100 Days of Happiness (22 page)

W
hen I don't know how to tell Paola something, my natural adviser is the man who helped create her, and who knows her intricate and complex instruction manual by heart: Oscar.

“I don't get exactly what you're supposed to be doing on this trip.”

“Oh, nothing. Don't imagine some sort of tourist's delight of erotic clubs and soft drugs.”

“That's too bad, because I was thinking of coming along too,” he says with a wink as he slides a pan of cat's tongue cookies into the oven. Outside the pastry shop the night is silent.

“It's just an excursion, a group of friends, a way of remembering the old days. A week's vacation. My last.”

“I don't see anything wrong with that. By the way, where are you on your countdown?”

“Thirty-five,” I reply: I love how he tackles complicated topics.

“Ah, thirty-five, perfect. In fact there's a codicil in the civil code: ‘Anyone with thirty-five days left to live can always do just as he pleases.'”

The Sinhalese, Saman, summons Oscar back to work. They have to finish making pastries for the Monday morning opening. I stick around for a few more minutes, just long enough to eat a doughnut left over from yesterday's breakfast.

I call Paola and let her know I'm going to pick up the kids at school. I haven't been able to tell whether or not they've sensed the friction separating their parents and whether they've noticed that I'm
sick. We've done everything we can to be cheerful and sunny when we're with them, but children have a sixth sense, just like animals. I wonder at what age they lose this form of extrasensory perception. For a fleeting moment, I wonder whether Paola was right about telling them. Should they hear it from their dad? Is that the best thing to do? But another voice, louder than the rest, shouts, “
No!
” That put the issue to rest. For the moment.

The fact remains that whether they're aware of it or not, they're acting as if nothing's wrong: they tell me all about their day at school, and they lunge headfirst at the pastries “Made in Grandpa” that I've brought home. Two hours later, in the living room, I broach the thorny issue with Paola. When I utter the word “Eurail” she gazes at me as if I've lost my mind.

“Are you seriously thinking of getting another Eurail pass?”

“Yes. But a discount version. A mini-Eurail.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life.”

Excellent beginning.

“You're thinking of going away now?” she asks.

I know what she's saying. I've thought of it myself. Taking time away from her, from the kids, in these last few days seems like a selfish thing to do. She doesn't say it, but it's there in the expression on her face. I stay silent.

“But it strikes me as brilliant, I have to say,” she finally says, with an amused smile. “A few days with your friends can only do you good.”

I look at her, openmouthed. Once again, Paola has astonished me. I thought I was going to have to argue, and instead I have her blessing.

“Whose idea was it?”

“Umberto's.”

She nods as if to say, “Of course.”

“But please be careful not to overtire yourself. And get back in time for the kids' last day of school. We need to attend the party for
the beginning of summer holiday. All the parents are going. And Lorenzo's starring in the school play.”

“I wouldn't miss it.”

I look her in the eye and can't keep from adding: “I love you.”

“I know,” she replies. And turns to go.

I let myself flop back onto the sofa.

So we're going. Corrado, Umberto, and I have been talking about taking a trip together for years.

It's now or never.

I
still have the old packing list I used over and over in my Boy Scout days to make sure I forgot nothing. The indispensable equipment for a vacation.

2 T-shirts

1 extra pair of pants

1 K-Way jacket

Contact lenses

2 pairs underpants

2 pairs socks

Running shoes

Sandals

Autan spray mosquito repellent

1 notebook + 1 pen

1 liquid-gas camp stove

1 spare gas canister

1 pasta pot

1 package of crackers

2 plates + 1 cup

1 spoon + 1 fork + 1 knife

1 tube toothpaste + 1 toothbrush

1 Polaroid camera + packets of film

1 box of condoms

I smile as I note a number of remarkable gaps in my planning, such as the absence of deodorant or proper shirts. I add to the list and I spend two wonderful hours choosing what to bring, including my old and still working Polaroid camera. I realize that packing for a trip might be even more exciting than the trip itself.

 * * * 

I sense a presence behind me.

It's Paola, watching as I select socks.

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” she asks.

“Corrado's coming by to pick me up at six in the evening.”

“Good. I hope you all have a good time.”

I can't tell if there's a hint of venom or if the blessing she's just given me is genuine.

“I hope so too, my love.”

She doesn't reply. She barely smiles at me and slips into the kitchen. She hasn't called me
her
love in months.

I don't know if I'll be able to enjoy myself on this trip. But I'm going to have to do my best. I'm turning into one of those little old men who never talk about anything but their aches and pains, an unpleasant person, tiresome to be around.

U
mberto still has the backpack from our first trip, military surplus, beat up and none too comfortable, with a pair of straps that cut into his shoulders. Corrado and I, in contrast, have bought two ultramodern camping packs. We've decided we don't give a damn about total fidelity in our replica of the first trip.

Twenty years ago too, our train pulled out of Termini, Rome's glorious central station. Umberto, perfect Boy Scout that he is, got there early and even brought a bag with food for the first part of the trip. Corrado, who hates trains, tried repeatedly until the last minute to persuade us to take a free plane ticket on his airlines, but Umberto was having none of it: “We went by train then and we'll go by train now,” he brusquely dismisses the suggestion. First stop, then and now, Munich, the obligatory destination of any Eurail pass worthy of the name. Second-class couchettes so we could feel like the youthful globetrotters we once were. We have a four-person compartment designated—probably with a twist of irony—a “C4 Comfort.” The comfort in question consists of a plastic-wrapped drinking glass, an antiseptic hand wipe, a paper toilet seat cover, and—hear ye, hear ye—individually wrapped disposable slippers. While waiting for the train to pull out, we silently pray there'll be no fourth passenger. No such luck: here he is. The world's worst possible specimen of couchette mate: a nonstop talker.

I should tell you, privately, that someone about to die of cancer probably shouldn't travel by couchette sleeping car. They told me that
I coughed all night long, and I imagine that my friends considered the possibility of suffocating me in my sleep more than once. The absurd thing is that, by now, when I cough, it doesn't even wake me up anymore. That night was no exception. A night train is like a magic cradle for me. The rhythmic clacking sound resembles a lullaby sung to you by a loving nanny. I slept and slept and when I woke up, the train was pulling into the Munich train station. And that's when our trip really began to pick up.

T
he first contact with Germany is always slightly troubling. The German language is so different from ours that when I hear the voice come over the loudspeaker, I can't even tell the difference between advertisements and station announcements.

There's a surprise waiting for me at the end of Track 4.

A man walks toward us with a smile on his face. He's put on a few pounds, he's lost some hair, but I recognize him instantly. He's a cadet of Gascony, the fourth musketeer, the youngest of us all, the most skilled with a sword.

D'Artagnan.

Our D'Artagnan—known in civilian life as Andrea Fantastichini, last desk in the back of the classroom, on the left. I can't believe my eyes, and I practically burst into tears. I haven't seen him in twenty years. Twenty Years After, just as that great genius Dumas foretold, the three musketeers become four again. We hug trackside, first taking turns, and then in a long group hug. Seized by uncontrollable euphoria, we shout out a “one for all, and all for one!” Four Italian imbeciles making fools of themselves in the Munich central station.

A few minutes later I discover that it was Corrado who persuaded Andrea to join us on our trip. Our old friend left Denmark, where he's lived for all these years, and come to meet us. He's going to do the whole Eurail trip with us.

D'Artagnan was the best one of the four. A couple of years after finishing high school he took off for London with his guitar in search
of fame and fortune. Now I can state with some certainty that he never found it. After a few years of London nightlife, he fell in love with Birgitte, a Danish fashion model who looked as if she'd stepped out of a
Playboy
centerfold, and followed her back to Copenaghen. I never heard anything more from him; only Corrado maintained sporadic contact, first by mail and later via Facebook. His carefree songs used to brighten our summer nights. These days he gives private guitar lessons in the Danish capital, while his wife, Birgitte—with whom he had two kids and who now looks like Miss Piggy—divorced him a couple of years ago. He lives in a little cottage by the sea which, from the pictures, resembles the witch's house in a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. He tells me that, what with the cost of life in general and his alimony payments, he barely makes it to the end of the month. Back in high school I would have bet anything that Andrea, or Andy as everyone called him, would become a rock star. As on so many other occasions, this time I was also sadly mistaken.

I admit it: I'm happy to see him, and I'm happy I've come on this trip. But that happiness lasts only for an imperceptible instant until I notice that my friends walking a few steps ahead of me look like three old men. Three elderly musketeers hunched over beneath the burden of their backpacks and their age. Nowadays, a man who is forty and some change is hardly old. But if he pretends he's eighteen and dresses accordingly, he's old, and how.

 * * * 

I still haven't phoned home. I do it as we're walking toward the bed-and-breakfast where Umberto made a reservation. Eva answers: “Battistini residence!”

The formality of her telephone manners has always made me laugh.

“This is Papà. How are you? How was school today?”

“I got an A plus on my class composition.”

“Good job!”

I never got an A plus in my life, except in phys ed. I've always thought that people who get A pluses in school are losers, destined to miss out in life. But my daughter is again proving me wrong.

“Let me talk to Mamma.”

“She's out grocery shopping. Do you want to talk to Signora Giovanna?”

Signora Giovanna is our neighbor, a prodigious producer of marmalades and children. She is an impassioned believer in UFOs, she sees mysteries everywhere, and she is certain that the ghost of a long-ago tenant who was brutally murdered lives on in our apartment. In spite of this weird passion of hers, every once in a while we trust her with our children. As a babysitter, given her many years of motherhood, she's better than Mary Poppins.

“No, thanks. Tell Mamma that I'm in Munich and that I love her.”

“I'll convey the message. Miao, Papà!”

“I'll convey the message.” Her formality is no longer making me smile. I have to do something for my daughter. At age six and a half, “I'll convey the message,” even when it's followed by a “Miao” that does something to mitigate it, ought to be against the law. I wonder again if she knows about Fritz, and that's why she was so cold. Perhaps she's thinking, how could he leave us and go off to have a good time now? I don't blame her. But the Papà who would have stayed would have become more and more depressed and surly. These few days away might change me, might make me a more fun person to be around. There's no reason why my little girl should know that. Her coldness was justified, even if it hurts.

 * * * 

There's one more thing that ought to be illegal, and which I'd gladly add to the wall in Trastevere under the section
THINGS
I
HATE
: seeing men cry. I've almost never cried in public in my life. I have an inborn
shame that keeps my tears from displaying themselves in all their natural splendor.

I'd never seen Andrea cry before. He was our general, my North Star, my absolute personal myth. A man without fear, without rivals, and above all, a man who never wept.

When I saw the first tear roll down his cheek, it was like watching an absurd and supernatural event for me, like seeing the apparition of the Archangel Gabriel during a World Cup finals match.

We were left behind, alone, for half an hour in the tiny lobby of the bed-and-breakfast, waiting for Corrado and Umberto, who'd gone out to buy some souvenirs.

“I'm not a happy man, my friend,” was his opening phrase.

“What's wrong?” I ask him gently.

“What's wrong is that I haven't achieved any of my childhood dreams. And life has no meaning if you never achieve them.”

Andy has always been good at boiling things down to essentials.

Childhood dreams. What you write in second grade in the composition “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up.” The only things that really matter in life.

I know, and I've always known, but only now does the truth of this concept explode in my face like a New Year's Eve firecracker. If you don't achieve your childhood dreams, you're a failure. My childhood dream, as you know, was to be a ride tester in an amusement park. So straight up: I'm a failure.

Andy's composition, on the other hand, was far more original than mine. From his mumblings, between one sob and the next, this is more or less how I picture it.

In the year 2000 I'll be twenty-seven years old. When you're twenty-seven you're an old man who has to work to make money for your kids. I'll urn lots of money and I'll be plenty welthy enough. I'll also be plenty handsome and tall and
smart and inturesting. Like, the year before I'll have married a pretty girl, like an actress, and I'll live on the beach, but I mean right next to the beach and the café where they sell ice cream bars. My job is going to be a very famous singer. I'll sing at the Festival of Sanremo and I'll win four times, no wait five times, once with another singer. My most famous song is going to be
You Who I Don't Love You No More
and it will be at the top of the charts for a whole year. I'm also going to be very happy because all of italy loves me and smiles at me in the streat. If they smile at you in the streat then you're happy. If they don't smile at you in the streat then you're sad and you jump out a window. But when I'm thirty-seven I'll be happy. And just to be safe I'm going to live on the grownd floor.

I can also imagine his grade: a C minus minus, partly because of the repetitious content, but also because of the spelling mistakes scattered liberally throughout.

“I haven't achieved anything worth mentioning in my life,” Andy goes on, after blowing his nose. “I don't have any money for my kids, and I hardly ever see them because that bitch can't stand me. My songs never made it onto the charts. And nobody smiles at me in the street,” he concludes with an ironic glance that I know all too well.

“Your songs are wonderful,” I say, trying to buck him up.

“But you've never even heard them.”

“Yes, I have, I remember a couple of them clearly. . . . What was that one about the guy waiting at the station for a train that never came?”

“‘The Train Station of Life
,'
and it was a depressing dirge if ever I've heard one. It might have been the worst song I've ever written.”

“Well, I liked it. Andy, you're forty years old, why don't you start
over? Lots of artists have been successful when they were no longer young.”

“Like who?”

“Like . . . I don't know . . . Van Gogh!”

“But he was already dead!”

“Okay, it was just an example. . . . Why don't you go back to Italy? Have you ever considered that possibility?”

“Because I could never live far from my children. If they need me, I have to be there for them.”

I sit in silence.

Andy has given up everything for love of his children. I've been underestimating him. He's still my hero.

We grab each other in a bear hug. This one's not like the ones at the end of some soccer game, one of those hasty, virile warrior hugs. This is a very different kind of embrace. Only now does it become clear to me that our bond has never broken in the past twenty years. Andy is still an absolute legend to me. Even if he's sobbing on my shoulder. Actually, precisely because of it.

Porthos and D'Artagnan stand there embracing for a couple of minutes, then our friends come back and the games resume. But Andy's words stay with me.

“I could never live far from my children.”

The world's simplest concept.

I try to imagine what Lorenzo and Eva are doing right now. Maybe they're building a Lego Eiffel Tower, maybe they're having a Wii dance-off, or maybe I just don't know. I realize that, being so preoccupied with my disease as I am, I've sort of lost touch with them.

 * * * 

I can only describe the last part of our first night in Munich with this image, and the only memory I have: the four of us walking into a
beer hall singing songs in Roman dialect with extremely vulgar rhymes. Alcohol has erased all the rest. The last time I got drunk I was nineteen years old, I was with my team, and we'd just won the Serie A championship. I don't even remember when, how, and in what condition we returned to the bed-and-breakfast.