The Sense of an Elephant (22 page)

He began with the lodge. Distributed the post that had arrived on the Rimini days, set aside anything addressed to Luca and swept all the muck into a corner. Into the condominium's dustbin went the empty shells and the dead leaves from the courtyard. Next came the plants. He pulled up the dying ones from their pots, sparing only two, a thriving ficus and a recovering reed that he transplanted to the sliver of earth running along the hedge. Moved on to the lodge window, dotted with fingerprints. Steamed the glass with his breath and cleaned it with a piece of cotton cloth, making little circles of hot breath and wiping them smoothly away, again and again, until he could see himself in pristine reflection. Refilled the bucket with lukewarm water and ammonia. The cloth was already inside. Starting with the fourth floor he polished the stairs and the landings. When he reached the second floor he heard that Viola and Riccardo had returned. Continued on down to the first floor, then into the entrance
hall, into the lodge and finally did the floor of his own flat. The marks from the Bianchi only came away after great effort. The floor tiles in the bedroom, he had never before touched. They were filthy and larded with plaster drippings. He swapped the putrid water for boiling water and knelt down. Plunged his hands into the cloth.
We've got ourselves a boy on the ball
. Began to scrub, scrubbed with hands ridged with tendons.
He's our son
. Scraped, relentlessly pressed down until the filth began to dissolve. Travelled the circuit of the room on all fours, pulling away the pustules of plaster. His knees reddened. He didn't stop. The pungent ammonia rose into and swelled his eyes. He dried them against his shoulder and paused to breathe, then began again. Bent over like this, he was a small man made smaller. Exhausted, he scoured the last tiles nearly unable to draw breath. Came to the suitcase. Set it aside and cleaned the eight tiles on which it rested.
He's our son
. Removed the boxes, all the boxes, from the suitcase, and when he finished he closed it. Fastened the latches, first one, then the other. Paused to look at it.
I'll protect him, Celeste, I promise you.

Pietro rose to stand with the cloth dripping black and tossed it into the bucket, into water equally dark.

He went to pour it into the bathroom sink and stripped. His arms were shaking and his skin glistened with sweat. He was soaked. He got into the shower and emptied the shampoo bottle, scrubbed his head like the tiles. Rinsed himself off. Directly he finished drying off he put on his white shirt and the brogues, knotted his tie. Then the jacket.
I'll protect him
. Finally the backpack with Anita's jar.
I promise you
.

Pietro went back up to the second floor. From the lawyer's flat came the murmur of the television and from the Martinis' the voice of Viola. He rang the doorbell at Fernando's.

Paola opened immediately.

‘You didn't let me know anything,' said Pietro.

‘You've got to see how elegant he looks.' She scuffed her shoe on the doormat and urged her son to show himself.

Fernando came out onto the landing in vicuña trousers and a white shirt, his beret and a duffel coat one size too big. Touched the sticking plaster at his temple. ‘Trip with Pietro.'

‘We'll be back soon.'

Paola adjusted her son's coat. ‘Have fun. I'm going to hole up with the lawyer for some Buraco.' She kissed him. ‘How are you going?'

‘In a taxi.' Pietro waved goodbye and led Fernando by the hand down into the entrance hall. The Bianchi was leaning against the downpipe, sparkling.

‘In a taxi.' Fernando pointed to it and laughed.

Once in the street Pietro climbed onto the saddle and helped the strange boy to sit sideways on the top tube. Perching there with difficulty, he entrusted himself to Pietro, twisting down and forward and grasping the handlebars. They took off immediately. Fernando brought one hand to his beret, which threatened to fly away. His rear end began to hurt as soon as the Bianchi started over the cobblestones. Then the road smoothed out. ‘Go fast,' he said, and the Bianchi sailed between two cars and through a yellow light. ‘Fast!' The Bianchi sped away and anyone who saw it pass saw a spark and heard the roar of the manchild. Pietro stamped on the
pedals, wheezing with the effort. Fernando pulled down his beret and placed both hands on top of the concierge's, crushing them, and now he was spluttering, ‘Slow down, slow down, slow down.' Pietro didn't slow down. The road to Piazzale Loreto led uphill. The boy rested his cheek against the handle-bars, making himself lighter. Pietro stood up on the pedals and placed his chin atop Fernando's head for the final sprint, racing like he'd never raced before. ‘We won,' he said when they arrived. ‘We won, Fernando!' The Bianchi braked to a stop outside Anita's building.

‘What did we win?'

Pietro pressed the intercom buzzer. ‘I have a friend who lives here who wants to meet you.'

Fernando massaged his rear end as they entered, then pressed himself into Pietro's side.

‘Don't be afraid.'

They inserted the Bianchi into the bike rack and climbed to Anita's floor. Her door was open. So was the door to the neighbouring flat, from which Silvia emerged. ‘Good evening.' She had two braids and her usual lip gloss, hid her mobile in the pocket of her jeans, looked at Fernando. ‘
Ciao.
'

Fernando pressed his glasses back.

Silvia smiled at him. ‘My name's Alice, what's yours?'

His face darkened.

‘She's a friend of mine. Don't be shy.'

Silvia came closer, caressed his back. ‘What's your name?'

The strange boy turned toward Pietro. ‘My name is Fernando.' He laughed out of nowhere.

‘That's a nice name.' Silvia gestured to the concierge and
took Fernando by the hand, leading him to the threshold of her flat. They were shy steps, and he held on to the handrail on the landing, undecided, then took confidence. Before entering he adjusted his beret, stared at Pietro one last time.

Pietro nodded.

And he went.

Through the window he could see him still, from behind, in the middle of the small sitting room, dwarfed by the loose-fitting duffel coat, by the shirt collar buttoned up tight against his throat. She helped him out of his coat, inviting him to sit down, and he discovered that his Alice was a kind young woman.

‘He's sweet.' Anita's voice came through a tiny window in her pantry, from where she had observed the scene. She moved to open her front door and called Pietro inside. ‘I didn't expect him to be so …'

Pietro went in.

‘So defenceless.' Anita screwed up her curious eyes. ‘Now tell me about the seaside with your son.'

Pietro took her promptly into his arms, embracing her completely, holding his Anita tight and kissing her hair, her cheeks, her forehead. Rubbed himself against her and she encouraged him, telling him the sea had been good for him.

He kept on without speaking, awkwardly, with his rigid arms and rough fingers that had never learned to caress, that fumbled, that had never learned to feel.

‘You told your son. You told him.'

His hands felt Anita's soft skin, felt what can go missing in a lifetime. He tore them away, just for a moment, to bring out
the jar from the backpack. The little something that Anita had asked of him.

She unscrewed the lid on the jar. ‘Land of mine.' The sand was once more icy cold. She stuck two fingers in, stuck them in up to her knuckles, and Pietro did the same. Their land warmed up.

They sought each other in the sand.

‘Please give him the letter, please please.'

They held each other in the sand.

Celeste rose to the surface of the sea and floated there. Pietro placed one hand beneath her back and another in her hair. The waves pulled her away. He held on to her and said, ‘Don't get married.'

‘I leave tomorrow.'

He squeezed her neck. ‘Don't get married, I'm free now.' He found a hairpin in her hair and slipped it out. Then the waves wrested the witch away from him, dragged her toward the open sea where he could not swim.

‘I'm free now.'

Pietro swam toward her even so, floundered and sank below the water, kicked and returned to the surface to draw breath, sought her with eyes burning from the salt. She was no longer to be seen. There was only the sea, and the blinding glare from the lighthouse. Then he saw her swimming towards the shore, getting out of the water, a shadow on the rocks.

Pietro opened his hand. All that remained of her was a copper hairpin and three broken hairs.

*

Fernando emerged from the flat along with his Alice, a button on his white shirt undone. Pietro waited for him on the landing. Silvia nodded to the concierge and stroked the strange boy's neck, pinched him on the cheek and went back inside. He told her she was his sweetheart. Fernando was red in the face and bewildered.

Pietro took his hand and felt that it was sweaty. Massaged his broad shoulders, zipped his duffel coat all the way up and tied his scarf the way Paola did. Led him down into the courtyard. They leaned on each other as they walked to the bike rack. Fernando continued to stare vacantly into space. The concierge lifted out the Bianchi and raised his eyes to the balconies above. Silvia's window was already dark. Anita appeared behind hers, her hair down and a hand pressed to the window. Pietro waited until he was at the front gate, and then for the first time blew her a kiss.

He loaded Fernando onto the top bar, steadying him with an arm when he leant to one side or the other. The Bianchi set off slowly and continued slowly for the entire trip. There was no need to pedal. It took them home and when they arrived the boy was almost asleep, bent over the handlebars and with his legs perched on the frame below. Pietro left the Bianchi outside the lodge. ‘Your mother is waiting for you.'

Fernando got down and didn't move from the spot. Planted his feet and stared with eyes dark with sleep, undid his coat and scarf. Entered the lodge and waited in front of the concierge's flat, a dog scratching at the door.

‘It's late, let's go up to your mother's.' Pietro opened his door. The boy entered first. Stopped at the kitchen table, took
two steps toward the bed, entered the bedroom. Turned on the lamp and aimed it at the suitcase. ‘My jewel.' Bowed his head and took off his beret, laid it on top of the biggest box, which held a rusty hairpin and the outfit of a young priest.

‘Take care of your mother, Fernando.'

The boy's forehead furrowed. He pulled him to him, planting the concierge's cheek on his shoulder while his bare head flushed.

‘Take care of your mother.' Pietro squeezed back. Led him out of the bedroom, washed his face. Then they climbed the stairs together, clinging to one another. He knocked.

Paola opened immediately. ‘Where is your papa's hat?'

‘We lost it.' Pietro laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘It's my fault. I'm sorry.'

Fernando did not separate himself from the concierge.

She chewed her lip, bit down hard then kissed her son on the head. ‘No Buraco for me. That lout Poppi was nowhere to be found.' She ushered her son inside. ‘Goodnight, Pietro.'

‘Goodnight.'

Fernando called to the concierge as his mother closed the door, called out the concierge's name when his mother tried to put him to bed beside her.

Pietro stared at their door, the peephole drilling a perfect bullseye. Then approached the lawyer's door and did not hear the television. Rang and rang again. Returned to his flat to collect his copy of the keys. Went back up the stairs and rang one last time. Then opened the door.

And he saw him, hanging from the ceiling, his face blue
and his feet grazing the floor. His mouth slightly open. An envelope protruded from a pocket of his dressing gown. On the floor was a card with the handwritten message, ‘Mazel tov'.

The noose had cut into his neck, wreathing it with dried blood. The dressing gown was closed and the sheen of the silk reflected the gleam of a candle. Pietro went closer. The chair had overturned beside the card with the crest of the Grand Hotel and the words ‘Reserved for Deluxe Vans'. Below that, in graceful handwriting, ‘Mazel tov'. The wish for the ones left behind.

The lawyer's body spun on its own axis. The rope had been tied to a ceiling beam and it groaned with the weight. Poppi's eyes bulged, his nostrils were collapsing, his tongue stuck out. From his legs rose a sickly sweet stench. His shoulders sloped and his arms came forward as if they were clutching something. From his sleeves emerged manicured nails. Pietro stopped the body from spinning, noticed the can of tuna open on the table, an upright fork sticking out. Peered around, saw no sign of the cat. Saw the gramophone in front of the window, and the cycad, its curving leaves grazing the wall with the tribal masks. Took one down by the eye holes and turned back to Poppi. Closed the lawyer's eyes and settled the mask over his face, adjusting the elastic band at the back of his neck.
Forgive him his sins, O Lord.
Took the envelope from the pocket of the dressing gown, saw
Pietro
written in block letters. Opened it.

I've gone to join my Daniele. Look for your love, I've explained
to you where to find her. Talk to Celeste, tell her about Luca. Your son.

I knew. But as I told you, forgetfulness is what separates me from the gossips.

The lawyer's body began to turn again.

I still have time for a story that comes from your part of the country. There was a man, things for this man were going so-so, the Flood came and he was on the roof of his house so he wouldn't drown, he asks God with all his faith to be saved and in his heart he knows that God will save him.

A boat comes, the man refuses it because he's certain that the Lord will come to save him, so he says, No, thank you. Meanwhile the water is rising, another boat comes but he's waiting for God. Meanwhile the water has reached his throat, a third boat passes, No, thanks. So then he drowns.