I waited on tenterhooks. Mario appeared, content, the look of some cartoon character still in his eyes.
—He, he said, amused, he followed him, Grandpa, and he ended up banging against a tree.
I didn’t ask who he was, afraid that he would start explaining it to me.
—Did it make you laugh?
—Yes.
—Good. Now can you do something for me?
—Right away.
—Can you try to turn this handle the way your father does when the door’s blocked?
—I need to get a chair.
—Don’t bother, you can manage without it.
—But to do a good job I need to be as tall as Dad.
He didn’t wait for me to give him permission, he went to one of the chairs in the room and pushed it up to the glass door.
—Be careful.
—I’m being good.
He climbed on top of the chair while I was saying to myself, trepidatiously: If he falls and hurts himself, what will I do? But he didn’t fall. Standing up straight, he grasped the handle.
—You have to force it.
—I know.
Lips straight, eyes focused, he moved the handle up and down, then shouted out enthusiastically: Done! I pushed the door cautiously. He hadn’t done a damn thing, the door was closed.
—Bravo. Want to try again?
—I opened it.
—Mario, it’s not a game, try again. The door really has to open.
He avoided my gaze, staring at the floor.
—I’m hungry.
—Will you please try again for me?
—I’m hungry, Grandpa.
It had started to rain. My ears and neck were freezing. I said:
—If you want to eat then you need to let me back into the house. Try again.
He whined:
—I haven’t even had a snack, I’m going to tell Mom.
—The handle, Mario.
—No, he said, getting angry. I’m hungry. And without warning he jumped down from the chair, and I felt my heart in my throat.
—You OK? I asked.
He stood up again.
—I can jump better than anyone, at nursery school.
Who knows how many things he thought he did better than anyone. And who knows how much time he’d spend thinning the number of those primates, whittling them down to one or two, only to conclude that not a single one of them really sparkled. I said:
—Sure you didn’t hurt yourself? Why are your rubbing your ankle?
—It hurts a tiny bit right here. I’m going to get something to eat, that way it’ll go away.
—Mario, I called out, while he, pretending to limp, prepared to vanish once again.
—Wait, I’m hungry, too.
—I’ll bring you some bread.
—Don’t you dare cut the bread with a knife, I shouted when he’d already turned down the hallway.
But was that prohibition alone enough? How many more things should I have forbidden him to do? Make himself a sandwich. Prepare a frittata. Use the microwave to thaw Sally’s food. And so much more. He had the whole apartment to stage, with verisimilitude, his performance as omniscient homunculus. Saverio had trained him to do too many things inappropriate for a four-year-old and he protected himself by playing. He could convince himself that he could do everything only because the game allowed him to hide his failures. He was so good at miming competence, he took credit with such aplomb. I remembered that, long ago, people used to speak to kids in kid lingo. It was a crazy language but it demarcated a certain distance; pushing little kids toward adult verbalization, only to flaunt their great intelligence, didn’t exist yet. My wife and I had been among those in our generation who’d gotten rid of words like boo-boo. Betta spoke like a book when she was three, maybe even more than her son. We’d been so proud of her, we’d shown her off, asking questions the way you ask a parrot. The result? An outsized childhood, followed by the frustration of never being able to give as much as she felt entitled to give. Which is perhaps why she said to Mario: I’ll give you a tottò on your hands.
A tottò, to be honest, was something I’d have gladly given him myself at that point. I was about to hurl another cry in the child’s direction—and meanwhile I shielded my hair with a hand, the humidity must have been affecting my hearing, I must have had a headache, an earache, a neck ache, a fever—when I thought I heard a loud ringing. I waited with bated breath. Had the people on the first floor found the toys, had Attilio’s mother decided to make a punishing delivery? I focused, trying to block out the traffic noises. Yes, there was the loud ringing again, unequivocal. I pounded against the glass, Mario, Mario, Mario. This time the child rushed back:
—The doorbell, Grandpa. It’s Mom.
—It’s not Mom. Can you please pay attention to what I tell you?
—It’s Mom, I’m going to open up.
—You can’t open up, Mario, just listen to me: Now go run to the door and say, as loud as you can, these very words: My grandfather’s locked out on the balcony, call for help. Repeat after me.
Mario shook his head.
—I know how to open to door, I can do it, it’s Mom.
I said, forcing myself to sound calm:
—Mario, I’m telling you, it’s not Mom and you can’t open the door, it’s bolted shut. Go repeat the words I’m saying: My grandfather’s locked out on the balcony, call for help.
Again the bell rang loudly, frantically. Mario couldn’t resist, he shouted: Coming, and took off.
I stood there waiting, the rain was getting harder. There was so much traffic that, no matter how hard I listened, I barely heard a thing. I figured the child would attempt nevertheless to open the door. I figured he’d drag a chair up to the door to try to reach the brass knob. He was a stubborn creature, I doubted he’d immediately say what I’d ask him. But I hoped that, in the end, given how housebroken he was, he’d utter the sentence, just for the pleasure of pronouncing it. I paid attention to every minute sound, and in spite of the thunder I heard the bell ring again. Whoever was waiting on the landing, they’d be aware of Mario behind the door. I ruled out that the child would have remained silent. Maybe he wouldn’t say exactly what I’d told him, but surely he’d have yelled out something. I counted on it, and meanwhile the stress was eating me alive. No more loud ringing. Had the person from the first floor stopped, were they talking now?
Mario turned up again in the room.
—It wasn’t Mom, he said.
—Who was it?
—I opened up and there was nobody.
—Tell me the truth, Mario. Did you really open the door?
He was looking at the floor, he was upset.
—I’m going to get something to eat.
—Wait, answer me: did you really open the door or are you pretending?
—I have a huge stomachache, Grandpa, and now I’m really hungry.
—Remember what you were supposed to say: My grandfather’s on the balcony, he can’t get in? Did you say it?
—Ugh, I don’t want to play anymore, I’m hungry.