100 Days of Happiness (24 page)

L
orenzo and Eva stare at me, wide-eyed.

“An adventure?” blurts out my firstborn.

“Exactly. Three weeks driving all over Italy, in search of mysterious and unknown places. Sound good?”

The answer is an enthusiastic yes from Lorenzo. Just what I expected. But Eva has some questions.

“Can I bring Shepherd?”

“No, we'll leave Shepherd with Signora Giovanna, who has to come here anyway to water the plants and feed the cats and the hamster.”

“Can't I even bring Alice?”

“She'd be miserable in the car. Hamsters don't like to travel.”

“No fair! Then let's at least have one day when I'm the queen of you all.”

The “queen of you all” day is a reward for something major, a good grade at school or a period of good behavior at home. Invented by Paola when they were little, it's a day of total dominion over both parents, when the little queen or king can set the order of the day, choose the food, and demand anything within reasonable economic limits.

“You've got a deal,” I reply to the little blackmailer. “We'll leave Saturday night, as soon as school is over.”

“Saturday is the school play and the end-of-year party,” Lorenzo reminds me.

“Ah, right. In that case, we'll leave Sunday.”

An hour later Paola comes home, unsuspecting, having spent the afternoon preparing the final report cards with the other teachers.

The children welcome her gleefully and she immediately figures out she's fallen into a trap. They're assuming she'll come too. She takes me aside, into the kitchen.

“What is all this?”

“You said that I could take the kids on a trip, no? That's what I'm doing. We're leaving Sunday. For three weeks.”

“Three weeks? Have you lost your mind?”

“You're under no obligation to come with us.”

“And, in fact, I'm not coming.”

“Too bad, I'm planning to end the trip in Switzerland. I'm not coming back here.”

It occurs to me as I say it. I'm not coming back here. It immediately seems like the natural decision. The last journey. With the people I love.

The phrase is too violent to keep from doing damage. Paola shouts in a whisper to keep the children from hearing. Among the words she uses most are “irresponsible,” “insane,” and “trap.”

She's right, I have been irresponsible, but I want to make up for it, I probably am insane, but that's not a defect, and there's no question, this journey is certainly a trap. A trap of love into which I hope Paoletta will fall. My chief objective of these hundred days, written in the Dino Zoff notebook, still owns pride of place:

Get Paola to forgive me.

“I'm not coming back here,” I insist. “Don't make me take this trip alone. We're a family.”

“We were a family. But then you destroyed it.”

“I made a huge mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“I know that. Like marrying you, for instance.”

Don't listen to her, these are the things people say in a fight, I know she doesn't really believe it.

Paola struggles for another ten minutes like a hooked tuna, then she gives up.

“What should I pack for, the beach or the mountains?”

“Everything,
amore mio
. Everything.”

I've never been happier about losing a bet.

I turn on my computer and I start doing some research and making reservations.

T
he most fun you can have when leaving on a trip is packing your suitcase, as I've told you before. But when it's your last trip, packing a suitcase turns heartbreaking. Most of my belongings won't be coming with me.

I wander around the apartment and I scrutinize the bookshelves in particular. They're full of books I've never read and movies I've never watched. I feel like asking them all to forgive me, authors and directors, who worked so hard to provide me with hours of entertainment, and I, after leading them on by purchasing their products, have just left them to gather dust on a shelf. Perhaps they'd have remained there forever. Or else they might have had their fifteen minutes of fame during a vacation. In any case, I bid them all a fond farewell today. I bring only one novel with me, I've already put it in my suitcase, after changing my mind numerous times. The final competition was between
Pinocchio
and
Treasure Island,
and the second book won. One of these days I'll tell you why. I go on exploring the bookshelves and I gently caress my Diabolik collection. Only now does it occur to me that the most complicated thing won't be saying good-bye to my Diabolik collection, but to all the protagonists of my life.

I don't know if I'll have the strength.

I
'm looking out at the Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. The time has come. I've summoned them all poolside an hour before the usual practice time. With them is my faithful assistant coach. I tried to jot down a couple of lines of rough text for the last speech I'll ever make to them, and after a minute I find myself forced to improvise. I know that I'm an important figure to them, and I want to leave them with a few fundamental messages. I get straight to the point.

“Guys, I have a liver tumor. It's very serious—it's metastasized to the lungs. I don't have long to live. And, unfortunately, this is the last time we'll see each other.”

They aren't expecting it. They exchange glances, trying to figure out if this is a joke of some kind. But my tone of voice makes it clear that it's not. Not at all.

“A few months ago I decided to deal with my tumor with a smile. I haven't always succeeded, but I'm trying to be happy every day that I have left to live. I'm still in decent shape and I've done my best to beat the disease. But it hid inside me, and by the time I'd ferreted it out, it was too late to have any hope of defeating it. You know, at your age, I had plenty of dreams. I have to confess to you that I didn't achieve a single one of them, but I never gave up hope. Always remember that the only riches we possess are the dreams we have as children. They are the fuel of our lives, the only force that pushes us to keep on going even when things have gone all wrong. To crown the dreams of the child that lives inside you should be your chief goal in
life. Don't ever forget that you'll become adults in appearance only, but that little man still lives on inside you. Dedicate yourself fully to your work, whether that work is water polo or anything else. You should try to be the best you can be in every walk of life, even if you're selling fruit in a farmers' market. Everyone should say: “What excellent fruit that guy sells.” Life will present you with plenty of challenges, many of them much more important than a water polo championship playoff, and you shouldn't ever retreat in the face of those challenges. Just work, work, work, even at the risk of making mistakes. And if and when you do make mistakes, and you do hurt someone, ask for forgiveness. Asking forgiveness and admitting you've made a mistake is the hardest thing of all. But if someone else does you good, remember it always. Showing gratitude is every bit as complicated. When you happen to win something, don't mock your opponents and don't boast.”

Everyone looks around in amusement:
winning
is a word they're not familiar with.

“As you know, I have two children, and knowing that I won't be able to watch them grow up is the thing that hurts me most. In a few days, I'm going to leave on a trip with them and with my wife. I won't be coming back. And I won't be able to watch the playoff games. But I'll be with you in my heart, and Giacomo will tell me everything you do. He'll be here and you can rely on him for anything you need. He's ready to coach you next year; he has the skills and the temperament to do it.”

My assistant coach didn't expect this investiture and he's clearly overcome with emotion.

“I ask you only one thing: however the game turns out, fight all the way to the end. And if you can do it, win these three matches for me. It would be the best farewell gift. One day in the distant future, when you have children of your own, I hope that you'll remember your old coach and you'll take them to the pool and teach them to
care about this wonderful sport we love. You've been the best team a coach could ever hope for. Even when we were losing. I'm so sorry.”

I go to pieces. I'd sworn to myself I wouldn't cry, but I break that promise. I hug them all, one after the other, last of all Soap-on-a-Rope and Martino.

“I want you to listen to me, boys, make me proud of you.”

Then it's Giacomo's turn.

“Have a good trip, Coach, wherever it is you're going,” he whispers to me during the hug. “I won't forget you.”

O
scar is alone in the pastry shop, surrounded by crunchy-good smells, when I come in late at night.

“Ciao . . .”

He turns around.

“Ciao, Lucio . . .”

“What are you doing here all alone? Did you fire your apprentice?”

“No, tonight's his night off. Usually Martina comes in to give me a hand, but tonight she's with her daughter. She's a fantastic woman, you know?”

I watch him fill beignets with cream, and note thirty years of experience guiding his hands.

“Feel like helping me out?”

“But I don't know how to . . .”

“So learn!” he says, cutting me off. The hours that follow flash by in clouds of flour and cream. I have a great time.

At dawn we fry up twenty or so doughnuts. We pull them out of the grease and wait for them to cool a little before dipping them in the sugar.

We sit in silence for a minute. Then Oscar asks a question that sums up all the others.

“Well?”

That one word is worth a thousand conversations. I say nothing. There's no need. Two minutes later, we're enjoying two doughnuts. This is the first time that he's eaten a doughnut with me. I'm biting back tears as I realize it will probably be the last.

I
've arranged a special dinner just for the three musketeers. For the last time before Porthos leaves the group forever.

Umberto and Corrado. Two names that to me mean millions of things.

When they show up outside the agreed-upon restaurant, ready for an evening of sad conversation and deep emotions, my friends find a surprise. I'm waiting for them out front, but the place is closed. I welcome them with a single unequivocal word: “Prank.”

It's not what they were expecting, but they enthusiastically welcome the invitation. I load them into my car and I barrel at top speed toward the Baths of Caracalla. Tonight they're performing yet another production of the immortal opera
Tosca
. I've purchased tickets for three separate seats. We enjoy the beginning with perfect behavior, and then, in the middle of the first act, while Cavaradossi gargles away in a spartan stage set meant to represent the Basilica di Sant'Andrea della Valle, Corrado stands up in the third row and shouts loudly: “Are you trying to tell us this is a tenor?” All around him pandemonium breaks loose.

“Hush! For shame! Sit down!”

Sabotaging theatrical performances is one of the stock items of our foolish repertory. Corrado keeps it up.

“This ridiculous charade is an insult to Puccini's art! Forgive them, Giacomo!”

Meanwhile, onstage poor Cavaradossi is trying to ignore us and he goes on gargling. That's when I spring into action.

“Shame on you, be seated, or else I'll show you!”

“You'll show me what? Is that a threat?”

I lunge at him, leaping over a row of seats. When we're making fools of ourselves, sickness and aches mean nothing. I'm on him with a feline agility that is long forgotten.

“Yes, it's a threat. Cut it out immediately.”

“And if I don't?”

At this point, Cavaradossi, too, freezes, and the orchestra stops playing. Right now, we're the stars of the show. Mission accomplished.

This is the right moment to let the first slap fly. We land our blows skillfully, careful not to hurt each other, shoving and yanking, but the effect is stupendous. Everyone rushes to pull us apart, but we go on shouting. It's total chaos.

“Oaf!”

“The only oaf here is you! I'll report you to the police—do you understand?”

The word “report” is the signal for Umberto to make his entrance, as he pushes his way through the crowd surrounding us. He quickly flashes a pass from his tennis club.

“Police, please make way. Let's all calm down here!”

“Excellent,” I say. “I'd like to file a complaint against this gentleman for assault and battery.”

“No, I'm the one with a complaint to file, and I have one thousand witnesses,” Corrado retorts. The second part of the prank requires a general debate over who slapped whom first. Then Corrado gets aggressive, shoves the cop, and is arrested. Usually our exit takes place with Corrado in handcuffs and me following to file a complaint. It's just that this time our clear performance enjoys an unexpected plot twist that actually should have been expected sooner or later: there's a real cop in the audience. And he can't wait to lend a hand. In thirty seconds he reveals us for the fakers we are, handcuffs all three of us, and the evening has a giddy denouement at the police station. It was
bound to happen eventually. They take our fingerprints and ask a thousand questions. They don't know exactly what to charge us with, and actually they have a tremendous time going over the details of what happened. The only one who is theoretically in serious trouble is Umberto, who tried to pass himself off as an actual officer of the law. After a couple of hours, an elderly police chief who clearly wishes he was already retired decides to sweep it all under the rug and let us go. Irony of fate: our most reckless and spectacular prank is also our last.

We don't talk about anything in particular until the time comes to say good-bye. The final hug, all three of us together, is worth more than a thousand words.

All for one. And the one is me.