Three Light-Years: A Novel (26 page)

“Sure, let’s smurf it up,” Viberti says.

“Hey, don’t joke around. This is serious.”

“Okay, okay.”

Silvia kneels down at Viberti’s left, pours the tea into the cups. “Let’s pretend we are both guests and the person offering us tea is sitting here with us.” She turns to Viberti, bows slightly, and says, “
Osh
ō
ban itashimasu
.”

Viberti giggles. “I don’t know what to say,” he whispers.

Silvia smiles slightly. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s the opening phrase. I said, Please, allow me to share tea with you.”

“All right. I allow you. Let’s move on to the second stage.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Silvia bows to the nonexistent host and says: “
Otemae ch
ō
dai itashimasu
.” Then she whispers to Viberti: “I told him that it pleases me to drink his tea.”

“Well,” he says, “tell him I said so, too.”

“Pick up the cup, the
chawan
, with your right hand and place it on your left palm. Hold it firmly by placing your right thumb on the rim of the cup. Make a slight bow.”

Viberti does what she says, even though his hand is shaky.

“Now take hold of the rim of the cup with your index finger and the thumb of your right hand and turn the cup ninety degrees clockwise. Take a sip and make a comment about the tea.”

“Mmm. It tastes like cherry.”

“No, the comment has to be more positive.”

“Oh. Well then, excellent.”

“Between sips rest the fingertips of your right hand on the mat in front of you. At the last sip you must make a slurping sound against your palate.”

“I’ve never been good at making slurping sounds.”

“Try it.”

He emits a kind of cluck, then starts giggling again.

“Now wipe the rim of the cup with your right thumb and index finger. Turn the cup counterclockwise on your palm to return it to its original position. Set the cup down outside the edge of your mat and admire it. You can make comments.”

“About the cup?”

“It’s not mandatory.”

“But can’t I talk about something else?”

“No, not really. What did you want to say?”

“That I like being here with you.”

Silvia smiles, leans over, and kisses him. A moment later they’re lying down, embracing. Viberti is excited, even though he can’t stop thinking about Cecilia. Going to bed with her sister is not the best strategy to win her, but at that point it’s impossible to stop, as if he were no longer himself, as if he were the reincarnation of the Japanese boyfriend.

*   *   *

Later, back home, he tried to understand why he had done it. It was all very complicated. Made worse by a raging headache. He did it because he felt like it, because he was confused and frustrated; even though he’d enjoyed it, it didn’t mean anything, he was in love with Cecilia. He would tell Silvia that he couldn’t keep doing it, he would ask her to please not say anything to her sister.

Over the next four days, however, he perfected the tea ceremony with her two more times. They set a fourth date, but Viberti didn’t show up. He sent a text to say he wasn’t feeling well. Silvia asked him if he needed anything, then said she hoped he’d feel better soon. It wasn’t like him to lie like that and in fact he hadn’t thought it was possible to do so with such ease. It was necessary, however, because if he continued to see her, the mess he’d gotten himself into would be impossible to clean up. Maybe it already was, maybe Silvia had already told her sister everything. He felt a great tenderness and yearning for Cecilia and finally understood the state of mind in which she found herself after being with him. He would have liked to call Silvia now and tell her: “It’s not possible, I can’t keep doing this anymore.” But in the days that followed he did not call, and it became progressively more difficult to break the silence.

*   *   *

He didn’t see either sister for ten days, until Antonio phoned him late one Monday morning to tell him that Cecilia Re’s son had been admitted to the hospital after he’d fainted at school. It didn’t seem to be anything serious, and his father was with him. Viberti climbed the stairs with his heart in his mouth.

The boy had grown, he looked fine, he was much better, he wouldn’t have recognized him. Or maybe he would, maybe he would have recognized him, even though he was much more confident, bolder and more cheerful. His bond with his father, at whom the child glanced repeatedly as though seeking confirmation and permission, made Viberti jealous. This ex-husband of Cecilia seemed like an easygoing person, decent, pleasant. He was afraid of running into Cecilia. Besides, his visit was over. He had nothing to say to the boy, he felt like a stranger. He said goodbye to him, shaking his hand, and told him to have a good time on vacation.

In the afternoon he called Silvia. He apologized, he shouldn’t have disappeared like that, but he was confused, he didn’t know what to do and maybe it would be best if they didn’t see each other anymore. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a shit,” he said.

Silvia said she absolutely didn’t think that, and she agreed, it made no sense to go on seeing each other. She thanked him for calling her.

*   *   *

Sitting in an armchair in Marta’s living room, Viberti is leafing through a monthly travel magazine that Giulia buys regularly, even though she never goes farther than Bocca di Magra, and then passes on to her mother-in-law, who almost never leaves the house anymore. The usual beaches and monuments and sunsets, but between the lines the fear that people will give up vacations once and for all. An excess of enthusiasm, unsolicited reassurances, petrified smiles.
At one point I started to keep a notebook in which I recorded all my vacations, weekends and short trips, New Year’s and birthday celebrations, whom I’d spent them with, where I had gone, but then I got tired of it, and if I forget them, so be it. I started because one day someone asked me where I had spent New Year’s 1986 or 1987. I couldn’t answer and I felt disoriented.

Windows open, the beginning of June, it already feels like summer. Marta has fallen asleep in the armchair next to Viberti, her head lolling, her mouth partly open. The TV is on, there’s the news, but as soon as he saw his mother dozing off, Viberti turned off the sound. They’d eaten together, Giulia had dropped by to say hello, and now Angélica is tidying up in the kitchen.

It could be a peaceful evening, he could wait another ten minutes and then get up and wake his mother with a kiss on the forehead, and offer to take her to bed (it’s not good for her to sleep in a chair). Or he could ask her if she feels like venturing out for a stroll around the block, the weather is so mild. He could also leave the living room quietly and ask Angélica to wake his mother in ten minutes, run off without saying goodbye since his mother wouldn’t notice his absence in any case. He could go up to his apartment and listen to some music, straighten up the house and his head, think calmly about the situation he’s created with Cecilia, make some decisions before submitting, as usual, to those of others. He could, but the phone in his pocket starts ringing.

Cecilia’s name flashes on the display. Viberti answers, speaking softly even though his mother can’t hear him.

Cecilia’s voice is pained, though she’s not crying, she’s not frantic. She says she heard about Viberti’s meeting with the child, they’re back home now, she asks him how he thought he was. Viberti replies that he thought he was doing just fine, that Mattia absolutely remembered him, even if he thought he was a cook. “I don’t know if he was teasing me, but I don’t think so, I think he really thought I was one of the cooks on the ward, because two years ago I always showed up at lunchtime.” Cecilia pretends to be amused and pleased, she talks to him with the familiarity, affection, and intimacy with which you talk to an old friend, a person you rely on and from whom you expect support. And Viberti feels a chasm open up in his chest, in place of his heart there’s a black hole that is collapsing, swallowing up the universe around him, because he realizes that Cecilia knows everything.

“This time it turned out well, but I don’t know how much more I can take, I’m falling apart physically, yesterday I couldn’t stand up, my legs were shaky.”

“My legs were shaky today, too.”

“I don’t know what to do and I feel like there’s no one I can ask for help.”

“I’m here, I’ll help you.”

“No, you’re not there either.”

“Why would you say I’m not here? You can call me anytime—where are you now? Do you want to meet me?”

“You’re not there.”

“Cecilia, I want to help you, all I want to do is be there for you.”

“That’s not true. It’s not true.”

“It
is
true. Where are you? Listen, tell me where you are. I want to come to you.”

“Why are you seeing Silvia? What’s going on with Silvia?”

Now, maybe, she’s crying. Hard to know. Viberti remains silent. He’s been caught unprepared, but he knew it. He has no idea what to say. The chasm in the center of his chest has closed up, something is squeezing the pit of his stomach, a rigid, bony hand like that of his mother, who is asleep in front of him.

“Why are you seeing her?”

Viberti doesn’t answer.

“Claudio?”

“I’m here,” he says finally.

“Why are you seeing her?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know. I can’t explain it to you.”

They’re both silent.

“Have you been with her? You’ve barely met … Have you been with her?”

Viberti doesn’t answer. Cecilia’s voice is uncertain, she stumbles over the words; despite the inquisitorial tone or maybe because of it, she goes from anger to entreaty in the space of a question.

“I saw her one night. We went out to dinner.”

“Are you in love with her?”

As if she’d slapped him. His head snaps back. He gets up, paces up and down the room with the phone pressed against his ear. He’s faced with the facts, with his own life reflected back at him, and yes, it’s really him.

“God, Cecilia, what kind of question is that?”

“I’m asking you a simple question, I need a simple answer.”

“No, I’m not in love with her.”

“Are you sleeping with her? Do you spend the night with her? How many ways do I have to ask the question?”

“You shouldn’t ask!” Viberti intensifies his words while continuing to speak softly; what comes out is a hoarse whisper that is more likely to wake his mother than if he were speaking normally. He’s heard them often, the people who whisper on the phone, the ones who threaten. At the hospital, for example, turn the corner of a corridor and there’s a woman saying: “Are you sleeping with her? Do you spend the night with her? How many ways do I have to ask the question?”—she looks at you but she’s not talking to you, she’s talking to her cell phone. Now he’s the one on the other end, now it’s his turn.

“Wasn’t there something between us?” Cecilia asks.

Viberti looks at his mother. Her head is still lolling, but maybe on the other side.

“Was there something between us?” Cecilia repeats.

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“It’s a question.”

“Yes, of course, there was something between us. What are you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything. I just asked if there was something between us.”

“Yes, there was something between us. But you’ve always been very clear about it.”

“Do I seem to you like a person who is very clear?”

“Very clear, very firm. I thought you knew what you wanted.”

“Don’t change the subject. Tell me how it happened, how did you end up with Silvia. She’s my sister.”

“Cecilia, you can’t make a scene and act jealous, you can’t, you have no right!” Now he’s really raising his voice, he leaves the room and runs into Angélica in the corridor, who, alarmed, has come to see what’s going on. Viberti slips into the kitchen and steps out on the balcony. Before him, the courtyards: this is his earliest view, that of his childhood, of his adolescence. This is the balcony where he got locked out that evening, where he’s still locked out today.

“No, I have no right. But you were in love with me, weren’t you? You always told me you were in love. Or maybe you didn’t tell me, maybe you led me to think you were, and so maybe I misunderstood you.”

Viberti is at a loss, backed into a corner.

He murmurs: “No, you didn’t misunderstand me. I am in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the first day I saw you.”

Cecilia is crying on the other end of the line, there’s no doubt about it now, she’s crying.

“You’re in love with me, but you’re fucking Silvia. Was that what it was? Did you need to get laid?”

“Please, Cecilia, don’t be like that.”

“You’re right. I have no right to. I’m not allowed. I’ll hang up now, you probably have to go out. Goodbye.”

“Cecilia, wait … Cecilia? Cecilia?”

He tries to call her back. Her phone is turned off.

For a moment, holding the phone away from his ear, checking the display to see if he’s locked the keyboard, his strength fails him. His legs give way, the phone slips out of his hand, bounces off the balcony, and shoots off one of the concrete pillars; it’s pretty much dead by the time it lands in the courtyard.

*   *   *

Marta is leafing through the travel magazine. When Viberti apologizes for having raised his voice, she looks at him blankly.

As she does more and more often lately, she starts talking by continuing a conversation that she was perhaps having in her head. She says she should have traveled more, that she hasn’t seen anything of the world, that she let her husband travel around without going with him; occasionally she had the opportunity—he insisted that she leave the child with her sister, but she didn’t feel right about it, or maybe she didn’t want to go, silly fears, being afraid to fly, or being afraid she wouldn’t find anything to eat.