Call Me Brooklyn Page 15

  We went up the wooden staircase, very slowly, led along as though in some hypnotist’s act by our own desires. We hardly spoke, as though we’d entered some sacred place where words would only sound shrill and vulgar.

  The railing was painted blue, like the doors. When we reached the third floor, there was a lonesome bark. It was Theo, the dog of an old Armenian woman who I often helped to carry up her groceries. The animal quieted down when it recognized my smell and went up to the door, whimpering.

  We went into my place. I saw my shadow behind hers in the blurry surface of the mirror. The living room window was open to the brick wall of the building across the way. She went up to it.

  I love the view, she said, smiling.

  I drew the curtains. The light in the entrance hall was the only one on. I asked her if she wanted anything to drink. She said no. Before kissing her, standing there facing her, I told her that since the day I had seen her in the bus station I hadn’t been able to rid myself of her. She began to undress.

  The bedroom was dark and moonlight seeped in from the window, an icy moonlight that outlined the contours of her body with extraordinary precision. She leaned back, very slowly, still holding me by the hand. Her eyes shone in the shadows. She dragged me toward her, gently. Later, she would graze my sex with her tongue, contour the living flesh of her mouth to it, but it’s not this tactile memory that has remained with me, nor the moment when I penetrated her. It was before. She had finally pulled her hand away from mine. Holding the shaft of my penis firmly, she maneuvered it so that it entered her smoothly. When that happened, I lost control, and not just bodily. It was then, I came to realize later, that I became attached to her forever, despite myself.

  Nine

  UMBERTO PIETRI

  But Umberto Pietri hadn’t died, he had returned to his place of origin. And I had to be the one who bumped into him. I wouldn’t have chosen to meet him, but there are some choices we don’t get to make for ourselves. He had been waiting decades for the chance to tell someone the terrible truth he had been hiding, and he’d long since lost all hope that it would ever present itself . . . till I ran into him. He told me things that he’d never told anyone. There was so much to tell that he needed two full days to do it. When I talked to Patrizia, my wife, about it, she saw as clearly as I had that it was imperative for us to get in touch with Ben Ackerman, tell him that Pietri was alive and suggest that we meet in Madrid. You and I, because at the end of the day, his story was meant for you. It makes the most sense this way, because here is where your parents met (Umberto and Teresa; Ben and Lucia), because you were born here, because here is where so many people’s dreams of freedom were lost forever. And because here is where . . .

  I raised my hand to prevent him from finishing this thought. I knew what he was going to say and I didn’t want to hear it.

  . . . where your mother died.

  The nausea began in the pit of my stomach, rose to my chest, and burst into my head. I couldn’t get it under control.

  [There’s a large blank space here. In retelling his conversation with Abraham Lewis, Gal seems to rely on the letter Abe wrote to Ben Ackerman as a guide. I haven’t found the original in the Archive. I only know it by the fragments Gal transcribed in his notebooks.]

  It was rather late by the time we left Chicote. It felt good to walk down that elegant avenue lined with colorful shop windows. After a few minutes, we arrived at Red de San Luis Square. That’s another thing that I love about Madrid: the charm of place-names. At the Florida Hotel, a uniformed doorman opened the door for us. Letting me go in first, Lewis told me that the hotel had been a meeting place for foreign journalists during the war.

  General Hemingway had his headquarters here, he said. I picture him at the bar at all hours of the day. And speaking of bars, there’s no better city in the world for them. Don’t you agree, Gal? Think about all of the places we’ve been to today. We’ve never had to think twice about where to go next.

  We took the elevator to the top floor. On the other side of a pair of glass doors was a wide, carpeted room with a dimly-lit bar and dozens of tables widely spaced from each other. Large windows that looked out onto the Gran Vía lined the far wall. On seeing Lewis, a waiter who seemed to be expecting him led us to a corner where there were two leather armchairs in front of a fireplace. Without further ado, Abe picked up the conversation at the exact point he had left it at Chicote.

  Every time I remember that night, Lewis said, the first thing I see is the huge round moon over the main square of Certaldo. Umberto Pietri put away the picture of the miliciana in between the pages of a book he carried in his pocket. When he was assigned to the Squadron of Death, Teresa Quintana was six months pregnant. A mutual friend, Alberto Fermi, promised to take care of her, although he too was going to be sent to his unit any day. Pietri didn’t tell Fermi, but he was certain that this was it: once he was separated from his girlfriend, it would be the last he’d ever hear of her, and that’s how it turned out.

  On top of the table was a bottle of mineral water. Pietri brought it to his lips and drank with great effort, his Adam’s apple bobbing frenetically. Avoiding my eyes, he told me that they had detected a tumor in his liver and he had only a couple of months to live. He remained silent for a few moments before saying that when they told him the news he thought that he had to find a way to get in touch with his son.

  [A thick notation in blue pencil, crossed out but perfectly legible: Get in touch with me]

  At the very least, he should know what happened, he said in a thin voice, although by this time it may not matter. It’s not just for him. I need to tell everything before I burst, even if it’s the first and last time.

  [. . .]

  After the war ended, Pietri continued, I didn’t hear a thing about Teresa, Alberto, or anyone else, of which I was glad, as you’ll understand soon enough. That is, I didn’t know anything until the day that Alberto Fermi showed up here in Certaldo, quite unexpectedly.

  When was that?

  October of forty-six. I don’t remember the exact day.

  [There’s a gap in the text here.]

  When the order came to join the Luigi Longo Brigade, Alberto Fermi, Ben Ackerman, and Teresa Quintana got together at the Aurora Roja. When the time came to part, Ben and Alberto exchanged addresses. Such gestures are almost always futile in times of war, but as soon as he set foot in Brooklyn, Ackerman wrote Fermi telling him everything that had happened since they had last seen each other. He wanted Fermi to know that Teresa had died giving birth but that the child had survived. At the hospital, everyone had thought that he was the father, and he didn’t say otherwise. In fact, that’s how it appears in the civil registry. The child was legally his. Shortly afterward, he married Lucia Hollander, and when the Brigades were repatriated, they took the baby to the United States and raised him as their child.

  Pietri was drawing on his last reserves, giving out fact after fact, each more surprising than the last. He told me that he was glad that the son he’d had with Teresa had found a family. Over the years, he never gave the child a thought. Later, as he got older, he would occasionally remember that he had a son, and wonder what he might be like, but it was all idle speculation—he had no real interest in meeting the boy. Only now that he was so close, he felt that . . . It wasn’t just about his son, he insisted. He needed to relieve himself from the hell he had lived through, telling the story of the Squadron at least this once. Which is why he thought that our encounter was some kind of sign.

  I’m not sure I’m reproducing Abraham Lewis’s words faithfully. If there’s some confusion here, it’s my fault, because he told the story with perfect order and clarity. It’s possible that I got too emotional, occasionally losing the thread of his narrative. To be sure now and then I lost track of his voice while listening to him in the bar of that hotel. At times, I could hardly see him, let alone hear what he said, and now that I’m trying to transcribe his words in the Notebook, it’s even worse. But
I must leave a written record of everything, regardless of my feelings.

  Why did Pietri seem so upset whenever he mentioned the Squadron of Death? Abe wondered—and I wondered too, intrigued. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to get to the topic on his own steam, I decided to ask Pietri point-blank: Whatever had happened at Santa Quiteria? Pietri flapped his right hand around as if he were tearing away a spider’s web, and fixing me with a stare that might as well have been from Death itself, he rasped:

  I betrayed them, Lewis. The whole unit was lost. Everyone died . . . I saved my skin at the cost of having them all slaughtered like rabbits. That’s why I am still alive. I’m a coward and a traitor.

  When Abe made that vicarious confession, something teetered in me. I had been lying to myself. My feelings were far stronger than I was willing to admit. My vision grew blurry. I looked around, peering into the darkness of the bar. Again that sensation that I’d been feeling intermittently ever since I set foot in Madrid. I didn’t want to be there. I felt utterly exhausted.

  What . . . what time is it, Abe?

  He leaned toward me.

  I haven’t finished, Ackerman, he hissed. But if you want, I’ll stop.

  No, there was no point. Why bother trying to save myself. It’s too late for that, I said. Go on till the end.

  Pietri broke into a copious sweat. It seemed he was fighting a terrible battle against himself. Finally, he shook his head and begged my pardon, telling me that perhaps it was best to leave things as they were. There was such helplessness in his eyes, it was easier for me to let him know that it was all right, that he could tell me anything he wanted, that I was perfectly willing to listen to him.

  Pietri stood up and left some money on the table, murmuring to himself:

  I should get the hell out of here. Anyway, I’m glad that you crossed my path, Sergeant Lewis.

  But he didn’t leave. He remained there, standing with an absent look, infecting me with his own nervousness.

  I’ve never told anyone what I just told you, he finally said, and I don’t regret it. I’ve just begun to uncover something that has been very deeply hidden. And now that I’ve started, there’s no other way but to confess the whole truth. I need you to hear me out. Of course, I’m perfectly aware that I have no right to ask such a thing. The fact that both of us were in the Brigades doesn’t give me any privileges, I know . . .

  Pietri leaned on the table and asked me if, when my wife and I stopped at Castelfiorentino, we had visited the monastery of San Vivaldo. I shook my head, and he explained to me that it was southwest of the town, past the old village of Montaione in a densely wooded area.

  Taking for granted that we would meet again the following day, he gave me driving directions and specified that he would be there at eight, before the heat became unbearable. There was a lot weighing on his conscience, he said, but he stressed that if I decided not to show up, he would understand. He didn’t shake my hand before leaving. He simply walked to the opposite end of the square with a stumbling, uncertain step.

  Back in the hotel, I couldn’t sleep. What Pietri had begun to tell me had left me feeling disgusted, but I was sure I would go to the meeting. I read what the guidebook said about the villages of Certaldo, Montaione, and Castelfiorentino. You’re a writer, so you’ll appreciate the fact that Boccaccio spent the last thirteen years of his life in Certaldo, in a place known as Castello, which is said to be the setting for the Decameron. The history of Castelfiorentino also has its interesting points, but what most caught my attention was the description of the labyrinth of chapels erected in the vicinity of the monastery of San Vivaldo.

  Early in the morning, I told Patrizia—in broad strokes—of my encounter the night before, and likewise that I had decided to get to the bottom of Pietri’s story. I promised I would be back at the hotel for lunch. The trip was very short. I arrived at the grove of century-old cypresses where Pietri had said he would wait for me. I found him seated on a stone bench, next to the ruins of a wall whose arched window had a view of the entire valley. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants, and sandals.

  Thank you for coming, Lewis, he said, when I came up to him—thank you very much. I wasn’t sure you would show up.

  That was all he managed to say, at first. After a moment or two, his face contracted violently, a wince of pain accompanied by a wave of nausea. Leaning on the ledge of the window, he retched violently, trying to vomit, but all he could get out was a thin string of reddish saliva. I tried to help him but he stopped me with a determined gesture. After a few minutes, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and, leaning on the column that divided the window in two, pointed to a spot in the valley.

  I live in Certaldo, he said, but my work is in Castelfiorentino. You see that compound with a red-tiled roof near the bridge? The one with all the cars parked in front? That’s my workshop.

  When he felt he had the strength, he suggested we take a tour of the chapels. He pointed them out to me, telling me stories about each, but not going into any of them. Finally, we reached a wall covered in ivy, and he pulled apart some bushes, revealing an opening.

  The whole area is full of hidden nooks like this. When we were kids, we came to play here a lot. Imagine—what could be more fascinating and mysterious for a child. I suppose I have some memory of each corner of this forest. It’s a place charged with hidden meanings. Back then, of course, all the chapels were intact. When I came back to the woods of San Vivaldo after the war, half of them were in ruins. In a way, I was glad. The wounds of the stones reminded me of my own. Come, follow me.

  The darkness inside was only pierced by whatever rays of light filtered through the many cracks. Umberto Pietri took out a flashlight and turned it on. He advanced cautiously, shining the light on the walls. Amid large bald spaces where the paint was flaking off were the vestiges of what seemed to be an old fresco. We were in front of the wall farthest from the entrance at the back of the chapel. Pietri swept the light of the flashlight over the painting.

  The Tabernacle of the Condemned, he said. Can you see it, Lewis?

  Large patches of faded colors dissolved in the space, becoming one with the darkness.

  Whose is it?

  It’s a copy of a Benozzo Gozzoli. There are paintings by the master everywhere in the area. The original is in the Church of Santo Tomasso e Prospero in Certaldo. If you can, go see it with your wife—it’s quite deteriorated, but it’s still impressive.

  He brought the light closer.

  I painted it, he said. It took me years. It has no artistic merit whatsoever but I’ve always felt good about it. At home, I have many copies of masterpieces, but the Tabernacle is different. Normally I try to restore the perfection of the work as it was when it was first created, but in this case, my intention was to remain faithful to the decrepitude of the original.

  Pietri went carefully over different parts of the fresco.

  The faces of the condemned, almost intact, suggested their terrible torment. At mid torso, some of the figures in the Tabernacle began to lose their color. The lower parts in gray and rosy tones were reminiscent of tissue devoured by cancer. Pietri was right, the strange allure of the painting was the result of its decomposition.

  When we returned to the garden, he summed up the story of the place.

  Vivaldo was a hermitage founded by St. Gimignano. According to legend, he lived in the trunk of a hollow chestnut. One day they found him dead, still kneeling to pray. The Franciscans erected a monastery in his honor. Some two hundred years after his death, a friar decided to build a New Jerusalem in these hills. Thirty-four chapels representing passages in the Way of the Cross. So that the symbolic journey would be more real to the pilgrims, the insides of the chapels were decorated with frescoes of polychrome terracotta and other materials. Today, only half of the chapels are standing.

  A long silence followed. Staring out into the valley, Pietri said:

  I know it’s just my imagina
tion, but the view from here makes me think of Santa Quiteria. Often, when I can’t sleep, I drive here in my pickup and it’s as if I’m reliving that night.

  [. . .]

  We had been in the hermitage three or four days when we detected troop movements in the surrounding area. We organized a raid at dawn and took five fascist prisoners. Before we executed them, they confessed belonging to a contingent that was headed for Huesca. That night, I had guard duty with a comrade named Salerno, a Neapolitan who confessed to me he had forged his birth date to be able to enlist. He was seventeen, two years younger than me. We were alone on a bush-covered hill from which we could monitor several hundred meters of the surrounding terrain. Salerno was very nervous. He saw the enemy everywhere; any noise, the murmur of the river, the rustling of leaves, a gust of wind, made him think that fascists were bearing down on us. In the end, he made me nervous too. When the moon came out and a silvery glow spread over the trees, Salerno became even more anxious. It seemed to him that the bushes were alive. Then, after a couple of hours, we finally did hear a real sound. Crouched behind a boulder, we saw a column of rebels advancing through the bushes.

  We had to alert the garrison, communicating with the nearest squad some two hundred meters below so they would in turn alert the following squad until the news reached the heart of the unit. This would prevent anyone from being taken by surprise and, if it was a large force approaching, reinforcements could still be called by radio. Salerno signaled to me that I should go to the post below while he tried to slow the enemy down from the rearguard. But there was only one thought in my mind, then: to save my own skin. I came up behind Salerno’s back, covered his mouth, and slit his throat with a single slice of my bayonet. He struggled a bit, but I held him firmly until I was sure that it was over, then let him fall. I was bathed in blood. All those soft, barely perceptible night sounds we’d been hearing now became a roar a thousand times greater than any of Salerno’s imagined threats. Still, I managed to control myself. The fleeting flashes that we’d glimpsed a few minutes before were still there, glinting among the bushes, getting closer: a buckle, a helmet, a belt. The fascist column advanced stealthily up a path that would allow it to reach the back of the hermitage without being detected. It was evident that they knew the territory. Perhaps a patrol such as the one we had surprised that morning had managed to explore the region around Santa Quiteria and return without being caught. Everything must have happened in a matter of minutes. I waited until they had passed, and when they were far enough away, I took a shortcut that led directly to the river. It wasn’t long before I heard the explosion of grenades and the rattle of machine guns. They must have dropped like rabbits, but I was on the move away from there, safe and sound . . .