Andrea Canobbio - The Natural Disorder of Things

I don’t know how the man could have crossed through the garden without my realizing it, but he must have passed just a few feet away from me. At about 8:30 I heard a splash in the water and a frightened shout, or maybe a call for help, and I began running downhill, cursing the maze of paths I had designed. When I got to the cistern, I found Witold standing in waist-deep water, the motorized chair overturned against one of the cones of crushed glass, and Rossi floundering in water up to his neck, flapping his arms on the surface like a duck about to take flight.

IF SHE AND I WERE MERELY TELLING FAIRY TALES — WITHOUT TOUCHING ON THE REALtruth, or including only bits of the truth — then I could play the game too. My favorite one of the Tales Told was “The Three Musicians.” Two nights after Rossi’s accident we were in bed: she was leaning back against a couple of pillows, and I was lying on my side, supporting my head with my left hand. As I told my story, I ran my right index finger along her skin.

So: there were three musicians — the first played the violin, the second played the trumpet, and the third played the flute. They traveled from town to town and performed in the piazza wherever they went (my finger danced across her thighs).

“You’re tickling me.”

“I can’t help it.”

They got to a city known for its enchanted castle, which stood on the far side of a dark, dense forest — my finger slid up through her patch of hair — and they found a place to sleep: in this cozy … little … inn.

“Cozy like my belly button?”

“More or less.”

At the inn they asked about the castle, for through the window they could see its two towers in the distance (my finger traced the slope of her breasts). The innkeeper told them that a beautiful princess was imprisoned there. She was guarded by a friendly, harmless old man. But everyone who tried to visit the castle was thrashed so soundly that he fled forever. The three musicians decided to go and see it. The first one, the violinist, set off (my finger took a roundabout way), only to return that evening battered and in pain. He told the others that the old man had fed him like a king but that when the musician asked to see the princess, a magical stick had appeared out of nowhere and begun beating him, so he fled. The castle had some kind of magic spell over it. And what about the old man? asked the other two. Oh, the old man can’t do anything about it. He’s short and skinny with a beard three feet long — and he’s mute.

The next morning the second musician set off. (My finger dipped down again before rising toward her breasts.)

“I don’t understand why they have to go through the woods to get to the castle from the inn: the woods are in the other direction.”

“Because it’s a fairy tale.”

The trumpet player was cleverer than the violinist: he thought the old man was responsible for the beating. “It must be the beard: his beard probably gives him superhuman strength.” He got to the castle, and the old man opened the door and ushered him into the tower. He gestured to the lavishly laid table and sat down with him as he ate. The musician told the old man about where he’d come from and all the lands he’d traveled through, and bragged about the marvels he had seen. Every so often he asked the old man about the castle, and who lived there, and what great lord it had belonged to. The old man didn’t answer, but he kept smiling and stroking his beard wordlessly. He ate nothing: he just stared at the musician in silence, with a completely innocent and disturbing expression. How can someone be both innocent and disturbing? wondered the trumpeter. “Kind old man,” he said, “maybe since you’ve been living alone here you’ve fallen out of the habit of shaving, but I’m an expert barber, and if you like I can give you a shave to repay your hospitality.” The old man agreed and allowed himself to be shaved. “Now take me to the princess,” the musician ordered him. The beardless old man pointed to a door, and the musician — delighted by his success — prepared to step through it. But as soon as he turned his back, he was hit by a hail of blows, and he fled, stunned.

“I don’t remember the story that way — you’re making it up.”

“Could be.”

The flute player was the cleverest of all: listening to his friend’s story, he understood that the old man had some secret. “If it’s not the beard, then what is it?” he asked himself as he went toward the forest.

“There’s that forest again.”

“It’s got to be there.”

He got to the castle, and the old man opened the door and led him to the table. The flutist was struck by the old man’s ambiguous attitude, which the trumpeter had perceived only vaguely. He noticed that the old man kept quiet but obliged the other person to talk: he forced you to talk by the simple strength of his silence. As the two sat at the table, the musician decided that it would be wisest for him to ask no questions and volunteer nothing about himself. He went on eating heartily, ignoring the old man staring at him. The old man’s gaze gradually became weaker and weaker. The musician finished eating and stood up. Without asking permission, he went toward the door that his friends had described, the door that must lead to the castle’s other tower and the princess’s gilded prison. (My finger slid up her other breast.) And the old man couldn’t stop him.

“How did you choose which of the two towers the princess was in?”

I move my fingertip around her nipple. She closes her eyes.

“You see? It opens out here along the edge, like the corolla of a flower.”

“Is that the end of the story?”

The musician got to the princess, but the princess was mute like the old man. The musician didn’t like mute women, and he got annoyed and took off.

“What kind of women did he like?”

“Women who occasionally told absurd stories.”

Later she whispers to me that I’ll have to be patient, that I’ll have to be good and wait for her here, that we can talk on the phone, but that she won’t be able to see me for a while. The doctor has prescribed at least two weeks of complete rest for Alberto, and they’ve decided to leave for the beach earlier than usual this year. I don’t think Rossi will heal in two weeks.

“I promise that in any case I’ll come back to see you in two weeks.”

“And you’ll call me every day?”

“Every day.”

“And you’ll call if you need me? I can get there in two hours.”

“Without crashing your car?”

“Without crashing my car.”

“I told Mosca to look you up, for the hanging garden.”

“Pardon me?”

“I spoke with Mosca, and I told him to get in touch with you. You should go to his place, to see if the job interests you.”

“Why did you think of that?”

“You told me that you really wanted to do it … remember? When you asked me for his phone number.”

“Yes, but why did you think of it now?”

“Now when?”

I was irritated, but I didn’t know why. I made her swear to be careful, not to go out at night, not to go to isolated spots, to let me know if anyone was following her.

“But when will you tell me the true story of the mute old man?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me now.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s not late.”

“It’s not late, but it’s too early to tell you.”

“But I told you my story.”

“You already knew yours. I never thought I had one; I wasn’t ready.”

By now she was in the Ka, and she asked me about Rossi again.

“You don’t think he wanted to throw himself in, do you?”