The Silence of the Wave (7 page)

The doctor made no comment and looked at his watch.

“Have we finished?” Roberto asked.

“We still have a few minutes.”

“I have the impression that everything is moving around me.”

“And before?”

“Before, everything seemed still.”

“I’d say that’s good news.”

Roberto would have liked to ask why it was good news. But he didn’t do so. Instead, his gaze wandered around the room and came to rest on the poster of Louis Armstrong.

He realized why it was best not to ask: if you need to have something important explained to you, you will probably never understand it.

For a week, I was in bed with flu. I don’t mind being ill, because then I don’t go to school and I can read as much as I like, without worrying about homework.

Reading is probably the thing I like the most, and if I’m really forced to answer the question about what I’d like to be when I grow up, I’d say I want to be a writer. Or rather, to tell the truth, I’d like to be a writer even before I grow up. My model is Christopher Paolini, who started writing his first novel—
Eragon
, which I’ve read twice—at the age of fifteen.

Anyway, I was saying I’d been at home ill. I don’t remember what I dreamed during that week, but I definitely didn’t go to the park and that worried me a bit.

When I got back to school, however, a surprise was waiting for me: Ginevra had noticed my absence. When we met in class, before the first lesson, she said, “Oh, you’re back at last.” I searched for a witty reply, but
couldn’t think of anything better than: “I had the flu, but I’m completely over it.”

That made me a bit nervous, but I was very pleased, because she’d noticed my absence and had spoken to me before I could speak to her. Immediately after that, though, Cantoni welcomed me back in his own way, with a slap on my neck from behind.

Cantoni’s a moron. He’s five foot seven and a brown belt in judo. I’d like to react to his bullying, but I’m barely five feet tall, and the only thing I could beat him at is ping-pong, which I’m quite good at.

* * *

That night I went back to the park. I found myself there in different circumstances from the other times. I was having a nap lying on the grass, in the shade of a tree, when Scott came and woke me up.

I know it seems really strange to talk about having a nap during a dream, but that’s how it was, and there’s not much you can add.

Let’s go, chief, they’re waiting for us
.

He set off quite quickly and I was forced to run after him to catch up.

“Wait for me, Scott, slow down. Where are we going?”

He didn’t reply, just kept trotting along.

“Who exactly is waiting for us?”

Still no reply. I was starting to get irritated and I
walked faster to catch up with him, stop him, and force him to answer me—was I or wasn’t I the chief?—when I saw a bench in the middle of the lawn and Ginevra sitting on it. Scott stopped about fifty feet away and lay down on the grass.

Go on, chief, she’s waiting for you
.

I approached the bench and Ginevra gestured to me to sit down next to her.

“That Cantoni’s a real idiot,” she said.

“I don’t mind,” I said, as if to imply that, if I wanted, I could react and destroy Cantoni and the only reason I didn’t was because I don’t believe in violence.

“You know I have a boyfriend, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Oh, I’ve had a few,” I lied in a nonchalant tone. “But right now I prefer being alone.”

“Yes, I don’t think I’m going to stay with my boyfriend much longer either. There’s someone else I like a lot more.” As she said this, she looked me straight in the eyes. I swallowed with difficulty, and couldn’t find a single word to say in reply.

“Do you have someone you like?” she went on.

“Well, yes, there is someone I like a bit …”

“Is she pretty?”

It struck me that I should immediately stop playing the fool and tell her the truth, that I was in love with her and we mustn’t waste another minute.

When Mom woke me up, she said I’d been repeating that sentence in my sleep: We mustn’t waste another minute.

She asked me what it meant. Why mustn’t we waste another minute? I sat up, yawned, and said I’d been dreaming but I’d already forgotten the dream.

On Saturday evening his colleague and friend Carella had invited him to dinner.

Carella was plump and almost bald. He had three children, his wife was the same girl he had been going out with when he was seventeen, and he spent his free time doing charity work for a parish association in the Pigneto district, where he lived. He was in the criminal investigations unit, and despite appearances—which as is well known are deceptive—he was an excellent detective.

He and Roberto had met at the officers’ training academy, and although they were very different they had remained friends over the years.

Carella had taken Roberto’s situation to heart: he phoned him at least once a week and invited him to dinner once a month. It was impossible for Roberto to get out of these invitations without offending his friend, and so, more or less once a month, on a Saturday evening,
he submitted to the ritual of dinner in the Carella household. Carella’s wife was there, as well as two of his three children (the oldest, being nineteen, went out and avoided the obligation), the apartment smelled of Marseille soap, they ate badly—Signora Carella specialized in overcooked pasta, whatever the sauce—and they talked about old times. Roberto would converse politely without hearing what they were saying to him, or even what he himself was saying, waiting for the moment when it wouldn’t seem too impolite to take his leave.

This evening had been like all the others. When they were at the door, saying good-bye, Carella told him, as he always did, that he was looking better. This time, though, he added something else.

“You know, Roberto, over these months I’ve always told you you were looking better, that you were making progress, and that everything would soon be back the way it was. Do you remember?”

“Of course.”

“Well, it wasn’t true. I said it to help you, to cheer you up, but I didn’t think you looked well at all. Not even a bit. You were always distracted. So distracted, I sometimes felt like asking you what I’d just said, and I was sure you wouldn’t have been able to tell me.”

Roberto looked at him with genuine curiosity.

“Tonight was different.”

“In what way?”

“You were here. Not always, of course. But at least there were times when you were here and your eyes
were the same as they used to be. In the past few months you seemed … well, you were different, but tonight I’m really pleased. I can tell you you’re looking better without telling a lie.”

Roberto did not know what to reply, nor did he really understand what his friend was referring to. The evening hadn’t seemed any different from the others. He gave a slight smile—which could mean anything—and Carella returned it. When things aren’t clear, it’s easier to get by without words.

He walked back on foot, as usual: walking quickly, it took about an hour to get from the Pigneto to his apartment.

As he was crossing the Piazza Vittorio he saw a young guy trying to open the door of a car that clearly wasn’t his. Fifty or sixty feet from Roberto, another young guy stood lookout. Without a second thought, Roberto walked to the car and the youngster playing with the lock.

“What are you doing?” he asked, immediately thinking he’d seldom asked a more stupid question in his life.

The young man looked at him in surprise. Clearly the question had struck him as strange, too. “I’m stealing,” he said at last, in the tone of someone who thinks everything is far too obvious to require further explanation. Roberto felt like laughing and had to make an effort to control himself.

In the meantime the lookout had also approached.

“I’m off duty and on my way home,” Roberto said. “Don’t force me to do my job. Just drop it and go.”

The two young men stared at each other for a moment, looked Roberto in the face, obviously decided it wasn’t worth taking the risk, and disappeared into the night.

The next day was sunny, and Roberto took a long walk as far as the Foro Italico. He ate in a trattoria somewhere and then returned home, still on foot. He told himself that he should measure the distances he covered—and then immediately wondered why on earth he would do that.

He remembered those words of Louis Armstrong.
If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know
.

Every now and again he glanced at the phone to see if by chance anyone had called him without his having noticed. It was an absurd thing to do, because people hardly ever tried to get in touch with him these days, and it certainly hadn’t happened this Sunday. And yet he had the feeling the impulse meant something. Figuring out what was quite another matter.

He spent half the afternoon and evening watching TV and the other half on the computer.

He looked again at some of the videos he had seen a few days earlier, although he avoided the commercial for mineral water. He found some new ones, including extracts from stage plays, in which Emma looked very different.

All of a sudden, he had the nasty feeling that he was using his computer as some kind of giant keyhole through which he could spy without being seen. It seemed to him that he was violating a space he could only legitimately enter with the permission of the person involved.

The thought made him feel uncomfortable, and so he abruptly cut off the connection, switched off the computer, took his medication, and went to bed.

The next morning Roberto woke up very early, before dawn. He tried in vain to get back to sleep, but he was feeling too restless, so he got up, dressed, ate a few cookies, drank a glass of milk, and went out, moving quickly as if he were late for an appointment.

He walked along the Via Panisperna, turned into the Via Milano, quickly reached the Via Nazionale, and by the time he circled the fountain in the Piazza Esedra he was almost running. He got to the Porta Pia, went through it, and it was not until he was in the Via Alessandria that he realized he was very close to the doctor’s office. Except that there were another eight hours to go before his appointment. It was only then that he eased the crazy rhythm of his walk, continued for another half an hour, and found himself inside the Villa Ada park.

The first thing he noticed was that there was a drinking fountain near the entrance, similar to the one he had seen a few days earlier. The discovery gave him a quiver of joy.

He should have been feeling tired, he thought, instead of which he felt a kind of excess of energy, something that needed releasing and working off. He descended a slight, grassy slope and looked around to see if there was anybody about. Obviously there were a few people, even though the park was half deserted. Who cares, he told himself, everybody comes here to exercise, and he started doing push-ups.

He did them until he collapsed face down. When he got up again, his arms were shaking and he found it hard to control his breathing.

An elderly man with an Alsatian on a lead was looking at him anxiously. There were other people exercising in the park, but in tracksuits and sneakers. Someone doing push-ups in jeans and a regular jacket was unusual to say the least. When the owner of the Alsatian realized he had been spotted, he looked away. Obeying an instinctive impulse, Roberto walked toward him.

“Good morning,” he said in a cordial tone, trying to recover his breath.

“Good morning,” the man replied, somewhat puzzled. The dog was following the scene, its senses alert.

“Alsatians are my favorite dogs,” Roberto said.

The old man seemed to relax. “Mine too. I’ve always had Alsatians, ever since I was a little boy. They’re the best.”

“Yours must be three or four years old.”

“You have a good eye. He’s actually three and a half.”

“Isn’t he a bit of a handful when you take him for a walk?”

“You mean that because I’m old he might drag me or make me fall?”

“No, I didn’t mean that, I—”

“Don’t worry, it’s a perfectly reasonable question. I’m eighty-one. If he decided to send me flying he could do it easily.”

“But he doesn’t.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s a good boy, very well trained.”

“Trained by you?”

“Yes. Training dogs was my hobby when I was younger. I was quite good at it, I took part in competitions and often won.”

“What kind of competitions?”

“Do you know something about them?”

“A bit. I’m a carabiniere, I’ve had quite a bit to do with dogs.”

“Ah, I used to have quite a few friends in the Carabinieri’s canine unit. I’ve lost touch with all of them; I have no idea if they are still alive. Anyway, I took part in competitions in the utility and protection categories. The last one I went in for must have been about twenty years ago.”

It was a neutral phrase but he seemed suddenly overcome with emotion. It was as if he were looking into the distance but couldn’t find what he was searching for.

“Does he let people stroke him?” Roberto asked at last.

“If I give permission,” the old man said, with a hint of pride. And then, turning to the dog: “It’s all right, Chuck, he’s a friend.”

The dog started wagging his tail soberly and approached Roberto, who stroked his head and then scratched him behind the ears.

“Can I ask you a question?” the man said.

“Of course.”

“Why were you doing push-ups in your street clothes like that?”

“I looked a bit strange, didn’t I?”

“Actually, you did.”

Roberto shrugged.

“I’m just coming out of a very difficult period of my life. There was an earthquake and now I’m dealing with the aftershocks.”

The old man looked at him with an expression of aroused curiosity and nodded as if he had understood, but maybe—Roberto thought—he was only trying to be kind.

“Well, I have to go. Congratulations on the dog, he’s very beautiful.”

“If I were your age I’d try not to waste time. We never get back a single minute that we waste. Good luck.”