The hummingbird, p.1
The Hummingbird, page 1
Dedication
To Giovanni,
Brother and sister
Epigraph
I can’t go on,
I’ll go on.
Samuel Beckett
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
One might say (1999)
General delivery postcard (1998)
Yes or no (1999)
Sadly (1981)
The eye of the storm (1970–1979)
This thing (1999)
A happy child (1960–1970)
An inventory (2008)
Planes (2000)
An enchanted sentence (1983)
The last night of innocence (1979)
Urania (2008)
Gospodineeee! (1974)
Second letter on hummingbirds (2005)
A thread, a wizard, three cracks (1992–1995)
Top-notch (2008)
Fatalities (1979)
The wrong kind of hope (2010)
How it all went (2010)
You weren’t there (2005)
Except (1988–1999)
Let’s stop at that (2001)
On growth and form (1973–1974)
First letter on hummingbirds (2005)
未来人 (2010)
A whole life (1998)
Mulinelli (1974)
Weltschmerz & Co. (2009)
Gloomy Sunday (1981)
Here they come (2012)
Shakul & Co. (2012)
Weighed up (2009)
Via Crucis (2003–2005)
Giving and receiving (2012)
Oxygen mask (2012)
Brabanty (2015)
On everyone’s lips (2013)
To look is to touch (2013)
Wolves don’t kill unlucky deer (2016)
Third letter on hummingbirds (2018)
Things as they really are (2016)
One last time (2018)
The New Man (2016–2029)
Here for you (2030)
The Barbarian invasions (2030)
This tired old sky (1997)
Acknowledgments
A Note from the Translator
About the Author
About the Translator
Praise for Sandro Veronesi’s The Hummingbird
Copyright
About the Publisher
One might say (1999)
The Trieste neighborhood in Rome is, one might say, one of the focal points of this story that has many other focal points. The neighborhood has forever oscillated between elegance and decay, luxury and mediocrity, privilege and insignificance, and that should suffice for now: no point describing it further, because describing it at the start of the story might turn out to be tedious, or even counterproductive. At any rate, the best way to describe a place is to describe what happens in it, and something important is about to happen here.
Let’s put it this way: one of the key events in this tale of many tales takes place in the Trieste neighborhood, in Rome, on a mid-October morning in 1999, and specifically at the corner between Via Chiana and Via Reno, on the first floor of one of those buildings that, as promised, we won’t bother describing here. Except what is about to happen here is a decisive and—one might say—potentially fatal event in the life of the main character in this story. “Dr. Marco Carrera, ophthalmologist” reads the nameplate on the door—the door which, for a little while yet, separates him from one of the most crucial moments in a life full of many other crucial moments. Inside his practice—as it happens, on the first floor of one of those buildings (etc.)—he is writing a prescription for an old lady suffering from ciliary blepharitis. Antibiotic eye drops: follow-up medication after an innovative—revolutionary even, one might say—treatment consisting of N-acetylcysteine drops instilled in the eye, which for many of his patients has already averted the main complication of this condition, namely its tendency to become chronic. Outside, however, destiny is lying in wait in the shape of a little man named Daniele Carradori. Bald and bearded, he possesses a magnetic—one might say—gaze, which will shortly be directed at the ophthalmologist’s eyes, instilling in them first disbelief, then anxiety and finally sorrow—none of which his (the ophthalmologist’s) science will be able to cure. The little man has made up his mind by now, a decision that has brought him to the waiting room where he is currently sitting, looking at his shoes, not taking advantage of the many magazines on display on the coffee tables (brand-new magazines, not the stuff from last year that falls apart when you pick it up). No use hoping he’ll change his mind.
Here we go. The door opens, the old blepharitic lady walks out and turns to shake the doctor’s hand, then heads toward the reception desk to pay for the treatment (120,000 lira) as Carrera pops out to call in the following patient. The little man gets up and comes forward, Carrera shakes his hand and welcomes him in. Nestled in the shelving unit next to the trusty Marantz amp and two mahogany AR6 speakers, a vintage Thorens record player (now obsolete but one of the best in its time—that is, a quarter of a century ago) is playing Graham Nash’s Song for Beginners at a very low volume. The enigmatic record sleeve—propped up against the above-mentioned shelving unit and picturing the above-mentioned Graham Nash holding a camera against a rather obscure background—is the most eye-catching element in the whole room.
The door closes. Here we go. The veil separating Dr. Carrera from the most devastating emotional shock in a life full of many other emotional shocks has fallen.
Let us pray for him, and for all the ships out at sea.
General delivery postcard (1998)
Luisa LATTES
General Delivery
59–78 Rue des Archives
75003 Paris
France
Rome, April 17, 1998
Working and thinking of you
M.
Yes or no (1999)
—Good morning. My name is Daniele Carradori.
—Marco Carrera, good morning.
—Does my name ring a bell?
—Should it?
—Yes, it should.
—What did you say your name was?
—Daniele Carradori.
—Is that my wife’s therapist’s name?
—Correct.
—Oh. I’m sorry, I never thought we’d meet. Please, take a seat. What can I do for you?
—You could listen to me, Dr. Carrera. And once I’ve told you what I have come here to tell you, perhaps you could decide not to report me to the National Order of Physicians, or worse to the Italian Psychoanalysts’ Association—which, as a colleague, you could do quite easily.
—Report you? Whatever for?
—Because what I’m about to do is forbidden and severely punished in my line of work. I had never even dreamed of doing something like this, ever in my life—I had never imagined I could even conceive of such a thing—but I have reason to believe you are in grave danger, and I am the only person in the world to be aware of this. Therefore, I am here to inform you, even though by doing so I am breaking one of the most sacred rules in my profession.
—Goodness! I’m listening.
—I’d like to ask you a favor first.
—Is the music bothering you?
—What music?
—Never mind. What did you want to ask me?
—I’d like to ask you a few questions to confirm what I’ve been told about you and your family: it would help me exclude the possibility that the account I’ve been given is somewhat misleading. I think it is unlikely, but still: I cannot completely exclude it. Do you understand?
—I do.
—I’ve brought some notes. Kindly answer me only “yes” or “no.”
—All right.
—May I begin?
—Please.
—Are you Dr. Marco Carrera, aged forty, raised in Florence, with a degree in medicine from La Sapienza University in Rome, specializing in ophthalmology?
—Yes.
—Son of Letizia Calabrò and Probo Carrera, both architects, both retired and living in Florence?
—Yes. My father is an engineer, though.
—Oh, right. You have a brother named Giacomo, a few years younger than yourself and living in the US, and—forgive me—a sister called Irene, who drowned in the early 1980s?
—Yes.
—You are married to Marina Molitor, a Slovenian national working for Lufthansa?
—Yes.
—You have a daughter, Adele, aged ten, currently in year 5 at a state primary school near the Coliseum?
—Vittorino da Feltre primary, yes.
—And was Adele, between the age of two and six, convinced there was a thread attached to her back, which prompted you and your wife to seek the help of a child psychology specialist?
—Manfrotto the Wizard . . .
—I beg your pardon?
—That’s the name he used with the children.
—I see. So it is true you went to see a child psychologist?
—Yes, but I don’t see how this has anything to do with—
—You do understand why I’m asking these questions, don’t you? I only have one source, and I am verifying it is a reliable one. It’s a precaution I have to take, considering what I came here to say.
—That’s fine. But what have you come here to say?
—A few more questions, if you don’t mind. These will be of a slightly more intimate nature, and I’d like you to answer with the utmost sincerity. Do you think you can
—Yes.
—You gamble, don’t you?
—Well, not anymore.
—But in the past, would it be fair to say you were a gambler?
—Yes.
—And is it true that up until the age of fourteen, you were much shorter than other kids your age, so much so that your mother had nicknamed you “the hummingbird”?
—Yes.
—And that when you were fourteen, your father took you to Milan to undergo an experimental hormonal therapy, after which your height went back to normal and you grew over six inches in less than a year?
—In eight months, yes.
—And is it true that your mother was opposed to the treatment, and taking you to Milan was the only time your father exercised some authority as a parent, seeing as in your family—and forgive me for reporting this exactly as it was reported to me—“no one gives a fuck about what he says?”
—Ha! That’s not true.
—It’s not true that your mother was opposed to the treatment, or that no one gives a fuck about what your father says?
—It’s not true that no one gives a fuck about what my father says. It’s just what people think, especially Marina. They’re such completely different characters, my father and her, that most of the time—
—You don’t need to explain anything to me, Dr. Carrera. Just answer me yes or no. Is that all right?
—Yes, fine.
—Is it true you have always been in love, and for many years have engaged in a relationship with a woman named Luisa Lattes, currently liv—
—What? Who told you that?
—Guess.
—Never! It’s impossible, Marina could never have told you that—
—Only answer yes or no, please. And do try to be honest. Are you, or could you have led your wife to believe that you are still in love with this Luisa Lattes, yes or no?
—Not at all!
—So you’re not secretly seeing her when you happen to attend a conference in France, or Belgium, or the Netherlands, or anyway not far from Paris, where Ms. Lattes lives? Or during the summer, in Bolgheri, where you happen to spend the month of August in two neighboring holiday homes with your families?
—That’s ridiculous! We see each other every summer at the beach with our children, that’s true. We talk a little, but we’ve never dreamt of “engaging in a relationship” like you said, let alone meeting in secret when I travel for work.
—Look, I am not here to judge you. I’m only trying to understand if what I’ve been told about you is true or false. It is false, then, that you and this woman are secretly seeing each other?
—False, yes.
—And can’t you entertain the idea that your wife might believe this is true, even though it isn’t?
—Of course I can’t! They’ve even become friends. They go riding together, I mean the two of them, alone: they dump the kids with us men and ride around the countryside all morning.
—That proves nothing. You can befriend someone and spend time with them every day precisely because you are morbidly jealous of them.
—Yes, but that’s not the case here, believe me. Marina is not morbidly jealous of anyone, I’m faithful to her and she knows it. And now will you please tell me why I’d be in danger?
—So you haven’t been writing to each other for years, you and this Luisa?
—No!
—Love letters?
—Not at all!
—Are you being honest, Dr. Carrera?
—Absolutely!
—I’ll ask you one more time: are you being honest?
—Of course I’m being honest! Will you tell me—
—In that case I apologize, but contrary to what I believed—strongly believed, I assure you, or I wouldn’t have come here—your wife lied to me and so you are not in danger as I thought, therefore I won’t bother you any longer. Kindly disregard my visit and above all don’t mention it to anyone.
—What? Why are you getting up? Where are you going?
—I apologize again, but I have made a serious mistake. Goodbye. I know the wa—
—Now look here. You can’t come here, tell me I am in grave danger because of something my wife told you, cross-examine me and then just leave! You better tell me what’s going on or you bet I will report you!
—The truth is I shouldn’t have come at all. I always thought I could trust your wife and I have formed a detailed opinion about her condition precisely because I have always believed her. Based on this opinion and faced with what I thought was a very serious situation, I decided to act outside the limits of my profession’s code of ethics. But now you are telling me your wife has been lying to me on a key issue, and if she lied to me about this she probably lied about many other things, including those that led me to conclude that you were in danger. As I said, it was my mistake, and I cannot but apologize once again, but ever since your wife stopped coming to see me, I have been wondering about—
—Wait, what? My wife has stopped coming to see you?
—Yes.
—Since when?
—Over a month ago.
—You’re joking.
—You didn’t know?
—No.
—She hasn’t been to see me since our last session on . . . on the sixteenth of September.
—But she tells me she’s still seeing you. On Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:15 p.m. I pick up Adele from school as always, because Marina is with you. I’m meant to pick her up this very afternoon.
—I’m not at all surprised she’s lying to you, Dr. Carrera. The problem is, she lied to me too.
—Ah come on, she lied to you about one thing. And then, forgive me, but aren’t lies supposed to be more revealing to you therapists than the truth that is being concealed?
—Says who?
—I don’t know, you . . . people. No? Since I was little I’ve been surrounded by people in therapy and I’ve always heard that setting, transfer, dreams, lies, all that stuff matters precisely because that’s where the truth hides. What’s the problem now if Marina made something up?
—No, if this story about Luisa Lattes is only a fantasy of hers, that changes everything, and it’s your wife who is in danger.
—But why? What danger?
—Look, I’m really sorry but it’s no longer appropriate for me to be talking to you. And don’t tell your wife I came here, I beg you.
—Do you seriously think I’m going to let you go after what you’ve just told me? Now I demand—
—No point threatening me, Dr. Carrera. Feel free to report me, if you wish: I deserve it, considering the mistake I made. But you can never force me to tell you what—
—It’s not a fantasy of hers.
—I beg your pardon?
—What Marina told you about Luisa Lattes is not a fantasy. It’s true, we’re seeing each other, we write to each other. Except it’s not a relationship, and I’m certainly not being unfaithful to my wife: it’s just our own thing and I wouldn’t know how to define it, and I can’t understand how Marina knows about this.
—Are you still in love with her?
—That’s not the point here. The point is—
—Forgive me but I must insist: are you still in love with her?
—Yes.
—You met in Louvain in June?
—Yes but—
—In one of your letters from a few years ago, did you write to her that you like the way she dives into the sea from the shore?
—Yes but how on ear—
—Did you and Ms. Lattes take a vow of chastity?
—Yes but, honestly, how can Marina know about this? And why don’t you just say what you have to say instead of going round in circles? There’s a marriage at stake here, for fuck’s sake! A daughter!
—I’m sorry to say this to you, but your marriage has been over for a long time now, Dr. Carrera. And there will be another child shortly, but it won’t be yours.
Sadly (1981)
Luisa Lattes
14 Via Frusa
Florence 50131
Bolgheri, September 11, 1981
Luisa, my Luisa,
No, not mine sadly, just Luisa (Luisa Luisa Luisa Luisa Luisa Luisa Luisa Luisa): I ran away, you say. It’s true, but after what happened, for those long, unimaginable days I was racked with guilt, and I wasn’t myself anymore—I was no one. I went into some kind of a trance, I thought it was all my fault, because I was with you while it happened, because I was happy with you. I still think it is my fault.
