The Purple Room by Mauro Casiraghi Read Free Book Online

to
restore.
    “Where are you?”
    “In San Gim…ano.”
    “I’m waiting for Michela, but it’s crowded and I can’t find her…”
    “Wha… Serg… I can’t he… you.”
    “Alessandra?”
    The line’s dead.
    How is she already in San Gimignano? When did she take Michela to the
gynecologist? I’m confused. I’m about to call Alessandra again, when I see my
daughter.
    She’s sitting in a red microcar, one of those ridiculous little plastic
boxes on wheels. The kind that rich parents from the Parioli neighborhood give
their underage, unlicensed kids to drive to their expensive private schools in.
Behind the wheel there’s a sixteen-year-old with a Sergeant Pepper -era Beatles haircut. He’s parked right in the
middle of the road, on the crosswalk, totally ignoring the pedestrians trying
to cross the street and the drivers angrily honking behind him. He and Michela
are staring into each other’s eyes, oblivious, as if there’s nobody else around.
Cars, buses, scooters, annoyed pedestrians––they just don’t exist.
    My phone rings. It’s Alessandra.
    “Sergio. Can you hear me now? What’s going on?”
    Her anxiety is tangible. My calling her means something terrible must have happened. I feel like telling
her that Michela played us both. She took advantage of her estranged parents,
telling each of us she was with the other so she could ditch us to hang out
with her boyfriend. I’m about to tell Alessandra everything, when I see them
kiss. A real, adult kiss. Probably with tongue and everything. My stomach
somersaults. It’s the first time I’ve seen someone kiss my daughter. Then I
think of the Parisian lovers in that photo by Doisneau, and of the young couple
kissing on the bridge the other day. Suddenly, I don’t want to betray them.
    “I just wanted to ask what time I should bring Michela home,” I say.
    “Whenever you want. She has a set of keys.”
    “Okay.”
    “You called me just for that?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I thought something happened.”
    “Everything’s fine.”
    “Have you bought the clothes yet?”
    “No.”
    “What did you do all morning, then?”
    “Just hung out.”
    “Put Michela on for a minute. I need to tell her something.”
    “She’s in the bathroom.”
    “Well, tell her there’s some eggplant parmigiana in the fridge that she can have for dinner. We’ll be
home late.”
    “Will do. Say ‘hi’ to Ugo for me.”
    “He says ‘hello’.”
    I glance across the street again. Michela and the kid have stopped
making out. She opens the door and steps out. He puts his overpriced toy car
into gear, shooting out into traffic without checking his mirrors or signaling,
totally ignoring the other cars. He’s the only one on the whole planet.
    Michela stays put on the sidewalk. When the stoplight turns green, she
crosses the road in my direction. She’s gotten tall. Long, thin legs.
Pitch-black hair hiding half her face. Pale skin, almost anemic-looking. Thin
lips, no lipstick. Eyes buried under her makeup. Dark, mysterious,
unfathomable. She walks by without seeing me and heads toward the square.
    I’ve never felt as distant from her as I do right now. When she was
little, I thought we’d always be up front with each other. I told myself it was
enough to just get her used to talking with me from the get-go. I promised
myself that I’d always be ready to listen. It never worked. By age six, she was
already tired of all my questions. “ What
did you do in class today, Micky?” “Aw, Dad! Give me a break!” When she was
seven, I got tired of asking. I had other problems to deal with, especially
with Alessandra, and I tried to spend as little time at home as I could. If
Michela came and asked me for help with her homework, especially art class or
Italian, I gladly made time. That much I could do. For everything else, I’d
just tell her, “Ask your mother.”
    After the divorce, I stopped checking in with her. We met every Saturday
but never really talked about