for me?”
Roberto took the volume from the pocket of his raincoat. What he told her was almost the truth. He had gone to a bookstore—he didn’t mention it was a new experience for him: that was an aspect of the matter that could best be left in the dark—and seen this book, which had been recommended to him by a friend, had read it and liked it and had thought she would like it too. Only much more than he did. Provided she hadn’t already read it.
Almost the truth.
She looked at him in surprise.
“I’ve heard of this book. I was planning to read it. Thank you.”
She reached out her hand and took the book he was holding out. And then after a brief pause, as if she really couldn’t hold back: “How strange.”
“What is?”
“You didn’t seem the type … I mean you didn’t seem the kind of person who’d read something like this. I may be putting my foot in it, as usual, but what I mean is you seem more like a man of action than someone who reads this kind of book. If you were in a movie, for example, you’d more likely be a policeman than a teacher.”
He smiled without saying anything. She looked at him questioningly. He kept smiling without saying anything.
“You aren’t actually a policeman, are you?”
“I’m a carabiniere.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“But you look … You’re the first carabiniere I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve never met an actress before either.”
She gave a slight grimace. It lasted a very short time and she probably hadn’t even been aware of it. She moved her head as if to rid herself of a troublesome thought.
“I’m not an actress anymore. Now go, or you’ll be late.”
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“No.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You’ll be even later.”
He did not reply, walked out, opened the umbrella, and nodded to her to follow him. The rain was beating down harder than before, so hard that there was almost nobody in the street. Emma leaned close to him to get under the shelter of the umbrella. The mere contact of her hand on his arm sent a quiver through him.
Identical—he thought, astonished that such a distant memory should well up so powerfully out of nowhere—to the quiver he had felt so many years earlier, on the bumper cars, when a girl the same age as he was—fourteen—had placed her hand on his leg.
They reached the car. She opened the door while he protected her and got wet in the process.
“Well,” she said, “thank you. Let’s hope it isn’t raining next Monday.”
“Yes, let’s hope so,” he said, feeling like a fool.
“Bye then, officer.”
“I’ve written my telephone number inside the book. Just in case.”
“Oh, good.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
* * *
“I’m sorry about last time.”
“There’s no need to apologize. It was only natural you should get angry with me.”
Roberto looked at him, bewildered.
“Why?”
“Why do you think it happened?”
“I don’t know. At that particular moment I was really angry with you. Afterward it seemed absurd.”
“It was quite normal.”
“It seems strange to me.”
“I agree with you, it may seem strange. But it’s fine.”
“I don’t know what to talk about today.”
“Let’s not say anything for a while, then.”
14
That was how the fifty minutes passed, with a lot of silence and a few words, in a suspended atmosphere. If he’d been asked, Roberto would not have been able to say if he was cheerful or sad, calm or restless, excited or depressed. He wouldn’t have been able to say anything about himself. He was feeling things he couldn’t give a name to. After a while it occurred to him that he was in the position of somebody who has complicated emotions to explain but is forced to express himself in a language he barely knows. That seemed to him a good intuition and he tried to develop it, but before long he lost the thread and his thoughts floated away.
At the end of the session, the doctor told him that he would
Roberto took the volume from the pocket of his raincoat. What he told her was almost the truth. He had gone to a bookstore—he didn’t mention it was a new experience for him: that was an aspect of the matter that could best be left in the dark—and seen this book, which had been recommended to him by a friend, had read it and liked it and had thought she would like it too. Only much more than he did. Provided she hadn’t already read it.
Almost the truth.
She looked at him in surprise.
“I’ve heard of this book. I was planning to read it. Thank you.”
She reached out her hand and took the book he was holding out. And then after a brief pause, as if she really couldn’t hold back: “How strange.”
“What is?”
“You didn’t seem the type … I mean you didn’t seem the kind of person who’d read something like this. I may be putting my foot in it, as usual, but what I mean is you seem more like a man of action than someone who reads this kind of book. If you were in a movie, for example, you’d more likely be a policeman than a teacher.”
He smiled without saying anything. She looked at him questioningly. He kept smiling without saying anything.
“You aren’t actually a policeman, are you?”
“I’m a carabiniere.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“But you look … You’re the first carabiniere I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve never met an actress before either.”
She gave a slight grimace. It lasted a very short time and she probably hadn’t even been aware of it. She moved her head as if to rid herself of a troublesome thought.
“I’m not an actress anymore. Now go, or you’ll be late.”
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“No.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You’ll be even later.”
He did not reply, walked out, opened the umbrella, and nodded to her to follow him. The rain was beating down harder than before, so hard that there was almost nobody in the street. Emma leaned close to him to get under the shelter of the umbrella. The mere contact of her hand on his arm sent a quiver through him.
Identical—he thought, astonished that such a distant memory should well up so powerfully out of nowhere—to the quiver he had felt so many years earlier, on the bumper cars, when a girl the same age as he was—fourteen—had placed her hand on his leg.
They reached the car. She opened the door while he protected her and got wet in the process.
“Well,” she said, “thank you. Let’s hope it isn’t raining next Monday.”
“Yes, let’s hope so,” he said, feeling like a fool.
“Bye then, officer.”
“I’ve written my telephone number inside the book. Just in case.”
“Oh, good.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
* * *
“I’m sorry about last time.”
“There’s no need to apologize. It was only natural you should get angry with me.”
Roberto looked at him, bewildered.
“Why?”
“Why do you think it happened?”
“I don’t know. At that particular moment I was really angry with you. Afterward it seemed absurd.”
“It was quite normal.”
“It seems strange to me.”
“I agree with you, it may seem strange. But it’s fine.”
“I don’t know what to talk about today.”
“Let’s not say anything for a while, then.”
14
That was how the fifty minutes passed, with a lot of silence and a few words, in a suspended atmosphere. If he’d been asked, Roberto would not have been able to say if he was cheerful or sad, calm or restless, excited or depressed. He wouldn’t have been able to say anything about himself. He was feeling things he couldn’t give a name to. After a while it occurred to him that he was in the position of somebody who has complicated emotions to explain but is forced to express himself in a language he barely knows. That seemed to him a good intuition and he tried to develop it, but before long he lost the thread and his thoughts floated away.
At the end of the session, the doctor told him that he would
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