100 Days of Happiness (32 page)

Tomorrow is July 14. An important day.

I
brought a formal suit with me. Dead people are always well dressed, even if they went through their lives as total slobs wearing ragged T-shirts and beach sandals.

When I pull the suit out of my suitcase, it immediately strikes me as a terrible idea. I can't possibly die in a jacket and tie.

Instead, I put on my water polo team tracksuit. That's more like me.

I put it on and I avoid the mirror. This morning my cough just won't give me peace and my cheeks are hollower than usual. Since I said good-bye to Paola it's as if my body has completely given up fighting; I feel like a marathon runner who collapses three feet past the finish line and falls to his knees. I have a hard time breathing and the pain in my belly is like repeated stabs by a poisoned arrow.

I open the window. Outside, the grounds are silent. There's even a timid shaft of sunlight, come to bid me farewell.

Ralph Malph appears from behind me with the breakfast tray. Two slices of melba toast, a little plastic container of jelly, a cup of coffee, and a plastic cup of discount-chain orange juice. After all, why waste good food on someone who's already slumped in a heap on the ground after the race is over.

“Thanks, I'd prefer not to eat.”

“All right. The appointment is for noon,” the dutiful male nurse informs me.

“I'll be on time.”

“Do you want me to come back to get you, or shall we just arrange to meet on the fourth floor?”

“I'll come on my own, thanks. Can I go for a walk in the grounds?”

“Certainly. If you need anything, just let me know.”

He walks out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. By now Paola must be alone in the kitchen, making breakfast for the kids. A very different kind of breakfast.

A strange, desolate feeling overcomes me as I sit there, wondering what to do with myself until it's time to go. It's not unlike the feeling I experienced as a child of four when my mother went off to India with her girlfriend, and I remained with my grandparents. I didn't know my mother well, but I knew I'd been abandoned. Is there any child in the world, however little, who doesn't know that? And then it hits me, like a tidal wave. My children will think, surely, that I abandoned them, that I simply walked away. Aware of how little time is left to me now, I sit there in a cold panic. It's the reverse of what I want. I want them to know how loved they are, how leaving them is the most painful thing I've ever experienced.

Then I decide what to do, to solve the dangling issue which had been nagging at both Paola and me, and which I resolutely decided not to tend to. Namely, the issue of telling the kids. Sitting here in this sterile room, with nothing familiar around me, with only my memories to accompany me, I experience the deepest urge in the world to tell my kids I'm leaving them. I suppose the white pad of paper with its sleek matte-steel pen lying on the dresser is for just this purpose. Unfinished business like mine.

“I remember everything,” I write,

every single thing, about you both, my kids, as I sit here and wait for death to come for me. The day you were born, Lorenzo, was the happiest day of my life—you were so angelic. If I had known you were going to morph into a mechanical
dervish, I probably wouldn't have grinned from ear to ear whenever I saw you that first year of your life. (Just kidding! Even when you destroyed my record player, I knew, in your case, it was always in the interests of a higher calling!) You do everything with enviable concentration. The way you play the piano, pounding and stroking, as the piece requires; the way you stare at something, like a cat sharpening its eyes on an unsuspecting mouse, every time something mechanically interesting comes in your path; the way you floated that time I steadied you in the water—the smile that filled your face as you knew you were actually floating on water. You know how easy it is now, son, so keep swimming. You can float. Remember that, always. In and out of water. And here's the biggest treat of all. Remember those clothes of mine you secretly used to try out? Now these are yours. Fill them well, my son. You're the man in the family now. I know you'll know exactly what that means, and also know that our family is very lucky indeed.

As for you, Eva, my darling baby girl. I promise I'll be watching every one of your debates in the future. I've requested front-row seats where I'm going. I know you'll be fighting hard for justice, and unearthing environmental disasters everywhere, not to mention those involving animal rights, and I don't want to miss a thing. You're going to keep me glued up there, I know it. Keep asking those questions, my little one. Maybe where I'm going they'll have some of those answers you want. You lit up my life when you came into it—and you still do, as I sit here, writing to you both on the last day of my life. All your smiles are precious but the one that comes to me now is the one on your face as you handed me a bit of ice cream with a piece of fig in it. It fell to the floor and disappointment filled your face as you chided me for my slowness. Stay close to Mamma—she's always had the answers I didn't. And to
Lorenzo, who'll protect you, and fight anyone who makes life difficult for you.

As for Shepherd, the pasha of our household, who's probably heaving huge sighs of relief now that I'm gone—please don't let him off that lightly. There's a bag of unwashed clothes in my closet. Every time he starts getting cocky, you hold up one of my bits of clothing to his nose. Keep him on his toes, that dog. Or he'll be telling all of you what to do to keep
him
happy.

The light here is fading. This means it's time to go. But however dark it is, I am lit inside with love—for all of you, the most beautiful family a man could have wished for.

Con amore
, your Papà.

I put the letter in an envelope left there, and seal it. I write
Lorenzo and Eva Battistini
on it with a steady hand. I look at it, my little parcel of love, hoping they'll find it in the words.

 * * * 

The grounds are quite nice. Possibly the only halfway decent thing about this Swiss prison camp. My intention to go for a stroll, however, immediately runs headfirst into a wall of aches and pains. I manage to take a short walk; I get to the lawn by the lake, and I lie down on my back on the grass. The sky overhead looks as if it had been drawn with a computer program, the compact light blue of a comic book.

 * * * 

An ant takes a long walk around me.

I feel like Gulliver newly arrived in Lilliput.

I shut my eyes. Here I am. Game over. The end. Time to run final credits.

The sensation is the same as the one we always feel when we're on vacation: the act of unpacking and putting your clothes away in the hotel, and the reverse act of repacking, are always far too close, far closer than we expected at the outset.

I fall asleep. I dream.

I'm in a beachfront restaurant at Ladispoli, with my grandparents. I'm eight years old. My beloved concierges are joking with the waiter, whom they've clearly known for years. I'm eating a plate of fried calamari and I toss a few of the crunchy rings to a passing stray cat. I seem happy. Is this an actual event or an invention? I can no longer tell the difference. I can't remember. I finish my calamari and I order mixed fruit gelato with whipped cream. Grandpa asks the waiter to add some crushed nuts and melted chocolate. I smile at him. Let me correct what I said: I don't seem happy, I am happy.

“Signor Battistini?”

Someone's calling my name. Someone always seems to call my name when I'm dreaming.

“Signor Battistini? Wake up.”

I open my eyes and see Ralph Malph's big moon face above me.

It's twenty minutes past noon. I overslept and now I've completely put my foot in it with the Swiss, confirming all their prejudices about us Italians.

I sit up, supporting myself on one arm.

“I'm ready.”

 * * * 

I know the procedure very well. I've studied up on it. In practical terms, it's a double injection, and you have to push down both plungers yourself. The first injection consists of a powerful anesthetic. The second is a poison. It's logical, easy, and painless. You fall asleep and you never wake up. But there are countless preparatory steps. I'm hooked up to an electrocardiogram, from the gurney where I'm
stretched out. They explain to me that, after the first injection, I only have a minute to push down on the second plunger before the anesthetic will take effect. If I'm going to rethink this, now is the time to do so, Dr. Zurbriggen explains to me. It's happened before. In that case, I'd wake up on the gurney, I'd pay the bill, and I'd go home. Then he tries to defuse the tension with a very Swiss sense of humor that is completely lost on me.

“Any last wishes?”

What kind of a stupid question is that? Should I laugh?

“Yes, I have one,” I reply. “I wish I weren't here. Can you do that for me?”

 * * * 

Five minutes later, they slip the two needles into my arms.

I don't give myself time to think, I just press down on the first plunger.

It's like a penalty shot, the important thing is not to let yourself think. If you do, you'll change your mind about the shot to take, and usually you get it wrong.

My decision was the right one. It's inevitable.

The anesthetic slips into my vein and I feel a chilly sensation.

I have one minute.

Ralph Malph smiles at me and points at the second plunger.

“Are you in a hurry?” I ask. “Is this the end of your shift?”

When death approaches I seem to get argumentative. Go figure.

Fifty seconds.

For a moment, I have half an idea not to go through with it.

Just half an idea.

Forty seconds.

“What a pity . . . ,” I murmur.

Ralph Malph doesn't understand.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, just, what a pity . . . in general . . . what a pity . . .”

Thirty seconds.

I've never liked penalty shots. Too much stress. I'm a goalie, deep down. A position for a scaredy cat. If a striker misses a penalty shot, he's a loser. If a goalie lets a penalty shot through, that's just a normal day's work. I'm a natural-born goalie.

Twenty seconds.

At my side, Ralph Malph has vanished. In his place, I now see Grandma smiling down at me. I knew she'd come. She's always come when I'm in trouble. Grandma was always there. She grabs my right hand. She squeezes it.

“It was so nice of you to come . . . ,” I whisper to her.

Her eyes are glistening, but she goes on smiling.

Ten seconds.

“I'm coming, Grandma . . .”

She nods her head. She knew that already. Grandmothers know everything.

She let's go of my hand for an instant. The time has come.

I place my thumb on the plunger for the second injection.

I'm no longer afraid.

I press down all the way. And my accommodating, unsuspecting vein allows itself to be invaded by a golden yellow liquid.

At that same instant, Paola, a thousand kilometers away, is cooking lunch and feels a breath of chilly wind on her neck. She looks around. The windows are closed and it's summer. The children are playing in their room, and their voices carry. For a moment, she doesn't know what to think. Then she understands.

She goes out on the terrace and looks up at the sky, unable to keep her eyes from filling with tears.

Don't cry,
amore mio
. Please, don't cry.

I'm sleepy. Very sleepy.

The last thing I hear is my grandma singing me a lullaby. She
sings it very softly to keep from waking me up. She goes on singing even after I've fallen asleep. She rocks me gently, with one hand on my belly. She goes on until she's certain that I'm fast asleep. How sad it is that rarely do people die with their grandma at their side. That ought to be obligatory.

“Hushaby oh . . . Go to sleep oh . . .”

Her voice drifts away . . .

“Hushaby oh . . . Go to sleep oh . . .”

I fall asleep.

I've done everything I was supposed to do. Everything I was able to do. I might not have been the best, but I certainly did my best.

I'm perfectly serene.

I know that when I wake back up, I'll be with my grandparents and I'll be a little boy again.

A hundred days have gone by in the blink of an eye.

And now I can say it without a doubt: those were the hundred happiest days of my life.

A
fterward.

By now, I know everything about afterward that there is to know, and that's the one satisfying thing about dying before your friends. It's sort of like peeking at the answers to the puzzles that they print on the last page of the
Settimana Enigmistica
.

I can't tell you much because the internal regulations here restrict what I can say. When you get here, the guards (that's right, you heard me) ask each new arrival what age he or she would like to be for the rest of eternity. It's quite a question, and usually the line gets longer and longer while people hem and haw or change their minds afterward and lodge complaints.

What was the best year of your life?

The year you'd like to relive forever.

I answer without hesitation.

“I'd like to be eight years old, thank you very much.”

Eight years old forever, when my dreams were happy thoughts, colored with Crayola crayons. When you can fly out of your bedroom window, just by turning the pages of a book by Stevenson or Barrie.

When there's no such thing as the past. And the future is light-years away.

 * * * 

Yesterday I saw my grandparents again. They asked to be eight years old too. What a wonderful coincidence. We hugged for a long time
and then we played together all day long, which around here is a week or so in your time. Grandpa is great at capture the flag but I'm unbeatable at hide-and-seek. Everything is the way I dreamed it would be: I'm reunited with my grandparents and I'm a little boy again.

My scatterbrained, self-interested parents haven't gotten up here yet. I checked the official database of the afterlife. Look out, they're still down on earth, wrecking things.

In the list of people I want to meet, aside from my close family members, there's also, of course, a certain eclectic Tuscan whose acquaintance I've always wished I could make.

Leonardo da Vinci is thirteen years old, and an obnoxious know-it-all. He's opened a little repair shop, just like Horace Horsecollar, Mickey Mouse's horse friend. I've tried to talk to him to get confirmation of my bizarre theory, but, like all thirteen-year-olds, he has no respect or consideration for an eight-year-old boy. He dismissed me, waving me away like a pesky fly. Luckily, I have all eternity ahead of me to make friends with him.

 * * * 

Today the Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight is playing the most important match of its short team history: the very last game of the playoffs, which determines access to the provincial series. I'm there in my heart.

In the first quarter we hold out heroically: 2 to 2. Martino gets two points. The Santos are having a run of bad luck: they hit an upright and two crossbars, but that's just how the game goes.

In the second quarter we collapse miserably: now the overall score is 7 to 5. It's a great game to watch, lots of goals, lots of excitement, but by now our team seems tired and listless.

Come on, guys, fight!

The third quarter is when we regain our momentum. We outscore them in that quarter by 2 to 1 and bring the total to 8 to 7. We're trailing by just one goal at this point.

Please, just don't give up now.

The last quarter begins promisingly. A courageous lob by Martino slips sweetly under the opposing crossbar: 8 all!

We actually have a shot at victory.

But of course it's too good to be true. Their star player scores an incredible goal with three minutes remaining. Score: 9–8. We are heartbroken. But, when all seems lost, Martino makes us shine again. Just one minute from the end, Martino intercepts the ball, turns it around, and scores a goal, humiliating the opposing goalie. Fifty seconds from the end of the game, we realize we can still do it—we can still push this into overtime.

Fifty seconds in which we all hold our breath.

This is the final assault. We pass the ball around, hunting for a good shot. Finally Martino takes the responsibility on himself. He shoots a straight shot from fifteen feet out, directly across the surface of the pool. Unstoppable. At least by the goalie, but not by the top bar of the goal. Our fans shout a collective “No!” of disappointment, and the other fans applaud and hug as if they'd just won the World Cup.

The referee whistles “game over.”

We fought and we lost. That's all right. I'm proud of the boys. They tried right up to the last second, and they never gave up.

The audience gets to its feet. Everyone heads for the exit, including Paola, arms around the kids' shoulders. Before walking out the door, she stops and turns around.

Only then does she notice an eight-year-old boy watching her, sitting in the farthest row of bleachers.

Our eyes meet for a long moment.

She recognizes me, I know it.

I smile at her.

“Ciao,
amore mio
. And thanks.”

She returns the smile, uneasily. Then she shoots me one last
glance and hurries to catch up with Umberto, who's calling her name. I see him take her hand and lead her out of the building.

I sit there, watching Paola's shadow as it follows her out the door, just a couple of steps behind her.

When there's no one left in the pool and the lights buzz and go out, one after the other, I strip naked and let myself slip into the water.

I'm still a champion at the butterfly stroke.

And I swim and swim and swim and swim and swim.

Finally light as a
bubble.