I'm Not Scared (3 page)

He stood in front of her. He craned his neck. He wasn't all that much taller than Barbara. Or stronger. I wasn't so sure he would beat her all that easily if they had a fight. If Barbara threw him on the ground and jumped on him she might even smother him.

‘You lost. Now pull down your trousers. That'll teach you to fuck me around.'

‘No!'

Skull slapped her across the face.

Barbara opened her mouth like a trout and rubbed her cheek. She still wasn't crying. She turned towards us.

‘Haven't you lot got anything to say?' she whimpered. ‘You're just as bad as him!'

We remained silent.

‘All right then. But you'll never see me again. I swear it on my mother's head.'

‘What's the matter, are you crying?' Skull was revelling in it.

‘No, I'm not,' she managed to say, suppressing her sobs.

She was wearing green cotton trousers with brown patches on the knees, the sort you could buy at the flea market. They were too tight for her and her flab bulged out over the belt. She opened the buckle and started to undo her buttons.

I caught a glimpse of white knickers with little yellow flowers. ‘Wait! I came last,' I heard my voice saying.

Everyone turned.

‘Yes,' I gulped. ‘I want to do it.'

‘What?' Remo asked me.

‘The forfeit.'

‘No. She's got to,' Skull snapped at me. ‘It's nothing to do with you. Shut up.'

‘Yes it is. I came last. I've got to do it.'

‘No. I decide.' Skull came towards me.

My legs were shaking, but I hoped nobody would notice. ‘Let's have another vote.'

Salvatore got between me and Skull. ‘Second votes are allowed.'

We had certain rules and one of them was that second votes were allowed.

I raised my hand. ‘I do the forfeit.'

Salvatore put up his hand. ‘Michele does it.'

Barbara fastened her belt and sobbed. ‘He does it. It's only fair.'

Skull was caught by surprise, he stared at Remo with his mad eyes. ‘What do you say?'

Remo sighed: ‘Barbara does it.'

‘What shall I do?' asked Maria.

I nodded to her.

‘My brother does it.'

And Salvatore said: ‘Four-two. Michele's won. He does it.'

Getting up to the first floor of the house wasn't easy.

The stairway no longer existed. The steps had been reduced to a heap of stone blocks. I was working my way up by holding onto the branches of the fig tree. The brambles scratched my arms and legs. One thorn had grazed my right cheek.

Walking up the parapet was out of the question. If it had given way I would have fallen into a mass of nettles and briars.

This was the forfeit I had landed myself with by playing the hero.

‘You've got to climb up to the first floor. Get in. Go right across the house, jump out of the end window onto the tree and climb down.'

I had been afraid Skull would make me show my dick or poke
a stick up my arse, but instead he had chosen to make me do something dangerous, where the worst that could happen was that I might get hurt.

That was something, anyway.

I gritted my teeth and went on without complaining. The others were sitting under an oak enjoying the spectacle of Michele Amitrano risking his neck.

Every now and then a bit of advice arrived: ‘Go that way.' ‘You've got to keep straight on, it's full of brambles round there.' ‘Eat a blackberry, it'll do you good.'

I took no notice.

I was up on the balcony. There was a narrow space between the brambles and the wall. I squeezed through and got to the doorway. It was fastened with a chain but the padlock was eaten away by rust and had come open. I pushed one flap and with a metallic groan the doors gave way.

A great fluttering of wings. Feathers. A flock of pigeons took off and flew out through a hole in the roof.

‘What's it like? What's it like inside?' I heard Skull ask.

I didn't bother to reply. I went in, watching where I put my feet.

I was in a big room. A lot of roof tiles had fallen off and a beam was hanging down in the middle. In one corner there was a fireplace with a pyramid-shaped hood that was blackened by smoke. In another corner some furniture was piled up. An overturned rusty cooker. Bottles. Bits of crockery. Roof tiles. A broken bedspring. Everything was covered in pigeon shit. And there was a strong smell, an acrid stench that got right into your nose and throat. A forest of wild plants and weeds had sprung up through the tiled floor. At the other end of the room was a closed red door which no doubt led to the other rooms of the house.

That was the way I had to go.

I put one foot down, under my soles the beams creaked and the floor lurched. At the time I weighed about thirty-five kilos. About as much as a tank of water. I wondered if a tank of water, placed in the middle of that room, would bring the floor down. I didn't think I'd try it.

To reach the next door it was more prudent to keep right against the walls. Holding my breath, on tiptoe like a ballerina, I followed the perimeter of the room. If the floor gave way I would fall into the cowshed, after a drop of at least four metres. I could easily break a few bones.

But it didn't happen.

In the next room, which was about the same size as the kitchen, the floor had completely gone. At the sides it had collapsed and only a sort of bridge now connected my door to the one on the other side. Of the six beams that had supported the floor only the two middle ones were sound. The others were worm-eaten stumps.

I couldn't follow the walls. I would have to cross that bridge. The beams supporting it couldn't be in a much better condition than the others.

I was paralysed in the doorway. I couldn't turn back. They would taunt me with it for ever more. What if I jumped down? Suddenly those four metres that separated me from the cowshed didn't seem so far. I could tell the others it was impossible to reach the window.

The brain plays nasty tricks sometimes.

About ten years later I happened to go skiing on the Gran Sasso. It was the wrong day – it was snowing, bitterly cold, with an icy wind that froze your ears and a thick mist. I had only ever been skiing once before. I was really excited and I didn't care if everybody said it was dangerous, I wanted to ski. I got on the ski lift, muffled up like an eskimo, and headed for the slopes.

The wind was so strong that the lift motor switched off automatically, and only started again when the gusts died down. It would move ten metres, then stop for a quarter of an hour, then another forty metres and twenty minutes without moving. And so on,
ad infinitum
. Maddening. As far as I could make out the rest of the ski lift was empty. Gradually I started to lose all feeling in my toes, my ears, my fingers. I tried to brush the snow off me, but it was a wasted effort, it fell silently, lightly and incessantly. After a while I started to get drowsy and think more slowly. I pulled myself together and told myself that if I fell asleep I would die. I shouted for help. Only the wind replied. I looked down. I was directly over a ski run. Suspended about ten metres above the snow. I thought back to the story of that airman who during the war had jumped out of his burning aircraft and his parachute hadn't opened but he hadn't been killed, he had been saved by the soft snow. Ten metres weren't all that far. If I jumped well, if I didn't stiffen up, I wouldn't get hurt, the parachutist hadn't got hurt. Part of my brain repeated to me obsessively: ‘Jump! Jump! Jump!' I lifted the safety bar. And I started to rock backwards and forwards. Luckily at that moment the ski lift moved and I regained my senses. I lowered the bar. It was incredibly high, at the very least I would have broken both my legs.

In that house I had the same feeling. I wanted to jump down. Then I remembered reading in one of Salvatore's books that lizards can climb up walls because they have perfect weight distribution. They spread their weight over their legs, stomach and tail, whereas human beings put all theirs on their feet and that's why they sink into quicksand.

Yes, that was what I must do.

I knelt down, lay flat and started to crawl along. At every movement I made, bits of masonry and tiles fell down. Light, light as a lizard, I repeated to myself. I felt the beams quiver.
It took me a full five minutes but I reached the other side safe and sound.

I pushed the door. It was the last one. At the other end was the window that overlooked the yard. A long branch snaked across to the house. I had made it. Here too the floor had fallen through, but only half of it. The other half had held. I used the old technique, walking flat against the wall. Below I could see another dimly lit room. There were the remains of a fire, some opened cans of tomatoes and empty packets of pasta. Somebody must have been there not long ago.

I reached the window without mishap. I looked down.

There was a small yard skirted by a row of brambles and the wood behind it pressing in. On the ground there was a cracked cement trough, a rusty crane jib, piles of masonry covered in ivy, a gas cylinder and a mattress.

The branch I had to get onto was close – less than a metre away. Not close enough, however, to be reachable without jumping. It was thick and twisty like an anaconda. It stretched over more than five metres. It would carry my weight. Once I reached the other end I would find a way to get down.

I stood up on the window sill, crossed myself, and threw myself arms first, like a gibbon in the Amazon forest. I landed face down on the branch. I tried to grip it, but it was big. I used my legs but there was nothing to get hold of. I started to slip. I tried to claw onto the bark.

Salvation was right in front of me. There was a smaller branch just a few dozen centimetres away.

I steeled myself and with a sudden lunge grabbed it with both hands.

It was dry. It snapped.

I landed on my back. I lay still, with my eyes closed, certain I had broken my neck. I couldn't feel any pain. I lay there, petrified, with the branch in my hands, trying to understand
why I wasn't suffering. Maybe I had become a paralytic who, even if you stub out a cigarette on his arm and stick a fork into his thigh, doesn't feel a thing.

I opened my eyes. I gazed at the vast green umbrella of the oak that loomed over me. The glittering of the sun between the leaves. I must try and raise my head. I raised it.

I threw that stupid branch away. I touched the ground with my hands. And I discovered I was on something soft. The mattress.

I had a flashback of myself falling, flying and crashing down without hurting myself. There had been a dull, hollow sound at the exact moment I had landed. I had heard it, I could have sworn it.

I moved my feet and discovered that under the leaves, the twigs and the earth there was a green corrugated sheet, a transparent fibre-glass roof. It had been covered up, as if to hide it. And that old mattress had been put on top of it.

It was the corrugated sheet that had saved me. It had bent and absorbed the force of my fall.

So underneath it must be hollow.

It might be a secret hiding place or a tunnel leading to a cave full of gold and precious stones.

I got down on my hands and knees and pushed the sheet forward.

It was heavy, but gradually I managed to shift it a little. A terrible stink of shit was released.

I swayed, put one hand over my mouth and pushed again.

I had fallen on top of a hole.

It was dark. But the further I shifted the fibre-glass sheet the lighter it became. The walls were made of earth, dug with a spade. The roots of the oak had been cut.

I managed to move it a bit further. The hole was a couple of metres wide and two, two and a half metres deep.

It was empty.

No, there was something there.

A heap of rolled-up rags?

No …

An animal? A dog? No …

What was it?

It was hairless …

white …

a leg …

A leg!

I jumped backwards and nearly tripped over.

A leg?

I took a deep breath and had a quick look down.

It was a leg.

I felt my ears boil, my head and arms hang heavy.

I was going to pass out.

I sat down, shut my eyes, rested my forehead on one hand, and breathed in. I was tempted to run away, run to the others. But I couldn't. I had to have another look first.

I went forward and peered over.

It was a boy's leg. And sticking out of the rags was an elbow.

At the bottom of that hole there was a boy.

He was lying on one side. His head was hidden between his legs.

He wasn't moving.

He was dead.

I stood looking at him for God knows how long. There was a bucket too. And a little saucepan.

Maybe he was asleep.

I picked up a small stone and threw it at the boy. I hit him on the thigh. He didn't move. He was dead. Dead as a doornail. A shiver bit the back of my head. I picked up another stone and
hit him on the neck. I thought he moved. A slight movement of the arm.

‘Where are you? Where are you? Where've you got to, you pansy?'

The others! Skull was calling me.

I grabbed the corrugated sheet and pulled it till it covered the hole. Then I spread out the leaves and earth and put the mattress back on top.

‘Where are you, Michele?'

I went away, but first I turned round a couple of times to check that everything was in place.

I was pedalling along on the Crock.

The sun behind me was a huge red ball, and when it finally sank into the wheat it disappeared, leaving behind it something orange and purple.

They had asked me how I had got on in the house, if it had been dangerous, if I had fallen down, if there were any strange things in there, if jumping onto the tree had been difficult. I had answered in monosyllables.

Finally, bored, we had started back. A path led out of the valley, crossed the ochre fields and reached the road. We had collected our bikes and were pedalling along in silence. Swarms of midges hummed around us.