Don't Move by Margaret Mazzantini, John Cullen Page A
Authors: Margaret Mazzantini, John Cullen
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was draped across the edge of it. The bottom half of the plastic shower curtain was spotted with mildew and slung over the curtain rod. The bar of soap had been neatly stored in its container. On the shelf under the mirror, there was only some hand cream and an opaque glass jar of the foundation makeup Italia used on her face. A wicker basket was on the floor. I lifted the lid and saw a little pile of dirty clothes. I fixed my gaze on a pair of crumpled panties, and I heard a coarse voice inside me begging me to stuff them into my pocket immediately and bear them away. I looked into the mirror again and asked my lupine eyes what kind of man I had turned into.
I turned off the light and went back into the other room. As I passed the sofa in the darkness, I leaned over to adjust the flowered cloth. In doing so, I stepped on the dog’s paw, and he let out a yelp. I went out the door, locked it, and tried to push the key back into its hiding place, but the gum had lost its elasticity. I tried to soften it by rubbing it between my fingers—I couldn’t bring myself to do the job with saliva. I heard a sound, a distant clicking. Heels on metal steps. I tossed the gum into my mouth and chewed it hard. I dropped the key and bent down to look for it. When the heels reached the bare ground, the clicking stopped. I found the key, jammed it with my thumb against one of the chinks in the bricks, and pressed as hard as I could until the gum stuck. I crouched down, creeping away through the grass, and hid behind the house, near the carcass of the burned automobile. She appeared almost at once. Two black legs, unhurried, accustomed to the darkness. And between the legs, the usual purse. She seemed tired; her spine was curved even more than I remembered. She stretched out an arm, reaching for the ledge above the door, but the key fell into her hair. I flattened myself against the wall while she rummaged in her hair. Peering with only one eye, I saw her fingers brush the key, then seize it, and as she did so, her face changed. I could barely see her, but I sensed that a precise emotion was rising in her. She detached the key from the gum and stood still for a while, holding the gum in her fingers; she’d noticed that it was wet. She looked around in the darkness, turned her eyes in my direction, and stared.
Now
she’s going to discover me; now she’s going to come over here and
spit in my face.
She took a few steps, then stopped. She was barely visible in the pale moonlight. I squatted down behind the skeleton of the burned car. She looked into the dark where I was skulking, and maybe she could see me. Her eyes were fixed on emptiness, but it was as if she knew I was there; the thought of me was reflected on her face. She went no farther. She turned around, slipped the key into the lock, and closed the door behind her.
10
The next evening, I had dinner with Manlio at one of those trattorias in the city center where the outside tables rock back and forth on the uneven sidewalk and you have to stoop down and slide a shim under what seems like the proper leg, and then when you sit up straight again, you discover that now another leg’s too short and the table’s still wobbly. Just like life. Manlio was joking—he was making his chest expand under his jacket—but he wasn’t happy. He’d had some problems in the delivery room. He was muttering a few set phrases for effect, he was feeling sorry for himself, and, naturally, he was lying. Against his will, he was insincere; he’d never been one for self-scrutiny, and he had no intention of starting now. He fell in with other people’s moods and impulses and ended up making them his own. And so, that evening, with the zeal of a true friend, he was trying to climb down into the deep burrow where I was apathetically wandering. His effort had been going on for some time. I was silent and distracted; I’d attacked the antipasti violently at first, wielding my fork like a weapon, but then
I turned off the light and went back into the other room. As I passed the sofa in the darkness, I leaned over to adjust the flowered cloth. In doing so, I stepped on the dog’s paw, and he let out a yelp. I went out the door, locked it, and tried to push the key back into its hiding place, but the gum had lost its elasticity. I tried to soften it by rubbing it between my fingers—I couldn’t bring myself to do the job with saliva. I heard a sound, a distant clicking. Heels on metal steps. I tossed the gum into my mouth and chewed it hard. I dropped the key and bent down to look for it. When the heels reached the bare ground, the clicking stopped. I found the key, jammed it with my thumb against one of the chinks in the bricks, and pressed as hard as I could until the gum stuck. I crouched down, creeping away through the grass, and hid behind the house, near the carcass of the burned automobile. She appeared almost at once. Two black legs, unhurried, accustomed to the darkness. And between the legs, the usual purse. She seemed tired; her spine was curved even more than I remembered. She stretched out an arm, reaching for the ledge above the door, but the key fell into her hair. I flattened myself against the wall while she rummaged in her hair. Peering with only one eye, I saw her fingers brush the key, then seize it, and as she did so, her face changed. I could barely see her, but I sensed that a precise emotion was rising in her. She detached the key from the gum and stood still for a while, holding the gum in her fingers; she’d noticed that it was wet. She looked around in the darkness, turned her eyes in my direction, and stared.
Now
she’s going to discover me; now she’s going to come over here and
spit in my face.
She took a few steps, then stopped. She was barely visible in the pale moonlight. I squatted down behind the skeleton of the burned car. She looked into the dark where I was skulking, and maybe she could see me. Her eyes were fixed on emptiness, but it was as if she knew I was there; the thought of me was reflected on her face. She went no farther. She turned around, slipped the key into the lock, and closed the door behind her.
10
The next evening, I had dinner with Manlio at one of those trattorias in the city center where the outside tables rock back and forth on the uneven sidewalk and you have to stoop down and slide a shim under what seems like the proper leg, and then when you sit up straight again, you discover that now another leg’s too short and the table’s still wobbly. Just like life. Manlio was joking—he was making his chest expand under his jacket—but he wasn’t happy. He’d had some problems in the delivery room. He was muttering a few set phrases for effect, he was feeling sorry for himself, and, naturally, he was lying. Against his will, he was insincere; he’d never been one for self-scrutiny, and he had no intention of starting now. He fell in with other people’s moods and impulses and ended up making them his own. And so, that evening, with the zeal of a true friend, he was trying to climb down into the deep burrow where I was apathetically wandering. His effort had been going on for some time. I was silent and distracted; I’d attacked the antipasti violently at first, wielding my fork like a weapon, but then
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