Rachel Kushner - The Flamethrowers

“Is he famous?” Talia asked.

I hadn’t heard of him or the titles of any of the books he’d sent to our room, but I assumed this was my own shortcoming.

“He’s famously a pain,” Sandro’s mother said. “But known in England, I think. His books are more popular there than in America.”

Known in England. It sounded like something he might have told her himself. She made fun of him, but it was clear that she took him seriously in a way the rest of us did not.

Chesil announced his plan to flee Italy altogether, down at the pool on the third morning of Didi’s kidnapping. It was just the two of us and before he began to speak, I felt a sudden tenderness for him and the burden he bore, of being trapped in his own long-winded narcissism, a burning need for others to listen . But this moment of unexpected tolerance may have bloomed in me because they were all finally scheduled to depart the next day, and it is easier to like difficult people when they are leaving, or already gone.

While it’s true, he said, that the common people don’t run away from death, he himself, not of the common lot, was concerned for his life and would be leaving the country, catching a ride to the airport when the family went to their company meeting in Milan.

I was distracted, thinking about the Didi situation. The team manager, when I’d finally gotten in touch with him, was curt. I’d had to remind him of who I was, which almost left me in tears. I’d come all the way to Italy, taken a leave of absence from my job, worn a frilly dress every night for ten days to please Sandro’s mother (and had never pleased her once), and now the Valera team manager didn’t remember me or why I was here. And when he did recall, I realized what I was to him, or rather what I was not, and I felt ashamed for asking him to focus momentarily on the least significant of details in the midst of a crisis. Didi had been kidnapped. My own private purpose for being in Italy had been cleaved away.

“Any public person can be abducted at this point. Even up here, in this little paradise, I smell danger,” Chesil said, lowering his voice because the groundskeeper was near us now, trimming the branches of a magnolia tree that swung too far out over the pool.

The groundskeeper was on a ladder. He looked at me with what I thought was an upturned lip, the lightest suggestion that he was smiling.

Did he know how silly this man was, whose company I was forced to keep? Yes, I sensed, he did realize. He kept looking at me. I looked back at him. There was something compelling about the groundskeeper, but I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t imagining it. Silent people can be misleading, suggesting profundity and thoughtfulness where there may be none. He climbed down the ladder and stuffed the trimmed tree branches into a cart and wheeled the cart up the hill toward the gardening shed, abandoning me with Chesil, who was talking about the place he was going to from here, a spa of some kind on a river that fed into the Danube, where Hercules apparently had bathed. I pictured the old novelist seated in a shallow stream, clear waters swirling around his big belly.

“The Roman emperor Trajan conquered that place,” he said, “called Dacia, and at that time—”

Lately I had developed a curious habit when Chesil went into these monologues. I closed my eyes and pretended I was skiing. A deep-snow day, the snow coming down, the light dim, and that kind of socked-in, windless quiet when you can hear mostly the fabric of your parka hood as you move your head left or right. I would start to make turns in the dry, light powder. Bouncy, sailing curves in the deep snow, swinging left, then right, floating, shaping my rhythm around the snow-laden trees, deep in the back-and-forth float of fresh snow, and not at all listening to this old man. It was surprising how well it worked. He was still talking.

“—so the King of Dacia slit his own throat, and his head was carried west, to Rome. But east dribbled a trail of Latin, like blood, into Romania, and it’s there that I’ll go to soak my—”

* * *

Roberto postponed their big factory meeting to go to Rome to speak with government ministers about the labor situation. Which meant four extra days with Sandro’s mother. The ten days would now be two full weeks. Workers were planning to strike in every sector. A general strike, all across Italy. Roberto didn’t want to go, he said. Rome was a mess. The university had been taken over by students, turned into a city within a city. We had been reading about it in the paper. It wasn’t just students, Roberto complained. It was people from the slum districts, along with hippies and queers, all occupying the place, eating in the mess halls, doing their laundry in the faculty bathrooms, burning files of documents in big metal trash barrels for warmth.

The evening Roberto was expected back from Rome was a Sunday, which was the staff’s day off. Signora Valera complained bitterly that the staff hid from her on Sundays.

“It isn’t how things used to be. When you have a staff and they live on the grounds, you don’t pretend you don’t see them on Sundays! If they are there and something needs to get done, it used to be they would simply do it. They certainly wouldn’t claim arbitrarily that because it was Sunday, they could not. Or worse, pretend not to see me, or think they don’t have to answer when I ring them. Everyone is counting their hours and overtime now. They want to buy a stupidity box,” she said, meaning a television, like the one she watched many hours of each night. That was when I had sympathy for Sandro’s mother, imagining that it was a relief to be upstairs and alone. Where she could safely feel herself to be what she was, a counter of ham slices. There would be no pretending in her private quarters. She could be done with the constricting ribbons of her stacked espadrilles, which caused her swollen ankles to bulge in a crisscross waffle pattern, off duty from the vigilance of meting out her venom in controlled little gasps. Her bedroom television at an obscene volume, in that cell of noise she could be the kind of person who enjoyed her stupidity box. Every night I heard the familiar harmonica wail, loud and distorted, of Sanford and Son leak through the closed door that led up the stairs, the voice of an Italian-dubbed Lamont, Babbo, ma dai! Smettila, Babbo!

With the staff off duty, Talia wanted to go down into Bellagio to pick up some things for dinner — cheeses, cold cuts, and rolls. Signora Valera insisted that Sandro go with her. The new safety precautions made all Valeras precious and vulnerable. Although Talia, I’d learned, wasn’t a Valera. Talia’s mother was a Valera, while Talia’s own last name was Shrapnel. She had changed it to Valera because she didn’t want the stigma of her great-great-great-grandfather’s invention, the shrapnel shell, a thing that was far more famous than the man it was named for. The shrapnel shell came before the name Shrapnel, and not the reverse, and Talia didn’t want a name that suggested mutilation and killing.

After they left, Sandro’s mother invited me to come and sit with her on the terrace and have a drink. Like the sudden curious tenderness I had experienced for the old novelist, I felt I’d been at the villa long enough to speak comfortably to her, to try to convey something respectful, and be respected in turn. I said it must be nice for her to have Sandro around, that I guessed she missed him when he was so far away, in New York.

She gave me a hard look. “I have a feeling I’m meant to say something here, give an indication that my prodigal son is actually the favorite, and even to suggest I harbor some disdain for the dedicated one and so forth. Nonsense. I greatly prefer Roberto. You’d have to be a fool not to feel partial toward the one who actually takes care of you.”