Pushing Past the Night by Mario Calabresi Read Free Book Online Page A

memory begins with her cry of despair. He tried to speak with her, butshe kept running away, walking from room to room while I clung to her skirt. Frozen in my memory is the image of the two of us, in black-and-white, circling for a long, long time. I was worried that he wanted to hurt her, but I didn’t know how to defend her. Finally she stood still, he spoke with her, she wept, and I hugged her legs, feeling lost.
    For years I was afraid of Signor Federico. Whenever he came near me, I would start to cry uncontrollably. Every Christmas he would bring me a nice present, but I would keep my distance, and in the first few years I even refused to open his gifts. Over time we were able to reach a compromise: he would place the package in the middle of my grandparent’s living room and then walk away. Slowly, furtively, like a cat getting ready to pounce, I would sneak up to it, grab it, and steal away with it quickly to another room. I would circle it for a while and then open it warily. No one came with me. They would leave me alone, giving me all the time I needed. When Signor Federico was about to go, my grandfather would call out to me. Only then would I peek out from behind the door to say thank you.
    The last time I saw him, he still had a white mustache and white hair, very thick and shiny. More than ten years had gone by since our last encounter. He was in a bed at the San Carlo hospital, the same place they had taken my father. He was dying. Although he hadn’t seen me since I was a little boy, he recognized me and brightened up as soon as I came into the room. We spoke for a fairly long time and then I stroked his hair. It was still smooth, and he told me, “You have given me the nicest gift I could have ever wished for.”
    People often make lists of wasted opportunities. I also keep a list of the opportunities that were not wasted. That afternoon figures at the very top of it.
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    Signor Federico told her, “Gemma, they shot him. He’s in critical condition, and they’re doing everything they can to save him.” With a broad gesture of her arms, taking in the apartment and everything in it, she uttered words to the effect that nothing made sense anymore. I do not remember voices or colors, only images, not unlike Japanese cartoons, in which everything freezes during key moments, especially during combat or athletic competitions. The image goes from color to black-and-white and zooms in slowly for a detailed close-up. As an adult, I used to watch these cartoons with my little brother, Uber, and I was startled at their resemblance to the way my own memories operate.
    Signor Federico had just closed the door behind him when the doorbell rang again. It was the deputy police chief. He looked upset, and he said something like, “He has a gunshot wound in one shoulder. They took him to the hospital. We’re taking you there now.” Followed by “Are you all right, signora? How are you feeling?” I told him, “I’m pregnant with my third child.” He smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead as if to say, “This too?” In the meantime, the children had gotten dressed and gone downstairs. A police car, an Alfa Romeo Giulia, had been driven into the courtyard. Outside the main door, on the street, plainclothes police were stationed around the Fiat so that we wouldn’t see the blood when we passed by. Someone shoved me in the backseat of a car next to the children and just then Don Sandro Dellera came running and squeezed in next to us. He was the pastor of San Pietro in Sala, in Piazza Wagner, our neighborhood church, where we had gotten married on May 31, 1969. “Take me to my mother’s,” I told the driver, “I have to leave the children with her.” The Alfa took off, tires squealing. I didn’t have enough time to speak with the cleaning woman. On her own initiative, she went