Argentieri’s husband passed away. We will not see her anymore; she has decided to retire early. She is taking it really hard. Of course, she has two children that she is very close to, but her husband was her reason for living, because History and Philosophy haven’t been for a long time. The Dreamer will take charge of us; substitutes decidedly bring bad luck. … Just to get jobs, they cause poor teachers’ husbands to die.
In any case, we have to go to the funeral of Argentieri’s husband, and I really don’t know how people can do these things. I don’t know what to wear. Silvia, the only woman I can trust in matters of style, tells me that I have to wear something dark, like a dark blue shirt and sweater. Jeans are okay, too, since I don’t have slacks. In church, there are a whole lot of people from school. I sit in the last pew, since I don’t even know when I should stand or sit. And, if I run in to Prof Argentieri? What should I say in this situation? The word condolences—how is it pronounced?—it sounds rather inappropriate to me. It’s better to remain in the dark, hide myself in the group: invisible and insignificant.
The funeral is officiated by the priest who is also my prof of Religion: with his tiny body, almost pocket-size, and a million kind and vivacious wrinkles, which have caused everybody in school to call him Gandalf, like the wizard in The Lord of the Rings.
Prof Argentieri is seated in the first pew, black on the outside, white on the inside. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief, her two children seated at her sides. A man of about forty and a slightly younger woman, not bad-looking. Her children have always been something of a mystery, because you never know if they have normal children or not; they probably teach them lessons all day long. What a disastrous life. …
However, Argentieri is weeping, and I feel sorry for her. At the end—not that I did so on purpose—we pass in front of each other. She looks at me as if expecting something. I smile at her. It’s the only thing I can do. She lowers her eyes and follows the wooden coffin. I really am a pirate. The only thing I can do when facing a woman whose husband has died is smile. I feel guilty. Maybe I could have said something. But in certain situations, I don’t know how to behave: is it my fault?
Once at home, I don’t feel like doing anything. I would like to be alone, but I can’t deal with whiteness now. I put on some music, and I get on the Internet. I chat with Niko about the funeral.
Argentieri’s husband, who knows where he is.
Has he been reincarnated?
Is he only ashes?
Is he suffering?
I hope he doesn’t suffer anymore, because he has already suffered a lot. Niko doesn’t know. He believes that there is something after death. But he doesn’t like the idea at all of being reincarnated into a fly. Why into a fly? He tells me that it’s because everybody at home tells him that he breaks their balls even more than a fly does.
By the way—actually, not really by the way—I must not forget Beatrice’s birthday. Even better, I’ll send her a text now: “Hi Beatrice, this is Leo, from your class, the one with the crazy hair. Your birthday is coming up. Will you be doing something special? See you soon, Leo :-).”
She doesn’t answer. I feel bad. I made an ass of myself. Who knows what Beatrice is thinking now. The usual loser who tries to flirt with a text. That silence penetrates my heart like a house painter who wants to paint my heart white, canceling out the name Beatrice and covering it with a uniform layer of white. Claws of pain, fear, solitude come out of my mute cell phone and tear out my guts. …
First a funeral, then Beatrice who doesn’t answer. Two large, steel white shutters are closing with a grating white sound, a sign reads: “Vehicle access, do not block.” It’s closing and you must move aside. You must not even think about it. And how can I manage that?
I call Silvia. We are on the phone for two hours. She understands that I only want someone near me, and she tells me this. She understands me right away, even when we talk of other issues. Silvia must have been an angel in another life. She catches everything on the fly, and it seems that angels are like this, otherwise they wouldn’t have wings. At least, this is what the Nun (Anna, one of our very Catholic schoolmates) tells us: “Each one of us has a guardian angel nearby. All you have to do is speak to him about what is happening to you and he will understand the cause.” I don’t believe it. However, I believe that Silvia is my guardian angel. I feel relieved. She has lifted the two steel white gates. We say good night, and I fall into a tranquil sleep, because I can always talk with her. I hope Silvia will always be there for me, even when we are adults. However, I love Beatrice.
Before falling asleep, I check my cell phone. A message! It’s probably Beatrice’s answer; I am saved. “If you cannot fall asleep, I am here for you. S.” How I wish this S were a B. …