Reasonable Doubts gg-3 Page 7

  From a distance, the paintings on display were reminiscent of Rothko. All things considered, they weren’t bad. I went up to one of them. I was examining it, trying to grasp the technique, when a voice behind me made me jump.

  “Are you Piero’s boyfriend?” He had orange hair and looked like an Elton John clone. A local Elton John, judging by the accent.

  No, friend, you’re more likely to be Piero’s boyfriend, whoever the hell this Piero is.

  “No, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. You must be confusing me with someone else.”

  “Oh,” he said, with a sigh that could mean anything. Then he looked me up and down and asked, “Do you like Katso’s work?”

  “Who?”

  Katso was the artist, it turned out. Elton explained that he had thought up the title of the exhibition and had written the critical introduction to the catalogue.

  Oh, excellent. I’d glanced at it and hadn’t understood a word.

  I didn’t say that, but he read my mind, and without my asking started to explain his introduction in detail.

  I couldn’t believe it. There were at least two hundred people there, and this character had buttonholed me. I’d have liked to signal to someone to come and save me, maybe by knocking Elton on the head, but I didn’t know anyone.

  After a while I noticed that people were moving in groups towards the side of the garage furthest from the entrance. The movement you always get at parties when the food is ready.

  “I think there’s something to eat,” I said, but he didn’t even hear me.

  He was unstoppable now, having launched on a metaphysical exegesis on the works of Katso.

  “Spudlicating, humbo,” I said. Complete gibberish, just to make sure he wasn’t listening to a word I said. And it was true: he really wasn’t. He didn’t ask me what “spudlicating” meant, or even what a “humbo” was. He was too busy talking about archetypes and the way certain artistic manifestations condensed the scattered fragments of the collective unconscious.

  I condensed my scattered fragments and said excuse me – only because I’m such a polite person – turned and headed towards the food.

  People were crowding around a long table. From a room immediately behind it, waiters emerged with trays full of sushi, sashimi and tempura. At one end of the table were wooden chopsticks wrapped in paper, at the other, plastic knives and forks for the inexperienced.

  I made my way between the people without bothering too much about the queue, filled a plate, poured a lot of soy sauce over it, took a pair of chopsticks and went and sat down on a stool away from the others, to eat in peace.

  The food was very good. It had clearly been prepared there, just before being served, not frozen and kept for hours in a fridge, and I enjoyed it more than anything I’d eaten for quite a while. A waiter passed with a tray of glasses filled with white wine. I took two, mumbling that I was expecting a lady. The wine wasn’t as good as the food, but at least it was nice and cold. I drank the first glass straight down and disposed of it under the stool, then sipped in a more civilized manner at the second. Gradually the crowd around the table dispersed.

  It was then that Natsu emerged from the room behind the table. She was in a white chef’s uniform, which set off her dark complexion and black hair spectacularly.

  She glanced at the table, which looked as if a swarm of locusts had passed over it. Then she looked around and I stood up without even realizing it. After a few moments, our eyes met. I waved awkwardly. She smiled and came towards me.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening.”

  There were a few seconds of embarrassment. I felt the impulse to say that the food was very good, that she was an exceptionally good cook, and other highly original remarks like that. Fortunately, I managed to restrain myself.

  “I could do with a cigarette. Do you mind going outside with me?”

  I said I didn’t mind at all and we walked together towards the entrance, where all the smokers had gathered. She took out a packet of blue Chesterfields, and offered me one. I said no, thanks. She took one for herself and lit it.

  “How long is it since you quit smoking?”

  “How do you know I quit?”

  “The way you looked at the packet. I know that look because I quit a few times myself. What do you think of the show?”

  “Interesting. I didn’t understand the catalogue at all, and I didn’t understand very much of the works. Then an Elton John lookalike who talked like the comedian Lino Banfi asked me if I was Piero’s boyfriend and-”

  She burst out laughing. Loudly, with real gusto, which surprised me because I didn’t think I’d been that funny.

  “I didn’t think you were so nice when I saw you at work.” She laughed again. “You were like one of those lawyers in American films, the efficient, ruthless kind.”

  Efficient and ruthless. I liked that. I’d have preferred “handsome and ruthless”, like Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, but I didn’t mind.

  She smoked a little more.

  “Did you come by car?”

  No, of course not, we’re only five or six miles from the centre of town. Every evening I train for the New York Marathon. I ran all the way here, in jumpsuit and track shoes, and changed before I came in.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ve finished here. I haven’t got a car, I came in the van with my colleagues. You could give me a lift home, if you like.”

  Yes, I’d like that, I said, trying to hide my surprise. She told me to give her five minutes, which was how long it would take her to get out of her work uniform, give instructions to her colleagues about clearing everything away, and say goodbye to the organizers of the evening.

  I stood and waited for her at the entrance, with the bodybuilder for company. Every now and again he’d whisper something into his microphone, his bovine eyes busy staring into the depths of nothingness.

  Almost a quarter of an hour went by. People came in and out. I should have asked myself what I was doing. I mean, Natsu was the wife of a client of mine who was in prison. I shouldn’t have been here. But I had no desire to ask myself that question.

  Natsu came out again. Even in the semi-darkness I noticed that she had spent part of those fifteen minutes doing her make-up and hair.

  “Shall we go?” she said.

  “Let’s go,” I replied.

  14

  We drove quickly to the ring road. As we moved onto the ramp, the electronic notes of ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ by Green Day came from the CD player.

  I told myself I was a fool and a hothead. I was over forty – well over forty – and I was behaving recklessly and like a bastard.

  Take her home now, say goodnight politely, then go home yourself and go to bed.

  “Shall we go for a drive?” I said.

  She did not reply immediately, as if she was undecided. Then she looked at her watch.

  “I don’t have much time, half an hour at the most. I promised the babysitter I’d be home by one. She’s a student and she has classes tomorrow.”

  Did you get that? She has to go home to her little girl, because, you idiot, she’s a married woman, with a daughter, and a husband in prison. And in case you’ve forgotten, her husband is your client. Now take her home and let that be the end of it.

  “Of course, of course, I just thought… we could go for a drive, listen to some music… Anyway, I’m sorry, I’ll take you home now, you’ll be there in no time… Just tell me the address-”

  “Listen,” she said, interrupting me, talking quickly, “this is what we can do, if you like. We go to my place, you drop me and drive around for ten minutes. I pay the babysitter, she leaves, and you come up for a drink and a little chat. What do you say?”

  I didn’t reply immediately because I couldn’t swallow. My moral dilemmas were swept away like the dirt in those commercials for sink cleaners. Yes, I said, that’d be great. We could have a drink and a chat.

  And maybe a
kiss and a cuddle and a fuck.

  And then repent at leisure.

  We reached her place, which was in Poggiofranco. An apartment block with a garden, the kind we used to envy when we were children, because the kids my age who lived in places like that could go down and play football whenever they liked, without their parents saying anything.

  In the Seventies, Poggiofranco had been known as something of a Fascist stronghold, certainly not a place where a child from a left-wing family would have gone. It struck me that their apartment may have been where Paolicelli had lived as a boy. It was an unsettling thought and I dismissed it immediately.

  Before she got out of the car, Natsu asked me for my mobile number. “I’ll call you in ten minutes,” she said, and was gone.

  I went and parked a couple of streets further on. I switched off the radio and sat there, in silence, enjoying the forbidden, intoxicating sense of anticipation. Just over fifteen minutes later-I had looked at my watch at least ten times – my mobile phone rang. She told me I could come now if I wanted to. Yes, I did want to, I said to myself after ringing off. I left the car where I had parked it, walked a few hundred yards, and in five minutes I was back at the apartment building. When I reached the landing, I found Natsu waiting for me. She let me in and quickly closed the door.

  The apartment had the characteristic smell of places where there are children. I hadn’t been to many but the smell was unmistakable. A mixture of talcum powder, milk, a hint of fruit and a few other things. Natsu led me to the kitchen. It was a large, warm, cheerful room with wooden furniture hand-varnished in yellow and orange. I told her I really liked the furniture and she replied that she had varnished all of it herself.

  In the kitchen, the smell of children was less obvious, covered by the nice smells of food. I remember thinking how good this apartment smelled, and then I wondered what the bedroom was like, and what it smelled like. I immediately felt ashamed and forced myself to think about something else.

  Natsu put on a CD. Feels Like Home by Norah Jones. At low volume, so as not to wake the little girl.

  She asked me what I wanted to drink and I said I wouldn’t mind a little rum if she had any. She took a bottle of Jamaican rum from a cupboard and poured some into two large, thick glasses.

  We were sitting at an orange-varnished wooden table. As we talked, I touched the surface of the table with my fingertips. I liked the touch of it, rough and smooth at the same time, and the bright orange colour. Everything in that kitchen gave me a feeling of sweet-smelling, light-filled solidity.

  “You do know I came to watch you in court, just before Fabio appointed you?”

  For some reason, I thought for a moment of saying, no, I didn’t know. Then I thought better of it.

  “Yes, I saw you.”

  “Ah. I thought that our eyes met once, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “How did you come to be there?”

  “Fabio told me he wanted to appoint you, so I thought I’d go and see if you were really as good as they’d told him you were.”

  “And how did you know I was going to be in court that day?”

  “I didn’t. I’d been going to the courthouse for a few days, walking past the courtrooms and asking people if anyone had seen a lawyer called Guerrieri. Once you passed by just as I was asking someone, and he was going to call you. I had to stop him. Then finally, they told me you were in court that morning, and your trial was just starting. So I went in and sat in on the whole hearing. And I thought you were as good as they said.”

  I didn’t think I could hide my childish smugness and so I decided to change the subject.

  “Do you mind my asking where your accent comes from?”

  Before answering, she opened the window, emptied her glass and took out a cigarette. Did I mind if she smoked? No, I didn’t mind. Which was both true and false.

  Her father, as I’d thought, was Japanese, and her mother from Naples. Her name was actually Maria Natsu, but no one had ever called her that. The name Maria only appeared on her papers, she said, and she paused for a few moments, as if this was something important that she’d only just become aware of.

  Then she refilled our glasses and told me her story.

  How she’d spent her childhood and adolescence partly in Rome, partly in Kyoto. How her parents had died in a road accident, while travelling. How she’d started work as a photographic and catwalk model. How she’d met Paolicelli in Milan.

  “Fabio was part-owner of a dress showroom. I was twenty-three when we met. All the girls were crazy about him. I felt so privileged when he chose me. We got married a year later.”

  “What’s the difference in age between you and him?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “How on earth did you end up in Bari, after Milan?”

  “For a few years, Fabio’s work was going really well. Then things changed, I never understood why. I won’t go into details, because it isn’t a very amusing story, but his firm went bankrupt and in a few months we were completely penniless. That’s when we decided to come to Bari, which is Fabio’s home town. He was born here and lived here until he was nineteen. This apartment belonged to his parents and was available. So at least we wouldn’t have to pay rent.”

  “Was that when you started working as a chef?”

  “Yes. I’d learned to cook when I was young. My father had two restaurants in Rome. When we got to Bari we had to make a new life for ourselves. Fabio became the representative for some designers he’d known in Milan, and I found work at Placebo, where they needed a Japanese chef two evenings a week. Then they started to offer me work organizing dinners and receptions. That’s my main job now. Apart from the restaurant, I’m busy at least eight or nine evenings a month.”

  “There’s a lot of money in this city. To organize a reception like the one tonight must seem like a good way to show it off.”

  I was about to add that a lot of that money was of dubious provenance, to say the least. But then I remembered that her husband’s money might not be all that legitimate either and I said nothing.

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “You live alone, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you always been alone? No wives or girlfriends?”

  I made a noise that was meant to be a kind of bitter laugh. As if to say: Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.

  “My wife left me some time ago. Or to be more precise, she told me she was leaving me some time ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Many excellent reasons.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me what these excellent reasons were. She didn’t.

  “And what happened after that?”

  Yes. What had happened? I tried to tell her, leaving out the parts I hadn’t really understood and the parts that were too painful. There were a lot of those. When I’d finished my story, it was her turn again, and that was how we got onto the subject of her ex-boyfriend Paolo and the game of wishes.

  “Paolo was a painter. For some reason you remind me of him. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in love with him.” She paused, and for a few moments her eyes seemed to be searching for something that wasn’t in the room. “He found a… a really beautiful way to tell me he liked me.”

  “What was it?”

  “The game of coloured wishes. He said a girlfriend had shown it to him, a few years before. But I’m sure he made it up on the spot, just for me.”

  She paused again for a few moments, probably remembering other things that she didn’t tell me. Instead she asked me if I wanted to play the game. I said I did, and she explained the rules.

  “You make three wishes. You have to say two of them, the third one you can keep secret. For the wishes to come true, they must have a colour.”

  I half-closed my eyes and moved my head slightly towards her. Like someone who hasn’t heard, or hasn’t quite understood. “A colour?”

  “Yes, it’s one of the rules. The wishes can only come true if they’re in colour.�
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  For the wishes to come true, they must be in colour. Right. Now I knew why none of the wishes I’d made in my life had come true. There was this rule, and no one had told me.

  “Tell me your wishes.”

  I can’t usually answer questions about wishes. Either I can’t or don’t want to. Which comes to the same thing.

  Confessing your wishes, your real wishes, even to yourself, is dangerous. If they can be realized, which they often can, stating them confronts you with your fear of trying. In other words, with your own cowardice. So you prefer not to think about them, or you tell yourself they’re impossible, and grown-up people don’t wish for impossible things.

  That night I replied without hesitation. “When I was a little boy I used to say that I wanted to be a writer.”

  “All right. And what colour is that wish?”

  “Blue, I’d say.”

  “What kind of blue?”

  “Blue. I don’t know.”

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand, like a schoolmistress dealing with a pupil who’s a bit thick. Then she stood up, left the kitchen and came back a minute later, with a book called The Great Atlas of Colours.

  “There are two hundred colours here. Now choose your wish.”

  She opened the book at the first page of the section on blues. There were lots and lots of little squares with the most incredible shades of blue. Under each one, a name. Some I’d never heard of, and not knowing the names I hadn’t even seen them. Things don’t exist unless you have names for them, I thought, as I started to leaf through the pages.

  Prussian blue, turquoise, slate, dark sky blue, Provencal lavender blue, topaz blue, cold blue, powder blue, baby blue, indigo, French marine, ink, Mediterranean blue, sapphire, royal blue, clear cyan, fleur-de-lys, and many others.

  “You mustn’t be approximate, otherwise your wishes won’t come true. Choose the exact colour of your wish.”

  It only took me a few more seconds. “The exact colour is indigo,” I said.

  She nodded, as if it was the answer she had expected. The right answer.

  “Second wish.”

  It was getting harder now, but again I didn’t hesitate.