Cabaret (19 page)

Finding it hard to cope. I can tell. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Absolutely not. Get that idea out of your head.

Shoo! There, now it’s gone! Now, what you need, Signora Kapoor, Veronique—if you will allow me—is a holiday. Get some rest. Enjoy the sun. Take that bikini out of mothballs.

Ever thought of a Mediterranean cruise? They can be very beneficial in these circumstances. Sea breezes. Jolly sailors.

You know the sort of thing…”

I
felt like Sleeping Beauty coming alive again after a sleep of one hundred years. When I came round from the coma, I was seized with an overwhelming feeling of urgency. I had wasted so much time.

I had so much life to live, and I had to get on with it. I needed to get back to work. I needed sex, and I was going to get it.

In my locker I found a blue sequined dress and silver shoes—I didn’t know who they belonged to, but I put them on anyway. I ripped back the curtains around my bed, and came face-to-face with Fiamma, giving her a start. She had just returned from a tour of African nations, and was covered in mosquito bites.The Secret Service had sealed off the ward, which caused a bit of a stir, and lots of square-shaped men were standing around in dark suits and sunglasses.

“I’m getting out of here,” I said.

“They told me you were near death.”

“No,” I corrected her, “I was only near life.” Immediately Fiamma sent one of her people in search of a pair of crutches, which, when they arrived, gave me a curi-ous sense of déjà vu. She had someone else pack up the contents of my locker. There wasn’t much: a used frosted-pink lipstick called First Kiss, a comb with many of the teeth missing and some blond hairs running through it, a pair of graying underpants, a bottle of hair restorer, and a bruised and puckered apple. These things didn’t even belong to me, so I put them in the trash.

Nurse Spada, who had fought her way through the security cordon and wasn’t happy, rushed over. “You can’t go. The doctors haven’t discharged you.”

“I’m going,” I said simply, and hauled myself away to freedom.

In the long corridor that led to the exit, I passed a pajama-wearing figure I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Signor Tontini,” I said. “How are you?” As I watched, my downstairs neighbor went a vivid shade of red. He clutched his chest and fell to the floor. Doctors and nurses rushed in from all directions. He was gathered up and placed on a gurney. His dentures were removed, and continued to chatter on the palm of the junior nurse entrusted with their care. Two of the doctors started to perform cardiac mas-sage as he was rushed off to the emergency room, while his family was being traced and a priest summoned.

Poor Signor Tontini. His rage had been killing him for years. Now it seemed to have finally succeeded.

It was strange to be out in the world again. The sun was blinding and so hot I could feel it braising my bare shoulders like a blowtorch. The sky was bluer than it had ever been. As we drove along, the streets appeared more crowded, the traffic more chaotic, and the buildings more imposing than I remembered. I watched out of the window of the limousine, feeling like a tourist, and full of joy that I was alive.

Fiamma dropped me at my apartment and then drove on to the Ministry to take part in the daily conference call from the prime minister. There were several letters waiting for me on my doormat, which was unusual because I hardly ever got any mail. I didn’t notice at the time that a picture postcard had got pushed under the mat, and I didn’t find it until long afterward.

One letter was franked “Destino Assicurazione.” Idly I tore it open. It was probably only an advertisement urging me to take out a policy. But it wasn’t. I looked at the date—

August 18, 1975—I had lost almost a month, possibly more—the letter could have been lying there for some time.

I read on:

Dear Madam,

Re:
LIPPI
, one Alberto Geronimo

Following satisfactory conclusions of our investigations, we enclose a check for the amount thirty million lire, in respect of life insurance policy on the above named, ref LIPAG177.

Assuring you of our best attentions at all times, Signed: [undecipherable squiggle]

For Destino Assicurazione

So Alberto was dead! Really dead. He had to be. I knew insurance companies would never pay out if there was the slightest glimmer of doubt. They had conducted thorough investigations.They had proof Alberto was dead. At last I finally knew the truth. Immediately I called Signora Dorotea—I had to tell somebody. She was amazed I was out of hospital.

“I was there just last night,” she said. “You were sleeping like a stone.”

“Well, I’m awake now,” I said, “and guess what?” I read her the letter.

“Of course he’s dead,” she said. “I always knew he was—

felt it in my bones.We’ll go and light a candle for him—poor soul—although I never liked the man, I wished him no harm, and it’s a dreadful thing to have happened.” I hung up and opened another of the letters. It was from the bank, apologizing for their error, informing me that my account was now unfrozen, offering me their condolences on Alberto’s death and promising me a mystery free gift in compensation.That they could keep—I had had enough mysteries recently to last my whole lifetime.

The final envelope bore the crest of the Ventriloquists’

Benevolent Association. Along with a letter of sympathy for my great loss, there was a check for a million lire, and a page torn out of
Ventriloquism Today
headed “Obituaries.” It read:

“
LIPPI
Alberto Geronimo April 1, 1942–July 19, 1975. All in the profession will mourn the passing in tragic circumstances of our brother ventriloquist Alberto Lippi. Short and fat with an outstanding talent, he was a regular performer at that world-famous haunt of celebrities, the exclusive Berenice cabaret club. A favorite on the cruise-liner circuit, Lippi was also a popular choice for kiddies’ parties. He is survived by the mischievous schoolboy Malco. Any member of the Guild able to provide a suitable opening for the dummy should contact the Secretary.”

Now that I knew Alberto wasn’t coming back, I could almost begin to feel sorry for him, but when I heard a key turning in the lock to my front door, any charitable thoughts evaporated and I was ready to have a heart attack.

A
head poked its way around the door. A man’s head. It wasn’t Alberto, and I was able to start breathing again. He’s dead, I told myself; he’ll never come back. I had to rid myself of the irra-tional fear that he was going to reappear.

The man wasn’t completely unknown to me. I had definitely seen him before somewhere. Now, where was it? Work?

The hospital? The Berenice? The market? More important, what was he doing in my apartment?

“Ciao, bella!”
He said, and his body followed his head into the passage. “I’m Nello.”

Uninvited, he came to join me in the parlor.

“Nello?”

“Nello Tontini. From downstairs. Nabore’s boy. Saw through the hole that you were back.” So that’s where I had seen him before. The son of Signor Tontini. He had an air of confidence about him—even the hairs at his neck and on his arms sprouted a cocky growth.

The look of a man to whom life came easily.

“Freda, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Pretty dress.”

“Thanks.”

“Thing is, I’ve been looking through a few of Papa’s things,” he went on; “seems there are some irregularities…” His words trailed off, and he came up very close. His aftershave was eye-stinging.

“Do you know, Freda,” he said, touching me lightly on the arm, “that the rent on this apartment hasn’t been paid for eight weeks?”

“The rent!” I exclaimed. “Of course! I forgot all about it.

I’ll write you out a check at once.”

“No rush,” he replied. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.You’re an attractive woman, Freda.” With his fin-gertip he began tracing a line from my shoulder down my arm.

“Too bad they’re looking for you at the hospital,” I said. “I just came from there.Your pa has taken a turn for the worst.”

Reluctantly he gave me back my arm and turned to go.

As he let himself out, he said, huskily, “I meant what I said, Freda; think it over. But don’t let the grass grow under your feet.”

I wanted to laugh. Nello was repulsive, but still I puckered at the recollection of his touch. In the mirror I looked at my reflection, and almost didn’t recognize myself. I looked better than I ever had. It must have been sleeping all that time.

He was right, I was an attractive woman—and the thought was entirely new to me. I’d always considered myself plain.

The sparkly dress really suited me, and I wriggled around in front of the mirror, admiring my new sexy look.

I
threw open the windows to let in some fresh air and eradicate the pervading stench of Nello Tontini’s Conqueror aftershave. Then I pulled all my boring middle-aged clothes out of the closet. They would have to go: from now on I was going to be a different person. One by one I flung them out of the window and waved as they sailed away on the breeze. Dull old Freda Lippi flapped away along with them. Exciting, daring, Freda Castro was being reborn.

In the Campo the market was whirling with life, and the raucous cries of the merchants competed with one another.

“Water pistols.”

“Ever-youthful face cream.”

“Rabbits, tender and cheap.”

As I stood idly watching a barrow brimming with brilliant lemons bumping along the street, there was a flurry of air and bright blue feathers and Pierino landed on the window ledge.

“Mamma,” he cried. “Mamma.”

My shriek of joy made everybody beneath look up.

“Pierino!”

I held out my hand and he hopped onto it. At last he had come home.To my amazement there was more fluttering, and another parrot, blue but with a little yellow tuft on top of its head, landed on the sill.

“Sweetheart,” Pierino explained.

“Ahhh,” I said. “Sweetheart.”

The new parrot also hopped onto my hand. “Gloria,” she said shyly. “Glorrrrrrrria.”

Then the two of them flew into the cage, where they sat side by side on the perch billing and cooing.

I was so excited I had to call Signora Dorotea again.

“I told you he’d come back,” she said, predictably. “Wasn’t I right?”

I also called Fiamma, but she was still on the conference call, so I left a message with the secretary, who promised to pass her a note. Lastly, I called Uncle Birillo. Aunt Ninfa answered and she sounded upset. In fact, she was honking into the phone great racking sobs.

“Freda, he’s left me,” she bellowed, “for that
puttana
Mimosa Pernice.You see, I was right. I was right all along…” Here there was a sound like an elephant trumpeting, and her hairdresser, Raffaello, took over the phone to say Aunt Ninfa had collapsed.

So I was wrong: Uncle Birillo
was
the type of man to have a mistress. I felt sorry for Aunt Ninfa, but my uncle was right—experience had taught me there’s no sense in staying in a marriage with someone you don’t like.

P
ierino pulled the cover down over the cage, and taking the hint, I decided to go out, but made sure I shut all the windows first.

My leg was already feeling much better, and halfway along the block I handed my crutches to a lame beggar with too many fingers on his right hand. By coincidence it was the same beggar I had given my first pair of crutches to, nine years before, and they had only just worn out. I wished him well but hoped these were the last pair he would be getting from me.

My first stop was the Parrucchiere Mimmo, and three hours later I emerged with an enormous Afro perm that was then all the rage. I was met by a chorus of wolf whistles from passing pastry cooks and butchers’ boys, and several of the slow-moving trucks on the street sounded their horns.

From there I sashayed into Moda Seduttrice and spent the next couple of hours trying on everything in the shop. I left with seven shopping bags stuffed with sparkly evening wear and a selection of exotic lingerie in bold colors. I also bought two halter-neck sundresses, three tight blouses with giant collars, some hip-hugger pants, a plaid poncho, and a macramé belt, which I thought offered an alluring but practical range of options for day wear.

My final purchases were a bottle of wine, a big bar of chocolate, a jar of Pure Passion bath oil, and a book entitled
Aphrodisiac Foods: Fifty Recipes for a Raunchy Evening
.

I walked home through the market, which was now closing up, and saw that Perdita Stellata was selling my old clothes on her stall. The funeral suit in which I had married Alberto was being offered for five hundred lire. On a rail marked “Bar-gains” was the purple nylon dress I had worn to meet his mother. That life seemed so long ago now. I regarded the Freda I was then with a mixture of disbelief, exasperation, and indulgence, like an embarrassing younger sister. I felt older, but at the same time, more youthful, released from the double burden of premature middle age and stolid immaturity.

Inside, the lovebirds were busy feathering their nest with plundered fluff, cotton flocks, torn paper, and shredded scraps from the curtains. Soon Gloria was to lay four white eggs, and the two of them were as proud and pleased as any human parents.

I put on some music, poured myself a glass of wine, opened the chocolate, and sprawled on the bed. Through the slit in my skirt I noticed my leg was no longer green—it had faded to a pleasant yellow color, and I hoped by the next day it would look almost normal. I sipped the wine and flipped through the cookbook. Then I called the Detective.

“Balbini,” he said, and immediately I felt deliciously warm and moist.

“Dinner,” I breathed into the phone, “tomorrow at eight.” Then I hung up. There was no need to say more.