Authors: Niccolo Ammaniti
He had told him everything. The night. Ida. Mario. The accident.
The African. The vow. The miracle. It had been a liberation.
The friar had listened to him in silence.
He spread his arms. "My son, what can I say ... A vow is a solemn
commitment that is made before God. Breaking it is a very serious
matter." He looked him straight in the eye. "Very serious. Everything
else must take second place, whatever the cost..."
Trecca, dismayed, pushed back a St. Bernard which had mistaken
him for a lollipop. "Not even a text message, then?"
The friar shook his head. "God has illuminated you. He has given
you the chance not to take the wrong road. You would have wrecked
a family and hurt your friend. The Lord has put you back on track.
You have been very fortunate. Every time you feel the temptation to
break your vow you must pray, and you will find the strength to resist."
The social worker puffed out his cheeks. "I have. I have prayed.
But I can't help myself. She's part of me. The only possible life I see
is by her side."
The friar grabbed hold of his wrist and squeezed it tightly. "Now
stop it, young man! Listen to me. You have been chosen by the
Eternal Father. Your prayer has been answered. You have been the
witness of something immense. Do you think God performs miracles every day? Forget that woman. Now you have a mission. To
tell your story to others as you have just told it to me." And then,
in the grip of a sudden excitement, he began shaking his arm. "Now
you're coming with me."
Beppe shrank back, wide-eyed, and asked: "Where to, father?"
"To Switzerland. To Saint-Oyen, and the Hospice on the Great
St. Bernard Pass. I must introduce you to my superiors. Do you
realize how useful your story could be to the young? In this society that has lost its faith you are like a beacon that shines in the darkness. That is the purpose of miracles-to restore hope."
Trecca freed himself from his grip. "An excellent idea. Just let
me go and lock my car. I'll be right back."
Cristiano Zena and the Carrion Man knelt down beside Rino's bed.
The rain beat against the thermal window panes without making a
sound. Now and then a nurse came in and flitted across the room
in the half-light like a ghost.
Rino, lying in the same position in which Cristiano had left him,
seemed to have got a little color back in his face, and the two purple
bruises around his eyes were turning scarlet.
Quattro Formaggi (Cristiano couldn't think of him by that
other stupid name) was holding Rino's hand. "Do you think he
can hear us?"
Cristiano shrugged: "I don't think so ... I don't know ... No..."
He must tell Quattro Formaggi about the woods. About Rino and
Fabiana. He was the only person he could tell, the only one who
would understand. He summoned up his courage. "Listen ...
There's something I've got to tell you..." But he stopped. Quattro
Formaggi was staring at Rino intensely, as if communicating with
him, then, without turning, he said: "Your father's wonderful."
"Why?
Quattro Formaggi screwed up his lips. "Because he saved me."
"When?"
He started scratching his cheek. "He always has. Even the very
first time we met in the children's home. They'd put me in a barrel
and were rolling me along. And he came along and saved me. He
didn't even know me."
Cristiano in fact knew very little about the years of the children's
home, when those two had first met. Rino had told him that in
those days Quattro Formaggi hadn't had his tics and his lame leg,
he had just been a little odd.
"He helped me later, too, when I was electrocuted down by the
river ... When I came out of the hospital I walked on crutches. And
he used to drive me around. One day he took me to a bit of waste
land, where the Opel accessories outlet now is, and he took away
my crutches and said that if I wanted to get home I would have to
walk there without any crutches. And that if I couldn't do that I
would have to crawl on my hands and knees, that he was fed up
with helping me, that I could walk perfectly well and that the problems were only in my rotten head."
"And then?"
"Then he got in his car and drove off and left me there."
"And what happened?"
"I lay there in the middle of the field for a long time. Some high tension wires passed over my head, very high up, and I could hear the
sound of the electricity flowing fast. And those cables, when you looked
at them from the ground, one beside the other, were like the strings of
a guitar. Luckily I had a couple of Kinder Buenos with me. I ate them.
Then, while I was there, on the ground, I saw a black figure, with a
hunched back, standing among the ears of wheat. It was a monster. It
stood quite still and looked at me. It wore a kind of long black suit
and its face was like that of a rook. With a black beak, and wings
here," he pointed to his shoulders. "It didn't do anything to me. But it
looked at me with those evil little eyes. And it had arms with very long
sleeves that reached down to the ground. Then it came closer and there
were the ends of crutches sticking out of its sleeves, with those plastic
tips that stop you slipping." He paused for breath. "It was death."
Cristiano had kept silent throughout his tale, but couldn't help
asking: "Was it papa playing a trick on you?"
"No. It was death. It was waiting for me to die. But I closed my
eyes and then when I opened them again it wasn't there any more.
So I got to my feet and started walking. I said to my legs: `Walk!
Walk!' and they walked. And there in front of me was your father
smoking a cigarette on the hood of the Renault 5. And I turned
around and death wasn't there any more."
"It was you who drove it away when you started walking."
"No. It was your father. It was your father who drove it away."
Cristiano grasped the hands of Rino and Quattro Formaggi, put
his face against the sheet and started sobbing.
The Carrion Man stroked the head of the sobbing Cristiano and
stared in terror at a dark corner of the room.
He hadn't told the whole story. But he couldn't. Death was there
with them. He could see him. He was in the room. He was lurking
in the corner, to the right. Behind the carts with the monitors on
them. It looked like a shadow, but it was him. He was identicalhe had the same form as death in the field, the same beak, the same
wings on his shoulders, the same long arms ending in aluminum
crutches.
The Carrion Man was terrified. All the saliva had gone from his
mouth.
I know, you've come for Rino. You've come to take him.
"Can you believe that? Saint-Oyen, the Hospice, the St. Bernards!"
Beppe Trecca was driving along and talking out loud. "The guy
thought I was going to go with him to Switzerland, into the mountains, to make a complete asshole of myself talking about Ida and
the camper. Do me a favor!"
He had got into his car, shot past the friar, who was letting his
dogs out for a pee, and disappeared into the distance.
For safety's sake he checked in the mirror to see if the guy was
following him. There was nobody in sight.
The friar had been very clear, though: the vow could not be
broken. It was a very serious matter. He had looked at him with an
unequivocal expression, the same expression the Lord would wear
when Beppe found himself knocking at the gates of heaven. So no
contact with Ida, no text messages, no multimedia messages, no letters or anything of that kind.
The truth was that nobody could help him. This problem was
his alone. And he was going to have to solve it with his conscience
as a man and as a believer.
And there was only one way of solving it. To go away.
He would take Cristiano next day to the judge and then, after
packing his bags, go back to Ariccia and from there fly to Africa.
He stopped in front of the hospital just as Cristiano and Quattro
Formaggi were coming out.
He's going to hear me this time.
He honked his horn.
And he cursed himself. He had forgotten there were sick people
in there.
Cristiano came over. His eyes were red.
He must have been crying.
The desire to bawl him out had passed.
He opened the door and let him in.
Cristiano Zena was woken up at six o'clock in the morning by the
door of his father's bedroom softly banging, at regular intervals.
He's back.
Papa's come home.
It wasn't possible. He knew that even if his father woke up he
wouldn't be able to move from his bed. And yet he got up, hoping,
as a man falling from a skyscraper hopes he won't die, that it was
him.
Rino's room was empty.
The door was banging because the bathroom window was open
and there was a draft. He closed it. He went back into his bedroom,
drank some water, sat down at his table and wrote.
Hi papa,
If you're reading this letter I'm glad it means you've woken
up. I'm not here, I've gone to Milan. I ran away because they
wanted to put me in a home. They found a way of separating
us. You always said they were looking for an excuse and they
found one. Come and join me in Milan. I live in the tunnels
of the metro with 4 Formaggi.
4 Formaggi is very ill and I think he's not right in the head
either. He's scared they'll put him in a loony bin.
Danilo's dead. He was killed in a road accident.
Don't be angry if you don't find me here, I'm fine. Join me
in Milan. Or we can meet anywhere you like.
About that other thing-don't worry I've sorted it out but
don't talk to anyone it's important they don't suspect anything.
I haven't abandoned you. I'm only waiting for you.
I love you.
Cri
He re-read it and thought it was crap. It was a load of garbage, he
wanted to say millions of things but at that moment he couldn't
think of them. Anyway, that letter might be used by the police as
evidence and might help the social services find him.
He got to his feet and threw it in the toilet, then started
packing.
He would find another way of letting his father know that he
and Quattro Formaggi were in Milan.
While Cristiano was packing, the Carrion Man was in his own apartment, slumped in front of the television.
The fever was devouring him. He was immersed in a shroud of
sweat, he felt as if he was boiling. Five minutes earlier his teeth had
been chattering with cold.
His mouth was dry and his tongue was covered with cuts and ulcers.
I must call Cristiano and tell him I can't go to Milan today. If
we could put it off till tomorrow...
"I can't call him! He'd come here ... He'd discover the nativity
scene," he sighed.
During the night he had been delirious. He had watched the sheets
and the walls of the room become covered with daisies. Huge iron
daisies. He had started picking them, but they were too heavy to
hold in your hand.
He would have liked to switch off the television, which was
driving him crazy. But to do that he would have had to get up.
"The latest in a never-ending stream of ground-breaking products from the Gartner laboratories-the new Fructis hair cream,
which, when used in conjunction with the shampoo and balsam, help to protect and reinforce the scalp," someone was yelling from
inside the television.
The Carrion Man touched his hair. It hurt and pulsed as if it was
made of electric wire.
Then he started spreading that invisible cream on his head, slowly.
He felt relief, it was helping a lot and it would soon silence the
voices that roared in his head.
Cristiano Zena had filled his backpack with a few clothes, a jar of
pickles, the flashlight so that they could see in the tunnels, and all
the medicine he had found, to give to Quattro Formaggi.
He had a problem. Money. He had twenty-five euros in all, which
he had saved up to buy, at some far-off time in the future, a
PlayStation. That wouldn't get him to Milan. He had searched everywhere among his father's things, in all his pockets and drawers, and
had come up with another three euros.
Twenty-eight euros.
And Quattro Formaggi certainly wouldn't have a cent.
Where could he get more?
Beppe Trecca.
He went slowly down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as
possible.
The social worker was stretched out fast asleep on the sofa with
the television on in front of him. A blonde was explaining how to
make a lampshade out of nothing but shoelaces and buttons.
Then the commercials began.
Beppe had hung his pants and shirt on the back of a chair. And
on the floor, by the sofa, he had put his cell phone, his car keys and
his wallet.
Holding his breath, Cristiano bent down and picked it up.
He was about to open it when the theme tune of the TV news
struck up, followed by a summary.
"The funeral of the young girl Fabiana Ponticelli, who was
found yesterday in the waters of the Forgese, will take place today in the church of Varrano. The magistrate authorized her burial
after examining the results of the autopsy which was carried out
that same evening by Dr. Viotti..."
The image of Fabiana filled the whole screen.
Cristiano, with the wallet in his hand, froze.
It was a rather old photograph, she still had short hair and was
laughing.
"What are you doing?"
Cristiano jumped, and almost threw the wallet up in the air in fright.
Trecca was looking at him and yawning. "What are you doing
with my wallet?"
He was speechless, trying to think of an excuse. He mumbled:
"Oh, I just wanted to see if you had any money. I wanted to go
and get something for breakfast ... I was going to pay you back later.
Don't worry." And he laid the wallet on the chair.