The Past is a Foreign Country (9 page)

FROM THAT AFTERNOON on, studying card tricks became my main occupation. My
only
occupation.

I would wake up in the morning when my parents had already gone out. I would wash, dress, check that the law books I should have been studying – and which my parents thought I was still
studying
– were in full view on my desk, take out the cards, and practise for hours. In the afternoon I’d do the same, only then I had to be more careful because my mother was usually at home and I had no intention of talking to her about my academic commitments.

A couple of times a week, I went to Francesco’s place for my
lesson
. He told me I had a lot of talent: nimble hands and a willingness to learn. Within a short time, I was able to do things I’d never even dreamed of.

The three card trick in particular. I got so good, it sometimes
occurred
to me that I ought to go the gardens of the Piazza Umberto, sit down on a bench, and challenge some passing idiot to bet on where the queen of hearts was.

I knew how to pretend to shuffle the pack – leaving it exactly the same as it was before I started – in at least three different ways. Once a hypothetical opponent stepped forward, I could then put the pack back exactly as it had been previously. I could do it with one hand, well enough to deceive any spectator – or player – who wasn’t paying attention.

I could take the bottom card from the pack and deal it as naturally
as if it had been at the top, and I had learned to place six cards of my own choosing on the top, just by shuffling in a particular way. Francesco could go up to twenty cards, but for a beginner I was doing extremely well.

Obviously I wasn’t yet in a position to cheat at the gaming table. I didn’t yet have Francesco’s absolute self-control, that hypnotic
ability
of his to walk a tightrope with his eyes closed, unafraid to fall.

He was almost the only person I went out with in the evenings now, though occasionally we’d have company, always chosen by him. I saw less and less of my old friends. I was bored with them. I couldn’t talk to them about the few things that interested me. The poker games, the money I was pocketing and spending with grim determination, my progress in the art of doing card tricks.

In the meantime it was starting to get hot. Spring was nearly over, and summer, as they say, was knocking at the door. Many things were about to happen, in my life and in the outside world. One of them was meeting Maria.

It happened one night when we played in a villa by the sea, near Trani.

Francesco had been invited by the owner of the villa, an engineer who owned his own construction company and had a whole series of law suits pending against him. As usual, I couldn’t figure out how Francesco had come to meet him, or how he had managed to get himself invited. The man was about fifty. He could have been my father. Though I don’t suppose my father would have appreciated the comparison.

When we arrived, we realised that there was a party going on. A lot of tables had been laid on a lawn as large as a tennis court.

Inside, in a kind of reception room, a number of round green baize tables had been made ready for poker. There seemed to be quite a few people keen to play. But there were also a lot of people who were only there to drink, eat and listen to music. Or for other
things, as I would realise by the end of the evening. The male guests were all noticeably older than us. On the other hand I saw a number of female guests our age, all accompanied by men who were getting on a bit – dirty old men, I thought.

Francesco, as usual, seemed perfectly at ease. While waiting for the gambling to start, he moved among the groups of chattering people, butting into the conversations as if these were people he saw every evening.

About eleven, the gamblers sat down to play. The initial stake was five million each – rules of the house. We’d never before started with such a huge amount.

That night, everything seemed to be on a large scale. With a stake like that to start with, it struck me that anything could happen.

I was already sitting when suddenly, without warning, I was
overcome
with panic. It seemed to me that I was in over my head: the game was too big for me, too mad, too uncontrollable. I felt the impulse to run away from the table, and from that house, and from all of it. While there was still time.

The voices of the people around me merged into an indistinct hum, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Francesco realised that something was happening to me. I don’t know how he realised, but he did. He was sitting to my left, and he moved his hand under the table and put it on my leg, just above the knee. I didn’t have time to jump at the contact. He was already digging his fingers, hard, into the soft, sensitive area on the inside of my thigh.

It hurt, and I had to force myself not to show any reaction. Just as I was about to put my hand under the table, he let go and looked at me with a smile. For a few moments I sat there, stunned, until I realised that the panic had passed.

We played, and I won a lot of money. The most we’d ever won.

It sometimes happens that for no particular reason – or for no
reason you can figure out – you forget the details of an event. A psychoanalyst could probably explain that there’s an unconscious motivation for this selective memory. I don’t know. What I do know is that I can’t remember how much I won that evening. It was
certainly
more than thirty million lire, but that’s where my memories stop. I don’t know if it was thirty-two or thirty-five or forty or
whatever
. I simply don’t know.

In any case, it was the biggest win of the whole evening and word soon spread among those who were still at the party that there was serious money being won at our table. So a group of onlookers
gathered
, far enough away from the table not to crowd the players, but close enough to follow the game. As far as Francesco and I were concerned, the game was over. We’d already played for the biggest pots, and the winnings were already in my pocket.

But we had an audience, and Francesco was a magician. So he decided we’d give the audience a thrill, free of charge. It was out of the question for me to win again. I’d already had two full houses, a flush and a four and won millions, and if I’d been lucky again that would really have aroused suspicion. Francesco had lost a lot, for
appearances
’ sake, so once in a while he could allow himself the luxury of dealing himself the best cards. For the last hand, our audience had the privilege of witnessing both a full house of aces (me) and four sevens (Francesco).

It was pure spectacle, a masterpiece of suspense, which the
audience
watched with bated breath. By the end, Francesco’s eyes were shining. Not because of the win, which was fake, but because of the show. For once, he was playing the magician. He was enjoying himself like a child.

After a grand finale like that, I really didn’t understand how I could possibly have had that panic attack. It seemed to me like something that had happened a long time ago, instead of earlier that evening. Or that hadn’t happened at all. 

We settled our accounts and got up from the table. The one who had lost the most was our host, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He wasn’t someone who needed to worry about money.

It was very late, but there were still people wandering around the house and the garden. Francesco had disappeared, as tended to
happen
in these situations.

I’d started to feel hungry and was wondering if there was any food left.

‘Are you only lucky at cards?’ The voice was deep, almost
masculine
, with a hint of affectation, as if she was making an effort to conceal her original accent. I turned.

Short chestnut hair. Tanned skin. Not pretty, but with large,
unsettling
grey-green eyes. Taller than me. Quite a bit taller than me. About thirty-five, I thought as I looked at her, trying to think of a reply. I was later to learn that she was forty.

‘Do you mean you won all that money because you’re good? There’s only one way to win like that.’ She paused. ‘You cheated.’

I felt physically paralyzed. I really couldn’t move a muscle, or say a word, or even get her face in focus.

She had found us out and was either going to expose us or
blackmail
us. That was the thought that shot across my mind like a
flaming
arrow. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.

‘Hey, I was joking.’

The tone was one of amusement, though I still couldn’t tell if she really had been joking.

Then she said, ‘Maria,’ and held out her hand. I shook it. She had a strong grip. On her tanned wrist she was wearing a bracelet of white gold with a very large blue stone. I’ve never understood anything about jewellery – and at that moment I didn’t understand much about anything at all – but it did occur to me that all our winnings of the evening wouldn’t have been enough to buy that bracelet. 

‘Giorgio,’ I replied, as my brain started to work again and Maria’s face came back into focus.

‘So, are you good, Giorgio? Do you like taking risks?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I replied, feeling a tremor of excitement. What was I supposed to say? Was it a question that allowed for different answers?

‘So do I.’

‘What kind of risks…do you like?’

‘Not gambling. That’s artificial.’

You’re talking crap. You try losing twenty or thirty million, or winning it, and then we’ll talk about artificial.

I didn’t say that, I only thought it. What I actually said was that she was probably right, but that I was curious to know exactly what she meant. Meanwhile I was taking a closer look at her. She had a lot of little lines at the corners of her eyes, rather fewer at the corners of her mouth, a very animated face, high cheekbones, and a white, feral smile.

There was something about her that reminded me of
Francesco
. Something in the way she moved or talked, something in her rhythm. I don’t know exactly what it was, but whatever it was came and went as we talked. Maybe it was the way she had of looking you straight in the eyes, and then immediately looking away. It was something that attracted and repelled simultaneously.

She didn’t tell me what her idea of
non
-artificial risk was. She made a few rather vague remarks – the way Francesco did whenever I asked him to explain something he’d said or done – and then looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, ‘Of course, we’ve understood each other, haven’t we?’

Of course.

Still talking, we moved into the garden and got something to drink.

Maria looked like someone who spent a lot of time at the gym. She told me she was married and had a fifteen-year-old daughter.
I said I found that hard to believe, and she smiled because I’d said exactly what was expected of me.

Her husband was a luxury car dealer and had a number of
showrooms
throughout the region. He was often away on business. She looked me straight in the eyes as she said this. Her gaze was so direct, I was forced to look away and drink some of my wine.

We were sitting in the garden when Francesco joined us. He stopped in front of us, and for a moment there was a curious
exchange
of glances between him and Maria. So curious that it didn’t even occur to me to introduce them.

Francesco turned to me. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I’ve been
looking
for you for a quarter of an hour. Shall we go? It’s nearly four.’

‘Two minutes and I’m coming,’ I replied.

He said he’d wait for me by the car, nodded goodbye to Maria, and walked away.

I turned back to her, feeling embarrassed. I wanted to ask her if we could see each other again, but I didn’t have time and didn’t know what to do. I mean, I didn’t know how to go about things with a married woman. But she wasn’t uncomfortable and knew exactly how to go about things.

She took a notepad from one of the gaming tables, the kind used to tot up losses and wins. She wrote down a phone number, tore off the sheet, gave it to me and told me to call her. I could call any time between nine in the morning and one at night.

I left the house without saying goodbye to anyone, joined
Francesco
in the car park, and we left. I drove at a hundred and ninety kilometres an hour. He put the seat back and reclined with his eyes half closed, smiling that mocking smile of his from time to time. We didn’t say a word the whole way home. 

As I was undressing to go to bed – it was already morning outside – I noticed the bruise that was forming on the inside of my left leg, where Francesco had grabbed me to cure me of my fear. 

THE NEXT MORNING – a Sunday – I woke up late, of course. Through the half-open door of my bedroom came the smell of food and home.

I was hungry, and I thought I’d get up and go straight to the table. I’d always liked having lunch just after getting up: something that usually only happened on New Year’s Day and a few other
special
occasions.

There was no rush, no stress. I didn’t have to decide what to do as soon as I got up. Especially as it was a Sunday morning.

It was a nice feeling.

Then, while I was still in bed, I felt a strange unease creeping over me. A sense of guilt mixed with an awareness of imminent disaster.

I was going to be found out. I’d get up and go to the table, my parents would look at me and see my wickedness written clearly on my face and at last they’d understand.

I was filled with sadness and nostalgia. I’d have liked to feel that old pleasure I used to feel with my family, but now I realised it was lost forever.

I had this sudden, intense hope that my parents weren’t at home. Because if they saw me this morning, they would find me out. I didn’t know why, or why specifically this Sunday morning, but I was sure it would happen.

I got up, washed, dressed quickly and went into the dining room
with that feeling just below the surface, like a tingling under the skin, a slight but annoying fever.

The table was already laid. The TV screen was filled with painful, unreal images.

It was the fourth of June 1989. The previous day, Li Peng’s army had massacred the students in Tiananmen Square. More or less at the same time, it occurred to me, as I was winning millions cheating at poker and flirting with a predatory forty-year-old woman.

I can still remember that long news broadcast, almost all of it about what had happened in Beijing, and then the image dissolves and I see my father tormenting the last mouthful of roast beef with his fork.

He was moving it from one side of his plate to the other
without
picking it up. He would take a sip of his red wine and then resume moving that small piece of meat between what remained of his mashed potato. My mother’s famous mashed potato, I thought incongruously.

I was waiting. My mother was waiting, too. I knew it even though I couldn’t see her face. I felt her anguish as if it was a physical entity.

At last my father spoke. ‘Are you having problems with your studies?’

‘Why?’ I tried to look and sound surprised. It was a lousy piece of acting.

‘You haven’t taken any exams since last year.’

My father spoke softly, separating his words. And when I looked at him, I saw lines on his face, signs of a pain I didn’t want to see. I looked away.

‘Do you want to tell us what’s going on?’ he continued.

It was painful for him to say these words. He’d never imagined he’d ever have to say anything like that to me. I’d never been any trouble, especially where my studies were concerned. It was my
sister who’d caused them a lot of problems and that was more than enough. What was going on?

It struck me at that moment that they must have talked often and at length about what was happening to me. They must have wondered if it was a good idea to talk to me about it or if it would only make things worse.

I reacted the way all third-rate people do when they’re caught doing something wrong. I reacted the way someone who knows he’s wrong and doesn’t have the courage to admit it reacts. By attacking.

It was a cowardly thing to do, because they were weaker than me and as helpless as only parents can be.

What did they want of me? I wasn’t even twenty-three yet and had almost finished university. The only reason they were
attacking
me was because I’d slowed down a bit. Was it forbidden to go through a bit of a crisis, fuck it? Was it forbidden? I screamed.

I ended up saying some very nasty things and then got up from the table. They stayed where they were, unable to speak.

‘I’m going out,’ I said, and left.

I was angry with them because they were right. Angry with
myself
, too.

Angry and alone.

At nine-thirty the following morning, Monday, I phoned Maria.