Cassandra Voices

Author: Walter Comoglio

  • Horses

    Linda phoned me. They found him lying on the ground again. It seems like he’s serious this time. As we were saying goodbye she said, “Tell me if you need money.” I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I only said, “All right, thanks.” I don’t know what I expected from her. Apparently Papà fell while he was out on his bicycle. Not that he fell off his bicycle. He just fell. At six o’clock he still hadn’t come back so Amos went to look for him and found him by the Dora, lying against the fence. Then my aunt called to tell me that she couldn’t cope anymore and we would have to deal with him. “There are those damned horses too,” she added. As she was talking to me, I looked out the window, trying not to slam the phone down. Anyone would have thought she’d just been waiting for this moment to have a go at me. I told her I was coming back to the village. She snorted and started grumbling again. I said goodbye and put the phone down. I wanted to cry, but the moment passed. I lit a cigarette and looked for the train timetables. Papà is still alive, and I bet she won’t even let him drink a glass or two. She’s that stupid.

    I went to work and, without really thinking about it, I told them my dad was dying and that I needed at least a week off. Lots of people shook my hand, like when I manage to close a deal.
    In the end they gave me the time off. I accepted a few more demonstrations of respect caused by the imminent death of Papà, and left.

    The mist still hasn’t evaporated and I don’t think it will today. I pull my cap down over my forehead until it’s just above my eyes. The air smells damp, fending off the sun. I’ll get the 11.20 train.
    As soon as I get home I call my aunt.
    “Zia, pass me Papà please,” I say.
    “Your father’s tired and won’t get up,” she says.
    “Just pass him to me.” I can hear Papà saying something in the background.
    “Come here so you can talk to him,” says Zia.
    She’s worried I might change my mind and not go to free her from that burden. What can I do? Take Papà with me and show him the shithole I live in? No, I know she wants something else.
    “So you’re not going to let me talk to him?”
    “Your dad’s unwell, why won’t you understand?”
    “It’s going to go like this: if you don’t pass him to me now, I’m not coming.”
    “You’re irresponsible, your dad doesn’t deserve this.”
    “Ok, goodbye Zia Say goodbye to him from me.”
    I put the phone down, and make myself a cup of tea. Then, I don’t know why, but I turn the radio on and end up with one of those singers who put vocal embellishments on every line, and wonder why I bothered. I roll a little joint, light it and a swirl of blue-white smoke floats halfway between the floor and the ceiling of the living room. The radio grates a little but perhaps it’s better like that. Then I feel the telephone vibrating. It’s Zia’s number.
    “Hi Jimmy.”
    “Hi Pa. How are you?”
    “I want a little drink.”
    “As soon as I get there we’ll have a couple of glasses.”
    “Can you bring something? Marina doesn’t approve.”
    “Ok.”
    “It’s been two days since anyone saw to the horses.”
    “What about Amos?”
    “I don’t trust Amos.”
    “Got it.”
    “When will you get here?”
    “Around one. Shall we eat something together?”
    “You can forget that. She has me eating at half past eleven.”
    “Don’t worry, see you soon.”
    “‘Bye.” I put out what’s left of my joint in the ashtray and open the window. I’m a little bit fuzzy and my tea is getting cold. I realise I should get a load going in the washing machine. My clothes stink.

    I must have made the journey at least three hundred times. Each time the same as the last. I’m in a compartment with two kids skipping school. They’re a little bit drunk. The man sitting next to me has a crooked nose and pockmarked cheeks. He’s wearing a pair of too-big corduroy trousers. Every part of him is jiggling, he can’t stay still. It looks like his clothes are causing it. The train enters the plains like a blade, cutting through newly frosted fields, and the horizon looks very close, just a few metres from the tracks. The man with the corduroy trousers unintentionally kicks me. I don’t even turn though I hear his whispered “sorry”. Papà was happy when I left our village. So was I. He told me not to worry because he had his horses. He’d made an effort after Ma passed, and had fixed up our grandparents’ old house. It was a small property outside the village. In winter evenings it had always seemed enormous and menacing in my eyes. Zia and Amos had left him to it, and it was too late when they realised that Papà had absolutely no intention of renovating the house. In fact he actually knocked down some of the walls and built a wooden hut. He spent nearly a year getting it into shape. Of the old house only the portico remains, with Virginia creeper climbing all over it; and my grandparents’ living room where Papà has put a bed, his bottles, a gas heater, an old radio, a gas ring, and various books. He always said he wanted to be left to read in peace. He told me he wanted to read the classics. When I asked him what exactly, Papà sighed instead of answering, something he did quite often when I was small too, in the most unexpected moments. Sighing was his way of retreating from things, or that’s what I think now.

    The train is crossing the bridge over the Dora. The river is a bed of mist. I can’t see the water. The man in the corduroy trousers is looking out the window too, but when our eyes meet, reflected in the glass, he snaps his gaze away and goes back to looking straight ahead.

    Papà pulled down the posts that held up the grape vines and freed the garden from grass and weeds, leaving only an old oak tree growing in the middle. In the summer it gives a bit of shade. Then he bought four male horses: three big ones and a smaller one, not Shetland small, but a pony rather than a horse. I’ve never understood anything about horses, even though Papà explained to me meticulously what to give them to eat, how to ride them and how to clean them. All I remember is that I felt really sorry for them in the summer when they would surrender to the heat and stand under the oak tree, flies buzzing around their eyes. Papà said that when you come into contact with horses you feel a strange sensation you can’t describe. You feel a long way from everything and everybody – they’re solitary beasts.

    Every now and then he would ride into town. I think people thought he was a bit crazy. They probably thought he had lost his mind without Ma. People always need to find reassuring explanations. Papà asked me to take some photos of him riding by the river. One of them had come out really well: my old man bending over a black horse, eyes small and sharp, and behind them spring nature, dirty and wild. Now that photo is hanging above my bed.

    The train starts to hiss and tilts slightly on the inclined tracks. I get up from my seat. Every now and then I like to imagine that while I’ve been away something’s changed even though I know it won’t have.

    I’ve brought Papà a bottle of red wine and a bottle of vodka that someone gave me. Along the way from the station to Zia’s house a bicycle makes a hole in the fog and passes me. I’m beginning to get hungry. The village I was born in has no points of interest, it doesn’t even have a story to tell. Every time I go back it always looks old and tired. It takes ten minutes to walk from the station to Zia’s house, and everything looks the same.

    The house has two storeys, upstairs, which is where my family lived before Ma passed away, is not lived in any more. Zia prefers it to be empty rather than renting to strangers. Her dream is for me to go back and live up there and look after Papà, and that all of a sudden things will start to go really well in every way. Of course she’d also be perfectly happy to send Papà to a retirement home or something like that. Even if she can’t say so. Also she’d like to get rid of the damned horses and sell my grandparents’ house. Except, because of what Papà has done to it, she’ll be selling the land, not a house any more.

    I ring Zia’s bell. I can hear the sound of her wooden clogs coming to the entrance.
    “Thank goodness you’re here!”
    “Your old man doesn’t want to eat. He wants to wait for you.”
    “How is he?”
    “Oh Gianmarco, I don’t know what to do. The doctor came, he said Pietro has to take things easy. But you know what he’s like, he gets so worked up.”
    “Is he taking anything?”
    “The doctor gave him Vigabatrin. Come in, it’s cold.”
    The fire is crackling in the fireplace. The kitchen is stale with the smell of soup and closed-in spaces.
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Where’s Papà ?”
    “He’s in there, watching sport. Tell him to come and eat.”
    Papà is sitting in a rocking chair. He is wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of threadbare jeans.
    He is skinnier than last time I saw him.
    He really does look like a sick man.
    “Hi.” Papà turns his head a little and just hints at a hello. I put my backpack on the floor and crouch down next to him, resting a hand on his arm.
    “Can you smell the stink of that stuff?”
    “The soup?”
    “Liquids are for drinking, you eat solid stuff, not the other way around,” he says.
    “How are you then?” he asks me. I can’t tell him the truth.
    “Well enough.”
    “Ah, me too, well enough. Bad enough.” Papà laughs and grips my arm. Then he comes closer to my ear.
    “Have you brought anything to drink?” I nod.
    “What do you want to eat, Gianmarco?” Zia asks from the kitchen. I look at Papà . He shakes his head.
    “I’m not hungry right now, Zia,” I say.
    “But it must be half one.”
    “I ate something on the way here.”
    “At least tell your father…”
    “If I eat I’ll die,” my father interrupts.
    “Oh get away with you…”
    “You’ll have me on your conscience…”
    “Pietro!” Papà mimes putting two fingers down his throat. He is happy to see me and is behaving like when I was a child. He always did want to make me laugh. Not that I gave him much satisfaction on that front. Then he comes closer to my ear.
    “Let’s go eat with the horses. Bring the bottles.”
    Papà gets up, giving himself a push with his hands.
    “Give me a shoulder, I get a bit dizzy when I stand up.”
    I put an arm around his shoulders, a bit clumsily. I can feel the outline of his protruding shoulder blade. Zia has turned back to the stove, but as soon as she hears us get up she asks us where we think we’re going.
    “Can’t I spend some time with my son?”
    “Gianmarco, be careful.”
    “Papà, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to go out.”
    “Ah, neither do I. But it’s not good to stay at home either, watching television all the time. It makes your eyes burn.”
    “You see, Gianmarco, he’s always wanting to go out. You try to tell him.”
    “Zia, Papà isn’t a child…”
    “Look at you, always defending him…”
    I can hear a hint of self-satisfaction masked as indignation in her tone, the martyr of the family, what’s left of it, in knowing that the two of us are for some reason together.

    Papà and I leave and start walking through the weeds alongside a ditch. My socks are getting wet.
    “I’m not at all well,” he says.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean I’m not doing great.”
    “Are you taking your medicine?”
    “Jimmy…” I understand what he means. The houses peter out and the fog gets lower and denser. We’re shut in a box without walls.
    “What have you brought me?” he asks.
    “A bottle of wine and a bottle of vodka.”
    “Vodka?”
    I open my backpack and hand the bottle to Papà. He’s finding it hard to unscrew so I make him give me back the bottle and open it. Papà wets his lips with it, clicks his tongue, then takes a more determined pull. He sighs. “Where did you get this?”
    “It was a gift.”
    “It’s good,” he holds the bottle by the neck with both hands and raises it slowly to his mouth.
    “Marina wants to sell the horses. She says they’re a burden.”
    Papà takes a sip. I don’t say anything.
    “She says at the rate I’m going, trying to look after those horses will kill me. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get anything.”
    We have reached the front of my grandparents’ old house. The paint on the door is peeling off leaving a layer of rust. Papà struggles to open the door, he has to push it with his foot. The house is just as I remembered it. There’s a dog too.
    “You don’t know him. His name is Hanky.”
    He’s a handsome sheepdog with a leonine mane and big expressive eyes. “Hanky, this is Jimmy” Hanky comes closer. I brush his head with my hand. “I got him from the dog’s home, they wanted to put him down.”
    “You did the right thing.”
    “He is my right-hand man with the horses,” says Papà . Hanky follows us into the living room.
    “Shall we eat something?” Papà asks. I nod.
    “The dog’s hungry too,” he says.
    “Go and get some water.”
    Grabbing a large saucepan, I go into the garden. The water pump is next to the horses’ barn. I take a peek inside. One is eating something and doesn’t seem to have noticed me. The others are standing still. Just one is a little smaller. I go back. Papà has filled two glasses with vodka. I light the little gas ring.
    “I saw the horses,” I say.
    “Did you see the criollo?”
    “Papà, I don’t know anything about horses.”
    And he sighs.
    “Ah, as far as that goes, neither do I,” he says, “I’ve never understood anything. I thought maybe you could tell me which one it is.” Papà laughs and drains his glass. Hanky is watching him intently.
    “Which one is the criollo?”
    “It’s the brown one with the black mane. The biggest one. What were they doing?”
    “Nothing, they were just standing still. One of them was eating.”
    “Do me a favour would you, open that cupboard door.”
    Papà gets up, takes a packet and pours it into the pan I brought the water in. Hanky barks. I go to the table and drain my glass of vodka. Papà says to follow him. We go out. There are bales of hay leaning against the back of the barn and Papà sticks the hay fork into one and lifts. His back bends, I can see the line of his spine. I try to lift a bale of hay with my hands. It’s bulky but I manage. Hanky follows us without making a sound. I wonder why the horses prefer to stay in the shadowy interior of the barn rather than going out into the garden. Papà puts the hay down in front of one of the horses that were standing still. The horse that was eating neighs and almost rears. Hanky barks. I go to Papà .

    “Where will I put this?”
    “Leave it there.”
    The smallest horse comes towards me. He reaches my shoulder. I gather up a handful of hay and hold it out to him. He bares his gums and opens his mouth. His breath is really warm. He chews noisily, opening his mouth in an exaggerated way. Papà heaves himself up.
    The one that must be the criollo is looking at me. His muzzle twitches.
    “Are you hungry too?” Papà asks me.
    The packet he emptied into the pan is an oat, spelt, and chickpea soup. He pours a ladleful into his plate, one into mine, and one into Hanky’s bowl. I open the bottle of wine. The soup is insipid but hot, and that’s enough. We eat in silence. Papà has already finished when I’m only halfway through, and he fills his glass.

    “So how’s it going with you?”
    I answer, “I don’t know,” which seems the most honest answer I can give.
    “You start.” I say.
    That sigh, again. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I only know I like horses. No other reason. Y’know, I thought I might come to understand some things. I researched breeds, their feed, how to behave around them. And, perhaps that I would become a better person. Then I discovered I can’t understand them. I can’t teach them anything either.”
    I fill my glass. The afternoon outside is already making room for darkness. I go to the window. Hanky barks. He’s finished his soup.
    “We are just lonely beasts, like the horses, and whoever doesn’t admit it is only being unfair to themselves. There are people who become passionate about something, people who keep warm, who eat, who drink, who work, and people who think about money. They’re all lonely beasts, too, hunting for anything to relieve their solitude.”
    The front door creaks.
    “Did you leave it open?” He asks.
    I go out to check. The wheel of a bicycle is coming across the doorstep. It’s Amos. He rests the bicycle against the wall. His fingers are thick and rough and when he shakes my hand, he almost crushes it.
    “Hi, Gianmarco. How are you?”
    “Well,” I answer, “and you? You’re looking well.”
    “Ahh, working as hard as a mule.”
    Amos is still shaking my hand.
    “Is your father here?”
    I nod. “He’s inside.”
    He shakes his head gently.
    “Your old man should be taking it easy,” he says. “Did they tell you that the other day we couldn’t find him? It’s not the first time either. I was out for two hours looking for him. Luckily I saw him before it got dark. He has blackouts, loses his balance, y’know.”
    Hanky runs out barking. I calm him, stroking his head. “I’ve brought his medicine,” Amos says.
    Amos and I go into the living room but Papà isn’t there. “Now where’s he got to?”
    “I’ll give him his medicine, Amos.”
    “Gianmarco,” he says, “your sister is coming to dinner tonight. It would be nice if you and your father…”
    “Of course, we’ll be home in about an hour.”
    Nice for who, I wonder. I say goodbye to Amos as I accompany him out, then I go to the horses. Papà is standing there stock-still, a concentrated expression on his face. I show him his medicine. He grimaces slightly.
    “Is Linda coming?”
    “Yes.” Papà takes a tablet and flings it far away from him. For a moment I’m tempted to tell him off, then I decide to leave it be.

    When we get home Ricky’s car is already parked outside in the street. On our way there Papà didn’t say a word. I try to clear my mind as much as possible. An early evening frost is tickling the edges of the ditch. You can see the prints of Ricky’s BMW tyres on the road. It will be like Christmas dinner, I think as I ring Zia’s doorbell.
    “Gianmarco, is that you?” she asks.
    The door clicks as we go through. Linda appears at the front door. She’s wearing a checkered apron, but her high heels betray her.
    “Jimmy, Dad, where have you been?” By the expression on her face anyone would think Papà and I are about to be washed away by a river in flood, without any chance of resisting. Actually, I don’t get a chance to reply before she yells at her kid and turns back to the stove. Papà says hello, Linda tells him off for something, then kisses him on the cheek, while Zia mutters something under her breath, as if she’s addressing God. It’s a script they always follow. My nephew is playing on his iPad. Linda scolds him because he hasn’t said hello to grandpa or his uncle. He says hello without lifting his gaze. It’s far too hot in the kitchen. The male component of the family is missing from the roster, they must have gone together to check out a water leak in the garage or something. On these occasions I am a kid, and have been for years now, I’ll probably never be a man and Papà has regressed to an infantile state, a few steps below mine. Linda is so upright and maternal with us poor orphans.
    “Guys, it’s ready,” she yells, “c’mon Tommaso, you too!” she says trying to shake my nephew from his listlessness.
    “Jimmy, you’ve lost a lot of weight,” she says.
    “I’ve been doing a lot of sport,” I answer.
    “You should strengthen your shoulders a bit … Papà , what are you doing?” Papà is leaving.
    Zia who when Linda is here has no choice but to retreat to a supporting role, manages to grab him by the arm.
    “Pietro, where do you think you’re going?” she says. Linda unties her apron. But Papà can’t get out because in the meantime the men arrive. Ricky is wearing a pair of red trainers.
    “Hello,” he says and shakes my hand. He picks up my nephew and brings him to the table. Then he greets Papà affectionately. He calls him Papà. A stupid laugh escapes me. Linda notices and asks me if I can give her a hand in the kitchen.
    “Jimmy, Ricky loves dad. Do you think he likes seeing him in this condition?”
    My blood runs cold.
    “Do you think he likes seeing him in this condition?” She doesn’t have the least idea that she’s a bit of a bitch. I don’t understand how she doesn’t. Linda doesn’t even consider that being a bitch is part of her. It’s incredible. There’s no sense in answering her. She’s won. I follow her and we sit at the table. Amos is already sitting down and eating bread sticks.
    Papà’s place is at the head of the table. The veins on his temples are standing out.
    “What a nice party,” he says.
    Zia brings two serving trays of raw meat and flakes of Parmesan to the table. Tommaso has started playing with his tablet again and says raw meat tastes of iron and he doesn’t like it. Linda is talking about the gym. Ricky, apart from having the hint of a tan and the gaze of an accomplished man, every now and then shows small signs of crumbling. He blinks and has minute nervous tics. I think, day after day, he’s realising he has made some terrible mistake, though he doesn’t remember what. Zia is proud of Linda and the little boy, who is decidedly too quiet for a five year old. Amos’ conversation varies from politics to work, from young people to football. All I can do is listen in silence. Every now and then I nod. Linda is talking about investments. She says that she and Ricky are thinking of expanding. Then the conversation turns to me. Linda asks me if I’m working. Amos says something about young people. Zia says I never get in touch. Ricky says everything is going well, next year they’re going to open another gym. Linda is talking about the difficulties of finding reliable employees. Then she asks me again if I’m working.
    I have a project, I tell her, and leave it at that. Amos says young people have to be encouraged. Zia is faded in the background, but she seems to be reassured by seeing the situation is under control. Papà eats, bent over his plate. Amos pours a glass of wine for Papà even though Zia seems against it. Papà is taking very small bites. Then Zia brings in the agnolotti. Linda says they are exquisite. Ricky compliments Zia. Amos tries to say something to the kid, but nothing doing. I’m thinking about the horses. Linda says we have to talk. She starts saying we all love Papà and we’re all interested in his well-being. Papà looks at me.
    “So we thought he needs to be in a place where someone can look after him. One of our clients, a good person, has a villa in the hills. It’s not a retirement home, it’s a kind of residence, with a bar, televisions in the rooms, and a restaurant. We can go and visit him whenever we want, and he can walk in the garden which is huge because it used to be one of the Savoia hunting lodges.” There we go.
    “Linda,” I say, “I know you love him, but I have to remind you that as well as being your father and my father he’s also a person, with his own will.”
    “Jimmy,” her voice rises, “I am trying to help him. Papà needs …”
    “Tell him, tell him what he needs. He is here, tell him to his face…”
    “Jimmy stop using that tone of voice!” says Zia.
    “Papà, as you’re not stupid, you must have understood what your daughter is saying …”
    Papà is chewing slowly.
    “I don’t know why you always have to behave like a child …” says Linda.
    “Come here Tommaso,” says Ricky. The kid snorts and asks if he can take his tablet. Ricky says ‘no’ sternly, and they leave the room together. Amos pours himself another glass, waiting for the right moment to add his two cents.
    I take a breath.
    “Linda, I promise I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to shatter your illusions, and you’re my sister, but I have to tell you. Linda, you’re some bitch.” Zia jumps to her feet and tells me I should be ashamed of myself. It’s a pity Ricky isn’t here, I’d love to see him struggling to repress his desire to thump me.
    “Guys, we’re not here to argue …” says Amos.
    “Jimmy,” says Papà , “your sister is right.”
    “Thank you Papà ,” says Linda.
    “Papà …”
    “No, Jimmy, she’s right.”
    “What about the horses?”
    “Ricky wants to renovate our grandparents’ house,” says Linda, regaining her normal tone of voice, “he says a house with all that space is wasted on housing four horses. He wants to buy some more and open a riding stables…”
    “So?”
    Ricky comes back with the kid. He sits down. It looks like they’d planned this move. The kid picks up the tablet again.
    “Jimmy, let’s talk, man to man,” he says, “once your grandparents’ house has been fixed up it will be half ours and half yours. There will be two apartments with gardens.”
    “And you don’t have to worry about contributing anything for the residence,” Linda adds.
    I look at Papà. He motions me to come closer.
    “Come with me Jimmy, let’s go outside for a bit.”
    It was as if this moment had been in the air.
    “Papà , I don’t understand …”
    “It’s obvious Jimmy, you couldn’t possibly understand.”
    “Don’t you realise they’re treating you like a child?”
    “Won’t you realise maybe I’m ok with that?”
    “[…] What about the horses?”
    “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to say they’re mine. They’re free animals.”
    “Papà, do you really want to go to a … residence for the elderly?”
    “Perhaps one day it will happen to you too, and you’ll think of me. Now, I know theses are stupid words but you have to listen carefully. Your grandparents’ house doesn’t belong to the family, it’s mine, and until I die it will stay mine. In my will I’ve stated that that house will be yours, and don’t you dare let Linda and her husband, or your aunt or Amos in. Nobody must go in there, only you. Amos will have Hanky, and I’ve already given the horses away, they’re coming to get them next week.”
    I feel terribly lonely. I light a cigarette and blow out an exaggerated mouthful of smoke.
    “So you knew about everything?”
    “Of course.”
    “And you’re alright with it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s time to experience new things … c’mon, let’s go back in.”
    At the table the situation has calmed down. Amos is telling them about when he goes wild boar hunting. Zia has brought the roast to the centre of the table.
    “Linda,” asks Papà , “when are you taking me to the residence?”
    “Whenever you want Papà .”
    “Tomorrow morning then.”
    “Oh, Pietro!” says Zia, “you’re always exaggerating.”
    Linda’s face lights up and she looks at me.
    “Well done, Papà ,” she says, “then you can take it easy, and enjoy life in peace. And when you want we can come and get you and spend some time together. Isn’t that right, Tommy?”
    “Yeah,” says the kid listlessly. Amos starts talking about something else. I take a slice of roast, but I’m not hungry. I try to listen to what Amos is saying, but his words flow unendingly and I can’t make myself interested in his story. Linda is glowing. Her verve is irrepressible. She tells Zia she’s going to make coffee and asks me if I want to go in and give her a hand. I get up from the table.
    “Jimmy, thank you. I knew I could count on you”, she puts her arms around me but let go immediately. “It’s the best thing for us all,” she says. “Not least because we can’t leave this burden for Zia to carry.”
    I feel terribly lonely again. I let her hug me, but don’t return the gesture. I really can’t show her the same affection she seems to feel for me. I get the six-cup coffee pot ready and she does the four-cup one.
    “We were thinking of taking Papà to the residence at the end of the month. What are you doing over the next few days?”
    “I want to spend some time here with Papà .”
    “Y’know what, I was worried. I thought it was going to be difficult for you.”
    “You’re right, it is.”
    “You’ve always had a special bond with Papà … I’ve never managed to be as close to him as you are.”
    “Linda, if Papà wants to go to a retirement home, it means he’ll go to a retirement home.”
    “Oh, thank you Jimmy …” She hugs me again. “And please, if you need anything you only have to ask. For your project too, all right?”
    “Yes.” The coffee is rising simultaneously in both pots. Linda turns off the gas and pours the coffee into cups. I give her a hand taking the tray to the table. The kid has turned the tablet off and is telling his dad what presents he wants for his birthday. Ricky rests a hand on his son’s head. Amos pours a drop of grappa into his coffee. He asks me if I want some too. I say yes. I think about the photo of Papà riding. I watch him fiddling with his coffee cup. It all seems still, immobile, crystallised. It’s as if time is filling up with tiny, innocuous, totally ordinary gestures, as if everything is already a memory, many years old.

    Translated by Sally McCorry A special thanks to Kevin Hagerty and Tom Hall

  • Victor

    How I learned to love and obey the rules of the world

    You have to keep the white button pressed down, not the red one, the red one is the mains switch for all the electricity. We decided to put it up here out of the way when grandma started to touch everything. Come on, I’ll show you how to get up there. First, put your foot on the edge of the chest freezer, good […] that’s right, then lever yourself there on the barbell, and there you are. Now trust me, let yourself fall against the wall. Why are you shaking? Trust me, I’ll hold you from behind. No, the other one. Don’t shake, you’ll lose your balance. Have confidence in your legs. You’re nearly there. One last push. Not the red one, that’s the mains switch […] now press it again. What d’you mean it doesn’t work. Of course it works. Do it again. Fuck. Wait, come down, I’m going to try to get up there. You have to be more relaxed, one foot here, your arm here to lever yourself up, a little thrust with with your hips. See? What does daddy always tell you? Control over your movements is the first step towards knowing ourselves. See? There is no room for out of place objects in the world. Did you see how daddy did it? Victor, you must have noticed that it works like this at school too, try again. Up with the left then rest your right arm there, good boy, now press the white button. Remember, the first step towards success lies in the preparation of your movements. You must have an awareness of all of your surroundings […] fuck. What do you mean you felt yourself sliding backwards? Don’t worry, daddy will do it today. Click. You see the garage door opening? Listen to how quiet it is. Can you feel the harmony? No, don’t cry. Crying will make you lose your balance. You mustn’t cry, don’t listen to those people who say it is only human, or “cry and let it all out”. Crying is for the weak. The weak are like they are because they aren’t in harmony. No, not that one, that’s the hammer drill, leave that one alone […] they can’t find their place in the world and so they are angry with the world. It’s stupid, Victor. Do you remember what grandpa used to say when he started to not remember where he was? He used to say I want to die before I start wetting myself. Tears are the weewee of the eyes. So you mustn’t cry. You have to face the world with your brightest smile my little man, straight back, stiff upper lip old boy. Why’re
    you making that face? Don’t you like my upper crust accent? Do you want to try to turn the switch on? Ok. Think about the movements you have to make, about your body moving through its surroundings harmoniously. It has to be the projection of yourself through the world. Ok, perfect […] fuck. Let daddy do it. Click. You see, now the garage door is closing. Click. Like this it opens again. Victor, do you remember, here hold daddy’s phone for a moment, do you remember when daddy explained to you what a curriculum is? It’s when you introduce yourself to the world and say, “yes, I am a body who knows how to move harmoniously.” Life is a collection of curricula, because you don’t want to spend your whole life with the same people do you? No, Victor, once you get to know someone it is already time to get to know someone else. That’s why you always have to have an up-to-date curriculum, my little man. Do you remember the three little rules? Hold on to my vest for a moment, please. No, not like that, don’t drop it, it’s dirty in here. First of all […] let’s say it together:

    One: use one, or two sheets of paper at the most, because nobody has time to waste.

    And you have to be like a bolt of lightning out of the blue.

    Two: Use white or very light paper, good quality, plain.

    You have to keep your tears for yourself. No smudging. You are a harmonious individual.

    Three: Use the active voice. Why are you looking at me like that? It means nothing has been started and nothing has been finished, and you are a constantly updating curriculum.

    Remember this word, constantly. And seeing as you have a good curriculum, you know what happens afterwards? […] Victor leave the football alone for now. Do you know what happens when you have a good curriculum vitae? Well, it means the best companies want you. You know what a company is, don’t you? It is a collection of people who move together in the same direction to reach a common goal. Like birds migrating in search of food. All together, straight to the point, old man. What’s the matter? Don’t you like what I’m saying? The little birdies commanding the migratory groups all talk like that. In the companies there are also little rules to learn.

    Your look, Victor, look at me when I’m talking to you, […] your look is very important. Give me a hand with the barbell will you, please. Like that, bend your arm, but naturally […] you see, I was saying, you have to dress according to the context, casual, or elegant, but no flashy accessories. Flashy accessories scare the other little birdies. As soon as you arrive, smile, open doors with nonchalance. Manage your spaces, be ready. When you meet the group’s toughest little birdies, shake their hands with a firm grip, but not too hard. 
 You have to be careful about your body language, sit nicely on your chair, don’t touch your hair, don’t let your hands fiddle, don’t look closed off. Closed off is when you cross your arms, or lower your eyes. You are strong, you know it and you have to show it, but there is no reason to be mean to the other little birdies. Now do you understand what “harmony” means? You don’t have to do anything other than lean your little head on her soft tummy until she opens up, like flowers do in the spring, and you will be able to taste the flavour of her nectar. No, don’t cry. C’mon, remember what I told you […] dry your eyes, mummy is waiting to take us to karate. I like talking to you like a person, Victor, man to man. You are a beautiful thing.

    Translation by Sally McCorry

    Revision by Paul Gilgunn

    Walter Comoglio is an italian writer based in Dublin. This short story appears in his first book named “La sera che ho deciso di bloccare la strada”, published by Gorilla Sapiens Edizioni, winner of 2017 POP prize Italy as best debut.

  • SEVEN VIVID UNINTERRUPTED DAYS

     

                                             Translation By Sally McCorry

     

    January 1st

    The first of January is always a special day. It’s as if everybody is suffering from a delicious jet lag to enjoy slowly. I, on the other hand, left my house at eight thirty in the morning, I don’t know why. Perhaps I just wanted to do things I’ve never done before. So I looked for a bar that was open. The only one I found was the Tropical Paradise, a bar owned by Chinese people. When I went in two Chinese children stared at me with wide eyes, I smiled at them and they carried on staring at me. I waited for a few interminable seconds for something to happen, then the larger child – he could only have been seven or eight – said ‘coffee.’ I nodded. The coffee pot was too high for him to get at properly, he could only just reach to fill the moka. Then he said something to the boy, who I think was his little brother, he helped him clamber on to his shoulders, and they got busy around the coffee pot. At a certain point the smaller child overbalanced backwards, and they both fell to the ground. I was worried for a moment they had hurt themselves, but then, as if nothing had happened, the smaller child pulled himself back up onto the shoulders of the larger one. After a few minutes the kids gave me my cup of coffee. It was disgusting, full of lumps, I don’t even know how that was possible. They, on the other hand, looked pretty pleased with themselves. The smaller one even gave the other a pat on the shoulder. I left them a euro and I didn’t want the change. It was just half past nine, and I didn’t know what to do. I left Tropical Paradise and waited for something to happen, but sometimes, truly, nothing happens. I could at least have had a bit of a headache, but no, nothing. So I promised myself again that I would count how many cigarettes I smoked. I didn’t want to smoke more than five a day. I went back home. G told me I was a bollocks because I woke her up. John Connor was snoring peacefully, you could hear him from the living-room. I settled down on the sofa pretending I was processing the jet lag that I didn’t have. By midday I already had three smokes. Then I went to sleep so I couldn’t smoke any more. I dreamed I had won the Olympic bronze medal for the 200 metre backstroke. I was thrilled and didn’t want to wake up. John Connor woke at five in the afternoon. He couldn’t speak and his hair was all messy and standing up, stiff with gel. ‘Que mierda,’ he slurred as soon as he saw me, and dived into the shower. Afterwards he put more gel in his hair and went back to sleep. G, in the meantime, was staring out of the window. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked me. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered. I cooked a plate of pasta and olive oil. In the evening I watched that documentary by Herzog, the one with airplanes taking off and landing under the sun of Sub-Saharan Africa. I found it really moving. It had got dark outside. G and I screwed – actually I screwed while she lay unmoving, thinking about something else. ‘S,’ she said to me, ‘I don’t want you to take me for granted.’ We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

    Total cigarettes smoked: 6.

    January 2nd

    G and I went to IKEA. Outside it was drizzling sadly. I scraped the side of the car along a fence when I parked. I didn’t get angry though, I didn’t feel the need. Inside IKEA everything looks like it works really well, we take for granted that man has become definitively free. G wanted to buy a lamp. I was confused, why would she want to buy a lamp? I felt somehow inferior so I tried to be ironic. I started speaking in a Scandinavian accent. ‘Will you stop that,’ G asked me. I stopped that. We left after four hours with an energy-saving light bulb, a sofa cover with a moose on it, a kind of folding structure that was supposed to be a lamp, and potato fritters that I didn’t have high hopes for. I spent forty-five euro fifty cents altogether. On the upside I only smoked three cigarettes. I saw an old man fall over in the car park. He tripped all by himself and fell flat on his face. When he got up again he reassured everyone, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ He actually looked a little bit dopey and fell over again not long afterwards. G told me she thought what had happened to the old man was a solitary flashmob or something like that, only we didn’t know the context or the finale. Maybe he only wanted some attention. ‘Our generation is too shrewd,’ I said to her. G told me she felt like part of a mechanism that carried on going round even if everything was out of kilter. I told her I didn’t understand, even though really I totally understood.

    John Connor was still recovering at home from the drinking session two days ago. ‘Que mierda,’ he said, then ran into the bathroom to vomit. He came back into the living room and we assembled the lamp thing we had bought. It took seven hours because John Connor reckoned he knew alternative methods. He phoned IKEA but of course they couldn’t understand each other. Whatever, in the end it worked, well, the light turned on. We stood and stared at it in silence. We ate boiled potatoes watching that lamp, as if we had done something great for all humanity. I had smoked twelve cigarettes by eleven that evening , it was probably the lamp’s fault. I fell asleep watching the documentary about the airplanes landing and taking off. It was less interesting from an intellectual perspective, yet I was struck by the colours of Sub-Saharan Africa. In the end it wasn’t exactly an intense day, from any standpoint.

    Total cigarettes smoked: 13 + half a joint.

    January 3rd

    G and I packed our suitcases. I wanted to go away for a while. I told her I didn’t want to see the sky through the window any more, and she said, ‘so let’s pack our bags,’ so we packed our bags. I thought we could go into the mountains. She, on the other hand, had only been packing her bag to humour me. ‘I thought you’d get it out of your system,’ she told me candidly. I didn’t speak to her again all day and I went back to looking out of the window. In the meantime John Connor burnt himself on the radiator. I don’t know how he managed that. Now he is lying on his bed crying with a wet towel on his back.

    G stopped taking the pill recently, she says it makes her arse too big. Right now I really want to screw. So I went to buy condoms, I always look for Skins or Ultraslim rubbers like that because I usually feel fuck all with a condom on. However, we screwed even though the condom was too tight and it dried out almost immediately. At one point I was on top of her and really couldn’t feel anything. I was thinking about other stuff I realised. I was thinking about football and Torino’s midfield. ‘Don’t you like me any more?’ she asked, a little out of breath. ‘No, I like you.’ And I carried on pushing mechanically, like an unsatisfying and repetitive job. ‘Fuck it,’ I said to myself,  peeled off the condom and went on without it. I came on her belly and fell asleep. That’s all. G wouldn’t let me watch the documentary with the airplanes landing and taking off, she insisted on watching a Virzì film. It wasn’t bad but I would have preferred to watch the documentary with the planes landing. It was one of those days where you feel you have to try and work out whether or not you did something wrong.

    Total cigarettes smoked: 9.

    There was some space left over so I glued in this picture of the poster for the film with the airplanes taking off.

    January 4th

    G woke up irritated because she couldn’t access Facebook. Actually, last night I told her she was like a sister to me and I think she was offended. Whatever, it is sunny outside and I decided to go cycling in the hills. I sweated a lot. When I came back G was trying to change the settings on my computer, I don’t know why. We have all been a bit nervy this week. This evening is John Connor’s big moment, he will be on the television programme A Minute to Win on RAI 2.

    From what I understand, he has a minute to play some stupid games and if everything goes well he will win 500,000 euro. John has spent the last month practicing, doing things like popping the top off a bottle and making it land directly in the waste paper basket, or building pyramids of glasses, or putting a biscuit on his eye and, without touching it, flipping it into his mouth. Before leaving for Milan he hugged me. He was sure that somehow he was going to turn his life around.

    G and I sat down in front of the TV at nine sharp: John Connor was the first contestant. The first challenge, for 500 euro, was easy. He had to unwind twenty metres of paper tape with his arms. He managed it with ten seconds to spare but he looked strained. Then he started dancing to We Are The Champions with Nicola Savino. It’s one of those shows where you take your friends to be part of the audience and John had taken two of his brothers. I asked G if she knew how many brothers he had. She just said, ‘lots, I think.’

    The second challenge, for 1,000 euro, involved landing three coloured rings on the prongs of an upside-down horseshoe. My first thought was that he was going to have some problems, but he started well, in thirty seconds he had managed two out of three. The problem was the last one wasn’t having any of it. He kept trying while Nicola Savino did the countdown. Nothing doing. He lost a life. His second attempt didn’t go much better, he actually got jumpy and couldn’t even get one ring in place. He began muttering and looked irritated. His last attempt was a disaster: after twenty seconds he started shouting and throwing the rings too hard. Nicola Savino told him to relax. After that I don’t know exactly what happened but Nicola Savino kept talking, telling him to calm down while continuing the countdown, even though it was clear he was never going to win the challenge and immediately after the gong sounded, John Connor threw himself at Nicola Savino who kept shouting, ‘it’s only a game, just a game, calm down.’ G covered her eyes. I watched it all. While he tried to protect himself, John Connor kept punching and kicking Nicola Savino. Then a group of bodyguards from RAI got up onto the stage, with technicians and cameramen trying to block John, but his brothers came to defend him and the TV channel went for an ad break.

    ‘How much has he won?’

    ‘Five hundred euro I think, but he made so much trouble, I don’t know if they’ll give it to him.’

    ‘Why does everything always go to shit?’ I didn’t know what to say. Stupid day. I’ve started smoking hard again today, around 15-20 cigarettes + a number of joints.

     January 5th

    I woke up early when everybody else was still asleep. I have the constant feeling I am wasting time, as if time is something that gives life quality, that’s why I wake up early. My cousin called me. He has hooked up with a Finnish girl, he told me she is regularly trying to kill herself and he can’t cope with her any more. He asked for some advice. I told him to take her to the seaside. He was bringing her to lunch at our house instead he told me, maybe talking to other people would do her good. So I made ragù.

    For some reason I expected her to be tall and blonde, but she was minute with long black hair and a pale face. She wasn’t exactly full of vitality or shining with friendliness, she was like a crow. She started crying as soon as she sat down on the sofa. G tried to ask her something, but she just shook her head.

    ‘What’s her name?’

    ‘Tulla I think, or Lulla, something like that,’ my cousin replied.

    Naturally, Tulla ate fuck all, she rocked on her chair facing her plate making strange wheezing noises. I asked my cousin if everything was alright. He said there was nothing to worry about. We finished and Tulla went to the bathroom. Not long afterwards I heard shouting. She was trying to slit the veins in her wrists with a razor blade, only the blade was blunt and she didn’t look very capable of doing it. My cousin looked at me like someone who had been expecting this moment to come. I felt responsible somehow and slapped her but she grabbed my arm and started trying to bite me. There was blood all over the floor. We took Tulla into the living-room.

    G started to clean the blood from the floor while my cousin caressed Tulla who, incredibly, started laughing. At that moment John Connor came in. I hugged him instinctively and he hugged me back hard. Then, I don’t know exactly why, John started behaving flirtatiously with Tulla and she seemed to enjoy it. My cousin confessed to me that he didn’t want her on his conscience and so if John Connor wanted her he wouldn’t object. He looked relieved.

    ‘I knew you would help me,’ he said. Suddenly, Tulla and John Connor went outside and G, my cousin, and I stayed at home drinking.

    ‘Why does she want to kill herself?’

    ‘I don’t know, I think she’s missing Finland.’

    ‘So why doesn’t she go back there?’ G asked.

    ‘I think she hates her parents.’

    We got drunk and fell asleep. I woke up at about eleven in the evening. I went out for a walk. This city makes you feel lonely. Then I went home and started watching the documentary with the airplanes landing and taking off in Africa. Definitively beautiful.

    Total cigarettes smoked: between 15 and 20.

    January 6th

    Yesterday evening I left the shutters open so I woke with the first light of dawn. G was curled up in a foetal position and the expression on her face showed she was satisfied with her sleep. I decided not to wake her up. My cousin is on the sofa sleeping, fully dressed. He wakes up and says when we were small we used to spend more time together, and asks me if he can have a shower. I want to listen to some music but I don’t want to wake everyone up. The only answer is to go out. My cousin says he feels he needs to go out too. So he does, following me. There is a strange smell of damp trodden-on leaves. I think it’s probably easy to catch some kind of fungal infection. My cousin thanks me for what I have done with Tulla, right then and there I want to say I don’t know what he is talking about, but it would take too long, so I just say, ‘you’re welcome.’ We stroll along the avenue and he confesses his problems relating to his son, he hardly ever sees him and when he does he is overtaken by a desire to do too much and he ends messing up. He fears his son may think he’s a bit of a dickhead. I say something about simply being himself, and if you’re a bit of a dickhead, whatever, but he replies, quite rightly, that I couldn’t possibly understand. Then he says that soon we won’t see each other again because he is going to Brazil. I let the conversation drop. When we get back home John Connor is making coffee, when he sees my cousin he sniggers. My cousin looks at me, he thinks the snigger is aimed at him and says, ‘fuck you laughing at?’ John Connor, who is excitable, loses control of what he is doing and spills coffee all over his trousers and starts swearing. G wakes up, opens the door, and tells us not to wake her up again for any reason and that she is going back to sleep as soon as she can. When John Connor asks her what the matter is, she says, ‘what’s the matter with yous?’ and slams the door going back into her bedroom. I still want to listen to some music, but I leave it. Around two in the afternoon my cousin says, ‘Let’s go out and have a drink.’ I agree and light my fourth ciggie of the day. My cousin orders two dry Camparis at the first bar we come to. The sun begins to hide, and a dumb grey breeze blows in our faces. We drink another two vodka lemons, then my cousin hugs me and says he feels safe at last. Then we grab a kebab that we eat in the car. He asks me if I can go with him to pick up the kid as he doesn’t feel up to it on his own so I say yes. We stop in another bar and he offers me a Sambuca, a vodka lemon, a Borghetti, and then another vodka lemon, a beer, and finally, a Fernet-Branca for the road. Darkness is beginning to creep in. We are still rotten drunk when we get to his wife’s house. My cousin can’t find anywhere to park, so he gets out and tries to move a municipal rubbish bin, but its wheels are locked, he pulls too hard towards himself and ends up tipping it all into the street. ‘Help, S,’ he says, ‘I’m fucking up again.’ His wife comes out to see who is making all this noise.

    ‘Hi Laura,’ I say.

    ‘Is he drunk?’ she asks me.

    ‘No, he’s just really wound up.’

    ‘Drive slowly. No, actually, you drive.’

    ‘I’m drunk.’

    ‘Then don’t go anywhere for a bit.’

    My nephew must be about eight or nine, he is blond and has a baby face. I don’t think he is stupid, but to tell the truth I’ve never really had the opportunity to talk much with him. When my cousin sees his son, he pulls himself together, and runs to hug him.

    ‘Dad, you smell of alcohol!’ He says, and tries to wriggle out of the hug.

    ‘We’re going to go bowling,’ my cousin says. Then insists on driving. At the second roundabout we hit, just outside of town we end up on a flowery ‘welcome’ message planted in the middle. My cousin reverses and then drives on. ‘I am extremely calm,’ he tells me. I feel like I’m about to vomit. He puts Shine On You Crazy Diamond on really loud and starts shouting something about Pink Floyd before miming a series of instruments I can’t identify. At least we are listening to some music though. Then, as he is very emotional, he pulls into a lay-by in tears to sing Wish You Were Here. He tries to get my nephew – whose face at this point is showing a mixture of terror and embarrassment – to join in. At ‘Swimmininafishboooonnneee’ he drops his head on the steering wheel. I decide to take over the driving. ‘Thanks, Uncle,’ my nephew says. It’s such a sweet thing. In the first town we reach my cousin pulls the handbrake. ‘There’s a bar,’ he whispers. We go in. I don’t feel well so I order a tonic water, Ivan wants nothing and my cousin can’t make himself understood. We get back into the car and my cousin insists on driving again. At the first right curve, he slides off his seat and lands on top of me, and we end up in a field. The kid and I just about manage to get the car out and back onto the road. ‘I’ll take you home to sleep,’ I say.

    ‘Thanks, Uncle,’ still so very sweet. When I get home it must be about two in the morning. G is asleep. I decide to do my very, very best not to wake her up. I can’t watch the documentary about airplanes because my head is spinning too much.

    Total cigarettes smoked: about sixty.

    January 7th

    This morning I woke up with a certain degree of impatience. I quickly started making coffee while G was still asleep then I went to the bathroom. Halfway through I remembered about the coffee and ran back into the kitchen. The coffeepot was gurgling like a baby trying to swallow processed food or something. I was just in time to pour some burned coffee into a small cup while the pot agonisingly continued to spurt coffee in bursts. Some coffee dribbled down the side of the pot. It made me dry-heave. Then I went back into the bathroom.

    I woke G up, she wasn’t happy about that. She confessed that for the last couple of nights she had dreamed about her uncle but didn’t want to go into it. She got up and we decided to reorganise our bedroom. At first I tried to move a sort of wardrobe with shelves. It seemed to have got stuck in the gap between one tile and the next. I tried lifting it. I tried pushing harder, but nothing, no movement. I checked nothing was blocking the wardrobe then I pushed again, still nothing. At this point John Connor came in and offered to give a hand. I think he loves doing these things so he moved me aside confidently, pulled up his sleeves to his shoulders and started pushing, telling me to do the same. We got to a stage where the whole operation had taken on an air of mystery. Then, after a push that wasn’t even that strong, the wardrobe slid along the tiles as if it had wheels. An electric cable wound around one of the wardrobe’s legs was the key to the conundrum. By freeing the wardrobe, we wrenched the cable from the wall basically, wrecking the whole electrical system in our room. John Connor hurried to say sorry, then his dismay turned into anger against the electrician who conceived of a system like this.

    I told G. She said that in that case she may as well just go back to sleep. It was about midday. ‘Exactly,’ she said, ‘so I can think about uncle.’ I didn’t answer.

    John Connor and I went out. We started walking alongside the river in complete silence until he said, ‘me and Tulla want to get married.’ In answer to my consternation, he said that it was all happening too quickly but in his situation, he could understand fuck all so he decided to only make clear-cut decisions, such as marriages, homicides, ejaculations, or fights.

    We carried on walking until we reached a wider part of the path where around fifty South Americans were playing football.

    I told John Connor he was right.

    We joined the game. Twenty-four players on their team, twenty-three on ours. At one-metre-seventy-nine I am the tallest and most powerful and so I play centre-forward. The game develops into a complex web of sideways passes, kick-ups, pointless back heels, and incitement from the women at the edge of the pitch, until someone tackles his opponent and finds himself wedged between a sequence of double-tackles and is forced to kick the ball long. We had been playing for forty minutes and I touched the ball once – with my head – during one of those long kicks out of defence. No one had scored yet.

    Then one of the blokes, about sixty, keepy-uppying the ball in front of me, instead of passing it to a dwarf nearby, trips, and leaves it unguarded. I pull back my left foot immediately and kick the ball full force. The ball hits the left goalpost half-way and it’s in. There is a roar immediately. On the side of the pitch the women are hugging each other. My twenty-two teammates start run towards me and I am submerged. Someone tries to kiss me in the confusion of bodies. Apparently no one had scored a goal in ten or eleven matches. According to them it was because of their excellent defence. Only I, being a strong European, could breach it with my accurate kick. They started calling me ‘Bomber.’ There were no more opportunities to score after that.

    The match ended at sunset.

    At the final whistle, John Connor came to me and said I was a really tough European. I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I thanked him.

    We rolled a joint sitting on the edge of the pitch, as the sharp cold of the evening massaged our sweaty backs. I let myself fall, land backward on the hard, almost-icy ground and for a moment I felt sheltered.

    Total ciggies: no clue.

    Walter Comoglio is an italian writer, currently based in Dublin.

    This short story appears in his first book named La sera che ho deciso di bloccare la strada, published by Gorilla Sapiens Edizioni, winner of 2017 POP prize Italy for best debut.

  • Numb

    Dublin, October 1992.

    Well he hugged me and he said that it was time for a change. We need to get closer to nature, to believe in hope and he started saying things about the harvest and…

    Where was he this time?

    South Africa. It seems that he spent an afternoon in Mandela’s farm and probably they chatted about agriculture.

    Brainwashed by Mandela.

    Jaysus, he couldn’t stop talking about him, about his wisdom, his efforts, his fucking antelopes.

    Tell me honestly, does he want to write stuff about Africa? Fela Kuti style?

    No, thank god he didn’t mention it. He just said something about the real nature of sounds but I dropped the conversation.

    I like Afro stuff.

    Shut up Clayton.

    And, funny thing, Mandela gave him vanilla seeds as a symbol of universal peace.

    Doesn’t it grow in places like Madagascar?

    Not in Killiney for sure. But you know Paulie? He bought a glasshouse.

    So compulsive.

    Well, he showed me a machine that can reproduce a microclimate with a constant humidity of 95%. But really, he was talking too much.

    I think I know what you mean.

    Anyway, there is a good thing about that. He wrote some commandments to let vanilla grow properly.

    Really?

    It’s a list of things that you don’t have to do. Like a negative mantra. Things like don’t whisper, don’t talk, don’t run if you can walk or don’t grab, don’t clutch, don’t hope for too much. He put a blackboard on the glasshouse wall and he wrote commandments down. Seriously. And he insisted that I read and repeat them before entering the glasshouse. It was 37 degrees, no oxygen inside and Paulie kept talking about Mandela and I had an idea for a song.

    Whoo!

    Yeah, It came out quickly. It’s me repeating things that you don’t have to do in the same key. Simple as that. I want to call it Numb.

    Like I feel numb.

    Shut up Clayton!

    But Paulie doesn’t have to sing. He would sing it too much and he would ruin everything.

    Do you think he will agree?

    I wrote some vocals for him to sing in falsetto on the chorus.

    Hmmm.

    Yes, I know. Probably we’ll have to create a mystical explanation for it. Something about, I don’t know, the voice of angels or shit like that.

    I think we need Mandela to convince him.

    Well, do you remember when he wanted to shoot a video on the top of the Column of Victory in Berlin and they told him that it wasn’t possible and he started shouting and crying and he wanted to talk with Helmut Kohl?

    Yes.

    Well, Helmut Kohl called back. He said he is sorry, we can make the video. I was thinking about telling him the good news and maybe…

    We have to find Mandela’s phone number.

    You are probably right .

    Thank to the effort and the intercession of Nelson Mandela, the song Numb was released as a single in June, 1993.

    We rely on contributions to keep Cassandra Voices going.

  • Song Shorts

    “Iggy‘s not coming for lunch?” asked Ron.

    He tasted his breathe while talking, it smelt surprisingly of milk.

    “Need to get a shower,” he said.

    A television was blinking upstairs. The automatic shutdown announced the television will be black in few minutes. Iggy was lying on the floor looking at the ceiling.

    He started figuring out what happened. Once again he put his dreams against reality. His stupid nature against facts. He thought about her as just a woman now. She could not have been a real woman. She was a symbol. She was definitely a sign of a possible redemption. My little China girl, you wore a beautiful uniform sitting straight on your back at the restaurant. Cheering discreetly. But redemption never arrives by chance. You have to work on it and even then there are people who will never find a proper one. There are simply people who needs to be against the wind at 300 km/h. I gave you a different room every night, so you would have never felt bored. I gave you the best wines with the most complicated aromas. I gave you the biggest television ever. But you see, the redemption I’m used to tends to collapse easily. And so it did. I need to be against the wind at 300 km/h. And I ruined everything you are. We’re people used to chewing other people, you know.

    The table is broken in the middle and unfortunately it’s my fault. When you cannot control your feelings and – more than everything – your fucking movements, those kind of things happen.

    Iggy stood up. Then he jumped twice as if there was an imaginary rope                           “No headache,” he said to himself.

    “ There is no point in telling the whole story…,” he said “it’s quite intellectual.”             “ What do you mean?” Ron asked.                                                                                                       “ I mean, not good things for us. Kind of painful.”

     

    WAITING FOR THE MAN_ VELVET UNDERGROUND

    https://youtu.be/hugY9CwhfzE

    It’s freezing and the rain is coming through my shoes. I’m standing at the corner in Lexington and I need to shit. I wait here like a street lamp with money clutched in my hand. He will be here in few minutes, sick as dawn. Then I will shit somewhere. I need to control the needs of my body and establish an order. But it’s going to be hard. Because everything makes me want to shit. Bricks are reflecting rain. Grey is everywhere. There is a prostitute on the other side of the street. I suppose she’s a prostitute. I hope, otherwise I can’t imagine why is she standing there. She’s young, she could be seventeen or eighteen. She doesn’t look particularly sick: she’s just waiting for something, trying to follow the right order of things. I need to shit.

    I start to think about God. I need a real God that fixes things, a fat reliable God living on my shoulders. It’s incredible how humans can build totally depressing spots. It’s fucking bad to be here. Your life is a guinea pig life without a wheel or anything like it. I need to shit. And a God, for fuck’s sake. I want to feel his dry breath behind me.

    No way. This idiot is never on time. Who is he? I don’t mind, I just have to be on time for him. But he shows no respect, no fucking respect. Twenty-six wet dollars clutched in my hand. Yes, we really have the worst Gods ever in this place. Never on time. Then the prostitute crosses the road. She’s coming towards me, slowly. Despite the rain her make up is really solid. It seems that you need to shit, she says. And she stares at me. Then her hands go through her bag and she shows me a small paper box. It’s brownish and dry. She reminds me of someone I met in school. Remember that you need to shit, she says. Luanne? I ask. She nods her head. I give her twenty-six dollars, it seems the most obvious thing. I open my hand with my crumpled twenty-six dollars. She takes them and puts them in a bag without even looking . I’m sure I have already seen her. She looks younger than seventeen or eighteen. But she could easily be in her thirties as well. And she’s so fucking dry.

    Are you waterproof? I ask. Sure, she answers.