The Colleague

Relationships

Pierluigi stared at the letter for a while before opening it with trepidation. A recent university graduate, he had sent a large number of job applications. As the Spring and Summer months had gone by without any responses, Pierluigi lost hope and prepared himself for an unproductive year without work and money. He read the letter over and over again, each time experiencing an equal mix of joy and disappointment. He hoped to receive a job offer in native city of Palermo. Instead, the letter offered a one-year teaching position in Ferrara.

“Better than staying at home penniless,” he concluded in the end.

He quickly made preparations for his departure, said goodbye to his parents, relatives, and friends, and boarded the train that would open for him a new world of adventures. As an only child, he had never left home in twenty-three years and had not even ventured outside the borders of his own city or strayed far from his mother’s protective mantle. Family and friends were more than enough for his emotional needs and the familiar surroundings provided a sense of comfort and security. As the ferry that crossed the Strait of Messina slowly separated him from his beloved island, he tried to ignore the pain of his roots being torn from native soil.

In Ferrara, the initial excitement of the new place and the commitments of his new job left him little time for reflection. As time went by, a depressing loneliness sneaked its way into his soul and slowly drained his new zest for life. The cleanliness of the new city, the beauty of its architecture that showcased its rich history, the order of daily life, all this new world that had stirred his imagination was now a haze under the shadow of a debilitating melancholy. As he sat alone in his room, eating bread and a salad of canned tuna and chopped onions with olive oil, salt, and lemon juice, he longed for his native delicacies: stuffed artichokes, noodles with sardines, arancini, cannoli, granita caffe’ with whipping cream and brioche. He even remembered with fondness the crowded streets of Palermo, the sounds of people shouting at each other, the music of his dialect, and even the stench of uncollected garbage in street corners. The weekly phone call from home, intended to alleviate the sting of loneliness, often intensified the pain by reminding him of what he had given up.

Pierluigi’s only consolation was a female colleague named Marisa, born and raised in Ferrara. She was tall, slender, blond, and had smooth skin with a pink hue. She dressed and walked like a model, and displayed her beauty with the natural simplicity that comes from self-awareness devoid of conceit. During their coffee breaks she started raising issues of social justice, workers’ rights, political corruption, and the plight of the poor. Pierluigi was a willing participant in these discussions, attracted first by her sparkling blue eyes, engaging smile, and a voice that, at least to him, was angelic, and later by the importance of the issues. Raised with a daily dose of local gossip and arguments about the latest soccer games, and bored at work by the other teachers’ recounting of the previous night’s television shows of the exploits of their little brats, he found conversing with Marisa refreshing and uplifting.

Marisa and Pierluigi soon realized they were the only two teachers interested in social and political issues and decided to carry on their conversations in the school’s courtyard. Occasionally, they continued their talks after school as he accompanied her to the bus stop. One day, Marisa surprised him.

‘Pierluigi,” she said with a joyous voice, “I have signed up with the local chapter of the labor union. Why don’t you join, too?”

Pierluigi was shocked by this request and could not commit without proper reflection.

“That’s a big step,” he replied, “but I promise to think about it seriously.”

He stayed up late that night, trying to figure out what to do. As he always did when faced with a difficult decision, Pierluigi began pacing in his room and verbalizing his thoughts in low whispers. He liked the idea of spending more time with Marisa but was afraid of joining a left-wing organization.

“If they ever find out at home that I have become a socialist, I may never get a teaching job in Palermo.”

One evening after a particularly interesting meeting, Pierluigi was very excited.

“This was the best meeting ever. I did not realize before that we have the power to change the work,” he said, as he accompanied her to the bus stop.

Marisa was surprised by her colleague’s sudden outburst and replied calmly.

“I have heard that stuff before. We must watch out not to be fooled by illusions.”

“What illusions?” The sting of chastisement disturbed Pierluigi. “What we discussed tonight is the true reality. Our power is real and so must be out commitment.”

“I understand your excitement, sometimes I have those feelings myself.” Marisa responded in a sweet voice, trying to avoid a confrontation. “Illusions give us a glimpse of a wider horizon, of what may be, and sometimes they spur us to action. Still, we must be realistic in whatever we do or we will fail.”

Back in his room, Pierluigi was troubled by Marisa’s lack of idealism.

“What kind of socialist is this woman if she does not believe in idealism?”

After a few days of their conversation lingering on innocuous subjects, Pierluigi decided to test his colleague on a delicate subject.

“Marisa, just for curiosity, I would like to know what you think about love.”

She was surprised by that request and tried to lighten up the conversation.

“What do you mean by love? Love in general or specific?”

“I guess both.” Pierluigi did not expect that question.

“For me,” Marisa began, “love in general is accepting people as they are without judgement and expecting nothing from them.”

“I did not mean such general love,” said Pierluigi, who understood Marisa’s evasive attempt, “I mean more specific love.”

“Oh, you mean something like how much I love my poodle.” She replied with a radiant smile.

“Forget about the darn dog” blurted Pierluigi who was getting frustrated. “Let’s talk about love between a man and a woman.”

“Ah, that.” Marisa’s response lacked any emotions. “That kind of love is a combination of hormones and money.”

Pierluigi was flabbergasted. Marisa tried to diffuse the tension and immediately said jokingly, “We better talk about our staff meeting tomorrow. There are a number of important items on the agenda.”

Pierluigi must have walked miles in his room that evening talking to himself. He was more animated than ever.

“Hormones my foot! What’s the matter with this woman? Doesn’t she have any feelings?”

The landlady heard his voice but could not make out the words.

“Signor Luigi,” she asked from downstairs, “did you call me? Do you need something?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Fiorello, I am fine. I was just reading out loud.”

His life had now settled into a satisfying routine. During the day he was busy at school. He maintained his conversation with Marisa during the breaks and after school when he accompanied Marisa to the bus stop. One evening a week he went to the union hall and he spent the weekend cooking, washing his clothes, and reading while listening to classical music on the small radio that his grandmother gave him for his university graduation.

One April evening, Pierluigi received an unexpected phone call. It was his mother at the end of the line announcing triumphantly, “Pierino, I have great news for you. This morning we received a letter from the board of education with an offer for a one-year teaching appointment right here in Palermo. Isn’t that wonderful? I have been praying to Santa Rosalia for this favor for two years now. I finally got my answer.”

Pierluigi was caught by surprise and could barely muster an unenthusiastic reply.

“This is great news, Ma. Really good news.”

Pierluigi thought about having to give up a lifestyle he was finding fulfilling; his new independence and most painfully, the dream of ever having a relationship with Marisa. His mother continued her litany of goods news, oblivious to her son’s feelings on the matter.

“Now you will be settled for life, Pierino. You come back home where you belong and I will take of you. Once you get into the local school system, we will make sure that you stay there. Noi abbiamom conscenze, you know. Then you can settle down and raise a family. I have already picked a couple of girls that would make goods wives. When you come back you just pick one.”

“Yes, Ma. That’s really good news,” Pierluigi repeated, his voice like a robot.

Thus ended Pieluigi’s adventure in the North. When the school year ended, he gathered his few personal belongings and said goodbye to his colleagues. At the end of the brief farewell ceremony, Marisa gave him an affectionate hug that lasted long enough for him to feel the curves of her slender body. As the two bodies separated, she looked him in the eyes and said with her usual teasing smile, “I will even give you a kiss so you will not forget me,” and placed a soft kiss on his closed lips.

Still dazed by the kiss, Pierluigi replied almost with a whisper while Marisa’s silhouette was disappearing down the school hall.

“I will never forget you.”

Pierluigi’s life in Palermo conformed to his mother’s wishes. He returned to his parents’ house and a year later became engaged to one of the two ladies previously selected by his mother. The following year he married her and together they raised two children, but he was never the same. He still enjoyed the special food his mother prepared for the obligatory Sunday visit, but no longer felt the natural attachment to his native city. The voices and sounds of the busy streets of Palermo had now turned into irritating noise, and he was disgusted with the revolting stench of uncollected garbage. Even the sounds of his cherished dialect had lost their innate emotional allure, and occasionally he was caught speaking in Italian for no reason at all.

“There you go again,” his wife would comment mockingly. “Our language is not good enough for you. You are half a Northern Polentone.”

Pierluigi never replied. He cast of glance of pity on his wife and left the room. Once in a while, as he sat at the table after dinner, his gazed remained fixed on his wife’s short and plump body, and her black hair. Staring at her round face and sad eyes, his mind would wonder through the school backyard in Ferrara to revive, in resplendent color, the image of Marisa with her slender body, golden hair, and radiant smile. At times he even heard her sweet voice, as if a record was playing in his brain, saying in Italian tinted by a delightful local accent, “I will give you a kiss, so you will not forget me.”

Each time he fell into such a trance, he was awakened by his wife’s rebuke.

“Day-dreaming again, eh! Maybe you are thinking of one of your mistresses ‘nto cuntinenti.”

Later in life she added, “I guess you are becoming senile, and the only things left in your life are the illusions of youth.”

Each time he automatically offered the same reply, “All of a sudden, I was falling asleep, cara. I was trying to keep my eyes open.”

One day, he received an unexpected letter and opened it while sitting on his favorite chair on the balcony. He looked at the return address and recognized the name of the sender. It was one of his old friends at the labor union in Ferrara. He was delighted when he saw that the letter was an invitation. The Ferrara branch of the labor union was celebrating the centenary of its foundation and Gianpietro Masonetti, the author of the letter, had just published a book describing the history of the branch. Pierluigi had been invited to be the keynote speaker at the book launch in Ferrara. Pierluigi was overwhelmed with the threat of happy tears. In Ferrara he would see old friends, reminisce about the past, and enjoy food that, over the years, had become unfamiliar but not forgotten. Would Marisa be in attendance? He dared not hope and brushed aside the thought.

At the book launch, Pierluigi delivered his comments to a very appreciative audience and then mingled with the crowd to greet old friends and bask in compliments for his performance. Unwittingly, his eyes roamed through the room as if searching for a lost object. He noticed the slender body of an elegantly dressed blonde woman at the end of the room. He looked more intensely. “Is it Marisa?” he thought. As he stood still, staring in the direction of the blonde woman glimpses of his life began to appear in his inner mind like a broken film reel and a painful longing gripped his heart. Why had he been so indecisive? Would Marisa would have responded to his love? At least he should have tried. Instead, he passively yielded to the call of a land that no longer captivated his heart. Pierluigi closed his eyes for a few seconds while pondering these questions. When he opened his eyes, he the blonde lady had vanished. As he turned to mingle with old friends and colleagues, he kept wondering whether Marisa had really been there or if what he saw was a projection of his unrequited heart. Had he been too slow again?

Now in his seventies and recently widowed, Pierluigi spent large portions of his day sitting alone and reminiscing on the balcony of his two-bedroom apartment. Facing North-East, his inner eye could project a direct trajectory to Ferrara, the city that changed him; where his heart both came alive and was broken forever.

 

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Poor Pierluigi--he chose a path that later brought regrets, or at least doubts. Isn't that so very human? Now in my 70's, I certainly ponder those zigs and zags of the past that might have been altered to achieve greater happiness.
You're a very good writer, and I enjoyed this very much. Having visited Italy many times and Sicily once (Catania) I think I had a good feel for the characters and location. (I was in the US Navy)
Here are a few small errors I spotted--" must be out commitment" "I will take of you" "make goods wives" "he the blonde lady"