For starters, I need to learn to mind my own business and not to open up to strangers. My grandma was 100 percent right, and that’s a fact. You can’t fool grandmas, they’re not like so many of the moms you run into nowadays, who don’t even realize that the children living under their own roofs are torturing their schoolmates until they see it on YouTube. If my grandma is looking down on me now, I’ll bet she’s delighted. She’s probably invited a couple of her girlfriends over (I could even tell you which ones) and she’s just sitting there, watching it all on a celestial TiVo, savoring how right she was, and on her own viewing schedule (which after all is the only truly satisfying way to enjoy being right).
I mean, after all, I’m not an especially outgoing person, so I shouldn’t have any trouble keeping my thoughts a little more to myself. If it were entirely up to me, if the sidewalk stanchions of everyday wisdom weren’t always tripping me up, I’d gladly abstain from doing lots of things, such as passing the time of day with other people.
It’s not that I’m stuck up. It’s really just that, if you think about it, idle chitchat is demanding. You have to get yourself into the frame of mind to simplify to an extreme extent, treat things dismissively that actually matter to you, look your conversational partner in the eye now and then (some people are simply incapable of doing this and offer only a three-quarter view of their faces the whole time you’re talking to them).
It’s the same kind of awkwardness you experience, only to a slightly lesser extent, when you ride the elevator with a fellow tenant and you feel duty bound to say something even though you have less than zero interest in talking at all, much less with that particular fellow tenant (who, now that you come to think of it, is one of those tenants who never even say hello), so you always wind up coming up with stupid topics such as it’s about time the weather made up its mind to really get chilly, no more of this namby-pamby weather where if you dress light you catch a cold but if you add an extra layer of T-shirt you break into a sweat.
To say nothing of those times when you have to stand there and listen to opinions that leave you openmouthed, like this one I heard a while ago from a character whose name I can’t even remember (it’s incredible the way certain people will confide in you first thing) who opined that squeegee men at traffic lights would rather kill time all day long than work a real job: Just try to get them to show up at five A.M. tomorrow morning, this guy said to me, at this or that building site and break their back the way that Italian construction workers break theirs—try it, and see what they say.
“Legal pay, minimum wage, tax withholding, and full benefits?” I asked.
This was followed by a painful silence.
“. . . Sure, withholding, and benefits,” he said vaguely, his voice trailing off.
Now, I don’t want people to take me for a sociopath, but when you come away from a conversation like this one, even if you didn’t totally cave in to the asshole du jour, you feel like a bit of an asshole yourself. As if you’d just sold the guitar you owned when you were a kid, if you know what I’m saying. Because that’s how idle chitchat works. Conversation, when it’s, shall we say, free and easy, unassuming, without pretenses and, especially, without an audience (which is exactly the kind of conversation in which people tend to say what they really think) impoverishes our language and, to an even greater extent, our thoughts. When you have an audience listening to everything you say, you have to take responsibility for your statements. You can’t just cheerfully opine that squeegee men don’t like to work. In a public forum, the common sense of aesthetics, by which I mean that all-powerful social inhibitor generally filed under the vague but unmistakable heading of “Just Doesn’t Seem Right,” prevails.
The funny thing about Just Doesn’t Seem Right is that it manifests itself without warning in the form of misgivings, so that something (an act, a statement, a question), even if it’s not wrong just yet but there’s a faint chance that it might turn out to be, automatically makes you refrain from it.
It’s an extremely vigorous aesthetic canon, this Just Doesn’t Seem Right. Nobody knows exactly what it consists of, but damn if it’s not effective. Let’s take making out, for instance. You’re energetically rubbing up against your girlfriend; at a certain point you really feel like grabbing one of her ass cheeks and giving it a squeeze, or even both of them, which I guess is a little truck-driver-ish but what fun; and she might not mind it a bit either (right then and there she could probably go for a good hard spanking), but you hold back because it Just Doesn’t Seem Right. And so you go home doubly dissatisfied, first because making out can have painful aftereffects (and at your age you ought to know it), and second because you denied yourself the pleasure of a moment of butt-grabbing, which now that you think about it wouldn’t have been at all a bad thing.
So that’s the way Just Doesn’t Seem Right works. It’s a kind of invisible censor, and it does its best to save you from embarrassments that wouldn’t have been such a big deal after all.
To simplify, Just Doesn’t Seem Right, also known as the common sense of aesthetics, could be defined as the fear of doing or saying something you might later regret. If you want to stand up to its dictatorial influence, you need to have style and know it. In other words, you have to have tremendous self-confidence.
I’ve just explained the reason why I’m unable to stand up to the tyranny of Just Doesn’t Seem Right.
A little less than half an hour ago, when the civil engineer who got me into this fine mess first intercepted me among the shelves filled with canned tomatoes and ready-to-eat pasta sauces as I hunted for a jar of Buitoni Fior di Pesto, saying, “Pardon me, but aren’t you the lawyer Malinconico?” I ought to have simply asked how he happened to know me, let him explain that a few years ago I had brilliantly argued the case of an old friend of his who’d been crippled in a workplace accident, and then made my excuses, whatever popped into my head, like maybe that my car was double-parked. But the thing is, it’s such a rare experience to encounter someone who says he’s happy with my professional services that when it does happen, I luxuriate in it. Frustration makes us vain.
As soon as I heard the name of my former client I mentally glimpsed the cover of the case folder, and after that, remembered every detail of the case.
“Comunale, Vittorio, of course, of course,” I confirmed, nodding my head yes over and over, like the little rag dogs people stick to the rear windows of their cars.
Italian lawyers remember their clients by their surnames first. It’s a way to make them anonymous, to focus on the problem facing them. Vittorio Comunale is a person. Comunale, Vittorio, is the title of a story.
“You heard, right?” said the gentleman I didn’t yet know. A distinguished individual, maybe fifty, with nice manners, extremely skinny, in fact undernourished, a face so steeped in suffering that it made me cringe to look at it, as if there were some chance of him infecting me with his torment.
“Yes, I did, but too late. I’d happily have attended his funeral, that is if going to a funeral is something you can do happily.”
He smiled. In the background the radio was playing “Montagne verdi.”
“Vittorio told me you were a nice guy, Counselor.”
“So was he. He was one of those people who seem incapable of becoming embittered, I don’t know if that makes any sense to you. Even in the state he was in, I never saw even a shadow of indignation on his face.”
I was genuinely taken by the topic, but my eyes kept trailing after “Montagne verdi” (once you recognize a tune, you tend to follow it through the air as if it were an insect). The lady who cleans house for me always sings it, that’s why. And she’s not the only one. My friends and I conducted a little survey among ourselves and we came to the irrefutable conclusion that housekeepers in their fifties sing “Montagne verdi” while they work, and not some of them, all of them. As if they came with some sort of preinstalled software that automatically starts them singing that song the minute they pick up a bucket and a broom. As if the sentimental evocation of peasant society contained in those verses, that Heidism for grown-ups, in contrast to the repetitively cloistered nature of modern housework, somehow made the mopping of floors pleasingly nostalgic.
There are other songs (all of them strictly seventies or, at the very latest, early eighties standards) that seem to be real crowd-pleasers on the housecleaning circuit: for instance, “Che sarà,” the Ricchi e Poveri version (identifiable by the imitation of Angela Brambati’s trademark yelp—you remember her, the brunette), “Se mi lasci non vale” by Julio Iglesias, and “Maledetta primavera” by Loretta Goggi; but none of these songs has ever come close to challenging the supremacy of “Montagne verdi” (the secret of its lasting popularity, in my opinion, lies in the “black-nosed bunny,” an image that’s practically impossible to get out of your head).
My interlocutor stood silent for a long time, while I speculated mentally on the whys and wherefores of that inexplicable phenomenon. At last, he broke the silence.
“No, I think . . . I think that makes perfect sense, really.”
He wasn’t having an easy time of it though, because his voice broke on the last couple of words in the sentence.
So I brusquely interrupted my metaphysical pursuit of Marcella Bella and turned my eyes back to him. He looked pretty beat up.
“Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, no, you didn’t,” he hastened to reassure me, squinting as he shook his head. “What you said was really nice.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Signor . . .”
“Sesti Orfeo. Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo.”
And that’s where I sort of got hung up for a second.
For a working professional to introduce himself with his official title is, all things considered, a perfectly normal thing to do. But when I heard the way he underscored his credentials (with that surname that smacked of fallen nobility, moreover), who can say why, it just gave me a strange impression immediately. As if the guy was up to something. Which he was.
“For that matter, Counselor, you’d never have been so intransigent in the negotiations over damages if you hadn’t taken his case to heart,” he added, throwing me offstride, so much so that I paused a moment to look him in the eye.
“If it had been up to me, I would have taken it to trial,” I said, puffing out my chest.
And the guy nodded, even tossing in the faintly virile smile of a man admiring the balls another man has shown in his decision making.
I’m not a tough guy. I never have been. If you want to know the truth, I doubt I’ve ever made a real decision in my whole life. I don’t much like making decisions. To make decisions you have to be sure of yourself, and I’m hardly ever sure of anything. I’m more of a multiple options kind of guy, really.
Here’s a for instance: I’ve never broken up with a woman. That doesn’t mean I haven’t offered my passive cooperation in letting a relationship waste away and die. In fact, when it comes to the failure to render emotional aid and assistance, I’m a repeat offender, if I’m really being brought to book for my transgressions. But standing by and watching as a relationship goes under for the third time isn’t the same thing as stating openly: “Look, I don’t want to be with you anymore, and that’s that.”
This is the thing: I don’t want to take responsibility for losing something important. I don’t see why I should. If I’m going to have to lose something important, I’d rather have someone else take the blame for it, truth be told.
Same thing goes for my, shall we say, professional life. I’m not going to knock my head against the wall over matters of principle. Because, obviously, if you’re going to make a big deal about matters of principle, you need to be able to rely on a working system of justice.
If there’s any chance of sparing a client the ordeal of a lawsuit—and I’m not trying to brag here, but I’ve never swindled a client—I choose that option. I hate protracted negotiations that drag on so long that you almost forget about them, lawsuits that last seven, eight, ten years. Nothing turns my stomach like a case file yellowing away in the filing cabinet, dates of hearing that when you reread them it dawns on you that your oldest child wasn’t even born yet (even though, Jesus Christ, the whole thing’s about nothing more than a miserable fucking patch of damp wall in a relative’s kitchen). I find it debilitating to be involved in something where if you happen to run into a client on the street, he doesn’t even bring the topic up, he just gives you a look steeped in compassion that seems to have been put on just to say: “It probably isn’t even your fault, but Counselor, what a fucked-up profession you’re in.”
The worst thing is you can hardly blame them. These days—there’s no point trying to be all juridically correct—we’re all pretty much resigned to the idea (a little facile, yes, but still applicable in the majority of cases) that bringing a lawsuit is the one sure, patented way of ensuring that a dispute seizes up and remains disgracefully insoluble.
Modern lawyers are a little bit like psychoanalysts, in that certain people continue going to them for years even after it has become abundantly clear that they’ll never solve their problems. (I know a couple of people who’ve told me that they can’t even remember why they went into analysis in the first place, and they weren’t kidding when they said it.)
Consider people who don’t pay their bills. They’ve found a fail-safe method for getting by: they just sue. They use time as a form of currency. And they eventually wear their creditors down to the point where they’re happy to take pennies on the dollar just for the sake of getting shed of the whole goddamned dispute and never having to think about it again.
All this is just to illustrate that—to return to the moment in which I was about to reply to Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo—I’m usually not so strict if there’s any chance of resolving a case amicably.
But when Vittorio Comunale’s employer asked to meet me in his lawyer’s office to settle the case out of court, the offer that fell on my ears was so shamelessly stingy that I got that mocking grin on my face that you see in the movies when somebody openly provokes a serial killer (a silent smile that says: “You haven’t got the faintest idea what kind of trouble you’ve just landed yourself in”), after which I turned on my heel and left, muttering a quiet “Arrivederci,” and maybe not even that.
The next day, they called me to quadruple the offer, but by that point I had become intractable, and I was even starting to enjoy myself. Listen to me, I told my colleague, if your client really thinks he made a reasonable offer, why don’t you have him come repeat it in court, then we’ll see just how much the shattered leg of a forty-year-old construction worker is really worth; and that’s just limiting ourselves to the leg, since the pillar that fell on him did plenty of other kinds of damage, as I’m sure you’re aware.
So he says: I swear to you that I had no idea he’d offer you that figure.
So I say: Are you telling me he made an idiot out of you?
So he says (after a pause during which he must have been wondering if he’d heard me correctly): Thanks for the professional solidarity, Counselor, but these things happen. Haven’t you ever had a client put you in a difficult spot?
So I shoot straight back at him: Not to this degree, but sure, every once in a while.
I was instantly reminded of a nightmarish moment of embarrassment, one of those scenes where reality itself fades away as everyone turns to stare at the one individual still picked out in high definition: that is to say, you.
Filippo Sciumo, that was the ogre’s name. He liked to go around town stealing car radios by smashing in the windows with his knee, the idiot, until one night he happened upon a vehicle with windows made of bulletproof glass, after which he’d fallen to the asphalt howling so loud that the carabinieri themselves came galloping to his rescue (apparently—according to Sciumo—they never once stopped laughing the whole way back to headquarters as he sat handcuffed in the backseat of the squad car).
At any rate, my job was to obtain a plea bargain, and knowing his tendency to take offense at trivial slights, I’d told him over and over again to keep his mouth shut and let me take care of it (especially because I’d already struck a deal with the prosecuting magistrate: all we had to do was fill in the form), but instead, that lamebrained ape, that dangerous moron, may the devil screw him on his afternoons off, one second after the reading of the counts of indictment, had the brilliant idea to loudly dry-gargle and then spit on the floor.
I’ve had tough moments in my life. But none of them compare to this one; I swear, I wished that a natural catastrophe of some kind would swoop down and strike the part of the world I occupied at that moment, eliminating all forms of life (first and foremost my own) that might possess memory of what had just happened.
“Hey, Malinconico, are you still there?” my colleague had asked me, since I’d stopped speaking entirely, horror-struck as I was at the resurfacing of that bloodcurdling memory.
“Yes, sorry, I just got . . . distracted there for a second.”
“Well, what are we going to do?”
So I said (rocketing back to reality): “I’m not even going to discuss it.”
Just like that, cut and dried. Absolutely sure of myself. And I’d have toughed it out, too, if Vittorio Comunale hadn’t insisted on getting it settled immediately (“Just get me a reasonable sum, Counselor, all I want is to put it behind me”).
When you think of the victims of workplace accidents and you try to put yourself in their shoes, or in the shoes of their families, you imagine them as combative, spirited, determined to carry on the battle to the last breath. That’s not how they are. People who are injured on the job come out of it as debilitated as if they’d had open-heart surgery, and the same goes for the family (“Counselor,” Comunale’s wife once told me on the phone, “my husband is broken”).
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry.”
Those were the words with which Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo commented on the decline and fall of my warlike intentions concerning his old friend’s lawsuit.
“No, not at all, I apologize if I seemed a little combative,” I replied, placatingly, in my turn. “Evidently, I still haven’t entirely gotten over that epi . . .”
And there I left the sentence unfinished, because the attention of Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo, from one second to the next, had been totally captured by one of the closed-circuit television monitors that dotted the supermarket’s ceiling: specifically the one directly behind me, some six feet overhead, perched directly above the boxes of egg lasagna (and who can say why they always put the egg lasagna on the uppermost shelf).
Whereupon I turned to look myself, expecting to see some jaw-droppingly hot babe or at least an armed robbery in progress, but there was nothing on the monitor that justified the distraction, aside from a guy with a ponytail wearing a trench coat straight out of The Matrix nodding in the general direction of the automatic swinging entry gate, as if it had opened because it realized who it was dealing with.
“Something wrong?” I asked, turning my disappointed eyes back to Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo. I was starting to get sick of this conversation.
“What? Ah, no, sorry,” he said, emerging suddenly from his trance, “it’s just that that monitor seemed to me to, how to put this . . .”—and here I got the impression that he was improvising—“. . . to be taking its sweet time.”
Whereupon I must have seemed even more confused than before, because he immediately hastened to explain what the hell he was talking about.
“The video security system is operated by the central computer. When a customer comes in, the sensor on the video camera captures the face and automatically transmits it to the monitors; then the computer records everything on the hard drive. Sometimes it happens that a monitor stalls for a few seconds, as if the system had taken too big a bite out of something and were bracing itself to swallow it all down, I’m not sure if that’s clear.”
I nodded generically, to convey that I thought I’d grasped the concept, though I still failed to see the connection between that brief treatise on video security and the relative stranger who suddenly seemed so eager to lay it out for me. But he went on, in a hold-on-and-in-a-second-you’ll-see-what-I-mean tone of voice.
By that point I didn’t really give a damn about seeing what he meant, since I’d already been standing there talking to this gentleman I didn’t even know for a good fifteen minutes (moreover it was ten in the morning and I was considering the possibility of swinging by the courthouse, just to see what was going on), but I stayed put and kept listening, more than anything else because It Just Didn’t Seem Right.
“Now. If that sort of spell extends even by the slightest amount of time, I’m talking microseconds here, I’d notice it immediately, because it might be an indicator of the onset of a technical glitch of some kind.”
As he was finishing his sentence he pulled out of his jacket pocket a gizmo that looked very much like a remote control and aimed it at the monitor which, according to him, had just malfunctioned. Only he didn’t push any buttons, and I could see that clearly.
“Then I suppose that would make you . . .” I said, with a rhetorical flourish.
“The computer engineer who designed the video security system,” he finished, underscoring the words ever so slightly.
“Ohh, I see,” I said (by which I meant: “At last, we can go”).
The truth was that—aside from my complete lack of interest in the topic at hand—I didn’t really believe what he was saying. That is, it’s not that I thought he was making it up (though I did have my doubts about the idea that the system had problems swallowing its mouthfuls of data), but it seemed to me that the object, or perhaps I should say, the subject of his interest was not the supposed malfunction of a television monitor or anything like that, but more likely the guy dressed like a character from The Matrix, whose movements in fact he went on tracking on the monitor while speaking to me. He reminded me, to return to the subject of elevators and the grimness of the temporary relationships established therein, of the Falsely Nonchalant, that is, those people who talk to you about the weather, all the time taking sidelong glances at themselves in the mirror, because they just find themselves so irresistible and delude themselves into thinking that you haven’t noticed a thing (just like the people who pick their noses during a conversation, confident that they’re fast and clever enough to be able to extract the booger and easily roll it between thumb and forefinger without your catching on). All the same, the detail left me absolutely indifferent: if he liked Matrix characters with ponytails, that was entirely his business.
So I extended my hand and assumed my customary stance of departure (leaning slightly forward from the waist, standard businesslike smile, right leg just starting to lift into a step, vaguely reminiscent of the actor Alberto Sordi).
“It’s been, ahem, a pleasure to meet you, Engineer, but now I ought to be . . .”
“Do you handle criminal cases as well, Counselor?” he asked me in reply, as he stood staring (by now openly) at the video monitor behind me.
Whereupon I just stood there stupidly, hand outstretched, which by the way is a position I detest because it creates a panhandling effect that increases with the fury of an avalanche.
“I . . . sure, when it comes up,” I said, but in the quizzical tone of voice that comes naturally when someone asks a question out of left field.
And at last I withdrew my hand, which by now had become a sort of prosthesis.
“When it comes up,” he repeated, leaning on the four words and staring at me as if to say that he really intended to remember that. This last bit of ambiguity really plucked my last nerve.
“Listen, you’re acting kind of strange, you know that?” I told him flat out, somewhat rudely. In fact, my jaw had set firmly.
Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo once again fixed his gaze on the monitor. Behind him, at the end of the aisle, Matrix appeared, coming toward us with the brisk step of someone who knows exactly what he’s looking for.
“Yes, I know,” the engineer replied at last, his voice dropping an octave. “But there’s a reason for it, believe me.”
I instinctively shot a glance over at Matrix, who kept coming closer, even though he seemed entirely indifferent to us.
“Don’t look at him, please,” Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo begged me under his breath.
Whereupon I replied, whispering in turn out of an automatic instinct for imitation:
“Hey, listen to me, I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is, I want nothing to do with it.”
And he replied, still under his breath:
“In that case, get out of here now, Counselor, because something’s about to happen that you might not want to see.”
Hooooold everything.
You’ve just heard the kind of phrase that basically leaves you without any alternatives.
If someone tells you to leave because any minute now something’s going to happen that would be better for you not to see, do you leave? Of course you don’t: you can’t. Because by that point you’re already in. And the worst part of it is that you have no idea in what. Maybe it’s a tragedy that you have a chance of preventing. Perhaps someone’s about to die and you could save them. Or else nothing could happen at all (in which case it was theoretically possible that all Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo wanted to do was pick Matrix up and take him back to the privacy of the stockroom): and in that case you’d enjoy the benefits of courage without having to lift a finger.
One alternative would be to run off and call the police: but what if the tragedy occurs just as you’re rushing to get help? Tragedies, it’s well known, take place in a matter of seconds. What are you going to do, miss that crucial instant? The carpe diem ethos works in tragic proceedings as well. It’s far too convenient to trot it out only when you’re trying to get someone into bed. Your conscience would torment you for the rest of your life, and it would be right, of course. You might try to tell it, “I couldn’t have done anything about it anyway,” and it would reply, “Sure, but you didn’t know that when you took to your heels.”
The fact is that there are situations in which you have to stay, even at the risk of getting involved in something inconvenient. It’s no fun to say it, but that’s how it is. From outside the situation it’s easy to shake your head no. But just find yourself in the midst of things happening all at once, then come talk to me about it.
Just to give an example, I know some people who, a few months before getting married, used to go out walking with their doubts in tow (there was no mistaking what was happening because when you ran into them, you’d see them arm in arm, the doubts), and these people, even though you could see it on their faces that all they wanted to do was cancel the wedding, you understood just as clearly that they were absolutely incapable of mounting that revolution, so all that was left for them to do was to go out for a walk in the early afternoon.
One huge lie that we have inherited from the rhetoric of liberty is that when it comes to the important decisions in life there’s always time to go back and make a change. But it isn’t true. Because time passes, and it’s not willing to cooperate with anyone or anything. Time has no patience for ignorance. Just like the law. It’s no accident that the whole concept of the statute of limitations is based on the passage of time. And if legislators (which is more or less like saying God, in that field) based such a nitpicky mechanism on the passage of time, there must be a reason. Time has a compromising effect, no doubt about it. And those who jilt their fiancées at the altar (I’ve never heard a story in which the opposite happens), even if their deed, in the accounts of subsequent generations, tends to be regarded as a masterly blow that few on earth have ever had the nerve to strike, are individuals who turn their backs on time, and their reputations as free men should be reevaluated once and for all, because there’s nothing praiseworthy about humiliating a woman in front of her friends and family after the corsages have all been chosen, unsightly though they well may be.