Three Light-Years: A Novel

Three Light-Years: A Novel by Andrea Canobbio Page A

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Authors: Andrea Canobbio
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left him helpless.
    All he had to do was drop by and say hello, a matter of minutes, but that was exactly what stopped him, the ease with which he could go down three flights of stairs, ring the bell, exchange a few words. Something held him back, a vague desire that surfaced through his resignation, and he didn’t want to give in. Yes, he’d go into the apartment and cook himself the steak he’d bought, put the frozen potatoes in the oven, open a new jar of mustard, uncork a bottle of wine, because the evening meal was the only real meal of the day, at lunchtime he never ate more than a salad or a plate of boiled vegetables. Remember that digestion begins at the time the meal is consumed, never eat too fast, there is no hunger or emergency or work or play that can justify devouring a cup of yogurt in ten seconds, theoretically a mouthful should be chewed at least fifty times, but forty may be enough. Reluctantly, he put the keys back in his pocket and went down to the second floor.
    Gathering his forces to ring the bell, he stood in front of his old door, his first door, the door par excellence, the mother of all doors. And magically, without his ringing the bell, the door opened and his mother appeared in the flesh, mainly bones, with a small watering can in her hand.
    “Claudio.”
    “Ciao, Mama.”
    Then mother and son turned their gazes to the plants that adorned the light-filled hallway and together they saw the flowerpot saucers overflowing with water, the soil moist, drenched. Marta made an annoyed gesture with her free hand: “Giulia must have watered them,” she said. Viberti nodded.
    They stayed in the doorway, and he began apologizing for not having come by to see her, even though they had actually seen each other two nights before. She said nothing, prudently, because by continuing the conversation she might be forced to try to remember when she’d last seen her son.
    “You haven’t come to eat, have you?” she asked in alarm.
    “No, Mama, thank you, I have everything ready at home. I just wanted to say hello.”
    “Everything all right at work? Are the glands se-cre-ting? Dear God, what a difficult word.”
    “They’re secreting, all right!” Viberti replied, smiling.
    If they went into the house, by then he’d be sitting at the kitchen table while she went out on the balcony to get rid of the watering can. Though she didn’t cook anymore since Giulia had forbidden her to use the stove, the kitchen continued to be her command center.
    “Can I offer you anything?” she asked when she returned.
    “No, thank you,” Viberti replied.
    “Have you heard from Giulia?”
    “No, not since dinner Sunday evening.”
    “Did you eat at their place Sunday night?”
    She’d been there, too, but Viberti never pointed out her mistakes; he thought it wouldn’t do any good, would only humiliate her. Giulia, on the other hand, thought that continually correcting her would serve to stimulate her memory. Giulia was a gastroenterologist, Viberti an internist and endocrinologist, but since he dealt almost exclusively with old people he felt he was more qualified to speak about geriatrics.
    Hanging in the kitchen (on the refrigerator, usually, with the same colored magnets that held up Giulia’s notes) were recent photos of the two children that Angélica, the caregiver, had left in Peru, and Viberti made some pleasant comment about how nicely they were growing up. For Marta, those were “grandchildren,” too.
    Often Viberti would update her on Stefano Mercuri’s latest. Marta wondered if the weather was nice on the coast, and Viberti always answered yes, though he never discussed the weather with his old friend. The conversations between them no longer followed the same patterns they had in the past: Viberti would talk solely about politics and medicine, Mercuri would describe the satisfaction he got from tending his vegetable garden.
    “Can I offer you anything?”
    A pigeon landed on the balcony railing,

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