The first parents arrive at five to four. Two fathers. I don’t know them. I don’t remember ever seeing them. They arrive together, nice and tan, wearing ties, jackets over their shoulders, conversing energetically about God knows what, and they station themselves in front of the school door, which is still closed. You get the impression it’s not a coincidence. You get the impression it’s a habit. It’s fairly clear when a person is doing something he does all the time: he doesn’t look around, doesn’t look at other people, is apparently at ease, at home. That’s how these two are. They arrive early, the first ones there, and converse, laughing, gesticulating like the best of friends, even if the herd of other parents hasn’t arrived yet to shield them and make them less visible. They look like two childhood friends, and maybe they are: two childhood friends who went to elementary and maybe middle school together, parted ways in high school, and then met up later, maybe because they married two girlfriends, yes, and all at once discovered that they were much more similar and compatible than they had thought, and the fact that they had known each other since they were little reassured them and made them become true friends. It’s clear from observing them that when one has a problem, he calls the other. It’s so obvious. They watch the sports roundup on TV together, cover up each other’s marital infidelities, take their vacations together with their families, and their wives are reassured, in turn, by their own long ties to each other, and their same-age children are forced to participate in this joint intimacy, even in the event they can’t stand each other. They have arrived together to pick up their children from school, and they’ve decided that this year they’ll do it as often as they can, yes, they’ll get off work early, with an eros that would be missing had they been leaving early to see their wives, and this pause will be a big help in making their life workable, in making it acceptable, to them both…
The other parents arrive en masse, all together, as if they had been released from a holding pen: some by moped, others by car, others on foot, chatting on their cell phones, each creating problems that the traffic cop can’t solve. There’s a new cop: it’s not the same guy as this morning. Some people want to double-park right in front of the main door. Some want to carry on conversations in the middle of the road, blocking the traffic. He’s got his hands full trying to maintain a modicum of order. But he can’t manage, he’s being attacked on all sides, and at four twenty-five, there’s the usual pandemonium, just as I remember from the times I used to come to pick up Claudia. The chaos. But a joyous chaos, drama-free, because the children, even if they haven’t exited the school yet, have already started emitting the substance that enables them to survive among adults, the natural antihistamine that helps parents relax and regress, making them not only compatible but also complicit with the chaos to which the children feel entitled: the chaos of their little rooms before they’re ordered to straighten them out, the chaos of their backpacks when they get home from school, the folders, the pencil boxes, the notebooks; the simple and fundamentally quiet chaos in which they would live all the time, if they were allowed, without completely understanding most of the things that happen but, for this reason precisely, able to live very intensely. This is exactly what happens—now I understand—at around this time outside elementary schools throughout the Western Hemisphere: for a very short time, parents forget the civility to which they are glued all day long and act like children, chaotically, at the risk of being run over, losing the dog, scratching the car in the attempt to squeeze it into a narrow slot, and the traffic cop who’s supposed to call them to order can’t do a thing about it. But then all it takes is the actual exiting of the children from the school, bubbling over beyond reach with that chaos—with their torn collars, unlaced shoes, pee-stained trousers, holes in the knees, flute forgotten in the music room, the shoving and shouting—to startle them and shepherd them back toward the order from which they have come, which will be fully restored once they arrive home, with the family schedule that dictates the when and what of the things that have to get done before dinner, no questions asked.
It’s strange, but when I used to pick up Claudia in past years, I didn’t realize I was part of such an absurd phenomenon: I was in a hurry, too, and I, too, tried to outsmart the traffic cop by double-parking my car. I, too, used to stop to talk in the middle of the road. I, too, would achieve physical contact with my daughter after transgressing for ten minutes almost all the rules that I had obeyed the rest of the day, and in those ten minutes I, too, felt better. Although I didn’t come very often to pick up Claudia, for me it was normal to always find complete chaos here at four thirty. Now, instead, after seeing it generated by the fluttering wings of two childhood friends deep in conversation, this chaos looks much more complex and structured; a phenomenon that is too obvious, too common, and too absurd to be somehow necessary: necessary, yes, so that parents could retake responsibility for their children in the least abrupt way possible—meeting them halfway, so to speak, and allowing themselves to be infected by the same quiet chaos that inspires their children.
The main door of the school is opened, and from inside you can hear the timeless ringing of the bell. Maria, the custodian, asks the parents not to cluster by the door, to arrange themselves in a semicircle around it, and her instruction produces a modicum of geometry in the fractal complexity of the mob. Although today is a special day, it is clear that Maria the custodian has to repeat this operation day in and day out, because otherwise the parents/regressees would crowd around the door. Benedetta’s mother breaks away from a clutch of other mothers and comes toward me, from the other side of the street, to where I have been standing still, leaning against my car, excluding myself from the competition to win a spot in the front row. She’s a beautiful forty-year-old with Egyptian eyes, short blond hair, and a strong jaw. She’s wearing a short tank top, like a young girl, that reveals a nice strip of flat, tight stomach above and below her belly button. She must do a lot of aerobics to be in such good shape. But the skin of her face is worn out, almost withered, from all the sunlamps she’s used to maintain a permanent tan. She has even white teeth that are gleaming at me now.
—How did it go?—she asks, as if this were a sensible question. If she knew I had been outside here all day, it might have been, but she doesn’t, and her question is senseless.
—Fine.
—Would you like me to take Claudia home with Benedetta and then bring her back to you at dinnertime?
The children start piling up at the door, led by their teachers and looking around. But they’re the littlest ones, first and second graders. From the parental semicircle hands start to go up.
—I don’t know,—I reply,—why don’t we ask them?
—I was saying it for your sake, in case you’re busy.
—Oh, well, thanks anyway. I don’t have anything better to do.
I don’t know what it is, maybe the expression on my face while I’m saying these ordinary things or the simple fact that it’s true, and the fact of the matter is that a shadow of compassion slowly travels across her face. I’ll have to be careful of what I say from now on, and of how I say it, if I don’t want people to feel sorry for me.
—Well,—she says,—I suppose it’ll be better for her to stay with you, then.—She takes a breath.—Anyway, the offer’s still good, and if you can’t pick her up some afternoon or you’re busy, just give me a call. Anything I can do, I mean it. Benedetta and Claudia get along so well…
Above the parents’ heads, meanwhile, I can see the sorting of the older kids, third and fourth grades. The teachers look around, holding the children back by force if necessary (since they would obviously plunge into the crowd of parents and only later wonder how they would find their own), until they spot the mother, father, or authorized babysitter raising their hand and waving: only then do they loosen their grip on the child and point to where he or she should go, but the child almost always knows it already.
—Thank you,—I repeat, and all of a sudden, wanting to add something to my thanks, I realize that I don’t remember her name (is it Barbara or Beatrice?). So my “thank you” remains suspended in the air, and I have to improvise another closer.—You’re very kind.
—Don’t be a stranger, promise?—she insists.
Often the children spot their parents before the teacher does, and they point them out while the teacher is busy looking for someone else’s. So they upset the order by which their teachers had hoped to carry out the last task of the day, the parental assignments overlap, and the chaos spreads from outside to in.
—You know something?—I say.—It’s like an auction.
—What?
—This way of giving children back to their parents. It’s like an auction.
Benedetta’s mother turns toward the main door and looks.
—It’s like the children are being auctioned off one by one and the parents are competing for them, raising their hands and making a bid. The teacher awards them to the highest bidder, who in the end is always the real parent.
Now come the older children. The fifth-graders. Benedetta’s mother stands still, her gaze fixed on the little girl she can’t see from down here. She’s not very tall, and a wall of people is still in front of her. I suddenly feel a strange lump rising in my throat.
—On the other hand,—I add, but I’d rather be quiet,—how else could they do it?
And here comes Miss Paolina. Next to her I recognize Francesco, Nilowfer, and Alex, plus a little girl I don’t remember ever seeing. Behind them, in the shadow of the lobby, all the others pile up, including, I imagine, our own two daughters, whom we still can’t see.
—It’s our turn,—says Benedetta’s mother, flashing her pearly white smile at me again. We cross the street, which is blocked by the loitering and talking and planning of parents who already have their kids, including the two childhood friends, holding their two little boys by the hands and chatting with a pretty young mother. The traffic is paralyzed, and the line of cars is held back by the traffic cop, as if without his intervention the cars might plunge into the crowd and cause a bloodbath. There’s only so much you can do: as soon as we reach the mob, we squeeze into the nonexistent space between one person and the next so we can take the front row, like excited children, which we would never do for a line at the post office or supermarket. “Excuse me. Excuse me…” No one complains.
When we look at the door again, Claudia and Benedetta are standing there, next to Miss Paolina. Claudia spots me immediately, smiles, and the lump in my throat gets bigger; then she elbows her friend, who was staring in another direction, to point out her mother to her. At this point the only thing left is for Miss Paolina to see us, too, and it’s done. I raise my hand. I, too, make my little bid: Miss Paolina sees me, nods, and with her head indicates to Claudia that she can come to me. Sold to the highest bidder.
—How did it go, sweetheart?—I ask after giving her a kiss.
—Okay,—she replies, and it really does seem true. She’s smiling, relaxed, serene. The lump starts to melt.
—What did you do today?
—Bye-bye, Pietro,—Benedetta’s mother interrupts. She seems to be in a hurry.
—See you tomorrow,—I say. Then I stroke my daughter’s hair.
—You’re so tan, Benedetta. So pretty.
The little girl smiles, casts a knowing glance at Claudia, before leaving with her mother. Who, after one step, stops and turns around to face me again.
—Like I said,—she repeats,—don’t be a stranger.
—Of course,—I reply.
Then everything is a succession of quick hellos and good-byes exchanged with the parents of Claudia’s other classmates, and it takes me a few minutes to free myself.
Claudia stays close to me, like a good little girl, and her serenity helps to keep me from getting agitated, because the only thing I can think of is being alone with her. She didn’t notice that I waited outside all day, I’m almost sure of it, but the look she traded with Benedetta brought the lump back to my throat, because it could mean that she had noticed, in fact, and that she told her friend, and that together they came up with a strategy for fun…
Then, when Miss Paolina says good-bye to me, too, we can finally slip into the car.
—So,—I say, before turning the key.—What did you do today?
My cell phone starts ringing, and I don’t answer. I look at the display to see who’s calling. Claudia is speechless for a second, toying with her braid. Then she takes a breath, as if to speak, but says nothing.
Did I guess right? She saw me but doesn’t know how to tell me?
—What’s wrong, sweetheart?—I ask, smiling.
—I topi non avevano nipoti,—she says, and stares at me. I turn the key, for the sake of doing something. Her look nails me, and a mischievous gleam dances in her eyes. My cell starts ringing, and I turn it off. I topi non avevano nipoti.
—I don’t get it,—I admit.
Claudia looks pleased with herself and nods imperceptibly, lowering her eyes. When she’s twenty and makes the same gesture, she’s going to be gorgeous.
—We did palindromes,—she says.—You know, the phrases that read the same way backwards as forwards?
In the meantime, I exit the parking lot and advance slowly through the remainders of the parental mob, which is breaking up.
—I topi non avevano nipoti, the mice had no nephews, reads the same way backwards,—she adds.—Try it…
And I try; with a stupid smile on my face, I recite this fanciful sentence backward: itopin onaveva non ipot i.
—It’s true,—I say.
I remember an English palindrome I learned at Harvard when I was a student there: Able I was ere saw I Elba. Napoleon. I was struck by the sentence, because in addition to being a palindrome it had a meaning. But “the mice had no nephews” is much better precisely because it’s nonsense but, unlike the Napoleonic code, it sounds perfectly natural.
—Nice,—I say,—and why were you doing palindromes?
—Miss Gloria was explaining reversibility to us.
—Reversibility. I’m impressed. And how did she explain it to you?
—She explained that in math there are some operations that are reversible and others that are irreversible. And then she explained that the same thing happens in life. And that it’s a lot better to do reversible things, if you have the choice.
—You’re right. And did she give you some example of reversible things in life?
—No.
—But you thought of some, didn’t you?
Claudia nodded.
—Uh-huh!
—For example? Tell me a reversible thing that you do in life.
—Get married.
—What?
—There’s divorce, right? Miss Gloria told us that everything you can go back on is reversible.
And she smiles. Incredible. Her mother and I were supposed to get married ten days ago. We had decided that since Lara’s parents were no longer with us, she would be accompanied to city hall by Claudia. We had bought Claudia a beautiful dress, and she couldn’t wait to wear it, but her mother died before her eyes and she won’t wear that dress anymore…This little girl is hanging by a thread, and not only can she deal with subjects of this kind, but she can even smile while she’s doing it. So what can I say to her now?
—Of course.
There’s traffic. We advance slowly through the river of cars with our windows down, voiding the labors of the climate control unit. The wind ruffles Claudia’s hair, highlighting its beauty and shine. Only her braid stays still, to the side, next to her temples. What can I say? How can I change the subject before the conversation turns to things that are irreversible, instead?
—Do you know something, sweetheart?—I say.—I forgot the name of Benedetta’s mamma. Is it Barbara or Beatrice?
—Barbara,—she replies. But then she adds, combatively:
—Why doesn’t she want you to be a stranger?
—A stranger? Oh…Oh, no, sweetheart. It’s just an expression. It’s something we were talking about before…
That’s what it was. About the things that upset children and the things that don’t.