THE NOTHING I NEEDED

My wife Elisabetta went on holiday to Sicily with our daughter Giorgia, her brother and his wife, leaving me alone with the dog and fifty euros for extra expenses, with clear instructions the house had better not resemble a disaster zone when they returned. Every day they called, mostly concerned about the dog — had he eaten, had he walked, had he found company. I suggested they just call him directly. As for me, my wife asked only one calm question each day: have you eaten? Yes, my love. Ahahahahahahahahah.

When they came home, curious beyond measure, they found the house spotless, the kitchen immaculate — so surprised they stepped back outside and wondered if they’d entered the wrong apartment. My sister-in-law, daughter of a senior Carabinieri officer, inspected the scene and congratulated me while questioning how such a thing was possible. Then, just when they thought the special effects were over, I produced the fifty euros, untouched, ready to return.

Their eyes spoke an entire conversation without a word. Didn’t you eat? Yes, thank you — at least three times a day. But I knew I needed nothing else. Nothingness was enough for me to live. It was everything I needed. I smiled and went for a walk alone, because success should never be shared. It’s like ice cream — everyone recognizes the flavour on their own palate, even when it’s the same flavour for everyone.