Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

Two nights ago she’d gone out with some colleagues and they’d ended up in a horrible pizzeria near the hospital. Not to celebrate the start of vacation, since, as the chief surgeon pointed out with a wistful expression, “The days when everyone took vacation at the same time are over.” When he was young, the city emptied out in August, there were no sick people anymore and legendary soccer tournaments were organized at the hospital. “Good times,” a nurse whispered in Cecilia’s ear, “when we were in short pants.” Cecilia does a perfect imitation of both the pompous head doctor and the Neapolitan nurse and Viberti laughs.

But it’s true, only a third of them will start vacation the following Monday, cities don’t empty out anymore. So how come they all went out for pizza, then? To say goodbye to a nurse who is leaving: she’s taking a year’s leave of absence to go work in a village in Mali. At the end the young woman made a short speech with tears in her eyes, and despite the lousy pizza, the subzero air-conditioning, and the unrelenting neon lights, everyone was glad they’d gone to send her off. The chief surgeon hugged her and made a silly joke, loudly, so everyone could hear. The doctors and nurses, exhausted, laughed in unison with a strange sense of liberation.

Viberti, too, keeps laughing; Cecilia’s high spirits are contagious. Under the trees, along the river, the heat is almost bearable. But after dinner, when they get to the street, the asphalt is scorching and steamy.

“If this keeps up, all my little old folks will die of dehydration,” Viberti says. He’s thinking about the death of letting her leave by herself, the death that is life without her.

He thinks Cecilia is about to say good night and he’s prepared for a disappointing kiss on the cheek. He offers to take her to her car.

“I didn’t come by car,” Cecilia tells him.

“You seem angry,” Viberti says, “is it my fault?”

“It’s always your fault.” She shakes her head with a sad smile.

They get into the Passat without another word, Viberti crosses the bridge and turns left onto the broad, tree-lined drive that runs along the river. He drives in silence, he doesn’t exceed thirty miles an hour, Cecilia has her seat belt on and has leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Five traffic lights, red, green, red; at the second-to-last intersection Viberti slows down, hoping the light will turn yellow; at the last he actually stops at a green light. The giant trees form a dark curtain that hides the river and the sweltering city beyond it. Cecilia hasn’t opened her eyes, but when they reach the piazza surrounding the large circular church she takes Viberti’s hand, resting on the gearshift, and asks him to go back. “Back where,” he asks, “to the restaurant?”

She asks him to drive back along the riverfront the way they’ve come. They cover the same route back and forth twice, as if they’ve decided to spend the night driving, in the air-conditioned car.

After the third lap, Cecilia opens her eyes, turns to Viberti, and looks at him.

Viberti doesn’t ask her to go with him to his apartment, he knows she wouldn’t agree. He drives in silence along the broad avenue that runs along the river, until he finds a dark, secluded spot.

Memory is unfair. The person remembering is now older. She was no longer able to feel what she had once felt for Luca. She remembered clearly the sensation of something that was fading and then the sensation of no longer feeling anything, and later still the anger and regret; she’d lost him forever. She remembered how she’d felt, having loved him in a hazy former time, and realizing that she didn’t love him anymore, not at all, at that moment, an instant before, discovering that she hadn’t loved him for who knows how long. She’d begun to stop loving him without being aware of it, maybe because it wasn’t possible to know it before being ready to admit it and by that time it was too late. And besides, the person remembering is now older and more disillusioned and forgetful than the young, deluded, determined protagonist of her memories. That’s why memory is unfair.

* * *

She had loved him. It wasn’t true that she didn’t remember. She’d loved him and she had proof of it. There had been gestures, places, words; they acted as clues, memories that she guarded closely, at times loathing or feeling ashamed of them. Every now and then smiling over them. She’d loved him, a long time ago. Only if she’d loved him could she have done and said and thought certain things. She had told at least two girlfriends that she was completely infatuated with him. She’d written “I love you” on a bus ticket and put it in his coat pocket so he’d read the message when he stamped the ticket in the machine (only now did the sexual innuendo of the act occur to her). She didn’t know how to iron but sometimes she had to iron a shirt of his, and as she ironed it she thought he’d notice how badly it was ironed and he’d feel the wrinkles on his skin and he’d think of her.

Motionless in bed, sleepless nights. She didn’t want to take sleeping pills every night, maybe she should have. But she was so tired that deep down she liked the simple fact of lying there in bed, motionless. And also knowing it. As if knowing that she still had four hours of dark immobility ahead of her were more restful than spending that time unconscious in sleep. She didn’t move, didn’t turn over, didn’t straighten her legs or hug her knees. She lay motionless in one position, facedown on her stomach. And her thoughts weren’t necessarily unpleasant thoughts. Her mother’s words, after-school arrangements, incidents from the ER. Calm, slow processions, each thought leading another by the hand, or one hand on the shoulder of the thought ahead of it, like the Beagle Boys. Anxious thoughts arose every now and then out of fear and fueled it, but they too moved along unhurriedly.

The first thought always concerned her child. Let the boy be all right, let him continue to eat, let him become more cheerful and spirited, let him grow stronger, let his arms and legs grow sturdier, especially his legs: the thought of her son’s scrawny legs was the advance guard sent out by anxiety to reconnoiter. After which she thought and thought about his meals, comparing them, recalling them, summoning up details from recent days, as well as times from previous weeks that had signaled some progress (when he’d asked for a second helping, even a small one, when he’d shown a liking for a certain dish — and then she’d remember, make a mental note of that dish, create variations, use it as a staple to make him eat more) or a minor setback (decipher the cause without him noticing, figure out if he’d eaten too many snacks or heavy foods at school, or if he had any allergies, find out if something had upset him). Overcoming her anxiety, making his terribly skinny figure seem innocuous, driving back the bleakest thoughts by making a list of things to do. First, don’t make him feel like he’s under observation. Second, forestall his refusals. Third, take your time planning dinners. Fourth, engage him by appearing distracted. Fifth, let him help you set the table. Sixth, don’t overdo it when filling his plate. Seventh, don’t rush him (don’t watch him out of the corner of your eye, don’t check on him, don’t touch his plate, don’t correct his posture or the way he holds his knife and fork). Eighth, let him have a choice. Ninth, accept it when he leaves something, but remember how much he left. Tenth, if he’s happy he’ll feel hungry. The Ten Commandments, the Covenant of the Dinner Table.

* * *

Before and after the first separation, the sleepless nights weren’t at all restful. Back then her thoughts raced along swiftly, rising in intensity and then suddenly plummeting in twisted downhill spirals, against a backdrop of catastrophic scenarios.