Reasonable Doubts (9 page)

I stood up, and after a moment’s hesitation she stood up, too.

“You told me you’d like to try my cooking.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s an exhibition opening tomorrow night.” She took a small card made from rough white paper out of her handbag. “There’s a reception and I’m taking care of the buffet. Japanese food with a few variants of my own creation.”

She handed me the card.

“This is an invitation for two. You can bring your girlfriend if you like, or whoever. The reception starts at nine o’clock. I think it could be fun. It’s in a garage that’s been converted into an exhibition space.”

I thanked her and looked at the card. I had never heard of either the artist - nothing unusual about that - or the address. And that was a little more unusual, as it was in Bari.

I told her I had a previous engagement, but I’d see if I could get out of it because I’d really like to go.

Of course I didn’t have any previous engagement. I’d only said that to make myself look good. Don’t worry about me, I have a wild social life. I’m not a loser who spends his evenings in the office studying files, or in a gym taking punches, or alone at the cinema, trying not to think about his girlfriend who left him.

A stab of pain. A photographic negative of Margherita. Dissolve.

Now Natsu really had to go. She walked a little faster to the door, as if she felt embarrassed and wanted to leave in order to get rid of that embarrassment.

We shook hands, and I opened the door for her. The little girl was sitting on Maria Teresa’s lap at the computer, which was emitting strange gurgling and splashing sounds.

The girl asked when she could come back and play Bubbles and Splashes again. Maria Teresa told her she could come back whenever she liked, and the girl kissed her, jumped up
and went to her mummy. On the way out, she even waved goodbye to me.

“Beautiful little girl, isn’t she?” I said when they had gone.

“Beautiful?” Maria Teresa replied. “She’s amazing.”

“Yes, she’s very beautiful,” I said, as I went back into my room, lost in thought.

I went and sat down, and stayed there for at least five minutes, without doing or saying anything.

When I came to my senses, I got out the street map to look for that address.

13

In front of the entrance stood a man who looked like a bodybuilder. He was wearing a dark suit, and had a microphone and earpiece. He asked me if I was alone. No, I’m with the invisible woman. And from the intelligent look on your face, I assume you’re Ben Grimm.

I didn’t say that, but I did go right up to him - wondering who’d emerge the winner if we got into a fight - and made a gesture with my hand, to show him that there was no one next to me, so yes, I was alone. It didn’t occur to me to say it out loud.

He let me pass, and then whispered a few words I didn’t catch into the microphone. Maybe he was warning his colleagues inside that a suspicious character was coming in and they’d better keep an eye on him. I descended a ramp and found myself in a strange place. It was a real garage, though obviously without cars. The floor was covered with porphyry building blocks, and scattered throughout the space were those mushroom-shaped heaters you find in bars so that people can be in the open air even in winter. It was fairly cold all the same, so although I unbuttoned my jacket I didn’t take it off.

There were a lot of people there. My first thought, as I entered, was that it was like some vaguely surreal film set. Groups of very well-to-do but left-wing ladies. Groups of unmistakably gay young men and women. Groups of people
of different ages, dressed to display the fact that they were artists. A few politicians, a few would-be intellectuals, a few young black men, a few Japanese. No one I knew.

It was such a weird mixture that it immediately put me in a good mood. I thought I would take a quick look at the works, in order not to be unprepared, and then look for the food. And Natsu.

On a small table, close to the entrance, there were catalogues. I took one and leafed through it as I moved closer to the walls. The title of the exhibition was
The Elementary Particles
.

I wondered if it was a reference to the novel by that Frenchman. I hadn’t liked the book, but I assumed it was meant to be a clue to understanding the works.

From a distance, the paintings on display were reminiscent of Rothko. All things considered, they weren’t bad. I went up to one of them. I was examining it, trying to grasp the technique, when a voice behind me made me jump.

“Are you Piero’s boyfriend?” He had orange hair and looked like an Elton John clone. A local Elton John, judging by the accent.

No, friend, you’re more likely to be Piero’s boyfriend, whoever the hell this Piero is.

“No, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. You must be confusing me with someone else.”

“Oh,” he said, with a sigh that could mean anything. Then he looked me up and down and asked, “Do you like Katso’s work?”

“Who?”

Katso was the artist, it turned out. Elton explained that he had thought up the title of the exhibition and had written the critical introduction to the catalogue.

Oh, excellent. I’d glanced at it and hadn’t understood a word.

I didn’t say that, but he read my mind, and without my asking started to explain his introduction in detail.

I couldn’t believe it. There were at least two hundred people there, and this character had buttonholed me. I’d have liked to signal to someone to come and save me, maybe by knocking Elton on the head, but I didn’t know anyone.

After a while I noticed that people were moving in groups towards the side of the garage furthest from the entrance. The movement you always get at parties when the food is ready.

“I think there’s something to eat,” I said, but he didn’t even hear me.

He was unstoppable now, having launched on a metaphysical exegesis on the works of Katso.

“Spudlicating, humbo,” I said. Complete gibberish, just to make sure he wasn’t listening to a word I said. And it was true: he really wasn’t. He didn’t ask me what “spudlicating” meant, or even what a “humbo” was. He was too busy talking about archetypes and the way certain artistic manifestations condensed the scattered fragments of the collective unconscious.

I condensed
my
scattered fragments and said excuse me - only because I’m such a polite person - turned and headed towards the food.

People were crowding around a long table. From a room immediately behind it, waiters emerged with trays full of sushi, sashimi and tempura. At one end of the table were wooden chopsticks wrapped in paper, at the other, plastic knives and forks for the inexperienced.

I made my way between the people without bothering
too much about the queue, filled a plate, poured a lot of soy sauce over it, took a pair of chopsticks and went and sat down on a stool away from the others, to eat in peace.

The food was very good. It had clearly been prepared there, just before being served, not frozen and kept for hours in a fridge, and I enjoyed it more than anything I’d eaten for quite a while. A waiter passed with a tray of glasses filled with white wine. I took two, mumbling that I was expecting a lady. The wine wasn’t as good as the food, but at least it was nice and cold. I drank the first glass straight down and disposed of it under the stool, then sipped in a more civilized manner at the second. Gradually the crowd around the table dispersed.

It was then that Natsu emerged from the room behind the table. She was in a white chef’s uniform, which set off her dark complexion and black hair spectacularly.

She glanced at the table, which looked as if a swarm of locusts had passed over it. Then she looked around and I stood up without even realizing it. After a few moments, our eyes met. I waved awkwardly. She smiled and came towards me.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

There were a few seconds of embarrassment. I felt the impulse to say that the food was very good, that she was an exceptionally good cook, and other highly original remarks like that. Fortunately, I managed to restrain myself.

“I could do with a cigarette. Do you mind going outside with me?”

I said I didn’t mind at all and we walked together towards the entrance, where all the smokers had gathered. She took out a packet of blue Chesterfields, and offered me one. I said no, thanks. She took one for herself and lit it.

“How long is it since you quit smoking?”

“How do you know I quit?”

“The way you looked at the packet. I know that look because I quit a few times myself. What do you think of the show?”

“Interesting. I didn’t understand the catalogue at all, and I didn’t understand very much of the works. Then an Elton John lookalike who talked like the comedian Lino Banfi asked me if I was Piero’s boyfriend and—”

She burst out laughing. Loudly, with real gusto, which surprised me because I didn’t think I’d been that funny.

“I didn’t think you were so nice when I saw you at work.” She laughed again. “You were like one of those lawyers in American films, the efficient, ruthless kind.”

Efficient and ruthless. I liked that. I’d have preferred “handsome and ruthless”, like Tommy Lee Jones in
The Fugitive
, but I didn’t mind.

She smoked a little more.

“Did you come by car?”

No, of course not, we’re only five or six miles from the centre of town. Every evening I train for the New York Marathon. I ran all the way here, in jumpsuit and track shoes, and changed before I came in.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve finished here. I haven’t got a car, I came in the van with my colleagues. You could give me a lift home, if you like.”

Yes, I’d like that, I said, trying to hide my surprise. She told me to give her five minutes, which was how long it would take her to get out of her work uniform, give instructions to her colleagues about clearing everything away, and say goodbye to the organizers of the evening.

I stood and waited for her at the entrance, with the bodybuilder for company. Every now and again he’d whisper something into his microphone, his bovine eyes busy staring into the depths of nothingness.

Almost a quarter of an hour went by. People came in and out. I should have asked myself what I was doing. I mean, Natsu was the wife of a client of mine who was in prison. I shouldn’t have been here. But I had no desire to ask myself that question.

Natsu came out again. Even in the semi-darkness I noticed that she had spent part of those fifteen minutes doing her make-up and hair.

“Shall we go?” she said.

“Let’s go,” I replied.

14

We drove quickly to the ring road. As we moved onto the ramp, the electronic notes of ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ by Green Day came from the CD player.

I told myself I was a fool and a hothead. I was over forty - well over forty - and I was behaving recklessly and like a bastard.

“Shall we go for a drive?” I said.

She did not reply immediately, as if she was undecided. Then she looked at her watch.

“I don’t have much time, half an hour at the most. I promised the babysitter I’d be home by one. She’s a student and she has classes tomorrow.”

“Of course, of course, I just thought ... we could go for a drive, listen to some music ... Anyway, I’m sorry, I’ll take you home now, you’ll be there in no time ... Just tell me the address—”

“Listen,” she said, interrupting me, talking quickly, “this is what we can do, if you like. We go to my place, you drop me and drive around for ten minutes. I pay the babysitter, she
leaves, and you come up for a drink and a little chat. What do you say?”

I didn’t reply immediately because I couldn’t swallow. My moral dilemmas were swept away like the dirt in those commercials for sink cleaners. Yes, I said, that’d be great. We could have a drink and a chat.

And maybe a kiss and a cuddle and a fuck.

And then repent at leisure.

We reached her place, which was in Poggiofranco. An apartment block with a garden, the kind we used to envy when we were children, because the kids my age who lived in places like that could go down and play football whenever they liked, without their parents saying anything.

In the Seventies, Poggiofranco had been known as something of a Fascist stronghold, certainly not a place where a child from a left-wing family would have gone. It struck me that their apartment may have been where Paolicelli had lived as a boy. It was an unsettling thought and I dismissed it immediately.

Before she got out of the car, Natsu asked me for my mobile number. “I’ll call you in ten minutes,” she said, and was gone.

I went and parked a couple of streets further on. I switched off the radio and sat there, in silence, enjoying the forbidden, intoxicating sense of anticipation. Just over fifteen minutes later-I had looked at my watch at least ten times - my mobile phone rang. She told me I could come now if I wanted to. Yes, I did want to, I said to myself after ringing off. I left the car where I had parked it, walked a few hundred yards, and in five minutes I was back at the apartment building. When I reached the landing, I found Natsu waiting for me. She let me in and quickly closed the door.

The apartment had the characteristic smell of places where there are children. I hadn’t been to many but the smell was unmistakable. A mixture of talcum powder, milk, a hint of fruit and a few other things. Natsu led me to the kitchen. It was a large, warm, cheerful room with wooden furniture hand-varnished in yellow and orange. I told her I really liked the furniture and she replied that she had varnished all of it herself.