Born Twice (Vintage International) by Giuseppe Pontiggia Read Free Book Online Page B

won’t have to worry about a thing. Just transportation, that’s all.”
    “That’s not a problem; we’ll bring him by car or he’ll come in his go-cart,” I assure him. “My wife will take care of that.”
    “Fine, but—” He stops himself, as if interrupted by a thought, as if he were considering me in light of an idea that flashed through his mind. But he held off. “You won’t have to worry about a thing: lunch breaks, recesses, absences. I imagine your son requires special attention.”
    I hesitate for a moment.
    “Yes,” I say. “Better add it to the list.”
    “I’m giving you the best teacher I’ve got. A blond girl from Bolzano, Signorina Bauer. A very understanding person, though not with men.”
    He peers at me intensely.
    “Do you like women? There’s a pretty good choice here. Ah, if it weren’t for this damn leg.”
    He extends it out farther, an expression of pain suddenly crossing his face.
    “Still, I manage,” he continues. “You know, I just can’t do without it. Who was it that said it was as necessary to him as food itself ? Well, the same goes for me.” After a brief pause he adds, “My wife died ten years ago. It’s better that way, poor thing. I really wasn’t cut out for marriage.”
    Just then, the secretary must have looked in and signaled to him because he nods and she enters the room with a file and some papers for him to sign.
    I look at him carefully. As he sits there against the light, a large plate-glass window behind him, his silhouette reminds me of the devil, come down from some craggy peak to reign over this glass palace.
    “What are you thinking about?” he asks.
    “Nothing,” I lie (as one always does when answering like that). “No, actually”—I correct myself—“I was thinking about the impression I get of your school.”
    “Really? And what would that be?”
    “That it’s efficient, things get done. But people had already told me about it.”
    “Oh, really?” he asks, apprehensively curious.
    “Yes,” I say. “The only negative things I heard have to do with your adventures.”
    “Which ones?”
    “Those with the opposite sex.”
    I don’t think I’ve ever used that term before, suggestive of both evolutionism and isolationism. It’s probably because of him. He looks at me in utter dejection.
    “And you believe all that nonsense?”
    “No. I’m just referring it to you.”
    He shrugs. “Water under the bridge. I never forced anyone to do anything. It’s a free country, don’t you think?”
    “Of course.”
    “A few years ago I had some problems with a teacher, but she packed up and moved back to the country.” His eyes flash with anger. “Poor thing.”
    He used the same words to describe his wife. (Where there’s contempt for people, there’s contempt for language.)
    “What do you expect!” he says, gesturing toward the sky. “I’m just a little ship! I navigate by sight.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “We have to distract ourselves somehow, don’t you think? Life has been rough enough on us already. I know a thing or two about it.” He scrutinizes me. “But you have your own troubles. There has to be some kind of compensation, don’t you think?”
    “Of course,” I reply.
    More than an associate, he’s looking for an accomplice. And he finds one. We give up so easily in dialogue! And we’re equally as inflexible in our monologues.
    “You’re not some kind of moralist, are you?” he suddenly asks suspiciously.
    “No,” I say with a smile. I could practically be his surrogate. “There’s nothing worse than that.”
    “I agree.”
    When you have to find something to agree on, pretend to find it in words.
    He observes me with curiosity. “I only ask because I have the impression that you and I will get along.”
    “Yes, I’m sure we will.”
    “You’re at least twenty years younger than I, but intelligence has no age, right?”
    “Absolutely,” I say.
    I’m using words that are not my own. It