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Authors: Gianrico Carofiglio
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the punching bag, I mean—was Margherita and the other women I’ve loved. Three in all.
“You know, friend, what strikes me as especially sad?”
“—”
“I no longer remember the devastating feeling that I experienced, albeit differently, with Tiziana, Margherita, and Sara. I just can’t seem to remember it. I know I feltit, but I have to work to convince myself of that, because I have no memory of it. It’s gone.”
Mister Bag swung from side to side, and I understood he wanted an explanation. I probably hadn’t described it well. What did I mean when I said that I couldn’t remember that devastating feeling?
“Maybe you know that song by Fabrizio De André, ‘The Song of Lost Love.’ You remember that verse that goes, ‘Nothing’s left but a few halfhearted caresses and a little tenderness’?
“—”
“Okay, you don’t know it. Well, you might not recognize the words, but you’ve definitely heard the song. There was a time when I played it a lot. Yeah, I know, it’s a little pathetic. After all, you’re the only one I talk to about it. Anyway, I want to tell you something, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
“—”
“You’re right, sorry. No one can keep a secret like you. You know how sometimes I feel like crying?”
“—”
“Sure, I’ll tell you why. Because I actually feel the need to talk about it. I feel like crying when I realize that the memory of the women I loved doesn’t make me suffer. The worst it does is give me a sort of vague, feeble, distant sadness. It’s so nothing. It’s like a puddle of stagnant water.”
“—”
“Okay, I admit, that’s not much of a metaphor. And you’re right, I get lost in my own thoughts and don’t do a good job of explaining things. The reason I feel like crying is that everything seems drab, silent. Even my pain. My so-called emotional life is like a silent movie. I know thatyou’re not exactly the kind of guy who delves into subtleties, but I’m sad, and I feel like crying, because I can’t manage to get in touch with that sadness. That healthy sadness, the kind that makes your temples throb, that makes you feel alive. Not this flabby, miserable, soft thing. You understand?”
By this point in the conversation, Mister Bag was completely motionless. The last bit of swing from the punches he had so obligingly absorbed from his clearly unbalanced friend—me—had worn off, and he hung there, perfectly still. As if what I was telling him were so upsetting that it froze him. He was thinking, but it wasn’t his style to offer answers, opinions, or advice.
Still, believe it or not, after those conversations, so rife with psychiatric pathology—and after throwing a lot of punches, of course—I always felt better, and sometimes I even felt perfectly fine.
To tell the truth, Mister Bag is the perfect therapist. He listens and never interrupts. He never judges (at the very most, he might swing a little), and he never charges a fee. Plus, the transference problem is minimal: I feel a certain tenderness for him, but without any sexual implications. That’s why I’d never dream of replacing him. When he splits where I’ve been hitting particularly hard or insistently, I repair him with a length of duct tape. I really appreciate how it makes him look like a battle-scarred warrior, and I think that he’s grateful to me for not tossing him out and replacing him with some shiny new bag that has no significance.
I walked into the apartment, loosening my tie, and the first thing I did was put on a CD that I had burned for myselfwith twenty or so songs of all kinds. Two minutes later, I had taken off my trousers and shirt (still wearing my boxers, just to be clear), taped up my hands, and put on my gloves, and I was punching the bag.
I went for a first round of mild jabs, just a warm-up session. Light combinations of three or four punches with both hands, without follow-through. Jab, straight, left hook. Right
“You know, friend, what strikes me as especially sad?”
“—”
“I no longer remember the devastating feeling that I experienced, albeit differently, with Tiziana, Margherita, and Sara. I just can’t seem to remember it. I know I feltit, but I have to work to convince myself of that, because I have no memory of it. It’s gone.”
Mister Bag swung from side to side, and I understood he wanted an explanation. I probably hadn’t described it well. What did I mean when I said that I couldn’t remember that devastating feeling?
“Maybe you know that song by Fabrizio De André, ‘The Song of Lost Love.’ You remember that verse that goes, ‘Nothing’s left but a few halfhearted caresses and a little tenderness’?
“—”
“Okay, you don’t know it. Well, you might not recognize the words, but you’ve definitely heard the song. There was a time when I played it a lot. Yeah, I know, it’s a little pathetic. After all, you’re the only one I talk to about it. Anyway, I want to tell you something, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
“—”
“You’re right, sorry. No one can keep a secret like you. You know how sometimes I feel like crying?”
“—”
“Sure, I’ll tell you why. Because I actually feel the need to talk about it. I feel like crying when I realize that the memory of the women I loved doesn’t make me suffer. The worst it does is give me a sort of vague, feeble, distant sadness. It’s so nothing. It’s like a puddle of stagnant water.”
“—”
“Okay, I admit, that’s not much of a metaphor. And you’re right, I get lost in my own thoughts and don’t do a good job of explaining things. The reason I feel like crying is that everything seems drab, silent. Even my pain. My so-called emotional life is like a silent movie. I know thatyou’re not exactly the kind of guy who delves into subtleties, but I’m sad, and I feel like crying, because I can’t manage to get in touch with that sadness. That healthy sadness, the kind that makes your temples throb, that makes you feel alive. Not this flabby, miserable, soft thing. You understand?”
By this point in the conversation, Mister Bag was completely motionless. The last bit of swing from the punches he had so obligingly absorbed from his clearly unbalanced friend—me—had worn off, and he hung there, perfectly still. As if what I was telling him were so upsetting that it froze him. He was thinking, but it wasn’t his style to offer answers, opinions, or advice.
Still, believe it or not, after those conversations, so rife with psychiatric pathology—and after throwing a lot of punches, of course—I always felt better, and sometimes I even felt perfectly fine.
To tell the truth, Mister Bag is the perfect therapist. He listens and never interrupts. He never judges (at the very most, he might swing a little), and he never charges a fee. Plus, the transference problem is minimal: I feel a certain tenderness for him, but without any sexual implications. That’s why I’d never dream of replacing him. When he splits where I’ve been hitting particularly hard or insistently, I repair him with a length of duct tape. I really appreciate how it makes him look like a battle-scarred warrior, and I think that he’s grateful to me for not tossing him out and replacing him with some shiny new bag that has no significance.
I walked into the apartment, loosening my tie, and the first thing I did was put on a CD that I had burned for myselfwith twenty or so songs of all kinds. Two minutes later, I had taken off my trousers and shirt (still wearing my boxers, just to be clear), taped up my hands, and put on my gloves, and I was punching the bag.
I went for a first round of mild jabs, just a warm-up session. Light combinations of three or four punches with both hands, without follow-through. Jab, straight, left hook. Right
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