Me and You. Niccolo Ammaniti
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mother’s footsteps moved down the hallway. She must be wearing the blue high heels, I thought.
I dived back into bed, turned off the light and pretended to be asleep.
‘Lorenzo, wake up. It’s late.’
I lifted my head off the pillow and rubbed my eyes.
My mother pulled up the shutters. ‘It’s a foul day . . . Let’s hope the weather’s better in Cortina.’
The gloomy light of the dawn reflected her thin silhouette. She was wearing the grey skirt and jacket that she used when she did important stuff. Her round-necked cardigan. Her pearls. And her blue high heels.
‘Good morning,’ I yawned, as if I’d just woken up.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Did you sleep well, darling?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to make you breakfast . . . You go have a shower in the meantime.’
‘What about Nihal?’
She combed my hair with her fingers. ‘He’s still asleep. Did he give you your ironed T-shirts?’
I nodded.
‘Get up, come on.’
I wanted to, but a weight on my chest was suffocating me.
‘What’s the matter?’
I took her hand. ‘Do you love me?’
She smiled. ‘Of course I love you.’ She stood up, looked at her reflection in the mirror beside the door and smoothed out her skirt.
‘Get up, come on. On a day like today do I have to beg you to get out of bed?’
‘Kiss.’
She bent over me. ‘Look, you’re not joining the army, you’re going skiing for a week.’
I hugged her and slid my head under her blonde hair, which hung over her face, and I put my nose against her neck.
She had a nice smell. It made me think of Morocco. Of its narrow alleyways full of stalls with coloured powders. But I had never been to Morocco.
‘What perfume is that?’
‘It’s sandalwood soap. The usual.’
‘Can you lend it to me?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘So I can wash myself with it and carry you with me.’
She pulled the covers off me. ‘That would be a first, you washing yourself. Come on, don’t be silly, you won’t have time to think about me.’
Through the car window I studied the wall of the zoo covered in wet election posters. Higher up, inside the aviary where they kept the birds of prey, a vulture was sitting on a dry branch. It looked like an old woman dressed in mourning, asleep in the rain.
The heating inside the car made it hard to breathe and the biscuits I’d had for breakfast were stuck at the back of my throat.
The rain was easing up. A couple – he was fat, she was skinny – were doing exercises on the leaf-covered steps of the Modern Art Museum.
I looked at my mother.
‘What is it?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the road.
I puffed up my chest, trying to imitate my father’s low voice: ‘Arianna, you should wash this car. It’s a pigsty on wheels.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘Did you say goodbye to your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not to be silly and not to ski like a maniac.’ I paused. ‘And not to call you every five minutes.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes.’
She changed gear and turned down Flaminia. The city was beginning to fill up with cars.
‘Call me whenever you want. Have you got everything? Your music? Your mobile?’
‘Yes.’
The grey sky hung heavily above the roofs and between the antennas.
‘Did you pack the bag with the medicines? Did you put the thermometer in there?’
‘Yes.’
A guy on a Vespa laughed into the mobile stuck under his helmet.
‘Money?’
‘Yes.’
We crossed the bridge over the Tiber.
‘We checked the rest together yesterday evening. You’ve got everything.’
‘Yes, I’ve got everything.’
We were waiting at the stoplight. A woman in a Fiat 500 was staring in front of her. An old man was dragging two Labradors along the footpath. A seagull was crouching on the skeleton of a tree covered in plastic bags that stuck out of the mud-coloured water.
If God had come and asked me if I wanted to be that seagull, I would have answered yes.
I undid my seat belt. ‘Drop me off here.’
She looked at me as if she hadn’t understood. ‘What do you mean, here?’
‘I mean, here.’
The light turned green.
‘Pull over, please.’
But she kept on driving. Luckily there was a rubbish truck that slowed us down.
‘Mum! Pull over.’
‘Put your seatbelt back on.’
‘Please stop.’
‘But why?’
‘I want to get there on my own.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
I raised my voice. ‘Stop, please.’
My mother pulled over, turned off the engine and pulled her hair back with her hand. ‘What’s going on? Lorenzo, please, let’s not start . . . You know I’m no good at this time of the morning.’
‘It’s just that . . .’ I squeezed my hands into a fist. ‘Everyone else is going there on their own. I can’t turn up with you. I’ll look like a loser.’
‘What are you saying?’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m supposed to just leave you here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I don’t even thank Alessia’s parents?’
I shrugged. ‘There’s no need. I’ll thank them for you.’
‘Not on your life.’ And she turned the key in the ignition.
I flung myself on her. ‘No . . . No . . . Please.’
She pushed me back. ‘Please, what?’
‘Let me go by myself. I can’t turn up with my mummy. They’ll make fun of me.’
‘That’s just silly . . . I want to make sure that everything is all right, if I have to do anything. It’s the least I can do. I’m not rude like you.’
‘I’m not rude. I’m just like all the others.’
She flicked the indicator on. ‘No. No way.’
I hadn’t counted on my mother caring this much about taking me there.
The anger was starting to build. I started banging my fists on my legs.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Nothing.’