Free The Sense of an Elephant by Marco Missiroli

mouth. ‘It was fifteen years ago. I was in my second year of medical school. One afternoon in March, Viola passed beneath my window. We’d known each other for a little while. She knew that I was with someone else but, because she’s a headstrong woman,she also knew that a moment is enough …’ He turned off the engine. ‘And the moment happened when I came to the window to close the shutters. While she was looking up.’
    â€˜Good timing.’
    â€˜She’d already understood that we could do each other a world of good.’ The doctor opened his door. ‘She set me free, Pietro. Viola has a sense of dedication that brings you back to the world.’ He smiled. ‘Too bad she can’t cook. Instead she organizes wonderfully tasteful exhibits, conferences, that kind of thing.’ At the entrance to the former factory a group of people gathered in evening dress. The road was backed up with cars. ‘And to think that she wanted to teach Greek.’ Luca got out and began walking towards the crowd.
    Pietro watched him disappear among the people then reached a hand back to the checked blanket and to the document case. He felt for the zip. When he lifted his head he saw the doctor returning. Pietro withdrew his hand.
    â€˜Too crowded.’ Dr Martini got in and started the engine. ‘The surprise is postponed till this evening.’ He attempted a U-turn but took it wide and had to reverse. Backed the car into a side street where a petrol-blue SUV was parked with one wheel up on the kerb, its passenger-side door dented and scratched. They both recognized it. Both pretended not to have recognized it.

15
    At dinnertime Pietro went into Alice’s cafe. From the window he could see the second floor of the condominium. One of the windows with light in it was the Martinis’. After he and Luca had returned home, the doctor had gone to pick up his little girl from his parents-in-law’s. The concierge had reassembled the Bianchi.
    Now exhausted, he loosened his new scarf and collapsed into the blue armchair, eyelids fluttering. Soon his eyes closed completely. When he reopened them, Alice was serving his hot chocolate and staring at the image of Mastroianni hanging behind him. ‘You look alike.’
    Pietro pulled the cup toward him on the table. ‘Thanks.’
    â€˜For the chocolate or for Mastroianni?’ Her hair was pulled back, her brow furrowed with fatigue. She went to the counter and returned immediately with two butter biscuits: ‘Actors get special treatment.’
    Pietro drowned a biscuit in the chocolate, let it slip into his mouth as he drank. Finished with slow spoonfuls, his neck stretched forward for fear of drips. Gathered the last drop with the second biscuit then went to pay, a chocolate moustache above his lips. Alice pointed it out. He wiped it away with a finger and she pointed next to a small stain on his jacket.
    â€˜Dammit.’ Pietro himself took the sponge from the sink and dabbed.
    â€˜Fernando hasn’t come back.’
    Pietro paid. ‘He will.’ Smiled goodbye and left. The cold whitened the street lamps. The concierge pulled his jacket closer around himself and crossed without looking. Hurried to the building door, began to struggle with the lock. The key was defective and would not turn properly. He strained and forced it a bit. He tried again and cursed.
    â€˜If you want, we can use mine …’
    He turned. Viola was behind him, breathing heavily. ‘Riccardo gave me a ride. He plays football near where I work.’
    He looked at her, confused.
    â€˜Didn’t you just see us in the street outside the cafe?’
    Pietro said no. They went in. The Bianchi leaned against the concierge’s lodge and smelled of paint. The chain and padlock were not in use.
    â€˜You painted the handlebars, even.’ Viola touched the seat and pulled one of the brake levers. ‘It could use a nice