100 Days of Happiness (27 page)

T
he next stop on our journey is the Pinocchio Park in Tuscany. This isn't a supertechnological theme park with roller coasters and 3D movies, and I have to say that's a large part of its appeal. It's a nineteenth-century kind of place where it feels as if you really can breathe the air of one of the world's most famous fairy tales. The restaurant is called the Osteria del Gambero Rosso, the original Italian name of the Red Prawn Inn, and there are lots of statues and paintings depicting scenes and characters from the story.

I feel completely at home: I know everything about Pinocchio.

“Kids, did you know that Pinocchio actually isn't a puppet at all, but a marionette? Puppets are the ones you stick your hand inside, while marionettes are the ones on strings that you move from above. The mistake comes from Collodi's own writing, and, in fact, he calls Pinocchio a puppet throughout the book.”

“So was Collodi a dummy?” is Eva's impertinent question.

“No, but he does get a lot of things mixed up. For instance, he calls the monster who swallows Pinocchio a shark, but then he describes it as more of a whale. And, in fact, in the Walt Disney
Pinocchio
it's depicted as a whale.”

“I don't like Pinocchio. I like Peter Pan,” says Lorenzo, still filled with the excitement of his role in the school play.

“They're not really all that different,” I argue. “They're both little boys who don't want to grow up. They even become friends.”

“But if they're made-up storybook characters, then how could they ever become friends?” asks my little one.

“No one knows it, but the two of them met in the Land of Toys.”

“There's no such place as the Land of Toys!” Lorenzo exclaims.

“There is so, and how! I've even been there. That's where I met Romeo.”

“Wait, who's Romeo?” asks Paola: even she is getting involved. Little by little, I'm drawing her deep into my web.

“Romeo is Pinocchio's friend, though we all know him as Candlewick, his nickname.”

“Did you meet Candlewick?” Eva asked, in astonishment.

“I didn't just meet him, we were friends.”

“
The Adventures of Pinocchio
is a novel from the late nineteenth century. Just how old are you, Papà?” Lorenzo does his best to destroy all shreds of poetry with a question.

“I met him in the seventies. I was just a little boy, and he was almost a hundred.”

“You were friends with an old man?” Eva asks, baffled.

“Of course! Age doesn't count among friends.”

“So you were friends with a hundred-year-old donkey?” Lorenzo insists.

Oh, right, I'd forgotten that in the book Candlewick turns into a donkey.

“True, in fact, he was a donkey, then after a few years he was forgiven and changed back into a boy. I met him many years later. I wound up in the Land of Toys once when I got lost while I was out on a bike ride.”

“Where is the Land of Toys?” Lorenzo asks, starting to come around.

“No one knows. The only way to get there is by accident. I immediately recognized the lit-up entrance, it looked like the way into an amusement park. Inside were thousands of children and just one little old man: Candlewick.”

“So why was he still there?” Eva's curiosity is piqued by now.

“Because he didn't have any friends in the outside world. Pinocchio had moved away—no one knew where—and he'd found a job as a custodian of the Land of Toys.”

“How did you become friends?” asks my little girl.

“It's a long story.”

“I'll tell it to you,” Paola jumps in, to my surprise.

I'm speechless. The relay-race fairy tale is a specialty of the house. Paola and I have told dozens of these call-and-response bedtime stories to our children, but today this was completely unexpected. Something on the order of a miracle.

Paola continues.

“I was on vacation with my parents in the countryside. I was about ten, I think, and I was flying a kite. It came down in the forest, and when I went in to find it I got lost. The sun was setting.”

I seize the baton in this narrative relay race and go on.

“At the same time, I had just arrived in the Land of Toys and Candlewick had stopped me at the entrance because my name didn't appear on the guest list.”

“Just then I show up and I pretend that Papà is my brother. And that I'm very worried about him because he has a few screws loose.”

“At first, Candlewick was a little skeptical, but he finally comes around, decides he likes us, and invites us to dinner. An excellent dinner consisting of chocolate, cotton candy, and various assorted hard candies, all of them treats made by a very skillful pastry chef who worked there.”

“After dinner, he takes us on a tour of the Land of Toys in his mouse-drawn carriage, purchased secondhand from the Blue Fairy. Everywhere we looked there were amusement park rides, movie houses, theaters, fun of all kinds to be had. And thousands of children just like us. An earthly paradise.”

“We play all night, until the sun rises the next day, while
Candlewick falls asleep on the coachman's box of the carriage. The next day he tells us that, for our own health, it might be best if we leave now. A second day in the Land of Toys is invariably fatal.”

“Because you turn into donkeys?” Lorenzo asks.

“Of course,” Paola replies, “that's no fairy tale, the way we thought it was. And to convince us, he shows us the stalls where they keep all the children who have been turned into little jackasses.”

“That day we leave together and go back home. A few years later, Candlewick turned one hundred and retired. I grew up and never managed to find my way back to the Land of Toys.”

“Too bad,” Eva comments.

“Right,” I say. “Luckily, though, many years later I found Mamma again.”

I try to catch Paola's eye and manage to, but only for a fleeting instant. She's enjoyed the relay-race fairy tale as much as I have. But my children haven't: they're a little disappointed in a story that lacks at least a dragon, an ogre, or a mysterious horseman.

Lorenzo says, “If that's a true story, it's a miserable one. If you just came up with it now, it's not much—you can certainly do better.”

At last Paola and I look at each other. We can't help laughing. I start to wrap my arms around her, but she dodges me and changes the subject.

“Let's all go get something to eat at the Red Prawn Inn. Aren't you hungry?”

The small chorus of yeses is explicit and unequivocal. We all go out to eat. I watch Paola as she steers the kids toward the restaurant, helps them order—“No, you can't start with dessert, sorry”; and “Spinach it is. You've had no greens for two days.” I feel like a striker who's just scored a goal. But the emotional match still has a long time to run.

A
rgentario. A glittering, silvery word that has a magical significance for me and for Paola: it was here, ten years ago, that we conceived Lorenzo. I've reserved the same small hotel we stayed in ten years ago; it's under new management but it remains a deeply romantic little place. It's on the promontory between Porto Ercole and Porto Santo Stefano, in the part of Argentario least frequented by tourists. I remember it as a piece of heaven, and I can't say for the life of me why we've never gone back since.

“Did you know, Lorenzo, that Mamma and Papà conceived you here?”

“So I'm not from Rome?”

“You were born in Rome, but you were conceived here.”

Eva breaks in: “What does it mean to be conceived?”

Here we go.

“That means that this is where Papà and Mamma kissed each other lots of times and decided to have a baby. Lorenzo, to be specific.”

“Kisses aren't enough to make a baby,” Lorenzo points out; “you have to have sex.”

I take it in stride. “That's right, in fact, we had sex and nine months later Lorenzo was born. And we were right here, in this hotel.”

“Was Papà already fat?” Eva asks.

Paola, who up to now has been uncomfortable, breaks into a smile.

“Yes, he was already, let's say, solidly built.”

“We're here,” I announce brusquely as we turn in at the hotel gate.

As we unload the luggage, I say, “Tonight Papà and Mamma are going to have dinner by themselves. I've found someone to look after you.”

Paola immediately raises objections. “I have no intention of leaving my children with some teenage girl I've never met.”

I savor this moment that I've been anticipating for days now.

“Actually,” I begin, “it's definitely not a teenage girl, but especially it's not someone you've never met.”

I point to someone behind her. Paola turns and sees Martina waving hello, at the hotel entrance. And behind Miss Marple, there's Oscar, beaming happily in a pair of sunglasses. They both look ten years younger.

“Are they acceptable babysitters?” I ask with a smile.

The children run straight at their grandparents, shouting happily.

“The pastry shop is closed today,” I explain, “so I asked your father to take a trip to Argentario with Martina. I must say I didn't have to ask twice.”

Paola surrenders. But it's like pulling teeth.

 * * * 

At sunset we entrust Lorenzo and Eva to the babysitters and I take Paola to dinner in the hotel's cozy restaurant, a romantic paradise overlooking the water. We order an antipasto of raw fish.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asks while we wait.

“Because I wanted to show Lorenzo the place where he was conceived.”

“Let me repeat the question. Why did you bring
me
here?”

I give her a straight answer to a straight question.

“Because it's an important place to the two of us as a couple, and you can't imagine how badly I want to make peace with you. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, a thousand times forgive me.”

“You know something, Lucio?”

When she calls me Lucio and not
amore,
that's always a bad sign.

“If I'd married someone like Corrado, I'd have counted on his cheating on me; in fact, I'd have expected it on a regular basis. Let's just say that it would have been less of a letdown. But I would have sworn you weren't the type, that it wouldn't happen to us.”

“I made a mistake—what can I do about it now?”

“Don't keep after me, I need more time.”

“That's one thing I don't have.”

She realizes what she's just said. She falls silent for a few moments, then goes on.

“I wish I could just forget everything. You don't know how much I wish that. But I closed a door emotionally when you did what you did. I know that you can't understand it, but that's how it is. That's how it is right now.”

A big platter of shellfish comes to the table and cuts the tension. As we sample the prawns and shrimp, Paola continues: “Do you remember a year ago, when I went to see a new orthopedist because I had that persistent pain in my shoulder?”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly suspicious at this abrupt change of topic.

“He wasn't a kind and elderly specialist, like I told you. He was forty-five years old, movie-star handsome, and incredibly fit. And he was an obvious lady-killer, a real son of a bitch. I was attracted to him.”

I'm glued to my chair.

“One day, after an exam, he kissed me.”

“What did you do?”

“I was surprised, and then I kissed him back and then . . .”

“And then?”

“I ran out of the room. I got a new orthopedist without telling you anything about it.”

“There was just one kiss?”

“Just the one kiss. I resisted. At least,
I
did.”

The first-person pronoun repeated twice draws the curtain on our conversation. I can't help the angry blur of adrenaline that fills me. Is this jealousy or just male pride? I don't know. Do I have the right to be jealous after what I did to her? I don't know where to go from here. We eat the rest of our dinner in silence, like an old and disgruntled married couple.

When we return to the lobby, we find our babysitters in the thick of a game of hide-and-seek being played not only by our children, but those of the hotel's owners as well.

“Everything okay?” Oscar asks me, when he sees the defeated look on my face.

“Everything's fine,” I lie.

A little later, we say good night to him and Martina, thanking them for their lightning visit. They're staying in the same hotel, but tomorrow morning at dawn they'll head back to Rome.

“Don't get used to this door-to-door service,” Oscar mutters.

“Enjoy the rest of your trip, kids,” Martina calls out. Lorenzo notices I hold Oscar in a longer embrace than usual.

“Papà, you know we're going to see Grandpa again in two weeks, back in Rome!”

I break out of the hug as if I've been caught red-handed being sentimental. When the two old people move away, arm in arm, upstairs, a piece of me goes with them.

H
ere's the moment I've been waiting for the whole trip: the men-only day. Lorenzo and me.

We leave Paola and Eva in the hotel, both of them amply occupied, Paola for a spa day, Eva for a mini volleyball tournament, and we set off, shouldering our backpacks along the Argentario promontory. We're wearing T-shirts and bermuda shorts, we're carrying fruit and water, we have plenty of suntan cream and beach towels. We're two perfect day-trippers.

“An hour's walk from here,” I explain to Lorenzo, “there's a way down to the water, carved out of the rock, that no one knows about.”

“Then how come you do?”

“Your great-grandfather took me there when I was your age.”

“And how did he know about it?”

“When he was in the navy, he landed one day in this area and scouted the whole coast.”

I show him the little cove we're heading for on Google Maps on my iPhone. He seems convinced.

“Is the water shallow?” he asks me. His number one enemy is deep water. I reassure him.

“Yes, there's a little beach with some rocks, but you can touch bottom.”

He seems satisfied. We walk at a good pace under a blazing sun. We take a trail that runs along the cliff edge. A place for mountain goats.

“Be careful, watch where you put your feet, and keep your hand on the rock face.”

The path starts heading downhill, with a series of hairpin curves. The pebbly dirt is slippery and dangerous. The footing is precarious. We proceed slowly and cautiously. Every so often I cough, but I do my best to conceal my difficulties. I feel empty, drained.

My photographic memory flickers on, and suddenly I remember everything. The roles are reversed: I'm Lorenzo, and Grandpa is me. I even remember that once or twice I almost slipped and fell. Lorenzo is more surefooted, or maybe his shoes are better than the Mecap sneakers I wore thirty years ago.

“Can I ask you a question, Papà?”

“Yes, of course you can.”

“Who is this buddy Fritz you talk about sometimes with Mamma? Is he a friend of yours I've never met?”

“That's right, you've never met him. He's not a very nice person and I hope you never do meet him.”

“Then why do you say he's your buddy?”

“It's an ironic figure of speech. Sort of like when Eva tells you that you're the head of the class.”

“So that's like making fun of somebody?”

“Not exactly. Irony is something a little more subtle. To mean one thing, you say something else that means the opposite. For example, last week, when you broke that picture frame with a soccer ball, what did I say to you?”

“You said: ‘Nice work, congratulations!'”

“That's right, I was being ironic.”

Lorenzo smiles. He understands.

I smile back at him. It's a shame we didn't have more of these men-only days. A real shame.

By now we're close to the water. I think we're here. I remember
that there's one last section through the trees, and then we'll see the wonderful cove.

But when we get there, the cove is overrun by a horde of vacationers, conveyed there by two large boats anchored a short way offshore, just a hundred feet or so from the beach. Beach umbrellas, noise, the scent of tanning creams, beach tennis, bikinis, water fights, tomato-and-mozzarella panini. An inlet with fifty yards of rocky beach, as crowded as a department store during a fire sale.

Lorenzo stares at me and exclaims: “This unspoiled beach is magnificent, nice work, Papà.”

I see that he has a firm grip on the concept of irony. I can't keep myself from laughing.

We find a rocky corner of the cove where we leave our towels and backpacks.

“They aren't going to steal our things, are they?” Lorenzo asks.

“We'll keep an eye on them. . . . Come on, let's go in the water.”

I pull off my T-shirt and gesture for him to follow. He hesitates. Then he follows.

I run into the water and then launch headlong into a dive. Lorenzo takes a few steps then stands there, water lapping at his waist. The reassuring contact with the sandy seabed is like Linus's blanket for him.

I go over to him.

“You want to try the dead man's float? I'll hold you up.”

He agrees and lets me pick him up. One hand under his head, the other under his hips.

“Take a deep breath. The human body is like a piece of wood. It floats. It can't sink.”

“Not even if I swallow five gallons of water?”

“What does that have to do with anything? Of course you could sink if you swallow enough water. But if you go underwater, just keep your mouth closed, and that way you won't swallow.”

Lorenzo relaxes. He shuts his eyes and allows himself to be lulled by the ebb and flow of the waves. I support him easily, thanks to Archimedes' principle. Slowly, very slowly, I release him. Then I let him float free, but stay close. He doesn't even notice. His waterline is perfect, allowing him to bob easily until he opens his eyes and it dawns on him that I'm no longer holding him up. He starts to thrash and flail, trying to touch bottom, but the current has taken us out a short way and the water is too deep for him.

“Papà, I'm drowning!”

“Don't worry . . . you're not drowning,” I say from six feet away, and it's enough to reassure him. “Try moving your legs the way you do when you ride a bike.”

He does as he's told. But his flailing arms keep him from maintaining a proper balance.

“That's enough, Papà. Help me!”

“The more you relax the more you tend to stay on the surface. Come on, pedal your legs and sweep the surface with your arms, as if you were trying to dig a hole in the water.”

Pedaling with his feet, digging with his arms . . . He's already doing better.

“Let's get back to the sand. I can't do this!”

“You
can
do it! Come on . . . pedal your legs down below, move your arms together up top, like a frog.”

At last he starts to keep a regular pace. He relaxes. He's floating.

“You see, you can do it.”

He smiles, amazed that he's swimming.

Legs, arms, legs, arms.

Lorenzo has just learned to swim. There'll be plenty of time for him to pick up the strokes and styles later.

I pick him up and hug him tight. He collapses, exhausted, in my arms. I carry him a few yards closer in, where he can touch bottom.

“You did great!” I exclaim.

“Are you being ironic?” he asks me as he catches his breath.

“No, I'm being perfectly serious. Here's something for later, son. Trust yourself. Even if you're really, really scared, never let on that you are.”

“Why?”

“You're showing your game, you see? There's no need to let anyone have the upper hand, and by showing you're scared, you let an opponent think he's got one over you. He doesn't, but he thinks he does. And that might actually help him win.”

“Um . . . what if you're so scared, you really fail? Like when you can't remember the answers to the questions the teacher asks you about history in front of the whole class? Or when you can't speak the truth because you know it'll get you in trouble?”

“Well, that can be a problem. That's true. But when you fail at something, you can actually learn from it. I failed at so many things before I learned to do them well. And some I had to give up on completely because I hurt my knee.”

“Like what?”

“Well, all competitive sports were out. And in the end, I learned water polo . . .”

“Where you're a star!”

I can't help the smile that covers my face when my boy says that. “No star, Lorenzo. Good, maybe. Star, no. But I'm happy with that. See, you have to be happy.”

We stretch out in the sun to dry off and eat the sandwiches we had the hotel make for us. We stay there until the boats sail away and the sun has almost sunk to the horizon. The beach is covered with trash, the remnants of the invasion of swimmers. We set out to clean it up. We make two huge piles of garbage and hope that one of the two pilots is shamed into taking it away tomorrow.

It's dark by the time we get back to our women, and we're so tired we don't even have the strength to eat dinner.

“How did it go?” Paola asks me as soon as we're alone.

“I should have spent more time with him.” Sadness forms pools in my eyes.

“I know,” is my wife's pained reply. “I know.”