Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

“And another thing. Imagine it all goes well. Imagine it all goes as you’ve gotten it into your head that it should go. Imagine she does become your girlfriend. Imagine. How on earth can you imagine that? How on earth are you going to keep a girl like that happy? You can’t afford an Italian girlfriend, Ilja. You’ve no idea how demanding she is. And not just in a material sense. You think she’ll find you interesting because somewhere far off in a foreign country you’re a famous writer who writes books in a language we can’t even read, but don’t fool yourself that will be enough. You’ll have to be constantly on your toes, like you’re in a porcelain grotto, and think up more and more new romantic places where you can spend a fortune on her aperitifs. And I also hope for you that you have an indestructible prick. And you’ll have to change your life, be home at half past twelve for pranzo and eight o’clock for cena . After that, you’ll have to watch television because she wants to, then she’ll complain you never do anything fun together and only watch television, or, you’ll take her out somewhere and she’ll complain that she’s tired and would have preferred to stay home and watch television. You won’t be able to drink anymore, even if it’s just for the simple fact you no longer have time to. And yet she’ll keep on complaining that you drink too much. And if you do everything right and manage to pull off the improbable and keep her more or less happy, your reward will be that she’ll want to marry you and have children. Then you’ll get a whole Italian family on top. With Christmas dinners and seaside holidays in August. Just think about it, Ilja.”

So she was jealous. I had to think of a way of staying friends with her.

“Give me a new quest, please.”

She said nothing. She stared into the distance. I had plenty of time to tug at her top in my thoughts, if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t want to because I was officially in love, everyone knew that. The sanitation department’s van came to empty the containers. Somewhere in the distance a dog started up. And then she said, “Ask her about her wounds.”

The fat lesbian grinned at me from behind her sunglasses.

32.

Like an old hand, I waited a few days. I avoided the Bar of Mirrors, even though it physically hurt to have to do without the intoxicating sight of her. It almost felt like cold turkey. I’d become addicted to my daily dose of staring at her. But now I’d been promoted to the next level. The time of just gawking was over. I had penetrated into her life. I knew her name. She had kissed my cheek. She’d said we’d see each other again soon. So I couldn’t just go and sit at my table and let her serve me as though nothing had happened. That would be tantamount to a denial of the most beautiful evening in Genoa, the evening that we found the Mandragola together and gazed into each other’s eyes. From now on, I’d have to play the game according to different rules.

For a few days in a row, I had my aperitif on Piazza delle Erbe. Three days was what I’d thought of. Just long enough not to come across as too eager and pushy, and not too long to seem indifferent. In the best-case scenario, she’d miss me. She’d certainly miss me — at least as a customer. Missing is good. But it shouldn’t last too long. So on the fourth day, just before nine, just before closing time, I went to the Bar of Mirrors. I didn’t sit down but waited at the door until she came out. I asked her whether she might be thirsty the next evening.

She smiled. “Sure.”

I took her to a chic bar I’d discovered on the square on Via di San Sebastiano opposite the Best Western City Hotel, between Via Roma and Via XXV Aprile. It was an un-Italian hip designer bar with expensive cocktails in designer glasses with a buffet of seafood and oysters. The venue didn’t fail to have an effect. I could see that she felt celebrated. She imagined she was in London or New York, or in another city far from Italy where real, fast, frantic life was lived. At least, that’s what she said.

After that I took her to dinner at Pintori. On Via San Bernardo. My favorite restaurant run by a Sardinian family, with mamma in the kitchen. Normally I only go there when someone else is taking me out. It’s one of the most expensive restaurants in Genoa. I said she should order the spaghetti neri alla bottarga and then lamb shank. She did what I said and was impressed afterward that I’d given her such good advice.

And when, after a full, sparkling evening, I’d walked her back to her scooter and was saying goodbye, she asked me, “Why did you come to Genoa, Leonardo?”

“For you,” I said.

She slapped my face as punishment. I went to kiss her cheek but she’d already put on her helmet, though I only realized that once my face was right by hers, so I clumsily jerked my head back. She smiled. She took my face between both hands and kissed me on the lips. Then she drove off, without saying a thing.

33.

“I have to tell you something, Leonardo.”

“If I could invite you to my table, signora, that would make my day.”

“You’re still making mistakes in the conditional tense.”

“What are you drinking, Signora Mancinelli?”

“Stop trying so hard. I’ll order myself.”

“What was it you wanted to say?”

Her drink was served. It was a kind of indefinable alcohol-free cocktail with pear juice, coconut, and strawberry. She drained the glass in one slug, got a bottle of rum out of her handbag, filled her glass to the rim, and held it up for a toast.

“I’ve heard that you talk to that Moroccan regularly,” she said.

“You mean Rashid?”

She laid her finger to her lips to show me I was to keep my mouth shut. She looked around to check no one had heard.

“But he’s a good, intelligent young man,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Do you have something against Moroccans, signora?”

She gave me an angry look. “I’ve been going to India for years, Leonardo. I used my alimony payments to set up a school there.”

“What’s India got to do with Morocco?”

“The basic principle. That’s the difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“I go to India to help. But the Moroccans come to us.”

“So?”

“It’s the same difference as inviting someone to join you at your table for a drink and someone who sits down uninvited.”

“Like you.”

“Don’t try to be clever, Leonardo. And whatever you do, don’t try those politically correct arguments on me. I’m wise to that kind of talk. You just cannot trust those Moroccans for the simple reason that it is impossible for them to survive on selling roses and even more impossible for them to find a decent job. Because no one trusts them. And so sooner or later they’ll start stealing or selling drugs. Because it’s the only option. In no time, your so-called intelligent friend will be in Marassi prison, mark my words!

“What’s more, we’re in Genoa and it’s a porcelain grotto. You have to associate with the old aristocracy here, or at least pretend to. Investing family money in a school in India is noble. Drinking beer with the first Moroccan rose seller you run into isn’t. What do you think my friends will think of me if I’m friends with a foreigner who associates with foreigners? You need to take my status in my network into account. You owe that to me as a friend. Can I make it any clearer? You want to be part of this world, don’t you? Then make sure for starters that you don’t have the wrong kinds of friends. Otherwise I won’t be able to invite you to my wedding.”

“Are you getting married, signora? At your age?”

“Viola needs a grandfather, let’s put it like that. And I’ve found a suitable party. He’s a widower and quite a bit older than me. Bernardo Massi. You know him. I’ve discovered that he’s even richer than I thought. Now all he has to do is ask me. But I’ll take care of that.”