I gradually emerged from that tunnel of professional tension, anxiety, clashes, and threats. That’s why, when Silvio found a way to put me in contact with Franco Gilara, I called him and met him in the neighborhood of Piazza Colonna. When I saw him he seemed much older than my father, even though I now knew that he was five years younger, my mother’s age. There was no aspect of him that I remembered: he was short, overweight, broad-shouldered, with a huge neck that bore the whitish folds of his face, descending from his very thin lips. He, on the other hand, recognized me right away—or pretended to, and his eyes lit up, he exclaimed: Emma, you are your mother’s twin, and concluded devotedly under his breath, devotedly: a beautiful woman. It’s something I hear often, and it always bothers me a bit, as if, due to an oversight, I’d lost out on the opportunity to look like my father. We stepped into a café. He was in a hurry, in spite of his age he was a man with a clogged schedule, with thousands of things to do. He immediately said:
—You don’t need to ask me a thing, it’s all set.
—What?
—Your father’s one of the three, and the other two don’t make him look at all bad, they’re distinguished people.
He told me their names. It was true, and I was satisfied. But at that point, he went on to ask me if I was absolutely sure—as Luisa had told him—that Teresa Quadraro would take part in the ceremony. He belabored that point:
—Listen up, Emma, the president is really invested in this.
—She’ll be there, trust me.
—I’m saying this precisely because I trust you. I’ve been following your career from the start, and I know perfectly well that you do things the right way.
—This isn’t work for me, it’s an homage to my father. I’m positive that Professor Quadraro will be delighted to speak at the ceremony.
—People say that she doesn’t have the greatest personality, on the contrary, let’s just say that they call her an old hag ready to denigrate everyone—and, in particular, all things Italian.
—She must have her reasons.
—Do you know how to track her down?
—I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.
—Tell her that the president wants to meet with her privately.
—I believe the one getting the prize is the teacher, not the student.
—Of course. You’re good with words, very good. You got that from your father, not your mother.
—My father can’t be beat.
Franchino was staring at my hand on the table. He seemed upset by the color of my nail polish.
—Indeed, no one can beat him. The first time I heard him speaking in public, I thought he was saying a boatload of trivial things, but he said them well, so well that I struggled to stick to my position. And on a second public occasion, I criticized him, point by point, I hated his books. But then he talked to me in that way he has, you know what I mean, in that authentic way, that’s so reassuring, and I felt, more and more, the need to remain by his side.
—It happens to everyone.
He nodded yes, he took a deep breath, he had to go. He got up with a bit of an effort after leaving a tip on the table that was twice the amount of what we’d consumed. I also got up. As we stepped out of the café, he dried the saliva in the corner of his mouth with the back of his finger, kissed me on the cheeks, and repeated:
—Remember, Emma, I’m putting my trust in you.
—You, sir, need to trust my father above all: he’ll shine a light on the entire Italian school system. In the very end, it’s really the story of your friendship that should reassure you. You had a bad opinion about what he wrote, and then you had to change your mind.
—Bravissima, that’s exactly right. But you’re incredibly smart, and I want to say goodbye leaving you with a jumbled thought that I can’t unravel, so much so that, if you can, and if you send me an email with a clearer way of putting it, I’d be happy: I changed my mind, while still thinking I was right. Ciao, bella.
I shouted out behind him:
—Well then, why did you fight to get him into the list of three?
Once more he waved to me with his hand, without turning back, and slipped around the corner.
Now I’m angry again. I added up the old, unintentionally cryptic words of my mother and the intentionally incongruous words of Franchino. It was as if they’d consulted one another over the decades and both arrived at the conclusion that the only way to talk about their relationships with my father was to formulate an illogical proposition. At this point I felt like laughing because, perhaps feeling influenced, I also thought of a similar sentence. Just wait, I said to myself: I’m so used to always being a problem that in this little venture, one that’s all my own, I’m in danger of turning into a problem for myself.