Nicola Gardini - Lost Words

My father came home from work and wished me a Happy Birthday in his own way, by predicting how old I would be the coming year.

“Next time around you’ll be fourteen, and that means no more fooling around. By the time my cousin was fourteen he was already a father himself!”

He didn’t have a present for me. He didn’t give a damn about birthdays, not even his own. Mom was the same. She only cared about mine because it reminded her of the day she became a mother. Holidays and anniversaries didn’t mean anything to her. She thought they were a waste of money. You had to know how to manage your money, setting it aside and only using it when necessary…

She told him about the burglars, forcing herself to act more upset than she really was.

“I can’t take it anymore. I want my own home!”

“What’s that got to do with burglars?” he objected, already sunken deep into his armchair and scanning the front page of the evening tabloid.

“It’s got everything to do with it!” she replied. “I’m fed up with always having to follow orders… there’s always some new problem. Once it was the pervert jerking off by the front gate, or the time Mantegazza left the gas on, or when Terzoli mistook a giant rat for a cat and was about to start petting it. Then there’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses sneaking up the stairs… and the Avon ladies, who are even worse than the Jehovah’s Witnesses… And now burglars! Each and every time — no matter what happens — the first thing the tenants do is ask for Elvira, Elvira come here, Elvira go there … Don’t you get it? The burglars aren’t the issue. The issue is this job. I’m sick of it. It’s time for me to have my own home.”

“What do you think this is? Isn’t this a home?” He said without looking up from his paper. “Here we don’t have to pay rent or electricity or phone bills. Where are you going to find another place like this? Who’s got it better than us?”

“I’d rather pay for my own gas and electricity, thank you. This is no way to live.”

“You have to learn to tell people to fuck off! But no, you’re always bowing and scraping. You’ve got to stop saying yes all the time! You’re a disgrace to the working class. You need to act more like me!”

“And you’re such a fine example?… Good evening, Signora Paolini! … It’s easy for you to talk, going out early in the morning and not coming back till late! But I’ve got them staring over my shoulders all day long. They even look at what I’m eating! I choke on my food when I have to say hello to them. I don’t have enough time to go to the bathroom… or to finish my sentences, like now. Don’t you see?”

She started setting the table.

“In the next few months,” she continued, before my father could change the subject, “if I work hard, I should be able to save up another million liras! Dell’Uomo’s relative has promised to pay me fifty thousand for the wool blanket I’m crocheting for her. And there’s plenty of ironing and sewing to make some extra money… Good evening, Signor Vignola.”

Rather than continue on his way, Vignola slid the window open and poked his head in.

“It’ll only take a second, Elvira. I just wanted you to remind my upstairs neighbor that in the apartment you’re supposed to wear slippers, not leather shoes. The sound of his shoes is driving me crazy! And tell him that if he doesn’t have enough money to buy a pair of slippers, then I’ll buy them for him!”

“Of course,” my mother agreed. “When I see Signor Malfitano I’ll let him know.”

“No, I’d rather you called him right away!” he demanded. “And if that asshole doesn’t knock it off, tell him I’m going to call the cops.”

My father gave the intruder a look but didn’t intervene.

“Do you see what I have to put up with?” my mother complained after Vignola had left. “The neighbor’s bothering him so I have to be the messenger! Unbelievable! These good-for-nothings want to rob me of everything, even the air I breathe.”

My father tried to ignore her, but couldn’t: “I’m not going to throw away my hard-earned money on those crooks selling houses. Have you taken a good look at the prices? You’ve only got two options: either sign up for public housing or go on strike. That’s what we do in the factory when we don’t like something. It’s not that we expect to become the boss or anything. But you don’t understand — first you want an apartment, and God knows what you’re going to want next. If it were up to you, every day you’d be shopping downtown at the big department stores. You can’t change where you came from. When you’re born a doorwoman, you stay a doorwoman. Can’t you get that through your head?”

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t born a doorwoman and I’m not going to stay one. And you don’t say ‘doorwoman.’ The proper term is ‘custodian.’ ‘Doorwoman’ makes me sound like a streetwalker. A custodian is a caretaker, and that’s is exactly what I do.”

“What a bunch of bullshit!”

“This isn’t only about us. It’s also about Chino. What kind of a life is it for him, sleeping in the loge. You can hear everything: the front door slamming, the elevator going up and down, the voices of people coming and going, the refrigerator… It’s never really dark, so he wakes up tired — don’t you, Chino? It’s a sacrifice for you, too, sweetheart!”

My father didn’t see the problem. When he was a boy he barely slept. At two in the morning he’d go out on his bike and deliver bread while bombs were dropping all around.

“There you go again!” my mother cried. “When you don’t know what to say, you always bring up the war… I can’t even remember the war.”

I’d heard it a million times before.

“I’m off,” I said, although we still hadn’t eaten.

My mother’s instructions followed in my wake. “Don’t forget to check that the doors to the balconies are locked. And make sure the chains are pulled. And stop by the Malfitanos’. Tell them politely that Vignola has been complaining. Politely , ok?”

I went up to the fifth floor and started checking off the things on my list. The neon lights were working. No one had left empty bottles by the trash chute. The balcony doors were locked… I saved Malfitano for last. He was surprised to see me. My face turning red, I reported Signor Vignola’s complaints.

He did not keep me waiting for a reply: “If Signor Vignola has something to say, he can tell me himself.”

*.

Although summer had just ended, the temperature dropped suddenly and the signore started complaining that it was too cold. They’d forgotten all about the burglars. Now they were demanding that the doorwoman turn on the heat.

“Old hens,” my mother used to call them. “You know what hens do when you toss them a crust of bread? They run to grab it. But if you toss another crust before they’ve finished the first, they drop it and go running for the second one. And if you toss them a third piece then they do the same thing again. You could cover them in pieces of bread and they’ll always start pecking at the last one.”

She explained to the signore that she couldn’t turn on the heat. It was too early in the season.

“This is just the beginning of October. We need authorization. Do you want us to get fined by the city? A little patience, ladies. We’ll light the furnace this year like we do every other year… but please be patient. A little draft isn’t going to kill you.”

The only one who didn’t complain about the cold was Bortolon. She had no intention of spending money on fuel — all she needed to stay warm, she was proud to boast, was her husband. Didn’t the rest of them have husbands?… In the meantime, she would light the oven — which was cheaper anyway — and bake a nice cake.