translated
by Tom Di Salvo
The night
I became a real man is something I remember quite well.
That night
Mestre, my city, the most beautiful city in the world,
was stark and sparkling in springtime. It was already
ten p.m. or a little later and the streets were empty,
enlivened solely by the light of the streetlamps and
the glow of drawn blinds reflected by the asphalt under
a fresh, inebriating shower scented by the fragrance
of mimosas.
Martha came for
me. She was a young girl I had met at the university, who
was having boyfriend problems, something like that. She wore
a very short miniskirt with black stockings that looked good
on her, notwithstanding she wasn’t tall and not overly pretty.
She wore very thick glasses and her nose loomed large and
a bit vulgar on her smiling, attractive face.
“You coming down?” she
called out. Leaning out the window of my parents’ house I
said: “yes”.
Martha had a red
Citroën 2CV and drove it with considerable skill, manipulating
the stick-shift knob with erotic determination, while her
black laced legs danced between the clutch and the brake
pedal; this slip of a girl looked like an Amazon breaking
in a stallion and I envied her, yes envied her, and therefore
wanted her.
“Where’re we going?” she
asked, and it was just too much for me that she should be
able to talk, have on black stockings and shift gears at
the same time - God, what a monster!
“What about the
Distributor?”
The Distributor
was a beer joint a couple of hundred yards from the hospital,
on the other side of the tracks. There you could hear the train
whistle in the distance as the orange light of the lamps lit
and glanced off the wooden tabletops. Young men in red plaid
flannels and girls in denim miniskirts, drinking dark beer
and munching on hotdogs, sat around those tables, while the
smoke closed in like a cloud and bluesy music played all
of this gave you the feeling of a nocturnal saloon for tired,
disappointed and love-sick cowboys, or some dance hall late
in the Louisiana night (a young black waiter was serving sandwiches);
one thing was sure: you were somewhere in America.
With a ridiculously
easy-looking maneuver Martha parked the car between a black
Mercedes and a mauve colored BMW. She turned the key to kill
the motor and said “here we are”; then she spread her thighs
to open the car door it was then my belly gave a spasm of
remorse.
To me she seemed
a little too cheerful for someone who just opted out of a five-year
love affair. When you’re twenty, five years seems an eternity.
I realized this when she ordered a double whiskey:
“Whoa, you’re one
tough woman, hah?”
“Tonight I want
to exaggerate a little”, she whispered with a mischievous smile.
“Sounds good, but
remember you have to drive home”.
Martha lived out
in the boondocks, in an old grain storage barn turned country
house. I had been there once for a party: dogs were everywhere,
the Tequila was flowing and the sofas were incredibly comfortable.
“If worse comes
to worst you can drive me and keep the car,” she said with
her nose in the whiskey glass.
I froze.
The whiskey had
the strange effect of fogging up her glasses, which she took
off, revealing two great big eyes somewhat circled like a turtle’s,
the color of bark, pointed straight at me, apparently waiting
for a compliment.
“Nice eyes you have,
really.”
“You should know
that when I drink I can’t resist a compliment.”
“So what happens?”
“Mmmh.”
Talk about dialogue!
Who was writing this soap opera? In any case my attention was
totally focused on her black stockings. They seemed soft and
fine, and she was voluptuously crossing her legs under the
table. I took my time with my Corona, like a real tough guy;
suddenly, her glance fizzled out in mid-air. It took a while
to understand whether it was an attitude intended to restore
her dignity, whether the whiskey had addled her brain or the
ghost of her ex had suddenly floated to the surface.
“What’s up Martha,
a moment of meditation?”
“Reflection, more
than anything...”
“That’s the beauty
of whiskey. It makes you reflect.”
“No, I was just
... thinking.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been with
Andrea for five years, and here I am now flirting with you.”
“Andrea? Some name!
People with names like that are usually unbearable.”
“Go on!” And she
mimed me a slap.
“Sorry. You want
to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay then.”
“That’s life.”
“That’s what my
granny says. She also says: 'life is a drag'.”
“Your granny’s very
wise.”
“My granny!? To
hear my mother tell it, she’s been daffy since she was twenty.”
Here I thought she’d
laugh, but she started crying. The evening was taking a dangerous
turn, and I’ve never been a great consoler of souls in pain
(not even those wearing black stockings). I had no idea why
she was so broken up over somebody named Andrea. I watched
as her tears ran down the sides of her big nose and all I could
do was pat her on the shoulder and tell her “come on now, don’t
be like that” and other famous quotations. That’s how she told
me her story. It seems that Andrea was a sun-tanned gym membership
product and an IT guy. He was an amateur and collector of period
models of something I don’t even remember, let alone what period.
They’d known each other since childhood and had always been
in love and got on well, until something had snapped in her,
he no longer amazed her “excuse me, how did he amaze you
before?” I don’t know, it was the little things and so they
had started to quarrel over every little thing, any excuse
was enough for an argument, and she could no longer stand how
rigid, smug, and immature he was and couldn’t understand that
she had other needs, that she need to grow and that instead,
with him, she felt closed in, trapped, she felt she was being
smothered “what does personal growth mean to you and what
subtle means did he use to clip your wings?” Yes, yes, clip
my wings, you’ve understood perfectly, that’s what he was doing,
maybe only unconsciously, I’m not denying that.
If I play my cards
right I can have her, I was thinking, while below deck Long
John Silver hoisted sail and the blues played sadly in the
background.
We headed for the
exit. The night was soft and fresh. The train was whistling
and the aromas were wafting in the breeze. To reach the parking
lot you had to cross a little wooden bridge over a creek that’s
when I pounced on her little birdlike shoulders, turned her
clumsily and kissed her.
She went completely
limp, it was a very technical kiss, as I remember, something
demanded by the situation, maybe better if in a different place
and at some other time but I was young, dammit, it was a
beautiful evening, and I was dying to have a woman!
When we finally
came apart our beery and whiskey breaths mingled mouth to mouth:
“I didn’t think
you’d get to it so soon...” she whispered hoarsely.
“To kiss you?” I
asked in the same voice.
“Mmmh.”
“It’s that you seemed
so vulnerable...”
“What do you mean,
that you kissed me out of pity?”
“No, not pity, fondness
I would say.”
I kissed her neck
and slid my hand along the middle of her back (but the material
was coarse and the going was rough) while she sighed with her
eyes closed and stroked my hair but neither of us seem to
believe in it all the way.
“Can we go talk
somewhere?” I asked distractedly.
“Another joint?”
“How about the car...”
She smiled beautifully
and gave me a smack right on the lips:
“Don’t you think
it’s a little early to be talking in the car?”
Damn, she’s on to
me. I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks but tried to stay
cool and confident. I tried to kiss her again and pulled her
into my groin so she could feel the virility of my desire but
she gently put a hand on my chest and said:
“We’ve gone a little
beyond my understanding of a first date...”
I blushed again:
“Sorry, I didn’t
mean to offend you.”
“No, you haven’t
offended me, just the opposite...”
“It’s that I really
like you.”
“I like you too.”
Well, dammit, let’s
do it! Life is short! It’s springtime! My blood is boiling!
I feel like tearing off your stockings and swallowing you whole,
like a chicken dumpling!
“That’s why it’s
better for us to go home,” she concluded with a smile that
left nothing unsaid.
“Maybe we’d better,” I
sighed, pulling the least convincing I.D. card smile of all
time.
She turned the ignition,
put the car in reverse and looked at me. I put my hand on her
little knee all veiled in black, and she let me. Then she had
to work the clutch so I moved my hand. I was mad and horny,
and I needed to say something, but I could only picture her
to myself naked, and how small and hard her boobs would be,
two little boulders, and how fabulously hairy she would be
under the mound, how firm and rosy her ass and I thought
that what was needed was a little patience, maybe only until
next time; a question of a little caution:
“When can we see
each other again?”
No reply. I was
tense. I tried to explain myself better:
“Because I had a
nice time with you and I’d like to see you again.”
“I don’t know.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow... no,
tomorrow I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“It’s that... you
know...tonight I’ve realized how much Andrea still means to
me and I didn’t feel right being here with you, so soon....”
“It’s called guilt.
Don’t be duped by guilty feelings. It’s a trap, the hysterics
of the swindler we call conscience.”
“Why is conscience
a swindler?”
“Because it passes
off as moral acts what in reality are acts of cowardice.”
“So you’re calling
me a coward?”
“We all are, my
dear. We’re afraid of breaking with the past; after all, the
past is all we have. What still binds you to Andrea, or whatever
his name is, is a wonderfully rosy past, which is really wonderful
and rosy because it is past and you’ve forgotten it; at the
time, odds are it didn’t seem so wonderful to you.
“But we had so many
dreams in common!”
“You mean a future.
You see, what still ties you to him is a past that no longer
exists and a future that will never be. And, in the name of
those nonentities, your conscience is keeping you from living
a present that is real and, if you’ll allow me, very gratifying.”
“Maybe because it
isn’t right.”
“Or maybe because
you’re afraid that I, Andrea, you yourself and the entire world
will condemn you as an ingrate, superficial and flighty: five
years with Andrea and puff, all of a sudden you kiss the first
guy you see on an exquisite evening in Spring. But I ask myself:
why do we give the past with such fatal and ridiculous moral
importance? Is it because five years are more important than
a single night? I know that damned Viennese doctor has something
to do with it!”
The asphalt was
slick. There’s an S curve that takes you from Piazza Barche
to Via Forte Marghera, and Martha took it so fast that the
red 2CV kept going straight (good thing there was no one in
the other lane); Martha hit the brakes and the car spun around
twice before ending up on the sidewalk with a thud. Thank God
there wasn’t a soul around.
I looked at Martha
and she looked at me her glasses were all crooked and I sensed
a look of terror in her eyes it was only then that I felt
my heart beating again. The more I looked at her mouth, tense
and down-turned, the more I felt my stomach knotting up and
saw flashes of the city dizzily spinning in my brain. Then
she fainted and I grew calmer. Somehow I realized that we were
safe and that it was up to me to act like a man. Meantime her
skirt had slid high enough to show her black panties beyond
the veil of her stockings. I thought I could make a virtue
of necessity. I thought she might be grateful if I helped to
dispel her fear. I slapped her with renewed optimism, while
outside it was beginning to drizzle and the street lamps were
glowing in the empty streets. I heard a cat meow, and two cars
passed us rather indifferently, probably thinking that ours
was an improvised and temporary parking space on the sidewalk
for a couple that was making love or saying good-by.
Then Martha came
to. She looked at me as if she had just left the womb. She
was dumbfounded. I gently caressed her face and said that everything
was all right, that nothing had happened, that she should relax,
and other tender things all the while I was taking in how
the seams of her black stockings were describing magic circles
around her filly’s haunches, and a little black triangle was
peeping obscenely from between her thighs. I felt like diving
in head first!
But she might have
thought this a bit indelicate.
“How stupid of me!” These
were her first words.
“It could have happened
to anybody, the road is so slippery.”
“Now it’s raining
again!”
I thought she might
start crying again. I told her:
“Shall we go to
a bar and have a stiff drink?”
She sounded almost
annoyed:
“Maybe I’ve had
too much to drink, no?”
She closed her legs
and pulled down her skirt. We got out to check the car. No
damage done. We were about to take our places again, when she
said:
“Please, can you
drive?”
It was then that
I felt real fear, and my heart started galloping like a stallion
at sunset and I was paralyzed with fear under a rain I no longer
noticed.
The fact is I did
not drive. I had always been afraid of driving: better to get
into a box full of poisonous snakes than drive. Better to face
King Kong on a bad moon night than drive. Better to dare the
Siberian winter naked or the tropical summer in a sweat suit
than to drive. I think I’ve made myself clear. Oh, by the way,
I had gotten a drivers license!
And that had been
the most beautiful day of my life. Never had acing a college
exam or the conquest of a girl or any other success up to then I
did okay, without too many complexes given me such deep,
unalloyed joy. It had taken me three years. Three years in
which my parents had had to shell out zillions of dollars for
my driving lessons; during which I had failed exams and scared
driving inspectors shitless; in which I had given up so many
times and cried for shame in a corner of my room until one
day my father picked me up bodily and stuck me behind the wheel
of his grey Honda Civic. It was always torture for me: my arms
and legs were paralyzed and cold sweat trickled down my shirt
as my father said: “turn the ignition... clutch... no, that’s
the brake! Okay... put it in reverse now... take you foot off
the clutch and step on the gas...” Christ, how was it possible
to keep all those concepts in mind simultaneously!!! My brain
sent the messages with great deliberation and often in a language
my feet did not understand, and I was left like a bird caught
in traffic the traffic! What incredible angst!!! The other
vehicles seemed enormous monsters a hair’s breath from the
sheet metal giant I was piloting, and from one moment to the
next I saw them crashing and crushing me to death forever.
One day at a Yield
Sign at the end of Viale San Marco, where you pick up the San
Giuliano, I saw a VW bug, grim and threatening, coming on the
left. It was really a long way off: I could have gotten out,
gone to the corner bar, had a coffee and sandwich, and finally
gotten back to my car in time to see the little monster pass
by What did I do? I slammed on the brakes and BAM! I was
immediately rear-ended by the blue Golf behind me.
(“Oh, Proserpina
and Hades, why didn’t you intervene immediately to take me
from this world as one takes out a useless and ugly flower,
why didn’t you open a precipice in the earth to kindly swallow
me up?”)
I didn’t dare look
at my father. I expected to see him green with anger and shame
for his idiot son but my father has always had this unnerving
peculiarity: he goes into a rage over small things but he’s
as calm as a monk at the most critical times. He tapped on
my pulse (nonexistent) and with the calmest voice in the world
he whispered:
“Stay calm, nothing’s
happened.”
I made myself as
small as possible behind the wheel. My heart was beating wildly
and my head felt as if it would explode. From the rear view
mirror I could see the following scene play itself out: the
driver of the blue Golf, a little woman about 55, was in shock
as she left her car. She looked in amazement at the bumper
of the Golf (there was a headlight bashed in, but nothing more)
and then at the bumper of the Civic (a mere dent) and at my
father (a look of regret on his huge, kindly face, arms thrown
open as if to say: What’s to be done?). The woman stammered:
“But... but... why
did you slam on the brakes?”
“Lady, there was
a car coming on the left.”
“But... but... it
was so far away!”
“You can never be
too careful.”
“Careful my foot,
will you look at this now!”
“Lady, you see the
S? My son is a student driver...”
“Well, as a student
he’s not too bright! The VW Bug was in Canada!”
My father is like
that. Up to now he had been unflappable, but his son had been
insulted and his intellect called into question (justifiably,
as it happens); now he set his jaw and his voice sounded tense:
“Look here, you
just concentrate on keeping a safe distance, and I’ll worry
about my son. Now shall we get on with the friendly accident
report for the insurance company?”
And they got right
to it. When my father came back to the car he was beaming: “Heeheehee!
We got ourselves a new bumper!”
“But we didn’t need
a new bumper!”
“Well, it had a
couple of scratches.”
“But that other
car was really in Canada...”
“Well, not really
in Canada, let’s say New York! Heeheehee! Come on, start the
car and let’s go!”
“Let’s go? Sorry
Dad, I can’t do it. I’m still in shock!”
“Come on now, don’t
be a pussy!”
And so we went and,
shortly after that, about a month before my date with Martha,
with my intestines in knots and the veins in my neck bulging
to the breaking point, after passing the written exam, I also
passed my road test.
I remember that
we were driving along a road full of potholes without my missing
a single one. The old, pot-bellied driving examiner joked: “You
like the holes, right?”
My dad was sitting
next to me and let out an overstated laugh that also got the
examiner laughing contentedly, and I tried to laugh too and
could do no better than hah hah and said: “Sorry about that,
I realize I’m a little nervous; usually I’m never nervous.”
And the examiner
believed me and said: “Okay, go into the office and sign the
documents, you’ll have your license in about a month.” As soon
as he left I burst out crying and hugged my dad.
But a month had
gone by and I had done no other driving, what’s worse, I had
decided that I would never drive again. What did it matter
to me? The license finally, the candy pink license that drove
me wild with happiness each time I slipped it out of my wallet
and ecstatically looked at both sides, the license that conferred
social respectability with its official confirmation that I
was not an incompetent fool (I was like everyone else, I was
a driver!) I had that license. Here it is kids, shining like
a peach blossom against the blue spring sky: so if you don’t
see me driving, it’s because I prefer not to; it bores me,
and traffic wears me out but I could.”) I’m not a conformist.
I don’t need to drive to prove my manhood, just the opposite,
I love girls who drive I was born to sing madrigals next
to a little blond tearing along at a hundred miles an hour.
Now Martha was eyeing
me, under a cold and constant drizzle, and I think she guessed
at my discomfort, I think she thought that I was unwilling
to drive out into open country. I stalled for time by asking:
“But how will I
get back?”
Her face was wet
with tears, or maybe it was the rain, but she didn’t seem to
notice it. She was gathering herself in from the cold and seemed
to be in despair:
“Well, maybe you’re
right...”
“I’m sorry,
I’d be glad to do it, no problem...” I said with immense
relief.
“I’ll call my father
to come and get me...”
I was embarrassed
now. I felt I was abandoning her, that I had to do something.
Besides, her mom and dad were rather on in age.
“Wait. You don’t
want to call your house in the middle of the night and force
your dad to come get you. Wait a few minutes; you won’t be
so frightened, you’ll see. I’m no longer afraid. After all,
if you don’t get back behind the wheel now you run the risk
of never driving again, shock must be confronted head on...”
I went to her and
tried to hug her, and she dove into my arms and started sobbing:
“I was so afraid...”
“I know, I know...”
Then, lifting her
face like a puppy, she said:
“What if you drove
and spent the night at my house and I could bring you back
in the morning?”
I felt that horrible
sensation again, two great talons gripping my heart and driving
it to the middle of my belly; I was trapped and I knew it.
I looked at her and wanted to tell her that I would have wanted
to but unfortunately I had an appointment at dawn next morning but
I couldn’t be such a coward, that’s something else I knew.
I looked around, the rain was beating on the brightly lit puddles,
on the shiny street, on the closed gas stations and on the
little boats moored at the bank of the Salso Canal (the filthiest
creek in the world, a basin greasy with huge, grey rats and
reeking of all the pismires of Marghera) and Martha looked
at me imploringly and I held her in my arms, terrorized, while
normal people slept serenely in their little brick houses,
deaf to the drumming of my heart and the miaowing of the cats
that made up the sound track of my nocturnal nightmare so
I surrendered and whispered: “okay.”
I got in the car
with the enthusiasm of the condemned man walking to the gallows,
and my brain was already flashing me images of the world beyond,
where I was already begging Martha’s forgiveness for having
caused her to drown with me in the Salso Canal, just before
our bodies had been devoured by rats.
Left foot on the
clutch, I thought; right foot, lightly on the gas.
My heart was beating
like a thousand drummers. As I turned the key, an electric
current tingled through my chest. The street was still empty
and sopping wet and it went on raining. Oh God, at least let
the rain stop, I prayed.
Martha pushed a
lever and the windshield wiper came on. The clutch ground threateningly
as I shifted into reverse: “it always grinds like that,” Martha
said. I released the clutch with surgical precision and slowly
pressed on the gas pedal too slowly, as it turned out, and
the motor died. “It always dies,” Martha said. I wondered whether
she could hear the screeching of my nerves, or whether she
had guessed that my bladder was about to burst with fear. “Fuck” I
said to myself, “fuck!” It’s always been a word I could count
on for courage. I turned the key again, stepped on the gas,
and the car roared, it moved, a weight was lifted from my chest,
my limbs loosened up, my blood started flowing again, a drop
of urine stained my boxers and I tightened the muscles of my
groin. The car slipped off the sidewalk just as two headlights
in the distance again froze my heart, blood and limbs: I jammed
both feet into the brake pedal and in the fraction of a thousandth
of a second I remembered the clutch and realized that the motor
would die, and so I slammed my left foot down on the clutch
and a miracle with the growl of a lion not quite decided
whether to attack or crouch, the motor kept running.
The oncoming car
took a very long time to pass us. It was a blue Skoda all banged
up and harmless looking, and as mindless as a manatee. I looked
at it with scorn and some relief and awkwardly justified my
hesitation:
“I know it was a
mile away, I had plenty of time to cross, but considering what’s
happened, you know, I’m taking it slowly...”
She laughed and
seemed reassured:
“Oh, don’t tell
me, I can’t thank you enough, you must have nerves of steel
to drive after what just happened.”
You’ll never know,
my dear!
The car moved with
a certain French finesse. The lion seemed to have been tamed.
I was able to return to my lane and thought it about time I
shifted into second mentally I went over what I had to do
with the help of a few choice obscenities to keep my courage
up. I felt a drop of sweat roll down my forehead as I pushed
in the clutch pedal and pulled back firmly, but without malice,
on the shift knob by God it worked, yes, I was in second
gear, the car was rolling forward and my chest again relaxed
and I could not stifle a sigh of relief.
“Everything okay?”,
I asked Martha, fishing for a compliment.
“Great.” And I think
she smiled, even though I didn’t dare take my eyes off the
road.
Now it was time
to shift into third, the lion had begun to roar, but the stop
light leading to Via Sansovino forced me to stop before turning
left, and that’s when something terrifying happened: there
was another car behind us. I saw its headlights, cold, cynical,
suspicious headlights, scrutinizing my ineptness. I was sweating
and dreading the moment I would wet my pants. A car behind
me had always been the thing I feared most; I felt I was being
judged, that the horn would sound any minute. When I looked
in the rear view mirror I always saw a sneering, angry face.
But my daddy had always said to never mind the other drivers,
don’t pay attention to them even if they blow their horns. “Take
no heed of them, but look and go your way.” He could never
resist throwing in a good quote.
I paid no attention
to them; at least I pretended not to, but fate had laid an
ambush for me. I’d done everything properly: I had kept the
motor running while the light was red; I’d quickly taken off
when it was green; but, just then, from the opposite direction,
two jaguar eyes opened in the night and I understood immediately
that I was dealing with a dangerous animal, certainly not the
old Skoda of a while ago. But this too was far-off. I was sure
it was miles away. Only an imbecile would stop and wait for
it: the guy behind me would have honked his horn and unmasked
my timid soul; or he might rear-end me like the little woman
in the VW bug. And so I went and turned, by God, I floored
the accelerator and the car gave a squeal of joy as it made
the curve and gently returned to its lane like a triumphal
chariot. And in the euphoria of it all I quickly shifted into
second and then even into third gear. And we were riding, yes,
riding, and I was tempted to look at Martha to see whether
she was hearing the thumping of my heart, whether she was looking
in astonishment at my audacity, whether she expected me to
be that kind of driver...
But Martha said
nothing and I calmed down; I realized how idiotic it was to
get all excited there was still a long road ahead of us.
In Viale San Marco,
my neighborhood, I got it into fourth gear and my heart was
singing like a tenor: my God, why is there no one here to see
this?
I was extremely
focused.
Martha said:
“I still don’t understand
how I took that curve so fast how stupid of me!”
“Naw, come on.”
“It must have been
the whiskey. You shouldn’t have let me drink like that.”
“Naw, really.”
“No, I’m just joking
you know. I need to joke about it to get over it. I should
really say how sorry I am. I hope you’ll forgive me; I just
don’t know how to thank you and ...”
At any other time
her words and the hand I suddenly felt on my right thigh, because
of her fright, the gratitude and certainly not from malice,
would have awakened my most horny thoughts but just then
I was deaf to them, and her well-meaning hand on my thigh was
merely an awkward sensation on my leg, whose every muscle was
concentrating on doing its duty. Luckily, she soon took it
away and, increasingly full of self-confidence, I felt that
the car was letting itself be tamed and that it had left the
overpass behind, driven by me, dammit, as I continued to shift
gears without a hitch. I was as if hypnotized, ecstatic. I
was beginning to feel happy inside almost to the point of bursting.
“Do you always drive
so hunched up over the wheel?” Martha asked.
“What?” And I turned
my head to look at her. I swear I did. I noticed that I could
take my eyes off the road and look at her, and what a marvelous
thing it was that I was driving yes, I was driving just like
other human beings, who knew how to drive and simultaneously
carry on a pleasant conversation with their companions.
I was so excited
by this new discovery that I turned four times towards her
as I pronounced the following phrase:
No it’s that with
the rain I can’t see very well.” Just like an epileptic.
We took the Terraglio,
the wide road that leads to the fields and ends in Treviso.
It’s considered extremely dangerous because of the considerable
number of imbeciles who drag there only to crash and take with
them dozens of innocent and casual passers-by, especially during
weekends after dark. I felt another squirt of urine warm again
an area of my boxers at the thought, and a cold shudder stopped
my heart for an instant: but I was bound to make it, by God,
I would make it and ignore the others, as my father advised.
On the Terraglio,
which bordered the black countryside smelling of wet leaves,
I did meet with a lot of other vehicles. Their headlights slammed
into my face as I kept a respectful distance from a little
black car that could hardly be made out in the dark, while
in the rear-view mirror I kept an eye on a pair of headlights
that were not threatening or condemning, and were content keep
their place.
Yes, I was driving,
driving wisely and calibrating my foot pressure on the gas
so as not to be considered a Saturday night nuisance or tie
up traffic like an old snail, and as my nerves relaxed and
my heartbeat slowed to normal, my bladder found relief at last for
the first time I felt I was a man.
I had never felt
that way before and it was a terrific sensation. My gestures
took on more determination; my look was virile, and a full
grown heart beat within my breast.
But I was celebrating
victory too soon.
All of a sudden,
as weeping willows leaned in from the sides of the road, while
the rain had completely stopped and Martha had turned off the
windshield wipers and everything was going swimmingly, I was
forced to slow down by a tractor that planted itself in front
of me with its mousy red lights and a total absence of an inferiority
complex. At first I thought nothing of it and followed behind
it with all the patience and good will in the world; in fact,
that little man with the straw hat astride that slow-moving
contraption reminded me of an unruffled maharajah seated on
the back of a peacefully plodding elephant right out of Kipling’s
Jungle Book, fables that were distant in space and time, with
their flavor of mystery and indolence, knowing nothing of automobiles,
frenzied activity and car horns. But Martha could contain herself
no longer:
“Will you look at
him, he shouldn’t be driving at night he must be drunk!”
“Well...”
“Dear God, it can’t
all be happening to us tonight, go ahead and pass him when
you have a chance.”
“Pass him? But I’ve
got an undivided median line.”
And in fact the
undivided line was very reassuring; it seemed to settle the
matter and I was grateful for it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve
never passed with an undivided line?”
“Well?”
“Now, now, there’s
no one coming, pass him!
“But... give me
a break Martha, the place is full of troopers on nights like
these...”
Her voice became
strident and got on my nerves:
“Yeah, but look
behind you, traffic’s backing up and they’ll start honking
any minute!”
“At me!?”
“At you, at you,
don’t you think they’re waiting for you to pass him?”
I looked in the
rear view mirror. The headlights of the little black car had
been joined in a line stretching back a ways by pairs of others
and others still. It was true; there was a line and they were
all waiting for me to make my move. The road was now dark and
narrow and only one car could pass at a time. It was up to
me; no one was coming from the other direction, damnation,
and I felt my temples pulsing and my heart galloping like a
crazy horse on a beach as I began to slide over to the center
line:
“What are you doing,
not around a curve!”
“Calm down, I was
only looking, relax, I know how to drive!”
She felt humiliated.
“Sorry...”
“It’s nothing.”
The blast of a car
horn, probably from the traitorous little black car, was like
a spear thrust through my chest, and in the rear view mirror
I saw a phalanx of headlights stretching into the distance,
all waiting for a move on my part. The man with the straw hat,
stationary as a statue, continued to drive his tractor at a
glacial pace in the dark and misty night; under that straw
hat he seemed a demigod come down to put me to the test, while
the dark, powerful forms of trees were sneering giants betting
against me. I looked at the straight stretch of road before
me, drifted to the left, crossed the dividing line and pulled
up even with the tractor but I was going so slowly, pianissimo
by God, and at that instant there appeared before me two headlights
like the flaming eyes of a dragon and I felt a large kitchen
knife splitting my belly open. I realized that I was in fifth
gear and that my father had always told me always to pass in
third or second gear. I downshifted into third and the car
gave a terrific roar for a moment I had the impression that
the maharajah looked at me approvingly as I put him behind
me. I got back into my lane, the dragon still a mile away:
I had passed the tractor.
Martha’s mom and
dad were elderly. He was doubtlessly a wizard; and she, a good
witch. Tall and extremely thin, his nose ended in a strawberry.
She was petite but plump and her smile was a slice of watermelon.
They had woken up and greeted us all anxious and astonished,
but also caring and attentive, as if they already knew it
must have been the crystal ball and the four of us all sat
on a wonderful green, pink and wine colored sofa, in a crescent
around the fireplace. Fright painted their faces as they heard
our account of what had happened, followed by relief and thanksgiving
to God (they could have been thanking Beelzebub), and the lady
witch made us chamomile tea while the wizard lit his pipe,
and thanked me repeatedly for my sang-froid and kindness.
A cold sensation
ran up and down my spine and my heart was thrashing about like
a poor fish just pulled from the water. But now my nerves slowly
unwound; the fish ceased its mortal struggle, all the muscles
in my body slackened their hold, and a celestial bliss descended
and enveloped them completely. I shifted into fourth without
even thinking about it. Martha’s silence gave me to understand
that I had done something perfectly normal, but inside I realized
that I had slain the dragon, killed the giants and silenced
the demigod. One after the other, the cars behind me also passed
the tractor and got in line behind me. Now I no longer feared
them or their condemnation: let them be good enough to follow
me if they wanted to, and if they wanted to pass because I
was going too slow for their taste, let them sound their horns: “Take
no heed of them but look and go your way.”
In no time at all
we reached the dark lane that led to Martha’s house. In the
headlights, it was yellow and full of stones. It looked like
a magic road leading to a fabulous adventure. Then I turned
into the unpaved driveway and with amazing nonchalance I parked
in front of Martha’s farmhouse. I would have loved to stay
there all night long a night whose colors and odors were
now familiar to me, where the crickets were singing my praises,
where the rustling of the wet vegetation would lull me to sleep
as I watched the ambergris sky and imagined the mysterious
fauna of the woods, owls, wolves, elves and fairies, all giving
a party in my honor.
The aromas of the
straw and the manure were ambrosia to me. I got out of the
car, wrapped my arm around Martha’s waist, and we entered the
little castle like its king and queen.
I just loved those
two old geezers. I loved the world and life itself. I loved
that house of fable with its fabric sunflowers pinned to the
walls, its blue distilling tubes on the pantry shelf, its white
gauze curtains and its spiral staircase leading to the upstairs
bedrooms. I loved the spattering of the rain in the night,
the fresh aroma from the outside I even loved Martha.
It was already 4:00
a.m. and I suddenly thought of how my parents would be worried
at not seeing me come home, so I asked to make a phone call.
The call dragged my folks out of bed and they were marvelously
afraid. My mother cried:
“Thank heaven, I
thought you might have had a car accident.”
“Oh, that’s what
happened all right, that’s what happened!”
Martha led me to
the guest room. We climbed the spiral staircase and entered
a room painted vermilion, and in a corner a little bed covered
with stuffed toys: bears, crocodiles, even a little grey pig
made of cloth. I’ve always found stuffed toys unbearable, but
here I felt an oceanic feeling of tenderness.
Martha thanked me
again and hugged me platonically.
I hugged her back
with a laugh: “what for, what for!?”
And so we parted.
I looked out the
window, a kind of hole excavated in the turret of a castle.
Below in the enfolding darkness, faintly lit by the candles
in the living room that continued to burn, I caught a glimpse
of a dark wooden table and some chairs covered in purple cloth,
where the good wizard and his witch wife probably drank wine
under the mild sun of springtime and dined with their gnome
friends during hot summer evenings. A little beyond, I could
make out the chicken house, and in front of it what must have
been the original barn, where the young wizard used to milk
the cows and assist at the birth of calves, before definitely
giving himself over to alchemy. A large peach tree shaded the
old barn, with its surrounding rose and berry bushes, fruit
trees and flower beds and rabbit hutches and beehives and troughs
for the pigs all this I made out with difficulty, buoyed
by a sense of well-being, by the peace that filled my soul.
But now the light of dawn was turning the sky into a gray,
white and rosy mattress that was helping me to see farther
off: there, beyond the little gate, there stood my car, the
car that had popped my cherry, that had made a man of me among
men! How beautiful it was and how nicely I had parked it!
There was the blessed
countryside stretching before me in the fragrant dawn: the
thick rustling woods with its lakes, and then the fields, the
orderly vineyards, the rows of tomatoes, the well plowed furrows
of red earth. And beyond that the road, the road I now belonged
to, no longer an enemy, the road where cars passed one another,
and among these there would also be mine.
The night that had
initiated me to manhood was almost over. It came to an end
quickly, like every thing of beauty. It was six a.m. A rooster
crowed and I smiled, because later I would take my father’s
Honda Civic and I’d ask him to come for a ride; he’d say: “ah,
what wonder is this!” and I’d smile from ear to ear. Now I
slipped under the linen sheets and the red and yellow blanket,
and hugged the little fabric pig and fell asleep.
# # #
The Night I Became a
Real Man by Emanuele Pettener
originally
published September 15, 2008