The House in Via Manno Page 8

  Another reason this house hasn’t stayed empty is that my boyfriend and I come here. I always think it still has Nonna’s energy, and that if we make love in a bed at via Manno, in this magical place with only the sound of the port and the call of the seagulls, we’ll love each other forever. Because with love, in the end, maybe you just have to trust in magic, because it’s not like you can rely on some kind of rule, something to follow to make things go well — like the Commandments, for instance.

  And instead of doing the cleaning, or reading the news about the situation in Iraq, where you can’t tell if the Americans are liberating or occupying the place, I’ve written, in the notebook I always carry with me, about Nonna, about the Veteran, about his father, his wife, his child, about Nonno, about my parents, about the neighbours in via Sulis, about my paternal and maternal great-aunts, about Nonna Lia, about donna Doloretta and donna Fannì, about music, about Cagliari, Genoa, Milan, and Gavoi.

  Now that I’m getting married, the terrace is a garden once more, like it was back in Nonna’s day. The ivy and the Virginia creeper are climbing up the end wall, and there are groups of red, purple, and white geraniums, and a rose-bush, and broom thick with yellow flowers, and honeysuckle and freesias and dahlias and perfumed jasmine. The workmen have waterproofed the house, and the damp in the ceilings no longer causes flakes of plaster to drop on our heads. They’ve also whitewashed the walls — leaving Nonna’s decorations, of course.

  That’s how I found the famous black notebook with its red border, and a yellowed letter from the Veteran. Actually, I didn’t find them. A workman gave them to me. A section of the decorations on the living-room wall was gone, and the wall was peeling. Never mind, I’d said to myself. We’ll re-plaster it and put a piece of furniture in front of it. Nonna had dug out that spot, and hidden her notebook and the letter from the Veteran in there, and then painted over it. But her work wasn’t perfect, and the decorations were ruined.

  20

  Kind signora,

  I am flattered and perhaps slightly embarrassed by everything you have imagined and written about me. You have asked me to evaluate your story from a literary point of view, and you excuse yourself for the love scenes you have invented and, above all, for the parts that were true in what you wrote about my life. You say that you feel you have stolen something from me. No, my dear friend; writing about someone the way you have is a gift. You must not worry about me at all. The love you invented between us moved me. And, reading it — forgive my impudence — I almost regretted that this love did not really exist. But we talked a lot. We kept each other company. We had a few laughs, even though we were sad, there at the baths — isn’t that so? You with those babies that didn’t want to be born, me with my war, my crutches, my suspicions. So many stones inside.

  You say you have fallen pregnant again upon your return from treatment at the baths: that you have hope once more. I wish you hope with all my heart, and I like to believe that I helped you expel those stones, and that our friendship contributed in some way to your return to health and the possibility of your having children. You, too, were a help to me: my relationships with my wife and child improved — I’m managing to forget the past.

  But there’s something else. And I expect you will laugh when you read what I’m about to tell you. I’m no longer as scruffy as I was a few months ago at the baths — no more sandals and woollen socks, no more singlets and crumpled trousers. You invented me with that nice starched white shirt, and those well-shined shoes, and I liked myself. Once I really was like that. In the Navy, you’d be in trouble if you weren’t always perfect.

  But let me return to your story. Don’t stop imagining. You are not mad. Never again should you believe those who say such an unjust and cruel thing. Write.