“Behold the gent! … Never mind, we’ll talk when you come back out.” Melkior raised his head following the voice. Over the wrought-iron railing he saw Ugo’s leering face with the dark fillings in the front teeth.
“It’s all right, finish your prayers first. I’ll be waiting here.”
Melkior went down. All four corners were taken. Everyone prefers corner positions, to avoid the curiosity of the ministrants impudently peering into secrets from either side. He looked for a free stall and approached the Wall of Sighs. Il muro dei sospiri. He gave a satisfied sigh.
“Sospiri?” asked the ministrant on his left. The voice instantly stopped his flow. Mr. Kalisto, a papal name, retired postal supervisor, Ugo’s father.
“Sighing, sighing, you and that son of miiiine,” remonstrated Mr. Kalisto over the marble slab that endeavored to divide the private lives of two neighbors in these private moments when one wishes for total solitude.
“But every niiiight, every niiiight, Melko my boooy!”
“Every night what?” although he knew what “every night” meant; this was how every encounter with Mr. Kalisto went.
“Every nnniiiight with those giiiirlssssss …” complained Mr. Kalisto with envy (naturally enough) in his voice. “Wherever do you fiiiiind the monnneeey for it, in the nnname of Gaaawwd? It costs monnney, monnneeey, it’s amazing how much monnneey you nnneeeed! Ohh, those girlsss, those girlsss!”
“What girls?”
“The girlsss who call you ‘baby’ out of looove,” leered Mr. Kalisto across the marble partition and Melkior saw a set of lovely pink gums with no teeth in them. Mr. Kalisto hissed across his denuded gums and smacked his words with nasal gusto. “The girlsss who show you their legsss up to their chin, heh-heh. I know it all right, I’ve sssown wild oatsss in my timmme, too. But alwaysss in moderationnn, alwaysss in itsss proper time, but sssleep is sssleep, it’s a nnnecessity for the younnng and old alike. You wassste nnight after nnight. Drinking, carousssing, I knnnow it all too well. I’ve been through it, thank you very mmmuch, I don’t nnneeed you telling me about it!”
The clients at their stalls were turning their heads toward them. Melkior’s visit to the white institution had fallen flat.
“I’m not telling you,” he tried to get Mr. Kalisto to lower the volume.
“Don’t even try! What could you tell me? Artisssts? Ugo is no artissst. Ugo’s got to do hisss Nnnational Service, get a teaching job and get mmarried. I cannnot sssupport him any lonnger. You do assss you like.” And winding up sternly, index finger raised above the marble slab, “You leave my ssson alonnne! Go your ownnnn waay. You’re an artist, you ssstay with the arty crowd. You have no home and no family, you recognizzze no God and no law. You think we decsssent citizensss are ridiculousss. Well, goooo ahead and laugh. Good-bye.”
And performing a final shakeout, Mr. Kalisto buttoned himself and straightened up with remarkable pride. Melkior took a look at him leaving soundlessly on his rubber soles. The father of the son who was waiting upstairs … He’s got corns on the soles of his feet, Ugo says. He walks on his heels. That’s how soldiers walk in boots too big for them — chafed by their destiny.
Melkior let off his jet with pleasure. He watched his parabola like a gunner and fell to conscientiously shelling a cigarette butt until it was completely destroyed. He became aware of a pretender to his stall standing behind and ceded it to him with a fraternal grin.
“You seem to take longer than normal to perform that rite. What is it, prostate?” Ugo greeted him impatiently at the exit from the underworld. “Or has my Dad been knocking again at the door of your rotten conscience?”
“Yes, he’s trying to save you from my influence.”
“Before it’s too late. Dear old parent. After him!” and he waved a hand in which he was carrying something wrapped in a sheet of newspaper.
“I know where my Polonius is off to. That’s why he’s so generous with his advice,” muttered Ugo lifting his knees with effort, like someone treading deep waters. He hurried Melkior along so as to keep his father in sight.
“You are now about to witness the tactics of losing potential pursuers. He’s going to the Main Post Office, you’ll see. The crowd is worst there at this time of day. He is a circumspect man, is my Prostate Pa. Pro-state-Pa, Pro-state-Pa, the three-quarter-time two-timer. Whereas I’m having to pawn an old hat — mine! — to buy cigarettes!”
Melkior understood none of this.
“Where’s he going?” he asked, all but running after Ugo.
“I told you — the Main Post Office.”
“Well, what of it? Leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone? Do you know what he’s like, a man who tells you you’re an artist and a libertine? A man who sucks a spoonful of my blood a day telling me I lavish my money on loose women? Don’t infuriate me. There, I’ve lost him!”
Indeed, Mr. Kalisto had disappeared into a crowd that suddenly spilled from a side street. Ugo stood on tiptoe and craned his neck trying to isolate that dignified head of his progenitor’s, but he eventually reported from up there: “It’s no go! All’s lost.”
“I really don’t see why you’re following him!”
“I’m following my star! My paragon! In the footsteps of my ancestor!” Ugo spat out with despairing pungency. “What am I to do now? I’ve lost a unique chance! Who knows when I’ll be able to nab him again?”
They walked idly, in silence. Ugo stole glances at passing women: he was angry and mournful and thought it improper to watch women when he was in mourning.
“To think that he solemnly signed the convention, tête-à-tête! Don’t laugh. You’ve met my mother, haven’t you? Well, he assured that deaf mistress of his that his wife was on her deathbed — expected to die within the week. And Deaf Daisy came by to see for herself. Mother received her with an open heart, in complete good faith, you know what she’s like. Deaf Daisy started grunting like a damned bear when she saw Mother alive and well. You should’ve heard the conversation in the anteroom: Deaf Daisy cooing in disappointment, in desperation, seeing her hopes blighted, Mother understanding nothing, offering her coffee, tea, cold compresses for her head, aspirin. … I’m howling with laughter in my room. Mother’s afraid for me, rushes in, Deaf Daisy hot on her heels, grunting away, wanting to see everything for herself. Mother introduces me, politely, hoping it would help. ‘This is my son,’ says she. She’s totally in the dark.
” ‘Dat’s de son?’ grunts Deaf Daisy, even more desperately. ‘But he said he’d no chidden!’ and down she falls on my bed in a dead faint. I enjoyed slapping her face to bring her to. Mother grabs my hands, won’t let me slap her, goes off to fetch water, vinegar, but by the time she’s back Deaf Daisy’s on her feet again, ready to fight. I had the devil’s own job pushing her out. Mother never mentioned it to him on account of my making a shocking exhibition of myself, and she refused to speak to me for a month for being so cruel to the poor bitch. To this day she believes Daisy was just a nut who wandered into the wrong house.
“Following this, the sinful parent was delighted to accept my conditions for keeping the secret. But he’s recently taken to complaining quietly, indeed with tears in his eyes: even the worst criminals, says he, know the length of their sentence while he doesn’t know whether it’s only for life or what. Also, the cost of living keeps going up, and seeing that he, too, is a smoker, that he, too, likes a cup of coffee now and then but is reduced to drinking espresso at a stand-up bar. … He pleaded for mercy and I pardoned him. Then he became aggressive again, the dear old moralist, the advising Polonius. Now he’s off to see Deaf Daisy again.”