The Purple Room Page 7

  The glasses clink. Antonella downs her whisky in one gulp. A shiver runs down my spine as I empty my glass too, not to be outdone. We look at each other. All evening she’s been giving me this look, a challenge, like a soccer player about to take a penalty shot. This time, though, she’s the first one to look away. I pour us both more whisky and we drink that, too. The tall, slender glass in my hand makes me think of a gear shift. I watch my hand put the car in neutral. In my head, the gesture repeats itself in slow motion, six or seven times. Imitating that vision, which came from who knows where, I rest my empty glass on the table. I feel like I’m gliding away, just like a car in neutral.

  Before I realize it, I’ve glided over to Antonella and I’m kissing her. We kiss for a long time, there on the couch. Even her way of kissing is athletic. She presses her mouth against mine, toned and vigorous. Her tongue darts around like it’s running an obstacle course. I do my best to keep up, but I’m afraid I’m making a poor showing. I’m busy giving it my all when Antonella grabs my tongue between her teeth and starts to suck it. She sucks it into her mouth with such force that it’s like she wants to tear it out. I try to pull it back, but I can’t. The harder I resist, the more she sucks it back into her mouth. It hurts, but I can’t say anything. The moan that rises from my throat sounds like a groan of pleasure, so I surrender, imagining my tongue, with my whole brain attached behind it, being sucked into that vortex.

  Antonella breaks away from me with a pop.

  “Come with me,” she murmurs.

  I follow her, dazed by the kiss and the whisky on an empty stomach. She leads me by the hand into her bedroom. In the dark, we move forward until we reach the bed.

  “Lie down.”

  I fall back onto the bed. She lights a couple of candles that are sitting on a chest of drawers. She undresses, then comes and kneels over me. I like Antonella. Usually in these situations the autopilot takes over. There’s no need to think. Everyone does what they should and that’s all there is to it. This time, though, my autopilot doesn’t work. I feel guilty being here, on this bed, like someone about to cheat on his wife. Antonella refuses to be discouraged. Her autopilot works extremely well and is enough for both of us. She takes care of everything. She unbuttons, undresses, strokes, kisses, licks, sucks, mounts, gasps, accelerates, slows down, accelerates, slows down again, breaths in and out, in and out, backs up, starts again, goes, goes, goes, gallops faster and faster until she reaches the finish line with a wild cry of, “UAAAHHH!”

  Then she collapses on top of me. She kisses my ear. She slips under the sheets. And goes to sleep. I lie there, stunned, watching the light cast by the candles on the chest of drawers, relieved that I managed to get there. That, at least, is one thing I haven’t forgotten.

  The scratch on my hand is bleeding. I must have scraped it against the sheets while I was sleeping. It’s a red line running across my palm, cutting all the other lines in half: Life, Luck, Love.

  Antonella’s in the bathroom. It was the shower running that woke me. At first I felt a little disoriented, not sure where I was. Then I saw the denim shirt thrown over the back of the chair and I remembered. I didn’t get an urge to run away, like I had other times. What I’d like to do is roll over and go back to sleep, but instead I sit up and try to fix my hair.

  Antonella comes out of the bathroom wearing a robe. Something about her is different from yesterday but I can’t put my finger on what.

  “Good morning,” she says, seeing me awake. She sits on the edge of the bed, smelling of coconut hair conditioner.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes. What time is it?”

  “Almost eleven. I have a class at school in ten minutes and I’m still like this!”

  She jumps up, takes off her bathrobe and starts fishing around in the closet.

  “What about you?” she asks. “Don’t you have to go to the office or something?”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “Lucky you.” She pulls out a bra and squints at it. “I can’t see a thing. Do you mind if I turn on the light?”

  “Open the shutters if you want to.”

  Antonella, naked, crosses the room. She moves around the bed on her way to the window. Blades of sunlight filter through the shutters, capturing particles of dust and cutting her body into slices of light and shade. It is in the instant that she places her hands against the shutters and pushes to open them that it happens. It’s the feeling you get when your heart misses a beat. A sudden void in the center of my chest. I lean towards the image before me: the woman, opening the shutters, letting the light in. I hold my breath, staring at her figure silhouetted in the bright rectangle of the window frame. Her hair, falling loose down her back, the outline of her shoulders, her breasts against the light. Everything is suspended. I feel certain that something magic is about to happen. If she turned into a dove and flew away, it would seem like nothing out of the ordinary. I close my eyes, blinded by the sun, and convince myself that in a moment I’ll witness a miracle.

  When I open my eyes, the light framed by the window is empty. She hasn’t flown away. She’s back by the closet, slipping into her underwear.

  “I mean it, Sergio,” she’s saying. “You can stay here if you want. I only have two classes. I’ll be home by one. We can have lunch together or go out somewhere. What do you think?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve heard the words and I’ve understood their meaning, and yet I can’t seem to reply. My brain’s gone off on its own again. My thoughts dart all over the place.

  “Hey, is everything all right?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “What’s wrong, Sergio?”

  “Why?”

  “You have this look on your face... Did I say something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Look, it was just an idea. If you want to go back to your place, I’ll understand.”

  “Maybe that’s better.”

  She eyes me gravely. I try to smile. I don’t know how it turns out but, judging by the way she’s looking at me, it isn’t very convincing. She finishes pulling on her sweats and sneakers. She ties her hair back, threading the pony tail through the gap in her baseball cap. She grabs the keys for her scooter and for a moment I think she’s going to leave without saying good-bye. Instead she approaches the bed.

  “I think I’ve made things clear. I don’t expect anything from you. Last night was nice. It’s been a long time since I felt like that. I’d like to see you again. If you feel the same, give me a call. If not, do what you want.”

  Then she leaves.

  I don’t know how long I stay in bed listening to the noises in the building. A neighbor’s television. The elevator running up and down. The traffic down on the street. On the chest of drawers there’s a photo of two guys in their twenties, identical and muscular, lifting Antonella off the ground as if she were a little girl. Her twin boys, I guess.

  The sun is falling onto the bed and it’s starting to get hot. I throw off the sheet and watch the ray of sun creeping up my legs. When the heat becomes unbearable, I get up. I gather up my scattered clothes, pulling them on haphazardly, and drag myself to the door.

  On the way home, I stop at the local supermarket. I fill my shopping cart with frozen goods. While I’m loading the bags into the trunk, I hear a voice behind me:

  “Do you want your pants back or what?”

  She rests her hands on her wide hips, a frown on her face. The woman points to a sign hanging on the door of the dry cleaner’s.

  “It says so right there. We’re not responsible for anything after thirty days. I was about to give them away to the poor, you know.”

  “You’re right, ma’am. Sorry, but I’ve been in the hospital and it completely slipped my mind.”

  The woman puts her hands on her cheeks.

  “Good gracious… What happened?”

  “I had an accident.”

  “Mother of God! I’m always
telling my son to drive slowly! How are you now? You look so pale…”

  “The worst is over.”

  “Thank God. Well, come on and get your pants.”

  I walk into the shop. The woman scrolls through the clothes in their plastic covers until she finds my pants. I recognize them. I hadn’t noticed they were missing from my closet because they’re made of heavy material. I haven’t looked for them since the hot weather arrived.

  “I would have been sorry to give them away,” she said. “See what a good job I did? Not even the shadow of a spot.”

  “Were they badly stained?” I ask, just to give her some satisfaction.

  “What? You don’t remember? That purple blotch on the leg. You don’t wear pants like these to paint a house! I told you, that’s my son-in-law’s job. Ask him to do it next time.”

  “You’re right. I’m just wondering, do you remember when I brought them in?”

  “We can check the receipt. Here it is. Friday, the twenty-fourth of April. So much for thirty days! It’s been two months.”

  Back home, I put the frozen food away and hurry to the garage. I look everywhere, but there’s no can of paint. I strain to remember. I rack my brains, but all I manage to do is give myself another headache.

  I go out to the garden to calm down. I water the plants and clear the dead leaves from the porch. I sweep the path right down to the gate. I hear a yelp and turn to find the little white mutt in the laurel bushes, its nose pushing through the bars. It looks at me and wags its tail. It stands up on its hind legs, sniffing the air to catch my scent. For years Michela begged me to get her a puppy. I always said no. Perhaps this time I would have made an exception.

  I lift up my eyes to the first floor of my house, where the shutters are always closed. “That’s the bedroom window,” I think to myself. As soon as I’ve thought it, the images of the stained pants and the bedroom go click, coming together in a perfect fit. I rush upstairs, turn the key and dash into the room. Right away I smell the paint. Then I see the wall – the one at the end, where the window is. It’s been painted purple. Sheets of newspaper are spread at the base of the wall to protect the wood floor. There’s a paint roller, a brand new ladder, and a can of paint. I step closer, feeling more and more confused. I brush my fingers gently over the wall, as if it might not be real. The color is very similar to the purple of the room in my mind. Is this the window she was looking out of? I look around for clues. The double mattress is covered with a plastic sheet I put over it some time ago, to keep the dust off. The closet is empty, as are the night tables and the chest of drawers. I comb every inch of the floor for a hair, a bobby pin, a dropped earring – anything to confirm that I’ve been here with a woman – but I find nothing.

  “Hi, Antonella. It’s Sergio.”

  “Well, hey. This is a surprise.”

  “Why a surprise?”

  “I didn’t think you’d call me so soon. You seemed pretty freaked out this morning.”

  “I was terrified. But that doesn’t mean I have to be rude.”

  “You’re calling me just to be polite?”

  “Kind of, I guess.”

  Silence. I’d like to hang up and disappear forever.

  “Antonella, are you still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I called to tell you that you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “There’s someone, a woman, that I can’t get out of my head. I wish I could, I swear. I’d like to wipe the slate clean and start again. But I can’t.”

  “Hair of the dog. Ever heard of that? I could help you get rid of that heartache of yours. I wouldn’t mind. I’m not talking about anything serious. We don’t even have to sleep together if you don’t want to. But I’m sure that if we spent a little time together…”

  “I can’t do it, Antonella. It’s like I’ve got a disease.”

  “And as long as you stay there by yourself, brooding, you’ll never get better.”

  “I know, but it’s more complicated than you think.”

  “Stories about broken hearts are all the same, Sergio. Sad and hopeless.”

  “Mine isn’t even a story. It’s a hallucination. A trick my sick mind plays on me.”

  “You should record yourself and then go back and listen. You’re thinking like a fifteen-year-old. You’re forty-five, for Christ’s sake. Sorry, but don’t you think it’s time to grow up?”

  “I’m sorry. I should never have gone to that dating agency. It was a stupid mistake.”

  “Well, thanks. I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

  “No. You weren’t a mistake. You’re a great person.”

  “And you’re so awful and have so many problems that you don’t want to ruin my life. You’re making a generous gesture. You’re not blowing me off. You’re doing me a favor. Is that it?”

  I don’t know how to answer. I’m about to hang up.

  “Stop lying to yourself and give me one good reason why we shouldn’t see each other again.”

  Suddenly, I lose my patience. I get an urge to be cruel.

  “Do you want the truth, Antonella?”

  “What truth is that?”

  “You really want to know why I don’t want to see you again?”

  “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  “The problem is, I don’t like the way you smell.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s right. When we were in bed together, I realized that your body odor bothers me. It’s not something I decided. I didn’t want to tell you because it’s embarrassing. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s out of my control.”

  Antonella is silent, crushed. I think she’s going to hang up on me. Instead she starts shouting.

  “You bastard! How dare you? You’re the lousy kisser! You’re like a limp fish! If I hadn’t been the one doing everything you couldn’t even have gotten it up! Come on! Say it! Admit to your little problem. That’s why your wife walked out on you! Because you can’t get it up, right? Can you? And do you know why you can’t? I’ll tell you, ‘cause I figured it out. You can’t get it up because you’re a fucking faggot! You’re a fucking impotent faggot!”

  It’s too late to take back what I said. She can’t hear me anymore. She keeps on shouting like a crazy person.

  “Oh, poor Sergio! He’s got a broken heart! You know what I’d like to break? Your legs! Do you hear me, Sergio? If I see you on the street I’ll fucking run you over and smash your goddamned legs! You make me sick! I hope you get cancer of the fucking bal–”

  I hang up. I turn off my cell and unplug the landline. I make it over to the fridge, pull out the vodka and orange juice and pour myself a couple of drinks with shaking hands. Then I pick up the phone again, plug it back in and dial the number for the dating agency.

  “Good morning, Sergio. I was just thinking about you. I was wondering how your date went with Antonella? She’s an intriguing woman, isn’t she?

  “She’s wonderful. Too bad I’m not good enough for her.”

  “Don’t put yourself down like that.”

  “I mean it. I screwed up big time.”

  “Whatever happened, I can talk to Antonella. We’ll fix this, you’ll see.”

  “Listen to me very carefully. First of all, I want you to call Antonella and tell her that I’m sick, very sick. In the head. Tell her that I’ve said terrible things to other women, too, all mean and none of them true. Tell her I’m about to go into a psychiatric clinic and you’ve taken me off your members list. That’s the second thing I want you to do, take my name off your records.”

  “But Sergio, I don’t understand why–”

  “Do as I ask. No more dates. As far as the money goes, don’t worry, I’ll pay you what I owe.”

  “At least explain–”

  “It’s too complicated. You’ve done a very good job. You’re really very good, truly. You have all my admiration. Unfortunately, it’s just like I said. I’m sick and I need profes
sional help. Goodbye.”

  I unplug the phone again. I go downstairs to the bunker, shut the door behind me, and lie down on the couch to do some serious drinking.

  9

  My bender lasted for five days. Five peaceful days suspended in total silence. There in my bunker, I floated in a dim light. I fed myself once a day and passed the time just lying down, thinking of nothing. Five days of calculated drunkenness, carefully doling out the glasses to maintain the numbness I needed. Five magnificent days gone in a blink, as if they had been a single afternoon.

  It was the thought of Michela that got me out of the bunker. Today is Saturday. We had decided to do something together, if I remember correctly, and I haven’t called her. What kind of father am I? I throw my dirty clothes in the machine, dive into the shower and shave carefully. Then I call Michela.

  “Hi, sweetie-pie. Sorry for not calling earlier.”

  “No worries, Dad,” she says. It sounds like she’s walking down a street. “Me, too. I’m planning my trip and stuff and I haven’t had a minute… Hey, Bea! See you in a bit! Hello? Sorry, anyway, I’m just saying I haven’t called either, so you shouldn’t feel bad.”

  I have to smile.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Next Saturday. I can’t wait!”

  “We could meet up tomorrow, if you have time?”

  “Can’t. My friend has a basketball tournament tomorrow. I promised to go cheer him on.”

  “Which friend? Daniel?”

  “No, someone from school. You don’t know him.”

  “How’s it going with Daniel?”

  “Great. He’s coming to the game with me.”

  I guess this was bound to happen sometime. Eventually my daughter was going to want to spend time with a boy instead of me.

  “So I’m not going to see you before you leave?”

  “Guess not. But I’ll keep in touch. Ugo got me a new phone, so I’ll post lots of pictures from Paris! I gotta go, Dad—love you!”