The Sense of an Elephant (10 page)

‘Sofia is the woman who came by yesterday?'

The old man nodded and without warning grabbed his wrist. ‘I bet my Andrea would like to know the doctor's father.' He looked at him. ‘Please.' He set off alone, stopped after a few steps and waited.

The old man lived in Snow White's building, beside the railway. With the daylight one could see frost on the improvised garden plots. He pointed at the only one being cultivated: ‘That one's ours.' There were an array of cabbages and the two fruitless pomegranate trees. He shook the front gate. ‘The lock is broken.' He cursed continuously until he managed to open it.

The hair on Snow White's statue was patchy with peeling paint. Pietro briefly rested a hand on her head, then followed him in. They climbed the external staircase. Pietro turned toward the row of sycamores along the street, looking for the one that had hid him after he followed the doctor. It alone was bare. Fallen leaves blanketed the grass around the trunk.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor. The old man's door had neither a nameplate nor a peephole, just a doormat well worn in the middle.

‘It's me.'

The entry was a modest diamond-tiled square. Beyond it could be seen a small room with a loveseat and a television set on an empty drinks trolley. The smell of roasting meat hung thickly in the air. The old man hung his cap and jacket on a hall stand that already held a housecoat and a motorcycle helmet. ‘It's me,' he repeated and continued into the kitchen and sat down. The table barely fitted in the space and the chairs squeaked beneath foam-rubber cushions. He poured two glasses of wine. ‘Please, sit down, make yourself at home.'

Pietro sat and the old man pushed a glass towards him. On a shelf above the table were the disassembled pieces of a stovetop percolator and a packet of biscuits held closed with a clothes peg. Also three dried pomegranates in a shallow bowl in the shape of a tortoise. ‘Is your wife still alive?' said the old man.

Pietro jiggled the glass, drank the wine.

‘It's hard without her.' The old man worried at the wedding band on his finger. ‘At least we have the kids, and work. The petrol station on the next block over is mine, come and visit me when you have nothing to do.' He poured out more wine. ‘Sofia,' he called, ‘Sofia.'

Snow White appeared in the doorway, in her hand a half-open book. ‘Good morning.'

‘This gentleman is the doctor's father.'

‘We've met,' said Pietro.

The old man drank down the rest of his glass. ‘I'm staying, Sofia. You go ahead.'

The young woman stared at Pietro, smiled slightly. ‘See you later.' She lifted the coat from the hall stand and went out.

‘I bet my Andrea is in love with her. They've got a class of women in Eastern Europe we can only dream of here.' He stamped his foot as if crushing something. ‘My Andrea used to have a foreign girlfriend, Swiss, I think. But all he thought about was football and his motorcycle, and one day she got fed up with it.' His persistent cough returned to smother his laughter. ‘Come and meet him.'

The hallway was a tunnel ending in a blue bathroom. There was a mirror on the wall and a small stand holding a telephone. The smell of roasting meat faded as the drone of a television grew nearer. ‘At this hour he's watching all the shows made for housewives. They put him in a good mood.' He stopped in a doorway immediately to the left of the bathroom. ‘Andrea, the doctor's father has come to visit us. What do you say?' Waited. Then invited the concierge to enter.

The concierge stepped into the room. The old man's son was a head on a raised pillow, his mouth and eyes those of a mannequin. His body, short and almost non-existent, was submerged below a blanket, between two raised wooden sidewalls.

‘This is Andrea.' The father went round to his other side, caressed a cheek. ‘You're happy to meet the father of our Luca, isn't that right?' He pressed a button to raise up further the head of the bed.

The concierge remained where he was. Behind the bed stood some machines. From one came a small coiled tube that led under the blanket.

‘Did you know that the doctor has a beautiful house? He
lives near here.' The old man slid a hand below the covers and murmured something. ‘I'll take care of you now, don't you worry about it.'

The old man's son's eyes were open wide. The eyelids stayed up. It was his pupils that rose and fell. For a moment they watched the television, for another looked at the three posters of footballers that covered the wall. Pietro recognized Roberto Baggio. Beside the posters, on the eraser ledge of a whiteboard, stood a sheet of Bristol board covered with doodles.

‘How about a little light, eh, Andrea?' The old man turned on a lamp and one could see the whole of his son's face. It was broad, its slack skin sinking toward the mouth. The coiled tube ended in his throat, pumping in air and drawing out breath. A rivulet of saliva issued from his lips. The old man wiped it away and said, ‘Today my Andrea is a little angry, isn't that right? Come, Pietro, come and really get to know him.'

The son's pupils rose.

‘Did you know that Andrea and I draw? This one on the Bristol we did together.' He then pulled a notebook from a shelf below the whiteboard that also held a slim handheld recorder and a radio. ‘These ones, on the other hand, he did a few years ago.'

Pietro paged through the notebook, saw sketches of seagulls, black-and-white-panelled footballs. Another seagull, an airship. The figures were gracefully rendered. Next to a football done in watercolours he read,
Andrea
.

The old man fiddled under the covers while smiling at his son. ‘I'm almost done. The doctor's father is used to it – who knows how many people he's seen being changed at the hospital.' He squeezed out a sponge in a basin beneath the bed. The concierge backed away and the father cleaned the son as he needed to be cleaned. ‘The real chatterbox in the family was my wife. Now, she was someone who knew how to keep him company. I only know how to put a petrol tube in a tank. Isn't that right, son?' He pulled out the basin and a rolled-up nappy. ‘But you and I are like the strikers on Italy's World Cup team, we're like Rossi and Altobelli against Germany.' He whistled. ‘We take everyone by surprise.' He disappeared down the hallway.

Andrea's pupils were transfixed. The tube in his throat hissed.

Pietro placed a hand on the side of the bed. ‘My name is Pietro.' He placed it on the blanket and on a corner of the young man's body, which was like spoiled meat. He placed it on his forehead.

Andrea's pupils rose.

The concierge looked closely at them, saw that they were quivering. ‘My name is Pietro,' he repeated before leaving the room. His gorge rose. He choked back vomit and drew a breath. Wiped his brow. There were no noises in the flat, just the stink of roast meat. He found the old man in the kitchen, on the same chair, his wine glass full and his son's nappy in his lap. A wheeze escaped him. ‘I'm glad you met, very glad …' He drew the wadded nappy more tightly closed. ‘Please tell
your son, please tell him to come and see us. Just one visit will do, my Andrea always told me so before he got like this. He'd say, “Just one visit, Papa.” ' The old man brayed like a donkey, wiped the snot from his nose and headed toward his son's room. He returned to Pietro with the handheld recorder in hand. He spun it between his fingers like a playing card then turned it on. The voice of Andrea drawled beneath the buzzing of the tape. The old man raised the volume.

‘My name is Andrea Testi. I am thirty-four years old and I know how to dribble. You have to have strong ankles to dribble well, and I have strong ankles. But what really counts is your eye. Look straight at your opponent, straight at him. Then ankle, ball, ankle. I can dribble right past people. I want to do it again.'

The old man stopped the tape. Rewound it and extended the recorder to Pietro. ‘Your son will understand. He wouldn't accept it from me, but your son will understand if you give it to him,' he insisted. ‘Please.'

Pietro did not move to take it.

‘My Andrea wants to dribble again.' His father continued to hold out his arm.

The concierge accepted the recorder, slipped it in his pocket. The old man said thank you, pulled himself up and went to the shelf. ‘My wife and I arrived here a lifetime ago. The first thing I did was to plant two pomegranate trees.' He paused in front of the bowl shaped like a tortoise. ‘They say they don't grow in Milan, but we got the first fruit from it the month Andrea was born.' Chose one of the pomegranates, its dry skin bruised and scratched, and held it out to him.
‘It's what's left of the three of us.' He coughed and the nappy slid to the floor.

Pietro accepted the fruit into his chapped, scarred hands and headed toward the door. Before leaving he looked back once more on that weary father. Saw him kneeling on the floor.

The witch's mother was looking for her and when she saw her among the huts she said, ‘What are you doing over here, Celeste?'

The young priest slipped from the pillow, getting sand in his hair. Struggled to his feet.

Her mother noticed him and said, ‘May God bless you, Father, if you manage to set my daughter straight, because there are sins here as well as misfortune.' But he was already away, beyond the beach facilities and running across the space in front of the Grand Hotel, to the fountain with the four horses. He hurtled down the boulevard leading to the station and then through the piazza, arrived in church,
Punish me
, climbed to his room.

The priest's housekeeper asked him, ‘Everything all right? Are you hungry?'

He took off his shoes. His feet were quivering. He knelt down, then began with his sides. Beat them, moved on to his back and carried on down to his legs, beat them. Bent forward, reached back for his feet, squeezed them in his fists.

Pietro left the house of the pomegranate trees and sought out his sycamore. Powerlessness in the face of a son's fate binds all fathers. He leaned his back against the trunk. They are distinguished by devotion. He looked at his hands holding the pomegranate. He himself had never been devoted to anyone. Clutched the fruit, which was hard but not heavy, scratched it with a fingernail. Pietro continued to scratch it the entire way back and when he returned home he left it on the night table. Drew the recorder from his pocket and pressed play.
My name is Andrea Testi. I am thirty-four years old and I know how to dribble
. Pressed stop and dialled the Martinis' number on the lodge phone. No one picked up. He called again. It rang and rang. He took the keys and went out into the entrance hall with a damp cloth.

The only noise was the street traffic. He started up the stairs and stopped at the second floor. From the lawyer's flat came the murmur of the television. He moved over to the Martinis' door, rang the doorbell and waited. Flung the cloth to the ground, rang some more, waited less.

Opened.

The house was in order. The hall stand held a raincoat, the books had been removed from the floor, the dolls had disappeared behind the chaise longue. He crossed the living room and peeked into the kitchen. The table was set with a bowl of cereal, two cups, and a half-full bottle of milk. He pressed
the cap back on the bottle and placed it in the refrigerator, caressed the ultrasound of Sara on the refrigerator door. Moved on to the doctor's study. Opened the drawer with the photographs. For Anita, he took the one with the woman and the newborn. Slipped it into his shirt's breast pocket and stood to leave. Instead he remained still a moment, then opened the drawer that contained the diary. It was still there. He picked it up and flipped through it. Luca had written various notes. On that day's date:
Mama, give me the strength tonight as well
.

He reread it and put the diary away. Tried the final drawer but it was still locked. Looked for the leather medical bag. The desk was covered with papers, atop which stood the computer, together with a paperweight and a plate with an apple core and a knife. He looked on the small couch and below the study window, in the sitting room and again in the kitchen. In the bedroom the covers were rolled up into a ball. The polka-dot gloves hung like rags from a chair and the red shirt from a hanger on the handle of the wardrobe. Pietro did up the top button.
Suits you to a T
. Looked around. The leather bag wasn't there but the document case was, beside the night table. He grabbed it and undid the zip. The two keys were pressed between a packet of sugarless sweets and a prescription pad. He returned to the study.

The first key worked. The final drawer rolled open and Pietro saw that it contained a bundle of five glass vials of a transparent liquid. On one he read the name of a medicine. Behind them he found a tourniquet, a stethoscope, gauze, a packet of syringes. At the back of the drawer there was more:
notes held together with a paperclip. He opened one.
To the love of my life, who if it wasn't for me would still be at the window. Viola
. It was dated four years earlier. He opened another.
I adore you when you say you want to have a child with me. Meanwhile let me love you. Viola
. This date was even older. He rummaged further and noticed a rice-paper envelope, identical to his but with no stamp. Torn open, its corners were crisp. He turned it over in his hands.
My son
, written slant-wise. He drew out the contents, did not read immediately, stared at the writing.

Luca,

When you find this letter I will no longer be. I'm about to die and if I'm not afraid, I owe it to you. Asking you to help me was the most difficult thing I've ever done. You said yes out of love. Now I'm ready. Who knows if God is beautiful like they show him to be. For me he doesn't have a beard and he lost his white hair a long time ago. Will he be as good as all that? Let's hope so. Be patient with me, I'm still a curious little girl. I'll go when you decide but I'll always be with you. Please be happy.