Tonight Is Already Tomorrow: A Novel

TONIGHT

IS ALREADY

TOMORROW

That sacred Closet when you sweep—

Entitled Memory—

Select a reverential Broom—

And do it silently.

’Twill be a Labor of surprise—

Besides identity

Of other interlocutors

A probability—

August the Dust of the Domain—

Unchallenged—let it lie—

You cannot supersede itself

But it can silence you—

—EMILY DICKINSON (1273)

CHAPTER 1

The young Mrs. Rimon had approached him fleetingly as they were leaving the synagogue, and had asked him for a private meeting. I’d like to bring my son to you, she’d said hurriedly, under her breath. Rabbi Bonfiglioli had been a little surprised. He seemed to remember that the boy was just a kid, certainly not old enough to be preparing for his bar mitzvah. In any case, the Rimons were nothing special. They were a good family, but they were not particularly observant; tepid at best. Sure, they came to services en masse for the obligatory festivals—Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—always with a motley gang of relatives in tow, but that was it. He had seen the mother there on her own every now and again, always in a newly tailored dress, but she looked more like a polite spectator than a woman of fervent faith. There was one thing that had caught the rabbi’s interest, however: the prayer book she clutched in her hand. The print looked ancient, and the cloth binding with big floral patterns on it was well worn. He would have paid anything to be able to take a look at it, but he didn’t know the woman well enough to ask. I wonder whether she’ll bring it when she comes to the appointment? He only allowed himself to indulge in frivolous thoughts of this kind on the Sabbath.

The boy was more or less as he remembered: a bright-looking child who was not even remotely intimidated by the heavy furniture that made his office so oppressive. Imagine, the rabbi himself sometimes had to step out of that room in order to lift his spirits a little; even if only to dive into the corridor.

Without waiting to be invited, the boy sat himself down in a low chair next to his mother. The gesture was entirely natural, without a hint of arrogance. It was as if he were already conscious of the fact that—wherever he was in the world—there would always be a place for him.

What’s your name, and what grade are you in? That was the script, and Rabbi Samuele Bonfiglioli was not about to alter it.

His name was Alessandro. He only used his full name; he didn’t like nicknames and neither did anyone else in his family. He was eight years old, and this coming October he would be going into Fifth Grade.

The rabbi was bewildered, again. The script was not right.

Fifth Grade at eight? he asked.

Yes, but I turn nine in February. The boy seemed apologetic. I’m two years ahead, he murmured quietly, almost inaudibly.

Good lad, Rabbi Bonfiglioli answered mechanically, while his thoughts were beginning to wander.

Why had he been asked to meet the child? He remembered something he had heard through the grapevine about a Jewish boy—a little genius—who had skipped a couple of grades in public school because he’d already learned everything on his own.

What does a rabbi have to do with educational acrobatics of this kind?

He had better things to do. His task in life was to study the Torah and pass his knowledge on to the next generation. Getting boys ready for their bar mitzvah was his calling. When his eyes chanced upon a pupil’s expectant gaze, the joy made his heart miss a beat.

There was a long silence. The boy rocked in his chair and then got up to observe the furnishings and objects in the room. It was as if he were taking ownership of them. The rabbi could see that his curiosity had been fired by the heavy brass paper-weight on his desk, a globe held up by four muscular figures, which was actually an inkwell filled with black ink. He was, indeed, fascinated. He wondered whether the powerful figures might be Cyclopes but then decided that, given they were in a rabbi’s home, they had to be replicas of Samson.

Rabbi, Sir. Emilia Rimon was hesitantly trying to start a conversation. I asked for an appointment because I needed to ask you a question. Her son, the boy in front of him, had announced a few days earlier that he only believed in God sometimes. This seems like quite a serious matter for a Jew, don’t you think? she added hastily.

Rabbi Bonfiglioli wasn’t at all keen to answer. The woman’s fumbling attempt to reel him in had not been effective. She didn’t look like a woman who was overflowing with religious zeal. Apart from anything, she hadn’t even brought the prayer book he had been so interested in. Her tentative question felt like a pretext she had hurriedly pulled out of thin air. The vague impression that he had had on their first encounter must have been correct, after all.

Emilia Rimon was simply driven by an irrepressible urge to show off this child prodigy: a boy who was so intelligent that he had become the family’s pride and joy. Somehow, though, the idea that the legend of this brilliant kid might somehow have already reached the ear of the Chief Rabbi of the entire Genoa community tormented him.

Was he supposed to answer the woman’s spurious query? The rabbi was an uncomplicated kind of person, a teacher who loved the Torah. Nothing more. The kind of maxims some of those wonder rabbis might come out with—false prophets and preachers all—were simply not his thing. He was one for straight talk, and preferred those humble words which had been handed down since the beginning of time. Soon, however, before he was even aware of it, he felt his irritation dissolve into a wave of indulgence. This was the way it always went. Human weakness ended up moving him.

Good boy, he said, in a tone of voice that was so bland it could have been used in any number of situations. I understand that you like learning. It will soon be time for you to study the Torah.

Then he bent over the boy and whispered in his ear, You say you only believe in God sometimes. You should know, though, that God believes in you always.

Alessandro hadn’t wanted to go to the rabbi; it was his mother who had dragged him there against his will. Now, however, he had to confess, that phrase the old man had spoken into his ear struck him as beautiful.

Perhaps even true.

It felt as though Marc had been lurking behind the front door waiting for them. He opened it wide before his wife had time to put her key in the lock.

You took Alessandro to the rabbi? Why would you do that? he asked, as soon as they came in. He had had no idea; it was Nonno Luigi who had told him.

Well, Emilia improvised, I realized the rabbi had never met our son. Alessandro never comes to synagogue with me on the Sabbath.

That’s because he’s at school on the Sabbath! Marc shouted, no longer bothering to hide his irritation. Then he stopped suddenly, turned on his heels, and strode out of the house setting off for the laboratory. His wife was always so harsh with him; there was really no need to stoke the flames.

CHAPTER 2

That evening, Emilia sat through dinner hardly saying a word. She answered anyone who dared ask her a question in monosyllables. The only time she came to life was when they discussed the kitchen window that wasn’t closing properly. For days, there had been a loud crack like a gun-shot every time the shutters slammed shut in the wind, because the wood was weather-worn. They needed to get a move on and repair it soon.

Luigi was used to his daughter’s frequent long silences, and he didn’t find them pleasant. He had lived in this house since his wife had died. Eight years had gone by, and he couldn’t remember any laughter ringing down the hallway. Unless it was with his grandson.

Alessandro was different. There were times when he couldn’t get to the end of a sentence because a word cast a spell on him. In a stuttering display of affection, he would turn it around in his hands as if it were a precious gem, completely dumbstruck. Then he would suddenly burst out laughing, and everyone else would follow suit, although they were baffled by his behavior.

What did Rabbi Bonfiglioli say? Luigi asked his grandson, who was busy picking the peas out of his soup one by one and didn’t answer right away. Then the boy told him about the inkwell in the shape of a globe with the Samsons holding it up on their shoulders. He wanted to return his grandfather’s effort to make conversation without giving away anything else. When dinner was over, he set his chair down next to the old man. He loved his tall, solitary grandfather. When they went out together, he thought he looked like one of the trees lining their street. Nonetheless, he wanted to keep what had taken place at the rabbi’s house to himself.

Luigi understood. All of a sudden, he turned around and asked his son-in-law, What time is Osvaldo coming?

Marc had been quiet throughout dinner, too.

Soon, I think, he answered sullenly.

Well, I’ll go and get ready then. Luigi set off, putting on a brave show of speed and vigor. He knew they were following him with their gazes, and didn’t want to be seen as a shuffling old dullard.

Osvaldo was his other son-in-law, his daughter Wanda’s husband. His daughters had both found excellent husbands—one better than the other—but they didn’t seem very happy about it. Who knows what they were thinking, those girls. It wasn’t as if either of them was God’s gift to men.

When Osvaldo arrived, Luigi and Marc were ready for him, waiting in the hall. Wanda wasn’t there. When the husbands went out with their father-in-law, she usually came over and spent the evening chatting with her sister.

She must have something better to do, Emilia said to herself, although she knew it wasn’t true. They had argued the night before. A petty fight. Since he had been widowed, their father had always lived at her place, and Wanda seemed to take this for granted. Emilia would have liked some recognition from her sister, at least a thank you every so often, but Wanda had answered rudely. Emilia had insisted on having him, claiming that the old man and his grandson would keep each other company. Wanda should have understood that sometimes words are merely a mark of generosity and kindness. The fact was, Wanda thought she was superior. She certainly wasn’t more beautiful; her eyebrows were so straight, they made her expression stony, like an Ancient Roman statue. She was more elegant, perhaps. Being elegant and receiving invitations was easy: all you had to do was spend money.

Thinking about it, she wasn’t put out one bit that her sister hadn’t come over that evening. The men had gone out, she could hear Cesarina doing the dishes in the distance, her son was in bed, and she was on her own in the quiet, gray rooms. She read a book. She worked on a knitted sweater for the boy. Knowing she didn’t have to finish either of these tasks, that she didn’t have to, gave her a huge sense of freedom.

The men, father and sons-in-law, always had the same table in the osteria. The bottle of red wine and the pack of cards were the same every time, too. The gilded brass lamp hanging from the middle of the ceiling, with a long, bendy arm like a pelican’s neck, shed an oblique ray of light on them: friendly, concentrated, but not too bright. They played a slow game, their heads down, each of them feeling as if they could be anywhere in the world, at any time in history, with no obligation to belong to any context in particular. They went home early. At the front door, Marc stood to one side as usual, biding his time politely and absent-mindedly. He let his father-in-law go ahead and turn the key in the lock with a certain importance.

In his bedroom that evening, Luigi opened the window so that he could smoke a cigar without bothering anyone. The sea was not visible, but knowing that he would see it at the end of the road if he went out was enough for him. Imagining the sea and seeing it was one and the same thing for him: it was his personal victory over time and space. And age, perhaps.

There were no stars. The only light was the moving tip of his lit cigar. He swirled it in the air to cheer himself up. He smiled.

Was it possible that he loved his sons-in-law more than his own daughters? They had been his little girls, after all! He had taken them to the beach on his shoulders, one on each side, just like he did today with his grandson. How can things change so much? He felt he had nothing in common with the women they had become. He simply tried to stay as far away as possible from their prickly characters, their denial of joy.

The following day, he took his grandson by the hand and led him to the port at Foce to watch a new ship being launched. On their way home they didn’t talk, but they were happy.

When Alessandro was younger, Luigi used to tell him the same stories over and over, alongside bits and pieces from the Bible. His wife Rachele had been the one who knew all the Jewish stuff, and over the years of their life together she would often tease him: You’re a Jew but you know next to nothing of the Torah! But her tone was always indulgent. She didn’t have her daughters’ bad temperament. After Rachele’s death, Luigi felt it was his duty to pass all those little stories on to his grandson, but he could never quite remember all the details. He would get the characters mixed up (all except Moses, that is), or he would make a protagonist of a folk tale a Jew, so that Robin Hood would end up being Judas Maccabeus’ side-kick. His grandson didn’t know any difference, and even if his daughter Emilia happened to be listening in, she wouldn’t notice.

But it was something else that tied Alessandro to his grandmother: a gold chain and pendant she had left him in her will. The pendant was beautiful, its indented border hiding tiny Hebrew letters in its curves. The centerpiece was what caught the eye, though: the Star of David had been inlaid in a different color of gold, making it stand out. Luigi decided to gift it to Alessandro right there and then, given that his mother had so foolishly decided to take him to see the rabbi. He handed over the trinket and explained that King David had placed the six-pointed star on his shield, and that was why it had become the symbol of Judaism. He didn’t add any other details, because he was afraid of slipping up. His wife had never felt more present to him than in that moment, checking up on his every word.

Alessandro was confused by how much he liked both the pendant and the story. He took the chain and pendant and put it in his drawer inside a shell he had picked up on the beach. His grandfather decided to build him a little chest made of blue cardboard, with a knob on the drawer, telling him it would be like a secret baby drawer tucked inside the real drawer. Especially in the early days, Alessandro opened and shut the tiny drawer continuously. He loved weighing the delicate chain with the Star of David pendant in his hands. He would turn it in different directions to see how the colors changed in the sunlight. He would close his fist over it until it hurt, then put it back, only to feign gleeful surprise on discovering that the little drawer concealed something in its tiny belly. Finally, he would put the necklace to bed as carefully as if it were a newborn baby.

A pendant should always be on your person, around your neck, his mother would say, but Alessandro always answered, I prefer it this way. Having it to myself to look at is much better than letting other people see it. Spectacles are the only things that are completely useless if you don’t put them on your eyes, he once said, thinking out loud. His mother couldn’t think of anything to say because, as she reflected, she had never seen anyone sitting and gazing at a pair of spectacles. A few months later, Alessandro started to claim that he remembered his grandmother giving him the Star of David. She had handed it over with such tenderness, he insisted, even though Rachele had died before Alessandro had turned one. After a while, this imaginary memory became the imaginary memory of the whole family.

CHAPTER 3

Emilia had not taken long to understand that she didn’t love her husband and never would. Their marriage had been arranged, but that wasn’t the reason. It was the way things worked in the Jewish community, and it didn’t make much difference whether you met your future husband strolling in the street or a well-meaning relative had introduced you. Her friend Ines had married a man who laughed all the time because he was an idiot. Ines said he was a man of good character. Emilia and her sister had adopted the term good character, joking about it every time they came across someone stupid.

Marc was different, though. He was Belgian by birth, his family had moved to Holland, he held a British passport and his mother tongue was French. He was the epitome of the healthy progress Jews had made in every corner of an increasingly liberal modernized Europe. Emilia didn’t have any interest in the complexity of Jewish destiny, however. It was enough that she had married a Jew in order to show respect to her family. The fact that he was foreign—even though he had settled in Genoa many years before—bothered her somewhat. It made her feel different from the rest of the community, although nobody could tell he was an outsider when he spoke. What does it take to learn Italian, after all, for people who already speak many languages? It’s the easiest language of all. He sounded