Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

At the restaurant she talked for two hours, inundating the shy internist with a torrent of dumb stories, she, too, like Michela, over the top , in fact, she worst of all, the original. Throughout the entire dinner she kept talking and thinking that she wanted to fuck Viberti but that she wouldn’t because it was better that way. She stopped talking only when they were outside in the close, muggy air, under the dark masses of trees that reminded her of the walk a month ago, the dense fog in which she’d felt enveloped.

She should have immediately called a taxi and gone home, but she went to the parking lot with Viberti as if she’d also driven there. She didn’t say a word until the shy internist stopped looking around for the Scénic and turned to look at her. Then she was forced to admit that she hadn’t come by car and he offered her a ride. She shouldn’t have accepted, but she got into the Passat, where she’d ended up a month ago after wandering around like a sleepwalker. She kept silent, because if she spoke it would break the spell. She knew what she shouldn’t do and she was doing it. Frozen in her seat, her eyes closed, she let Viberti drive up and down the avenue along the river.

Against the black screen of her eyelids she saw the children running toward her. She had the feeling, vague as a distant memory, that she’d left them at the parking lot so she could go and have a good time. Instead, it was the children who were having a good time without her. Was she jealous? Did it bother her that they were so happy? Child neglect, or children neglecting their parent? Mattia had stopped drawing parking spaces, fortunately. They drove up and down the avenue waiting for her to be ready, like in a waiting room, waiting for a decision to be delivered. Waiting room, waiting lane. Which specialist should they see? Each had become the other’s specialist.

The seat belt was crushing a nipple, she loosened it. That touch was enough to rouse her from her torpor. Although a part of her was absent, another part was present and excited, and when her excitement found an opportunity to emerge, Cecilia opened her eyes and looked at Viberti. He no longer seemed so shy, this internist. It had happened too quickly. And it was about to happen again. Viberti stopped the car in a dark side street and she climbed astride him without even waiting for him to unzip.

And regretting it this time was easier and more abrupt. All she had to do was ignore the phone calls and messages, wait for the children to return from their summer camps, load kids and luggage in the car and join her mother at the shore. Nowhere in the rules was it written that she owed him an explanation, and a period of silence would do them both good.

In his memory the child’s face had become more and more blurry. He tried to remember back to the days when the boy had been hospitalized, two years before, and found details he thought he’d forgotten almost intact: the notebook with the parking lot sketches, the blue pajamas, the Supercars book, the cover of Pinocchio . He could see certain images again, like the skinny wrist peeking out of the pajama sleeve, or the feet tucked into the blue slippers, or the upward-curving wisps of brown hair falling over his ears, so that his head looked like a pagoda. He remembered images that he couldn’t have seen, the child biting into an apple and leaving two parallel marks on the fruit, as if he were still missing his front incisors (they weren’t missing).

And after a while he realized that he was transforming him, or had already transformed him. His face had become a child’s version of Cecilia’s face. Now he wasn’t so sure that Mattia resembled her all that much. And maybe he’d never see him again. In two years he must have changed a lot. He was ten now, he might be unrecognizable. No, maybe not unrecognizable, but certainly changed. So in that sense he was right: he would never see the child from two years ago again. He didn’t have the courage to ask Cecilia for a picture of the boy. It seemed like a strange thing to do. Then, too, he didn’t want to make her have to look through photos from that time. He tried to remember, but every attempt was hopeless.

* * *

It happened one morning in mid-February, at winter’s coldest point, a day that lacked the decency to slip by without leaving a trace; not only was it a Monday, not only was it bitterly cold, but the sky was an intense, bright blue swept clean by the wind. Not one of those gray skies that swaddle the city like a tightly tucked flannel blanket. On days like that, according to Marta, a headache lay in wait, that’s why they called it “high pressure.”

At ten Viberti was to start examining the fifteen patients admitted to the ward. While waiting for the nurse to let him know she’d finished her rounds of the beds, he quickly calculated their average age: seventy-five (one sixty-year-old lowered it). When the average age of the patients was higher than the national average life expectancy it was a bad sign — one devoid of any scientific basis, but bad nevertheless.

He had just turned forty-four, and if he were to have a child in a year, he’d be fifty-five when the child turned ten, when the child turned eighteen he’d be sixty-three. He’d have to stay in shape to be able to play tennis at that age.

He was joking with two residents. He advised them to always tell the family that the situation was difficult; if the patient later recovered, they could then recite the magic formula, “he has a strong constitution,” which made everything all right. A strong constitution that could be passed along genetically was a guarantee that shone brightly on the future of children and grandchildren. A strong constitution made everyone feel better. The nurse came to call them; she overheard his remark and gave him a stern look.

In some rooms, the shutters were lowered halfway due to the brutal light, but the sun came through the cracks, blades of light on the floor, refracting against the walls. Even in semidarkness, the rooms were full of smothered light. The first patient was a chronic bronchitis relapse. Viberti listened to his back and told the two residents they could reduce the steroids.

In the bottom of his coat pocket his cell phone began to vibrate against the patient’s side, scaring him and then making him laugh. It was an unknown number. He went out into the hall to answer, he heard Cecilia’s agitated voice and ducked into the deserted dispensary where he could talk quietly. The room was on the other side of the building, and, before his eyes could adjust to the dimness, with the door closed behind him, he thought night had fallen over the world. It was the first time Cecilia was calling him from home. She absolutely had to see him, not at lunch, not in two hours, but that very moment, as soon as possible, she had something to tell him that couldn’t wait.

Just the idea of her summoning him put him on the alert; it was a call that had to be answered. Not to would mean to break a fragile stability and risk losing what he both feared and desired losing. Calls from people like his mother or Cecilia had to be answered, regardless of fears or desires. Especially calls from Cecilia, with whom he was in love, or at least assuming he was in love with her, as he was in the habit of doing.

“Has something happened to Mattia?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Can’t it wait until lunchtime?”

“I’m not coming to lunch, I have the evening shift.”

“I can’t get away before an hour or so.”

But she kept insisting and Viberti promised to be at the usual café within forty minutes.

“Not the usual café.” She asked him to please meet her at a playground halfway between the hospital and her house.