One Plus One Equals Three

Gabriella Kuruvilla

“What are you doing?”
“Writing.”
“On the wall?”
“Do you like it?”
“Not a bit.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s my wall, damn it.”
“You have a lot of walls...”
“So?”
“So you can let me have one.”
“Actually, you already took it...”
“I’m only writing on it...”
“And you’re saying that’s no big deal?”
“I’ll repaint it later.”
“Later when?”
“When I’m done.”
“But what are you writing?”
“A novel.”
“Let me read a little...”
“No, it’s private...”
“Right, so you’re writing it on my bedroom wall?”
“I’ll repaint it later.”
“That’d be good.”
“One plus one equals three, it doesn’t always have to equal two?”
“Aieeeeeeee!”
“Hey, why are you crying?”
“Don’t read. It’s a private novel. It’s private. Go away. Go away!”
“Liz, what are you talking about? You can’t write a private novel on my bedroom wall.”
“And where should I write it, please?”
“At your house, for example. Maybe using paper and pen... Besides, if you keep this up, my apartment won’t be enough for you to write a novel on. Let alone a private one.”
“It’s not a novel. They’re notes.”
“Ah, now I see. So ‘one plus one equals three, it doesn’t always have to equal two’ is a note.”
“It’s a reflection.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“It’s a reflection capable of demolishing the basis of rational thought.”
“It’s bullshit pure and simple. One plus one equals two, just as it’s true in this house that we’re two and not three... We are two, one and one is two. Here we are, just touch us.”
“Don’t touch me!”
“And you quit giving orders: don’t read, go away, don’t touch me... Besides, I’m the one who has a defaced wall, not you. You’re standing in front of me in your underpants, with a spray can in hand and a possessed look on your face too...”
“Aieeeeeeee!”
“Are you prone to tears today? No one can say anything to you? I was joking...”
“You joke to avoid thinking.”
“And what should I think about? ‘One plus one is three, it doesn’t always have to make two’?”
“Don’t read, it’s a private novel. It’s private. Go away. Go away!”
“Liz, if you write in block letters it’s impossible not to read it.”
“Then I’ll write really really small...”
“Christ, how annoying! Does this seem normal to you? You’ll crack my wall and you’ll break your fingernails if you keep this up.”
“I’ll repair it with putty later.”
“Later when?”
“When I’m done.”
“Yeah, well, stop it at once; I can’t stand this noise.”
“Leave.”
“Stop it. You’re massacring your hands.”
“I’m taking content away from the appearance to give form to the substance.”
“Filing your fingers on my bedroom wall?”
“I’m leaving a sign.”
“Those are scratches. They’re not even graffiti. There’s no need to mutilate yourself to show that you exist.”
“Ah, no? Look here...”
“Oh shit. What are those?”
“Signs.”
“Those are cuts!”
“The signs are symbols.”
“Those are cuts!”
“If they were cuts, blood would be coming out.”
“When did you make them?”
“This morning.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t realize that the wall was there, to write on...”
“Did you treat them?”
“I wrapped them in your sheet.”
“Which sheet?”
“That one on your bed.”
“And then you remade the bed?”
“Yes.”
“Which sheet did you use?”
“The same one.”

“You put the bloody sheet back on my bed?”
“Each thing in its place. Nothing out of place.”
“It’s you that’s out of place.”
“A cheap comment. And now go away, I have to write.”
“But did they heal?”
“You don’t see?”
“I’d prefer not to see.”
“The blind man is the fool.”
“Now what are you doing?”
“You still don’t see?”
“Stop it.”
“I have to write.”
“Do you want a pencil?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Here, no problem.”
“Go away. You embarrass me.”
“What embarrasses you? To write in my presence, or to write in your underpants?”
“Pass me my T-shirt?”
“Where did you put it?”
“In the refrigerator.”
“Huh?”
“I was hot.”
“Take it.”
“Don’t look at me.”
“I can look at you when you’re naked but not when you’re getting dressed?”
“Don’t look at me. Read me.”
“Hey, Liz, quit giving orders. You’ve been a pain in the ass until now because you didn’t want me to read it...”
“Read me.”
“I should read you, or I should read the wall?”
“We’re the same thing.”
“The wall is white... or at least, it was...”
“I am what I write.”
“From the cuts on your legs to the incisions on the wall?”
“They’re a sign; they’re a symbol.”
“You’re an idiot. First you wounded your body and now you’ve messed up my room.”
“Read what I’m writing!”
“Ok.”
“Read what I’m writing!”
“Calm down.”
“Read what I’m writing.”
“Ok. So, starting with the last thoughts: ‘Rubattino is downtown.’ Rubattino is downtown? Are you screwing around?”
“Rubattino is downtown.”
“Rubattino is in the suburbs. And one plus one makes two.”
“Rubattino is downtown. And one plus one makes three, it doesn’t always have to equal two.”
“Rubattino is next door to the tollbooth and more than half an hour from the Duomo. From there it’s easier to see the country than the little Madonna.”
“That is the little Madonna.”
“That thing?”
“That written thing.”
“Which written thing?”
“Esselunga.”
“That’s a chain store sign, not a sacred icon.”
“That’s a divinity, with billions of disciples.”
“And who would they be?”
“The consumers. Each day they go to worship her, offering money in exchange for merchandise, to satisfy their primordial needs, reciting one and only one unique mantra: ‘Oh omniscient Esselunga give us this day our daily purchase, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.’ Then they get a reward for being faithful customers, and they go in peace.”
“Funny.”
“Harrowing. Does it bother you if I cut myself?”
“Why on earth would you do it?”
“To punish myself.”
“For what?”
“Yesterday I bought a jar of Nescafé. At Esselunga.”
“You’re lying; there aren’t any jars of Nescafé in this house. If there were, you would see me with a cup already in my hand...”
“There aren’t any because I throw them away. First I buy them, and then I throw them away.”
“A good way to waste money. Tell me where you throw them away so I can go get them.” “In the garbage can, just a little outside of Esselunga.”
“What sense does that make?”
“It’s an existentialist nonsense.”
“What?”
“What sense does it make to be born in order to die?”
“There’s life in the middle.”
“Look, I buy the Nescafé, and then I throw it out.”
“There aren’t any cups, in between.”
“There’s the receipt, to prove an exchange of money. Life in the middle is only a toll, to signify the passage from the cradle to the tomb.”
“Do you feel like a jar of Nescafé?”
“I hate multinationals.”
“And finances.”
“What?”
“You buy jars of Nescafé.”
“Then I throw them out.”
“It doesn’t change much for Nestle.”
“Aieeeeeee!”
“Enough already!”
“Rubattino is downtown.”
“Rubattino is in the suburbs, two steps from Esselunga, close to a trash can full of never opened jars of Nescafé.”
“Rubattino is downtown. The houses in this area go for 3,000 euros per square meter. Either we live downtown or someone else is screwing around with us.”
“3,000 euros per square meter?”
“Umm, yes, yes. This house is a palace... but it seems like a prison...”
“You’re talking about the bars on the windows?”
“My dear, if you look out too enthusiastically you risk tattooing a cross on your forehead...”
“That’s always better than having thieves in the house.”
“Thieves usually prefer to enter and exit through the door.”
“If you live on the ground floor, they usually prefer to enter and exit through the windows. That’s why I had the bars put on.”
“So it’s your problem. In a little while I’m moving...”
“Finally! And where are you going?”
“Underground.”
“You’re killing yourself?”
“Not here, not now.”
“Ah, good to know. So, where are you going?”
“Underground.”
“A return to your origins?”
“Let’s put it like that.”
“Remember that underground they don’t sell beer or cigarettes, and not even jars of Nescafé that I know of. So I fear that you won’t survive very long...”
“If living is the same as surviving, it’s better to die in order not to survive.”
“And you, in doubt, go to live underground. You bury yourself before dying?”
“Maybe I’ll avoid cutting myself...”
“And I’ll continue to live in a house with clean sheets and white walls...”
“I’ll wash your sheets, and I’ll repaint your walls.”
“Great idea. When?”
“When I’m done.”
“Done with what?”
“With writing.”
“You’re not done yet?” “No.”
“Oh, good. Anyway, if you really wanted to return to your origins, you should go to India.”
“Aieeeeeee.”
“What is it now?”
“I don’t know where to go.”
“To India. I told you.”
“I don’t know where to go...”
“To India... Look, it’s not hard. You go to a normal travel agency, or surf a bit on the Internet, and you buy yourself a flight from Milan to Bombay, or Mumbai—whatever the hell you all call it now...”
“Bombay.”
“So, a flight from Milan to Bombay. The important thing is that as soon as you buy it you don’t throw it out; there’s a certain difference between life, a jar of Nescafé, and a flight to India...”
“I don’t know where to go...”
“To Bombay, to Madras, to Cochin, to New Delhi. Go wherever you want, but not underground. Like I just explained to you, if you really want to return to your origins, you should go to India. But that’s just my opinion.”
“India is big.”
“Even Rubattino’s Esselunga is enormous. Disorganized and chaotic too, if that’s your problem.”
“I find the jar of Nescafé at once. My family will never find it.”
“True.”
“Aieeeeeee!”
“Liz, it doesn’t matter who your parents are, it’s who you are that’s important.”
“I can’t know who I am if I don’t know who they are.”
“You are you, you aren’t them.”
“You know who your mother and father are...”
“I swear that sometimes I’d prefer not to know.”
“I’d like to know, so at least I can say, ‘I swear that sometimes I’d prefer not to know.’”
“You know that they were worried about you and that they preferred to give you up for adoption rather than let you grow up in poverty...”
“I know that they treated me like a jar of Nescafé, that first you buy and then you throw away, without even making yourself a cup.”
“They didn’t buy you, and they didn’t throw you away...”
“You’re right. They threw me out so that I could be bought.”
“What do you know about who they were or how they were? How can you judge them?”
“They were two bastards, and they were bad. And they made me: one plus one makes three, and I am the ‘three.’ But they thought that one plus one always made two...”
“I understand.”
“You understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll wash the sheets, and I’ll repaint the wall.”
“Leave it alone, I’ll do it.”
“Ok, I’m going down to do some shopping.” “At Esselunga, the usual jar of Nescafé that first you buy and then you throw out?”
“No, at the newsstand.”
“Will you buy me the Manifesto and avoid throwing it out? You know how it is. First I’d like to read it...”
“All right.”
“Come back soon. I have to leave too.”
“So go.”
“We only have one key ring...”
“You still haven’t made copies?”
“But weren’t you going to stay with me for only a few days?”
“I’ll come back soon.”

“It’s been two hours: what did you do in all that time? You think only you exist?”
“Your point?”
“Screw ‘your point’! The world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“And who does it revolve around?”
“The sun.”
“I am the sun.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Look, I bought you a flower.”
“It’s plastic...”
“It doesn’t wilt, even if you forget to water it...”
“Thank you... I’ll put it in a vase without water. Did you get the Manifesto too?” “Yes, it’s in here.”
“Inside this suitcase? Let me see: Anna, Oggi, Libero, Amica, the Riformista, GQ... My God, how many are there? Ah, here it is: the Manifesto! And then what? Marie Clair, Max, Capital, Silhouette, Sale&Pepe, Panorama... They never end. Did you rob the newsstand?”
“No, I bought them.”
“And how much did you spend?”
“Oh, more than 150 euros...”
“You spent more than 150 euros, on newspapers?”
“On culture. One never invests enough...”
“Oggi... Silhouette... you call this culture?”
“Culture-trash. Ha, ha, ha.”
“It makes you laugh?”
“Aieeeeeee!”
“And now? You’re still crying?”
“Ha, ha, ha...”
“Enough! Will you be quiet?”
“Aieeeeeee!”
“Here, look. I stopped. Ha, ha, ha, I’m laughing... ha, ha, ha, I’m laughing. Are you happy now?”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m Osho.”
“But weren’t you the sun?”
“I alternate. Sometimes I’m the sun, sometimes I’m Osho. While you, always a creature of habit, predictable, you always remain Mario.”
“How nice.”
“Come here, let me caress you.”
“Now what’s gotten into you?”
“Let me caress you...”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m the reincarnation of Osho.”
“You stopped being the personification of the sun?”
“Now I’m the reincarnation of Osho.”
“And you want to caress me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Christ. Osho was gay?”
“Osho is everything.”
“Was: verb in the past tense, to use with the dead.”
“Is: verb in the present tense, to use with the living. Since I am the reincarnation of Osho...”
“Therefore Osho reincarnated himself as an Indian girl of twenty-one all cut up who laughs and cries?”
“Come on, I already explained it to you. I didn’t realize that the wall was there to write on.”
“You don’t write, you cut yourself.”
“Aieeeeeee!”
“Ok, ok, ok... Let’s drop it. Come on, Liz, please, don’t do this... What makes you huddle in the corner? Don’t cry. Get up from the floor... Hey, Liz, stop it, look me in the face...”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“Shit, stop it. Either you cry or you laugh. You decide. And look me in the face. Liz, look at me!”
“I cry and I laugh. It’s a form of meditation. One plus one equals three, Rubattino is downtown. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Stop it!”
“Aieeeeeee. One plus one equals three, Rubattino is downtown. You and your shitty certainties, you are conscientious sheep, not thinking individuals.”
“Yes, I’ve got it. You’re Osho and you’re meditating... Then you are the sun and you illuminate me immensely. While I am a predictable creature of habit. But, please, get up from the floor.”
“Don’t touch me, keep away from me, dirty pig. You’re like my stepfather, you’re like all men. First you hurt me and then you take care of me, just to mix up my ideas. To make me think that there is no way out, that the savior is the hangman. That the circle closes itself and revolves around itself.”
“But Liz, what are you saying?”
“Don’t touch me, keep away... I denounce you! Ha, ha, ha... Aieeeeeee!... Just because I didn’t denounce him you think that I can’t denounce you? You think that I don’t have the courage to do it? Who did you take me for? Don’t touch me, keep away, I told you!”
“As you like...”
“Oh, okay, come here, hurt me, take care of me, make me into your favorite little toy...”
“I can’t stand it anymore. You know what? I’m leaving...”
“Ha, ha, ha. Coward. Here’s what you are, a coward. A damned coward. I love you and you know it.”
“You don’t love me, and you don’t love anyone else. Yourself included. Maybe that’s the problem, but I can’t solve it. You’re right, I’m a coward. I’m leaving...”
“You’re leaving, just like he did...”
“Who? Your father?”
“Luca.”
“Luca? But haven’t you forgotten him already? Besides, he didn’t go away... you dumped him...”
“Details.”
“Details make the difference.”
“Who gives a damn. But do you remember?”
“Do I remember what?”
“Him, dancing with her...”
“You’re talking about that night?”
“Yes.”
“But that was about two months ago.”
“And what does it matter?”
“It matters. It’s been two months since that night, and five years since you dumped him.”
“You think that time is so important?”
“I think that you’re anachronistic. And that you pay too little attention to details.”
“But you, you saw him?”
“I saw him when?”
“When he was dancing with her.”
“Sure I saw him. He didn’t do anything to hide himself.”
“You saw the delight in their eyes too?”
“Delight? I only saw that they had bloodshot pupils. It’s called marijuana, not delight.”
“Ha, ha, ha... Aieeeeeee!... Do you have a little?”
“Of what?”
“Of delight, obviously.”
“No, the delight pushers were all admitted with an excess of tooth decay.”
“Fuck you.”
“Insults even now?”
“Will you roll a joint?”
“Do you want some tea?”
“I want a joint.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Ok, then make me a cup of tea... but the way I make it.”
“Tea, milk, sugar, and spices?”
“You have to mix it, bring it to a boil, and let it cool.”
“At your orders.”
“I’m lying down for a second.”

“Liz?”
“Eeeehhhhh…”
“Are you sleeping?”
“No, I’m wide awake.”
“Good. Then let’s go down, your mother’s waiting for you.”
“She’s not my mother.”
“Your stepmother’s waiting for you...”
“And what’s she doing here?”
“I called her myself.”
“When?”
“While you were sleeping.”
“Bastard.”
“Liz, let’s go down, your mother’s waiting for you.”
“Did she go back to Dad?”
“For now, no.”
“It’s just that Dad, you know, is obsessed with cleaning. Even me when he got me dirty, he always cleaned me, while Mom dirtied all over and never cleaned, and he could never really tolerate that, you know...”
“Liz, let’s go down, your mother’s waiting for you.”
“She’s not my mother. Tell her to go away.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Shithead.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“I’m too tired.”
“Me too.”
“Keep me with you.”
“Liz, let’s go down, your mother’s waiting for you.”

“Ok. I’m going to put on some makeup. Will you put on a Paolo Conte CD?”
“Okay.”
“Away, away, come away with meeee...”
“You’re tone deaf, but you’re beautiful.”
“I know that you like me.”

“Let’s go down.”
“Will you take my arm as if we were about to get married?”
“As you like.”
“I’d like to put on a sari and some sandals.”
“The miniskirt and heels will do fine.”
“You really think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“And Luca also thinks so?”
“Yes.”
“And so why is he with that one?”
“To annoy you.”
“And when will he dump her?”
“Never, maybe.”
“Spite lasts that long?”
“A lifetime, sometimes.”
“Anyway I’ll escape with Paolo.”
“Paolo who?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Not at all.”
“Paolo.”
“Paolo who?”
“Paolo Conte.”
“Ah. Interesting.”
“Oh, even you heard him before while he was shouting: Away, away, come away with me...”
“Of course.”
“He shouts it to the world, that he loves me. He doesn’t hide his feelings. I can’t disappoint him, I have to go away. With him.”
“Now you should go down, with me.”
“To go to him?”
“To return to yourself.”

Gabriella Kuruvilla was born in Milan in 1969, to an Indian father and an Italian mother. After earning a degree in architecture, she worked as a professional journalist, collaborating with various newspapers and magazines, including “Il Corriere della Sera,” “Max,” “Anna,” “Marie Claire,” and “D di Repubblica.” After spending six years in the Milanese editing office of a monthly publication on interior decorating, for which she still does freelance work, she dedicated herself completely to writing and painting. In May 2001, she published, under the pseudonym Viola Chandra, the novel Media chiara e noccioline (DeriveApprodi). In 2005 Laterza published the anthology Pecore Nere, in which are printed two of Kuruvilla’s short stories, “Ruben” and “India.” An extract of Pecore Nere is included in the American anthology Multicultural Literature in Contemporary Italy (2007). Documenti (from which “La casa” is taken), award-winning at the Concorso Letterario Nazionale Lingua Madre, is published in Lingua Madre Duemilasette. Kuruvilla has recently published a collection of short stories, È la vita, dolcezza (Baldini Castoldi Dalai Editore-2008). She is currently working on a novel about maternity. Her paintings, made primarily with sand and fabric, have been exhibited both in Italy and abroad.