Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

“This time it turned out well, but I don’t know how much more I can take, I’m falling apart physically, yesterday I couldn’t stand up, my legs were shaky.”

“My legs were shaky today, too.”

“I don’t know what to do and I feel like there’s no one I can ask for help.”

“I’m here, I’ll help you.”

“No, you’re not there either.”

“Why would you say I’m not here? You can call me anytime — where are you now? Do you want to meet me?”

“You’re not there.”

“Cecilia, I want to help you, all I want to do is be there for you.”

“That’s not true. It’s not true.”

“It is true. Where are you? Listen, tell me where you are. I want to come to you.”

“Why are you seeing Silvia? What’s going on with Silvia?”

Now, maybe, she’s crying. Hard to know. Viberti remains silent. He’s been caught unprepared, but he knew it. He has no idea what to say. The chasm in the center of his chest has closed up, something is squeezing the pit of his stomach, a rigid, bony hand like that of his mother, who is asleep in front of him.

“Why are you seeing her?”

Viberti doesn’t answer.

“Claudio?”

“I’m here,” he says finally.

“Why are you seeing her?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know. I can’t explain it to you.”

They’re both silent.

“Have you been with her? You’ve barely met … Have you been with her?”

Viberti doesn’t answer. Cecilia’s voice is uncertain, she stumbles over the words; despite the inquisitorial tone or maybe because of it, she goes from anger to entreaty in the space of a question.

“I saw her one night. We went out to dinner.”

“Are you in love with her?”

As if she’d slapped him. His head snaps back. He gets up, paces up and down the room with the phone pressed against his ear. He’s faced with the facts, with his own life reflected back at him, and yes, it’s really him.

“God, Cecilia, what kind of question is that?”

“I’m asking you a simple question, I need a simple answer.”

“No, I’m not in love with her.”

“Are you sleeping with her? Do you spend the night with her? How many ways do I have to ask the question?”

“You shouldn’t ask!” Viberti intensifies his words while continuing to speak softly; what comes out is a hoarse whisper that is more likely to wake his mother than if he were speaking normally. He’s heard them often, the people who whisper on the phone, the ones who threaten. At the hospital, for example, turn the corner of a corridor and there’s a woman saying: “Are you sleeping with her? Do you spend the night with her? How many ways do I have to ask the question?”—she looks at you but she’s not talking to you, she’s talking to her cell phone. Now he’s the one on the other end, now it’s his turn.

“Wasn’t there something between us?” Cecilia asks.

Viberti looks at his mother. Her head is still lolling, but maybe on the other side.

“Was there something between us?” Cecilia repeats.

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“It’s a question.”

“Yes, of course, there was something between us. What are you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything. I just asked if there was something between us.”

“Yes, there was something between us. But you’ve always been very clear about it.”

“Do I seem to you like a person who is very clear?”

“Very clear, very firm. I thought you knew what you wanted.”

“Don’t change the subject. Tell me how it happened, how did you end up with Silvia. She’s my sister.”

“Cecilia, you can’t make a scene and act jealous, you can’t, you have no right!” Now he’s really raising his voice, he leaves the room and runs into Angélica in the corridor, who, alarmed, has come to see what’s going on. Viberti slips into the kitchen and steps out on the balcony. Before him, the courtyards: this is his earliest view, that of his childhood, of his adolescence. This is the balcony where he got locked out that evening, where he’s still locked out today.

“No, I have no right. But you were in love with me, weren’t you? You always told me you were in love. Or maybe you didn’t tell me, maybe you led me to think you were, and so maybe I misunderstood you.”

Viberti is at a loss, backed into a corner.

He murmurs: “No, you didn’t misunderstand me. I am in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the first day I saw you.”

Cecilia is crying on the other end of the line, there’s no doubt about it now, she’s crying.

“You’re in love with me, but you’re fucking Silvia. Was that what it was? Did you need to get laid?”

“Please, Cecilia, don’t be like that.”

“You’re right. I have no right to. I’m not allowed. I’ll hang up now, you probably have to go out. Goodbye.”

“Cecilia, wait … Cecilia? Cecilia?”

He tries to call her back. Her phone is turned off.

For a moment, holding the phone away from his ear, checking the display to see if he’s locked the keyboard, his strength fails him. His legs give way, the phone slips out of his hand, bounces off the balcony, and shoots off one of the concrete pillars; it’s pretty much dead by the time it lands in the courtyard.

* * *

Marta is leafing through the travel magazine. When Viberti apologizes for having raised his voice, she looks at him blankly.

As she does more and more often lately, she starts talking by continuing a conversation that she was perhaps having in her head. She says she should have traveled more, that she hasn’t seen anything of the world, that she let her husband travel around without going with him; occasionally she had the opportunity — he insisted that she leave the child with her sister, but she didn’t feel right about it, or maybe she didn’t want to go, silly fears, being afraid to fly, or being afraid she wouldn’t find anything to eat.

“Anything to eat?”

“Yes, in Hong Kong, for example, nothing that I’d like … or in Brazil. What do people eat in Brazil?”

Viberti runs a hand through his hair; he’s plunged back into the absurd, or maybe he never left it. “I don’t know, Mama, I’ve never been there either.”

“But you should travel, listen, if I may give you a word of advice, you should travel while you’re young. Don’t wait until you retire. I should have traveled more with your father, you know, he always insisted that I go with him, but I didn’t feel like it, maybe I was afraid I wouldn’t find anything to eat.”

“All right, Mama, I’ll travel. Where do you think I should go?”

“One place is as good as any. The important thing is to go.”

Viberti nods. He clings to the arms of the chair, he needs a mooring so he won’t be swept away, a harness so he won’t nosedive, he needs to be securely tied down. Tied? No, no, no ties, maybe a punch in the face that will leave him stunned or unconscious on the ground, or maybe a drink would do it, stop or at least slow his racing thoughts, a glass of wine, some port, some rum, but here there isn’t anything, he has to get back home as soon as possible. He has to interrupt Marta, say good night to her.

“You should travel more, like your father did. Traveling is very instructive. But I can’t blame you — in fact it’s the opposite, I think I’m the one who passed my fears on to you.”

“Don’t be silly, Mama, I’m not afraid of traveling, besides, it’s not like I never go anywhere.”

“I never liked it, partly because I was afraid of flying and partly because I thought I couldn’t leave a young child.”

“Okay, I’ll try to travel more.”

“Well, you should, you haven’t set foot out of this house. You’re a homebody, that’s what you are.”