That night in the studio flat Sara asked, ‘Why doesn’t Mama come here?’
Luca murmured, ‘Take deep breaths, honey. That way you’ll fall asleep sooner. Don’t be afraid, it’s just the dark, a bit of colour, a great inky gloom. Don’t be afraid, it’s just the sun, who’s yawning because he wants to sleep.’ They sang together and then she whispered, ‘Will you take me to the sea?’
‘You’ve got to go to nursery school. We’ll go to the sea this summer, right now it’s cold.’ He rocked her in his arms and she said, ‘I want to come with you to the cold sea.’
The deep breaths began but no one fell asleep in the studio flat, nor in the house of the pomegranate trees. The old man from the petrol station lowered one of the bed’s sidewalls and lay down next to his son. You and I, we’re like Rossi and Altobelli against Germany, world champions, like Rossi and Altobelli, we take everyone by surprise. The father closed his eyes and coughed. The son raised his pupils once. His voice echoed in the concierge’s lodge. From the recorder came the crackling voice: ‘My name is Andrea Testi. I am thirty-four years old and I know how to dribble. You have to have strong ankles to dribble well, and I have strong ankles.’ Pietro listened to it again and again as he stared at the letter on rice paper held down by the elephant and by the pomegranate. Dozed off, then the voice of Andrea was silent and Pietro slept until the following morning.
He was woken by Riccardo’s knock on the door.
The concierge opened. Riccardo stood there with a stuffed animal in one hand and a black raincoat fastened up to his neck. Gave a slight smile. ‘Pardon me, you were sleeping.’
Pietro nodded.
‘It’s Lorenzo’s funeral. If you want, I’ll give you a ride. The church is a little out of the way.’
The concierge motioned for him to sit down on a wicker chair and went into the bathroom. Rinsed his face. It was lean and had lost its greyness. What remained of Mastroianni were the bags under his eyes and the forehead crease. He dressed in a hurry, placed the elephant in his jacket in a way that the trunk emerged over the edge of the pocket. Before going out he stuck Fernando and Sara’s drawing above his bed. The two parrots were crippled and the Bianchi a tricycle with punctured tyres. He pressed it hard against the wall then drew out the leather bracelet from the night table and returned to the lodge. Riccardo was reading a completed crossword puzzle. Now he rose from the wicker chair and went out. Pietro hung the ‘Back soon’ sign on the window glass and joined him outside.
They climbed into the SUV parked outside the street door. A miniature tennis racket hung from the rear-view mirror. In the receptacle between the seats were some wadded-up receipts, covered in ash. Riccardo placed the animal in his lap and started the car. When they set off the toy fell over and he straightened it up. ‘I didn’t think Luca had said anything to you.’ His face was hard. ‘When he loses a child he closes out the world.’
‘The same thing can happen when someone loses a wife.’
The SUV slowed. Riccardo stared straight ahead. Clutched the animal’s trunk, opening and closing his fingers, then took the wheel with both hands, accelerated and cleared his throat. Turned his head toward the passenger side. ‘We fell in love, Pietro.’
The concierge looked out the side window. The city was stuck in ice. ‘I understand.’
‘You understand?’
He nodded. ‘People leave each other because at some point someone decides to try someone else.’ His fingers grazed the elephant. ‘It’s minimal love.’
Riccardo looked at the road and then again at the concierge. ‘And what would maximum love be?’
‘To stand by the love of a single person.’
‘Sometimes you can’t.’
‘Because sometimes you don’t want to.’
‘You speak as a priest.’
‘I speak as an old man.’
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘So with God it was minimal?’
‘It wasn’t love.’
‘So why did you become a priest?’
‘Because I’d never known anything else.’
The elephant smashed its trunk against the horn. Riccardo wedged it between his legs and the SUV went through a yellow light. ‘I didn’t know anything else, either, after I lost my parents.’ He drove along a section of one of the inner ring roads, unable to find a parking spot, made turn after fruitless turn, finally pulled into a spot for residents. Through the window they could see the beginning of the pedestrian zone, a group of people proceeding slowly into a red-brick church. Riccardo leaned over to Pietro’s side and opened the glove box. Out popped a city street map, a Michelin restaurant guide and a GPS device. He searched haphazardly, saying, ‘Where did I put it.’ There was also a prescription pad and a plastic case with the car’s papers. He opened the latter and a Polaroid fell and landed face down just under the seat. Pietro retrieved it and Riccardo took it out of his hands. ‘I want to have a family again, Pietro.’ He put the photograph away and continued to rummage, more calmly now. Extracted from the back of the glove box a doctor’s badge and placed it next to the parking disc.
‘All Luca needs is his daughter.’ He handed him the bracelet.
Riccardo gave him a bewildered look, took the bracelet and held it in the palm of his hand. ‘That’s not how things are.’ He attached it to his wrist.
‘All Luca needs is his daughter.’ The concierge began to get out. Riccardo took hold of his sleeve. ‘Would God absolve me?’
‘God doesn’t understand such things.’
‘Would you absolve me?’
‘I’m only a man.’
Pietro walked ahead of him toward the church. People were entering in dribs and drabs. Two beggars shook their cups and asked for charity in the corner reserved for flowers. Riccardo left the toy between two wreaths of white roses. The concierge began to follow a group of women crowding the entrance, then stopped. Luca appeared among them, zipped up tight in a heavy jacket and wearing running shoes.
Riccardo, too, noticed him. ‘Luca,’ he called, ‘Luca.’
The doctor moved away, darting into the church courtyard, five bare trees and a carpet of earth. Riccardo called him again, made to follow. This time it was the concierge who held him back.
‘I have to talk to him, Pietro.’
The concierge refused to let him go. They walked together into the church, then Riccardo squirmed free to join Lorenzo’s mother beside the casket. She had her hand inside the white box and was saying something to a lanky priest wearing a gown that was too short.
Pietro placed himself just inside the right aisle, beside a minor Christ who looked at him sidelong. He had not entered a church since he left his own. He rubbed his hands together. The chill in his bones had returned. Below the ankles of the minor Christ trembled the flames of the votive candles. The prayers melted over the rusty iron.
Everyone sat down except for Lorenzo’s mother. She remained in place, one hand fussing with a pearl earring, the other stroking the casket.
‘Let us pray,’ announced the priest.
Pietro lowered his eyes to the marble floor, counted granules in the stone while the priest raised his hands to the heavens, Let us pray. Lorenzo’s mother prayed, as did Riccardo in the second row and the rest of the people with heads bowed in the pews. The doctor prayed, seated in the church courtyard, running shoes nestled in the earth. Luca pressed his hands to his eyes and kept them there, and Lorenzo’s mother did the same. They both said: ‘Why me.’