I was hungry. I had run off without having breakfast. But I wasn’t too keen on going indoors.
Skull came over to me. ‘Where did you get to?’
‘I went for a ride.’
‘You’re always going off on your own. Where do you go?’ He didn’t like it when you minded your own business.
‘To the stream.’
He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What do you do there?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Climb the tree.’
He made the disgusted face of someone who’s just eaten a rotten apple.
Togo arrived and started biting the wheel of my bike.
Skull aimed a kick at him. ‘Get lost, you mutt. He punctures tyres with those fucking teeth of his.’
Togo fled to Barbara, who was sitting on the wall, and jumped into her lap. Barbara called hello to me. I waved back.
Skull observed the scene. ‘What’s this, have you made friends with fatso?’
‘No …’
He peered at me to see if I was telling the truth.
‘No, I swear I haven’t!’
He relaxed. ‘Oh, I see. Fancy a game of soccer?’
I didn’t, but saying no to him was dangerous. ‘Isn’t it a bit hot?’
He grabbed my handlebars. ‘You’re being a bit of a shit, you know that?’
I was scared. ‘Why?’ Skull could suddenly flip and decide to pull you off your bike and beat you up.
‘Because you are.’
Luckily Salvatore appeared. He was bouncing the ball on his head. Then he trapped it with his foot and tucked it under his arm. ‘Hi, Michele.’
‘Hi.’
Skull asked him, ‘Fancy a game?’
‘No.’
Skull lost his temper. ‘You’re pieces of shit, both of you! Right, you know what I’m doing? I’m going to Lucignano.’ And he stomped off in a filthy mood.
We had a good laugh, then Salvatore said to me: ‘I’m going home. Do you want to come with me and play Subbuteo?’
‘I don’t really feel like it.’
He gave me a pat on the back. ‘All right. See you later then. Bye.’ He went off juggling with the ball.
I liked Salvatore. I liked the way he always kept calm and didn’t fly off the handle every five minutes. With Skull you had to think three times before you said anything.
I cycled over to the drinking fountain.
Maria had taken the enamelled bowl and was using it as a swimming pool for her Barbies.
She had two – one normal, the other all blackened with one arm melted and no hair.
That was my fault. One evening I had seen the story of Joan of Arc on television and I had picked up the Barbie doll and thrown her in the fire shouting: ‘Burn! Witch! Burn!’ When I had realized she really was burning, I had grabbed her by one foot and thrown her in the saucepan where the minestrone was cooking.
Mama had taken away my bike for a week and made me eat all the minestrone by myself. Maria had begged her to buy her another doll. ‘I’ll get you one for your birthday. Play with this one for now. Blame that stupid brother of yours.’ And Maria had made the best of it. The beautiful Barbie was called Paola and the burnt one Poor Poppet.
‘Hi, Maria,’ I said, getting off my bike.
She put one hand over her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. ‘Papa’s been looking for you … Mama’s cross.’
‘I know.’
She took Poor Poppet and put her in the swimming pool. ‘You’re always making her cross.’
‘I’m going upstairs.’
‘Papa said he’s got to talk to Sergio and he doesn’t want us around.’
‘But I’m hungry …’
She took an apricot out of her trouser pocket. ‘Do you want this?’
‘Yes.’ It was warm and squashy, but I gulped it down and spat the stone into the distance.
Papa came out onto the balcony, saw me and called to me. ‘Michele, come here.’ He was wearing a shirt and shorts.
I didn’t want to talk to him. ‘I can’t, I’m busy!’
He beckoned me up. ‘Come here.’
I leaned my bike against the wall and went up the steps hanging my head resignedly.
Papa sat down on the top step. ‘Come and sit here, next to me.’ He pulled a packet of Nazionali out of his shirt pocket, took a cigarette, put it in the holder and lit it.
‘You and I have got to talk.’
He didn’t seem all that angry.
We sat there in silence. Looking over the roofs at the yellow fields.
‘Hot, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’
He blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Where do you get to all day long, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Yes you do. You must go somewhere.’
‘Riding around here.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like being with your friends?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s just that I like being on my own too.’
He nodded, his eyes lost in the void. I glanced at him. He seemed older, his black hair was speckled with a few white strands, his cheeks had sunk and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.
‘You’ve upset your mother.’
I broke off a twig of rosemary from a pot and started fiddling with it. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘She said you don’t want to sleep with Sergio.’
‘Well, I don’t …’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to sleep with you and mama. In your bed. All together. If we squeeze up, we’ll all fit in.’
‘What’s Sergio going to think if you don’t sleep with him?’
‘I don’t care what he thinks.’
‘That’s no way to treat guests. Suppose you went to stay with someone and nobody wanted to sleep with you. What would you think?’
‘I wouldn’t care, I’d like a room all to myself. Like in a hotel.’
He smiled faintly and with two fingers threw the dog-end into the street.
I asked him: ‘Is Sergio your boss? Is that why he’s got to stay with us?’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘What do you mean is he my boss?’
‘I mean does he decide things?’
‘No, he doesn’t decide anything. He’s a friend of mine.’
It wasn’t true. The old man wasn’t his friend, he was his boss. I knew that. He could even call him names.
‘Papa, where do you sleep when you go to the North?’
‘Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘In a hotel, or wherever I can, in the truck sometimes.’
‘But what happens at night in the North?’
He looked at me, breathed in through his nose and asked me: ‘What’s up? Aren’t you pleased I’ve come home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me the truth.’
‘Yes, I am pleased.’
He squeezed me in his arms, tightly. I could smell his sweat. He whispered in my ear: ‘Hug me, Michele, hug me! Let me feel how strong you are.’
I hugged him as hard as I could and I couldn’t help crying. The tears ran down my face and my throat tightened.
‘Hey, are you crying?’
I sobbed. ‘No, I’m not crying.’
He took a crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘Dry away those tears, if anybody sees you they’ll think you’re a sissy. Michele, I’m very busy at the moment so you must do as you’re told. Your mother’s tired. Stop all this nonsense. If you’re good, as soon as I’ve finished I’ll take you to the seaside. We’ll go on a pedalo.’
I wheezed: ‘What’s a pedalo?’
‘It’s a boat that has pedals like a bike instead of oars.’
I dried my tears. ‘Can you get to Africa in one?’
‘It’d take a lot of pedalling to get to Africa.’
‘I want to go away from Acqua Traverse.’
‘Why, don’t you like it a
ny more?’
I gave him back his handkerchief. ‘Let’s go to the North.’
‘What do you want to go away for?’
‘I don’t know … I don’t like being here any more.’
He looked into the distance. ‘We’ll go there.’
I broke off another twig of rosemary. It had a nice smell. ‘Do you know about the little wash-bears?’
He frowned. ‘The little wash-bears?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, what are they?’
‘They’re bears that do the washing … But maybe they don’t exist.’
Papa got up and stretched his back. ‘Aahh! Listen, I’m going indoors, I’ve got to talk to Sergio. Why don’t you run off and play? It’ll be suppertime soon.’ He opened the door and was about to go in, but he stopped. ‘Mama’s made tagliatelle. Afterwards, say sorry to her.’
At that moment Felice arrived. He braked his 127 in a cloud of dust and got out as if there was a swarm of wasps inside.
‘Felice!’ papa shouted. ‘Come up a minute.’
Felice nodded and as he passed me he cuffed me on the back of the head and said, ‘How’re you doing, little sap?’
Now there was nobody with Filippo.
The bucket of shit was full. The saucepan of water empty.
Filippo kept his head wrapped up in the blanket. He hadn’t even noticed I had come down into the hole.
His ankle looked worse to me, it was more swollen and purple. The flies were homing in on it.
I moved closer. ‘Hey!’ He gave no sign of having heard me. ‘Hey! Can you hear me?’ I moved even closer. ‘Can you hear me?’
He sighed. ‘Yes.’
Papa hadn’t cut off his ears, then.
‘Your name’s Filippo, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
I had been rehearsing on the way. ‘I’ve come to tell you something very important. Um … Your mother says she loves you. And she says she misses you. She said so yesterday on television. On the news. She said you mustn’t worry … and that she doesn’t want just your ears, she wants all of you.’
Nothing.
‘Did you hear me?’
Nothing.
I repeated. ‘Um … your mother says she loves you. And she says she misses you. She said so yesterday on television. She said you mustn’t worry … and that she doesn’t want just your ears.’
‘My mother’s dead.’
‘What do you mean she’s dead?’
From under the blanket he replied: ‘My mother’s dead.’
‘What are you talking about? She’s alive. I saw her myself, on television …’
‘No she isn’t, she’s dead.’
I put my hand on my heart. ‘I swear to you on the head of my sister Maria that she’s alive. I saw her last night, she was on television. She was well. She’s blonde. She’s thin. She’s a bit old … She’s beautiful, though. She was sitting on a high, brown armchair. A big one. Like the ones kings have. And behind it there was a picture of a ship. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes. The picture of the ship …’ He spoke quietly, the words were muffled by the cloth.
‘And you’ve got an electric train. With an engine and a funnel. I saw it.’
‘I haven’t got that any more. It got broken. Nanny threw it away.’
‘Nanny? Who’s nanny?’
‘Liliana. She’s dead too. And Peppino’s dead. And papa’s dead. And grandmother Arianna’s dead. And my brother’s dead. They’re all dead. They’re all dead and they live in holes like this one. And I’m in one too. Everybody. The world’s a place full of holes with dead people in them. And the moon’s a ball all full of holes too and inside them there are other dead people.’
‘No it isn’t.’ I put my hand on his back. ‘There aren’t any holes on it. The moon’s normal. And your mother’s not dead. I saw her. You must listen to me.’
He was silent for a while, then he asked me: ‘Why doesn’t she come here, then?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why doesn’t she come and fetch me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And why am I here?’
‘I don’t know.’ Then I said, so quietly that he couldn’t hear me. ‘My father put you here.’
He gave me a kick. ‘You don’t know anything. Leave me alone. You’re not the guardian angel. You’re bad. Go away.’ And he started crying.
I didn’t know what to do. ‘I’m not bad. It’s nothing to do with me. Don’t cry, please.’
He kept kicking. ‘Go away. Go away.’
‘Listen to me …’
‘Go away!’
I sprang to my feet. ‘I came out here for your sake, I rode all that way, twice, and you kick me out. All right, I’ll go, but if I go I’m not coming back. Ever again. You’ll stay here, on your own, for ever and they’ll cut both your ears off.’ I seized the rope and started to climb back up. I heard him crying. He sounded as if he was suffocating.
I got out of the hole and said to him: ‘And I’m not your guardian angel!’
‘Wait …’
‘What do you want?’
‘Stay …’
‘No. You told me to go away and now I’m going.’
‘Please. Stay with me.’
‘No!’
‘Please. Just for five minutes.’
‘All right. Five minutes. But if you act crazy I’m going.’
‘I won’t.’
I went down. He touched my foot.
‘Why don’t you come out of that blanket?’ I asked him and crouched down beside him.
‘I can’t, I’m blind …’
‘What do you mean you’re blind?’
‘My eyes won’t open. I want to open them but they stay closed. In the dark I can see. In the dark I’m not blind.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know something, they told me you’d come back.’
‘Who did?’
‘The little wash-bears.’
‘Stop going on about little wash-bears! Papa told me they don’t exist. Are you thirsty?’
‘Yes.’
I opened my bag and got out the bottle. ‘Here you are.’
‘Come here.’ He lifted the blanket.
I made a face. ‘Under there?’ The idea rather gave me the creeps. But at least I would be able to see if he still had both his ears in place.
He started touching me. ‘How old are you?’ He ran his hands over my nose, my mouth, my eyes.
I was paralysed. ‘Nine. What about you?’
‘Nine.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘The twelfth of September. And yours?’
‘The twentieth of November.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Michele. Michele Amitrano. What year are you in at school?’
‘The fourth. What about you?’
‘The fourth.’
‘Same.’
‘Same.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
I gave him the bottle.
He drank. ‘That’s good. Do you want some?’
I drank too. ‘Can I lift the blanket a bit?’ The heat and smell were stifling me.
‘Only a bit though.’
I pulled it away just far enough to get some air and look at his face.
It was black. Filthy. His fine blond hair had mingled with the earth to form a hard dry mat. Clotted blood had sealed up his eyelids. His lips were black and split. His nostrils were blocked up with snot and scabs.
‘Can I wash your face?’ I asked him.
He craned his neck and raised his head and a smile opened on his battered lips. All his teeth had gone black.
I took off my T-shirt, moistened it with the water and started to clean his face.
Where I washed, the skin became white, so white it seemed transparent, like the flesh of a boiled fish. First on the forehead, then on the cheeks.
When I bathed his eyes he said: ‘Careful, it hurts.’
‘I’ll be car
eful.’
I couldn’t loosen the scabs. They were hard and thick. But I knew they were like the scabs dogs get. When you take them off, dogs can see again. I kept bathing them, softening them, till one eyelid rose and immediately shut again. Just an instant, enough for a ray of light to strike his eye.
‘Aaaahhhaaa!’ he shouted and stuck his head under the blanket like an ostrich.
I shook him. ‘See? See? You’re not blind! You’re not blind at all!’
‘I can’t keep them open.’
‘That’s because you’re always in the dark. But you can see, can’t you?’
‘Yes! You’re small.’
‘I’m not small. I’m nine years old.’
‘You’ve got black hair.’
‘That’s right.’
It was very late. I would have to go home. ‘But now I’ve got to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.’
With his head under the blanket he said: ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
When the old man came into my room I was just getting organized to foil the monsters.
When I was small I always dreamed about monsters. And even now, as an adult, I sometimes dream about them, but I can’t foil them any more.
They would just be waiting for me to fall asleep so they could frighten me.
Till, one night, I invented a way of not having night-mares.
I found a place where I could lock those misshapen terrifying creatures up and sleep serenely.
I would relax and wait for my eyelids to get heavy, and when I was on the point of dropping off, just at that precise moment, I would imagine I could see them walking, all together, up a slope. Like in the procession of the Madonna at Lucignano.
The Wicked Witch, hunchbacked and wrinkled. The four-legged werewolf with his torn clothes and white fangs. The bogeyman, a shadow who slithered like a snake among the stones. Lazarus, a corpse-eater, devoured by insects and enveloped in a cloud of flies. The ogre, a giant with small eyes and the goitre, great big shoes and a sack full of children on his back. The gypsies, foxlike creatures that walked on hens’ feet. The man with the circle, a guy with an electric-blue tracksuit and a circle of light that he could throw a long, long way. The fish-man, who lived in the depths of the sea and carried his mother on his shoulders. The octopus boy, who was born with tentacles instead of legs and arms.
They all advanced together. Towards some indeterminate point. They were terrifying. And indeed nobody stopped to look at them.
Suddenly a bus appeared, it was all golden, with bells and little coloured lights. On its roof was a megaphone that blared out: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, come aboard this bus of desires! Come aboard this magnificent bus, it’ll take you all to the circus and you won’t have to pay a lira! Free trips to the circus today! All aboard! All aboard!’