The Sense of an Elephant by Marco Missiroli Read Free Book Online

concierge to join him at once.
    Pietro continued to stare up at him from the street. Come down, he indicated, but Poppi wouldn’t listen. The concierge entered and made directly for the stairs, hanging on to the handrail up to the second floor, where he had to slow down to catch his breath. Proceeded to the third and to the fourth. On the fifth there were skylights and an iron door that didn’t lock. The door was heavy and half rusted and it screeched as he pulled it towards him. It opened onto the communal terrace, a square of concrete crowded with satellite dishes and a labyrinth of clotheslines. He stepped outside, peered around. There on the raised section of the roof toward the front of the building was Poppi, wrestling with a satellite dish and cursing. Then the lawyer stepped up again onto the parapet wall, trying to straighten the dish from the feed arm. Swaying from side to side, he had the balance of a wading bird and a small torch between his teeth. He now directed it at Pietro and muttered something.
    â€˜Mr Poppi, get down from there!’ The concierge went over to him.
    The lawyer pulled the torch from his mouth. ‘This thing won’t get any channels. I can’t see a thing.’ Managed to shiftthe dish slightly. He wore an overcoat over pyjamas, zigged and zagged in satin slippers. ‘Do you know anything about satellite dishes?’
    Pietro seized one of the man’s calves and it felt to him like a shrivelled balloon. ‘No. Come down.’
    â€˜I’m surprised, given what you’re able to pick up.’ He cursed again, then threw up his hands in a sign of surrender. Stayed on the wall and gave a kick to the dish.
    The concierge helped him down. They sat and regained their breath. The lawyer wiped his forehead and switched off the torch, turning them into two more scraps of darkness. They became visible again for a moment when Poppi lit a cigarette.
    â€˜In the evenings, a broken satellite dish can hurt more than a divorce.’
    The bed sheets flapped on the lines. Pietro watched them for a time, then turned to the street. The cafe was still open and through the window he could see two men at a table drinking beer. A tram was at the stop and a line of cars was forming beyond the traffic light. Crossing at the light were Paola and Fernando. The strange boy was weighed down with bags of groceries and followed his mother over the stripes.
    â€˜Are you afraid of heights, kibitzer?’
    Pietro shook his head.
    â€˜Then you should come up here more often.’ He ashed into the void. ‘Up here is closer to your god.’ With his cigarette he pointed at the sky. ‘And to the movements of your residents.’ He pointed at Fernando, about to enter the building. ‘Do you know why he always wears that beret? It was his father’s. Hegave it to him not long before passing on to a worse life.’ He blew a smoke ring. ‘A warning: never touch it. Another warning: be more careful when you decide to clean the Martinis’ flat top to bottom.’
    Pietro leaned toward the lawyer. ‘It was a moment of weakness …’ He stood. ‘It won’t happen again.’
    â€˜Ah, but I love a good top-to-bottom cleaning too, my friend.’ Poppi was nodding. ‘And I can assure you that from up here they turn out better.’ The lawyer was still staring down at the street. Fernando and Paola were coming in, the tram had continued on, the two men were still seated at their table at the cafe. ‘They turn out much better, believe me,’ he repeated as if speaking to himself, looking just past the cafe to the beginning of a one-way street. Pietro followed Poppi’s gaze to a petrol-blue SUV, pulled over with its headlights on, its right side dented. He didn’t immediately recognize it. The passenger door was ajar and the dome light on. Inside were the radiographer and Viola. They were smiling. She made to get out and