Dreaming of Anna

A widower's lament on the world he had and on the one that was promised to come and never did.

The old man would wake up to go to the bathroom several times a night. Shuffling down the corridor, his slippers made a swishing, clopping sound. The apartment was cold in winter, and even though he never ventured out of bed without his robe, by the time he dragged himself back to bed, he shivered like a leaf in the wind. The nights were long drawn affairs. Waking up almost every hour from the moment he lay down to the moment he got up, he felt exhausted.

The old man's dreams were strange. He often dreamed of his late wife, Anna. She would appear to him several times a week, and often behave as if she was still alive. Typically, she would stand next to the kitchen door, asking him what he wanted for lunch. They would have a conversation about whether he preferred artichokes to courgettes, and discussed what to do about the ever increasing forms of oppression in a capitalist and authoritarian statist system. The only unusual detail about these incidents was that Anna always ended the meetings by serving him his favourite espresso, no matter what time of the day it was. As well as at night, she would also appear while he was watching daytime TV. Sitting in his favourite armchair covered by his cosy fleece blanket, he'd be cursing at the corrupt politicians on screen and there she would materialise, watching him from the living room door with a coffee cup in her hand.

'Anna?' he would say in a whisper, and just like that, they would restart the previous conversation as if no time had elapsed.

Twice a month, the old man's housekeeper came to clean the house. Every time she’d start by complaining about the stale smell in the kitchen and would open all the windows even in the middle of winter.  Anna had always kept everything spic and span, but after she died, it seemed impossible to keep up with the work the flat demanded. Newspapers accumulated on the floor, dishes in the sink, and grime in the bath. The floors were a particular problem, though the old man’s poor sight helped him not notice.

After finishing, the cleaner would spend some time drilling him about the necessity of establishing good habits, such as keeping things clean every day, or opening the windows regularly. The old man would nod vigorously but never follow through. He only wanted to talk about his encounters with Anna. What did she think, he wanted to know. She always kept neutral about it, mentioning that some people believed seeing spirits was a sign of imminent death, but she couldn't decide whether she'd agree or not. These conversations frustrated him. The housekeeper probably thought he was going crazy and circumvented the subject by inserting irrelevant details. But why should he care about her opinion? Nobody knows anybody really, and he had nothing to prove to anyone anymore. That's one good thing growing old does.

—-

Most days, the old man went about his day indulging in familiar routines. Six am start, some light exercise, shower and breakfast by eight. Then it was time to sort out the recycling. Blue bags for paper and cans, white ones for glass and black ones for plain garbage. He would take extra care to check twice whether the plastic containers were properly sorted before disposing of them in the outside bins. 'Do things properly or don't do them at all!' his mother had taught him, and he'd passed that onto his own children (though he doubted his daughter had taken that on board).

Today, like every day, he had gone down to the apartment complex entrance hall with his blue, white, and black bags ready to dispose of them in the appropriate bins outside. But when he lifted one of the bins’ lids, he found, to his dismay, a perfectly good glass jar in the plain garbage container. Then he discovered that someone hadn't taken the time to clean a spreadable cheese container before chucking it into the plastic recycling bin. Outrageous! Why were people so blase? Why did they act as if this wasn’t their planet? Were they not told at school to be decent, to do the right thing, to take care of the very environment that sustained them? Scanning left and right, he checked whether he could catch the culprit on the act, but it was too late: the street was deserted. Seething, he started down the road towards Cesare's bar, determined to vent. As soon as he got there, Sandra, the cashier, nodded to him and placed a 'Gazzetta Dello Sport' in his hand. He took it and proceeded towards the bar counter to get his coffee.

'Hey Alfredo, how are you doing?' Cesare asked him, like every morning.

'How am I doing? Not well Cesare, not well!'

'Why, are you sick or something?'

'No, not sick, just sick of this world I am! Sick of people that don't care about civic duty! Sick of people that ruin it for everybody else!'

Cesare knew where this would lead and tried to stop the tirade before it started.

'You are right Alfredo, but what can you do? That's just how the world is…'

'Eh, too easy! If everyone thought like that, what would happen? We can't just laze about and do nothing! They prance around in their polluting cars, bought with taxpayer money, showing off this and that, throwing away perfectly good stuff and not bothering to recycle their waste properly and who pays for all that? We pay!'

'Yeah.' Cesare replied with a weary sigh and handed him an espresso. Then, before the old man had time to start again, he tried to steer the conversation elsewhere,

'Did you see how Abraham smashed Lazio last night in the Derby della Capitale? Three nil for Roma!'

'Of course I did, but he's English, so it doesn't count.'

It was not a good day when the old man wouldn't jump into a fervent discussion about the latest Roma soccer game. Instead, he retired to one of the small tables outside the bar and immersed himself in the newspaper. He better distract himself from the great sadness of seeing his beloved city sink so low. He remembered when he had bought his flat in Monte Sacro, when it was called ‘La citta’ giardino’, the garden city, because each tenement, each villa was surrounded by nature. He had done his best to be part of the community, joining cooperatives that helped the needy. Wasn’t that the point of living here? Building a new, fairer future for everyone? But look at the site now. Graffiti everywhere, rubbish in the street, big ugly flats and hardly any greenery at all. Better forget about it completely, or his day would be spoiled. 

First, he buried himself in the latest sport news, and then he completed the crosswords. Cesare left him alone, and so did everyone else. It was eleven o'clock when the church bells signalled it was time to get going. On a sunny day like this, it would be a shame not to go to the market to get some groceries for lunch.

Having calmed down somewhat, he waved goodbye to Cesare and some locals, and started on his walk. On the way to the square, he crossed the churchyard, where Anna used to pick up pine cones on her daily walks. She loved extracting pine nuts, adding them later to her homemade pesto. Sometimes the priest would invite her into the church for a quick chat. She was catholic and would gladly go in, often lighting up a candle for a coin. The old man didn't share her faith and positively hated churches and anything religious. Sod those silly priests in their funeral garb with their lies about Jesus and the saints and all that nonsense about sin! They filled people's heads with garbage and robbed them blind. They had fooled Anna, and they had fooled his own mother, blessed be her soul, but they wouldn’t fool him. Nothing like a priest pontificating about sticking to marriage for the sake of appearances, even when the husband beats his wife regularly! She should have left his drunken father the first time it happened, instead, she endured every blow, every injustice, every abuse for years until his eventual demise, because that’s what a good Christian wife does. 

By the time the old man arrived at the market square, the vendors were deep in shouting matches with each other, declaring their veggies fresher or their fruit more beautiful than their competitors’. There was a cacophony of ‘Frutta bella!’ and ‘Pesce fresco!’ mixing with stroppy children and mothers trying to get the shopping done without major incidents. Why did people feel the need to fill the space with their loud voice? Why try to steal business from one another? Couldn’t they just be quiet, show off their goods, and trust the customer would choose what was best for them? Wouldn’t it be better if everyone enjoyed a peaceful shopping experience without the drama? It was all so unnecessary. Impossible to recognise this chaotic mess from the vibrant yet civilised square the original architect must have envisaged when building it. The mayor had cut a big purple ribbon to the sound of a horn band to celebrate the opportunity it symbolised for a growing, tight-knit community. 

The bread man was staring at him, waiting for his order. 

'A kg of rosette, and two ciabattine' Alfredo said, coming back to the present.

'A kg of rosette, and two ciabattine' the man repeated, shoving everything into a paper bag in record time. 

'Three Euros fifty' he said, distractedly opening his palm to receive the money.

'Three Euros fifty?' That's a robbery!'

'That's what it costs, mate,' the man responded, defiant.

The old man took the bread and paid the vendor, taking care to display his full disgust. How could people be so greedy and rude? How could honest working men afford such high prices on the pitiful salaries they earned nowadays? Even his pension was just enough to cover his expenses, and he had served decades for the government as a train conductor! This was not a good day. He should just go home as quickly as possible.  But first he grabbed some mortadella, milk, cheese, red wine and some veggies. 

By the time the old man arrived home, it was time to sort out lunch. A salad, some of that expensive bread (damn it!), a glass of wine. But he wasn't hungry. All of that effort had been for nothing. He skipped lunch and sunk in his favourite armchair to take a nap. He imagined telling Anna about what had happened. If only she knew how much mortadella cost these days! He remembered how little groceries used to be before the advent of the euro. And how naive and hopeful he and Anna had been when they had first joined the socialist party. The usual big dreams of youth no doubt. Surely she would agree with him that the world was falling apart. 

The walk had tired him, and despite his empty belly, Alfredo fell asleep within five minutes of sitting down. But he didn't dream of Anna. No, this dream was about him wanting to buy some cigarettes at Cesare's, but the cashier wasn't Sandra. She was new and kept on screwing up his order. A young girl just out of school, she would punch the price wrong on the till, sometimes charging him twice, sometimes just staring at him in silence with a dumb smile. Every time this happened, his frustration would increase. Her face and demeanour simply infuriated him. He had never liked Sandra much, but this girl was the pits.

When he finally opened his eyes with a start, he noticed his heart was beating faster than it should. He felt agitated, angry. And yet the confusion of waking up somewhere other than his bed in the middle of the afternoon made him stop and stare at the living room peeling wallpaper, wondering why he was upset about not being able to buy cigarettes when he had quit twenty years prior. Resolving to take his time to regain some composure, he waited for his heart rate to stabilise. Then the grandfather clock struck four times, and he noticed the weather had changed. It was raining outside. Large dollops of water were hitting the shutters with some force.

Rain always made the old man feel melancholic. It was as if the greyness of the sky transformed everyday objects into elusive memories he couldn't quite grasp. Once he got started on that path, it was a slippery slope to reminiscing about when Anna was still alive and the days of their exquisite youth together. Then he'd have to distract himself or he would end up regretting falling into that particular rabbit hole.

Yesterday's crosswords lay abandoned on the coffee table. Maybe he could work on that. But if he tried to finish it now, by the time he reached the end, his eyesight would worsen and he wouldn't be able to read his book before bed. It was also too early to start dinner. Maybe he could phone his daughter. He needed to hear a kind, familiar voice.

The phone rang ten times and then the voicemail kicked in. Sorry I can't take your call… Why the hell does she have a mobile if she never answers it?, he thought. There was no point in leaving a message. What would he say? 'I was bored and wanted something to do, but you're too busy to talk to your old man…'. Scowling, he rolled his eyes, but just then the phone rang and startled him. It was her.

'Hello?'

'Dad, are you ok?' her voice sounded agitated.

'Yes, why wouldn't I be?'

'I saw an unanswered call and got worried.'

'Oh. I'm fine. I probably just pocket dialled you. Sorry to disturb you' His tone sounded cold.

'It's ok, I was just trying to get the kids some snacks so they don't run around killing each other. The boiler broke this morning, and it's pure chaos. They wouldn't give me the day off to call a plumber and I won't get my salary until the end of the month and you know what it's like to survive on one parent's income…'

There you go. Here comes the lament. He had heard it all before. But if she needed money, why couldn't she just come out and say it? No, she had to go on and on about how hard her life was. And did she care about his life? He and Anna had spent plenty of time on peanuts raising a family right after the war... And did she bother to come visit? Maybe once a month for an hour if he was lucky. But he shouldn't care. Let her go on talking. Holding the phone at a distance, he stood there without listening until it went silent. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, he said,

'Look, I am busy now Elena, I've got to go,' and without waiting for an answer, he hung up.

Talking to Elena always seemed to disconcert him. Every effort at getting close to her ended up in the opposite result. It would have been easier to exchange a few words with a stranger at a bus stop than enjoying a conversation with her. She had never been straightforward with him, but after Anna died, the gulf between them had grown wider and he didn't seem to know how to cross it. Sure, a few times he had tried to breach the topic with her, but somehow the words would dry up before they reached his lips. Instead, he'd feel irritation, and an irrational desire to be short with her. 

But enough of these thoughts. He should keep busy. No use in wallowing. Instead, he should water the plants on the balcony. Anna always took care of her plants. Once, during a dry spell in August, he almost killed them all by forgetting to water them! Afterwards, he should take care of the house bills. Make sure he looked at his latest bank statement and compiled a list of his expenses to be compared to his monthly income. Forget about that and you might find yourself homeless on the street. By the time that was done, it'd be time for dinner. He would have veggie soup. He would boil all the veggies and then mix them with some stock. Maybe add some of the bread from the market with some cheese and mortadella, and to top it off, wash it down with a glass of hearty red wine. After the dishes, he could settle down to watch a movie. Switch off for a bit.

—--

By ten pm, the movie had finished. It was a silly Italian comedy about the divide between north and south. Cheap jokes at the expense of both parties with minimal chuckles. Certainly nothing to write home about. He felt disappointed. Why did they waste everybody's time and money making mediocre films? You'd think serious directors would know better than to pander to the lowest common denominator. They chased easy fame like everyone else… Hardly a surprise in a country full of lazy people who only care about themselves! Wherever you turned, you'd find a bunch of criminals who'd sell their own mother to gain more money and power! Full of recrimination, the old man tried to rise from his armchair, but almost toppled to the floor when he discovered one of his legs had fallen asleep. It would take a good couple of minutes to revive it enough to walk back into the kitchen for his pre-bed evening ritual.

When he finally made it to the kitchen, still reeling and seething, he went directly to the sink where his teacup had been sitting since morning. It was Anna's favourite, part of a fine set of china, complete with teapot and mini milk jar that he had gifted her for their tenth anniversary. He now used it to the exclusion of all others. Cleaning it with care, he rinsed it well before pouring hot water in it, together with a chamomile tea bag and a generous dollop of honey. This was his treat at the end of often tiring and upsetting days. He would savour the tea slowly, feeling the warmth of the sweet liquid calm his nervous system. But the real kicker was watching his fingers caress the cup's golden rim before he'd allow himself to guide it to his lips. That gesture never failed to bring him back to her. It was she who had a habit of running her finger over the rim several times before drinking her tea… He still remembered the first time he'd handed Anna the tea set, and she'd received it with a sonorous 'You shouldn't have! Who knows how much money it cost!' The memory always brought a smile to his face, followed by a little tear.

As the old man lay in bed, after neatly folding his clothes on the chair, he prayed for a dream of Anna. Tucked warmly in the white cotton sheets she used to iron religiously, he looked at the pillow where she used to lie, imagining her black curls spread all over it, like the mane of a wild horse. Nothing had changed in the bedroom since she had gone. Her earrings and her wedding band still lay on the bedside table where she'd keep them for the night. And the deep mahogany dresser still towered before the bed, its curved mirror reflecting his own image back to him. Every night before bed, he visualised her laying beside him, wearing her white Dreanightdress and smiling. In those moments, he felt like everything was all right with the world. Then, before the image could fade, he would switch off the light, watching the darkness fill the room, patiently waiting to fall asleep.