The Typewriter

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER II

THE ACCIDENT AT WORK

The end of July. It was hot on the construction site. Too hot. Sparkling drops of sweat gathered in rivulets and then ran down the bronzed backs of the workers, and on their foreheads. From there they slid into the eyes, and burned, and blurred the sight.

The lunch break had just ended: a sandwich and a beer eaten in the shade of the prefabricated concrete pipes that conveyed a faint and illusory sense of freshness. The air was still, although there were busy men everywhere, and the occasional sputter of the jackhammer broke an almost unnatural silence.

Franco Amore was the technical consultant of a company that installed fixtures and his life flowed along the tracks of tranquility, without too many hills or easy descents. He had a young wife with whom he could still make plans and two children to play with; he believed in goodness and love, in the power of dreams and fantasy. For him they were something special, he was convinced that love is the only thing that makes a man truly free, that allows him to be himself and live his passions. And he had one passion above all: running. He loved running barefoot on sand and grass, because the contact with the soft ground gave him the feeling of being part of that world, sometimes incomprehensible, that revolved around him. The scent of salty air or wet grass, breathed in the early morning, were at least as intoxicating for him as a good glass of wine in the company of friends.

As happened every day Franco was on the scaffolding, checking that the work was proceeding according to the directives they’d been given, but that afternoon he perceived something strange in the air: the scorching sun seemed to have overly dried out the boards that were dirty with concrete; the rusty steel pipes of the scaffolding, held together by shiny brass bolts, were much hotter than usual.

Just a few more days, and I'll be at the seaside at last. I feel a little different than usual, but it must be because of this terrible heat. I have to keep going a little longer, he was thinking to encourage himself, but a moment after he had made this reflection he had a dizzy spell. He misplaced a foot and fell off the scaffolding.

***

"Did you get everything?" Franco asked the eldest of his children as he helped them load their suitcases into the car.

"Don't worry," his wife Silvia intervened, pre-empting the little boy, "we’ve checked everything at least ten times. Everything’s fine, we can start the count-down..."

"So why do you keep wasting time? I don't want you to be still on the road when it gets dark!" Franco scolded her. She looked away and sighed.

"We’re dragging it out because we don't like leaving you here alone, we’re convinced that you will be bored to death," she explained a little worried as the children nodded.

"What do you mean bored, you can be sure that I’ll think of something to do! And besides, I intend to take advantage of these days to rest, it has been really hard at work lately," he replied, but noticed that his answer had not convinced them at all. Then he pulled a fishing net out of the trunk and mimed the walk of an old man with a stick. "Somehow I'll get by, even if I'm resting, I’m not ready for a retirement home yet," he concluded, and finally his children laughed. "Come on now, get in the car and go!"

"Look after yourself, and don't overdo it, remember what the doctor told you," Sissi told him for the umpteenth time.

"Don't worry. As soon as they give me the results of the tests I’ll jump on the first train and join you."

"Are you really going to come?" asked Giorgio, the youngest son.

"Of course I’ll come! Try to have fun and don't make mom angry, and above all don't worry about me," Franco replied. Then he said to his wife. "You be good too, try not to make too many conquests at the seaside. Drive carefully and call me as soon as you arrive."

A kiss through the car window, a wink and off they went. After watching them to the bend in the road, Franco went inside.

So, let's see: there’s food and drink, books and newspapers as well. The fridge is well stocked and the batteries in the remote control are brand new... I should be fine for a while. After all, being alone every now and then does you good, and heaven knows when it will happen to me again, Franco told himself convinced, striving to find the positive aspect of the situation.

But despite all his good intentions, he no longer remembered what it was like to spend an entire day without exchanging a single word with someone. And even though he didn't dare confess it, it scared him a little.

In fact, just as he had feared, after only two days he began to feel bored. He was tired of reading magazines and had had his fill of television, he was an active man and was not used to sitting still, especially if someone or something had forced him to.

More than once he was tempted to put on a tank top and shorts and go for a jog, but the doctors had definitely advised him against it and he decided against it, albeit reluctantly.

He tried a series of phone calls to friends, but these all failed because in the middle of summer the city had turned into a large desert, and as a result loneliness began to get him down.

One evening, after another whole day spent dozing in front of the TV, he went down to the cellar and turned it upside down, looking for something to help him pass some time.

Suddenly he noticed a typewriter half-hidden in a corner of a low shelf behind a pile of useless things, and covered with a purple velvet cloth. It was all dusty and was so old that the letters on the keys were now almost completely worn away.

Ancient as it is, it must have some value. Who knows how it ended up in this cellar, maybe it was already here when we bought the house ... I wonder if it still works.

Happy to have finally found something almost interesting to keep him busy, the following day Franco dismantled the machine and spent the day cleaning, polishing and oiling it. When he had finished reassembling it, he took two steps back to better admire the result of his work. It's really beautiful, it has the feel of ancient things, he thought satisfied.

He imagined a writer sitting at his desk in a house high on the cliff overlooking the sea, or perhaps a lonely lighthouse planted on a rock in the middle of the sea, cormorants and the light of a candle, the sound of the undertow.

Goodness knows what amazing stories they wrote with this thing. Now that it’s like new again all I have to do is try it out, and luckily I’ve also found the ink ribbons in good condition. He slipped a blank sheet of paper into it and checked that all the keys worked. Satisfied with the result, he lit a cigarette and took a can of beer from the fridge, then went to lie down on the balcony on a camp bed.

I did a really good job, but unfortunately that’s the end of the fun. I'll have to come up with something else quickly to pass the time, otherwise I run the risk of going moldy, he pondered, almost worried, as he enjoyed the cool of the evening.

Through the rust-dotted bars of the railing he watched the children down in the gardens, running around in a competition to catch fireflies. He let his gaze run over the buildings, on the dark windows, on the fleeting shadow of some bat. Finally he stared at the starry sky as the song of the crickets rose to him, along with the scent of freshly blossomed roses.

What can I do? I don’t sleep much now, and the days are becoming more and more interminable. I'll think about it tomorrow, now it's time to sleep.

In the wake of his reflections he went back inside, headed for the bedroom, and as he went through the living room he passed the desk where he had put the typewriter on display. He stopped.

***

"Damn, what the hell is happening now?" the fireman shouted into the two-way radio, leaning over to look at his colleagues down below. The ladder had stopped suddenly and had swayed violently; if he hadn’t been wearing his safety harness he would have been bounced down by the recoil.

"We have a problem... the safety belt is spinning around in circles because a pulley has come loose, so I need a few minutes to pull it in and tighten a couple of nuts," a garbled voice replied in the crackling of the radio.

"A few minutes? I don't have a few minutes, damn it! If I don't get to him right away, that man will let himself fall. He has a crazed look and has just screamed like a madman to send me away, I don’t think he gives a damn if he falls. Get a move on, and in the meantime get the tarpaulin ready!"

"The tarpaulin isn’t here! You sent it for maintenance yesterday, remember?" replies the voice from the radio a few moments later.

"And no one thought of putting the spare one on the vehicle?" the crew leader asks incredulously, leaning even further from the ladder, so he could see into the compartment that usually housed the tarpaulin.

"Apparently not. You know, there is always some confusion during the holiday period," the voice murmurs embarrassed into the radio, on the receiving end of another expletive from the firefighter. He looks back at the man who is sliding inexorably downwards along the bars of the railing; his hands are sweating in contact with the metal and he is struggling to maintain his grip.

"Hey," he shouts, and Franco turns distractedly to look at him.

"Hey, man! Don't let go. Do you understand? Don’t give up, please. I'll be with you soon, you just have to hold on a little longer. Hold on a little longer!" he repeats, but Franco doesn't even listen to him. He replies with a vague and incomprehensible smile, then goes back to staring at the typewriter and the pile of typewritten papers stacked beside it, the overflowing ashtray and the chair turned with the back towards the desk.

It all started that evening, when I sat down at that damn desk, he starts remembering again, as he unwittingly clasps his hands tightly around the slippery railing so as not to fall.

Yes, there is no other explanation: the machine is cursed.... and it's too late now... the punishment....