Andrea Canobbio - The Natural Disorder of Things

The man I saw at the wheel of the Scénic seemed more and more familiar, especially in the position of his head: he seemed to be asserting the superiority of the rigid over the flexible, as if a tree is superior to a shrub, or brick is superior to gravel.

“Are you telling me that you didn’t talk about the two of you?”

“I’m saying that he walked into that bar with a depressed look that was clearly fake, moaned for five minutes about how lonely he was and how much he missed me, and then launched into this half-hour diatribe about how the war changed his life, how he realizes now what’s been happening in the Balkans in recent years, and that’s the worst part of it, this is our punishment, and—”

“Okay, but then he must have asked you what you thought—”

“About the war?”

“No, about the idea — I mean, the possibility of—”

“Of him moving back in? No, no, no, he didn’t ask — don’t you get it? Don’t you get what he’s like — don’t you see what your brother is really like? Don’t you see what a massive shithead he is?”

I nodded. I looked in the mirror. It was one of the twins: Rossi was having me trailed by the twins. He had figured out what I really was — that I was a traitor.

“Plus, I don’t really believe him …”

“About what?”

“I think he’s got someone else. Or at least he’s got someone else in mind. By now I can sense these things.”

I should have said that she’d gone fifteen years without sensing these things, and that it seemed strange to me she’d suddenly become so perceptive. But I reassured her instead: “No, really, I think that’s really unlikely, you can see how confused he is, he doesn’t talk about anything but disasters and catastrophes and conspiracies …”

I had looked away for a moment, and now the Scénic was gone.

One evening when Elisabetta was eating with me in the kitchen, I asked her whether she could give me Mosca’s number; he had spoken to me at the party about a hanging garden and I was interested, partly because I needed the income. Elisabetta wasn’t happy about giving me the number, but she pulled out her address book and read it to me anyway, and as soon as I’d saved the number in my cell-phone memory with the name Mosca, the screen lit up and his name flashed on it: he was already phoning me.

Surprised by the coincidence, I answered jovially, saying that he really must have ESP; and like a cowardly prisoner who blurts out his accomplices’ names in the very first interrogation, I said that he wasn’t disturbing me at all, that I’d just finished dinner with Elisabetta Renal, who was sitting right here. I realized how stupid that was immediately, even before she rose in a fury and left the room.

Mosca spoke, and I held the cell phone against my ear with two fingers. It felt lighter, as if the swirl of his words swallowed the air inside my ear and made it into a suction cup or a tiny tabletop vacuum cleaner. I fiddled with the crumbs on the table and peeked toward the black rectangle of the door that Elisabetta had disappeared behind; I hadn’t yet heard the sound of the front door, or the Ka starting up. Mosca was saying that he’d seen the hanging garden I’d done for the Gallo house two years ago, that he had visited it (nothing was impossible for him: he had called the owner and drowned him in a flood of words), that he’d been very impressed, and that he was interested, even enthusiastic, about the idea of having me design a garden for him. Hanging gardens are a godsend for me: they require very precise planning, but building them is effortless. Ultimately I would turn him down, but for the time being I said Okay, not to worry, I wouldn’t forget about him.

I go looking for Elisabetta right away, and I find her in front of the fireplace, sitting in Carlo’s favorite chair with a hand over her eyes. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything, and I go back to the kitchen to clear the plates and put out fresh ones. I hope that the clinking sounds will bring her back in. But she doesn’t come, she stays in the armchair. That’s certainly the most popular piece of furniture I have. Even perfect strangers who come to my living room usually go straight to it and sit down, although it’s not particularly comfortable; you can’t say it has aged gracefully, despite the cracking leather on the back and the beaten-down seat cushion. It’s just an old armchair in front of a hearth.

“He knew I was here, and he wanted to let me know that he knew,” said Elisabetta when she came back into the kitchen ten minutes later. I had sat down to eat some fruit, and while she was gone I’d poured myself two glasses of wine and drunk them both. I told her that I was sorry I’d told him, but that he’d taken me by surprise.

“It doesn’t matter what you said.” She repeated, “He already knew I was here.”

I said nothing.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

I shrugged.

“Come on, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Well, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

I rolled my head over onto the backrest of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Why did my eyes always run toward the corners, like water running down a gutter? With my thoughts like little paper boats capsizing in the current. No, I hadn’t really believed they were lovers, but I was relieved anyway. I mumbled that it was none of my business. Untrue.

She shook her head. “He’s dangerous.”

“I could tell.”

“Do you know why he always goes around with Giletti?”

“No.”

“Because he’s afraid of being alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s afraid, he never wants to be alone. He always needs to have someone with him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, naturally he’ll never admit he’s afraid. He’s not the type.”

“So how does he account for it?”

“He has some long story to justify it, but I don’t remember it. First he bought a dog — a thing like a big white rat — but that wasn’t good enough.”

“This is like your story about the two dentists.”

“The story about the two dentists was completely true!”

She picks up a piece of apple peel and tosses it at me, and then she throws the bread crusts that were left on the tabletop. I grab her wrists before she can fling a glass of wine at me. She slips out of my grasp, smiling.

“So now you think I’m a silly person who makes things up …”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“A silly person who doesn’t know what to say, who should just keep quiet …”

“I rarely think, and I think only nice things about you.”

She smiles. “No, really, do you think I talk nonsense?”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“Yes, I do talk nonsense, but often I can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

“I’m not justifying myself,” she says, and tosses another apple peel at me. “I’m explaining why sometimes it’s worse if I don’t say anything at all.”

She stares me in the eye.

I say, “Okay, so tell me why you and Alberto pretend you’re married.”

“Oh, now your informant is getting better information.”

“It’s my brother, not an informant.”

“And who told him the whole story?”

“An old professor of his.”

“A gossip.”

“I don’t know; I’ve never met him.”

“What else did this gossip tell him?”

“That you and Alberto had an accident that paralyzed him.”

“Did he tell you who was driving?”

“No.”

A pause.

“But why do you two say you’re married?”

“He does it. And I can’t always correct him. Did I ever tell you I was his wife? Actually, I introduced myself as Renal, didn’t I?”