“In sixty-eight days I’m going to kill myself.”
Paola freezes.
“What are you saying?”
“My buddy Fritz has practically beaten me. Every day I feel a little weaker. According to the doctor, in a couple of months I’ll have to live flat on my back in bed, filled to the gills with painkillers, and then the final phase will begin. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I’ll leave before that can happen. Elephants do it. I’ll do it too.”
She’s devastated. I know it, I can see it in her face. I should have come up with a better way to tell her. I didn’t think.
“I don’t understand . . .”
“I made a reservation in a clinic in Lugano.”
“Euthanasia?”
“Assisted suicide is the more accurate term.”
“When did you decide this?”
“A week ago.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me about it?”
“It’s not like we’ve been talking much lately.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
We remain in silence for an unbelievably long time. Then Paola grabs her purse and leaves.
I remain in the apartment.
Mourning over our lost complicity. I want it back. But I have to wait. For Paola.
I’ve lost so many people because of my criminal affair with Signora Moroni, and all of them live inside Paola: my wife, my best friend, my lover, my accomplice in life, my biggest fan, my everything.
My everything.
Paola is my everything. That’s the correct definition.
But right now, what am I for her?
A burden, a roommate, the father of her children, a traitor.
I know that she still loves me—I can feel it.
That’s the main force driving me forward.
The phrase in the Dino Zoff notebook.
Get Paola to forgive me.