P.O. Box Love: A Novel of Letters by Paola Calvetti

Author:Paola Calvetti [Calvetti, Paola]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

The antiques dealer is on my side. Filippo Borghetti is a refined homosexual, at peace with himself after marrying at twenty and divorcing at twenty-five; he now forms a happy couple with Gaston, a forty-year-old whose name has a Disney ring to it. Gaston says his mode of dress is “inspired by Marcel Proust,” who actually loved haute couture, while Filippo wears crumpled, unmatched jackets and trousers that he inherited from his father, and boasts a collection of bow ties and foulards to wind around his neck. Each day a different bow tie, depending on his mood or the season. Filippo and Gaston are at ease among things from the past. One is an intuitive type who is perceptive about feelings; the other is familiar with rage and reverence, so when I explained my concern, they understood me.

“We deal only with small pieces, Emma. We don’t use trucks and vans, but we agree with you. Let’s meet this evening. A neighborhood gathering over an aperitif sounds exciting.”

It’s evening. I prepare a stimulating pitcher of tomato juice seasoned with lemon, salt, Tabasco sauce, and peppercorns; I lower the shutters, while Alice and Manuele rush off. Young people, you know, think only of themselves, and those two are still in the infatuation phase. Plus, they were born and raised around car traffic and don’t understand that heels are an issue.

“You’d be better off switching to sneakers, or maybe you can pull your Supergas out of your shoe closet,” Alice pronounced this morning when I invited her to the secret “Carbonaro” meeting. The problem is that you can’t walk in Piazza Sant’Alessandro anymore, in front of Dreams & Desires. You toddle along, forced to zigzag and stagger in frustration. I, who would rather die than take off my heels, have a height complex, but I’m not the only one, and my customers are no exception. To get to the bookshop, they have to navigate through a tricky obstacle course. The sidewalk is narrow, you have to say “excuse me” to get by, and if you lose your footing, your heel gets wedged. Scooters and cars, parked in the middle of this out-of-the-way piazza, are an open sore: painted tin relics left to languish at a forty-five-degree angle, head-to-head in a double row, which indulgently also includes a bike or two. This morning, in what should be a small island devoted to pedestrians, I counted ninety-seven motorcycles and six cars.

It’s time to put a stop to it.

The battle against motorized vehicles can no longer be put off.

The harm lies in ignoring it, in itself is a general sign of indifference, but taking a stand against cars and motorcycles isn’t enough. You have to use your imagination. Without succumbing to postcard picturesqueness and the hopeless search for bygone times, it’s possible to envision the square empty: the two small cafés with their mauve-red awnings (which pose no competition to me), the tobacconist, Piero’s butcher shop, and Borghetti’s lighted windows.

Maria, a third-generation dry cleaner, comes into

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