She sat down on the stool.
She opened her legs and examined herself. Everything was normal there too, though a bit sore.
She sat there in the steam-filled bathroom, gazing at herself in the misted mirror.
Her mind kept showing the same pornographic film: Sex at the Spa.
The pools. The warmth. Graziano. The pond. The cold. The people. The music. The sex. The smell. The sex. The river. The sex. The kick. The fear. The waterfall. The sex. The warmth. The kisses.
A tangle of memories and emotions twined within her and when her mind got caught up in certain scenes, the embarrassment gave her goose pimples on her arms.
Whatever got into me?
Her body had reacted well, though. It hadn’t disintegrated. Hadn’t fallen to pieces. Hadn’t been transformed into an insect cocoon.
She touched her breasts, her legs, her stomach. Despite the bruises and scratches, her body seemed firmer, fuller, and those aches in her muscles showed that it was alive and responded well to such stimuli.
It was a body suited to sex.
In recent years she had wondered a million times whether, at the fateful moment, she would be able to have sexual intercourse, whether it wasn’t too late and whether her body and mind would be able to accept that intrusion or would reject it, whether her hands would be able to cling to a back, her lips to kiss strange lips.
She had succeeded.
She was pleased with herself.
In a parallel universe, Flora Palmieri, with that body and with a different brain, might have been a different person. She might have made love for the first time at the age of thirteen, might have been given to the pleasures of the flesh and had a promiscuous sex life, might have attracted men in their thousands, might have used her body to make money, displayed her tits on the covers of magazines, been a famous porno star.
She would have given anything to own the video of the sex she’d had with Graziano and to be able to see it over and over again. To view herself in those positions. To observe the expressions on her face…
That’s enough. Stop it.
She banished the images.
She cleaned her teeth, dried her hair and dressed. She put on a pair of black jeans (the ones she used for walking on the beach), her tennis shoes, a white cotton T-shirt and a black cardigan. She began to put hairgrips in her hair but then had second thoughts. She removed them and let it hang loose.
She went into the kitchen. She wound up the shutters, and a shaft of sun entered the room, warming her neck and shoulders. It was a fine, cold day. The sky was bluer than ever and a light breeze stirred the branches of the eucalyptus in the yard. A group of seagulls were standing like hens in the middle of the red earth of the ploughed field across the road. Finches and sparrows were twittering in the trees.
She made the coffee, warmed the milk and tiptoed into the dimly lit sitting room carrying breakfast on a tray.
Graziano was curled up on the sofa fast asleep. The blanket with the black-and-white lozenge pattern enwrapped him like a bag. Strewn untidily on the floor were his boots and clothes.
Flora sat down in the armchair.
99
Fausto Coppi was the best cyclist in the world. The fastest. But above all the toughest. He never tired. He was a great rider. And he never gave in. Never let up.
Never.
And you’re Fausto Coppi.
Pietro pedalled, pedalled, pedalled. Mouth wide open. Face distorted with the effort. Heart pumping blood into his arteries. Midges in his eyes. Fire in his lungs.
They’re coming.
The excruciating noise of the broken silencer.
Were they gaining ground?
Yes. Definitely.
They were nearer.
He wanted to turn and look. But he couldn’t. If he had he would have lost his balance, and balance for a cyclist is everything, if you’re well balanced and keep the right position you never tire, and if he’d turned round he would have lost his balance and slowed down and that would have been the end. So he pedalled, hoping they’d never catch him.
(Don’t think about them. Just go. You’re trying to beat the world record. You’re not racing them. You’re racing the wind. You’re the hare being chased by the greyhounds. All those two guys behind you are doing is making you go faster. You’re the fastest little boy in the world.) That’s what the great Coppi was telling him.
100
‘Is this the best your crappy little scooter can do? Speed up! Speed up, for Christ’s sake!’ yelled Federico Pierini, hunched up behind Flame.
‘I am!’ shouted Flame, hunched up in turn over the handlebars of the Ciao. ‘Now we’ll get him. As soon as he slows down he’s had it.’
Flame was right, as soon as Dickhead started to flag they’d catch him. Where could he go? The road ran straight across the fields for more than five kilometres.
‘If only I’d known, I’d have brought my cousin’s souped-up Vespa. Then we’d really have had some fun,’ said Flame ruefully.
‘What about your gun? Did you bring your gun?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You stupid fool. We could have shot him from this range. Bam!’ Pierini guffawed.
101
They were getting closer.
And Pietro was beginning to tire.
He tried to keep his breathing regular, maintain his concentration and push rhythmically on the pedals, so as to turn into a human motor, fuse with the bike to create a perfect being made of flesh and heart and muscles and tubes and spokes and wheels. He tried not to think about anything. To keep his mind blank. To be pure coordination and will, but …
His cursed legs were beginning to stiffen and his mind to fill with ugly images.
You’re Fausto Coppi. You can’t slow down.
He quickened his rhythm a little and the sound of the scooter grew fainter.
It was a futile race. On a never-ending road. Across cultivated fields. Against a scooter. When they finally caught up with him, he wouldn’t even have the strength to stand up.
(I might as well stop …)
Cyclists lose because they think victory has a meaning. Victory doesn’t have a meaning. The aim is not victory. The aim is to pedal. Fausto Coppi was talking to him. Pedal till you drop.
The noise behind him increased again.
They were getting closer.
102
On the return journey from Saturnia Flora had driven.
Graziano hadn’t felt up to it. The bump on his head was large and painful. He had put his hand on her thigh and fallen asleep.
And Flora, with wet hair and wet clothes, had got behind the wheel, slithered her way up that muddy track and headed for Ischiano Scalo.
In silence.
A long trip, crowded with thoughts.
What’s going to happen after all this?
That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question that was being debated in her mind as she changed gear, accelerated, steered and braked, driving over hills, through woods and sleeping villages.
What’s going to happen after all this?
The answers were legion. There was a long succession of them, each popping up spontaneously, dangerous and not to be contemplated (travel, distant islands, country cottages, churches, childr …).
To answer the question rationally, Flora had told herself, she must think about who Graziano was and who she was.
Lucidly.
And Flora, at three o’clock in the morning, after what had happened to her, felt lucid and logical.
She had looked at Graziano asleep against the window and shaken her head.
No.
They were too different to have a future together. Graziano would soon leave for the Valtour village and then go to some exotic country and have another thousand love affairs and forget about her. She would continue to live the life she had always lived and go to school and look after her mother and watch TV in the evening and go to bed early.
That was the situation and
br />
(Don’t kid yourself this man’s going to change just for your sake …)
so it was clear that the relationship couldn’t work.
It’s one of those what do you call them … One-night stands. Try to see it that way. A sex thing.
A sex thing. She couldn’t help smiling.
It was painful to admit, but that was the truth of it. And when she had climbed up those rocks, though she’d been dazed and bewildered, she had kept saying it over and over to herself (you’re just another one on the list… and you’ve got to accept it), so now she mustn’t start fantasising like some inexperienced young girl.
But I am inexperienced.
It was dangerous to indulge in fantasies. Flora had hardened herself so as to resist the blows of life, but she suspected that she was still vulnerable to some knocks.
Graziano had served to make a woman of her.
And that was all.
I must be strong. As I’ve always been.
(You mustn’t see him again.)
I know, I mustn’t see him again.
(Never again.)
And yet when they had reached Ischiano Scalo and the sky was growing lighter, Flora had parked the car in front of the haberdasher’s and was about to wake Graziano and tell him she would walk home, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.
She had sat in the car for a quarter of an hour stretching out her hand towards Graziano and then withdrawing it and finally she had started up the engine and taken him home with her.
She had put him on the sofa.
That way, if he was still in pain, she could attend to him.
That’s what I’m best at.
No, it couldn’t end like this.
That would be dreadful. She must speak to him one last time and explain to him how important that night had been to her, then she would part with him for good.
Like in the movies.
103
It’s a strange thing, suspension.
It’s the most serious punishment of all, but instead of locking you up in school day and night on bread and water they give you a week’s holiday.
Though of course it’s not much of a holiday, especially when your father has just told you he has no intention of going to speak to the teachers.
Pietro had racked his brains all night to find a solution. Asking his mother was pointless. He would get more response out of Zagor. But what if in the end nobody went?
The deputy headmistress would ring his home and if Papa answered on one of his bad days … it didn’t bear thinking about, and if Mama answered she would mutter a few long-drawn-out yeses and nos, swear on the heads of her children that she would go next day and then not go.
And those two would come back.
In a green Peugeot 205 with a Rome number plate.
The social assistants (a name which meant nothing but which scared him far more than drug dealer or wicked witch).
Those two.
He, a great beanpole of a man, dressed in loden and Clarks, with a grey goatee beard and tufts of hair plastered down over his forehead and those thin lips that looked as if he had just smeared them with lip balm.
She, a dumpy little woman, with embroidered stockings and lace-up shoes and those inch-thick glasses and that gossamer-thin hair pulled back so hard from the temples that it seemed as if the skin of her forehead would sooner or later split like the covering of a worn-out armchair.
Those two who had appeared after the trouble with the catapult, Poppi, the Contarellos’ roof and the court.
Those smiling two who had called him into the staff room while his classmates were having their break and had sat him down on a chair and offered him liquorice sweets which he loathed and some stupid Mickey Mouse comics.
Those two who asked a lot of questions.
Are you happy in your class? Do you like school? Do you enjoy yourself? Do you have any friends? What do you do after school? Do you play with your father? Do you play with your mother? Is your mother sad? How do you get on with your brother? Does your father get cross with you? Does he quarrel with your mother? Does he love her? Does he kiss you at night before you go to bed? Does he like drinking wine? Does he help you undress? Does he do anything strange? Does your brother sleep in the same room as you? Do you have fun together?
Those two.
Those two who wanted to take him away. To an institution.
Pietro knew. Mimmo had explained it to him. ‘Watch out, or they’ll take you away and put you in an institution with the spastics and the junkies’ kids.’ And Pietro had said that his was the best family in the world and that in the evenings they all played cards together and watched films on TV and on Sundays they went for walks in the woods and there was Zagor too and Mama was kind and Papa was kind and didn’t drink and his brother took him for rides on his motorbike and that he was old enough to dress and wash on his own (why the hell do they want to know about those things?).
It had been easy to answer. While he was talking he had thought about the little house on the prairie.
They had gone away.
Those two.
Gloria had called at eight o’clock in the morning and told Pietro that if he wasn’t going to school she wouldn’t either. Out of solidarity.
Gloria’s parents were away. They would spend the morning together and think up some way of persuading Mr Moroni to go to the school.
Pietro had got out his bike and set off for the Celanis’ villa. Zagor had escorted him for a kilometre and then gone back home. Pietro had turned onto the Ischiano road and the sun was out and the air was warm and after all that rain it was a real pleasure to pedal slowly along with the rays warming your back.
But suddenly, without any warning, a red Ciao had materialised behind him.
And Pietro had started to pedal for all he was worth.
104
Sitting in the armchair in the living room, Flora watched Graziano as he slept.
His lips were apart. A dribble of saliva ran down from the corner of his mouth. He was snoring softly. The cushion had stamped red lines on his forehead.
How strange. In less than twenty-four hours her attitude towards Graziano had been turned on its head. The day before, when she had met him at the Station Bar and he had come over to speak to her, she had found him insignificant and vulgar. Now, the more she looked at him the handsomer he seemed, more attractive than any man she had ever met before.
Graziano opened his eyes and smiled.
Flora smiled back. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘All right, I think. I’m not quite sure.’ Graziano felt the back of his head. ‘I’ve got a nice big bump. What are you doing there in the dark?’
‘I made you some breakfast. But it’ll be cold by now.’
Graziano stretched out his hand towards her. ‘Come here.’
Flora laid the tray on the floor and approached him shyly.
‘Sit down.’ He made room for her on the sofa. Flora sat down primly. He took her hand. ‘Well?’
Flora smiled faintly. (Tell him.)
‘Well?’ Graziano repeated.
‘Well what?’ Flora murmured, squeezing his hand.
‘Are you happy?’
‘Yes …’ (Tell him.)
‘I like you with your hair down … It suits you much better. Why don’t you always wear it like that?’
Graziano, I’ve got to talk to you … ‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s the matter? You seem strange …’
‘Nothing …’ Graziano, we can’t see each other any more. I’m sorry. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘A bit. We didn’t have much to eat last night in the end. I could do with something …’
Flora got up, took the tray and went towards the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To warm your coffee.’
‘No. I’ll drink it as it is.’ Graziano pulled himself up into a sitting position and stretched.
Flora poured o
ut the coffee and milk and watched him drink and dunk the biscuits and realised that she loved him.
That night, unknown to her, a dam inside her had burst. And the affection that been compressed for so long in some obscure part of her being had gushed out and flooded her heart, her mind, everything.
She felt breathless and a lump was rising slowly but surely up her throat.
He finished eating. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Oh God, I must be going. My mother will be worried sick,’ he said anxiously, and he hurriedly dressed and pulled on his boots.
Flora, on the sofa, watched him in silence.
Graziano checked his appearance in the mirror and shook his head disapprovingly. ‘I look a mess, I must have a shower straight away.’ He put on his coat.
He’s going.
All the things Flora had thought in the car were true, then, and there was nothing more to say, nothing more to explain, because now he was leaving, and it was normal and right that he should, he had got what he had wanted and there was nothing to discuss, nothing to add and thank you and goodbye and it was terrible, no, it was better, much better this way.
Go. It’s better if you just go.
105
He was flying along, was that Dickhead.
He had stamina, no doubt about it. But it was wasted effort. Sooner or later he would have to stop.
Where do you think you can run to?
Dickhead had sneaked and must be punished. Pierini had warned him, but he hadn’t listened, he’d gone ahead and squealed and now he must suffer the dire consequences.
Simple.
Actually Pierini wasn’t so sure it had been Moroni who had sneaked. It might well have been that cow Palmieri. But it didn’t make any difference. Moroni needed to be helped to behave properly in future. It must be impressed upon him that Federico Pierini’s words were to be taken seriously, very seriously.
He would deal with Miss Palmieri later. At his leisure.
I’m afraid the future looks bleak for your nice shiny Y10, Miss.
‘He’s slowing down … He can’t go on. He’s burnt out,’ shouted Flame excitedly.