The Silence of the Wave Read Online Free

coming here.”
    The tone was neutral and it wasn’t clear if the doctor was asking him a question or simply making an observation.
    “I see you’re in a good mood today. I’m pleased.”
    How does he know that? I was just sitting here, I only said a few words when I stood up, and I didn’t even smile.
    “Sit down. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    The few minutes passed slowly. On the wall of the doctor’s office, the wall Roberto always had his back to during the sessions, was a framed poster: a black-and-white photograph of Louis Armstrong laughing, with his trumpet in his hand, his arm hanging down by his side. The caption at the bottom said:
If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know
. Roberto wondered if the poster was new, or if it had always been there since he started coming.
    “Is there a reason you got here early today?”
    “No, I don’t think so. Or rather, maybe there is a reason but I don’t know what it is. I suppose there’s a reason for everything.”
    “Not necessarily. Some things are pure chance.”
    He said this with a smile. Roberto thought it seemed almost a knowing smile, as if there were something else which there was no need to add because both of them already knew it.
    “How are you today?”
    “Fine.” The sound of the word, as he uttered it, struck him as unusual, as if it had a new meaning.
    “Well, better, anyway. For the last few nights I’ve been sleeping at least six hours, maybe even longer, and in the last two days I’ve smoked only five cigarettes in all. I’m still walking a lot and … Oh, I forgot to tell you before: I’ve started exercising again.”
    “That sounds like excellent news. What kind of exercise?”
    “Nothing special. A few push-ups, a few weights.”
    Then, without knowing why, he asked the doctor if he played any sports.
    “Karate, ever since I was at university. I started because of this fellow who broke my nose in a stupid argument after my car bumped into his. I wanted to learn how to use my fists.”
    Roberto was surprised at this unexpected confidence.
    “And did you learn?”
    “To use my fists?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t know. I’ve never gotten into any fights with anyone. I imagine you can use yours.”
    He shrugged. Sometimes he’d used his fists, and sometimes, as a boy, he’d been at the receiving end of other people’s. As a carabiniere, he had been involved in some fairly lively arrests, and sometimes at the station it had been necessary to calm down a suspect who wasa bit too boisterous. Sometimes, too, it had been necessary to persuade someone to spill the beans without wasting a lot of time. He could clearly remember the face of a young man they had caught with some bags of heroin. He said he didn’t know the name of the person who had given them to him and so he received a few slaps. Maybe a few too many. After a while he started sobbing. I didn’t do anything wrong, he kept repeating. Roberto remembered the young man’s face as he wept, and he felt a sudden, violent spasm of shame, as if for some unspeakably cowardly act.
    “Before we continue, I wanted to tell you something.”
    “Yes?” Roberto said.
    “You’re getting better, we both know that. In a while we’ll be able to start reducing the dosage of your medication. But don’t do anything on your own. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
    “Actually I’d been thinking about that. Reducing the doses, I mean. Couldn’t we—?”
    “In a while. And you shouldn’t worry about becoming addicted to the medication. There’s no danger of that.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re afraid of becoming addicted, and that’s the best kind of prevention there is.”
    He explained that the people who really ran the risk of becoming addicted to something—anything—werethose who were convinced they could control the situation and stop whenever they wanted, whether it was drinking, smoking, taking drugs, or gambling.
    Roberto thought suddenly about