After all he wasn’t as badly off as he’d imagined; or at least his problem was certainly a different one, doubtlessly different, for sure not the one he’d been preparing himself to face for a long time now, for sure not the one that only recently he’d begun to feel strangely fond of … He looked out of the window, searching for a fixed point where he could imagine that all the thoughts he’d had recently could come to an end, dissolve, melted by the heat; soak into the earth to the roots and become one with the core, the core of things, the meaningless meaning.
Suddenly he jumped up from his chair as if though he wanted to leave something behind, something that was bothering him, and he turned his eyes towards his unmade bed. It was still a sickly white, the colour hadn’t yet learned to lie; the profile of his face was still clearly marked on the pillow.
At that moment he thought that if he could he would stop the sensations that lined his veins like in a snapshot. He fully realized it wasn’t like that, it didn’t work that way; of course there were loads of useless snapshots, but not that one, that was in no way possible. When you think you’ve framed it well, there you go, it’s time to leave it, everything goes down the drain… the wave overcomes the uncertain design and you start all over again, as though nothing had happened; you feel a sense of loss that wets your lips and echoes in your temples.
He went over to his bed and sat down … he let he legs sway slowly with a motion like a drunken swing, keeping his trunk immobile over his flanks. He was wearing elegant blue-striped pyjamas, made of a fine material, shiny like the skin of the squashed cherries on the ground on his way home when he was small. Waves of heat assaulted him furtively, in the space of an instant they climbed up from his legs to his back, but after all he was used to it by now; to suffer was a verb he’d had to learn early on, and in the end, to tell the truth, he was even a bit proud of that.
His strength was like a wild animal’s, bold and vigorous; his wrath was elementary. He could take fire in the instant it took for a flame to spark, and cool off like the breath of a cyclone; and then there fell a monsoon rain that could fill his shoes to his heels. But for him damnation was having to stay on the ground, still on the surface among the living, as long as the good Lord allowed.
That night all his thoughts came together… group photos like the end of time; no breaking lines… no red eyes, cuckold signs over heads, or suffocated smiles; the first man… they were all there, squatting, holding on to one another, posing, scattered like ashes… a crazy football team destined to a relegation as glorious as it was meteoric. The glass was still half–full and the water lukewarm, like the cone of his breath; he looked at the box of pills again and again. If I stopped taking them, sooner or later I’d be well… it was almost three months that they’d given them to him… and he, down… for his health, by mistake, out of duty or apathy.
Those pills were the strings that kept him tied to the surface, to the living, to the security of objects… If I stopped taking them, sooner or later I’d be well… he always curved his tongue as though he were starting up a centrifuge in his mouth before pushing the pill down his throat; the mechanics of it was not something to take lightly.
After all, it’s not so bad – Teo, the nurse, had said – but what the devil could he know about it? It was true that the illness was over... gone, dissolved, swallowed; or perhaps it had never existed… in only a few days, he’d be out. Teo had begun the countdown. He signalled the number with his fingers every morning, yes, just that one… the number of the pills, instead, was always the same.
As child he’d been very poor, he’d gone hungry; he’d kicked his mother for months just to have a new pair of shoes. Shoes, my son, are the last thing; no one will look at your feet before your shoulders… you need to walk straight, you look like a mule dressed in doll’s clothes... To go hungry, what a shitty expression. Detachment, yes, detachment, he was thinking today – now – at this very moment, like a Pollyanna book. When all was said and done, he was at heart, a miserable, bloody petit bourgeous: he still expected God knows what, and maybe even someone who would come and serve it to him. Your brother Alfredo is outside; what shall I do? Come in, do… he’s been waiting for you. Teo thought he’d told a polite lie, and instead… he really had been waiting and not for only a few hours.
Teo nodded in the right direction and then disappeared among his things in the corridors.
Elsa told me you’ve been here for a few days for some tests. What do the results show? Do you feel bad? are you ill? Alfredo seemed to want to talk, to know… or to think he knew. He hadn’t been able to know for a long time… “When you fall down, you have to find the courage to pick yourself up; without thinking of the consequences, you have to give it your all without leaving room for second thoughts.”. This we seemed to have in common, Alfredo and I; more than blood, more than old snapshots, more than knotted ties. But now they were there, too – yes, them... the pills of the brother who was ill, who wasn’t well, who was perhaps about to end up like his time.
Listen Alfredo, come closer, listen… a little while ago I was at the window and I was thinking about… yes, I always think about… I was thinking how long it’d been since the last time I was at the seaside. We’re light years away from the coast here, buried in concrete; and yet I can hear the wave growing from the distant sea; but I really don’t think it’s meant for me… only clothes of sand… If makes me feel like a ruin, a ruin that has just been brought up to date… Teo the nurse entered the room casually; after all it seemed he wasn’t interrupting anything. Mr. Alfredo, I think the time has come for you to leave me alone with… as though we were not always alone, in reality. Alfredo’s shoulders departed along with his good-bye, disappearing in the doorway. After all, there’s always a good reason to swallow ... the first times it seems hard; other people circle around you telling you how to do it. Then it becomes a natural gesture, like tying your shoes; with time, always more quickly, more distractedly, more indifferently, and you start to not even notice which pill it is ....
Leo opened the window to let in a bit of fresh air; below Alfredo’s ruffled head came out of the doorway. A few steps took him to his car; he opened the door.
The window wipers took up their syncopated movement. The time he told me… one of these things… from the morning, a time that did not answer… Suddenly the movement of his mind became clearer to him. He stepped out in the rain… he lifted his eyes towards the wide-open window. He could see Teo’s moving shadow. In the end, losing – he told himself – is only a question of method… on the other side of life… a trifle that confides to you the sleep of the meaningless …
translated by Brenda Porster
Alessandro De Santis was born in Rome in 1976 and has a degree in contemporary history. His stories and poems are found in the online literary magazines: “Nazione Indiana”, “Sagarana”, “El Ghibli”, “LiberInVersi”, “La poesia e lo spirito”, “Cabaret Bisanzio”, “Terranullius”, “Niederngasse”, “L(’)abile traccia”. He was a memeber of the staff of the site “Lankelot”. Other stories have been published in anthologies by Giulio Perrone Editore, edited by Walter Mauro, and by the literary journal “Prospektiva” for Prospettiva editrice. His story “Jack Frusciante se l’è cùta n’casa” has recently won the award “Il treno e la città” of Velletri. In May, 2006 the story “Mario sì, ma Kempes” was included in the anthology Una palla di racconto for Fandango libri. In 2006 the poetry anthology Voci condivise, with a group of his poems, was published by the Emilian Fara Editore of Alessandro Ramberti. In September, 2006 his first poetry collection (Il cielo interrato) was issued, edited by the publisher Joker of Mauro Ferrari. This collection was reviewed in the national newspaper “L’Unità” by the critic Roberto Carnero. In December, 2006 he was a guest on the television program: “Miss Poesia” broadcast on Rai Futura Tv, the satellite channel for youth culture of the RAI, and he was in charge of the critical commentary on the poems that make up the multimedial live concert “Itinerario” of the Roman jazz musician Luca Chiaraluce. In May, 2007 the story “In absentia” was included in the anthology Il primo bacio fa schifo for Coniglio Editore. Currently, having taken part in the editing course given by Nicola Lagioia for the publisher Minimum Fax and in “Licenze poetiche – VII festival internazionale di letteratura aggiornata” held in Macerata, he is editing Musica per orologi molli, a project for a literary anthology freely inspired by musical albums and songs. He has also recently completed a short story collection which he hopes to publish and is working on his first full-length novel.