The traffic was in a slow burn, backed up about a hundred metres from the lights to the barracks. Cars drifted in and out of lanes; mopeds cheeked between lines of their own invention, and yet the filter right was still blocked. Finally, the old man lost all patience and started tooting his horn. “Cretini, sbrigatevi!”
A car pulled out in front of them from the side road.
The old man put his foot down; they lurched forward and nearly went into the back of the offending Fiat. “Cretino!” said the old man, turning to his passenger. “Did you see that?”
Gabriele said nothing.
The lights changed; cars moved off. The traffic eased.
They drove along the sea road past the used car lot and the dairy where no one ever seemed to fetch the milk. Up past the boarded-up factory and the shacks where the whores plied their trade Gabriele turned and looked out at the sea. The sky was dark, and he thought it would probably rain.
The fish shop on the sea side was closed. Nobody was sitting on the slab of concrete set as a picnic table on the rocks.
The old man turned off the sea road; they went down a narrow lane surrounded on either side by the high walls of the villas and summer lets.
Turning into a cul de sac, the old man pulled up at the gate of the villa; he got out and went to open up.
The drive was like a junk yard. Leaning against the wall, behind an armchair that had had the stuffing knocked out of it, was a mattress with a brown stain.
A large red-faced woman came out of the basement flat. She called to the old man who called back. “Virginia! Come here and help me get the wine.”
“I’m putting the washing out.”
“Forget about your knickers. Come and help me with the wine.”
Gabriele turned away in disgust.
“What’s she doing in the flat?”
“She hasn’t got anywhere to stay.”
“Well, is she paying the rent?”
“She’s got a contract.”
“And you signed it?”
As they drove back into town, it had started to rain.
The old man found a parking space behind the barracks. Gabriele got out of the car and walked off down the street. His father called after him. “Where are you going?”
Gabriele did not bother to answer.
It began to bucket down. He got soaked.
When his sister came home, she found him shivering by the gas fire.
“Gabriele, che fai? – Vuoi bruciare le gambe?”
Gabriele did not say anything; he sat there warming himself by the fire.
When Vito received the call from Gabriele’s sister, he left his cubby hole in the archives of radiography and went straight to cardiology.
Gabriele was already in the sterile unit. Vito put on a pair of green overalls and clogs, and buzzed the intercom.
Gabriele was lying with his head back. A drip was attached to his arm and leg.
Vito took the x-ray out of the yellow envelope and held it up to the light.
“Gran figlio di puttana,” he muttered under his breath. There were tears in his eyes, as he sat down on the chair beside the bed.
Vito had known Gabriele since Lycée Scientifico. Once upon a time, Gabriele had been marked out for brilliant things. He excelled at school and sports. He swam and fished better than all his companions. And yet, when his mother had died, something happened to Gabriele. He was no longer feisty, but seemed to lose heart and became depressed. Vito recalled the evening Gabriele came to see him in an excited mood. “Here is all the proof you need,” he had said, handing him a clutch of papers. “Dio non esiste.” Vito, who was no longer a Catholic, but a convert, looked at Gabriele as if he was joking. He thought Gabriele’s proof was quite mad and he told him so. Sarcasm crept into their voices. The argument became heated. Vito had said a few home truths. Since his mother’s death, Gabriele had not done a single exam at university. He was turning into a lazy and resentful person. Gabriele stormed off. If, after that, their friendship had never quite been the same, Gabriele seemed to reconcile himself to Vito’s choice. “At least, you chose your religion,” he would say, “unlike all the rest of the sheep.”
In the corridor outside the sterile unit, Vito bumped into Gabriele’s sister.
They embraced.
“I’ve just finished work,” she said. “Dimmi che non è grave. Did you see the x-ray?”
Vito described the dissection that had spread down the left-hand side of Gabriele’s body.
“Nobody saw it before?”
Gabriele’s sister stared in disbelief. “Vogliano far mourire mio fratello.”
“You mustn’t think that,” he said. “I am sure they are doing everything they can.”
Gabriele’s sister shook her head. “I should have listened to him,” she said. “He didn’t want to come back here to die.”
Gabriele had woken in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in his chest. At the arrival of the ambulance he had not wanted to go to hospital.
“I had my work cut out,” she said. “He doesn’t care anymore.”
“You mustn’t lose heart,” Vito said. “Gabriele is pretty stubborn when he wants to be.”
Gabriele’s sister was in tears. “Lo sapevo,” she said. “Non vuole vivere più.”
Vito did not know what to say, so he changed the subject.
“Tuo padre?” he asked. “Does he know?”
“No,” she said, wiping her tears, “nobody’s told him yet. We are all worried about his heart.”
“Sooner or later,” said Vito, “someone is going to have to tell him.”
Although busy, over the next few days, Vito kept up his vigil beside Gabriele’s bed. There seemed to be no change; Vito was prepared for the worst when, to everyone’s surprise, Gabriele woke up from the coma and asked for a cup of tea.
“Tea! He never drinks tea.”
Gabriele’s sister was laughing as they stood outside the sterile unit.
“What did I tell you?” said Vito. “He’s pretty stubborn when he wants to be.”
“Stubborn as a mule.”
“What about the old man? Have you told him yet?”
Gabriele’s sister nodded. “He doesn’t want to come to the ward.”
Vito saw the look of disgust in her face, but he pretended not to notice it. “I’ll go and talk to him,” he said. “He’ll come round.”
Gabriele’s sister didn’t see the point. “He’s not answering the phone,” she said. “He’s always out at the villa with that woman.”
“I promise I’ll go and see him,” he said. “He must come.”
On the way home Vito drove to the street where Gabriele’s father lived.
While he was parking his car, he saw Gabriele’s father walking, arm in arm, with a large, red-faced woman. Guessing it was the woman mentioned by Gabriele’s sister, he called to the old man, who turned round to greet him. “Petrosino,” he said, “da quanto tempo!”
But Vito was not in the mood for pleasantries.
“Your son is lying in hospital,” he said. “I am sure you know how serious it is.”
“Of course,” said Gabriele’s father. “I will go immediately.”
The old man turned to the large red-faced woman. “Don’t stand there like a lemon. Get in the car.”
“Signore,” said Vito. “You are doing the right thing by your son.”
The old man shook Vito by the hand and got in his car where the woman was waiting.
As far as Vito knew, the visit never took place. Gabriele took ill again and went back into a coma. He never woke from it.
The funeral came and went in a blur. Vito threw himself back into his work. The months passed.
In Italy it is common practice to say a messa di commemorazione a year after the death of a loved one. It was around this time Vito heard from Gabriele’s sister. A party was going to be held out in the country. “We’re going to plant a tree on my cousin’s farm.”
Vito thought it was an excellent idea. “Gabriele always loved the countryside,” he said. “He loved your cousin’s farm.”
Gabriele’s sister agreed. “He was happiest there,” she said.
Vito had promised to come to the party, but at the last minute, he could not make it. His elder sister was not in the best of health. Money was also tight; Vito had taken on extra work at the hospital. To compound matters, his middle son was in trouble at school again. He was tired and worried when he received the call from Gabriele’s sister. She was in tears. “È l’albero,” she said. “Gabriele’s tree has died.”
Vito did not know what to say. “Non prenditi male,” he said, not wanting her to lose heart. “We can always plant another tree.”
“What is the point?” she said, crying. “He doesn’t want to come back even as a tree.”
Vito had just put the phone down when there was a knock on the bedroom door. It was his middle son to whom he had not spoken for several days. Now he wanted money.
“Why do you need it?”
“Mama said you would lend me the money.”
“Mi dispiace, figlio mio,” Vito said, shaking his head. “I don’t have any money to give you. You must go out to work.”
His son swore and slammed the door. Vito was still sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands, when he seemed to hear his friend, Gabriele, taunting him from beyond the grave. “Isn’t that all the proof anyone needs? Even if you change your religion, it makes no difference. God does not exist.”