The Sun and Other Stars (13 page)

I know. You’re probably asking, what’s so bad about that? And you early-rising cheerful optimists out there will probably even interpret this dream to mean that Mamma is in heaven or whatever, doing fine, and she only wants to reassure me that she’s happy. And I grant you, maybe the fact that I don’t see it this way shows you how crooked and bent a person I am. Because to me, the dream is a message from her that it was all my fault. That if I’d really looked at her, really seen what was going on that year, I could have stopped it. That if I’d been a better son, a son worth living for, she would have found the will to live.

The irony is, if I
were
a better son, this thought would make me sad. Instead it only pisses me off, as does every other thought about Mamma. I guess when it happened, I expected to feel like I felt after Luca’s accident—the sadness and the loss, the what-ifs spiraling backward through my mind, undoing that morning and bringing him back to life for a few minutes at a time, like a myth or a legend. Saint Luca—killed by the world, killed by his own weaknesses or by that French puttana he was with, who was thrown clear of the wreckage and walked away without a scratch.

Nobody ever tells you that with suicide it’s different, that you will be so pissed at the person from so many different angles. First, of course, you get pissed at the part that did the violence, then at the part that acted as a helpless victim and didn’t fight back. And then again at the part that stood by watching, a gawker who knew full well what she was going to do and never raised the alarm or gave you the chance to swoop in and save her. You get pissed at the fact that she made the final action of her life eclipse every other happy moment you had. And then you realize you can’t even tell other people you’re pissed at her. She’s checkmated you. Because when other people ask you how you feel, they expect you to act pitiful and sad like on TV, and if you tell them that instead you’re pissed off at your own mother, they will think you’re a cold, unfeeling traitor, deserving of the lowest circle. More Judas than Judas. More Brutus than Brutus.

My phone lights up in my pocket.

YOU STILL ALIVE?

NO THANKS TO YOU.

WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

I turn my phone off and close my eyes, but now that the tourists have clogged the pedestrian streets, all the locals apparently detour around the church at this hour. Two trans from Albenga I recognize poke their heads cautiously through the archway, like they’re afraid of a hidden guillotine dropping on their necks.

“Salve.”

“Salve.”

Sima wanders past, but she doesn’t see me. Then Franco, who I never recognize when he’s wearing pants and shoes.

“Etto, is that you?”

“No, Franco.”

“Very funny. Tell your nonna I said hello.”

“Okay.”

Inside, the nonne are chanting. I pull the hoodie farther down over my eyes, but people are somehow determined to pester me today.

“Etto, is that you under there?”

Regina Salveggio actually has the nerve to reach in and pinch back the edge of my hoodie. I open my eyes and she’s peering into my face, her kids clinging to her legs like barnacles.

“Boundaries, Regina, boundaries,” I say, and I reposition the hoodie. She’s already fifteen minutes late for Mass, the lazy cow.

“Oh, don’t be such a pedant, Etto. Did you bring your nonna to church today?” The little boy reaches out a tentacle and grips my knee. I give him a dirty look.

“Just like last week, Regina. And the week before.”

“Are you okay, Etto? You look kind of pale this morning. Paler than usual, even.”

I narrow my eyes at her. Am
I
okay? Doesn’t she realize she’s the only one in Europe still having kids? Doesn’t she realize that at twenty-two she’s already doomed herself to a life of stretch marks and IKEA furniture?

“I was just going to ask you the same thing, Regina.”

She laughs. “Oh, Etto, you’re so funny.” And she goes inside the church with her brats.

Father Marco must have made a joke because I hear the nonne laughing. He starts with his serious tone now, the words themselves inaudible, like he’s in there telling secrets. More people pass by.

Ciao, Etto.

Ciao.

Salve.

Ciao, Etto.

Ciao.

Ciao.

How many times can you say “ciao” in one day? You might as well say “vaffanculo.” It basically means the same thing: I see you, I acknowledge you, but nothing more than that. Finally, the organ starts up again, and Casella and Claudia lead the stampede out of the church.

“Your nonna’s still in there,” Claudia says.

“I know.”

“Then you also know that it’s going to be hotter than hell today and you look like a child molester in that hoodie, right?” Claudia asks, and Casella laughs. I hate it that he laughs at her jokes now and not mine.

“Good. That’s the look I was going for. Where are you two lovebirds off to today anyway?”

“Abu Ghraib,” Casella says, which is what he’s started calling Claudia’s parents’ house because each week, he’s asked in a hundred different and unsubtle ways when he’s going to propose to Claudia.

“Don’t call it that.” Claudia slugs him on the shoulder, and they play slap their way out of the courtyard.

I slouch against the archway, out of the way of the clean-scrubbed people, their spines straight as ships’ masts, their laughter as clear as Christmas bells. The crowd today and every Sunday is mostly nonne and youth groupers who swarm around Father Marco like hungry pigeons as he comes down the stairs. Nonna and her friends are usually the last because before they leave, they have to make their rounds of the statues. As I wait for her, I imagine Nonna looking up at some patron saint of this or that, some spooky guy on a pedestal, her scrambled mind mistaking a candle for an ice cream cone or a hairbrush, the fire catching and spreading through the other nonne’s dandelion hair like the burning of Troy, setting them all to high-pitched screaming like those plants in
Harry Potter.

I know. Sometimes I feel like I’m one thought away from the asylum.

Father Marco takes up his position at the bottom of the stairs. He’s in his full penguin finery, those blue eyes glittering in the sunlight, that smile that could be on a billboard selling coffee or sunglasses or even swimsuits. Why would a guy that good-looking take a vow of celibacy? He must know he could get as much as Fede if he wanted it. Father What-a-Waste is what the girls at school called him, and when he first came to San Benedetto, there was a solid month when they all packed the pews before eventually realizing he was never going to get over this guy Jesus. He sees me under the archway and corners me.

“Ciao, Etto. Good to see you.”

“Great homily today, Padre,” I say, but I can tell he’s not buying it.

“Are you waiting for your nonna?”

“Yes.”

“You know, you’re always welcome to sit inside.” He looks through me with those piercing blue eyes, which scares me a little, like my sins will show up as bright spots on an X-ray, a coin I’ve swallowed or a toy magnet I’ve stupidly stuffed up my own nose.

“I know,” I say, squirming out of his gaze. One of the youth groupers comes and pulls him away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The nonne finally come down the stairs in a line, clutching each other by the arm. Nonna is giggling and whispering in Signora Costanza’s ear. I wonder how far back she’s gone today. Twelve years old? Fourteen? When most people take on a new age, they leave the others behind, maybe carefully pack one or two of them away, saving them in tissue and mothballs. Cazzo, the thirteen-year-olds these days fling them away and move on to the next ones before they’re even completely unwrapped. Nonna, though, keeps all of her ages accessible, hung up in the closet of her mind, every morning pulling out a different one.

I reach up to wave to her, then yank my hand back down to my side. Because behind the line of nonne, squinting in the sun, is Zhuki. I duck behind the giant palm and watch her coming down the stairs. She drops something, and bends down to retrieve it.

“Ah, there you are, Etto,” Signora Costanza says. “Why are you hiding behind the tree?”

“I’m not hiding.” I put my hand on Nonna’s back and hustle her toward the sidewalk. “Come on, Nonna.”

But maybe I’ve moved too abruptly because Nonna looks up at me, alarmed, and starts shouting for help. “Aiuta! Aiuta! He’s going to sell me to the gypsies! He’s going to sell me to the gypsies!”

Everyone in the courtyard turns to look, including Zhuki.

“Nonna, it’s me. Etto. Your grandson.”

“You’re not my grandson! You’re not my grandson!” Nonna shouts. “Aiuta! Aiuta!”

Fortunately, when the nonne aren’t gossiping, they are busy meddling in other people’s business, so it only takes a few seconds for a group of them to swoop in, explain everything to Nonna, and calm her down.

“Zita, it’s your grandson.”

“It’s okay. He’s the one who brought you here.”

“You remember Caccia, your husband, and Carlo, your son . . . well, this is Carlo’s son.”

I glance back into the courtyard. Zhuki and everybody else are still staring at us.

“Nonna?” I say.

Finally the fear melts from her face and she grips my arm.

When we get back to the villa, Papà and Nonno are sitting in their undershirts beneath the wide branches of the lemon tree, their wine glasses carefully balanced on their knees, their voices low and serious, though they talk low and serious about everything—calcio, of course, but also the deficienti in parliament and Nonno’s slovenly neighbors who don’t know how to trim and clean their own property. Nonno’s chair is facing us, and he points a finger in our direction as we approach. Papà gets up to open the gate, and Nonna heads into the house with her treasures so she can spread them out on the kitchen counter and systematically put them away. A bit of wire goes into the drawer with her twist ties. Change gets dropped into a slot in the lid of a large jar in the front hall. Nails and screws that Nonno will use for repairing arbors and loose boards are sorted into smaller jars, the cigarette butts shaken into the garbage, the plastic bag washed and set on the drain board.

“Everything went okay at church today?” Nonno asks. I know someone has already called to tell about Nonna yelling at me.

“Fine. Why?”

“No reason.”

Papà sits down and they continue the conversation. About the scandal. What else?

“I don’t understand,” Nonno says. “It’s been a week. If he didn’t do anything, why doesn’t he come out and declare his innocence?”

“Only the guilty man declares his innocence,” Papà says.

“But he doesn’t even show his face. Where is he? All he has to do is go out for ice cream with his family and give a little wave to the paparazzi.”

“He’s Eastern European. They don’t wave. They don’t eat ice cream.”

Nonno takes a long drink of wine. He makes it himself, a few liters at a time, then siphons it into cloudy green bottles. “Well, what are you standing around for, Etto? Pull up a chair.”

My nemesis, the sun, is out in full force now, beating down into the yard. I take Luca’s hoodie off and wrap it around my waist, pull the third chair under the shade of the lemon tree, and join their inner sanctum.

“Now what was that story I said I was going to tell you, Etto?” As if he has forgotten.

“The one about the girl who was late to her grandfather’s deathbed.”

“Ah, yes.” And Nonno starts grinding into the story he’s probably been working on since he saw me this morning, about a girl who was chronically fifteen minutes late to take her grandfather to his chemotherapy appointments, those critical fifteen minutes allowing his cancer to take root.

None of this would happen during the thirty-eight weeks of the calcio season, of course. By this time, Papà and Nonno would’ve already taken their last piss of the day and arranged themselves on the matching recliners pointed at Nonno’s flat-screen, listening to the pregame commentary in reverential silence, the only noise the squawking of the leather every time they shifted their weight. But this is the thirty-ninth week, and they finally have the time to sit outside under the nonlemon tree and instruct me about my failings.

“. . . but the granddaughter, she eventually got her due because the old man died without being able to say good-bye, and”—here Nonno leans forward and pauses dramatically—
without
being able to tell her where the safety deposit box was. Because the granddaughter”—he holds his finger in the air like Charon used to hold his pointer stick— “. . . was ten. Minutes. Late.”

He stabs these last three words with his finger, pinning them to the air, where they hang between us. I look over at Papà, but he only nods gravely.

I’m used to Nonno’s parables. When I was younger, I thought it was a coincidence that he knew so many people who possessed the same defects in character and made the same bad choices as Luca and I did. When Papà told him Luca was thinking about getting a tattoo, all of Nonno’s navy friends suddenly got horrible, skin-rotting diseases from their tattoos, often rendering them impotent. When I was sixteen and mentioned that Casella and I were thinking about going to the animation institute in Milan, he spontaneously remembered all the children of his friends who had gone to the city and become prostitutes, drug addicts, or liberals. When I wanted to take a beach vacation down south after graduation, he remembered everyone he knew who had been murdered, dismembered, or sold into slavery by Camorra or Cosa Nostra.

“What was the name of the girl, Nonno?” I ask. “The one who was late.”

“Oh, you don’t know her.”

“You never know.”

He takes a drink of his wine. “Why don’t you go see if your grandmother needs help?”

I follow Nonna’s faint humming into the house, where she’s hovering over a tray of zucchini flowers, stuffing them and lining them up. There’s still a corner of her brain that knows how to cook. Just like how paralytics can have erections on pure reflex, Nonna’s rotted mind instinctively knows what moment to flip a frittata or check on a roast.

“Can I help you with anything, Nonna?”