100 Days of Happiness (15 page)

I
'm on the way to the pool when my car mutters something. It's having a hard time climbing the Janiculum Hill, like a cyclist with cramps on a steep incline in the Dolomites. Then it belches a cloud of black smoke and jerks to a silent halt. Great.

I back into a parking place, and then I head down the steps that lead to Trastevere. I step into a car repair place and a bored mechanic who looks about eighteen tells me that “when the boss gets back, someone'll go get your car.” I entrust him with the keys and take a seat in a nearby café. This is an out-of-the-way corner of Trastevere I've never visited before. The barista, Nino, immediately wins me over. By the front door, a windowless wall overlooks the sidewalk, covered with a mural that Nino came up with. The wall, stretching about thirty feet, is divided in two: on one side, written large in red paint, is
THINGS I LOVE
, while on the other side, in midnight-blue paint, is
THING
S I HATE.
His intention was to create a collective diary of all the things we love and hate, open to anyone who felt like writing something. Next to it, Nino has written three or four little rules on compiling the wall. You're not allowed to write anything insulting or offensive, and it's forbidden to talk about soccer teams and political parties—otherwise, anything goes. I order a pineapple juice and start reading the mural. The wall is covered with colorful phrases of all sizes, both anonymous and signed by name.

The best ones?

In “things I love” I'd choose the following:

“The grated apple my grandmother used to make, Renato”

“When Fonzie hits the jukebox and starts a song, Lorenzo”

“Thunder” (anonymous)

“The happy sight of Mariasole's tits, Guido”

“The crackling of a fire, K.”

“The sea in winter, Enrico”

In the section “things I hate,” the winners are:

“People who drive around Rome in an SUV, Martina”

“Everyone, Gianluigi”

“The idiots who go on
Big Brother
” (anonymous)

“My hips, Loredana”

“Whoever stole my moped, Fabio”

An assortment of opinions, points of view of the world, some of them light as gossamer, others lapidary and profound. Someone really ought to photograph this wall and preserve it for posterity. A thousand years from now, Nino's wall will tell the story of this Italy to our descendants better than most history books.

I drink my pineapple juice and I write something of my own.

I love: life.

I hate: death.

Obvious but true.

I'm going to leave you two mural pages for your own personal loves and hates. When you find this book in the attic, years from now, you'll reread them with a hint of sadness, probably discovering that you still love and hate the same things.

 

T
oday I'm feeling optimistic. And I do my best not to think about the end.

Of course, that doesn't work out.

I still have more than two months. Lots of time. It could have been worse. What if there were a courtesy service that alerted you only ten minutes before you died. Maybe they'd send out a handy self-deleting text message or else a courier service with messengers on mopeds would go from house to house to deliver the news.

“Hello, we just wanted to let you know that you're going to die in ten minutes!”

“Oh thanks, darn it, I'd just put some pasta on. It takes thirteen minutes to cook.”

“I'm afraid you don't have enough time. Unless you want to eat it al dente.”

“Too bad, I like it cooked thoroughly. Do you think I have time to use the bathroom?”

“I don't know—is it something quick?”

“Well, I did want to take a quick shower. You never know whom you're going to meet in the afterlife . . .”

“Look, sorry to burst your bubble, but there is no such thing as the afterlife; that's just an invention of organized religions. I hope you enjoy the next nine minutes of boiling pasta.”

“What? I didn't steal, I didn't take the Lord's name in vain, I
didn't covet my neighbor's wife . . . and now? You say there's no reward?”

“No, I'm just sorry for you, that you didn't take your chances!”

As he goes on talking, I nod off.

Like I told you, I'm feeling optimistic today.

T
he Dino Zoff notebook is starting to be badly wrinkled. On day sixty-five I see a stain of tomato sauce, or of something reddish. Maybe it's cherry jam.

Time flows along like this. I can't seem to figure out the right things to do or not do. I go on living, dragged along by the current of the stream. I coach my team as it continues its battle for the championship finals; I help Lorenzo and Eva do their homework; I play with Shepherd, who, by now, has accepted me into the nuclear family because he considers me a harmless rival. Paola is less upset these days, taken as she is by the routine of school and her responsibilities as a mother.

A few days ago, I commissioned Roberto to write a pirate story, a novel about corsairs, to be exact. I don't know why, but I love books set among the galleons that plied the Caribbean far more than I do those set among Malaysian praus. In other words, I prefer the Corsaro Nero to Sandokan. I hurry over enthusiastically to pick up my book. I feel like Lorenzo the Magnificent, a patron of the arts who finances unforgettable artworks from his favorite artists.

I pay my twenty euros, I grab the brand-new copy of
The Galleon of Dreams,
and I leave. I stretch out in the sun on a meadow in Villa Borghese. And I open to the first page.

The pirate galleon cut through the waves, scudding along before a lazy trade wind too weak to let it long flee the
speedier Spanish brigantines. A cannon shot rang out in the distance, and the ball went whistling past the bridge.

That's what I call getting straight to the point. The next two hours are a succession of boarding crews taking ships, treasure hunts, cannibals, traitors, firing squads, and all the usual paraphernalia of any self-respecing adventure novel. For once, the plot isn't copied from Emilio Salgari. The main character is a haunted galleon that imprisons in its hold the dreams of its passengers. When they land, the unfortunate victims find themselves stripped of the will to live. A piratesque variant on the old tale of Pandora's box and so many other myths.

As I read the last line, I realize that, perhaps without intending to, Roberto has written a wonderful allegory of my present condition. The galleon sickness has imprisoned my energy, deleted all my dreams, and slackened my vital pace. Instead of stimulating me, it has decidedly sapped me of all vigor. The truth is, in spite of all my best intentions, I can't seem to savor the time left until the end.

But starting today, I'm turning over a new leaf.

I
write a very short text message: “Prank time.” And I send it to Corrado and Umberto. This is our code for a call to arms. It means that it's time to roll up our sleeves and head out to play pranks, just like Count Mascetti and his best friends in the movie
Amici miei
. It has been far too long.

The prank that Corrado, our unrivaled leader in terms of messing around with other people's minds, most loves to play when he's working without accomplices, is this one: He lands at Fiumicino airport, changes out of his captain uniform, and with his suitcase in hand, blends into the crowd at International Arrivals. Then he starts scrutinizing the signs held by the waiting chauffeurs:
MR. KLEBER, HELVET
IA HOTEL, JAMES HELSE
NER, FARLES MEETING,
and so on. He chooses his target—say Mr. Kleber—and walks up armed with a straight face and speaking a fractured Italian with a strong Anglo-Saxon accent. Nine times out of ten he hits a bull's-eye: the poor driver has never met “Mr. Kleber” and ushers him to the car without thinking twice. And that's where the real adventure begins for Corrado: Where is this mysterious Mr. Kleber heading? Is he expected to address a crowded conference? Or will he be housed in a fabulous suite and then ushered to a movie premiere? Or is there a table reserved for him in a charming local restaurant? Or does he have an invitation to attend an exclusive cocktail party with the high nobility of Rome? For the most part, before the switch has been uncovered (which is when Corrado is always ready to take to his heels), our hero
has already eaten and drunk his fill, and generally enjoyed himself at Mr. Kleber's expense. Of course, there are times when the fraud is sussed out early, right in the airport parking lot, but it often works out wonderfully well. Once or twice, he's actually managed to spend the night in a hotel, pretending that he's lost his passport and other ID, making use of a room meant for someone else; and one time he actually enjoyed a marathon sex session with two prepaid Byelorussian girls from an escort service.

 * * * 

Umberto and Corrado meet me at our café. Corrado has just landed after flying in from London, while Umberto has shut down his clinic early.

Sipping our three mixed-fruit shakes, we decide our next move. Umberto is always the most cautious of the three—he always comes up with a thousand legal and ethical quibbles, but then he never shrinks from the dare.

I'm the one who suggests today's prank, and it's carried by an absolute majority.

I utter a single word.

“Vatican.”

An hour later, we pile out of Corrado's Mercedes in front of a famous little restaurant near the Vatican walls: the very expensive and very exclusive Al Vicoletto. We are greeted by an excited restaurateur with an accent eloquent of his Ciociarian roots.

“Pleased to welcome you, Your Eminence.”

He's addressing Corrado, who's attired in the garb of a cardinal, a rental from a theatrical costume shop owned by a friend. Umberto and I do outstanding jobs of playing his driver and his assistant. Clothes make the man, or in this case, the cardinal, despite the prelate's relatively youthful age. Corrado, with his musketeerish appearance, seems like a latter-day Richelieu, proud and dismissive. The
staff welcome us into the restaurant with all the honors of the occasion. We ask to sample the specialties of the house, knowing full well that it specializes in raw bar delicacies. We start with an antipasto of oysters, the completely illegal and endangered date mussel, and a culinary triumph of extralarge mussels and clams. Corrado also orders the most expensive wine on the menu and sends it back twice, saying it's corked. No one dares to contradict His Eminence. There's not a thing we see that we don't order, what with appetizers and entrées, in defiance of any imaginable diet. We finish off with the renowned house prickly pear sorbet. A real delicacy. When the restaurateur brings us the check, for 630 euros, we don't blink an eye. I take a piece of paper and write down the phone number of my father-in-law's pastry shop. Then I hand it to the restaurateur with a half smile.

“This is the direct number to the administrative office of the Holy See. You need only give them your international bank account number and the total amount due, and they'll ask me to confirm that number over the phone before ordering the transfer. They're normally very prompt.”

Corrado brilliantly slips the restaurateur a fifty-euro tip, in cash.

“For the staff.”

“
Grazie
, Your Eminence, far too kind.”

“The office opens in an hour or so—you can call this afternoon,” I add, to enhance our credibility, which in any case has never been called into question.

“Arrivederci,” says Corrado, extending a hand bearing a cheap garish ring he could have picked up anywhere, ready for the restaurateur's adoring kiss.

Two minutes later, we're in the car, laughing like idiots.

“Seventeen euros each, guys. No more than we'd pay for a pizza,” said Corrado, who was spectacular in his role, a titan of the thespian's art. We're electrified with excitement and for a couple of hours I've
been liberated from my sickly reality. We hurry to witness the second part of the prank, which is when the benighted restaurateur phones my father-in-law, convinced he's about to speak to the Vatican's administrative offices. Over the years, we've given Oscar's number to anyone and everyone and by now he's convinced that his line must have a faulty connection due to some poor wiring. We're sitting there in the pastry shop when the long-awaited phone call comes in. Oscar tries to explain that the man has the wrong number, and all we hear from the other end of the line are the Ciociarian-accented screams of the owner of the restaurant that we'll never go back to. He's in a blind rage and he insults Oscar freely, until my astonished father-in-law finally hangs up on him.

“These days, Rome is full of nut jobs.”

Luckily, he hasn't noticed the obvious coincidence: every time the three of us are camped out at the pastry shop, some psychopath calls him on the phone demanding money.

I grow depressed for a moment, seeing a photograph of Oscar and Paola hanging on the wall. Until a few years ago, she used to come with us on our prankish excursions, and, of course, she was better than anyone else at fobbing off lies and taking on imaginary characters. Then she stopped, in part because she was too busy helping her children to grow up, and partly because she grew up herself. I only now realize that we musketeers are working hard to slow down time and remain eternally youthful.

Youthful
. I haven't spoken that word in years. It's a tender word,
youthful,
so much more evocative than
children
or
kids,
or the horrendous
youngsters
. There are those who might be tempted to say that what we really are is a trio of infantile idiots in our forties. I would retort that we have won and everyone else has lost. To remain a little bit youthful is the only battle worth fighting here on earth. Even the Italian poet Giovanni Pascoli said so. Hold on there! I only just now realize that I'm starting to gain a new appreciation for all the writers
and poets I always hated or, actually, held in contempt during my depressing academic career.

What does this mean?

I file it away as just one more terrible collateral effect of the disease and give it no more thought.