Ben Faccini - The Water-Breather

Soon after we arrive at Machance’s, Ama sets to work, going through urgent bills and clearing up untidy rooms. She stops as soon as Machance appears, not wanting to get in the way, not able to explain. She glances over the sparse furniture and sagging paintings, confused by the disrupted order of the house.

Then people start turning up to see Ama and Pado. These friends and guests come and go, sad at the fact that we’re never in one place.

‘Why don’t you stay a while? We never see you!’ ‘Why are you always rushing off so soon?’

Ama answers them all with the same empty expression, her bag for the next journey already packed and prepared in her head.

Two visitors, Michael and Joan, stay a little longer. Pado rolls out medical stories and cases he’s heard at his conferences, like the one about the woman who smoked so much that her lips went yellow and grew into grapes of tumours that clustered like chandeliers from her mouth down into her lungs. Michael listens to Pado in horror.

‘Enough! Enough!’ he begs: ‘You’re going to put me off smoking!’

Joan urges Pado to carry on. ‘Keep going, Gaspare. He’s got to give up one day. He already can’t breathe properly going up stairs!’

Michael tells her to stop being so ridiculous and gets up, pointedly, to light a cigarette. Machance brings him an ashtray. He balances it delicately on the window sill, blowing his smoke outside. I watch him from the table, inhaling, sucking in the smoke in big gulps. Pado and Ama move on to another subject. Machance explains something to Duccio. Isn’t anyone going to say anything to Michael? Isn’t anyone going to show him Pado’s book on lung disease? I look at Michael again, rotating the ashtray with his finger. Now he’s knocking the grey ash off, with precise little taps of the cigarette. The smoke snakes into his mouth and sticks to his lips, like deadly air flowing in and out of an air conditioner. The tumours. What about the tumours? His lips will swell and rot. He won’t be able to speak or swallow and the scabs and stubs sprouting from his lips will turn into blisters of blood. I picture him dying and the doctors waiting to cut out his lungs for a photo or a microscope slide, with his finished life etched in its dulling colours. I feel a headache mounting, a sickness in the back of the eyes. I stare back at Michael, transfixed.

Machance interrupts my gaze and asks me to help her lay out some glasses. I reach across the table. I spot a pack of cigarettes, inside Michael’s jacket, draped over the chair. I can’t stop looking at it, poking out of the grey material. I carry an empty bowl to the kitchen. What if Michael ends up like Mr Yunnan or Grand Maurice and all the other dead people? We have to stop him! I corner Giulio near the fridge: we should do something quick! Giulio says if I can grab the cigarette packet, he’ll divert everyone’s attention. He starts running up and down asking Ama for a sip of coffee. She tells him to calm down, plonks him on her lap and roughs up his hair. As she curls strands of Giulio’s hair round her fingers, I dig into Michael’s jacket. Pado looks at me strangely. He is wondering what I’m doing, but he’s too busy waiting for the next joke or smile to mind. Michael laughs with Pado.

I can feel the cigarette packet burning in my hand.

Giulio and I rush off to the bathroom. We pass Machance turning last year’s apples from the garden on the window ledges. She rotates each apple, every day, to check that it’s not rotting. Not that it matters much: she’ll never eat them anyway because she is thinking of Grand Maurice. In the bathroom, Giulio and I run the warm water and fill the basin to the brim. We have to move fast before Michael tries to light up again. We tip the cigarette packet into the water. The cigarettes take up the basin like felled tree trunks on a river. They gradually fall apart, shavings of paper and shredded leaves. Giulio pulls out the plug. The cigarettes clog the hole and gargle. Machance is walking by outside. We don’t have long. The cigarettes won’t go down. I push and prod them unsuccessfully into the plug hole. Then I open the lavatory. They’ll have to go down there instead. We drop them in the bowl and pull the chain, a lengthy throttled flush. Some cigarettes float back up to the surface and linger for a while, others go straight down and never return. Then we realise we still have the packet itself. We drop it into the loo as well. With the brush we crush it up and dilute the water with blue antiseptic. Clean smells drench the bathroom and the packet vanishes.

They haven’t noticed that we left the sitting-room. Duccio is on his own. No one’s patted him on the head. Ama says that we have to protect Duccio. It’s not often that people are born like him. Not even the photographer who came and took pictures of him in his suit could get it right. ‘He’s too good-looking,’ Ama sighs and no one can do him justice. ‘Beautiful children aren’t always beautiful adults though,’ so we have to be careful to appreciate it now. Her friends do. Ama has one friend who kisses us hello and Duccio swears she once touched his lips with her tongue. It was like a warm, wet piece of ham. Giulio and I don’t understand. He has a nose and eyes and mouth like us, but they always look at him, the same way as they look at Ama.

Michael goes to light another cigarette. He pulls the ashtray off the window sill. Giulio tugs at my sleeve. We sit down and do something. Something nothing. I try and think calmly, smoothly. Michael searches from one pocket to another, knocking his head to remember. He gets up and looks in his coat, in Joan’s bag, in his trousers. He’s frantic and he doesn’t like it when everyone carries on talking. He has to find his cigarettes. Now! It has to be now! Joan tries to calm him, but Michael says, ‘The cigarettes can’t have just got up and walked out of the room on their own.’

Machance comes to the door and coughs a little to announce that the loo downstairs is blocked. If we need a lavatory, we’d better go upstairs and be careful not to use too much water, as there’s only a small tank. Ama and Pado don’t understand how the loo could be blocked. It was working ten minutes ago. Lavatories don’t simply block like that. ‘Another thing to fix for my mother before we leave,’ Ama worries. Pado apologises to the guests and fetches some tools from the boot of the car. He begins hacking away at the tap behind the lavatory drain with a spanner, then a hammer. Michael is like a dog, rushing, searching. Pado, with his legs poking out from behind taps, tries to prise the lavatory pipe open. Giulio and I know he’ll never make it. Machance has never opened her pipes and there is rust all around the house. In her bedroom there is a photograph of Grand Maurice shaded with so much dust that it looks like a hoover filter with an old face in the middle. I must never think of what Grand Maurice’s face is like now, dredged from the lake and swaddled in weeds, sealed in his tomb.

Then the pipe loosens, with Pado suddenly saying, ‘What’s this?’

He’s about to pick it up, when Ama warns: ‘Don’t touch it, it’s disgusting!’

She hands him a plastic cup. We always have them ready in the repair kit. He scoops up a lump of shredded matter.

‘Put it down Gaspare, please! It’s revolting,’ Ama fusses.

Pado is not so sure. He points the cup towards the light and swivels it in the palm of his hand.

‘Looks like vegetable with bits of paper.’

Michael hasn’t calmed down. ‘I could swear I had them. I had them there in the sitting-room!’ He squints into the cup of shredded mass and then looks again. He asks for a screwdriver or something from Ama.

He picks around inside the cup. ‘That’s strange!’

He extracts a little white paper. It has disintegrated, but he knows it’s a cigarette filter. He asks Pado to have a look inside the pipe and he scours it with a rod. Giulio and I are just retreating when a heap of filters comes out in an avalanche of matted tobacco. Michael is speechless.