Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

The motivating trigger was missing from Cecilia’s account, and Viberti had no desire to probe. All that mattered was that they had separated for good. He often lingered over another notion: replacing the husband, in the wife’s bed and in the children’s hearts; becoming a father to them. On the whole, though, since he’d never met the little girl, his fantasies revolved around Mattia. He imagined reading him books in the evening. On Sunday they would go to the stadium and he would explain the plays to him. They would bring a big notebook and sketch the actions and movements of the players on the field. Then he would feel dejected. He knew nothing about those children. He knew nothing about children, period.

* * *

It was difficult to picture the children, plus every time Cecilia described them she revised her description, upsetting the tentative image newly formed in Viberti’s head; she seemed to do it on purpose to derail him. The children had suffered a great deal on account of the separation and they reacted in different ways. The children had different temperaments and each had reacted in his own way, in the only way two children could react, by trying to forget. The children would never forget, it was impossible. The children had acted too much like adults, they had shown a maturity that their parents didn’t possess. The children had acted like children, they had denied and repressed so as not to suffer too much. The little girl had taken on the duty of raising her mother’s morale, the boy had become serious and conscientious, “the man of the house.” The girl was irresistibly appealing, but after wearing you out with her fussing she left you with only one wish: to strangle her. The girl was petulant and self-centered, she never stopped talking, but in the evening, at dinner, after listening to her for half an hour, pretending to be amused, a surge of tenderness would wring your heart. On the one hand the boy, silent, with no appetite, dignified and never capricious, on the other the sister, who tried so hard to submerge everything in a sea of words. On the one hand the obstinacy of the little ingrate who fought back using hunger as a weapon, on the other the mercilessness of the other little ingrate who wouldn’t forgive the mother for having made the father run off.

“Michela thinks it’s your fault?” Viberti asked.

“They both think it’s the fault of whoever stayed with them, the one who went away was thrown out, he’s the victim,”

but then,

“They think it’s their fault, they think they did something wrong,”

but then,

“She takes her anger out on her brother, but that’s not the biggest issue, I think,”

but then,

“They think he wants to start a new family and have other children; sooner or later they’ll ask me how they should act toward those new siblings,”

but then,

“They don’t think anything.”

Viberti asked (trying not to sound concerned),

“Does Michela mistreat her brother?”

“No, she’s gentle and protective, they play together, they get along very well, only sometimes she lets off steam and starts shouting, and won’t let him go into her room anymore,”

but then,

“She has a strange way of excluding him, even when she’s not angry with him, every now and then she won’t talk to him and I can hear him asking her the same question ten times,”

but then,

“She helps him do his homework, puts away his toys when she sees him lying on the bed reading, she’s actually very caring — she acts a bit like a mother but she won’t let me cuddle with him, she pesters me until I make him get off my lap,”

but then,

“I don’t think she’s forgiven me for bringing him into the world!”

Viberti asked (wondering if he was overstepping his bounds),

“How can they think that your husband wants to start a new family? Who could have told them that?”

“No one told them, it’s not true, I think it’s the last thing he wants,”

but then,

“No one suggested it to them, the fear of having to share him with other children is so strong they just think that, that’s all,”

but then,

“Their grandparents, his parents, may have told them that nonsense and then forgotten it a moment later,”

but then,

“If you think about it, though, that’s not the strangest thing, the strangest thing is that they’re not worried that I might want to start a new family, they take it for granted that I’ll always be with them, alone, don’t you see?”

“And is that true?” He blushes.

“It is, it is.” She stares into his eyes. “They think that because I let them know it, without having to tell them, for fear of losing them I made them understand.”

* * *

One day, during those weeks, and for the first time since he’d met her, Viberti reconstructed the chronology of Cecilia’s life, going back in time: she must have qualified at thirty, had Mattia when she was twenty-six, graduated at twenty-four, had Michela at twenty-three, married at twenty-two. Married at twenty-two. It seemed incredible to him, and even more incredible was the fact that he hadn’t thought about it before. He asked her to confirm his calculations, and she did, and started laughing. “You look shocked, what’s wrong?” Yes, he said, he was rather shocked. Where had she found the energy to do all those things at once? Cecilia smiled again, and didn’t answer.

* * *

To tell her about Marta, Viberti began with the nightly homecoming scene. For twenty years, ever since he’d moved to another apartment in the building where he was born and grew up, he’d dropped by his mother’s almost every night, at least to say hello, often remaining in the doorway, just to find out if everything was okay, to let her know that everything was okay. Even after his marriage he hadn’t changed that routine; in fact, Giulia often stayed to chat with Marta, and seemed happy in the company of the older woman, who encouraged her, advised her without pressuring her, was a friend to her. When their marriage ended, for Marta almost nothing changed; she received visits from both of them, brought them together by inviting them both to dinner at least once a week.

Years passed and Viberti still went home every night faced with the same dilemma: whether to stop by and see his mother or for once pretend he hadn’t thought of it. If he was very hungry and couldn’t wait to make himself something to eat, he’d hop into the elevator and press the button for the fifth floor, but then he would stop in front of his door and jingle the keys in his hand, making up his mind whether to go in or not. Especially in spring, when the afternoons seemed to go on forever, the light at seven o’clock took on a mellow, tender tone that wore him down, enveloped him, left him helpless.

All he had to do was drop by and say hello, a matter of minutes, but that was exactly what stopped him, the ease with which he could go down three flights of stairs, ring the bell, exchange a few words. Something held him back, a vague desire that surfaced through his resignation, and he didn’t want to give in. Yes, he’d go into the apartment and cook himself the steak he’d bought, put the frozen potatoes in the oven, open a new jar of mustard, uncork a bottle of wine, because the evening meal was the only real meal of the day, at lunchtime he never ate more than a salad or a plate of boiled vegetables. Remember that digestion begins at the time the meal is consumed, never eat too fast, there is no hunger or emergency or work or play that can justify devouring a cup of yogurt in ten seconds, theoretically a mouthful should be chewed at least fifty times, but forty may be enough. Reluctantly, he put the keys back in his pocket and went down to the second floor.