This is one of those short stories that doesn't make sense to me, or rather I'm not in a hurry to think too deeply about it. It's a good one, and time should be taken to chew on it. This is 'Dietrologia' by Paul Theroux, published in The New Yorker on December 7, 2020.
Sal Frezzolini, an old man, tells stories about his life to a group of children who lives in the neighborhood, and they visit his home whenever he leaves his gate open a crack. He gives them cookies and asks them about school. He also tells them stories, and through those stories, he seems to be justifying events to himself, and trying to make sense of his own life.
He doesn't want to move out to an assisted-living facility that his wife Bailey has planned on. He doesn't want to acclimatize to another area or socialize with the other residents of the facility. Ocean View is the name of the intended block of apartments which is situated near everything and they wouldn't even need their car anymore. The wife plans to sell the car. Sal can't bear to put his things away into a storage facility either. He likes his current life and thinks he'd be miserable moving out. He has plenty of stories to tell, and he writes poems that have never been published.
Bailey was walking away, the phone pressed against her ear, conspiring, he knew. “And we’ve got to do something about all those books. You promised.”
“I need them.”
“You never read them.”
“I’ve read all of them, some more than once.”
“The unit is twelve hundred square feet,” Bailey said, perhaps to him, perhaps into the phone.
“It’s not enough,” he said.
“How do you know?”
But she didn’t wait for an answer. I know, he thought, dietrologia.
The next day he left the gate open.
'Dietrologia' is an Italian word, referring to something beyond the surface, that there has to be another layer (story/truth) beyond what is seen or what has been revealed. The author's mother is Italian; he studied Italian in high school and still speaks the language. I suppose readers are encouraged to read between the lines and go beyond the words of this story and into Sal's mind and emotions. I'm not sure what he's resisting. Is he resisting the implacable march of time, of growing old?
I was bemused by the ending. So it did happen the way the story wrote it. The ending was rather abrupt. From a perfectly placid life with visits from the children, he literally went to stir things up by calling the children's estranged father, Fred and threatening to report him based on what the children said. The children live with their mother here, but also spent time with their father in town. I had no idea what charges were brought against Sal, an old man, but the ensuing restraining order threw a spanner into Bailey's plans because someone with such a record wouldn't be accepted into her signed-for assisted-living eldercare facility.
At that, Sal put the phone down and, still sitting, interrogated the shadow of the obvious. He knew just how it would play out, and he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, as though tapping a fast-forward button, to speed up the ensuing drama.
The future jerked before him, accelerating in sequence: the vindictive response from the man, the misapplied accusations, the unfortunate fretting of the children’s mother, the certain involvement of the police, and their intimidating visit, the howl from Bailey when she read the conditions of the restraining order. Finally, as her plans fell apart and she found that Ocean View would no longer admit him, another howl: “This will follow you, Sal!” But the disgrace would follow Fred, too, and the children would be saved.
She did not see beyond the shadow to what he saw clearly. That she’d be fine, and better off without him. Anyway, he was not thinking of himself, of his future living alone, somewhere to be determined, among his old things, but only of the children, whom he knew he’d never see again.
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