One man was holding a tape measure and taking measurements of something. A few other young men stood watching. But no one could see or measure everything that had just vanished within him.
Step bent over him in silence and touched his good friend’s face. That gesture of love that they’d never once exchanged in all their years of friendship, that he’d never dared to express. Then, weeping, he’d whispered, “I’ll miss you.” God only knows he’d meant it.
* * *
Babi looked at the gift she’d bought for Pallina. There it was, on her worktable, in red giftwrap with a gold ribbon. She’d chosen it with care—she’d even like one for herself—and it hadn’t been cheap. And yet, here it still was. She hadn’t called her; they hadn’t talked.
How many things had changed with Pallina. She wasn’t the same anymore. They didn’t get along. Maybe in part because their paths had diverged so sharply after school. Babi studying business and finance and Pallina studying at a school of graphic design. She’d always loved to draw. Babi was reminded of all the notes Pallina had sent her during their hours in class. Caricatures, funny phrases, comments, the faces of friends. Guess who this is? She was so good at it that it never took Babi long. A quick glance at the drawing and Babi would look up, and there the subject was, in front of her. That classmate with the strong chin, the prominent ears, the beaming smile. And they’d laugh from a distance, ordinary classmates, great close friends.
Then came that tragic evening and the days that followed and the month after that. Extended silences and crying jags. Pollo was gone, and Pallina couldn’t reconcile herself to that fact. Until the day that Pallina’s mother had called Babi. She had rushed over to Pallina’s house and found her there, sprawled on her bed, throwing up. She’d drained a half bottle of whiskey and swallowed a small bottle of valerian root tablets. The Poor Man’s Suicide is what Babi had called it when Pallina finally seemed capable of understanding spoken words. Pallina had started laughing, only to burst into tears in her arms. Pallina’s mother had left the two of them alone, not really knowing what else to do.
Babi stroked her hair. “Come on, Pallina, don’t be like this. We all go through terrible moments. We’ve all thought about ending it at least once, felt like life wasn’t worth living. But don’t forget pastries from Mondi, pizza from Baffetto, or gelato from Giovanni’s.”
Pallina had smiled, wiping away her tears with the back of her wrist, sniffing loudly, and Babi gave her a Kleenex to dry her eyes. Still, though, after that day, something had started to change, something was broken. They spoke less and less frequently, and even when they did, it never seemed like they had much to talk about.
Maybe it was because letting a friend who’s doing better see us in our moment of weakness is so uncomfortable. Or perhaps because we always think that our own pain is unique, impenetrable, like everything that concerns us.
No one else can love the way that we love, no one else can suffer the way that we suffer. Maybe Pallina never forgave her for going to that party with Step. If Step had been at the races that night, he never would have let Pollo race. Step would have saved him, he wouldn’t have let him die; Step was his guardian angel.
Babi stared at her gift. Maybe there were other reasons, hidden ones, difficult to understand. She really ought to call Pallina. At Christmas, everyone’s a little kinder.
“Babi!” It was Raffaella’s voice.
She’d have to call Pallina later. “Yes, Mamma?”
“Could you come here for a second?”
Babi went into the other room. Raffaella was smiling at her. “Guess who’s here?”
Alfredo was there, standing in the doorway. “Ciao.”
Babi turned a little red. She hadn’t changed, at least not where blushing was concerned. As she walked forward to greet him, she realized, maybe she never would change.
Alfredo tried to put her at ease. “It’s warm in here.”
Babi smiled. “Yes.”
Her mother left them alone.
“Would you care to go see the nativity scene at Piazza del Popolo?”
“Yes, hold on. Let me put on something warm. It’s nice and toasty in here, but I bet it’s chilly outside.”
They exchanged a smile, and Alfredo clasped her hand. She looked at him with complicity. Then she went back to her room. How strange, they’d lived in the same apartment building for all these years, and they’d never met.
“You know, I’ve mostly been studying lately. I was doing my thesis, and then I broke up with my girlfriend.”
“Same here,” Babi said.
“Are you doing your thesis?” He’d smiled at her.
“No, but I did break up with my boyfriend.”
Actually, Step didn’t know that yet, but she’d already made up her mind. A difficult decision, the product of fights, arguments, problems with her folks, and now also the matter of Alfredo.
Babi was putting on her overcoat and walking down the hallway when the phone rang. She stopped for a second and looked at it. One ring, then two.
Raffaella went to answer it. “Hello?”
Babi stayed close to her, looking at her quizzically.
Raffaella gently shook her head and covered the receiver with her hand. “It’s for me…”
Babi said goodbye, relieved. “I’ll be back later.”
Raffaella watched her leave and responded to Alfredo’s polite farewell with a smile.
The door shut.
“No, I’m sorry. Babi is out. No, I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
* * *
Step hung up the telephone. He wondered if Babi really had gone out. If she would even have told him so. Alone, on that sofa, remembering, next to a silent telephone. Happy days of the past, smiles, days of sunshine and love. Slowly he imagined her closer to him, in his arms, right on that sofa, the way it had been.
A momentary illusion, then arguments of passion, and now, a solitary vigil. Afterward, he felt even more alone, without even his pride.
Later, leaving the apartment to walk anonymously through the crowded streets of Rome, he saw cars with happy loving couples inside, in the holiday traffic, the car seats piled high with presents. He smiled. It’s hard to drive when a woman has her hands all over you, when she absolutely insists on shifting gears but doesn’t know how, when you only have one hand to steer with, but at the same time, you need that hand to express your love.
He continued walking through a stream of fake Father Christmases and the scent of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Traffic cops whistling and people loaded down with packages and shopping bags. Looking for Babi’s hair, her perfume, mistaking another woman for her and then being forced to stop and try to still his disappointed heart.
Someone bumped into him, and he didn’t even notice that it was a good-looking young woman. Wherever he looked, he saw memories. The T-shirts that they’d bought, identical, an extra large for him, a sweet little medium for Babi.
Summer. The beauty pageant at Monte Argentario. Babi had entered the competition as a joke really, and he’d taken a comment some guy had made far too seriously—Oh, would you just look at the fabulous ass on that girl—creating an instant brawl.
Step smiled. He’d been promptly tossed out of the disco and hadn’t been able to watch Babi win. But all the times he’d made love with Miss Argentario. By night at Villa Glori, under the cross to the fallen, on a bench hidden behind a hedge, high above the city. Their sighs kissed by moonlight.