The Purple Room (8 page)

“Yeah.”

“I called to
tell you that you were right.”

“About what?”

“There’s
someone, a woman, that I can’t get out of my head. I wish I could, I swear. I’d
like to wipe the slate clean and start again. But I can’t.”

“Hair of the
dog. Ever heard of that? I could help you get rid of that heartache of yours. I
wouldn’t mind. I’m not talking about anything serious. We don’t even have to sleep
together if you don’t want to. But I’m sure that if we spent a little time
together…”

“I can’t do
it, Antonella. It’s like I’ve got a disease.”

“And as long
as you stay there by yourself, brooding, you’ll never get better.”

“I know, but
it’s more complicated than you think.”

“Stories about
broken hearts are all the same, Sergio. Sad and hopeless.”

“Mine isn’t
even a story. It’s a hallucination. A trick my sick mind plays on me.”

“You should
record yourself and then go back and listen. You’re thinking like a
fifteen-year-old. You’re forty-five, for Christ’s sake. Sorry, but don’t you
think it’s time to grow up?”

“I’m sorry. I
should never have gone to that dating agency. It was a stupid mistake.”

“Well, thanks.
I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

“No. You
weren’t a mistake. You’re a great person.”

“And you’re so
awful and have so many problems that you don’t want to ruin my life. You’re
making a generous gesture. You’re not blowing me off. You’re doing me a favor.
Is that it?”

I don’t know
how to answer. I’m about to hang up.

“Stop lying to
yourself and give me one good reason why we shouldn’t see each other again.”

Suddenly, I
lose my patience. I get an urge to be cruel.

“Do you want
the truth, Antonella?”

“What truth is
that?”

“You really
want to know why I don’t want to see you again?”

“Sure. Let’s
hear it.”

“The problem
is, I don’t like the way you smell.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s right.
When we were in bed together, I realized that your body odor bothers me. It’s
not something I decided. I didn’t want to tell you because it’s embarrassing.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s out of my control.”

Antonella is
silent, crushed. I think she’s going to hang up on me. Instead she starts
shouting.

“You bastard!
How dare you? You’re the lousy kisser! You’re like a limp fish! If I hadn’t
been the one doing everything you couldn’t even have gotten it up! Come on! Say
it! Admit to your
little problem
.
That’s why your wife walked out on you! Because you can’t get it up, right? Can
you? And do you know why you can’t? I’ll tell you, ‘cause I figured it out. You
can’t get it up because
you’re
a fucking faggot
! You’re a fucking impotent faggot!”

It’s too late
to take back what I said. She can’t hear me anymore. She keeps on shouting like
a crazy person.

“Oh, poor
Sergio! He’s got a broken heart! You know what I’d like to break? Your legs! Do
you hear me, Sergio? If I see you on the street I’ll fucking run you over and
smash your goddamned legs! You make me sick! I hope you get cancer of the
fucking bal–”

I hang up. I
turn off my cell and unplug the landline. I make it over to the fridge, pull
out the vodka and orange juice and pour myself a couple of drinks with shaking
hands. Then I pick up the phone again, plug it back in and dial the number for
the dating agency.

“Good morning,
Sergio. I was just thinking about you. I was wondering how your date went with
Antonella? She’s an intriguing woman, isn’t she?

“She’s
wonderful. Too bad I’m not good enough for her.”

“Don’t put
yourself down like that.”

“I mean it. I
screwed up big time.”

“Whatever
happened, I can talk to Antonella. We’ll fix this, you’ll see.”

“Listen to me
very carefully. First of all, I want you to call Antonella and tell her that
I’m sick, very sick. In the head. Tell her that I’ve said terrible things to
other women, too, all mean and none of them true. Tell her I’m about to go into
a psychiatric clinic and you’ve taken me off your members list. That’s the
second thing I want you to do, take my name off your records.”

“But Sergio, I
don’t understand why–”

“Do as I ask.
No more dates. As far as the money goes, don’t worry, I’ll pay you what I owe.”

“At least
explain–”

“It’s too
complicated. You’ve done a very good job. You’re really very good, truly. You
have all my admiration. Unfortunately, it’s just like I said. I’m sick and I
need professional help. Goodbye.”

I unplug the
phone again. I go downstairs to the bunker, shut the door behind me, and lie
down on the couch to do some serious drinking.

9

My bender lasted for five days. Five peaceful days suspended in total
silence. There in my bunker, I floated in a dim light. I fed myself once a day
and passed the time just lying down, thinking of nothing. Five days of
calculated drunkenness, carefully doling out the glasses to maintain the
numbness I needed. Five magnificent days gone in a blink, as if they had been a
single afternoon.

It was the thought of Michela that got me out of the bunker. Today is
Saturday. We had decided to do something together, if I remember correctly, and
I haven’t called her. What kind of father am I? I throw my dirty clothes in the
machine, dive into the shower and shave carefully. Then I call Michela.

“Hi, sweetie-pie. Sorry for not calling earlier.”

“No worries, Dad,” she says. It sounds like she’s walking down a street.
“Me, too. I’m planning my trip and stuff and I haven’t had a minute… Hey, Bea!
See you in a bit! Hello? Sorry, anyway, I’m just saying I haven’t called
either, so you shouldn’t feel bad.”

I have to smile.

“When are you leaving?”

“Next Saturday. I can’t wait!”

“We could meet up tomorrow, if you have time?”

“Can’t. My friend has a basketball tournament tomorrow. I promised to go
cheer him on.”

“Which friend? Daniel?”

“No, someone from school. You don’t know him.”

“How’s it going with Daniel?”

“Great. He’s coming to the game with me.”

I guess this was bound to happen sometime. Eventually my daughter was
going to want to spend time with a boy instead of me.

“So I’m not going to see you before you leave?”

“Guess not. But I’ll keep in touch. Ugo got me a new phone, so I’ll post
lots of pictures from Paris! I gotta go, Dad—love you!”

Suddenly the house feels huge and silent.

I go out into the garden. The wind is brisk. The trees are swaying and
the sky is clouding over. The grass is getting long again and needs to be cut.
Some things grow all by themselves, stubbornly, without needing any help. The
lawn. My beard. Hair. Nails. Children. We try so hard to keep them in check, to
keep them how we want them, but they just keep growing.

Under the cedar tree, there’s a bird’s nest. It’s a soft weave of twigs,
down, and pine needles. There are five eggs in it, small and pale, with little
spots. They must have shattered when they hit the ground. A miniature omelet.
In a fold of the nest I notice a sixth egg. It’s intact. The tree has low
branches that are strong enough to hold me. I get a chair and then climb as
high as I can, holding the nest in one hand. I reach a wide, sheltered branch
that looks promising. I set the nest delicately among the needles and pull my
hand back. Proud of myself, I’m about to climb down when a gust of wind sways
the branch. The nest rocks like a little boat in a storm. I stretch out to grab
it, but it slips out of my grasp and falls to the ground.

The last egg smashes, like all the others.

Inside, the phone rings. It’s Franco.

“Hey there, bud. What’re you up to?

“Well, I found a nest in the garden, and all the eggs were broken except
for one. I put it back up in the tree, but it fell again, and now that one is
broken, too.”

Franco laughs. He thinks I’m joking.

“What else are you up to, aside from messing around in your yard? How’re
you feeling?”

“Great.”

“Is your memory back to normal?”

“Yes and no.”

“It’s just a matter of time. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, you told me that.”

“Hey, listen, I wanted to ask you to come out for dinner. Roberto’s
coming, too. There’s this new place along the road to Ostia.”

“I don’t really feel like going out.”

“I’ll come pick you up. I have to drive out your way anyway, to pick up
an order of olive oil. Be ready by eight.”

“Franco, I’m not in the mood.”

“Don’t piss me off. I’ll be there at eight. If I don’t see you coming
out, I’ll drive my SUV straight into your gate.”

“Come on.”

“Eight. See you then, bud.”

At eight on the dot, my buzzer rings. I can see the huge SUV through the
window, headlights aimed at my gate. Franco revs the engine menacingly and
honks at me until I come out.

“I knew you wouldn’t be a dick about it,” he says, opening the door.
“Get in.”

I climb into the passenger seat and he floors it. I feel like I’m in an
airplane. There’s even a TV on the dashboard.

“Nice, right? Stops me from getting too bored in traffic.”

Franco turns on the news. Headlines scroll across the bottom of the
screen. A prisoner apparently glued his hand to his girlfriend’s when she
visited him in jail. “The authorities have not yet been able to separate them,”
it reads.

“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“A new place. They do seafood couscous and stuff. There’s a belly
dancing show. And a dance club. Now that the word’s out, half of Rome will be
there, but who cares? We have a reservation. Tonight you’re going to have fun,
you’ll see.”

After my divorce, Roberto dragged me to play five-a-side soccer every
week. He said we had to stay in shape for scuba diving, but really he was
trying to distract me from my problems. Franco played for the rival team, and I
didn’t know him. He was big and heavy, like a bull. Instead of dodging his
opponents on his way to the goal, he would move them out of his way. One good
shove and the defense would topple like bowling pins. We complained about those
fouls, but he didn’t care. Franco would just run straight to the goal and
score.

The one time we argued about it, Franco stormed off the field in a huff.
Everyone went for pizza after that game. I’m not sure how I ended up
talking to Franco about my divorce. Roberto had told me that Franco was
unmarried and constantly surrounded by women. I had always thought of him as
immature, the kind of guy who at forty still wasn’t ready for the
responsibility of a serious relationship. But Franco didn’t brag about his sex
life that evening. He wanted to hear about what had happened between Alessandra
and me. He asked lots of questions about my broken marriage, and I found myself
telling him things I had never told anyone.

When it was his turn to talk, he told me about Carla, a woman he’d met
years before. She was a doctor, too. They got along so well that they decided
to move in together after only a few months. On the weekends, they’d take
Franco’s motorcycle and go on trips. They were on the highway near Barberino
del Mugello when a semi started to pass them and swerved. A wheel hit them at a
hundred and twenty kilometers an hour, sending them spinning into the air. The
truck was carrying a load of live trout, and when it tipped over, hundreds of
fish scattered all over the road. Franco got right back up, absolutely fine.
Carla stayed lying on the road, surrounded by wriggling fish. She didn’t move.
She’d broken the vertebrae in her neck.

After the accident, Carla didn’t want anything to do with Franco. She
didn’t blame him. It was just that she couldn’t handle being with him. He
reminded her of everything she’d wanted, everything she’d lost.

We drive down the road toward Ostia. Long rows of maritime pines, black
against the sky, flash past us. We slow down when we get close to the sea, and
we turn into a parking lot.

The restaurant is full of couples dining by candlelight. Strange.
Usually Franco hates places like this. A waitress shows us to our table.
Roberto is already there. He isn’t alone; Loredana is with him. The table is
set for six.

I give Franco a look, waiting for an explanation.

“You’ll see,” he says, winking.

Loredana greets me a bit coldly. She was always my wife’s friend more
than mine. We exchange a stiff handshake. Roberto, on the other hand, pulls me
into a bear hug. His white shirt brings out his tan. I ask if he’s been to the
beach.

“No, I went to a tanning salon,” he says. “I’m done with the sea.”

We barely have a chance to sit down before the waitress brings two more
people over to our table––a blonde in a skin-tight dress and a
tall, thin woman with a mass of chestnut curls.

Franco does the introductions.

“Loredana, Roberto, Sergio, this is Petra and her friend Silvia. You’ll
never guess what they do for a living,” he says, hinting at something illegal
or obscene.

“Research at the university,” the blonde one, Petra, cuts him off.

“See who I got to join us?” says Franco. “Two scientists! Entomologists!
Ever dined with cockroach experts?”

Franco puts his arm around Petra’s waist and whispers in her ear. She
laughs.

Silvia sits down next to me, stiff as a rod. She nervously smooths her
napkin out on her lap, never looking me in the eye.

Roberto shoots me a look that says, “Not my fault. It was Franco’s idea.”

Silvia looks uncomfortable. Thirty-nine, single, five foot nine and a
hundred and ten pounds of shyness. Her slightly bulging green eyes dart around,
looking for some kind of escape. Given her job, I can’t help but think of a
praying mantis. Although I doubt she’s the type to devour a man after sex.

“Would you like some wine?” I ask, holding the bottle ready over her
glass.

Silvia fidgets. She shakes her head, then changes her mind, picking up
her glass and knocking over her water all at once.

“Oh my God! I’m such a klutz!” She dabs at the water and bumps my glass,
tipping it over too. “Oh, God! I’m so sorry!”

“It’s just water,” I say. “Let me help you.”

I move the glasses and press my napkin to the tablecloth. Silvia braces
her hands against the seat of her chair, as if she’s ready to jump up and run
away at any moment.

After dinner we move into the bar and club area. Franco, Petra, Roberto,
and Loredana start dancing. Silvia hangs back in a corner.

“Do you like strawberries?” I ask her.

“Yeah… I love them.”

“Give me a minute.”

I head to the bar and order a strawberry caipiroska for her and a
screwdriver for me. I go back with the drink and find her with her nose in the
air, looking at the ceiling. She’s watching a gecko on the hunt. It slowly
stalks a moth, getting closer and closer, and then lunges and eats it.

“Fascinating,” I say, handing her the caipiroska.

Silvia buries her nose in the glass and guzzles the whole thing down.

“How was it?” I ask.

“Good,” she replies, licking her lips.

“Want another one?”

“Please.”

I rush off for another cocktail. Franco and Roberto are watching us from
the dance floor, trying to gauge how it’s going. The music is blasting at full
volume. Two male dancers, wearing glittery gold skirts and covered in oil,
climb on top of the counter and start spinning around like whirling dervishes.
Silvia observes them like she observed the gecko. It looks like she’s wondering
what they would look like soaking in a big jar of formaldehyde.

“They totally tricked us,” I say when I get back.

“Who?”

“Our friends. I bet they set this whole thing up just for the two of
us.”

Silvia blushes. She sticks her nose into her new caipiroska.

“They didn’t warn you, either?”

“No…”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you dance with me. I’m harmless. If I’d known
what Franco and Roberto were up to, I never would have come. I’m guessing you
wouldn’t have, either?”

Silvia nods and looks at me like I just took a huge weight off her
shoulders.

“I’d drive you home right now,” I add, “but my car’s not here.”

“Mine is,” she says. “I drove us here.”

“Well, why are you still here, then? Petra is with Franco; you’re free
to go.”

“I don’t like driving at night. And I’m starting to feel these drinks.”

“Where do you live?”

“Near Piazza Bologna.”

“Perfect. I’ll drive you home and then grab a taxi.”

“Are you sure?”

“My mom lives near there, on the Tiburtina. I can sleep at her place.”

“What should we tell them?” Silvia asks, glancing at the dance floor.

“Nothing. We’ll just leave.”

Silvia digs through her bag and then hands me her keys. We wave to
Franco and the others. They’re all happy to see us leaving together.

Outside the restaurant, we run into tons of people who are just
arriving, all dressed up for an evening out. We start looking for the car in
the parking lot. Silvia’s tipsy. She stumbles on the gravel and leans on my
arm.