Trying to survive this relentless summer

Every year I swear I’ll never spend another single day of summer in the city. I announce it, I shout it, I threaten it, I say ‘I’ll show you’ – nobody responds, nobody’s intrigued, nobody’s scared. Every year I spend almost the whole summer in the city. Every year I also say: ‘Never again without air conditioning, I’ll show you’. Every year, the air conditioning works for ten minutes, then it breaks down and stops working altogether, until October when it’s no longer needed.

I had not intended to invoke the Odyssey – it is already overloaded with references – but my air-conditioning has been like Penelope’s tapestry for ten years now, even though I would be willing to beg the first person who repairs it to marry me. Meanwhile, however, time passes; summers overlap even in my memories; only Ulysses goes to the islands with his friends – a right lot of louts – whilst I stay here weaving my web, made of anger and two fans, of windows closed very early in the morning and reopened only very late in the evening, with caution. After calculating the difference between the outside and inside temperatures. I realise I’m trapped in an obsession of remarkable banality: talking about the heat, saying: ‘It’s not so much the heat as the humidity’; saying: ‘I could fry eggs on the windowsill’; saying: ‘a draught’ – I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true – and then checking the weather forecast on my phone and comparing the various heat apps, sending everyone the video of the wild boar cooling off under a drinking fountain in Cinecittà, but also of my idol, the Mayor of Rome Roberto Gualtieri, who talks about ‘climate shelters’ and is offering free cinema screenings during the hottest hours of the day. I’d go, Mayor, I’d go in a flash, but I don’t have the courage to leave the house during the hottest part of the day, and I can’t let go of my two fans for even a moment.

It’s very important to position the two fans correctly to avoid suffocating; they should be crossed over each other like laser beams, the aim being to create a sort of draught in the room and find the exact position to work with the draught in your favour. Unfortunately, one cannot be unclothed during Zoom video meetings, and yesterday I was asked by approximately fifteen irritated individuals to address the disruptive noise emanating from my microphone, which was undermining the meeting, our work, and the nation’s future. What noise? Oh dear, the fans – sorry. I stood up to switch off the fans, feeling satisfied to be fully dressed rather than only partially so, but after ten minutes I requested permission to leave the meeting: everything was a blur; I felt as though I were wearing a bearskin coat, and I could feel something scorching hot seeping through the closed windows, reaching my forehead, piercing it, and seeping into my brain, rendering it useless. Then I must say that I cannot stand seeing tanned people who have just come back from the seaside, with the breeze gently ruffling their hair, utterly unable to empathise with my discomfort. After all, if I were in the mountains right now, with a jumper slung over my shoulders, I’d forget this sensation of mind-boggling heat forever: seeking the cool is like chewing on a lotus flower; it makes you numb to everything else, erases your memory: I’ve never felt the heat, I’ve never had children, I don’t know what time or space is, or what my home is; I don’t know what the expression ‘record-breaking heat’ means.

However, as I spend my time devising schemes, I should point out that it is forbidden to boil water for pasta, and in general it is forbidden to cook; it is forbidden to spend time in the bathroom putting on make-up because the temperature will soon rise to fifty-two degrees, melting the make-up – the bathroom is by far the hottest place in the house –, it is also forbidden to get dressed half an hour before going out, and it is forbidden to leave chocolates out of the fridge, though I shouldn’t even have to say that. It is also not advisable to turn on the gas under the moka pot; if you really can’t do without it, make a large pot of coffee before dawn and keep it in the fridge.

These, however, are trivial details: far more important is not to mistake warm wind for fresh air, nor daylight – and sunlight – for something beautiful, good or essential to survival. Those who say that the most important thing in a woman’s life (as for men, I don’t know; honestly, I don’t have the energy to think about them as well – it seems to me a waste of energy that will never be repaid in any way) is the circadian rhythm – that is, exposing oneself to natural light first thing upon waking, and then to the sun, even if only through an open window – say this because, quite rightly, they do not spend long, hot summers in the city and believe that opening a window is not potentially lethal.

The only way to prevent a flat from turning into a roasting pan, in fact, is to close not only the windows but also the shutters before eight in the morning. Let’s say half past six – that’s safer. I say this because I have proof to the contrary and am offering a free, tried-and-tested system based on constant semi-darkness. You must resist the temptation to let in air and light all day long: not everyone has that kind of resilience. But if, like me, you’re surrounded by more concrete than trees, if you’ve run out of clichés to spout, if the idea of a cave still fascinates you, then abandon this trendy need for a draught and resign yourself to using only the light from your computer. You’ll lose a few more dioptres, but not your life. Be ready to defend your choices against everyone, be ready to remain alone inside the cave, to be told: ‘You’re mad.’ Anyway, what difference does it make? Apart from the fact that I’ll never spend another summer in the city – this is the last one, I swear, I say it every year.

However, watching "The Odyssey" for three hours in the cool of the air conditioning (at night) restored my hope and also made me realise that Adriana Cavarero is right in her essay "Il canto delle sirene": the sirens did not sing for Ulysses, nor for his hungry companions, nor to lure sailors; the sirens sing for no one but for their own pleasure. And if those people want to die – whether from the heat or from temptation – that’s their own business; it’s their own responsibility.

However, if Ulysses tries to be clever whilst tied to the mainmast, then the Sirens – who are far more cunning – take their revenge and remain silent, forcing him to pretend he has heard a song that does not exist so as not to make a fool of himself.

In the same way, I pretend that this heat is truly unbearable, so as not to come across as the sort of person who decides to stay alone in the dark, shut away indoors without speaking to anyone, not even on the phone. But I know full well that last night it was twenty-six degrees; I know that today it’s a bit more bearable. I know I’ve fallen, like Ulysses, like Penelope, into an obsession. I unravel the web, putting off decisions year after year. I rejoice at a half-degree drop, I despair if the cool of the night is slow to arrive, I eat bananas for the potassium and I don’t go out before nine in the evening. I search the eyes of others for my own desperation, my own perverse pleasure in measuring the slightest climatic differences (a cloud has blocked the sun for a few hours, perhaps it will rain on Sunday, tomorrow night the minimum temperature is set to drop sharply, bad weather in the north); I get annoyed if, on the other hand, I discover that they all live in air-conditioned homes, kept at a steady twenty-one degrees, and are indifferent to the signs of the weather. ‘You were not made to live like brutes,’ I’d like to shout, but I’m afraid of breaking out in a sweat; I can’t get worked up.

Yesterday, on that note, something very serious happened: the cat, who always knows which corners are the coolest, slipped in rather suspiciously into the tiny, sweltering bathroom that’s supposed to be mine – the one I only go into to have a shower and then rush straight out of. He went in, had a look around, slipped between the bars of soap, and wouldn’t come out. At one point, exhausted but undaunted, I decided to have a look. The cat was playing with something. But what? A small, dark thing. He was shaking it with his paw. I thought: if it’s a cockroach, I’ll be forced to flee the house at this hour, but it’s far too hot; I feel like I’m dying. My vision was blurring; this small, dark thing seemed to be moving faintly. I called for assistance: my husband came over, and I calmly asked him to check what that dark object was. He entered the bathroom, ignoring the heat, and reassured me: ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. I replied: ‘How can it be nothing? It looked as if it was moving.’ He picked up the object, stared at it for a moment and did something I will never be able to forgive him for: he pretended to be scared and flung it near me. I screamed, despite the heat, ran, jumped onto the bed and kept jumping and screaming. He was laughing. I was crying. That thing was a liquorice sweet. This is the last summer I’ll spend in the city. It’s time to set off for Ithaca.