—Hello?
—…
—Hello?
—Good morning, may I speak with Pietro Paladini, please?
—Hi, Dad. How are you?
—Pietro, is that you?
—Of course it’s me.
—Your voice sounds different.
—I swear, it’s me.
—But very different. It’s someone else’s voice.
—But it’s me. How are you?
—No, that can’t be. You’re not my son.
—Come on, Dad. You called my cell phone. It has to be me.
—That has nothing to do with it. I know my son’s voice. You’re someone else.
—I recognized you immediately, didn’t I? How else could I, in your opinion, if I were someone else?
—You saw the name PAPÀ appear on the display, that’s how you did it. Now please pass the phone to my son.
—There was no name on the display. Just the words UNKNOWN CALLER, because you’re in Switzerland and your number is blocked.
—Listen, I have no idea who you are, and I don’t know why you want to pass yourself off as my son, but please pass the phone to him immediately, otherwise I’ll call the police.
—All right, I’ll pass him to you.
—…
—Hello?
—Pietro, who was the guy that answered the phone?
—A colleague.
—Did you authorize him to answer your phone?
—Yes, of course I did. How’s it going?
—You must have your head up your ass, because he tried to pass himself off as you.
—Really? Thanks for telling me. How are you?
—Fine. Claudia?
—She’s fine, too.
—And you?
—Great.
—Are you still spending your days in front of the school?
—Yes.
—Cover up, it’s cold.
—I’m in the car, Dad.
—Good boy…Listen, what was it I wanted to tell you? Oh, yes, I wanted to invite the two of you to lunch. Mamma is dying to see you.
—Who?
—Mamma.
—…
—And me, too, of course. But as you know, it makes her sad to see so little of you. Can I tell her you’re coming?
—Yes…
—She said that she’ll make you baked pasta with eggplant. And meat loaf.
—Fantastic. Can you pass Chantal to me, please?
—Who? Oh, Chantal. Of course. Chantal! Carlo wants to speak with you. Why do you want to speak to her?
—I have to ask her for something for my backache.
—Ah. Did you put your back out?
—Obviously.
—All right. See you soon.
—See you, Dad.
—Here’s Chantal. I’ll pass her the phone. It’s Carlo. Bye.
—Hello?
—Chantal?
—Carlo?
—No, this is Pietro.
—I thought so.
—Can you talk?
—Yes. He’s gone to the other room. How are the two of you doing?
—We’re fine, but I get the impression that he…
—He what?
—Well, he just told me that Mamma wants to make me meat loaf.
—Oh, of course. Every now and then it happens. That he sees your mother, I mean, that he speaks with her. But the doctor says there’s nothing to worry about.
—And he mistook me for Carlo. And earlier he called me on my cell and didn’t recognize me. He forced me to say I was someone else.
—Forced? That’s a big word.
—Well, in other words, he insisted on saying that it wasn’t me. And to cut it short, I had to—
—And you did the right thing. There’s nothing in the world worth contradicting him over.
—True. But I was wondering whether this, um, whether this ongoing deterioration might lead to some…
—To what?
—I don’t know, to some strange act. Who knows what happens in his head.
—I know. The only thing your father needs is every now and then to see reality as something different from what it is. Exactly like you or me. Except that unlike us he has a much better chance of doing it.
—That’s one way to put it. Another way would be to say that he’s completely lost his mind. Excuse my brutality.
—Your father hasn’t lost his mind, Pietro. He’s sick, not crazy. Let me assure you that most of the time he behaves in a completely normal manner. He’s just fighting to survive, and if you’re not riding him all the time, repeating that his wife is dead or that one of his sons doesn’t want to see him anymore, he manages to get by quite nicely.
—So let’s put it like this: when he invites me to lunch at Mom’s request, I worry, and when you tell me not to worry, I relax.
—You can put it however you like, but in the end try to stay calm. Your father is fine.
—Did he finally give in and install the dishwasher?
—No, he donated it to the Red Cross.
—The dishwasher? What’s the Red Cross going to do with it?
—Oh, they accept everything.
—The only reason I was saying it is because if I understood him correctly, he would like Claudia and me to come to lunch one of these Sundays, but I don’t like the idea of you having to wash the dishes by hand afterward. It seems so absurd.
—Sorry to be so blunt, but what do you care how I wash dishes? Come to lunch and don’t worry about it.
—Okay, you’re right. So I say we come next Sunday. Not this Sunday, the following one. Is that all right with you?
—Of course it’s all right.
—Is he still convinced that Lara died in a car accident?
—He hasn’t mentioned it lately, but I think he is.
—In that case could you please help me to change the subject if he starts talking about it in front of Claudia?
—Don’t worry. I’m an expert at changing the subject.
—I don’t want to confuse her, you see.
—Of course. How is Claudia doing? Is she suffering a lot?
—No, that’s just it. She’s calm. I don’t know how, but she’s calm.
—Check her hair.
—Beg your pardon?
—Check her hair. See whether it’s turning white.
—At the age of ten and a half?
—Yes.
—Why?
—Trust me. Check her, and if you find even one white hair, tell me.
—White hair. Okay.
—So we’ll see you on Sunday.
—On Sunday.
—…
—Chantal?
—Yes?
—Can I ask you something?
—Yes.
—It’s a little indiscreet.
—Go ahead, ask me.
—Why are you doing it?
—Doing what?
—Why are you devoting your life to my father?
—What the heck kind of question…
—I told you it was indiscreet. If you don’t want to answer, it doesn’t matter.
—Because I love him, Pietro. That’s all there is to say.
—…
—What, you don’t believe me?
—No, I believe you. It’s just that, well, it can’t be very easy to love him at a time like this.
—On the contrary: Your father is a wonderful man, even with his illness. And loving him is a privilege.
—I meant with his character. And the need for constant care, and his obsession with saving money…
—I like being near him, and while I’m near him I take care of him. I was a nurse for thirty-two years, for me it’s normal. And anyway your father is much better than he might seem.
—Thanks to you.
—No, Pietro. No one can make you feel good if goodness is not already inside you. That’s what I’ve learned.
—You’re right. So we’ll see you next Sunday.
—Good-bye, Pietro.
—Good-bye.
—Hello?
—Hi, how are you doing?
—Hi, Marta. Fine. And you?
—Little Giacomo has a temperature, but it’s not very high.
—Hmm. There’s a lot of that going around lately. And your belly?
—It’s growing.
—Do you already know whether it’s a girl or a boy?
—It’s another boy.
—Hooray! Congratulations!
—Thank you. Even if I would have preferred a girl.
—Really? Why?
—Take a wild guess.
—Because you already have two boys? What does that matter?
—Let’s just say that if he turns out like the other two they’ll have to commit me.
—Come on, they’re good boys.
—Yeah, right. Two little angels.
—No, it’s a good thing there’s another boy, you know? Have you decided what to name him?
—I was thinking of Aldo.
—What? You must be kidding.
—Why? Maybe it’s not a beautiful name, but it’s my father’s name and I think—
—Marta, you can’t call him Aldo.
—Why not?
—You can’t have three sons named Aldo, Giovanni, and Giacomo. They’re the same names as the comedy trio!
—Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. Aldo, Giovanni, and Giacomo, you’re right…Even if in reality it would be Giovanni, Giacomo, and Aldo…
—Look, you just can’t.
—…
—…
—No, I guess I can’t.
—You’re doing the right thing.
—…
—…
—I was just getting used to the idea, fuck. You always ruin everything.
—Oh, so now it’s my fault.
—But why, for Christ’s sake, why does everything always have to be so complicated? A woman can’t even call a son by her father’s name. Why not? Why do things always have to turn out this way?
—They don’t always have to turn out this way, Marta. Just this time.
—Well, that’s the way they always turn out for me. For some fucking reason I can never do the things other people do day in and day out.
—Don’t go playing the victim now.
—All I wanted was to call him Aldo. I really did. And now I can’t. Can you tell me why?
—Maybe that’s not meant to be his name, plain and simple.
—It was my father’s name, for Christ’s sake. I loved that name. Don’t I have the right to give it to my son?
—Then why didn’t you call one of the other two Aldo?
—Who cares, when they were born my dad was still alive.
—Exactly. What was it, were you afraid of giving him the satisfaction?
—…
—Hello?
—You’re a real asshole, you know that?
—Come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.
—And when you apologize you’re an even bigger asshole.
—I was serious.
—Exactly. People who realize they’ve been assholes a second after the fact are even bigger assholes.
—Okay. The next time I’ll let two or three days go by.
—As a matter of fact, the biggest assholes are the ones that make a joke after apologizing.
—Marta, I don’t want to fight. It’s just that I can’t stand it when you play the victim.
—Oh, so now I’m the one that has to apologize. Did I hurt your feelings?
—All right, I take back what I said; call him Aldo and forget about it.
—…
—What difference does it make? “Nice, are they all yours?” “Yes.” “What are their names?” “Aldo, Giovanni, and Giacomo.” “You’re kidding! Like the comedians?” “Yes, like the comedians.” End of story.
—…
—Call him Aldo.
—You know that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
—Come on, it’s not a real problem? Am I right?
—Yes, you’re right. Oh, by the way, I wanted to ask you something.
—Fire away.
—Did you ever call that psychoanalyst?
—No, I didn’t call him.
—But are you going to?
—No, I’m not going to.
—So you’re not going to do analysis with him?
—Marta, I don’t think I—
—So do you mind if I go?
—Beg your pardon?
—I said if you’re not going to go, then I could go. I want to go back into analysis.
—But didn’t a friend of yours give you his number?
—Yes.
—And didn’t you say that this analyst is really strict?
—Yes, and what of it?
—Isn’t it against the rules to be analyzed by a friend of a friend?
—My friend is not a friend of his, she’s a colleague. She recommended him. It’s against the rules to be analyzed by a friend, that’s why I’m not going to her; and so is going into analysis with the same analyst as your sister-in-law, and that’s why I’m asking you to think twice, because if I go you won’t be able to.
—Marta, I don’t have to think twice. Go ahead and do therapy with him, I don’t mind.
—Analysis, not therapy.
—All right, analysis.
—So should I call him?
—Yes.
—Okay, thank you.
—For what?
—So I’ll talk to you later.
—Marta?
—…
—…
—No, it was nothing. Talk to you later.
—Bye.
—Bye.
—Hello?
—It’s snowing!
—Where are you?
—In Rome. And it’s snowing!
—Here it’s raining.
—And here the snowflakes are coming down and it’s beautiful. It’s snowing on me right now, do you want me to give you the weather report?
—No, thanks. But is it sticking?
—You bet. The city is paralyzed. Airports closed, buses skidding on the streets, everyone outside throwing snowballs like in ’86.
—What do you know about ’86? You were in London.
—That’s what everyone around here is saying: “Back in ’86, back in ’86.”…Did it snow so much in ’86?
—A lot, yes.
—It’s fantastic. No one’s working.
—I can imagine. Lucky you.
—Come on, maybe tomorrow it’ll snow up there, too.
—But here it’s different, in the sense that everything gets paralyzed, too, but people get pissed off.
—God only knows what you’re doing up in Milan.
—I work here.
—Okay, but don’t go telling me you wouldn’t be able to find work in Rome. I’ve got a plan, hear me out: sell your dollhouse up there and buy a nice little apartment here in Garbatella, where unfortunately the prices are sky-high by comparison to ten years ago, but it’s still one of the most convenient neighborhoods in Rome, in addition to being the hottest. Then we’d be close.
—That’s your plan?
—Yes.
—What about work?
—You could work with me. I’ve got half an idea to open a radio station. You could manage it.
—Tell me the truth, the half an idea just came to you.
—Okay, but it’s still a great idea. Radio Barrie: you like the sound?
—Come on, what are you going to do with a radio station?
—Music. Community. Image. I’m serious, Pietro.
—Do you have any idea how much frequencies cost?
—Listen, I’m loaded. I don’t know what to do with my money anymore. The more I try to get rid of it, the more I make. I could even make money off a radio station.
—If you don’t want to make money, the safest thing would be to avoid commercials.
—Perfect. Radio Barrie: the only commercial-free radio station in the world. So do you accept?
—Yes.
—When do we start?
—Saturday, when you come up here.
—Oh, now that you mention it: I can’t come. This weekend I have to go to London, I’m afraid.
—What a shame.
—But next Sunday I have to change planes at Malpensa, and I could take a later connection, that way we could have lunch together.
—The Sunday after this?
—Yes, with Claudia, of course. How is she?
—Fine. But we can’t that Sunday. We’re going to have lunch at Dad’s.
—At Dad’s? How come?
—He invited us.
—Oh. And how’s he doing? All right?
—Well, he’s completely off his rocker. Chantal says that he’s fine, but I’m not so convinced of it; sometimes she sounds crazy, too.
—Like I’ve always said: She’s the crazy one, not him.
—Why don’t you come along?
—Where?
—To Dad’s. Since you’re passing through.
—Are you kidding?
—Look, he’s not feeling well. The other day on the phone he thought I was you.
—Can we not go over this again, please?
—Come on, what did he ever do to you?
—Pietro, please.
—He’s old, he’s sick. He says that he speaks with Mom, that he sees her…He told me that Mom is going to make us baked pasta, do you get it? How can you be so hard?
—Me, hard? He didn’t give me the time of day for twenty years, and if I hadn’t been the one to go back to him, when Mom got sick, he would still be that way.
—Yes, but then you made up.
—Made up, my ass. Do you know what he told me on the day Mom died? Her body was still warm, and do you know what he said?
—What did he say?
—He said, “Well, now we’re the two bachelors of the family.” That was his way of making up…
—Tact never was his strong point, you know that. It was a gaffe.
—A gaffe? What would you call hooking up with the nurse that took care of Mom, another gaffe? For your information, they were already together before Mom died.
—So what? You think he’s the only man who ever cheated on his wife?
—At the age of seventy? Before her eyes while she was dying of cancer? With her nurse? You’re right, the world is full of men who cheat…
—It wasn’t before her eyes. Mom didn’t know what was going on.
—She didn’t know… How can you talk like that? How can you go to lunch with those two?
—No, how can you hate him so much? He’s your father, for crying out loud.
—It’s precisely because he was my—Listen, can we just drop the subject? Shit, why do we always end up talking about him? We had an agreement, fair and square: no more talk about Dad. After that you do what you want and I do what I want, but no more talk about him, I’m begging you.
—All right already. We won’t talk about him.
—…
—…
—By the way, did that woman you rescued ever contact you? A note, a phone call, a thank-you…
—…
—You there?
—I’m here. You were saying?
—I was asking whether the woman you rescued ever contacted you. Seeing as she was a close friend of the one I saved, I thought she might have.
—Not a word.
—Go figure. Hey, I’ve got to get going. I want to throw some snowballs.
—Have fun.
—Bye, Pietro.
—Bye.
—Yes?
—Hi, Pietro.
—Hi. How’s it going?
—Fine, and you?
—Fine. Any news?
—Yes. They’re here.
—Who?
—The gods.
—What gods?
—Boesson and Steiner.
—Where’s here?
—Milan.
—Oh, really. Why?
—What do you mean why? To sign.
—To sign what?
—The merger. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.
—Know what?
—Pietro, you’re kidding, right?
—No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
—You didn’t know that they’d decided to come to Milan to sign the merger documents?
—No.
—Come on, everyone here knew about it.
—But I’m not there. The only person who tells me things is you, and this is something you didn’t tell me.
—I thought you already knew.
—I didn’t, though.
—They decided to sign here.
—Here? How come?
—To be a little more discreet, they say. To be a little less ostentatious.
—What? They create the biggest group in the world, and they want to be less ostentatious?
—What can I say, Pietro? They’re signing here. They’ve already arrived.
—Boesson and Steiner…
—Yes, with wives and children in tow. Boesson is at the Principe di Savoia, and Steiner is supposed to be on Lake Como, at the Villa d’Este. They’re doing a little shopping over the weekend, Tuesday night they’re all going to the opening of La Scala, but in the meantime on Monday, on the feast of Saint Ambrose, when all the offices in Milan are closed, they’re coming here to sign. Sorry, but I was sure you knew.
—It doesn’t matter, nothing serious.
—Maybe you could come by the office.
—Me? Why?
—For the sake of it. To show your face. The office is packed with these unbelievable brownnosers, French and American. We’ve been physically invaded.
—Exactly. I’ll spare myself.
—They’ve occupied the conference room. They order pizza every twenty minutes and tell jokes. You can hear their laughter all the way over here. And they stick their noses into everything.
—It’ll pass.
—And Basler is a big kiss-ass.
—He’s just doing his job, to kiss ass.
—And everyone around here is going nuts.
—That’s their business. They’re just using the merger as a pretext to misbehave. Don’t let them infect you. In the meantime, while we’re on the subject of people going nuts, did you ever find Piquet’s girlfriend?
—Yes, I spoke to her over the phone.
—And?
—They broke up.
—Really! And she didn’t tell you where he is, what he’s doing?
—No. She says she hasn’t seen him in more than a month.
—Ever since the cup holder incident…
—Exactly.
—And how did she sound to you?
—Her? Normal. How was she supposed to sound?
—I don’t know, it depends on her tone of voice. What exactly did she say?
—She said that they broke up one month ago and that since then she hasn’t heard anything from him.
—I know, but was she aggressive when she said it? Was she sad?
—What do I know, Pietro? We were on the phone.
—Did she ask you any questions?
—Questions? Ask me? No…
—Did she remember who you were?
—Why should she?
—Well, you had dinner at her house.
—Yes, but I wasn’t going to say it. It was already embarrassing enough to ask her about Piquet. Do you know I couldn’t even remember what his first name is?
—Piquet? It’s Federico.
—Yes, but I couldn’t remember. Here everyone always called him by his last name. I had to ask her whether she was the companion of Mr. Piquet…
—Who’s vanished, if not worse. Did you tell her?
—No, I didn’t feel like it…
—All right, then it’s clear she didn’t tell you anything. You were too impersonal.
—She told me they broke up, what else was she supposed to say? What do you mean too impersonal?
—Too impersonal. Maybe she knows things and didn’t tell you because you were too impersonal. Maybe she knows where he is. Why don’t you call her back and tell her that you’re Marco Tardioli, that you’ve met because you were at dinner at their house, and—
—Listen, I’m not going to call her back. It was already embarrassing enough the first time.
—Okay, okay. Forget I said anything.
—Why don’t you call her instead? Besides, I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to: she’d realize that I was the same person who had called before, and she’d get suspicious. Even if I don’t understand why she’d have anything to hide.
—You’re right. I’ll call her. Did you find her at Studio Elle?
—Yes. I don’t have the number with me now, but it’s in the phone book. Let me know how it goes.
—Sure thing.
—So in other words, you’re not going to come to the office?
—I wouldn’t dream of it.
—Not even tomorrow, when Boesson’s coming?
—Especially not tomorrow.
—But aren’t you afraid of getting canned?
—If they can me they can me, Marco. Nothing will change if I come or not.
—This is true. Except I don’t understand how you can be so calm.
—You’re the one saying I’m calm.
—You act like you don’t care about anything.
—You know what the Americans say? Keep cool.
—Those are just words.
—Exactly. They don’t cost a thing.
—Yes, but you seem—No, forget about it, it’s none of my business.
—Stop worrying. So in other words they’re signing on Monday?
—On Monday, yes.
—Well, you’ll see that everything will get better after that.
—Let’s hope so. I’ll keep you posted.
—Thanks. And tomorrow say hi to God for me.
—Amen.