The Sense of an Elephant Read Online Free Page A

suitcase. Only things. He bent down to open a box, removed a note and read it against the light. The writing in pencil had faded but he could nevertheless make it out:
I killed my son
. With note in hand he stood and rocked back onto his heels, shifted onto his toes and sketched a graceful tap dance. Stopped. What remained of memory? He brought a hand under the lamp. Against the half-plastered wall he projected the shadows of his fingers, held them together and then spread them open, closed, open again. They became a dog without a tail. He had learned how to make the shadows as a young man. Now they were lopsided and a few were always missing something. He moved his index finger and thumb. The dog opened his jaw. To the animal he confided: ‘Tomorrow night at seven, I’ll follow him.’
    *
    The eyes of the witch sparkled through the confessional grille. She murmured in a Milanese accent, ‘Where’d it go, Father, the cat’s soul? And mine, where’ll it go? I have to get married soon. How can I do it with my soul so troubled, how?’
    â€˜Do you pray?’
    â€˜I write to him, to God.’
    They were silent. He heard her moving behind the grille. She drew something from her handbag, tore off a strip of paper and pulled out a pencil she had been using to keep her hair in place. Wrote on the paper and pushed it through.
    The words written on the paper were:
I have another sin to confess, God, but I can’t say it to you, only write it.
    He handed the paper back to her. ‘Do it.’
    And she wrote it with gaunt
i
s and
l
s and a portly
o
:
I killed my son
.

7
    Pietro slept poorly owing to the hard floor and the odour of mothballs that stung his nose. He woke at first light.
    The floor was frigid. He placed his feet on top of the socks there and reread the only crossword clue that he had been unable to solve, five across, three letters:
ruminant with palmate antlers
. He wrote
elk
and went into the bathroom to undress. Over the years his torso had shrunk. The hair remained dark on his slight paunch. He caressed it softly, the skin that of a newborn. Unscrewed the cap on the body wash for sensitive skin and turned on the shower, a square of floor separated by a plastic curtain. As soon as it became lukewarm he started on his legs. They were a runner’s legs. Disfiguring scars ran over his thighs and shins. He traced them with two fingers, down to his small feet, which he scrubbed. He had prominent veins and scars on his ankles as well. Poured out more body wash, soaped his face and felt the bubbles bursting on his nose. They didn’t smell like anything. He inhaled and his nostrils burned. Held one hand to his wrinkly member, grasped it and fingered the tip. Stopped and stared at that strip of flesh. Rinsed it with cold water and rinsed the cuts that crossed his chest from one side to another. His bones slid under the tortured skin that still hurt at times. He opened the plastic curtain and before stepping out looked at himself in the mirror behind the door. He was a man reddened by the hot water and by memory.
    He did the rest in a hurry. Chose a shirt and trousers and an argyle jumper that he threw over his shoulders. He had bought them in Anita’s shop the day before starting the job. He had chosen the colour, grey, she the style, and she had also made him buy an uncomfortable pair of brogues and two cardigans to alternate, because a proper concierge almost never dresses the same two days in a row. Anita had also added a tie and a bottle of cologne, which he had yet to open. Pietro pulled on the jumper, adjusted his shirt collar and went into the kitchen without stopping to look in the mirror. A colour other than black was enough to embarrass him.
    Pietro had always eaten breakfast on his feet. He set up on top of the refrigerator, with exactly two pieces of Melba toast and three squares of dark chocolate. Ate slowly, eyes on the plants awaiting the morning light. ‘You