label, informing you that “This is a very wide upholstered seat with a backrest and armrests”?). Events, names, characters, and places are all imaginary. Any resemblance to actual events, real persons, and mothers-in-law is purely coincidental. Not so for real persons mentioned in this book, whom I fictitiously enlisted in what I hope is the most respectful way possible as far as their public images are concerned.

I thank Prof. John Spanish for his advice on the subject of video security.

I also wish to thank Ernesto Franco, because he knows what a writer is and what he does; Paola Gallo, who knows how to point out a novel's better qualities and shortcomings with the same tact and delicacy (and who wears boots with all the flair of an authentic cowgirl); and Maria Ida Cartoni, who has an unmatched talent for describing a book in a sentence or two at the most, and nailing it every time.

My special thanks to Dalia Oggero, who has been following me since I took my first literary steps, and who after all these years still lets me know whether I'm keeping up the pace or just scampering on all fours.

 

D. D. S.

 

 

(The chapter “When You Wake Up and Realize You Died in Your Sleep” appeared in the February 2008 issue of
Rolling Stone Italy
, in a slightly different version.)

Diego De Silva was born in Naples in 1964. He is the author of plays, screenplays, and six novels.
I Hadn't Understood
, the first book featuring Vincenzo Malinconico, was a finalist for the Strega Prize, Italy's most prestigious literary award, and winner of the Naples Prize for fiction. He currently lives in Salerno.

Vincenzo Malinconico is a wildly unsuccessful lawyer who spends most of his time at the office trying to look busy. His wife has left him. His teenage children worry him to death. And he suffers from a chronic inability to control his sentence structure.
When he is asked to fill in as the public defender for alleged Mafioso Mimmo lo Burzone, Malinconico seizes the opportunity to turn his life around. Without dwelling too long on what it might mean to be employed by the mob, he rushes to re-learn the Italian criminal code, all the while attempting to resist any further advances from his employers. Malinconico's life becomes a comical battle to finish what he has started without falling further into the clutches of the mafia.
I Hadn't Understood
is one of the subtlest and most cunning accounts of the mafia's influence on everyday life in recent decades. And it is certainly the most entertaining. Written with a neurotic's love of detail and wry humor, I Hadn't Understood is an engaging story of family, fatherhood, and the perils of navigating the Italian legal system.

ISBN
: 9781609450656 – March 2012

Read more on Europa Editions website