Andrea Canobbio - The Natural Disorder of Things

We went into the house and glimpsed the pistol in the dimness, and both of us headed simultaneously toward the table where it lay, as if we each meant to grab it and use it; I was actually lunging in a desperate reflex to hide it, while she, I think, was just afraid. But neither of us touched it.

She asked me what it was.

“A pistol.”

“Yes, but why do you have one in the house — where does it come from?”

I told her the story of my grandfather and the weapons the Allies had parachuted in to the partisans, and I pointed out the American army markings; I was anxious to prove that I hadn’t gotten it in order to kill someone.

“I’ve never seen it here before; why did you pull it out?”

“I didn’t have it before; my mother gave it to me this morning, and I’m thinking I’ll wrap it up and throw it in a canal, or maybe in the river.”

Without waiting for me to finish, she turned and walked outside; I thought that she’d forgotten something on the wicker table, but when I looked out the door I saw her gather up the pages of the two-month-old paper that were still lying next to the mattress.

“Look,” she said sarcastically, “you can use this to wrap it. It’s already the right shape.” And she held the newspaper up toward the lamp over the doorway to show me that it was still molded into a triangle. Then she looked down again and stared at something on the ground. She bent over and picked up the joint, still intact and tidily rolled. She held it for a few seconds, as if she’d never seen one; then she let it fall.

I went back into the house, and after a moment she came in too.

I ask her what time she has to leave for the seaside tomorrow morning, and she says she doesn’t have to go back there because they’ve all come home; Alberto was very agitated, he couldn’t stand the beach, and he wanted to get home at all costs. She’d tried to convince him to stay, but it was impossible. So she would spend another half hour with me and then go back to the house.

“I thought you were going to sleep here. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“When? While you were lying on the ground?”

But beneath the thin surface of my disappointment I sense a thick layer of relief: I don’t want to make love with her, I don’t want her to sleep here.

And I want her to leave immediately; I’m about to ask her to go, saying that we can get together tomorrow, or the day after, or whenever we want. But before I can, she starts asking questions.

“Did you see Mosca?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

I talk about the house, about Giletti and Hello and the hanging garden that I actually don’t want to make, and — lying — I tell her that Mosca offered me a lot of money.

“Did he tell you that he remembered your father?”

“No. Maybe he’s not so sure anymore …”

She blushes. And stares at me. I don’t blink.

“Tell me the story of your father.”

“Not tonight — I don’t have the strength.”

“Just tell me one thing: is it possible that he ever got money from Conti?”

It’s not only possible but certain: that’s what happened, and so I answer:

“I don’t think so. He was an old-fashioned sort: he’d rather have gone bankrupt than be in debt. And in fact, before he went bankrupt he sold everything. But anyway, I don’t know. I told you, I was young.”

“Do you think … Is it possible that Mosca had Conti killed, that night?”

It’s not only possible but certain: that’s what happened, while Giletti documented it all with his little video camera, and so I shrug and answer:

“I have no idea. From what you’ve told me, he might have had reason to do it. But he doesn’t seem like the type.” I pretend to consider it. “No, he’s not the type to dirty his hands like that. It’s more likely that a man like Conti had other enemies.”

“You weren’t the one who killed him?” she asks suddenly.

I don’t have to pretend to be amazed: this time she really has surprised me. The answer seems so obvious that I don’t think twice — I just blurt out:

“Me? I couldn’t hurt any living thing, not even Hello, that yappy little dog.”

Which is true, in a way.

“That’s too bad,” she says seriously. “You should consider doing it … to his master too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; I’m just exhausted, and I don’t want this visit to end like the other one ended.”

“What other one?”

“The one where you told me about Sleeping Beauty.”

“Okay. But I don’t understand why you won’t let me into your life.”

“But I want to let you in.”

“It doesn’t seem that way. You just need someone to fill your empty sofas and your chairs.”

So I finally get her up and out, and only as she’s leaving do I see her body and feel desire welling up, and I curse myself for not having wanted to keep her here.

I was in bed on Monday night, but not yet asleep, when I heard a car come into the courtyard and through the window I saw my mother getting out of a taxi and coming to ring my front doorbell. She has a set of my keys, in case of emergencies, but maybe she’d left them at home, or maybe she wanted to ring the bell to warn me that she was here — how can I tell what goes on in my mother’s head? — maybe she imagines that I fill my lonely hours in some unseemly way; she never asks about my private life, and she must not want to find me in bed with a woman she doesn’t know, a woman I haven’t yet introduced her to. But if she wanted to avoid surprises she would have called, I thought as I slipped on my pants and left the room. She came in person, instead, which means that she has news too horrible to tell me by phone. Immediately I thought of Carlo and the children. What time was it? As the doorbell rang for the second time, I went back to get my watch from the night table and I saw it was past 1:00 a.m. I wondered where she found the taxi, and what she told the driver, and how much she paid him.

Barefoot, I nearly slipped on the stone staircase; when I opened the front door I saw her lit up by the lamp over the doorway: in a nice dress with green checks, she held her purse tightly against her stomach with two hands, as if she were afraid I’d steal it from her. “What’s happened?” I asked.

“Nothing has happened,” she said with an expression I’d never seen before. “Let me in.”

Once inside, she shook off the fragile and insecure air that she’d had while getting out of the taxi; maybe it had only been the discomfort of spending all that money. And indeed the first thing she said was:

“I told him that you were sick and I had to come help you” (I assumed she was talking about the driver).

“Okay, but why did you come? What’s going on?”

“I have to talk to you, but first I need a chamomile tea.”

I took her into the kitchen, murmuring that it scared me when she showed up in the middle of the night — why hadn’t she called?

She sat at the table and looked at the sofa across from her — she had always thought it was foolish: how can you eat comfortably on a sofa?

“This can’t be said on the phone.”

“What is ‘this’?”

She sighed, but not because she was tired: she was awake and vigilant, and annoyed; she was angry with me now — after all those months of tears, she was angry.

I started some water boiling and looked in the cupboard for a chamomile tea bag.

“Kill him,” she says.

At first I think that I misheard her, that I imagined her saying it because I’ve been thinking of nothing else; my mother can’t have said such a thing.

“What did you say?”

“You were right to get rid of the other one. Kill this one too.”