The Silence of the Wave (2 page)

I saw my father last night. When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so strange—seeing your father—even if it was at night.

But the thing is, he’s dead.

Four years ago, he left home after an argument with Mom and never came back. It wasn’t until much later that they told me he was dead. I was seven and a half.

This was the first time I’d dreamed about him since he went away. In the dream he was smiling—he didn’t often smile—and for some reason it reminded me of the time he took me to the zoo for my seventh birthday, the last one we spent together.

I met my father on a tree-lined avenue in the middle of a beautiful park full of lawns and woods. He came toward me and held out his hand, as if introducing himself. I thought that was a bit strange, but when I shook his hand I felt good and everything appeared perfectly natural. My father didn’t say anything, but I understood
that I was supposed to go with him, and so we started walking along the avenue.

After a few minutes (to tell the truth, I don’t know if it was a few minutes or much longer: time doesn’t work the same way in dreams as it does when you’re awake) we saw a big Alsatian lying asleep on the grass at the side of the avenue. When we reached him, he got up and walked toward me, wagging his big, hairy tail. He let me stroke him and licked my hand.

It was a weird experience, because I’m scared of dogs, and if I see one in the street—especially if it’s an Alsatian or another big dog like that—I certainly don’t stop and stroke it. I was really pleased that I wasn’t frightened.

“What’s his name?” I asked my father, and that was when I realized he wasn’t there anymore.

My name’s Scott, chief
.

The answer appeared in my brain, and it was halfway between a voice that existed only in my head and a caption, like a speech bubble in a comic.

“You can talk.”

It’s not quite true to say I can talk, chief. Actually, you can’t hear me. This is my real voice
.

And after he said that, he barked, which was a very deep sound, almost a growl, although there was something reassuring about it. And that sound I heard very well. In fact it was the only sound, apart from my voice, that I heard in the whole dream.

“Why did my father leave?”

Scott didn’t answer the question.

Shall we go for a walk, chief?

He started moving and I followed him, even though I was a bit upset that Dad wasn’t there anymore. I thought, though, that if I’d met him once, it might happen again, and then we’d be able to talk.

Although it was a dream, everything seemed very real: I could feel the cool wind on my skin, I could smell the grass, and the sunlight, if I tried to look in that direction, was really blinding.

Then I remembered something I’d forgotten a long time ago. My father once said he’d buy me a dog. I just had to be big enough to look after it. I liked the idea a lot and asked him when, exactly, I’d be big enough, and he replied that eleven or twelve was the right age, because that’s when you stop being a child and start to become a man.

As I was remembering this, I woke up.

I stayed in bed, waiting for my mother to come in and tell me it was time to get up and go to school. It occurred to me that it would have been great to have Scott with me during the day, to take him everywhere and maybe even have him come and pick me up from school. I’m sure some of the other guys would be much more careful about what they said and did if they saw me with Scott.

He turned the corner just in time to see her come out, walk a few yards, open the door of a car—a little runabout—and get in. Roberto walked slowly toward the front door of the building and was about to ring the bell when he heard a dull noise coming from the car, like the angry scraping of a jammed mechanism. He stopped his finger in midair just as it was about to press the button, turned, and walked toward the car.

The woman kept turning the key, and the same hostile, unpleasant noise kept repeating itself. Roberto knocked on the glass. The woman turned, looked up, fiddled with the window, and finally opened it.

“It’s the battery,” Roberto said.

“Excuse me?” she said, her voice breaking slightly, as if she were trying to control herself and not succeeding.

“Your car battery’s dead. That’s why you can’t start it, and can’t even lower the window.”

“So what do I do? Do I have to replace it? I’m in a
bit of a hurry, I have an appointment. Maybe it’s best if I call a taxi?”

“Don’t worry. We can try and get it going. Or else we can find some cables and use the battery from another car.”

He told her what to do. Sit down, switch the engine on, engage the clutch, and put the car in second gear, keep the clutch engaged, let him push until the car has gained a little speed, and at that point gently release the clutch and press down slowly on the accelerator.

“I’ll never manage all that,” she said.

“You will. It isn’t as difficult as it sounds. First of all press down the clutch pedal and turn the wheel as far as you can. I’ll push you out of the parking spot.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, slightly bewildered, but did as he had told her. When the car had moved away from the pavement, he went to the window again and repeated his instructions: “Keep the clutch engaged, switch the engine on, and put the car in second gear.”

“But you can’t push me all by yourself.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a small car. When I tell you, release the clutch and put your foot down on the accelerator.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he started to push, and the car began laboriously to move.

“Release the clutch and accelerate,” he cried from behind when the car had gathered speed.

The engine shuddered and the car jerked forward, coming to life with a raucous roar, went about a hundred feet, and then stopped, but with the engine still on. Roberto caught up with it, and the woman looked out of the window.

“You see?” he said, slightly out of breath. “You did it after all.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very kind.” Then, as if she had forgotten an important detail, she stuck out her right hand and held it out to him. As they shook hands, he realized where he knew her from.

“Are you an actress?”

“Yes … I mean …”

“You did that commercial … the one for condoms … You were the pharmacist. You made me laugh a lot. You were … funny.” He broke off, surprised at what he was saying. “I’m sorry, maybe I said something stupid.”

“Don’t apologize. I liked being funny, I liked making people laugh. It’s been ages since anyone reminded me of that.”

They looked at each other for a few moments longer, unable to find anything else to say, while the engine coughed.

“Well, good-bye then,” Roberto said finally.

“Good-bye, and thanks again.”

“Take the car to a garage.”

“I will.”

Roberto watched the car move away until it turned the corner and disappeared. Then he hurried to the doctor’s office.

* * *

“Sorry I’m a bit late.”

“You’re out of breath.”

Roberto gave a half-smile. “I just ran up the stairs, but before that I helped a woman to start her car. The battery was gone, so I had to push it.”

The doctor did not ask for any further explanation. “How was your weekend?”

“Not too bad. Actually, better than usual. I even went to a movie.”

“That’s good. If my memory serves me well, you’ve never mentioned going to a movie since our sessions started.”

“You’re right. I hadn’t been. In fact, I don’t even remember the last time I went. It must be ages.”

“What did you see?”

“A French film, set in a prison.
A Prophet
. Do you know it? Have you seen it?”

“No, but I don’t go to the movies much either. Did you like the film?”

“I don’t know. Some parts were realistic, showing the way things work in a prison. Others were completely absurd, though maybe I’m too influenced by the work I used to do. But it was nice to go to a movie. I
mean, I’d forgotten what it was like, and I liked it a lot.”

“Did you go to the movie with somebody, or by yourself?”

“No, no. By myself.”

“I’m very interested in the dream you mentioned last time.”

“The one about surfing?”

“Yes, do you want to tell me about it?”

“The dream or the surfing?”

“Whichever you like.”

“You remember I told you I was born and brought up in California?”

“Of course I remember. Your mother was Italian and married an American. Your father was a policeman.”

“Yes, my father was a detective. We lived near the ocean, in a little town called San Juan Capistrano, between Los Angeles and San Diego.”

“I imagine surfing’s quite a normal activity for someone born and brought up in a place like that.”

Was it a normal activity? Roberto couldn’t remember—or didn’t
know
—if it was so normal. For a long time, on the occasions when he went into the sea, he was the youngest in the group. A child, between the adults and the waves.

“I don’t know, really. I was very attracted by the waves, from the time I was very small. I started at the age of eight, with my father. I went surfing with him and his friends. There weren’t any other children.”

“I remember seeing a film once, where a surfer goes right inside the tunnel created by the wave as it closes. Could you do something like that?”

“It’s called a tube. Yes, I could do that.”

They both fell silent. Now that the conversation had taken this unexpected turn, Roberto was trying to put his ideas in order and the doctor had that friendly but slightly enigmatic expression he sometimes had. An expectant expression. The silence lasted a couple of minutes, then Roberto resumed speaking.

“I really liked surfing. Even though I can’t remember how it felt.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain, but I can’t remember what I felt. I
know
I liked it—I liked it a lot—but I can’t remember. I know, but I can’t remember.”

The doctor nodded. Roberto would have liked to know what he was thinking. He would have liked the doctor to provide him with explanations—sometimes he had even tried to ask him—but, especially in cases like this, the doctor didn’t explain anything at all. Or rather, he didn’t even speak. He just nodded. Or else looked him in the eyes. Or slid forward on his chair. But he didn’t speak.

“When was the last time you went surfing?”

He couldn’t remember. He tried to figure out when it had been, that last time he had surfed, but he couldn’t, and that made him panic. As if there were a danger that
everything might fall apart. As if the border between memories, dreams, reality, imagination, and nightmares had suddenly broken down, and the yardstick for distinguishing one from the other had become intangible and pointless.

“I don’t know.”

“Is something wrong, Roberto?”

Roberto moved his hand over his forehead as if wiping away the sweat.

“I had the feeling I was losing control.”

“You mean when I asked you when you’d last gone surfing?”

“Not when you asked me. When I realized I couldn’t remember.”

“Would you rather we changed the subject?”

Roberto hesitated. “No, no. It’s fine now.”

“Good. Even though you can’t remember the last time you went surfing, can we say it happened when you were still living in California?”

“Of course. I haven’t surfed since we left California.”

“How many years ago is that?”

“Oh, more than thirty years. I was sixteen when my mother and I left.”

The doctor took a long Tuscan cigar from a drawer. From the same drawer he also took a penknife, cut the cigar in two, placed one half on the desk, and started playing with the other. This all lasted two or three minutes.

“All right. That’ll be enough for today.”

Roberto would have liked to add something. But the end of the session was always a moment he found hard to grasp. So after a few bewildered moments, he stood up and left.

I didn’t dream for several nights, although that’s probably not strictly true: I read in a science magazine that there’s never a night when we sleep and don’t dream. Apparently we dream every night, except that for various reasons, sometimes we remember and sometimes we don’t.

So maybe it’s more correct to say I don’t remember what I dreamed for several nights, even though at least one night I couldn’t have had very pleasant dreams, because I woke up with a feeling of sadness that took me a while to get over.

Last night, though, I went back to the park. Even when I was just about to fall asleep, I realized something was going to happen, and soon afterward I found myself back on the same avenue as the other time, in the middle of the park.

Scott was sitting on the lawn, waiting for me. He was wagging his tail energetically as I approached, sweeping the grass with it. As I stroked him, I realized
he smelled of shampoo and that he had a collar. I hadn’t noticed it the first time, or maybe he hadn’t been wearing it then. Anyway, the fact that Scott had a collar made me happy. It gave me the feeling he was really mine, not just a friendly dog I’d met by chance.

You’re here at last, chief. I’ve been waiting for you
.

“What do we do now, Scott?”

Let’s go for a walk
.

And without waiting for my reply he set off.

On this second visit, I managed to concentrate more on what was around me.

As I’ve already said, the avenue ran between lawns of high grass, across which the wind made big, silent waves as it passed. In some places on the lawn there were little hills, with quite steep slopes, like embankments on the sides of roads or railway lines. In the distance I could see a forest, which looked a bit scary, but only because it was far away. Every now and again we passed other boys and girls, many of them on foot, but some on bicycles.

After a while I saw a lake, with water so clear it looked like a swimming pool.

“Can people swim in that lake, Scott?”

That’s what it’s there for, chief
.