After dinner I go to my room and watch television. I think a great deal about my parents, and I ask myself, in this sheltered place, why they’re still nipping at my heels.
Which one of them do I take after? My father, who would have stayed in the room to read like me? Or my mother, who would have wanted to dance? She would have enjoyed getting to know people other than my father and myself. The people she adored—friends, relatives, people around whom she laughed heartily, around whom she never sulked—were all people she didn’t live with. My father and I were her cage.
At the Supermarket
There’s no food in my refrigerator, so I head to the supermarket, where I bump into my married friend for whom I represent…what, exactly? A road not taken, a hypothetical affair? I carry a basket with a few things inside, the routine purchases of a woman on her own, while he pushes a cart overflowing with all kinds of food: cereal boxes, bags of biscuits and cookies and melba toast, jams, butter, whole milk, skim milk, soy milk. He tells me what each member of the family likes to eat, the ongoing battle to sit down to breakfast together, something which, to his regret, rarely happens. He likes to have ample stores in the pantry: boxes of rice and pasta, cans of chickpeas and tomatoes, containers of coffee and sugar, bottles of oil, bottles of still and sparkling water.
“In case disaster strikes,” he says, kidding.
“Why would there be a disaster?”
With or without the food, I doubt a disaster will ever take place in that home. I never stock up, I shop from day to day. My refrigerator is never full, neither is my pantry.
We pay up at the register, separately. It takes him fifteen minutes to put all that food into shopping bags. I follow him down to the parking lot below the supermarket. We escape the banal music, the neon lights, the odor of food, the excessive air-conditioning.
“Can I give you a ride?”
“I don’t have much to carry, I can walk.”
“It’s supposed to rain, let’s head back together.”
He opens the trunk. All the shopping bags, made of a sickly transparent green, look alike and merge into one big mass. We decide to put my two bags in one of the car seats. It’s a little disgusting, covered with crumbs, and around it I see the detritus left by his children, imprisoned for long journeys in that car: all manner of toys, dismembered action figures, battered books.
He pulls a chocolate bar out of one of his bags.
“We need to eat this right away,” he says.
I know the reason. My friend, his wife, is worried about his blood sugar, his intake of saturated fats. He gives me a little piece.
“No one knows about this parking lot. See how empty it is? I like to keep it a secret, I never tell anyone that I know about it.”
He drops me off at my door. I take my bags, thank him, and say goodbye, kissing him on the cheeks like always.
“Sure you don’t need anything else? Want a few of our bags? Half of it’s just stuff for the pantry.”
“If disaster strikes, I’d suggest you abandon the house.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
In any case, I don’t need anything else. The tenderness he sets aside for me is enough.
By the Sea
I’m in a restaurant in the little town along the coast. Through the glass I can see the sky—it’s gray today—and the sea. It’s a wintry Sunday, still a nice day, with not too much wind. The sun’s hidden but at least there’s no rain.
We’ve gathered for the baptism of the daughter of one of my colleagues with whom I’m friendly. She told me it meant a lot to her, so I said yes, even though to be honest I was tempted to decline the invitation. Another colleague of ours gave me a ride. He’s irritating, but unfortunately, I don’t have a car.
After the ceremony in the church we came to the restaurant. We’re a big group, and three long tables occupy most of the space. The whole restaurant has been reserved just for us. It’s clear that the owners know my friend’s family well—they’ve celebrated other important occasions here and feel at home. Most of the guests are relatives of either my friend or her husband: the parents, cousins, in-laws, aunts and uncles, other children. The little girl sleeps in her pram in spite of the racket. The laughter swells and dies down like the waves that crash on the beach in front of us.
I see the cousins of this newly baptized baby, those who are older, those who can walk, those able to eat on their own, those who are eating so much they could probably already stand to lose a kilo or two.
We raise our glasses and make a toast, and then the lunch is served. The waiters bring a vast array of appetizers to the tables—mussels, clams, anchovies, cheese, olives, smoked tuna, shrimp—all on individual plates. I’ve chosen a seat far from the tedious colleague who gave me a ride, with whom I’ll have to ride back soon enough.
I eat and drink a little wine. I talk with the people seated on either side of me. I explain who I am and how I know my friend and what I do for work. I look at the moody sky above the sea, the blurry horizon where sea and sky meet, the great peace that lies beyond this confusion. I’m struck that I’m the only one in the room admiring the sea’s splendor at this moment.
Though we’re crowded together I feel separate from the group, excluded from their enduring, unquestioned bonds. On the other hand, I feel obligated to pay attention to people I barely know. I feel a bit off physically as well. I’m making an effort just to sit here, and I’m oddly aware of the weight of my head on my neck. There’s nothing in my throat but I’m convinced something is blocking it all the same. I take a breath and observe that my stomach rises and falls, but my chest feels clamped, I need to get out, get some fresh air.
I look around, searching for something to focus on, a steady point. The little girl has woken up, I see her in the arms of my friend’s husband. She’s crying. Her grandmother comes to comfort her.
I get up. I look for the restroom. I’m told it’s outside, and this makes me happy, it means I’m forced to get out of this space.
“It’s turned cold, signora. I’d advise a jacket,” the waiter says.
I take my coat, go to the bathroom, then sneak off, heading down to the beach. The restless sea is magnificent. I come upon the remains of the home of an emperor. I can vaguely make out the dimensions, the outlines of the rooms that once looked out at the sea, when the emperor lived here in summer.
I think about the little girl and this afternoon in her honor. She’s ignorant of the cheerful party organized to celebrate her life, she knows nothing yet about the world.
From down below, the restaurant, brightened by artificial light, seems like an aquarium full of people. They’re all dressed in different colors, all moving slowly.