The Crossroads

  His father slowly turned his head, a mask which the television screen had painted light blue. ‘Have you been at home, then?’

  Cristiano, as stiff as a statue, gripped the banister. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t see any light in your room.’

  ‘I was asleep,’ he improvised.

  ‘Ah!’

  Emergency over. Rino was so drunk he wasn’t interested in what he was doing. He took another step.

  ‘There should be some mortadella left. Could you bring it to me with some bread?’ Rino went on.

  ‘Can’t you get it yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh come on. Is it such a big effort?’

  ‘I’ll get it for you,’ Quattro Formaggi offered.

  ‘No, you stay where you are. If a father asks his son for some mortadella, his son goes and gets the mortadella. That’s the way it works. What’s the point of having children, otherwise?’ He had raised his voice. Either he was in one of his bad moods or he had a headache.

  Cristiano came back down the stairs, muttering to himself, and went to fetch the mortadella. There was one single slice left in the desolate fridge.

  Then he got the bread. Still hidden in the shadows, he approached his father.

  But just as he was handing it to him, misfortune struck again. On the television some guy gave the right answer to the twenty-thousand euro question, whereupon two thousand million-volt light-bulbs lit up all at once, flooding the lounge with light.

  Cristiano lowered his eyelids, and when he raised them again his father’s expression had changed.

  ‘What’s the matter with your lip?’

  ‘Nothing. What do you mean?’ He covered it with his hands.

  ‘And what are those scratches on your hands?’

  ‘I fell over.’

  ‘How?’

  Out of the void of Cristiano’s mind came the first, foolish lie. ‘I slipped on the stairs. It’s nothing,’ he said, airily.

  His father eyed him suspiciously. ‘On the stairs? And you made such a mess of yourself? What did you do, fall all the way down?’

  ‘Yes … I tripped over my shoelaces …’

  ‘How the fuck did you do that? It looks like someone’s punched you in the mouth …’

  ‘No … I just fell down …’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  It was impossible to con his father. He had a special gift for spotting untruths. He used to say lies stank and he could smell them at a distance of a hundred metres. And he always saw through you. How he managed it Cristiano didn’t know. He suspected it had something to do with that quiver of the jaw which he could never control when he was lying to him.

  It was strange – with everyone else he was brilliant at lying. He could spin the most outrageous yarns with such self-assurance that nobody doubted him. But with his father it was different, he just couldn’t do it, he felt those black eyes boring through him in search of the truth.

  And at that moment Cristiano wasn’t in the right frame of mind to stand up to an interrogation.

  His legs were still trembling and his stomach was churning. A wise little voice told him that the only person who could get him out of that mess with the thousand euros was his father.

  Fatally, he lowered his head and, almost in a whisper, confessed: ‘It’s not true. I didn’t fall down. I had a fight …’

  Rino sat in silence for a long time, breathing through his nose, then switched off the television. He swallowed saliva. ‘And by the look of it you came off worst.’

  Cristiano nodded.

  He shouldn’t have spoken, because he could feel that all the strength he had been using to stop himself crying was exhausted. Coils of barbed wire seemed to be wrapped round his throat.

  He lifted up his sweatshirt to show his grazed back.

  His father looked at him expressionlessly for a moment, then started rubbing his hands over his face like someone who’s just heard that his whole family has been killed in a road accident.

  Cristiano wished he hadn’t told him the truth.

  Rino Zena looked up at the ceiling and asked, very politely: ‘Would you mind leaving us, Quattro Formaggi?’ He breathed hard. ‘I need to be alone with my son.’

  He’s going to give me a thrashing … thought Cristiano.

  Quattro Formaggi got up without a word, put on his old overcoat, and, with an incomprehensible grimace at Cristiano, went out.

  When the door was closed Rino stood up and switched on all the lights in the sitting room. Then he went over to Cristiano and examined his wounds and his mouth, as if he was checking a horse at the market.

  ‘Does your back hurt?’

  ‘A bit …’

  ‘Can you bend down?’

  Cristiano leaned forward. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not serious, then. What about your leg?’

  ‘Yes, I can bend it.’

  ‘Your hands?’

  ‘They’re okay.’

  Rino paced silently round the room, then sat down on a chair. He lit a cigarette and stared at him. ‘And how about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you hurt him?’ He only had to look his son in the eye for the answer. ‘The hell you did!’ He shook his head in despair. ‘You … you don’t know how to fight, do you?’ It was a revelation. ‘You really don’t know how to.’ He sounded half scandalized, half ashamed of himself. As if he had failed to teach his offspring to talk, or to walk. As if he had fathered a son with a fatal allergy to gluten and then forced him to gorge himself on bread.

  ‘But …’ Cristiano tried to interrupt him, to explain exactly who Tekken was. But his father was in full flow.

  ‘It’s my fault. It’s my fault.’ Now he was walking round with his head in his hands like a penitent at Lourdes. ‘He doesn’t know how to defend himself. It’s my fault. I’m a failure …’

  God knows how long he would have gone on like this if Cristiano hadn’t shouted, ‘Papa! Papa!’

  Rino stopped. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’s eighteen years old … and he’s an expert at Thai boxing. He won the regional championships.’

  His father looked at him blankly. ‘Who is?’

  ‘Tekken!’

  ‘Who the fuck is Tekken?’

  ‘The guy who beat me up.’

  Rino grabbed him by the collar. His face was contorted, his nostrils flared, his mouth clamped shut. He raised his fist. Cristiano instinctively shielded his head with his arms. Rino held him there, hesitating, then gave him a shove, so that he fell back onto the sofa.

  ‘You’re a stupid little prick. You believe all that crap about martial arts experts being good at fighting. What have you learned about life? Where do you get all this bullshit from? Wait a minute, I know! You believe everything you see on TV and you try to be like them. That’s it, isn’t it? You watch those cartoons where people do kung fu and all that kind of crap and you think it’s clever to act like Bruce Lee or some other Chinese moron, prancing about like an acrobat and shouting ha all the fucking time instead of fighting. You’ve got no idea! Do you know what it really takes to be good at fighting? Well, do you or don’t you?’

  Cristiano shook his head.

  ‘It’s so simple. Meanness. Meanness, Cristiano! All you have to do is be a son of a bitch and not give a shit about anyone. Even if you’re up against Jesus Christ raging about in the temple, with steam coming out of his ears, if you know what you’re doing you can knock him down like a skittle. You walk up behind him, you say, “Excuse me?”, he turns round, you hit him in the face with an iron bar and he goes down, and then, if you feel like it, while he’s on the ground you give him a kick in the teeth, and that’s it. Amen. Or suppose some guy’s fucking you around, jostling you and threatening you and trying to scare you by doing some of those kung fu moves, you know what you have to do? Nothing. You just stay where you are. Then,’ he pointed one foot forward, ‘you place your foot like this. And when he moves in closer you head-bu
tt him on the nose. Like you were heading a football, using all the force of your neck and shoulders. Only make sure you hit him with this part here, or you’ll hurt yourself.’ He touched the top of his forehead. ‘If you do it right, you won’t feel a thing. You might be a bit sore the next day, but that’s all. He’ll go down and then it’s the same routine – a kick in the teeth and bob’s your uncle. I defy anyone to get up after that, even this jerk Tekker or whatever his name is … But you have to be decisive and you have to be mean, do you understand? Now come here.’

  Cristiano looked at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just come here.’

  Hesitantly, Cristiano obeyed.

  ‘Head-butt me. Show me how you’d do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said head-butt me.’

  Cristiano was incredulous. ‘Me? You want me to head-butt you?’

  His father seized his wrist. ‘Who else? Get on with it, for fuck’s sake.’

  Cristiano tried to break away. ‘No … Please … I don’t want to … I can’t.’

  Rino gripped his arm more tightly. ‘Now listen to me carefully. Nobody’s going to beat you up ever again. Nobody in the whole wide world is going to even think about doing it. You’re not a little fairy who lets himself be kicked around by the first pillock he meets. I wish I could help you – you don’t know how much I wish I could – but I can’t. You’ve got to fight your own battles. And there’s only one way of doing that: you’ve got to become mean.’ He felt his arm. ‘You’re too nice. You’re soft. You’re not angry enough. You’re made of cotton wool. Where are your balls?’ He shook him, as if he was a rag doll. ‘So go ahead and nut me. Don’t think about me being your father, don’t think about anything, just think that you’re going to hurt me and that I’m going to spend the rest of my days regretting that I once had the stupid idea of picking a fight with you. Don’t you see that once you’ve whipped a couple of the bastards word will get round that you’re a son of a bitch and nobody will ever bother you again? I’m doing it for your sake. If you can’t head-butt me you’ll never be able to do it to anyone else.’ He pointed to his nose with both forefingers and said: ‘So let me have it!’

  There was no alternative. Cristiano knew it. He was going to have to give him that head-butt.

  He pointed his foot forward, drew back his head, shut his eyes and jerked his head forwards. He hit his father on the bridge of the nose and heard a nasty sound, like that of teeth crunching on chicken bones. All he felt was a slight tingling in the middle of his forehead.

  Rino took a step backwards, like a boxer who’s taken an uppercut to the jaw, put his hand to his nose, stifled a yell and went purple in the face. When he took his hand away there were two trickles of blood coming out of his nostrils.

  Cristiano embraced him. ‘I’m sorry, papa, I’m sorry …’ Rino hugged him tightly, stroked his hair and said in a strangled voice: ‘That’s my boy! I think you’ve broken my nose.’

  54

  While Rino Zena was stuffing two bits of cotton wool up his nostrils, Cristiano sat on the toilet watching him, and reflected that the problem, all things considered, remained exactly the same as before.

  Okay, he had learned to give a head-butt, but if after vandalising Tekken’s motorbike he had gone on to give him a head-butt, the rest of the gang would have grabbed him and dragged him up and down the highway to their hearts’ content.

  But what he found most amazing was that his father hadn’t asked him what the fight had been about. The question hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  All he cares about is that nobody hits his son.

  To be honest, the beating he had taken had been richly deserved. Cristiano would have done exactly the same if someone had wrecked his motorbike.

  He put his hand on his forehead.

  What if I tell him about the thousand euros?

  It would mean telling him the whole story. He just didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said his father in a Donald Duck-like voice, as he dried his face.

  ‘What for?’

  Rino changed his T-shirt. ‘What do you mean, what for? We’re going to find your kick-boxing champion and show him what a big mistake he made when he beat you up.’

  Cristiano felt like throwing up. It wasn’t possible. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Certainly not. You must never let these things drag on. If someone hits you, you must hit back straight away. And, as the Bible says, seven times harder.’

  ‘Do we really have do it right now?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you want to be thought of as someone who takes a beating and keeps his mouth shut … This kind of problem has to be dealt with immediately.’

  Cristiano objected disconsolately: ‘But he’ll be with the others …’

  Rino started jumping up and down like a boxer who’s about to enter the ring. ‘So much the better. They’ll all see that nobody messes with Cristiano Zena.’

  ‘But what if the others defend him?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that … I’ll be with you.’ A wild elation shone in his father’s eyes.

  ‘Suppose he reports me to the police …? I’ll be in the shit …’

  His father went through into the sitting room without replying.

  Cristiano followed, imploring him. ‘Please, papa. You know Trecca … He’s just looking for an excuse to put me into care.’

  Rino went over to the stove, where there was a pile of firewood. He selected a piece about seventy centimetres long and swung it approvingly through the air like a baseball bat.

  ‘Good! Now you’re going to give him this prime piece of beechwood smack in the teeth.’

  ‘I’m not coming, papa.’ Cristiano shook his head dejectedly and threw himself on the sofa. ‘You’re always saying we mustn’t do anything stupid. I’m staying at home … I’m not interested. You can go if you want to … You said I’ve got to solve my own problems … I will. Please put down that stick. You look stupid …’

  ‘Listen to me. Do you think your father’s a fool? Your father may not look like a thinker, but he is.’ He tapped his temple with his finger. ‘This brain still works pretty well, so you’ve got to do as I say. Relax. Don’t worry. Leave everything to me.’ He gripped his son’s arms. ‘He’s eighteen and you’re thirteen. He’s an adult and you’re a minor. He’s the one who’ll be in the shit. And he started it … The way I see it, you’re simply sticking up for yourself. And afterwards, if he has any problem …’ he took the pistol out of the drawer in the dresser, ‘we’ll introduce him to this young lady here. One sight of her pointing right at his face would be enough.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts!’

  Rino picked up the bottle of grappa from the table, gulped down a quarter of it and uttered a kind of roar. ‘Drink some of this. It’ll give you courage.’

  Cristiano took a swig. He felt the alcohol burning his guts and realised that Tekken was for it.

  55

  Three times, on the way to Varrano, Cristiano felt the urge to come clean, and three times he did no more than imagine his confession.

  Papa, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. … Look, I wrecked his motorbike … That’s why he beat me up. I did a thousand euros’ worth of damage to his bike, when he hadn’t done anything to me.

  It was the truth. Tekken had never touched him. He had picked on a lot of other people outside the school, but never him. He had never even spoken to him. Until that evening Tekken probably hadn’t even known he existed.

  When they caught up with him, Tekken would say Cristiano had wrecked his motorbike and his father would find out …

  What a mess.

  But when they got to the mall it was closed. The gates locked. The illuminations switched off. The towers black. The expanse of asphalt lashed by the rain, which had started dancing in the beams from the spotlights again. Tekken had even removed his motorbike.

  Cristiano heaved a sigh of relief. ‘He’s
not here. Let’s go home.’

  But the only reply was: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find him.’

  They started driving round the village. The bar. The high street. The other main roads. It was only a quarter past nine, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

  His father drove in fits and starts, wrenched the gears, broke all the rules in the highway code. ‘Where the fuck has he got to?’

  ‘He’s probably gone home. Why don’t we just forget it? It’s late.’

  The streets were empty and the rain was drumming on the roof of the van.

  They stopped at the side of the highway. Rino lit his umpteenth cigarette. ‘What shall we do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  His father sat in silence, touching his swollen nose.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home,’ Cristiano advised him.

  So they set off, but just to make quite sure, Rino decided to do one more circuit round the village. He passed the church, went along the residential streets with their rows of illuminated cottages with tidy gardens and with station wagons and four-by-fours parked outside, and then, finally, drove back out onto the deserted highway. Every hundred metres the streetlamps threw yellow rings on the asphalt and the windscreen wipers worked frantically to keep the glass dry.

  Cristiano was about to tell him to head for the takeaway when he saw, on the other side of the highway, a black-clad figure pushing a motorbike in the rain.

  Tekken.

  His windproof jacket soaked. His tyres slashed. What a struggle he must be having. He was all alone on the highway … There wasn’t even the risk of being seen, let alone of being caught by the police.

  Tekken would shit himself with fright and withdraw his demand for the money. But Cristiano would have to be quick – jump out of the van and hit him with the club before he had time to react.

  He counted up to three and then shouted, bouncing up and down on the seat: ‘I saw him! Papa, I saw him!’

  ‘Where? Where?’ Rino roused himself from his lethargy.

  ‘On the other side of the road. We just passed him. He’s on foot. Turn round! Turn round!’

  ‘Fantastic! You son of a bitch, we found you in the end!’ shouted Rino, and without so much as a glance in the mirror he did a U-turn, with screeching tyres. ‘Is he alone?’