Pushing Past the Night by Mario Calabresi Read Free Book Online

openly about my memories of the day that my father died. At one point, however, I realized that my tellingand retelling of this memory was destroying it, like the copy of a film that’s been seen too many times: the image deteriorates and whole frames are lost. So I ran for shelter and filed them away in an attempt to save them. But maybe it was already too late, and today they’ve lost some of the overwhelming force they wielded over me for more than twenty years of my life.
    But the first memory has resisted and it reminds me that I am his son.
    They shot my father at 9:15 a.m., while he was opening the door of my mother’s blue Fiat 500. He had just left the house after going back twice, first to smooth an unruly lock of hair, then to change his tie. He had gone out wearing a pink tie, then came back to take it off and put on a white one. When my mother looked at him quizzically, shaking her head and poking fun at him, he explained, “I like this one better: it’s the color of purity.” She closed the door without giving his words a second thought. She was waiting for a woman who was scheduled to arrive at any moment. They had never met, but the woman was supposed to start coming twice a week to help her out at home: there was too much work, what with two children and a third on the way. She arrived late, out of breath. “My apologies, signora, but there’s pandemonium down on the street: someone shot a police inspector.”
    In the book that she wrote in 1990, my mother recalls that moment:
    We were in the kitchen. Paolo was in the playpen, still wearing his pajamas. Mario was playing with his toys. I sat down, ashen. I felt the three-month-old baby inside me kicking at my stomach. The cleaning woman ran to get a glass of water. “Do you feel all right, signora? What’s wrong?” “Did you say they shot an inspector? My husband’s an inspector.” The woman,whom I never saw before or since—a simple, unassuming woman in her forties—guessed the truth immediately. And she knew exactly what to say. “But, signora, you must have misunderstood. I got off the streetcar in Piazzale Baracca. There was a police barricade. They were chasing some wanted men and there was a shooting. They blocked the traffic and I had to do all of Corso Vercelli on foot. That’s why I’m so late.”
    I said, “Let me call police headquarters and try to reach my husband.” I dialed the number and asked for Gigi. “One moment please, I’ll connect you with his office,” the operator said. A few seconds later, someone picked up. “Is Mr. Calabresi in? This is his wife calling,” I said. On the other end, I sensed a kind of hesitation. Then, “He hasn’t arrived yet, signora. Don’t worry. We’ll have him call you as soon as he gets in.” They already knew what had happened. At that point the phone went dead. The telephone company had been instructed to disconnect it. I tried dialing the police station a few more times, but the line gave no signs of life.
    In contrast to her negative thoughts and premonitions of earlier weeks, my mother now seemed more inclined to deny that anything might have happened. To survive the next few moments, she grasped at flimsy explanations and improbable coincidences, hoping to somehow alter the course of destiny.
    Until the doorbell rang. When she went to open it, she found our neighbor, Mr. Franco Federico, a tailor and a friend of my grandfather. In the spirit of true friendship, he had bravely shouldered one of the worst tasks that life can assign to you. “Signor Federico, to what do I owe this pleasure?” my mother asked, forcing herself to smile. But he couldn’t speak, and he stood there in silence. In an instant the castle of hope that was still standing, despite everything, came crashing down. She retreated into the house, howling, “No!,” trying to flee the truth. My