Scent of a Woman

15

I can’t help remembering.

It all happened as if seen through inverted binoculars: me perpetually, breathlessly in pursuit of faces, glimpses, shadows, fragments of images quickly lost, which only the mysterious powers of a dream could produce.

It all ended the exact same way.

Except it wasn’t a dream.

Today I remember Sara’s actions, sober, thought out. Unhurriedly, she cleaned him up with a wet handkerchief, from his temples to the corners of his mouth, his right hand one fingernail at a time. She straightened his collar, his tie.

He was docile, unaware.

And Miccichè, who kept saying, ‘Will they hurry up? Where the hell do they think they’re going? To the opera?’

Then they set out in the car, while I sat on the back seat of the motor scooter, clinging to Miccichè.

I can no longer describe the exhaustion I felt then. The body is blessed because it forgets. But I recall all too well my impervious mind, its desire to rush headlong into a whirlwind and run and run.

Passing them, driving side by side, having them pass us in turn, I never saw them exchange a word, she alert at the wheel, he reclining.

The road was all curves, the air fiery, stinging between my shirt and skin.

Naples swallowed us up almost immediately.

Our goodbyes at the end were very brief.

‘So long, Ciccio,’ he fired at me with feigned energy. ‘Here. Forget all this.’

I kept my papers, but handed the money to Sara, who slipped it into her belt.

‘Catch your train. Go. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll protect you. When it’s time, it’s time. I’m turning myself in: even the combat manuals say so. And keep in mind, I’ll tell the truth. If you’re forced to, tell yours as well.’

His was no longer a face but a withered leaf.

‘Say goodbye to our friend,’ he suggested to Sara.

We were on a street corner. It seemed to me that the sliver of sea back there was not far from the lieutenant’s house.

Sara did not speak. She shook my hand. After a moment they disappeared arm-in-arm.

I still remember Miccichè, who was also silent.

He drove through narrow streets and alleys before finding a pizzeria that appealed to him. He insisted on paying with the few lire he had, no question about it. A train at 3.03 p.m., we managed to find out.

‘Can I write to you? Will you give me your address?’ I can still hear his voice. ‘What did you leave at the lieutenant’s house? Razor, clothes? I’ll take care of it. You go, you have to leave. I’ll see to it, I’ll send them. Trust me.’

He accompanied me to the station, following me to the ticket office, then the bathroom. I bought him a coffee at the bar. Not another word amid all that noise. His eyes had grown sad, like when a party’s over.

‘Too bad. I’m really sorry. But you can’t stay here. For now that’s the way it is,’ he said simply.

The waiters pushed and shoved behind the counter in their frantic haste to serve and clear away.

Despite the coffee, my mouth felt gritty.

And if at the time I felt like a traitor, a louse, even today I can’t forgive myself for that getaway – so violently, absurdly hasty.

I could still see him and Sara in my mind’s eye, their last steps before they turned the corner, their stride spirited, not at all resigned.

‘I’ll write to you. I’ll send your stuff. Don’t give it another thought,’ Miccichè added, leaning on the counter.

The truth is, we didn’t know what to say to one another.

Suddenly a lengthy procession of young people with placards and banners marched across the square in front of the station. Through the windows we saw them advance like a large speckled fish, its head swollen and throbbing, its stunted tail trailing along here and there.

It was Miccichè who said, ‘Look at them. Crazies. Can’t you just see signorina Sara leading them all? I can. She’s the one who made a mistake.’

The banners and signs were soon dissolved by the light, swaying rhythmically as they disappeared.

The train was empty, an inferno. Miccichè went up and down the aisle opening one window after another.

‘Will you be able to get some sleep in there?’ he added before getting off, appraising the fake leather seats suspiciously. ‘A good nap is all the medicine you need.’

I watched him grow smaller at the end of the tracks.

Razor and clothes arrived at the barracks in about a week, after I had already given my deposition to an official from the carabinieri who had come to question me.

It was boring and simple.

Nothing ever appeared in the newspapers, and I truly believe that there will be no trial. Almost two months have passed. These nights Turin smiles, gives off the sweet fragrance of petals, while I still have not been able to find answers to my questions.

Was the captain sincere when he surrendered to Sara?

Or was he fooling her to make things go more smoothly?

And the lieutenant: has he talked?

I could call Fausto G.’s home; someone would answer, I’d be able to gather some news.

But a game like this isn’t won by moving and eliminating a weak piece here and there on the chessboard.

Only now do I understand that if a young woman like Sara won, I too should stop reproaching myself. On the contrary, I acquired things in which I can hope, for tomorrow, for myself.

It takes love to attract and nurture love. With her fierce intelligence, Sara taught me this, albeit unconsciously. And today, whether I am an ant or a grasshopper, a hare or a dog, whether the world is a biblical scourge or a miserable day-by-day trap doesn’t matter, as long as Sara’s example can give me courage, a courage of my own, for myself, for the niche I have to carve out and inspire in life.

There’s him on the other hand, a dark shadow…

Perhaps it wasn’t only his misfortune, perhaps it wasn’t simply his despair that made him want to die. Maybe he saw death as a decisive rendezvous with himself, a final settling of accounts.

Because there is also a kind of man who can only be explained by dying.

But if instead he’s close by or somewhere else and, despite the dark prison that has confined him for years, continues flicking his cigarette lighter, thrashing the air with his bamboo cane, mocking and insulting and drinking – with Sara at his side – then the most difficult condition of life is nevertheless living. For him and for me. For all of us who are able to acknowledge, accept and nurture it.

And the blank space that follows is not yet death.