I’m flummoxed by this unraveling of time, I’m losing my grip on myself. I know that nothing awful will happen on the other side of the door. If anything, I’m about to have a perfectly forgettable day: a class to teach, a meeting with colleagues, maybe a movie. But I’m afraid of forgetting something crucial—my cell phone or my identity card, my health insurance or my keys. And I’m afraid of running into trouble.
At Dinner
A bachelor friend of mine likes hosting dinners at his house. He lives on the top floor of a building which has a lovely terrace that looks out over cupolas and antennas. It’s a charming place to pass the time. But tonight’s windy, so we’ll eat inside. I take the elevator as far as it goes, then climb a flight of stairs to reach his apartment. He lives in a sort of playhouse, full of tight corners and dark, exposed beams. The rooms, all of them small, lead from one to another, without a hallway. Almost all the rooms have a bed and cushions strewn on the floor, and lots of books, so that at any moment, in any given room, you can sit down and read or take a nap. I think a child would love it here. But my friend, an elegant and learned man in his sixties, never had children.
Because the ceilings are low and sloped we have to duck our heads before taking a seat at my friend’s table. “Watch your heads,” he always says. The guests tend to vary, apart from a small core of people that includes me. Typically, I don’t ever see the others again. He runs a sort of social laboratory that lasts for a few hours and seldom repeats itself.
I came on foot tonight, swallowing mouthfuls of cold air, and I’ve worked up an appetite. I’m a little late, the others are already sitting on the sofas. I have a glass of wine and eat some peanuts. I say hello to someone who directs films, then a journalist, then a woman who writes poetry, then a psychologist, then a couple from the North who are here to spend their honeymoon.
She irritates me off the bat, maybe because she doesn’t bother to look at me when she shakes my hand. She’s a woman in her thirties, with a sturdy build, but her face is thin and pointy, as if it belongs to another body. She wears her sleek hair pulled back and her extra pounds look good on her, rendering her appealingly solid.
She talks about the city. She’s a bit over the top, she’s got an opinion about everything. She interrupts me when I’m in the middle of telling the others what I do for a living. She shifts everyone’s attention to a painting over the sofa. She claims she knows the artist personally. He’s got some talent, she says, but is overrated. All of her opinions get under my skin, everything she says feels off the mark, even a little impertinent. But at the same time I’m drawn to her energy, she’s magnetic, someone who knows how to hold a crowd.
We’re eight around the table. After we finish the soup the others stop talking, and she and I carry on. We’re discussing a film, which I liked, so I defend it. But she insists that the actor, a famous leading man, gave a terrible performance.
Though I’m not drunk I can’t help it, I say:
“Do you realize you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about?”
She doesn’t reply, and after that she erases me out of her evening. The others exchange embarrassed glances. I’ve never exploded like that at a small dinner among friends. The husband looks at me, gelid. I’ve just attacked the woman he loves and would like to have a family with. Someone changes the subject, but I can’t focus anymore. I’ve stopped eating. My friend clears the table as if nothing happened. He brings out a cake and cups of coffee.
I go home, mortified. I walk back even though I’m exhausted. It takes me forty minutes. I hurry past the dark buildings, the shuttered windows. Even after the long walk I’m jangled, out of sorts. I’ll apologize to my friend for spoiling the evening. I cut across the piazza where I’ll buy food in the morning. But tonight I ask the teenagers chatting at the base of the fountain if they can spare a cigarette.
On Vacation
I take advantage of a long weekend in the fall and leave the city to clear my head, to enjoy the waning warmth in a nearby town and escape the daily routine. I arrive in a sunlit, peaceful spot. The arrangements are to my liking: the quiet hotel, the tasty breakfast, the pool that’s empty until noon. The only problem is that here, too, I feel pressure to do what everyone else does. At breakfast they all talk about the long trails to hike, the pine forest filled with fallow deer, a restaurant at the top of the trail that has spectacular views. There’s also the house of a famous writer, a woman, to visit. But I’m not up for any of that, I’d rather sleep, take in the fresh air, swim a few laps before the kids start jumping in.
I never went on vacation with my parents when I was little. I wasn’t like the children I see here, with families that eat together and sit around playing cards.
Maybe my father was wise, or maybe he was just stubborn, but he believed that it was better to relax at home, without packing a suitcase, without the effort of getting used to a new place just for a few days. Half the vacation gets wasted that way, he’d say. So every year, in the weeks he didn’t have to go to work, he stayed home. He’d wear his pajamas until late, then he’d go down to the piazza to buy newspapers and say hi to the neighbors who were already retired and sat talking all day on benches. Then he’d lie back on the sofa, in front of a fan, and read the papers, listening to some music. He didn’t crave the mountains, or the sea, he wasn’t roused by nature’s beauty. He was a hermit; true peace, for him, meant staying indoors, staying put in a familiar place.
My mother would have enjoyed traveling, taking trips. She always wanted to go to big cities, to visit museums and sacred places, the temples of the gods. My father found all that exhausting, not to mention a waste of money. He’d say, And what if it rains, that would ruin everything. I don’t feel like driving for hours, I’m better off relaxing here at home, or else at the theater. And given that he was the one with a job, and also a driver’s license, all three of us stayed home in the summer.
As an adult I’ve learned to conform to certain customs. I understand why it’s important to go away and unplug now and then. I don’t mind a change of scene once a year. I never go back to the same place, it’s better not to feel tied to one versus the other. But what I end up feeling far from isn’t so much the daily grind—it’s my family, my childhood. And that distance, as much as I want it, upsets me. I turn melancholy when I lie out in the sun. I mourn my unhappy origins. I feel sad for my mother, frustrated as a wife, disdainful now that she’s a widow.
At the same time I see my father’s point, there’s no denying that this brief vacation puts a strain on my wallet. I wish I had certain possessions with me, to be honest. I’m already tired of having breakfast, dressed, at eight in the morning in the midst of other people. The coffee’s tepid, and after the first two days, even though it’s off-season, the hotel fills up, with little kids who start jumping in the pool after breakfast, and in the evenings the young couple that run the hotel play music so that the guests can dance under the stars.