CHAPTER SEVEN

"You learn to be young when you're old" (Ancient proverb)

My mobile rings and I almost don't realize it. Looking for it in your bag is like finding the precious stone from the Titanic at the bottom of the ocean. Finally, my blind hand feels it at the bottom of the sea. I grab it and squeeze where I can, otherwise I'll miss the call.

"Oui ? Yes?" I ask. But now I've lost communication. I don't know the number on the display, so I think whoever wanted to contact me will call back.

But I only have time to neatly and mechanically stack the work for the next day when I receive another phone call. This time on landline. I don't feel like answering, I should have already left, who is bothering me at this hour? But this time the display shows me a known number. It's your home number.

"Ready".

"Hi mom, are you going out?". My daughter asks me on the other end of the line.

"Why are you calling, what is it? Everything OK?"

"Yes, yes. I wanted to tell you that a girl called, she wanted to talk to you. I took down her number, and gave her yours too, if you can call her back."

"And you don't know what she wanted?" I ask as curious as Alice in Wonderland.

"She told me something but I didn't understand very well... Something about a collaboration... Or at least I think, I don't remember."

"But how come you don't remember? But when did she call?". I ask more and more curious.

"A few minutes ago."

"And how the hell can you not remember if she just called!"

"Mom, oh, relax, zen, cool... What's the problem? I'll send you the number on my mobile phone, you will call her and speak to her, right?"

"What a crazy daughter. Forward me the number because someone also called on my mobile, so I'll check. And then look, I'm done, I'll come home straight away. Dad is still on a work trip. After dinner I should pop over to a Fairwell party for a colleague who is retiring, but I'll be back very soon. Are you doing your homework or are you on the PC?".

"I'm doing it using FB, but I'm doing it".

"Well, can you find something between a - like - and a - comment - okay?"

"Yes, don't worry. Bye mummy."

"Bye sweetie".

But who is the person who wanted to talk to me? I still wonder.

I think and think but I can't think of anyone. Then I have a flash of inspiration. What if she were the wife of my suitor in the corridors, who discovered her husband writing the postcard and now she wants to call me out? No, it's not possible, my daughter told me about a... what was it... collaboration? Yes, but that rude girl was also doing thirty things at once, she probably didn't pay attention to what the lady was saying on the phone.

Well, all I have to do is call her. I think I'll do it on the way back, while I'm looking for my little car in the endless OI car park. I grab my things in a hurry, look back at my desk to check that I haven't forgotten anything, and then I leave with my phone in hand. In the long artificial corridors, I stop just to nod at this or that imbecile, late like me, on the schedule. I'm finally breathing some fresh air. The sky is already dark and does not announce anything good. I entered this morning in the dark and I leave in the dark. Of course, my OI has nothing to do with the inhuman working conditions of an old mine and any comparison would be disrespectful for those like my grandfather who experienced the mine seriously, but the fact of the lack of light, even if I'm ashamed to say it, the comparison comes naturally to me. My Batmobile is waiting for me calmly in the place where I left it in a hurry this morning. I calmly prepare to get in, enjoying the moment of the end of the torture. "My free evening begins" I say to myself. I won't set foot in this building again until tomorrow. It's the ideal time to call the person who called me. Piqued by curiosity, I dial the number. Ring, ring... Finally, someone responds with: "hello" in Italian.

"Good evening, my name is Laura Carminati and I think you were looking for me".

"Yes, in fact, I also spoke to your daughter. My name is Tiziana. I took the liberty of asking a mutual friend, Mr. Pezzotti, for your home number."

"Ah... yes." I ask even more amazed since I haven't heard from Marco (Pezzotti) in ages. He had been a traveling companion of mine during some amateur theatrical adventures. All in all I have good memories of him, a good person who loved the theater like me despite having another official occupation. If I remember correctly, we performed in a couple of comedies by Goldoni and one by Pirandello, for charity. He was a lawyer and an actor in his spare time.

Meanwhile the interlocutor on the other end tells me.

"I am the assistant director of Monsieur Dominique Rogier of the theater group "Art et scène". We are evaluating new texts for the next staging. Look, I know it may seem strange to you but Mr. Pezzotti showed me a script that you had written, I think years ago, and I was contacting you to find out if you are possibly interested in staging it. If your script is selected then we will talk about the rights, because 'we are a small theater team, and only professional for a very short time.'

I take a deep breath to gain time and then I come out with: "Rights...? Sorry, but you're catching me off guard. I know Marco, that is, Mr. Pezzotti, but I don't understand what text you are talking about."

"I have it in front of me. The title is: - Author's Evening - and Marco told me that you wrote it. Your name is also written at the bottom of the script..."

My eyes begin to roll through brain labyrinths in search of a logical connection.

Indeed, between bold letters, various texts, simple thoughts thrown on paper and so on, I know that I had written several little things in all these years... Of course! Memories were coming back. The script the lady on the phone was talking about, had been given birth to in little more than one night, during a particular period of my life. I was pissed at my husband, at my job and maybe even at the world. I had spewed quite a bit of nonsense into that text, but at that precise moment writing a little comedy had helped me. An overall pleasant little thing, pleasant to read due to her cheerful and joking tone despite the fact that she was talking about a marriage that was falling apart amidst painful frustrations and repressed desires. The script had served as therapy during a depressing period. It was like throwing cold water on a fire. Like a breath of fresh air on a sultry summer evening. I now also remember how Marco became aware of the writing. We were rehearsing one of Goldoni's comedies and between breaks we talked about our respective jobs and marriages. To tell the truth, he had never seen himself as a lawyer in his childhood dreams either. He liked football more than paperwork! His father had encouraged him to become a notary. But the ordeal of reaching this profession were too difficult, so he found himself walking half the path foreseen by his father's authority. Today he spoke multiple languages and was well paid. He also confessed to me that if he had been able to start his life again, he would certainly have acted differently. The fact is that between one confession and another I spoke to him about that slightly crazy text that I had written in one night, and he, curious, asked me for a copy. I sent it to him via email that same evening, I remember well now. I also remember that he didn't answer me for a while. I had to sweat a lot to get his opinion on the writing. Then when he finally deigned to reply to me, again via email, I think he told me that he liked it, without giving me too many details, either via email or during the theatrical performances. I didn't insist any more, since I had written the text for myself and not for others. But I was a little hurt by what happened. I have always suffered from the syndrome of the misunderstood genius and even on that occasion I put everything aside in the "he doesn't understand a damn thing" drawer.

How strange life is. And now that unknown lady was telling me that a director was interested in staging my creation?

For a moment I wonder if this is a radio prank. Yes, one of those jokes that they do in front of an audience without you knowing you're on air? They pretend to be a guy or a girl, to be your lover, to be a famous star, to be I don't know who, and then they royally make fun of you without your knowledge for a few minutes, making the listeners go crazy with laughter.

The lady was sensing my reserve and so she offered me an appointment with the director for the following weekend in order to talk in detail about the project. Total shock! Squeezed like a sardine I didn't have a damn pen in my horrible car, let alone the Bat-mobile!

"I will send you a text before the appointment, don't worry if you don't have a pen. Good evening and see you soon":

"Ok". I hear it coming out of my throat almost in a low voice. "Thank you. Good evening"

I don't know how to recover from the surprise. I do not know what to do. A hopeful smile tugs at my lips. Can it be true... Is someone interested in what I wrote? Does someone appreciate my talent? What if it were true, but really true?

Invigorated by this feeling of satisfaction I arrive home in a flash. I even briefly ran a red light, but who cares if I get a fine, at least I can pay it with copyright. And I smile again. A message arrives and I read it in one go. Mrs. Tiziana proposes Saturday evening in a brasserie in the city center. She also says that she will let me know the time in due course.

I park my car in front of the house and look at myself in the mirror. Call it a day! I tell myself; first the story of the romantic note, then the theatrical proposal... I've not been so galvanized for years! I enter the front door confused and euphoric at the same time. I'm calling my daughter.

"Elena, where are you?" Nobody here?

"Elena, can you hear me?".

"I'm upstairs mum."

"Come down for a moment, you'll never guess what happened to me today!". I tell her triumphantly. Elena comes down after a while, she smiles too. And it puts me in an even better mood.

"Darling, you remember that lady she called home. She works for a theater director. She told me that they are interested in a script I wrote years ago. It seems they want to put it on stage! But think about it, maybe you will have a famous mother!"

"Good. How brilliant. What you're doing for dinner?"

"Elena, did you understand what I told you?"

"Yes, yes and I'm happy for you. Really. What is the script about?"

"About a marriage in crisis..."

"Interesting" she replies, perplexed. "Well, I'm going up now. Call me when it's ready."

I see her leave and shake my head in disappointment. But with a bit of satisfaction?

As I hear her climbing her stairs I ask her humbly: "But do you think I can do it? I'm not a writer..."

And finally, she says to me smiling:

"Yes mom. I really think you can do it, but you have to believe in it too."

I smile at her too and think to myself: pills of wisdom, treasure of my heart, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. So you do care about me... And I had doubted... Children are sometimes crazy pains in the asses, but they also know how to give satisfaction...

I want to relax; the day has given me unexpected emotions. There would be Harold's party, but who wants to go anymore?

I take a hot shower, savour the warmth of the water on my body. Once dressed wearing the usual blue overalls, I prepare a quick pasta. In the middle of cooking, I hear the phone ringing. It's my husband. I tell him everything in a hurry, I don't even ask him how the work trip is going. He announces to me that he'll be back next weekend and I still think about my text.

"When I get back, we'll celebrate" he says to me.

I don't know how much he really cares about this, he has always been a pragmatist and not a dreamer like me. But this time he at least listened to me and encouraged me. Two out of two. How nice to be with family! "Almost always" I add mentally.

My daughter comes down to the kitchen just then. With her ponytail and sweatpants too big for her, she still looks like a little girl to me. She grew up, I say to myself, and I didn't even enjoy it. The first few years my working hours were always terrible. And for fear of losing the "golden job" I have always succumbed to silent acceptance. If I think back to all the moments of Elena's growth that I missed because of this damned job, it brings tears to my eyes. Poor thing, how many hours were spent in the after-school "garderie"... When I think back to all this...What a pain... A nightmare memory full of guilt...

I still see Elena in the nursery hall, with her little schoolbag next to her little legs, sitting on a bench with three or four other losers like her, watching every door open as if the Messiah were arriving. Out of the darkness.

I see her little eyes light up when I arrive, her smile, her little teeth bared with joy, and then the hugs... It's 6.40pm and in many Italian regions children have already eaten the minestrone, they have been washed and about to be put into their pajamas ready for a bedtime story. Elena, on the other hand, was leaving school at that time... In the dark... With her schoolbag between her legs and a look of expectation in front of the door, a fixed gaze that lasted a long time, too long... How many parents will she have seen? enter the door before seeing his mother's face? How many false hopes will you have had by catching a glimpse of blond hair, or a dress similar to mine?

Now that she is a teenager, maybe my presence sometimes annoys her, but when she was little and she needed me, I wasn't there. I wasn't there because I was working.... "Prepare the table for me darling". I tell her, almost apologetically. A silent apology that now comes too late. Elena doesn't answer me. She's too busy frantically typing her billionth message on her mobile phone. That receptacle of microbes manipulated on all occasions, placed on buses, benches, bags, money and steps of a downtown street, horrifies me just looking at it. Elena places it on the clean tablecloth. I want to grab her and tell her to stop using her mobile phone at the table, but her voice breaks in my throat. The darkness of the evening comes to mind, the cold hall of the school and the desire to see that little face light up when I arrive.

"Try my pasta, come on". I tell her in a motherly tone.

Elena eats the spaghetti and tells me that it's al dente, just the way we both like it. I have her green light to drain the pasta.

"Mom, tonight because dad isn't here, can I come to your bed like I used to?"

I smile. "Yes, fine, but don't come into my bed with your dirty cell phone and the socks you walk around the house in, okay?

"What a maniac you are". Ok, I'll be all clean and shiny before I put my feet between your sheets, and I'll clean my mobile with alcohol, happy?" She smiles. "By the way, what time are you going out?".

They hesitate. "To tell the truth, I don't think I'm going to go out with my colleagues."

"Come on, you never go out, I'll watch a film and wait for you in bed, as neat as a baby!"

"No, really. I prefer to stay at home with you. So, I can reread the famous script that the director would like to stage."

"Is it long?" Elena asks me, genuinely intrigued.

"No" I reply. "If I remember correctly, about thirty pages."

"And why did you never let me read it?"

"Well, you were too young before..."

"Show it to me tonight?" she asks me, putting kilos of parmesan on her late.

"Would you really like to see it?" I ask her perplexed.

"Mom, look, not all teenagers are insensitive illiterate louts."

I would like to answer her but the annoying sound of yet another message arriving makes me want to.

"Sorry," she says again, smiling, after having magically responded by typing at the speed of lightning an illiterate message compared to normal syntactic rules.

"I'll throw it at you" comes out spontaneously. "Someday I'll throw it at you. I'll take this damn mobile and throw it out the window. I tell her in a joking but firm tone.

Elena limits herself to a hint of a smile. She doesn't answer me because she knows I'm right. Then she starts again.

"It was Marta, I had to answer something important to her. Okay, but will you show me this text or not? I can read it out loud, so you can hear it too, if you want? I'll read it to you with scented feet, and with a mobile polished with disinfectant, I promise!"

"Do you know that an ancient Chinese proverb says that: you learn to be young when you are old?" I tell her proudly for having remembered the saying.

Elena looks at me perplexed. She looks at me in mock shock and then she comes out with:

"I don't know what it has to do with it but it sounds good, I'll note it down, it might help me."

Her irony makes me feel good, her company is like a fresh energy drink, the kind that keeps you up all night.

"Ok come on, you're allowed to sleep with your mom, but now eats it's getting cold."

The schoolbag between her legs and her expectant look in the nursery hall still torment me, but from the way Elena is growing, perhaps I have also managed to pass on something good to her. I watch as she digs into her plate and smile internally. Yes, tonight I really want to sleep with my daughter, entwined, telling me secrets like when she was a child, giving her back massages that she really likes, and so much more than a party with colleagues, certain moments are like the wind, once blown away they never come back...