that had been created. The furniture Giulia had chosen or drawn by lot had left behind a paler mark on the walls after its brief stay in that house. Roaming through the apartment, absently entering a room, Viberti sometimes thought he saw those pieces again. A phantom chest of drawers. The skeleton of a wardrobe. The suggestion of a painting.
On many evenings, during the months of June and July, Viberti convinced himself that what had happened in the doctors’ lounge and later in the Passat had been a mistake, as Cecilia said, and though he didn’t speak to her about the matter again, he let her know (or rather he thought he let her know) that he’d accepted the verdict, however harsh and final.
He never went straight home, and would sometimes linger in his mother’s kitchen until ten or so. Lying, he’d tell her he’d already eaten, and he’d listen to Marta’s memories as they went further and further back in time, ever more complicated and far-fetched, forgetting he was hungry until he crossed the threshold of his own apartment, where he would open the refrigerator in a rush, eat something cold, and go straight to bed. Some evenings, though, he found himself alone, and after supper he would sit out on the balcony in an old wicker chair, watching the courtyards for hours. Evenings when it had rained, evenings when it couldn’t make up its mind to rain, oppressive evenings, the sky stainless steel, heat you could cut with a knife, a fresh breeze like an unexpected gift, the light impervious.
On the balcony he often recalled an incident that had occurred during a period when Marta was sad. He used to think it had happened after his father’s death, but recently he’d become certain he’d been mistaken. The day after the incident he’d had a fever, he remembered this, too, quite clearly.
She’d locked him out on the balcony by accident, when he went out to get a bottle of mineral water. And she hadn’t heard him calling her. Maybe because she’d gone to bed. And stayed in bed all afternoon. She didn’t realize she’d locked him out until eleven o’clock that night, when she turned on the light in the kitchen to make herself some herbal tea. He’d been outside on the balcony in just a T-shirt for seven hours, in the middle of winter. He smiled, remembering it. And they’d always laughed about it with each other. But what was so funny? He might have been twelve or thirteen. Out in the cold like a survivor from The Red Tent . He’d come down with bronchitis and Mercuri had hurried over to treat him.
Marta! How could he be angry with Marta? Hold a grudge against his mother over such a stupid thing? In fact he didn’t hold it against her. He’d even created an alibi for her: his father’s death. But in reality (he recalled) it had happened before , not after. And then another time she’d left him locked out of the house all afternoon. He kept ringing the doorbell, but Marta was in bed and didn’t hear it.
And yet, and yet … Two episodes of shirking her motherly responsibilities in eighteen years (if you considered the age of majority as the cutoff). Two incidents of probable blackout due to depression in eighteen years. He didn’t recall any others. But perhaps there had been some and he hadn’t noticed them or hadn’t wanted to notice. Those two he’d had no choice but to notice, Marta had forced him to be more alert. Maybe because usually he paid no attention? Maybe so that he would report the episodes to someone else? His father? Mercuri? Too complex, too convoluted, his mother wasn’t that convoluted, no one was that convoluted.
In any case, he didn’t hold it against his mother, and his mother had never been seriously depressed. No matter what Giulia thought.
Still, he remembered that afternoon and that frigid evening spent out on the balcony. He hadn’t dared break the windowpane, maybe he should have. Huddled against the French door to steal a little warmth, watching the lighted
On many evenings, during the months of June and July, Viberti convinced himself that what had happened in the doctors’ lounge and later in the Passat had been a mistake, as Cecilia said, and though he didn’t speak to her about the matter again, he let her know (or rather he thought he let her know) that he’d accepted the verdict, however harsh and final.
He never went straight home, and would sometimes linger in his mother’s kitchen until ten or so. Lying, he’d tell her he’d already eaten, and he’d listen to Marta’s memories as they went further and further back in time, ever more complicated and far-fetched, forgetting he was hungry until he crossed the threshold of his own apartment, where he would open the refrigerator in a rush, eat something cold, and go straight to bed. Some evenings, though, he found himself alone, and after supper he would sit out on the balcony in an old wicker chair, watching the courtyards for hours. Evenings when it had rained, evenings when it couldn’t make up its mind to rain, oppressive evenings, the sky stainless steel, heat you could cut with a knife, a fresh breeze like an unexpected gift, the light impervious.
On the balcony he often recalled an incident that had occurred during a period when Marta was sad. He used to think it had happened after his father’s death, but recently he’d become certain he’d been mistaken. The day after the incident he’d had a fever, he remembered this, too, quite clearly.
She’d locked him out on the balcony by accident, when he went out to get a bottle of mineral water. And she hadn’t heard him calling her. Maybe because she’d gone to bed. And stayed in bed all afternoon. She didn’t realize she’d locked him out until eleven o’clock that night, when she turned on the light in the kitchen to make herself some herbal tea. He’d been outside on the balcony in just a T-shirt for seven hours, in the middle of winter. He smiled, remembering it. And they’d always laughed about it with each other. But what was so funny? He might have been twelve or thirteen. Out in the cold like a survivor from The Red Tent . He’d come down with bronchitis and Mercuri had hurried over to treat him.
Marta! How could he be angry with Marta? Hold a grudge against his mother over such a stupid thing? In fact he didn’t hold it against her. He’d even created an alibi for her: his father’s death. But in reality (he recalled) it had happened before , not after. And then another time she’d left him locked out of the house all afternoon. He kept ringing the doorbell, but Marta was in bed and didn’t hear it.
And yet, and yet … Two episodes of shirking her motherly responsibilities in eighteen years (if you considered the age of majority as the cutoff). Two incidents of probable blackout due to depression in eighteen years. He didn’t recall any others. But perhaps there had been some and he hadn’t noticed them or hadn’t wanted to notice. Those two he’d had no choice but to notice, Marta had forced him to be more alert. Maybe because usually he paid no attention? Maybe so that he would report the episodes to someone else? His father? Mercuri? Too complex, too convoluted, his mother wasn’t that convoluted, no one was that convoluted.
In any case, he didn’t hold it against his mother, and his mother had never been seriously depressed. No matter what Giulia thought.
Still, he remembered that afternoon and that frigid evening spent out on the balcony. He hadn’t dared break the windowpane, maybe he should have. Huddled against the French door to steal a little warmth, watching the lighted
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