March is a special month for the AbanoRitz, chosen not by chance by Terry and Ida Poletto to be dedicated to a dream, a project, a reality: the realization of the Super 8, that we invite you to discover, week by week. Eight authors stayed in our hotel, but more precisely in our rooms at the fifth floor: our Creative Rooms. Eight rooms, eight writers, eight telling.
This week we read Fabio Deotto, writer, journalist and translator class 82. His main subjects are science, politic, literature and cinema for the Corriere della Sera, IL – Magazine del Sole24 Ore, Esquire and il Tascabile. He wins the Premio Zocca in 2015 with Condominio R39 (ed. Einaudi), his first roman. He lives in Milano and work sto the Holden School teaching journalism and no-fiction. He wrote the tale for us getting inspired by the room 504 “Garage” which he introduces us with
“A matter of time”
The door had a spanner instead of a handle and, to Laerte Capisana, that seemed more like a warning rather than just a quirk. No matter what he had planned for those two weeks, he would have to be prepared to be caught off-guard. The inside kept that promise. The drapes at the back of the room followed an arched path, reaching upwards from the sides to then converge in the middle. The beam of light which slipped through the fabric refracted onto two chairs made out of fuel drums. A large mechanic’s worktable took up the left side of the room, just briefly catching people’s attention. Then, the eye would be inevitably drawn towards the right, where the mutilated body shell of an emerald green Jaguar encapsulated a comfortable-looking mattress. Without even removing his shoes, Laerte took his book from under his arm, leant against the back of the seat, opened the book at the first page and forced himself to finish at least that chapter. The bed in which he grew up was a plastic reproduction of a luxury blue car. It had bulging flanks, which protected it like a tortoise shell, and a light bulb stuck under the spoiler that had burnt out many times during those nights when he would batter away at reading novels, too heavy to even be held aloft. Until he was thirteen years old, Laerte would always close his eyes while imagining that, as soon as the night had swallowed each and every trace of light, an invisible engine would begin rumbling under the mattress. The plastic wheels would break the supports that were holding them and his bed would take him far away from school bags and bells, while streaking erratically around, leaving behind a colourful wake of adventures which nobody living in the real world would have been brave enough to believe. One evening, while he was getting down to tackling chapter 88 of The count of Montecristo, the light bulb sizzled a brief lament and darkness left him all alone. The day after, on returning home from school, the racing bed had disappeared. In its place, Laerte found an Ikea queen-size bed with a dark wooden frame, perfectly matching that monochrome space which he had never felt he needed to personalise. The room where he had put his suitcase a few hours earlier, however, had been completely constructed around the car which occupied the middle of it. Lifting his eyes off the book, he noticed that the bathroom door was a mechanic’s roller shutter. The floor tiles looked like those from a mechanic’s garage as well. Laerte directed his glance back to the words printed on the book and realised he had lost his thread again. He had not even turned a page in the past hour. He closed the book and got up from the bed. He could not expect to resolve the problem all at once. First, he had to shake the city air off himself. It was just a matter of time. It was always a matter of time. The lift reached him on the fifth floor with a muffled chime. Laerte pressed the ground floor button and noticed that there, on the lift carpet, printed under the hotel logo, was the day of the week. The doors opened into the hall studded with bronze statues, brocade armchairs and small tables made of walnut. Columns adorned with clusters of lamps drawing a natural path from the hall, leading up to the bar, above which loomed an enormous blown-glass chandelier that resembled an upside-down iceberg. He had come down meaning to go out to buy a pair of swimming trunks and some flip flops for the thermal pool, but while walking across the hall, his eye was caught by a room on the left of the entrance. In it were several armchairs, some paintings on the wall and some books sitting on small tables. On the large internal glass windows, a serigraphy manifesting: Smoking Room. Laerte gripped his book tightly in his hands and moved closer, hoping to find someone. It had been years since he had last touched a cigarette. On the left, sitting on an armchair, legs crossed, head bowed on a book, was an elegant-looking man. He was wearing a sapphire blue suit with studded buttons and cufflinks. His great white beard and thickframed glasses were hiding most of his face. On the small table in front of him, he had placed a glass and a packet of Red Winstons.
“Can I steal one off you?” asked Laerte, realising too late that he had not even introduced himself.
The man glanced up from his book and stretched over to the packet: “Be my guest.”
Laerte accepted a cigarette and lighter and inhaled with his eyes closed.
“I needed that.”
The man closed his book and brought the glass to his lips.
“Feeling stressed?”
Laerte blew out a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth and took a seat on the opposite armchair.
“I hope that these two weeks will serve some purpose.”
“What are you escaping from?”
Laerte stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Everybody is escaping from something here! Or, best case scenario, they are looking for that certain something.”
Laerte blew out some more smoke and smiled. “In my case, let’s say that I’m escaping from a block?”
“Are you a writer?”
“How did you work that out?”
The man put his glass down. “You’re carrying a book but you don’t seem to be that anxious to read it. That’s what happens with writers. Books become fetishes.”
Laerte turned his book over in his hands.
“It’s not that kind of block.” he said.
“No?”
“The thing is, I can’t read anymore.”
“I believe that happens to us all, sometimes.”
Laerte realised he had already reached the filter. He put out the cigarette and shook his head.
“I haven’t been able to get to the end of a chapter for months. On the plus side, though, I write nonstop! If I could, I would just write!”
“So why don’t you do that?”
The placid indifference of the man was beginning to make him impatient. “Because you usually write to be read, so therefore, in turn it would be a good idea if I read. And then I feel like my writing is becoming stale.”
“So why come to the thermal spa?”
Laerte blushed. “When I was a small kid, I used to have a bed in the shape of a car, where I would spend hours reading. It was my favourite thing to do. In the evenings, I would read and at night, my mind would invent stories. More than a bed in the shape of a car, it was a machine in the shape of a bed. You would put stories into the tank when the light was on, and then when it was dark, they would come out of the exhaust. Well, there’s a room with a bed in the shape of a car here on the fifth floor. So, I thought I …”
He stopped talking. The man was staring at him in silence. Laerte glanced at the book that the man had on his lap. It was “The Black Tulip”.
“Yes, I know. It’s a stupid thing.”
“Is it working?”
Laerte shook his head. “No, not at the moment.” he said. Then, he pointed at the man’s book.
“Dumas, huh? I lost my sight reading it when I was a boy.”
“What are you reading now?”
Laerte showed his book. 10:04 by Ben Lerner.”
“Do you like it?”
“Well, it’s very well written.”
The man stared at him again, without saying a word. Laerte realised that he was waiting for him to leave.
“So… Enjoy your book!” he said, putting his book back under his arm.
“You too!” the man said, his eyes already bowed on his pages.
That afternoon, while on his way to the swimwear shop, Laerte stopped at a small stationery and book shop. Perusing the shelves, he found one which was entirely dedicated to adventure classics. Back at the hotel, he quickly went up to his room to change. He then went straight down to the swimming pool area, where he allowed himself to enter the warm water of the outdoor pools. He stayed immersed until his fingertips became all wrinkled and pruney, after which, he went to lie down on a pool lounger inside. There, with his fingers still wet, he opened the paperback of The Three Musketeers and started reading it, while letting himself be cradled by the random splashing and gurgling of the people swimming. By the time he lifted his eyes from the book, his trunks were dry, the pools were empty and the sun had wiped away every smear of sunset.
The morning after, Laerte woke up bright and early. He took his time with breakfast, after which, he returned to the swimming pool where he started reading again and finished Dumas novel within a few hours. Right afterwards, he went out to buy another two books. He had planned to write at least two chapters of his new novel, but he still had not taken his laptop computer out of his suitcase. That night he promised he would allow himself another day before he began writing again. However, every time he found a reason to postpone, and so he continued to do until the morning he woke up and realised it was time to pack. During those two weeks, he had not written a single line. On the up side, he had read eleven novels.
The receptionist behind the desk told him he looked well rested.
“Thank you.”
“It’s raining, sir. Would you like me to call a taxi?”
Laerte turned around towards the smoking room. “Give me a moment.”
He found the man still sitting on the same armchair. This time he had a cigarette hanging from his lips, while gazing at the rain streaming down the big outside windows.
“I must thank you.” Laerte said, while putting down his suitcase on the side of the entrance.
“You think so?”
Laerte chuckled, while raising his hands, spreading his fingers.
“Ten? You have read ten books?”
“Eleven.” he nodded. “I don’t even have enough fingers.”
The man leant his hand holding the cigarette on the armrest and gave him a smile.
“I’m glad but, what have I got to do with it?”
The Black Tulip Laerte said, standing by the door, without closing it. “That’s what unblocked everything.”
“If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe that you allowed yourself the space that you needed.”
“Of course. That’s why I booked for two weeks.”
The man shook his head. “I said space, not time, and I’m talking about mental space.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The other day you told me that for you reading has always been like putting fuel into a tank. That’s not why you started leafing through your books, though. Your bed may have been a machine, but your brain works in a different way. Reading and writing cannot be reduced to input or output. They depend on the quality of mental space which we let ourselves subtract from our time.” The man put out his cigarette and picked up the glass which was sitting on the small table. Laerte forced himself to say something. “Are you going to stay here much longer?” The man raised the glass in turn covering his mouth. “I haven’t decided yet.” he said. Then, he opened the book which he had had on his lap all that time, so depriving Laerte of any attention. While waiting for a taxi, with the rain dully battering against the awning, Laerte turned around to look at the man in the smoking room for the last time. He had lit a cigarette and was slowly turning the pages of his book. Just as if he had stopped escaping. As if he had been sitting on that armchair forever.
© Giovanni De Sandre
