On Earth as It Is in Heaven (22 page)

Livia didn't know how to refuse her. Franco offered to see her home so she could change clothes. Her response was terse and categorical.

“I hate you, I never want to see you again.”

A fantastically long banquet table had been set up in the gym. There was so much food that, instead of running out, it seemed to multiply.

“It was like a miracle, I felt as if I'd wandered into the Gospels.”

The musicians played, took a break, had something to drink, and went on playing.

Randazzo's wine went down like water and wafted up into the head like fire.

“We were all blind drunk, fuck, it was an epic party.”

Livia still wasn't back.

Franco, with a gnawing sense of guilt, had hurled himself body and soul into the gobbling and the guzzling, stuffing himself without restraint: bread, pasta, meat, fish, wine. He ate and he drank, he drank and he ate without stopping.

Umbertino tossed out a challenge.

“Whoever can fit the most whole cannoli into their mouth wins!”

The first few attempts were clumsy: the wafer broke, the ricotta gushed out everywhere, and there was still no hyperbolic exploit that could be recounted to future audiences, the teller swearing up and down that this really happened. The first true point of no return was reached by Randazzo, who succeeded in cramming four whole cannoli into his mouth. A spontaneous and heartfelt round of applause rang out. Umbertino glowered. That the winner of this competition should be on the groom's side of the family was something that he simply could not accept. He stood up, loosened his belt, took a mighty breath, and unhinged his mouth to its maximum capacity. Then he crammed in six whole cannoli. A roar filled the gym, fists pounded the table, feet drummed on the floor: pass me more wine, I've got a thirst in me.

“In that moment of my own personal and entirely well deserved triumph, Franco felt the entire wave of frustration that had been building up over the course of that day break over him. He grabbed the cannoli tray, opened his mouth wide, and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight! He crammed eight whole cannoli into his mouth at once. His mouth turned into a tunnel of cannoli.”

Umbertino leaped to his feet, holding up both hands, eight fingers extended. Everyone shouted their approval. The cheers and applause were thunderous and joyous. The guests sounded like the crowd at a championship match. Umbertino was placated, Franco was one of his own people, a guest from the bride's side of the family, and the party went on magnificently well.

In that exact moment of jubilation, the door swung open and in walked Livia. She'd changed clothes, hairdo, and makeup, all designed to match the color of her new dress, which was green.

“She looked like an olive.”

When Franco saw her, he hurried straight over to make his apologies. He took her by the hand and tried to pour out the entire store of words of contrition that he'd been ruminating over the whole time she'd been gone, words of regret, pleas of forgiveness. Words of peace.

“Livia,” he began, completely unmindful of the eight cannoli that were crammed into his mouth. He projected a stream of ricotta, flake pastry, and candied fruit onto Livia and her new dress. After a dumbfounded silence, the other wedding guests burst into a wave of convulsive laughter. Livia gazed down at the disaster that was her outfit, contemplated the fact that once again it was Franco who had caused it, and as the roar of laughter washed over her, found herself for the second time that day the object of ridicule before the exact same group of people; she felt her eyes welling up with tears and, her heart devoured by shame, she teetered on the brink of a fit of hysteria. Something unexpected stopped her from toppling over: my father had taken her by the hand. He placed himself as a shield protecting her from the laughter. He called out for the band to strike up a tune and led her into the ring, where he proceeded to dance with her as long as it took for some semblance of serenity to return to her pupils and her cheeks.

They danced very badly.

“Livia was tense as a wire and covered with shame and the Paladin was stinking drunk. Fuck, it was a memorable party.”

I'd happened to run into her on the street.

Five years after I'd last seen her, that time at the hospital.

She'd recognized me.

She was walking with three girlfriends.

“How are you?”

I felt like telling her that I felt fine now that I was looking at her, that I was bubbling over with happiness, but I couldn't seem to string together a sentence, couldn't seem to organize my thoughts. I wanted to know all about her, what are you doing, where are you living, what are you studying, do you ever think about me? My throat was parched, the world had started to seesaw. I said nothing.

“Well, all right, I'd better get going.”

And sure enough, she left. But after taking just three steps, Nina turned around.

“It was nice to see you again, Davidù.”

She remembered my name! I had only one card left to play. I strangled my pride, picked up the receiver, and made a phone call.

“Listen, no beating around the bush: I'm takin' you to the beach.”

“. . .”

“No, that doesn't mean we're friends, I'm only taking you to the beach on one condition: you have to bring your cousin with you.”

“. . .”

“What do you mean, your cousin who? Your girl cousin. Damn, Gerruso, I hate you, and anyway how many girl cousins you got?”

“. . .”

“Really? Twelve?”

“. . .”

“And what do they look like?”

“. . .”

“For real?”

“. . .”

“How about that.”

“. . .”

“Well, okay, we can talk about that later. Right now, I was talking about your cousin Nina.”

“. . .”

“That's the one.”

“. . .”

“Tell her to come to the beach with us.”

“. . .”

“Call her on the phone.”

“. . .”

“Yes, you can tell her that I'll be coming, too. In fact: you have to tell her.”

“. . .”

“Yes, if she comes, you can, too.”

“. . .”

“No, I'm not taking you to the beach without her.”

“. . .”

“I don't like people to see you standing next to me.”

“. . .”

“No, absolutely out of the question.”

“. . .”

“You wouldn't know how.”

“. . .”

“Wait a minute, are you blackmailing me, Gerruso?”

“. . .”

“What do you mean: yes, you are?”

“. . .”

“All right, all right, I'll teach you how to dive headfirst.”

“. . .”

“Wait a second, Gerruso, one last thing.”

“. . .”

“Call her right now.”

“This is the kind of date that I especially like the sound of: the seventh of September, the ninth of November, that kind of date.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don't understand a thing, you never understand a goddamn thing.”

“No, this time I get it . . . Thirty-seven.”

“Give me an example.”

“You like . . . thirty-eight!”

“Stop counting.”

“You like . . . the twenty-seventh of December!”

“Gerruso.”

“Did I guess right?”

“You have no idea how much I detest you.”

“But what did I get wrong? The twenty-seventh of December is a wonderful date.”

“It doesn't have anything to do with what I was talking about! The seventh of September, don't you get it? Seven and seven! The eighth of October, eight and eight, the ninth of November, and—”

“That's Nina's birthday: the twenty-seventh of December.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Thirty-nine!”

“Gerruso, stop counting the whores.”

“Forty! But how many whores are there?”

“Lots.”

“And why on earth?”

“Because there's a lot of need for love out there.”

“I like Mondello better than Cape Gallo, there's sand.”

“There, I knew it, you're a weakling. Girls like sand, a real man likes rocks and cliffs. When are you ever going to grow up?”

“Soon, if you'll teach me.”

“Why would I want to teach you?”

“We're friends, Davidù.”

“Gerruso, we're not friends. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Repeat it back to me.”

“We're not friends . . . Forty-one!”

“Gerruso. What's wrong? Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Nina.”

“What does Nina have to do with anything?”

“Do you like her?”

“Who? What? What did you tell her on the telephone, Gerruso? Tell me every word of that phone call, down to the very last detail! Now! What did you tell her? That I like her? Did she tell you? Does Nina like me? What did she tell you? Did you invite her to Cape Gallo, full stop, end of story, the way I told you, or did you decide to do your own thing, like always? What did you say to each other? Does she like me? Christ, Gerruso, answer me!”

“What I did is what you told me to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure as sure can be?”

I was dancing around on the tips of my toes, finding out just how hard it can be to keep your balance on a moving bus.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no? No?”

“No.”

“Gerruso. What. The fuck. Did. You say. To Nina.”

“I invited her to the beach and . . . Forty-two!”

“Stop counting whores and answer me.”

“I asked her to bring a friend as long as I was going to be there and so were you, just so you wouldn't feel neglected, since Nina is my cousin and she likes me, so maybe she'll wind up spending all her time with me, so I asked her if she could bring a girlfriend for you, just so you wouldn't get bored, that's all.”

The light filtered through the splayed intertwining tree branches outside the bus windows, spreading a chiaroscuro pattern across Gerruso's face.

“And why didn't you say a word about that to me?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Nina's coming, right?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She's my cousin, she loves me, but why do you care so much about her?”

“About who? Her? Are you kidding? I don't even remember what she looks like.”

“You promised that you'd teach me to dive headfirst.”

“Gerruso, it's not an easy thing to do.”

“You promised. Forty-three!”

After counting twelve more prostitutes along the way, we reached the end of the bus line at 9:15 a.m. We were supposed to meet up at 11:00.

“And now what are we going to do?”

“Whatever you want, so long as you shut your mouth.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to shut my mouth and look at the sea.”

“What do you see?”

“Water.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“No.”

“Too bad, because last night—”

“Gerruso, what part of ‘no' is so hard for you to understand?”

“When Nina gets here can I talk?”

“Only if it's strictly necessary.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

“Because I just wanted to tell you . . .”

“Is it all that urgent?”

“No, maybe not . . .”

“Then shut up until Nina shows.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Just be a good boy and pipe down.”

“Because I had a dream about you.”

“Who did?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“About me?”

“About you.”

Why do we pay such close attention to someone who says that they had a dream about us?

Why this slavish devotion to the world of dreams, when they aren't our own?

“I was working as a salt harvester, and there was a strip of salt in the sea, hard and white.”

“And where was I?”

“You were walking on the strip, but that was afterward.”

“So what happened before?”

“I was harvesting the salt by hand, it was all getting stuck between my fingers, then you showed up and you took off your boxing gloves, they were black. Inside your glove was a note on a sheet of paper. It was a poem. You'd written it.”

“A poem?”

“Yes.”

“Written by me?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, what a stupid dream.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What was this poem like?”

“Beautiful.”

“Hunh.”

“I'm telling the truth, in fact I jotted it down the minute I woke up, I wrote it on a sheet of paper with a pen, in blue ink. It's nice. It's about swallows.”