Pietro left the house of the pomegranate trees and sought out his sycamore. Powerlessness in the face of a son’s fate binds all fathers. He leaned his back against the trunk. They are distinguished by devotion. He looked at his hands holding the pomegranate. He himself had never been devoted to anyone. Clutched the fruit, which was hard but not heavy, scratched it with a fingernail. Pietro continued to scratch it the entire way back and when he returned home he left it on the night table. Drew the recorder from his pocket and pressed play. My name is Andrea Testi. I am thirty-four years old and I know how to dribble. Pressed stop and dialled the Martinis’ number on the lodge phone. No one picked up. He called again. It rang and rang. He took the keys and went out into the entrance hall with a damp cloth.
The only noise was the street traffic. He started up the stairs and stopped at the second floor. From the lawyer’s flat came the murmur of the television. He moved over to the Martinis’ door, rang the doorbell and waited. Flung the cloth to the ground, rang some more, waited less.
Opened.
The house was in order. The hall stand held a raincoat, the books had been removed from the floor, the dolls had disappeared behind the chaise longue. He crossed the living room and peeked into the kitchen. The table was set with a bowl of cereal, two cups, and a half-full bottle of milk. He pressed the cap back on the bottle and placed it in the refrigerator, caressed the ultrasound of Sara on the refrigerator door. Moved on to the doctor’s study. Opened the drawer with the photographs. For Anita, he took the one with the woman and the newborn. Slipped it into his shirt’s breast pocket and stood to leave. Instead he remained still a moment, then opened the drawer that contained the diary. It was still there. He picked it up and flipped through it. Luca had written various notes. On that day’s date: Mama, give me the strength tonight as well.
He reread it and put the diary away. Tried the final drawer but it was still locked. Looked for the leather medical bag. The desk was covered with papers, atop which stood the computer, together with a paperweight and a plate with an apple core and a knife. He looked on the small couch and below the study window, in the sitting room and again in the kitchen. In the bedroom the covers were rolled up into a ball. The polka-dot gloves hung like rags from a chair and the red shirt from a hanger on the handle of the wardrobe. Pietro did up the top button. Suits you to a T. Looked around. The leather bag wasn’t there but the document case was, beside the night table. He grabbed it and undid the zip. The two keys were pressed between a packet of sugarless sweets and a prescription pad. He returned to the study.
The first key worked. The final drawer rolled open and Pietro saw that it contained a bundle of five glass vials of a transparent liquid. On one he read the name of a medicine. Behind them he found a tourniquet, a stethoscope, gauze, a packet of syringes. At the back of the drawer there was more: notes held together with a paperclip. He opened one. To the love of my life, who if it wasn’t for me would still be at the window. Viola. It was dated four years earlier. He opened another. I adore you when you say you want to have a child with me. Meanwhile let me love you. Viola. This date was even older. He rummaged further and noticed a rice-paper envelope, identical to his but with no stamp. Torn open, its corners were crisp. He turned it over in his hands. My son, written slant-wise. He drew out the contents, did not read immediately, stared at the writing.
Luca,
When you find this letter I will no longer be. I’m about to die and if I’m not afraid, I owe it to you. Asking you to help me was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. You said yes out of love. Now I’m ready. Who knows if God is beautiful like they show him to be. For me he doesn’t have a beard and he lost his white hair a long time ago. Will he be as good as all that? Let’s hope so. Be patient with me, I’m still a curious little girl. I’ll go when you decide but I’ll always be with you. Please be happy.
Mama
He closed the envelope. Struggling to replace it at the back of the drawer, he touched something else, understood what it was and once again felt cold. It was a crucifix, the Christ figure smooth and without a crown of thorns. He grasped it and the top of the cross sliced his finger.