The Sense of an Elephant (8 page)

Luca re-emerged. ‘You found your scarf.' He took it from him and headed for the register.

She went round to the other side of the counter. ‘Man in red, woman in polka dots. For life.'

‘Better than a session with an analyst.'

‘Would you like a discount?'

‘As well?'

Pietro drew out his wallet. The doctor told him not to even try it.

Anita placed the tarot cards before him. ‘With your left hand, cut the deck wherever you wish. The card underneath will determine the discount.'

He looked at her. ‘Seriously?' He cut the deck three-quarters of the way down.

She turned over the card underneath: ‘The emperor.'

‘Which means?'

‘Forty per cent.'

The doctor smiled. ‘You should be a fortune-teller.' He paid. She gave him his change and wrapped the polka-dot gloves in tissue paper and two lengths of ribbon. Then lifted the dome over the macaroons.

‘Would you like a fortune-teller's counsel?'

He nodded.

‘Give this Viola of yours a surprise. Take her the gloves right away.'

‘The cards say this?'

‘A woman says this.'

Dr Martini chose a cinnamon-flavoured macaroon. ‘Goodbye.' As they went out he turned one last time to say goodbye, waving a hand like his daughter.

Anita waved back, and as soon as she was alone she laid out the cards for the doctor's future.

‘Viola hates surprises.' The doctor laid the gloves on the dashboard. ‘Which is a good reason to give her one. Do you feel like coming along?' He set the car in motion.

Pietro grabbed the inside roof handle. ‘I do.'

Martini accelerated and pulled onto the ring road, humming a low song. ‘That shop put me in a good mood. How did you find it?'

‘I spent a lifetime dressing in black.'

The doctor laughed, passed under a triple-arch flyover and took the road towards the airport, stopped at a light. ‘The woman working there reminded me of my mother.'

Pietro let go of the handle. ‘Impertinent?'

‘Prophetic.'

They travelled along a boulevard flanked by terraced houses and slowed down beside a tennis court. Just beyond stood a former factory turned fashionable events venue. They pulled over just short of it.

‘Did you really meet your wife from a window, Doctor?'

Martini put a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. ‘It was fifteen years ago. I was in my second year of medical school. One afternoon in March, Viola passed beneath my window. We'd known each other for a little while. She knew that I was with someone else but, because she's a headstrong woman,
she also knew that a moment is enough …' He turned off the engine. ‘And the moment happened when I came to the window to close the shutters. While she was looking up.'

‘Good timing.'

‘She'd already understood that we could do each other a world of good.' The doctor opened his door. ‘She set me free, Pietro. Viola has a sense of dedication that brings you back to the world.' He smiled. ‘Too bad she can't cook. Instead she organizes wonderfully tasteful exhibits, conferences, that kind of thing.' At the entrance to the former factory a group of people gathered in evening dress. The road was backed up with cars. ‘And to think that she wanted to teach Greek.' Luca got out and began walking towards the crowd.

Pietro watched him disappear among the people then reached a hand back to the checked blanket and to the document case. He felt for the zip. When he lifted his head he saw the doctor returning. Pietro withdrew his hand.

‘Too crowded.' Dr Martini got in and started the engine. ‘The surprise is postponed till this evening.' He attempted a U-turn but took it wide and had to reverse. Backed the car into a side street where a petrol-blue SUV was parked with one wheel up on the kerb, its passenger-side door dented and scratched. They both recognized it. Both pretended not to have recognized it.

At dinnertime Pietro went into Alice's cafe. From the window he could see the second floor of the condominium. One of the windows with light in it was the Martinis'. After he and Luca had returned home, the doctor had gone to pick up his little girl from his parents-in-law's. The concierge had reassembled the Bianchi.

Now exhausted, he loosened his new scarf and collapsed into the blue armchair, eyelids fluttering. Soon his eyes closed completely. When he reopened them, Alice was serving his hot chocolate and staring at the image of Mastroianni hanging behind him. ‘You look alike.'

Pietro pulled the cup toward him on the table. ‘Thanks.'

‘For the chocolate or for Mastroianni?' Her hair was pulled back, her brow furrowed with fatigue. She went to the counter and returned immediately with two butter biscuits: ‘Actors get special treatment.'

Pietro drowned a biscuit in the chocolate, let it slip into his mouth as he drank. Finished with slow spoonfuls, his neck stretched forward for fear of drips. Gathered the last drop with the second biscuit then went to pay, a chocolate moustache above his lips. Alice pointed it out. He wiped it away with a finger and she pointed next to a small stain on his jacket.

‘Dammit.' Pietro himself took the sponge from the sink and dabbed.

‘Fernando hasn't come back.'

Pietro paid. ‘He will.' Smiled goodbye and left. The cold whitened the street lamps. The concierge pulled his jacket closer around himself and crossed without looking. Hurried to the building door, began to struggle with the lock. The key was defective and would not turn properly. He strained and forced it a bit. He tried again and cursed.

‘If you want, we can use mine …'

He turned. Viola was behind him, breathing heavily. ‘Riccardo gave me a ride. He plays football near where I work.'

He looked at her, confused.

‘Didn't you just see us in the street outside the cafe?'

Pietro said no. They went in. The Bianchi leaned against the concierge's lodge and smelled of paint. The chain and padlock were not in use.

‘You painted the handlebars, even.' Viola touched the seat and pulled one of the brake levers. ‘It could use a nice bell.' She held her purse against her stomach and picked at the clasp with a fingernail. Her face was troubled, her mouth darkened by traces of lipstick. ‘Just a little spin now, a dress rehearsal for your favourite resident?'

Pietro stayed put. She hesitated, twisted the purse in her hands one last time, dropped them to her sides and said goodnight. Started up the stairs, the clicking of her heels slow and laboured, entered her flat. Once the concierge could no longer hear her he followed. When he reached the second floor the lights were already out. He approached the Martinis' door, failed to hear a thing. Remained there another moment then
made to go down. Poppi's door opened. ‘Are you looking for me, Pietro?'

‘No.'

‘My peephole is worth a thousand of those South American concierges they hire on the outskirts of the city. Thefts have gone up thirteen per cent, and then you know what day it is today?'

‘Friday.'

‘Even the walls know that on Fridays Fernando goes with his mother to sleep at his grandparents'. And until just recently the Martinis weren't home. This lawyer is watchful.' He had on a silk dressing gown and his usual slippers. He smoked from a cigarette holder and with one foot attempted to block the cat in. ‘I note with pleasure that we're dressed up tonight as well.' He looked him up and down. ‘Classy scarf. For the same bird, or have we increased the flock?'

‘The same.'

‘You put up with my nosiness. It's just to know what you're making of this new life.' He came forward. ‘Satisfy my curiosity on one serious point, though. Do you still pray?'

‘And you?'

‘I never have. But sometimes I try to cover all the bases: a paternoster with a gin and tonic.' The cat escaped and bounded toward the concierge, who huddled in the corner.

‘I didn't know they bothered you.'

‘I'm allergic.'

‘On a Friday night a pussycat's not enough. Come have a nip at my place.' He was careful not to lose the ash from the end of his cigarette. ‘I'll shut Theo Morbidelli and all my
curiosity up in another room.' The ash fell anyway. ‘I entreat you.'

A burst of laughter came from the Martinis' flat. It was the doctor. The lawyer perked up an ear. ‘Now playing: evidence of conjugal bliss. Is it really our Martinis?' He gestured for him to enter. ‘Just a nip and I'll leave you to your carnal education.'

Pietro waited at the entry. The lawyer retrieved Theo Morbidelli and put him in a room, the cigarette holder on the edge of a wooden chest. ‘Please come in.'

The flat was cosy, welcoming, and poorly ventilated, with a fuggy stench that took your breath away. Poppi grabbed a small bottle of perfume off a shelf and pumped. Piles of books inundated the two couches and a zebra skin served as a rug. The table was glazed, the chairs were glazed, and on the wall hung an abstract painting with a glazed frame. Bouquets of fake flowers sprang from several vases. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Below the window stood a rickety contraption with a gramophone on it. The lawyer ran a finger over the apparatus and went into the kitchen, a small room divided from the sitting room by an exposed-brick arch. He picked up glasses and the bottle of Scotch and told Pietro to choose one of the two armchairs beneath a giant poster of Maria Callas that hung on the wall shared with the Martinis' flat. Surrounding Callas, Poppi had nailed up tribal masks.

The voice of Viola came through the wall as if she were there.
But the shirt looks good on you, you know? This red really knows its business
.

The lawyer clasped Pietro's wrist with all ten of his fingers,
which were ice-cold. ‘Sit down, my friend.' He sat down first himself and pointed to a yellowed arc on the surface of the wall. Leaned his cheek against the wall and the arc coincided perfectly with the shape of his ear. ‘Do you know what the extenuating circumstances for busybodies like us are?' He poured the drinks. ‘Loneliness. And forgetfulness. I listen out of emptiness, Pietro. I forget what I've heard out of respect. This is what separates me from the gossips.'

Through the wall he heard Luca laugh, saying,
Come here, my love
.

I'm exhausted from work, unlike you who goes around buying yourself pastel red shirts
. They laughed.

The voice of the doctor continued, saying,
This is for you
.

What is it, Luca?

Open it
.

‘I love it when he acts like that. Somewhere between romantic and virile, a Robespierre of the emotions.' The lawyer handed him a glass.

Pietro drank.

Poppi drank as well, swept away three cat hairs from the table. ‘Pardon the mess. Daniele used to take care of the house.' Swept away another two hairs. ‘He was the one who cleaned.'

‘For how long?'

‘For twenty years. Then he died of a heart attack.' From the shelf he drew down matches and the stump of a scented candle, which he lit. ‘And just think: I was never unfaithful to him.'

‘You held out for twenty years?'

‘Thanks to them, yes.' He lightly tapped the wall, leaned an elbow on the table between their chairs and his chin on his hand. Let his head incline, his ear touch the wall.

But these gloves are gorgeous, where did you get them?

The lawyer shifted the candle to the middle of the table. It gave off a nauseating odour. ‘I've saved myself for them.'

Pietro poured himself another drink. ‘I understand.'

‘I know.'

‘You know?'

‘I've known since I first interviewed you for the job.'

‘What do you know?'

Poppi stretched out his arm to the wall and lifted off one of the tribal masks. ‘I knew that being dropped by God wasn't something a dating service could fix. And that concierge work is a good antidote for emptiness.'

‘It was I who dropped God.'

‘Then Our Lord must really have done you wrong. Did he cheat on you?'

The concierge smiled. ‘For a lifetime.'

The lawyer put on the tribal mask, holding it pressed against his chin. ‘With this on I'm less ashamed to mind their business.' The mask's large mouth smiled. The holes of the eyes shone. ‘At first, I admit, I did it for the doctor. Then I also grew fond of
Madame
and the dear child. And of the despairs of marriage,
bien sûr
.' His voice was a murmur.

‘The despairs of marriage.'

‘Forgetfulness separates me from the gossips, Pietro.'

They heard a dull thud.
Take it easy, Luca, or you'll wake Sara
.

How did work go today, Viola?
They heard clucks and smacks – kisses.
It went well, half Milan was there
. They heard another kiss.
Was Riccardo there as well?
What kind of question is that, was Riccardo there or not?
He repeated the question. She laughed and said,
What's got into you this evening, come here and I'll take care of you
.

‘It's my favourite scene.' Poppi sighed behind the mask. ‘Luca seems so shy but he knows what he's doing in bed.' Poppi was the mask. With his cavernous ears he listened to the doctor saying,
You and Sara are everything I have
. He listened to Viola:
Come here, Luca. Come
.

In the middle of the table the candle burned with a tall flame. Pietro lifted it up, held it over his other hand, tipped it and the wax ran onto his wrist. He waited for it to harden then rose and walked to the door. Before leaving he turned, one last time. The mask was bent over the table.

By the time Pietro reached his flat the lawyer's wax had dried completely, weighing on his wrist. He collapsed onto the bed.
You and the little girl are all I have
. He pulled his limbs in.
All I have
. The rice-paper envelope with Salgari was on the night table. In addition to a letter less than a page long it contained an old photograph of the doctor as a child during a school play, wearing a bow tie and a bowler high on the crown of his head. He stood apart on the stage, looking towards a group of children all older than him, all serious except for him. Luca was laughing slyly, with the air of someone who didn't give a damn about the play. Pietro caressed the irreverent expression, put away the photograph and dragged himself into the bathroom. Turned on the tap. The wax melted under the hot water. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror until he began to spread shaving cream from his neck to his eyes. They were weary eyes, not Mastroianni's. The razor passed from cheek to cheek and the cheeks shed their grey. He paid careful attention to the dimple on his chin, the crooked line of his mouth, the folds of his neck. When he was done he realized he had cut his cheek. The concierge rinsed his face, traced the nick with his little finger and continued up to his forehead, where a number of wrinkles cleaved the mostly smooth skin. He never touched his hair, which after sixty-five years parted itself. Pietro hastily dried himself, dressed in elegant clothes and passed into the lodge while tying the new scarf around his
neck. The chain from Riccardo snaked around the leg of a chair, the padlock closed and with the key inside. Pietro turned on the lamp and directed it at a section of the table. With the pen Snow White had made grooves in the fake wood surface.
Come as soon as you can. It's important. Sofia
.