Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

As they came closer, the boy holding hands with the adult looked more and more like Mattia. He must have recently been discharged. He hadn’t had time to say goodbye and already he missed him. They walked firmly toward the Scénic, and my father desperately tried to identify the man leading the child as a pediatrician, but with every step that became more and more unlikely. He was tall and rather good-looking despite an angular face and a big nose.

How does the face of a teenager turn into the face of a man? It doesn’t. Time was, people became adults, and you could tell. Now we’re born with more or less adult faces and we keep them our whole lives, because life isn’t as draining as it used to be. So you had aging children, like Cecilia, graying young men, like my father, and mature adults, who at forty reached the age suited to their features.

How could he have been so naïve. As if a person suddenly disappeared just like that from someone’s life. He didn’t disappear. As if inertia didn’t govern everyone’s relationships. It did.

In the space of a few seconds, Cecilia looked up, saw her son and husband (or ex-husband), picked up the key, and opened the car door. She greeted them, kissing her son on the head and the man on the mouth, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him to her, laughing. The sadness of a moment ago seemed to have left no trace. The man walked to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door so the child could climb in. Last of all, Cecilia retrieved the packages from the roof of the car. They got in, closed the doors, and the Scénic pulled out.

My father stayed there awhile looking out at the deserted courtyard, undecided whether to focus his acute, intense jealousy on the child or on the mother. He’d always thought he was incapable of reading people and he was right. But it was more than that. It was as if everything around him lacked a dash of imagination.

* * *

So then: at the beginning, an empty room like a stage; in the middle of it, a man hidden behind a column, observing the world; finally, a window. The idea is more or less the same. Sitting in the audience, he watched. Hidden, looking out, he watched.

Looking out at the world was my father’s preference. His name was Claudio Viberti, but everyone in the hospital just called him Viberti, and over the years he, too, came to think of himself by that name, as if it were his first name.

Writing is what the son prefers, the son who in those days didn’t exist and so had no name yet. No one can keep me from it, there is no present that is of greater interest to me than that distant past that I did not experience, about which I know almost nothing, and which I continue to imagine, fabricating other people’s memories.

For some months Marta had been experiencing memory problems. She would repeat the same question or the same story three or four times in a row, she forgot where she’d put her keys or glasses just moments before, and now she had started leaving pots and pans to scorch on the stove. Giulia had noticed it and, worried, had pointed it out to Viberti, who acted as if he weren’t aware of it. But pretending is a subtle art that requires a lot of practice, guile, and nerves of steel, and Viberti wasn’t up to it. Giulia made him confess that, yes, he had noticed his mother’s memory lapses and had ignored the facts, deciding that there was nothing that could be done. Always the wrong tack to take. So Marta was taken to a geriatrician, and the tests ruled out Alzheimer’s but not senile dementia. In a woman of eighty-two the course of the illness was unpredictable; she might not recognize anyone in three or four years’ time or she could die at the age of a hundred with the same minor issues.

A year after having met Cecilia in Pediatrics, Viberti, returning home one evening in May, stopped by to see Marta, as he often did, though never frequently enough to allay the feeling that he was neglecting his elderly mother, who lived just three floors below him. It sometimes seemed to him that his ex-wife had settled in a nearby apartment with the goal of fueling that guilt (guilt was the alimony Viberti paid to Giulia). Marta’s kitchen was plastered with notes written by Giulia or by Angélica, the Peruvian woman who looked after her. Prosciutto and stracchino cheese in the refrigerator; Heat for 4 minutes on High; This envelope contains six (6) Ibuprofen tablets, given to Marta today, April 23, by Giulia, which must last until Sunday evening (April 27?) , the last parentheses added in Marta’s rounded, ornate handwriting. The table was littered with old photographs on the backs of which Marta had been adding captions for months now. In the chalet at Montenegro Bagni, Marta is holding her “dear” puppy Haile, it was a “fashionable” name because Italy had just “conquered” Abyssinia. Or: Excursion to San Colombano. Pietro displays a “trophy” of porcini mushrooms. On virtually every photo there was at least one word in quotation marks. Giulia claimed that the proliferation of quotes was due to a specific neurological problem: Marta no longer remembered whether certain expressions could be used in certain contexts, everything seemed out of place and uncertain to her; better to distance herself from them.

Viberti’s visits might last a few minutes or more than an hour. That evening they’d started talking about Stefano Mercuri, an old family friend, a doctor, who had been like an adoptive father and spiritual guide to Viberti. Mercuri had long since retired and lived on the Riviera di Levante, where Viberti visited him from time to time. Marta listened absently to the latest news of their friend, then changed the subject and started retelling a story by Chekhov or Maupassant or Tarchetti, which she called “scandalous.” The name of the protagonist (who may have been Russian, French, or Italian) was Cecilia, and the chance appearance of that name on his mother’s lips seriously upset Viberti, though the story left him somewhat indifferent (some kind of incest) — especially since his mother’s narration was even less consistent than usual.

* * *

After a restless night he awoke with the conviction that he could no longer put it off; he had to speak to Cecilia or stop seeing her. He was forty-three years old. At forty-three, one could have a child of fifteen or twenty, at fifty, one could become a grandfather, at seventy-five, a great-grandfather. His father and mother had married late; he was the son of elderly parents and now he, too, was getting on in years; he’d lost some time but his time wasn’t up, it was at a standstill, dormant, adrift, stagnant and swampy.

He began the day with the sole intention of finding ten free minutes to go down to the ER as soon as possible to find her. He never did that — usually they would agree to meet from one day to the next or they’d send each other messages, but the previous afternoon, saying goodbye, Cecilia had mentioned she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat with him the next day. He scrambled to put off his outpatient visits, raced down the stairs, dashed into the ER, and looked into the ward where Cecilia was on call. She barely raised her eyes from the desk and told him she’d be busy at lunch.

Viberti left the ER without knowing where he was going or why. The thought that he couldn’t stand this torment much longer crossed his mind, and he was immediately surprised. It was the first time in his life that he’d described an attraction or feeling with the word “torment,” the first time he’d doubted his ability to carry on. He’d always believed he was capable of enduring the most painful trials, certainly more painful than an infatuation or falling in love. Should he call it that? He wasn’t sure. But precisely because he was a loner, as his mother had described him the night before, precisely because he was acquainted with and dwelled in solitude, he didn’t need anyone, he’d never needed anyone, he was self-sufficient and then some. In any case, and this he was sure of: it was important to never feel sorry for yourself, ever.