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MAY 1980
Aged eight, I like the sensation of my upper body dangling free, the contact of my knees hooked over metal. I like the moment when I close my eyes tight, let go of the bar with my hands, and feel the giddiness thrill through me. When my hands are flat on the black asphalt, that means I’ve overcome my fear. And that’s when I picture my favorite gymnast, Nadia Comăneci. She has her arms spread wide. Victory.
I adopt this hanging position whenever we have recess or I’m waiting for Ana, my sister. When she left me this morning she said, See you back here on time, okay? Or I’ll go home alone. “Here” is at the foot of the steps, near the metal rail that separates the parking lot from the schoolyard.
Ilaria! Get down from there! We’re going to Chez Léon. Come on, move it!
I recognize Dad’s voice. Surprised, I lift the bottom of my dress that’s blocking my view. Those are definitely the tips of his shoes, that’s definitely his impatient voice. I swivel around the bar, land on my feet, and smooth down my dress.
Ana’s about to show up.
No, no. Change of plan. Mom’s picking her up from school and we’re meeting at Chez Léon. Come on!
I take his hand, it’s clammy.
Since our parents separated and Dad moved to Turin, we meet at a restaurant once a month. It was Mom who came up with the idea. She prefers neutral territory. She says they fight too much at home. And it’s true, they do hold back at Chez Léon. Even if Dad does clench his jaw and Mom stares into space, pretending not to care.
No, Dad still hasn’t found a job. When he says “Nope-no-work” his voice is always sad, tired. Mom turns away slightly to hide her smile and Dad gets mad. He uses the word “humiliation” a lot. Luckily, the waiter comes over and puts down plates of perch fillet or bowls of meringue with whipped cream. Thanks.
After dessert, Ana and I get up from the table and go out to the small beach where we choose pebbles. We practice skipping stones.
Did you see?
What?
Dad took Mom’s hand.
To get to Chez Léon we go through the village of Hermance, cross the French-Swiss border, and keep going along the road to Yvoire. Dad has a navy blue BMW, a 320 coupe.
Tell me if you see a phone booth. He lights a cigarette. There! He stops, gets out, and produces some coins from his pants pocket. His back pressed to the glass, the creases in his shirt making v and w shapes. I wait, lower my window to let in some air. The leather seat no longer burns the backs of my thighs, it even feels soft when I stroke it.
Inside the phone booth, Dad’s talking loudly. He raises his voice some more and turns around. His eyes meet mine. I can tell he’s upset from the way he’s moving his hands. He’s bolt upright. That’s worrying.
When he comes back, he says Mom changed her mind and doesn’t have time for lunch. We’re going to spend the weekend together. What about school? You can skip school for just a few days . . . It’s not that big of a deal.
Dad’s voice is sharp. I count on my fingers: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Four days. What about Ana? I want to protest, but when Dad’s cranky it’s best not to say anything.
He starts up the car with a lurch and stabs out his cigarette. His forehead is covered in sweat.
Mont Blanc Tunnel, French-Italian border, arched ceilings in the tunnels, hairpin bends in the Valle d’Aosta, carsickness. We stop under a sky weighed down by a layer of gray. The landscape is metallic. I throw up by the side of the road and Dad hands me a white cotton handkerchief. Let’s go get a drink, it’ll do you good. A few kilometers farther down the mountainside, in the gas station’s bar, Dad’s face is pale. It must be the neon lights. He pays the woman at the checkout for two slices of Margherita pizza, a whiskey, a coffee, and a lemonade. I hate lemonade but don’t say anything, my mouth is dry.
Do you sell tokens for the phone?
How many?
Maybe twenty.
The checkout assistant carefully counts out the yellowish tokens and hands them to Dad.
The booth is outside, on the left.
Her nails are very long and covered in very red varnish. I follow Dad.
What are those tokens?
I need them to make calls. You can’t put actual money in phone booths in Italy.
Between Geneva and Turin, Dad makes several calls. Five in all. Whenever he sees a gas station he stops. Are you glad you’re spending the weekend with me? Did you lose your tongue? What are you thinking about?