Fjords Reviews

June 28, 2018

by Hege Anita Jakobsen Lepri

It's been a long time since he woke up choking on his own heartbeat, but he still allows for that extra half-hour in the morning in case he needs to talk himself down. He's only needed it three, four times in the past year, but his alarm stays put. So most mornings Roberto locks the door of his bachelor apartment earlier than he needs to, walks quietly down two flights of stairs and out to his car. It's an old Volkswagen from the time they still made them in Germany. Good, dependable cars. There is a certain irony to him driving a people's wagon.

When there is no snow or ice to clear off the windshield, he just sits for a few minutes after turning on the ignition, savouring the certainty of having extra time. He takes off his leather gloves and rubs his hands quickly back and forth on his corduroy-covered thighs. Then he turns on the headlights and signals to the dark morning that he's on his way. The whirr of city traffic hasn't started, and for a moment he thinks he can hear his own heartbeat picking up speed.

There is really no reason to worry, though. At four twenty, the last police cars have quieted down, and the first commuters are still staring out at the predawn, drinking their inaugural coffee, planning how they'll enter into the day. Fifteen minutes earlier, and you could get caught up in the aftermath of a shooting on Shuter and River. Twenty minutes later, and you'd be part of the big pinball machine of traffic on the Don Valley Parkway, trucks lining up around you like flippers, cars shooting back and forth between lanes. Roberto knows there are freak events, but careful timing is always the best remedy. Everything is a question of timing.

As soon as he's turned right on Bayview, he pushes in the Rosetta Stone CD. This year he's dedicated himself to Brazilian Portuguese. For many months, it's been part of his morning ritual, repetitive and soothing. And slowly, without much effort, he's midway through level three. The dark, traffic-less mornings allow for that. Soon he'll have to find something new to fill the time. This is the highest level you can buy, or bootleg. Maybe a new language. He likes structure, grammar, syntax, but also the fleeting sensation of freedom when he hears his own tongue bending and genuflecting to different rules.

He's tried audiobooks, but you never know what you get. Novels have to have some kind of unpredictable twist to be published, and that leads to all kinds of trouble. And the radio is full of bad news. Someone is always waging war or blowing themselves up somewhere. And even when they don't, you know it will happen the next day, or the next. The solid ground of grammar and syntax is much to be preferred.

This week he's made it to the subjunctive, his favourite verb mode.

"Eu gostaria de fazer uma riserva," he repeats after the deep, slightly smoky female voice. The voice pulls him in; he can almost feel her perfume in the car: tropical flowers with the slight trace of cigarette smoke. For a moment, he sees himself using his Portuguese to make a reservation at some old inn in Bahía, fanning himself with his straw hat while the receptionist flips lazily through the registry. He allows himself a few seconds there before forcing his mind back to the exercise. He shouldn't go there, even in his thoughts. The border is a limit he can't cross.

The lesson is over just as he pulls into Doncaster Avenue, which means he's about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. He parks, but stays in the car. There's a pink and orange stripe to the east announcing dawn, and he watches it expand slowly until the car starts feeling cold. It's April, but spring hasn't made much headway. It snowed as late as last week.

On days like that, he slid into seasonal despair, cursing the choice he made all those years ago. Canada had been only one of the options, albeit the most readily available. His only concern had been that it was easy to access. It took him two winters to realize there was no escape route. Once in, he was trapped. Every year since, he's spent the months of purgatorial ice and snow pondering on that.

Still, April is an improvement over March. The snow banks are gone and it's light enough to see the glass door with the golden 55 decaled onto it without using his headlights. It doesn't fill him with hope or expectation, but it's something.

He gets out, brushes a few strands of lint from his pants. The seat covers are fraying and the threads cling to the corduroy. He doesn't mind old things, as long as they don't leave signs of decay around. He has no time for that. When he gets inside the door where the light is better, he checks for more lint, but finds none. He lets his hands pat his thighs a couple of times anyway, and an inadvertent stroke briefly stirs his cock from hibernation. It's returned to its sleep before he's reached the basement. It's exactly five past five when he opens the door to Cidex Research.

Steven Chang is the only person there, sitting in his usual place in the first office on the left. He barely looks up from his computer, but hands him the code chip and the records form. Chang is wearing jeans today—that's a change—and a yellow shirt that makes his face look like he never goes outdoors. Maybe he doesn't. Chang is always there before him, and he's still there when he leaves. Maybe he's got a berth in some back room. If you're hiding from something or someone, this is a good place. Chang keeps the information to a minimum. "Yoos is anumba theh-teen," he says and then adds something about punching your card.

Roberto punches his card, just as he does every morning, and by five ten, he's seated at his desk watching computer number thirteen boot. He stretches his arms and looks at his record sheet. He's relieved to see Siemens Technical Service indicated as today's client. Good, clear questions. No prying into anybody's inner life. It's past eleven in Italy and he should get a few calls in before people start taking their lunch break. He uploads today's list of names and phone numbers, and decides that he'll start by calling every business from Puglia on the list. He went there once with a group of friends, by train to Otranto, to celebrate their graduation from the Liceo. Twenty hours of unbearable heat in second class, but then the cliffs and the sea made it worth every minute. The cliffs and the sea and Elena, even though she didn't look in his direction most of the time. But that was a long time ago. He cracks his fingers one by one to prepare them for the work ahead.

The calling order is the only variable he has any control over, and he flips back and forth between different systems. Call ten, skip ten, call every two numbers, start in the middle of the alphabet with the letter L; call people with first names from specific books, Il gattopardo, I promessi sposi, the only books he knows well enough to recall every character in them. He usually has to switch systems before the day is over—either because he's reached the end of the list—or because, after a coffee break, he reverts to yesterday's system without realizing.

In Puglia it's probably already summer. The artichoke season should be at its very end and the early tomatoes getting close to harvest. He imagines the earthy smell of red soil and the prickly moistness of the tomato plants. He pinches the palm of his hand to stop that train of thought in its tracks.

The first few phone calls are the worst. The snappy secretaries, the repeated, "he's not here," "he's in a meeting," "you may try later." It's always a he that's absent, always a she that provides the excuses. After five or six calls he starts easing into his role, lowering his shoulders, leaning back in his chair as if it were his own. By ten to seven he's made forty-five calls and completed fifteen questionnaires. Tapping into the Apulian accent and the relaxed courtesy of the south is just what he needed today.

Before he knows it, it's 1 o'clock in Italy. Twenty, thirty years ago, every Italian would be getting ready for his three-course lunch, seated at table, enjoying the company of family or a friend. Roberto too. At first, almost always at his mom's kitchen table, later at the university cafeteria. Pasta or rice to start, followed by meat or fish and vegetables and then desert or fruit. Balanced, hearty meals never to be consumed alone.

Things have started slipping even in Italy. Now, every ten calls or so, he'll find someone still in the office, eating a panino at their computer, in the middle of ore pasti, the holy meal hours from one to three. Sometimes he wonders if his own mother has let go of the flowery tablecloth, the napkins, the three mandatory courses. He can't picture her without that scaffolding, even with him gone. Especially with him gone. He could call her to find out, protected behind the internet dialer of the call centre's calling system. No one could trace the call back to him, not if he limits himself to a couple of minutes. But what would he say after all these years? I was wondering what you were having for lunch?

Roberto gets up, checks that the pack of Pall Malls is still in his pocket, and pulls his jacket off the back of the office chair. He deserves a break and half a cig before moving to a new region. The room is slowly filling up around him. He recognizes a few regular call-centre workers who come here almost every night, but there are always new faces. This is a place many pass through for some extra income; a second job; a first Canadian experience. Few stay longer than they have to. No benefits, no chance of promotion.

A guy he thinks is new, three work stations down, looks up, puts two fingers to his lips as if to ask him if he's going for a smoke. He nods reluctantly. He prefers his cigarettes without small talk.

He nods to Chang as he passes by his door, but Chang is busy eating noodles out of a Styrofoam bowl and doesn't nod back. Outside the day has started. He finds his usual spot in the left corner of the landing outside the front door. The sun is up and the hum from commuters burrowing their way downtown is back on. While inhaling the first, virgin smoke, the new guy appears by his side. He's slim and not very tall, but pleasant-looking and well dressed in a European way, black fitted jeans and a well-ironed grey shirt. Spanish or Greek, probably a recent arrival.

"Can I borrow your lighter? I left mine at home. I'm Miguel." Spanish, definitely, there's something about the t's.

He hands over the lighter to Miguel without a word. It's an old Zippo. He never leaves it at home. He inhales deeply while Miguel lights up, closing his eyes as the nicotine starts to do its magic. This is as close to meditation as he gets.

Miguel isn't familiar with Zen. He is eager to talk.

"You work here long?" he asks, between short puffs off his Camel.

"Too long," Roberto answers.

"So you're not a newcomer like me?"

Miguel clearly didn't come out for the nicotine-fix. His cigarette is wasting away between his index and middle fingers. Roberto swallows twice while assessing the danger level.

"Going on seven years in this place," he says, blowing smoke in the direction of Doncaster Avenue.

Miguel looks thankful. Roberto inhales deeply while looking up in the air; Miguel is probably just who he who he says he is.

"So, seven years in Canada, eh?" he continues. "Guess you're a citizen by now, aren't you? Me, I only have a working holiday visa."

Roberto shifts his cigarette to his left hand; there's only one last puff left, and he puts it off as long has he can, savouring his own expectation. The moment before is always better, clearer and more hopeful than the actual experience.

He should go back in. But something in Miguel moves him. The openness of his face. His trust in strangers. He looks undamaged.

"I've been in this country twenty-five years. Worked as a waiter first. But I'm not a citizen."

Roberto sucks the last breath of life out of his cigarette. It tastes like shit. He drops the cigarette butt and steps on it, then picks it up and drops it in the blue metal bin.

Miguel drops his cigarette as well, half smoked. Then he copies Roberto and picks up his cigarette a bit awkwardly, as if it's his first time.

"Why didn't you apply for citizenship?" Miguel asks, the s's in citizenship still stuck in Spain.

Roberto opens the door, letting Miguel go in first.

"You never know what they pull out in the background check" he says. "Better let sleeping dogs lie."

Miguel gives him a blank stare, but doesn't manage to formulate a question before they're both inside and the thought of returning underground muffles all conversation. Roberto is relieved; he's already said too much. He should know better than to be moved by innocence and youth.

He counts the eight steps down to the double doors with the black Cidex sign. It's seven twelve when he sits down at his computer again. No one in their right mind will be responding to his calls at least these first twenty minutes. He'll fill his called but not present quota without having to talk to anyone but the occasional answering machine.

This time he starts at the top of his list: ABC Servizi in Rome. He calls the number but no one answers, just as he hoped, and there is no machine to take his message. He lets it ring twenty-five times, as is his habit, before he moves on to the next. The next eight follow the same pattern. He dials, waits, counts the twenty-five rings and then hangs up. Over and over. There's a soothing predictability to it, like waves on a beach.

It is seven thirty-three when he makes the ninth call after his first cigarette of the day. Ambrosia Industrie has a Turin address. He tries to remember where Via Mercalli might be, but his mind is blank, even if this is something he should know. Could be in one of the new industrial zones he's seen appear on Google Earth. A piece of road that didn't have a name twenty-five years ago. He leans back in his chair while he counts, and allows his headset to slide up above his ears.

Five, six, seven, eight, nine...

"Pronto." There's a man's voice on the other end.

"Twelve." His brain is frozen, but his mouth keeps counting.

"Scusi! Non ho capito." Of course he doesn't understand.

Roberto sits back up and now his mind is racing back and forth to pick up the pieces.

"Scusi Lei," Roberto says, "My name is Roberto and I'm calling from Cidex Research, there must have been some disturbance on the line, I'm really sorry. Can you hear me now?" His Italian flows well today, doesn't sound stilted or out-of-touch.

The voice on the other end sighs.

"We're not buying anything." The voice has the typical Piedmont closed vowels.

Roberto knows this game. He softens his tone, adds warmth, then says, "Don't worry, I'm not selling anything. I'm calling on behalf of Siemens as part of a quality improvement campaign. We want to know how satisfied our customers are with the services they've subscribed to. May I speak to Signor Bartolini?"

"Bartolini's retired, hasn't worked here for two years." The voice sounds relieved.

"And who would be the person now in charge of coordinating technical support, if you don't mind telling me? Just to correct our records." Roberto is improvising, stretching the conversation, even if he is certain this will be another incomplete survey.

"That would be me," the voice answers, "Why else would I be here instead of in front of a nice plate of food? I really don't have time …"

"And your name?" Roberto intercepts, fast enough to keep the momentum, but not so fast that he sounds pushy or aggressive.

The voice sighs again.

"I'm Paolo Sarti. And really, I need to go."

"Really, if you let me ask these questions, this will only take two minutes. And I won't call back again until the next campaign. You can even eat your panino while we talk."

Roberto types in the name. It has a familiar ring. Then again, Sarti is such a common last name. The voice named Paolo laughs.

"If you bring me the panino I'm in."

Now Roberto laughs.

"Last time I was there it wasn't hard to find a good piadineria. How far are you from the one in Via Varazze?"

He knows halfway through the sentence what is happening, but he still can't stop himself. The memory of the piadina caught him off-guard. He should just hang up and mark this call as incomplete.

There's a brief silence at the other end.

"So you are from Torino. I suspected that, maybe we even know each other. But you're not calling from here, are you?"

Roberto knows he needs to be careful now.

"I'm calling from Canada, but I did live in Turin once. A lifetime ago. So do you have time to answer six questions? I need to inform you that this call may be recorded for quality assurance purposes."

He is rushing through the script now, half-hoping that Paolo will change his mind.

Instead, Paolo seems to be enjoying the conversation.

"I'll answer anything if you tell me which high school you went to afterwards."

Roberto's chair makes a creaking sound, protesting the sudden shift of his body.

He doesn't answer, but goes straight to the first question.

"Are you the person who called and informed the last Siemens technician that came to your business to do maintenance on your fire alarm system?"

Through all the questions, he can feel his head thumping: Idiot, idiot, idiot.

He goes quiet after the sixth question, waiting for Paolo Sarti to speak. There is something about him.

"So, now it's your turn," he hears from the other end. "Which school did you go to? I'm guessing the Cavour."

Roberto swallows, weighing the alternatives. He could tell the truth; there must have been a few dozen Robertos with him in high school. It's a good thing he chose such a common name for himself. Or he could lie about the school he went to and be caught in some inaccuracy if they keep talking. Then again, there must be thousands of call-centre operators who lie to their interviewees every day.

He decides to go with the truth.

"Actually, I went to the Copernico. I was more into sciences than Greek."

"Isn't that funny," Paolo says. "That's where I went. My father dreamed of me doing Liceo Classico at the Cavour, but when he died my mom didn't care where I went."

Roberto swallows. He counts his own heartbeat, but loses track and has to start over.

"So who were your teachers?" Paolo said.

Roberto knows he should just hang up. Instead he says, "I had Andreini in math."

"Andreini, he was there forever, but retired before my time" Paolo says. "I guess you went a few years before me."

Roberto sighs, but his mouth keeps talking, "Maybe more than a few, it's like it happened a hundred years ago."

His heartbeat has moved to his ears. He takes the headset off to avoid another trigger question. There is a still slight murmur from the headphones.

"But thank you so much for your help, and have a good day," he says into the microphone on the desk in front of him before he hangs up.

His right eyelid has started to twitch. He closes his eyes to calm it. Memories of him in that classroom at the Copernico are gathering like flies. He should leave, but it's only eight o'clock and he has to pay his rent.

He tries to steady himself by looking at the monitor, but other names are humming in his head, wedging themselves in between the ones on the screen. Andrea, the name that used to be his; Francesco at the desk next to him. Elena behind them. The smell of mold in the winter months. The puffy eighties' sweaters, Elena's Palestine scarf. The love of chemistry and the crush on the substitute Latin teacher.

Memories were sticky, one bit clung to the next like gum. He hadn't thought about the Latin teacher for more than twenty years, and here she was, stuck in the pile of images his brain still held on to. She had been blonde and pretty and dressed conservatively, and all her allure was lost as soon as he fell in love with Elena. He swapped blonde for red, unobtainable for absolutely impossible, and suffered through his last months at the Copernico without saying a word about it to anyone.

Then university and Elena's pulling away from them, Houdini-ing herself out of anything they proposed. Hanging out with people she never introduced them to. Until he caught her in the library months later. Finally coughed up the courage to tell her. And she kissed him hard, but never said she loved him back.

Politics had entered the relationship that first summer. Soon Francesco and Andrea were part of her new universe of ideas, where only action would lead to reaction, and only by tearing down could you build up something new and better. She was radiant when she talked, glowing with passion. Like one of Caravaggio's women come alive.

Roberto looks around the room. In this light, everybody looks like zombies. This place squeezes the life-blood out of people. Elena would have lit up the whole building, set fire to it. She did that. Revitalized people. Made them do things they didn't think they were capable of. Sometimes nothing but ashes remained.

The time from the kiss to the blast felt like a moment. A moment dressed as a lifetime. He'd been so happy, so focused. On her. He never saw the breakneck speed they were moving at. Never saw the wrong turns. Elena was part of the inner circles, knew things she couldn't share, but he trusted her. If he had looked around, he would have seen that they were pulled in when others were leaving. In 1984, the movement was already an anachronism.

The bomb had been her idea. By then they'd been together more than a year. He and Francesco had been eager to prove they were worthy of her trust, ready for the inner circles. He had worked on the chemistry and balancing the impact, Francesco on the timing device. Long hours, reading and testing. They were good. If it had been a school project, they would have received top grades.

Roberto looks at his client list. Suddenly he's forgotten what system he's on. He has no idea what he's supposed to do next. He closes his eyes, trying to gather himself. There's a flicker across his brain, like a lanterna magica gone rogue. For years he's avoided going back to that time. He's fumbling.

There was no sense to what happened later. They needed to test the bomb, to make sure they'd got it right, they didn't want anyone to get hurt, so the impact had to be precise. The device was small, smaller than the one they intended to build later. And they'd found an empty lot, too filthy to attract anyone but drug addicts, and they'd only come at night. The test took place early in the morning.

None of them heard it go off. Francesco had gone to take a leak before activating it, and Andrea, who was still Andrea, was busy making love to Elena, who in turn was making love to a future of impactful political action. For how long did they lose focus on the device? Five minutes. Or more? Sex always seemed to last longer and be more important than was the case.

They realized something was wrong when some of the trash around the bomb had been blown to small pieces and lay scattered like swarms of dead insects on the grass around the test site. When they came closer, blood had been thrown around like confetti, and on the ground, one ear of the German shepherd that Professor Sarti was walking at the time of the explosion. They didn't look any further.

Francesco had to stop and throw up three times while they were running away. Andrea had tremors like an old alcoholic, wondering when the delirium would pass. As he ran, he counted: broken beer bottles, fallen pine cones, sullen birds.

Later, Elena, beautiful but frozen, said, "We need to split. In a war on Capitalism there will be casualties. So we need to keep calm and prevent anyone taking notice of us."

He'd kept thinking of the torn ear of the German shepherd, remembering Elena's tongue in his own ear, only a short while before.

"Are you OK? You look a bit pale."

It's Miguel.

Roberto becomes irritated.

"I just haven't eaten anything this morning"

Miguel smiles, "I've got an extra snack."

Happy to help. Too happy to help.

Miguel hands him a bag of opera mints. He accepts with a nod, and tears the bag open. His blood sugar probably is too low. The bag rips and six or seven mints land loudly on his desk. He puts two in his mouth and sucks. Opera mints—something he never buys, but they're really quite good. He smiles to Miguel as he hands him the bag.

"Thank you, you're a life saver."

He takes the third mint and starts wondering why they're called opera mints. Good thoughts. Safe thoughts. They're certainly too hard and loud to be eaten at the opera without bothering people. The right corner of his mouth pulls up to a half-smile.

Then, from the foggy landscape of his mind, another sticky image is pulled from the pile. A newspaper clipping he had held on to for a few days.

Professor Sarti was an outstanding professor of Classic studies, an enthusiastic hiker and an opera lover. He leaves behind his wife Livia and a young son...

can't remember the son's name. It was a common name, something that didn't stand out. He is grateful for that blank spot in his memory. But the smell of old newspaper and sweat suddenly overwhelms him, even if he burned the obituary long ago. He swallows again, but everything is stuck, every passageway blocked.

The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Twenty-five, thirty steps max. Roberto almost makes it there. If he had chosen better shoes that morning, he could have made a run for it. Instead, he's wearing Italian shoes that are slippery on the linoleum. His stomach contents land right in front of the door.

Afterwards he feels better. He couldn't have planned for this; there is no one to blame for today. He cleans up his own mess in long, careful strokes with the mop, cautiously removing every sign of what happened before returning to his desk.

Hege Anita Jakobsen Lepri is a Toronto-based translator and writer. In a previous life, she was a manager of EU projects in Tuscany. Before that, she was a sociologist in Norway. Back then she wrote poetry and erotica in Norwegian. She returned to writing in 2011, after a very, very long break. Her writing has since been longlisted for Prism International nonfiction prize and nominated for the journey prize. Her writing has been published (or is forthcoming) in J Journal, Saint Katherine Review, Monarch Review, Citron Review, Sycamore Review, subTerrain Magazine, Broken Pencil, Agnes and True, Forge Literary Magazine, Grain Magazine, Typehouse Literary Magazine, The New Quarterly and elsewhere.