Free Born Twice (Vintage International) by Giuseppe Pontiggia Page A

lesson. It certainly had taught a lot to the person being attacked but nothing at all to the aggressor. Fifty years later, the lesson continues to elude him.
    I wait for him to return from his outing with Paolo.
    The green car enters the courtyard of the building with its lights on. It’s only late afternoon, but he turns on his lights at the same time the municipality turns on the streetlights. It’s one of the many rituals he celebrates with maniacal observation and of which he is especially proud, as if it were some kind of merit. Another one he’s proud of is his perfect attendance at a club to which he belongs. “I’ve never been absent,” he once told me proudly. “Never!” He reminded me of an admiral who, after saving his crew and passengers, had fearlessly gone down with his ship, the only difference being that my father-in-law lived to tell the story.
    He opens his door slowly and walks around the rear of the car to open Paolo’s door. In the meantime I’ve gotten Paolo’s go-cart out of the garage and wheeled it over. He unfastens Paolo’s seat belt, picks him up, and lowers him into the go-cart with graceful ease. I know that this maneuver, done with delicate precision, fills him with the silent joy of an artisan in front of work well done.
    “I’ve been meaning to ask you a favor,” I begin, as Paolo pedals off in zigzags across the courtyard.
    “Tell me,” he replies.
    “I know it runs counter to your moral and ethical code.”
    “Get to the point,” he says.
    “The principal of the school that Paolo will attend is disabled.”
    “Him too!” He throws his hands up in the air.
    “Yes, and he’d like to publish a book of his poems with an imprint of your caliber.”
    He’s sensitive to this wrong word, but it puts him in a good mood, alluding to a power he doesn’t have.
    “How do I fit in?” he asks.
    I know he wants to hear the favor that is being asked of him in clear and precise terms. It’s a practice I used to associate with men of a certain age, until I understood that these men of a certain age have accumulated a certain amount of experience over the years and they’re not wrong to expect it. They’re tired of doing favors for people who make it seem as though they themselves are actually doing the favor.
    “He’d like you to talk to an important editor about his work. He thinks you can do anything.”
    “It’s not true, but I can do it this time,” he says. “I did quite an important favor for one recently. Give me the manuscript.”
    He nods slyly and says no more.
    I am dumbfounded.
    “I suppose you want to read it first before giving it to him,” I add, already responding to this situation for which I was unprepared.
    “Why on earth would I do that? Give it to me now, and I’ll talk to him about it later this week. Did you like it?”
    “Yes,” I say, taken aback. “It’s not bad.”
    “Only ‘not bad’?” he says, smiling. “I was hoping for better.”
    “Actually, for me, not bad means pretty good.”
    “What’s ‘pretty good’?” he rebuts. “Give it to me and say no more!” He points to the car. “Would you mind backing it out while I go and say goodbye to Paolo?”
    “Not at all,” I reply, opening the door and climbing in.
    Everything feels easy, light, simple. I look up. In the square of sky between the buildings, I can see the first stars.
    I back up quickly. My father-in-law shrinks at the far end of the courtyard. For some reason, I have always imagined him in breeches. But he’s never worn them.

Miss Bauer
     
    Her name is Elisa Bauer. She’s from Bolzano and she’s thirty-two years old. She has never had a disabled child in her class and seems, when we meet her, visibly concerned about the prospect of having one. She wanted to meet us; we live about three hundred yards away from the school.
    Her blond hair is gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck. She moves with ease and elegance and is as attractive as she is reserved,