back in his own way, with a slap on my neck from behind.
Cantoni’s a moron. He’s five foot seven and a brown belt in judo. I’d like to react to his bullying, but I’m barely five feet tall, and the only thing I could beat him at is ping-pong, which I’m quite good at.
* * *
That night I went back to the park. I found myself there in different circumstances from the other times. I was having a nap lying on the grass, in the shade of a tree, when Scott came and woke me up.
I know it seems really strange to talk about having a nap during a dream, but that’s how it was, and there’s not much you can add.
Let’s go, chief, they’re waiting for us
.
He set off quite quickly and I was forced to run after him to catch up.
“Wait for me, Scott, slow down. Where are we going?”
He didn’t reply, just kept trotting along.
“Who exactly is waiting for us?”
Still no reply. I was starting to get irritated and Iwalked faster to catch up with him, stop him, and force him to answer me—was I or wasn’t I the chief?—when I saw a bench in the middle of the lawn and Ginevra sitting on it. Scott stopped about fifty feet away and lay down on the grass.
Go on, chief, she’s waiting for you
.
I approached the bench and Ginevra gestured to me to sit down next to her.
“That Cantoni’s a real idiot,” she said.
“I don’t mind,” I said, as if to imply that, if I wanted, I could react and destroy Cantoni and the only reason I didn’t was because I don’t believe in violence.
“You know I have a boyfriend, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Oh, I’ve had a few,” I lied in a nonchalant tone. “But right now I prefer being alone.”
“Yes, I don’t think I’m going to stay with my boyfriend much longer either. There’s someone else I like a lot more.” As she said this, she looked me straight in the eyes. I swallowed with difficulty, and couldn’t find a single word to say in reply.
“Do you have someone you like?” she went on.
“Well, yes, there is someone I like a bit …”
“Is she pretty?”
It struck me that I should immediately stop playing the fool and tell her the truth, that I was in love with her and we mustn’t waste another minute.
When Mom woke me up, she said I’d been repeating that sentence in my sleep: We mustn’t waste another minute.
She asked me what it meant. Why mustn’t we waste another minute? I sat up, yawned, and said I’d been dreaming but I’d already forgotten the dream.
8
On Saturday evening his colleague and friend Carella had invited him to dinner.
Carella was plump and almost bald. He had three children, his wife was the same girl he had been going out with when he was seventeen, and he spent his free time doing charity work for a parish association in the Pigneto district, where he lived. He was in the criminal investigations unit, and despite appearances—which as is well known are deceptive—he was an excellent detective.
He and Roberto had met at the officers’ training academy, and although they were very different they had remained friends over the years.
Carella had taken Roberto’s situation to heart: he phoned him at least once a week and invited him to dinner once a month. It was impossible for Roberto to get out of these invitations without offending his friend, and so, more or less once a month, on a Saturday evening,he submitted to the ritual of dinner in the Carella household. Carella’s wife was there, as well as two of his three children (the oldest, being nineteen, went out and avoided the obligation), the apartment smelled of Marseille soap, they ate badly—Signora Carella specialized in overcooked pasta, whatever the sauce—and they talked about old times. Roberto would converse politely without hearing what they were saying to him, or even what he himself was saying, waiting for the moment when it wouldn’t seem too impolite to take his leave.
This evening had been like all the
Cantoni’s a moron. He’s five foot seven and a brown belt in judo. I’d like to react to his bullying, but I’m barely five feet tall, and the only thing I could beat him at is ping-pong, which I’m quite good at.
* * *
That night I went back to the park. I found myself there in different circumstances from the other times. I was having a nap lying on the grass, in the shade of a tree, when Scott came and woke me up.
I know it seems really strange to talk about having a nap during a dream, but that’s how it was, and there’s not much you can add.
Let’s go, chief, they’re waiting for us
.
He set off quite quickly and I was forced to run after him to catch up.
“Wait for me, Scott, slow down. Where are we going?”
He didn’t reply, just kept trotting along.
“Who exactly is waiting for us?”
Still no reply. I was starting to get irritated and Iwalked faster to catch up with him, stop him, and force him to answer me—was I or wasn’t I the chief?—when I saw a bench in the middle of the lawn and Ginevra sitting on it. Scott stopped about fifty feet away and lay down on the grass.
Go on, chief, she’s waiting for you
.
I approached the bench and Ginevra gestured to me to sit down next to her.
“That Cantoni’s a real idiot,” she said.
“I don’t mind,” I said, as if to imply that, if I wanted, I could react and destroy Cantoni and the only reason I didn’t was because I don’t believe in violence.
“You know I have a boyfriend, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Oh, I’ve had a few,” I lied in a nonchalant tone. “But right now I prefer being alone.”
“Yes, I don’t think I’m going to stay with my boyfriend much longer either. There’s someone else I like a lot more.” As she said this, she looked me straight in the eyes. I swallowed with difficulty, and couldn’t find a single word to say in reply.
“Do you have someone you like?” she went on.
“Well, yes, there is someone I like a bit …”
“Is she pretty?”
It struck me that I should immediately stop playing the fool and tell her the truth, that I was in love with her and we mustn’t waste another minute.
When Mom woke me up, she said I’d been repeating that sentence in my sleep: We mustn’t waste another minute.
She asked me what it meant. Why mustn’t we waste another minute? I sat up, yawned, and said I’d been dreaming but I’d already forgotten the dream.
8
On Saturday evening his colleague and friend Carella had invited him to dinner.
Carella was plump and almost bald. He had three children, his wife was the same girl he had been going out with when he was seventeen, and he spent his free time doing charity work for a parish association in the Pigneto district, where he lived. He was in the criminal investigations unit, and despite appearances—which as is well known are deceptive—he was an excellent detective.
He and Roberto had met at the officers’ training academy, and although they were very different they had remained friends over the years.
Carella had taken Roberto’s situation to heart: he phoned him at least once a week and invited him to dinner once a month. It was impossible for Roberto to get out of these invitations without offending his friend, and so, more or less once a month, on a Saturday evening,he submitted to the ritual of dinner in the Carella household. Carella’s wife was there, as well as two of his three children (the oldest, being nineteen, went out and avoided the obligation), the apartment smelled of Marseille soap, they ate badly—Signora Carella specialized in overcooked pasta, whatever the sauce—and they talked about old times. Roberto would converse politely without hearing what they were saying to him, or even what he himself was saying, waiting for the moment when it wouldn’t seem too impolite to take his leave.
This evening had been like all the
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