Authors: Niccolo Ammaniti
Another text message.
It was the third since that morning.
Stop it. Stop doing it, please.
He felt stifled. He loosened the knot of his tie with his coldnumbed fingers, and then, on an impulse, picked up the little handset
and squeezed it tightly. The bluish light of the display gleamed
between his fingers like a radioactive element.
He had to restrain himself from smashing it against a wall. With
his eyes closed he breathed in. He opened them again.
MULTIMEDIA MESSAGE
DO YOU WISH TO RECEIVE IT?
Despite instinct, reason and logic, despite his stomach, his throat,
the blood that was pulsing in his veins, the hair that was standing
up on his head, his trembling hands and even his sagging knees,
despite the fact that everything was telling him no, no, and again
no, the social worker saw his thumb, anarchic and self-destructive,
press the green key.
Slowly an image began to form on the phone's little screen and
Beppe Trecca's soul started burning like newspaper.
Ida was smiling at him a little sulkily, like a little girl whose sweets
had been taken away.
Underneath were the words:
Darling, will you call me? O
"You're praying for a loved one, aren't you?"
Quattro Formaggi, on his knees, turned toward the voice behind
him.
He saw a dark form hidden by the gloom of the chapel.
The figure took a step forward.
It was a little man. He must have been about four feet high. A
big dwarf. With a round head set between two sloping shoulders.
Blue eyes that gleamed like two little lights. Fair hair combed across
a balding head. Ears small and crumpled. He wore a gray flannel
suit. His pants, which were too short for him, were held up by a
leather belt with a heavy silver buckle. A diamond-patterned shirt
covered, like an air balloon, his distended stomach. He had a black
leather briefcase under one arm.
"Are you praying for someone who is suffering?"
He had a quiet voice and a guttural R. But no particular
accent.
The little man knelt down beside him. Quattro Formaggi could
smell his scent. It was like that soap they used in the public toilets,
which gave him a headache.
"May I join you in prayer?"
He nodded, continuing to stare at the weeping statue of the
Madonna. He was about to get up and leave, but the man grabbed
hold of his wrist and, looking him in the eye, said: "You do know,
don't you, that our Lord carries off the best people to take them to
His home? And that His will is to us, poor sinners, as obscure as
the darkest of winter nights?"
Quattro Formaggi knelt there, open-mouthed. The little man's
blue eyes bored into him like drills.
What if this man had been sent by God? What if he was the messenger who would tell him everything and clear up the muddle in
his head?
"You do know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," Quattro Formaggi found himself answering. His voice
trembled and the world around him seemed to go blurred and then
come back into focus, as if someone was playing with the lens of a
camera. The pain in his shoulder grew more acute, and at the same
time the sounds from the entrance hall seemed to stop. Now the loudspeakers were emitting piano music played with the lightest of touches.
"It is faith that sustains us and helps us to bear the pain."
The little man was looking at him with a wise and kindly expression, and Quattro Formaggi couldn't help smiling.
"But sometimes faith alone is not enough. Something more is
needed. Something that can put us in contact with God. On speaking
terms. As we might be with a friend. May I ask what your name is?"
Quattro Formaggi realized that his throat was dry. He swallowed.
"My name is ... Corrado Rumitz..." He summoned up his courage.
"Though everyone calls me Quattro Formaggi. I'm tired of that name."
"Quattro Formaggi," said the other, gravely.
It was the first time in his life that someone hadn't laughed when
he'd told them his nickname.
"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you, Corrado. My name's
Riccardo, but I too have a nickname. Ricky."
Ricky's eyes seemed to grow so big that they filled his whole face.
"May we exchange a sign of peace?"
"A sign of peace?"
The little man hugged him tightly and remained in that position
for a long time, squeezing his bruised ribs. Quattro Formaggi forced
himself not to scream with pain.
When he released him, Ricky seemed moved. "Thank you.
Sometimes the mere embrace of a stranger is enough to make us
feel that God loves us. Sometimes faith is not enough for us to enter
the graces of the Lord. Often it takes something more. Often we
need..." He looked at his hand, inspired. "We need a direct line to
communicate with the Almighty. I'll show you something." Ricky
picked up his briefcase from the floor and with his short, stumpy
fingers opened it quickly. "You're lucky to have met me today. My
instinct, or perhaps the will of God himself, always leads me to
people who are in need of help." The tone of his voice had dropped
even lower, if that was possible, and now it was difficult to understand what he was saying.
He took out a little case covered with blue velvet and opened it
in front of Quattro Formaggi. Inside, cushioned on white satin, was
a small, rusty crucifix attached to a thin golden chain. "Corrado,
you know about Lourdes, don't you?"
Quattro Formaggi knew that once a month a big silver coach left
from Piazza Bologna for Lourdes and many people went there, especially the elderly, and the trip cost two hundred euros and took
eighteen hours, there and back. When you got there they took you
to buy frying pans and porcelain, then you prayed in a cave and
there was holy water which could miraculously cure you if you
bathed in it. He had thought of going there, for his tics. "Yes," he
replied, nervously scratching his beard. His right leg, in the meantime, had begun to twitch of its own accord.
"Haven't you ever been there?" The little man's blue eyes stared
at him with such intensity that Quattro Formaggi, in alarm, started
screwing up his lips. He couldn't speak, he felt as if a thin black
tentacle was winding itself round his neck.
He shook his head.
"But you do know about the miraculous water of the Madonna
of Lourdes...?"
He nodded.
"And you know that that water has cured cripples, paralytics and
people in all conditions, patients considered to be terminally ill by
conventional medicine?" Ricky's voice slid down into his ears like
warm oil. "Do you see this crucifix? To look at it, you wouldn't think
it was worth a cent. All rusty. Ugly. There are hundreds of crucifixes in any jeweller's shop that are worth a hundred times more. Made of
platinum, with diamonds or other precious stones. But not one of
them, I tell you not one of them, is like this one. This one is special."
He took it between his thumb and forefinger and picked it up as delicately as if it was a splinter of wood from Noah's ark. "I don't suppose you know that the cloistered nuns of the convent of the Madonna
of Lourdes have a secret pool of miraculous water..."
Why did he keep asking him if he knew this or that? He didn't
know anything.
"No," replied Quattro Formaggi.
Ricky smiled, displaying a row of teeth that were too white and
regular to be natural. "Of course you don't; nobody does. Except
the people who really count, as always. For thousands of years popes
with tumors, dying kings and sick politicians have bathed in that
pool brimming with miraculous water. A few years ago the Prime
Minister was seriously ill. Cancer was devouring him, just as a serpent eats an egg. Do you know how a serpent eats an egg? Like
this..." He opened his mouth wide, with his eyes narrowed to two
black slits, and swallowed an invisible egg.
Quattro Formaggi tightened his throat. He would have liked to say
that he didn't give a damn about the sacred pool. That all he needed
to know was where Ramona's corpse had got to. But he didn't have
the courage, and besides, his lips, his teeth and his tongue had gone
numb, like that time when he'd had a rotten molar extracted.
"Anyway, the Prime Minister was taken to the secret pool and
swam in it. For a mere ten minutes. No more. A couple of lengths,
in freestyle. And the cancer vanished. Dissolved. The doctors couldn't
believe it. And now he's fine." The little dwarf dangled the crucifix
in front of him like a hypnotist. "Now look at it! You won't believe
what I'm going to tell you, but it's as true as the fact that we're here
at this moment. Do you know how long it lay in that pool? For ten
years. I'm not joking. Ten long years. While the world was changingwars were breaking out, the Twin Towers were falling, Italy was
being invaded by illegal immigrants-this crucifix lay immersed in
the miraculous water." He sounded as if he was doing a commercial
for a pure malt Scotch whisky. "It was a nun ... Sister Maria. She
hid it in one of the pool's skimmers and then secretly gave it to me.
Do you see it? That's why it's so dull and tarnished. I tell no lies. Now just think how potent the healing effect of this object must be.
From the pool it went straight into this box. Nobody has ever hung
it around their neck. And do you know why? So that it wouldn't
lose its potency. This crucifix can't be recharged like a cell phone.
Once it comes into contact with the sufferer's skin it begins to
emanate its ..." For the first time Ricky couldn't find the words.
But he immediately recovered: "... healingness ... Ability to heal, I
mean. But the important thing is never to take it off. Never to
exchange it with anyone. And not to talk about it." He stared at
Quattro Formaggi and then fired a question at him: "Why are you
here? For your own sake, Corrado? Or for someone else's?"
Quattro Formaggi, who had slowly sunk down onto a bench,
bowed his head and said: "No, not for my sake. Rino's in a coma."
He had to break off to clear his throat and then he went on: "I
need to speak to him. I need to know..."
"He's in a coma." Ricky stroked his cheeks pensively. "Well, with
this crucifix he might even wake up in one day. He might easily. Do
you know what it means to have such an immense amount of divine
energy discharged into you? He might even get straight out of bed,
pick up his things and go home, as right as rain."
"Really?"
"I can't guarantee it. It might take a bit longer. But it's worth
trying. This is a wonderful opportunity for you-don't let it slip.
There's just one problem..."
"What's that?"
"You have to make a offering."
"What kind of offering?"
"Some money for the Sisters of Lourdes. It's..."
"How much?" Quattro Formaggi interrupted him.
"How much have you got?"
"I don't know..." He put his hand in the back pocket of his
pants and took out his wallet, which was full to bursting with all
kinds of paper except money. He rummaged through it and eventually extracted one twenty-euro and one five-euro note.
"Is that all you've got?" Ricky's voice couldn't conceal all his disappointment.
"Yes. I'm sorry. Wait a minute, though. Perhaps..." Quattro
Formaggi took out of his wallet an envelope, folded in half. The money from the last job he'd done with Rino and Danilo. Four hundred euros.
He hadn't even touched it... "I've got this. Take it." He held out the
banknotes, and the little man, with a deadpan expression, snatched
them as quick as a ferret and handed him the velvet case.
"Remember, in contact with the skin. And don't talk about it to
anyone. Otherwise, bang goes the miracle."
A second later Quattro Formaggi was alone again.
I can't call you or see you again.
Forgive me.
So Beppe Trecca, in tears, had written on his cell phone.
Now he only had to press the key and Ida would get over it. She
would think he was a coward.
`Beppe, do you really want me?"
"Yes, I really do."
"Even with the children?"
"Yes, of course. "
"Then let's go through with it. Let's talk to Mario and tell him
everything."
"All right. I'll speak to him."
He would far rather be thought a chicken-shit than a bastard
who disappeared without a word.
But he couldn't do it. He would be breaking the agreement.
Perhaps he ought to speak to someone who was expert in pledges
and vows to the Lord. Someone who had taken a vow like him.
Father Marcello.
He must make confession and tell him everything. Though he
doubted if the priest would give him the answer he wanted.
He threw his head back on the sofa, gulping down air with
every sob. He stared through his tears at his phone. And then,
with twisted guts, he deleted the message.
Quattro Formaggi opened the blue box, but didn't touch the crucifix.
The messenger had said it would lose its power if he did.
He must put it on Rino, so he would come out of his coma and
tell him where Ramona was hidden.
But Rino was very angry. He had gone berserk when he had seen
the corpse.
He almost beat me to death.
What if Rino reported him to the police?
The most dangerous people are always your friends. People you
trust.
At one time Quattro Formaggi had worked for a while in a
fish shop. He gutted the fish and made home deliveries. Every
day polystyrene boxes full of large clams were unloaded. The
clams were still alive; you only had to drop them in the tank,
and ten minutes later they would put out a long white tube
through which they would suck in water and oxygen. The lightest
touch on the shell with the point of a knife was enough to make
them snap shut and stay closed for at least an hour. But then,
when they reopened, if you touched them again they would only
stay closed for half an hour. And if you kept on prodding them
like this they would eventually get used to it and stop closing
altogether.