Tag: 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