Elisa is not afraid anymore, I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, at least, in this inferno, I think, Elisa is not afraid anymore, it’s the lull of hopelessness, I think, but Elisa is not afraid anymore, if anything she’s courageous, and it’s thanks to her courage that Elisa leaves the house every morning before dawn in her white slip, I think with my cloud of raw expiation on a leash, and walks roughly twelve kilometers, twelve kilometers, they say, more or less, and lies on the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, waiting for a train to lop her head off down the bank and into the river. Elisa, in the lull of hopelessness, is not afraid anymore, I think, and now when I get home I no longer find her frenzied sweaty shivering panting, in an abyss of terror with no way out, not one way out, no longer, no, I think, because Elisa is not afraid anymore. On the contrary, it may well be with a smile and trepidation, I think, careful to place my feet on the wooden railroad ties to protect my broken shoes, the only shoes I have, it may well be with a smile and trepidation, with a step that quickens and soars, that she covers the twelve kilometers of railway tracks to the place just past the bend and lies down and waits for a train to lop her head off down the bank and into the river, I think, Elisa is not afraid anymore, and now when I get home I no longer find her frenzied sweaty shivering panting: panic attacks can be cured, they said, can be cured easily nowadays, medicine, they said, has, in this field too, progressed in leaps and bounds, since the discovery that mental illnesses are, like other illnesses, real, since they learned all this, they said, I think. And yet, you kept finding her sitting in the tub, behind the wardrobe, crouched behind the dresser, lying on the bed, you kept finding her, when you got home, the child, one or two months old, bawling his eyes out and your wife crouched in a corner or in the tub, crouched, hands over her ears, sweaty haired and shivering, shivering all over and pale, and short of breath and certain, absolutely certain, she is about to die, pass away, dead and gone, I think, and for no reason, I think, for no apparent reason all of a sudden, terror just terror that grips your chest your throat your face, terror beyond words bigger than your wide or narrow shoulders, terror is much bigger, I think, as I walk along the dead tracks with my cloud on a leash. So we came to a decision, I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, we came to a decision, we called, we gathered, information and here we are in the States, Chicago, Illinois, and its skyscrapers and the lake immense and flat and the aboveground subway silver-colored, and the sites of the mafia, Al Capone with his baseball bat in the
Untouchables, here we are on a sort of second honeymoon, my tire incinerator left behind, I think, my incinerator left behind for the very first time left to people I trust, I think, and here we are visiting the genius, the luminary, the American in double-breasted blazer, the American with the tight tie knot, too tight, just a consultation, just a visit, a thousand dollars for a visit, and sure the dollar was plunging even then, sure, whatever, but a thousand bucks for a visit, I think as I go to get Elisa who’s waiting for a train to lop her head off down the bank and into the river, a thousand bucks, and in addition to that the plane tickets and the hotel, in addition, and the restaurants and everything else and everything else we’d have to spend, but we came to a decision, I think, when I got home and found her in the bathtub shivering and sweaty and panting and terrorized, and the child crying alone and abandoned, we came to a decision, I think, and fuck the money fuck the thousand bucks fuck Alitalia and fuck the hotel, shit, this is my honest living, me taking care of my family honestly, I think, and fuck it if I have to pay a mint to see the luminary with lord only knows how many specializations from Harvard, Oxford, and all, specializations in psychiatry neuropsychiatry psychology psychoanalysis and psychowhatchamacallit and the more the better, I think, and here he is with his too-tight tie knot and his too-white shirt like, like an American, like all Americans, I think, here he is, a one hour visit one thousand bucks, two million lire, is what I think, goddammit, and yet it’s my honest way of taking care of my family honestly, I think, as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, and he visits her heart her lungs, a machine so technological I have no idea what the fuck it is, and another one, too, and he enquires and they talk about lord only knows what, they talk, and he is very serious and discreet, very professional that luminary, he’s very professional when he talks to her and very professional when he visits her and very professional when he talks to us, and after fifty-five minutes of examining and visiting the luminary with the tight tie knot opens his mouth and talks: normally, he says with his serious face and his tie knot, normally panic disorder is very easily cured today, there are drugs that target receptors and prevent the feeling of panic from spreading to the body and brain, he says with his tie knot and his white shirt, I think on the dead tracks, a panic attack, he says, is like a water balloon, says the poet psychiatrist with the tie knot, a water balloon that crashes against a wall, he says, and the water
bang! It splashes everywhere, running through the body suddenly and it’s out of control, it’s uncontrollable, says the psychopoet, now, he says clearing his throat, somewhat proud of his masterful metaphor, now psychoanalysis can try to understand where and why that balloon was flung, however, he says, psychiatry immediately targets the spot where the balloon hits the wall, and with the use of drugs we are able to provide a sort of . . . ah . . . buffer, he says, so that the balloon doesn’t burst, I think on the dead tracks, it can’t prevent the balloon from being flung but it can prevent it from bursting when it hits the wall, he says with his too-tight tie knot, it isn’t exactly a cure, but the symptoms disappear, he says. This is what usually happens, right, I think, here we go, and yet, he continues, we are all different, for each of us the relationship between our brains, our emotions and our bodies, he says, is different, of course, says the half-assed luminary in his white shirt, that’s the beauty of life, isn’t it?, he asks and his half-assed psychophilosophy starts to piss me off, if that weren’t the case we’d be robots, he says with a smile that’s as tight as his too-tight tie knot, and it’s as if he’s faltering, turning the tables on the water balloon theory he learned by heart, it’s as if he’s turning the tables and thrashing, and thus we get to the point, he says, right, I think, we get to the point without beating around the bush, I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line to get my wife who is waiting for a train to pass and lop her head off down the bank and into the river, we get to the point, repeats the luminary, well in this case something seems to be hindering this simple process, right, I think, it’s as if something is hindering this simple process, like I didn’t know, I think, that the problem was discovering what and how to overcome this fucking resistance, he continues soberly in his double breasted blazer, strange resistances, he repeats, that overturn the effect of the medicine. Period. And he goes silent, as if this were his diagnosis, as if we had flown across the whole ocean and paid one thousand fucking dollars to hear this garbage, no way, we are not leaving here you half-assed psychowhatchamallit, I’m not leaving here until you give me something more, I don’t say anything, I don’t say a word, but I’m not leaving not even if you try kicking me out, if you think I’m getting out of this chair and going home the way I came one thousand dollars poorer plus extras, plus extras to hear you say this, you have another thing coming, firm, unyielding, I stay seated. You may wonder why, he says suddenly, right you psychoasshole, you may wonder why . . . it’s as if your wife refused to get well, there is something deep within her psyche which refuses, no refuses is too strong a word, but which in fact does not try hard enough to overcome this pathology, he says pensively, as if this pathology, these panic attacks allow her to release a force a feeling a cry that would otherwise be trapped within her . . . an accusation, it’s as if she’s accusing the world of something we are unable to interpret, he says, something we are unable to interpret, I think, an accusation, I say to myself, something we are unable to interpret, he said, I think, I think on the dead tracks, then goes on: it’s difficult to accept, I realize that, he says, but there is logic which eludes logic, he says with a certain narcissistic pride for having found such a fucking masterful psychophilosophic formula, the formula of a dickhead psychopoet luminary, logic that eludes logic, he says, logic that eludes logic, I think, logic that eludes logic, I think as we get up to leave, logic that eludes logic, and it isn’t logic that eludes logic the fact that we left the florid Italian northeast, took Iberian air flight 7314 from Marco Polo Airport in Venice, stopped over in Madrid and took off for Chicago, Illinois, flying lord only knows how many hours, standing in an endless line at the airport because the shitheads open all the gates, all the fucking gates. I mean all the gates for the American citizens, first-class citizens, I say, all the gates because everybody else can just wait around for them to pass comfortably, and when they are finally through, well then you can go to your hotel room, then, I think, while I walk along the dead tracks with my cloud on a leash, and only then can you go and spend one thousand dollars that’s right one thousand dollars not one dollar more nor one dollar less, to have someone tell you what you already know, to hear someone tell you that goddammit your wife has panic attacks and doesn’t want to get better, well thank you very much, your wife has panic attacks and doesn’t want to get better and can’t be forced to get better and there’s nothing you can do about it and that’s the way it goes and shit-faced smiles and too-tight ties and white shirts and goddammit and jesus fuckin’ christ.
Panic disorder—Recurring panic attacks, I think on the dead tracks with my cloud of abstract expiation on a leash on this muggy morning with black clouds in the distance and wind and
The Promenade by Marc Chagall and the low plunging of swallows, panic disorder, I think, careful to place my feet on the railroad ties to protect my shoes from the square pointy stones as I go to get my wife who is waiting for a train to lop her head off down the bank and into the river, certified panic disorder with a certificate and everything to take to the commissioner’s office to keep her from going to trial, panic disorder, that’s where the boy’s mother Elisa was shivering and panting and sweaty when Daniele Dalla Libera, her son, eighteen months old, presumably driven by childish curiosity, climbed the chair on the roof terrace and from there leaned dangerously over the ledge falling to the cement pavement approximately eight meters below, suffering serious injuries. On entering the house from work his father, Augusto Dalla Libera, after calling his wife repeatedly and receiving no response, hastily searched every room of the house, finding her finally in the bedroom crouched behind the dresser, shivering and panting, and pale and sweaty, terror-struck eyes fixed to the ground, questioned by the above mentioned Augusto Dalla Libera about the whereabouts of the child, the woman failed to respond, shaking her head in a gesture her husband interpreted as “I don’t know! I don’t know.” The above mentioned Augusto Dalla Libera began to search for his son Daniele, starting from the bedroom where he noticed that the patio doors of the room were open and making his way to the terrace which was furnished with a small table and two chairs immediately understood what had come to pass, and leaning over the ledge discovered the body of the child Daniele on the pavement below. Terrorized, incapable of uttering a sound, the above mentioned Augusto Della Libera flew down the stairs and soon reached the bleeding body of his child Daniele, and observing that the child was breathing faintly immediately called for help using the cell phone he had in his pocket, since—as he himself stated—he could not abandon the child’s side for even one second, and there he waited for the ambulance, I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, at the arrival of the paramedics the situation appeared immediately critical, the child was carried onto the ambulance and transported to Ca’ Foncello di Treviso Hospital, where the presence of an intracranial hematoma, which was spreading progressively, was revealed, as were wounds in various parts of the body, making the child’s conditions so critical that the idea of surgery was impossible and in fact half an hour after reaching the hospital the child Daniele Della Libera breathed his last breath, as stated in the medical report attached here. When asked how a child of only eighteen months could make his way onto a chair and over the ledge of a terrace, Mr. Augusto Dalla Libera answered: “He is was a very precocious child” (Interlandi, be careful not to make such stupid mistakes, how is it that you can’t write under dictation?, try to have some compassion for this poor man).
It’s the first time I think back on that day, I think while I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line with my cloud of raw expiation on a leash, it’s the first time I think back on that day from beginning to end, I think, I was never able to do it before, and now as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line for the millionth time and for the millionth time I go to get my wife who is waiting for a train to lop her head off down the bank and into the river I’m able to think back on that day from the very beginning, and to relive everything and think about everything, about that day. And of all the things, of that day, of all the anguish of that day, my mind goes back to the end of the interrogation, which is not an interrogation, don’t worry this is only a statement that you are required to make, something which, we know, is very painful at this sad time, very painful, but we will try to be quick, don’t worry, my mind goes back to the end of that interrogation, I think with my cloud on a leash, when I’m just about to get up and the Sicilian police chief with the mustache, the type of police officer you’d expect to find, exactly the type you’d expect to find says we’re finished, and I’m just about to get up to go nurture my pain alone, finally alone to nurture my pain, the assistant chief, two dark piercing eyes, from Padua maybe from the sound of his accent, thirty years old more or less, looks at me with dark piercing eyes and says: Was the child, at eighteen months old, able to climb onto the chair and to lean over the ledge, in your opinion?, he says, the child, eighteen months old, and he looks at me with his dark piercing eyes, just as I was about to get up and go, I was just about to go nurture my pain alone, I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, but he doesn’t catch me unprepared, he doesn’t catch me unprepared when I am doing my honest job, when I have to take care of my family honestly, yes, I say, and add: He was a very precocious child. Daniele, I think careful to place my feet on the ties of the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, my little Daniele was a very precocious child, I think, at ten months he was already walking, at eleven he knew quite a few words, Daniele, at seventeen months was potty-trained, my little Daniele was a very precocious child, I think with my cloud on a leash. That I had never seen him climb onto a chair, is what I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line and go to get my wife who is waiting for a train to lop her head off down the bank and into the river, that I had never seen him climb onto a chair, I think, never, I think as I walk along the dead tracks, I had never seen him climb onto a chair alone, I think, never, not once, I think, if I think back on the past, if I think of all the evenings all the dinners all the times, I think, I never once saw him climb onto a chair alone, I think, not one damn time did I see him climb onto a chair alone, I think, but I didn’t say that, I did my honest job, taking care of my family honestly, I think, but I never once saw him climb onto that damn chair alone, not one time once, never dammit, I never saw him once, not once climb onto a chair alone, I think as I walk along the dead tracks of the abandoned railway line, and I think about the dark piercing eyes of the assistant chief, from Padua, I think, who knew how to do his dirty job for sure, and I, not once did I see him climb onto that damn chair alone, dammit, not once, if I’d seen him even just once, I mean, just once climb onto a chair, just once I mean, but nothing, not once not once that I remember, I think, not once that I remember, I think, he was a very precocious child, I said that day, and he was a very precocious child but I, I never once saw him climb onto that damn chair, I, I think, can’t think about it, and shouldn’t have thought about it, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I never saw him climb onto a chair, I shouldn’t have thought about it, I shouldn’t have thought about it, I should never have thought about it because now it’s all I can think about that I . . . Shrieking, squalling.
