I'm Not Scared (9 page)

‘Be careful, Michele, you mustn't go out at night,' mama always said. ‘When it's dark the bogeyman comes out and takes the children away and sells them to the gypsies.'

Papa was the bogeyman.

By day he was good, but at night he was bad.

All the others were gypsies. Gypsies disguised as people. And that old man was the king of the gypsies and papa was his servant. Mama wasn't, though.

I had imagined the gypsies as elflike creatures that moved very quickly, with foxes' ears and chickens' feet. But they were really just ordinary people.

Why didn't they give him back to her? What use was a barmy little boy to them? Filippo's mother was distressed, you could see that. If she asked on television it meant she cared a lot about her son.

And papa wanted to cut off his ears.

‘What are you doing?' I jumped, turned round and nearly peed on the bed.

Maria had woken up.

I put my dick back in my pants.

‘Nothing.'

‘You were peeing, I saw you.'

‘I couldn't wait.'

‘What's going on in there?'

If I told Maria that papa was the bogeyman she might go out of her mind. I shrugged.

‘Nothing.'

‘What are they arguing about?'

‘Nothing special.'

‘But what?'

I said the first thing that came into my head: ‘They're playing bingo.'

‘Bingo?'

‘Yes. They're arguing about who draws the numbers.'

‘Who's winning?'

‘Sergio, papa's friend.'

‘Has he arrived?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's he like?'

‘Old. Go to sleep now.'

‘I can't. It's too hot. It's noisy. When are they going?'

In the other room they were still shouting.

I got down from the window. ‘I don't know.'

‘Michele, will you tell me a bedtime story so I can go to sleep?'

Papa told us stories about Agnolotto in Africa. Agnolotto was a little town dog who hid in a suitcase and ended up in Africa by mistake, among the lions and elephants. We liked that story a lot. Agnolotto could stand up to the jackals. And he had a marmot friend. When papa came home he usually told us a new episode.

It was the first time Maria had ever asked me to tell her a bedtime story, I felt very honoured. The trouble was I didn't know the stories. ‘Well, I would, but… I don't know any,' I had to admit.

‘Yes you do. You do know some.'

‘Which ones do I know?'

‘Do you remember the story Barbara's mother told us that time? The one about Pierino Pierone?'

‘Oh yes!'

‘Will you tell it to me?'

‘Okay, but I can't remember all of it.'

‘Will you tell it to me in the tent?'

‘All right.' That way at least we wouldn't hear the screams in the kitchen. I got into my sister's bed and we pulled the sheet over our heads.

‘Begin,' she whispered in my ear.

‘Well, there was a boy called Pierino Pierone who always climbed up on the trees to eat the fruit. One day he was up there when the Wicked Witch arrived. And she said: “Pierino Pierone, give me a pear, I'm terribly hungry.” And Pierino Pierone threw her a pear.'

Maria interrupted me. ‘You haven't told me what the Wicked Witch looks like.'

‘Quite right. She's very ugly. She's got no hair on the top of her head. She's got a pony-tail and a long nose. She's tall and she eats children. And her husband's the bogeyman …'

While I told the story, I could see papa cutting off Filippo's ears and putting them in his pocket. And fixing them to the rear-view mirror of the truck, as he had that furry tail.

‘That's not true. She's not married. Tell it properly. I know the story.'

‘Pierino Pierone threw her a pear and it landed in the cow shit.'

Maria started chuckling. She was very fond of things with doo-doo in them.

‘The Wicked Witch said again: “Pierino Pierone, give me a pear, I'm terribly hungry.” “Catch this!” And he threw her a pear into the cow piss. And made it all dirty.'

More chuckles.

‘The witch asked him again. And he threw another pear into the cow sick.'

She prodded me with her elbow. ‘That's not in it. It's not fair. Don't be silly.'

With my sister you couldn't change the story the slightest little bit. ‘Then …'

What were they doing in the other room? It sounded as if someone had broken a plate. ‘Then Pierino Pierone got down from the tree and gave her a pear. The Wicked Witch caught him and tied him up in a sack and put him over her shoulder. Since Pierino Pierone ate peppers, which are very heavy, the witch couldn't carry him and had to stop every five minutes and after a while she had to have a pee, so she put down the sack and hid behind a tree. Pierino Pierone cut the rope with his teeth and got out and put a little wash-bear inside…'

‘A little wash-bear?'

I had said it on purpose, to see if Maria knew about them.

‘Yes, a little wash-bear.'

‘Who are they?'

‘They're little bears and if you leave your clothes near the river they come and wash them for you.'

‘Where do they live?'

‘In the North.'

‘And then?' Maria knew it was a stone Pierino Pierone had put in the sack, but she didn't say anything.

‘The Wicked Witch picked up the sack again and put it on her back and when she got home she said to her daughter: “Margherita Margheritone, come down and open the door and get the big pot ready to boil Pierino Pierone.” Margherita Margheritone put the pot of water on the fire and the Wicked Witch emptied the sack into it and the little wash-bear jumped out and started biting both of them, went down into the yard and started eating the hens, and threw all the rubbish in the air. The witch grew very angry and went out again to look for Pierino Pierone. She found him and put him in the sack and didn't stop anywhere. When she got home she said to
Margherita Margheritone: “Take him down and lock him in the cellar, tomorrow we'll have him for dinner …”'

I stopped.

Maria was asleep and that was a nasty story.

I
found the old man in the bathroom next morning.

I opened the door and there he was shaving, bent over the washbasin, with his face up against the mirror and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He wore a threadbare vest and some yellowed long johns from which two slender, hairless stilts emerged. On his feet he had black half-boots with the zips down.

He had a pungent smell, hidden by the talc and aftershave.

He turned towards me and looked me up and down with puffy eyes, one cheek covered with foam and the razor in his hand. ‘Who are you?'

I pointed a finger at my chest. ‘Me?'

‘Yes, you.'

‘Michele … Michele Amitrano.'

‘I'm Sergio. Pleased to meet you.'

I stretched out my hand. ‘How do you do.' That's how they had taught me to reply at school.

The old man rinsed the razor in the water. ‘Don't you know you're supposed to knock before going into the bathroom? Didn't your parents teach you that?'

‘I'm sorry.' I wanted to leave but I stood rooted to the spot. Like when you see a cripple and you try not to look at him but you can't help it.

He started shaving his neck. ‘Are you Pino's son?'

‘Yes.'

He scrutinized me in the mirror. ‘Are you a quiet child?'

‘Yes.'

‘I like quiet children. Good boy. You don't take after your father, then. And are you obedient?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then go out and shut the door.'

I ran to find mama. She was in my room taking the sheets off Maria's bed. I tugged at her dress. ‘Mama! Mama, who's that old man in the bathroom?'

‘Let go of me, Michele, I'm busy. That's Sergio, your father's friend. He told you he was coming. He'll be staying with us for a few days.'

‘Why?'

She lifted up the mattress and turned it over. ‘Because that's what your father's decided.'

‘And where's he going to sleep?'

‘In your sister's bed.'

‘What about her?'

‘She'll sleep with us.'

‘And where do I sleep?'

‘In your bed.'

‘You mean the old man's going to sleep in the bedroom with me?'

Mama took a deep breath. ‘Yes.'

‘In the night?'

‘Well, when do you think? In the daytime?'

‘Can't Maria sleep with him? And I'll sleep with you.'

‘Don't be silly.' She started putting on the clean sheets. ‘Go outside, I'm busy.'

I threw myself on the ground and clung to her ankles. ‘Mama, please, I don't want to sleep with that man. Please, I want to be with you. In the bed with you.'

She breathed hard. ‘There's not enough room. You're too big.'

‘Mama, please. I'll curl up in the corner. I'll make myself really small.'

‘I said no.'

‘Please,' I implored her. ‘Please. I'll be good. You'll see.'

‘Stop it.' She stood me up and looked me in the eyes. ‘Michele, I just don't know what to do with you. Why do you never do as you're told? I can't stand it any more. We've got so many problems and now
you
start. You don't understand. Please …'

I shook my head. ‘I don't want to. I don't want to sleep with that man. I'm not going to.'

She took the pillowcase off the pillow. ‘That's how things are. If you don't like it, tell your father.'

‘But he'll take me away …'

Mama stopped making the bed and turned. ‘What did you say? Say that again.'

I whispered. ‘He'll take me away …'

She peered at me with her black eyes. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You want him to take me away … You hate me. You're nasty. You and papa hate me. I know you do.'

‘Who tells you such things?' She grabbed me by the arm but I wriggled free and fled.

I was running downstairs and I could hear her calling me.

‘Michele! Michele! Come back here!'

‘I'm not sleeping with him. No, I'm not sleeping with that man.'

I ran off to the stream and climbed up the carob.

I would never sleep with that old man. He had taken Filippo. And as soon as I went to sleep he would take me too. He would put me in a sack and whisk me off.

And then he would cut off my ears.

Was it possible to live without ears? Wouldn't you die? I
was very attached to my ears. Papa and the old man must have already cut Filippo's off. While I was up in my tree, he, in his hole, was earless.

I wondered if they had bandaged up his head?

I must go. And I must tell him about his mother, that she still loved him and that she had said so on television, so everybody knew it.

But I was scared. What if I found papa and the old man at the house?

I looked at the horizon. The sky was flat and grey and weighed down on the fields of wheat. The hill was over there, gigantic, veiled by the heat.

If I'm careful they won't see me, I said to myself.

‘O partisan, take me away, for they have to bury me. O partisan, take me away.
O bella ciao ciao ciao
.' I heard a voice singing.

I looked down. Barbara Mura was dragging Togo along, she had tied some string round his neck and was pulling him towards the water. ‘Now mama's going to give you a little bath. You'll be all clean. Are you pleased? Of course you're pleased.' But Togo didn't look pleased. Rump on the ground, he was digging in his paws and shaking his head, trying to get free of the noose. ‘You'll look lovely. And I'll take you to Lucignano. We'll go and have an ice-cream and I'll buy you a lead.' She grabbed him, kissed him, slipped off her sandals, took a couple of steps into the bog and ducked him in that stinking slime.

Togo squirmed but Barbara held him fast by his scruff and his collar. She pushed him under. I saw him disappear in the mud.

She started singing again. ‘One fine morning I woke early.
O bella ciao! Bella ciao! Bella ciao ciao ciao!
'

She didn't pull him out again.

She wanted to kill him.

I shouted. ‘What are you doing? Let him go!'

Barbara gave a start and nearly fell in the water. She released the dog, who resurfaced and struggled to the bank.

With one jump I got down from the tree.

‘What are you doing here?' Barbara asked me testily.

‘What were you doing?'

‘Nothing. I was washing him.'

‘No you weren't. You wanted to kill him.'

‘No I didn't.'

‘Swear it!'

‘I swear by God and all the saints!' she put her hand on her heart. ‘He's crawling with ticks and fleas. That's why I was giving him a bath.'

I didn't know whether to believe her or not.

She grabbed Togo, who was standing on a stone and wagging his tail happily. He had already forgotten his nasty experience. ‘See for yourself if I'm telling the truth.' She lifted one of his ears.

‘Oh my God, ugh!'

All around and inside the earhole was teeming with ticks. It was revolting. With those little heads of theirs buried in the skin, with their little black legs and their dark-brown stomachs, swollen and round like little chocolate eggs.

‘See? They're sucking his blood.'

I twisted my nose doubtfully. ‘And will the mud get rid of them?'

‘On television Tarzan said elephants take mud baths to get the insects off.'

‘But Togo isn't an elephant.'

‘So what? He's still an animal.'

‘I reckon you have to pull them off,' I said. ‘The mud won't get rid of them.'

‘But how?'

‘With your hands.'

‘Who wants to do that? It gives me the creeps.'

‘I'll try.' With two fingers I gripped a big bloated one, shut my eyes and pulled hard. Togo whimpered, but the monster came away. I put it on a stone and we inspected it. It was wiggling its legs but couldn't move though it was swollen with blood.

‘Die, vampire! Die!' Barbara squashed it with a stone, turning it into a red mush.

I must have pulled off at least twenty. Barbara held the dog still for me. After a while I got fed up. Togo couldn't stand any more either. He yelped as soon as I touched him. ‘We'll get the others off another day. All right?'

‘All right.' Barbara looked around. ‘I'm going. What are you going to do?'

‘I'm going to stay here a bit longer.' As soon as she left I would get the Crock and go and see Filippo.

She put the string round Togo's neck again.

‘See you later then?' she said as she went off.

‘Yes.'

She stopped. ‘There's a man at your house. With that grey car. Is he a relative of yours?'

‘No he isn't.'

‘He came round to my house today too.'

‘What did he want?'

‘I don't know. He was talking to papa. Then they went off. I think your papa was there too. In the big car.'

Of course. They were going to cut off Filippo's ears.

She grimaced and asked me: ‘Do you like that man?'

‘No I don't.'

‘Nor do I.'

She stood there in silence. She didn't seem to want to go any more. She turned and whispered thanks.

‘What for?'

‘The other day … When you did the forfeit instead of me.'

I shrugged. ‘That's all right.'

‘Listen …' She went all red. She looked at me for a second and said: ‘Would you like to be my boyfriend?'

My face was suddenly boiling. ‘What?'

She bent down to stroke Togo. ‘My boyfriend.'

‘You mean, you and me?'

‘Yes.'

I lowered my head and looked at my toes. ‘Well … not really.'

She let out a suppressed sigh. ‘Never mind. We're not even the same age.' She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Bye, then.'

‘Bye.'

She went off pulling Togo along behind her.

I became scared of vipers, just like that, quite suddenly.

Until that day, when I went up the hill, I had never thought about vipers.

I kept having visions of that hound that had been bitten on the nose by a viper in April. The poor beast was lying in a corner of the shed, panting, with glazed eyes, white foam on his gums and his tongue hanging out.

‘There's nothing more we can do for him,' Skull's father had said. ‘The poison's got into his heart.'

We all stood round looking at him.

‘Let's take him to Lucignano. To the vet,' I had suggested.

‘Waste of money. The guy's a crook, he'd squirt a syringeful of water into him and give you the dog back dead. Just go away, let him die in peace.' He had pushed us outside. Maria had started crying.

I was going through the wheat and I seemed to see snakes slithering about everywhere. I hopped like a bird and whacked a stick on the ground, scattering the crickets and grasshoppers. The sun beat down on my head and neck, there wasn't a breath of wind and in the distance the plain was all blurred.

By the time I reached the edge of the valley I was exhausted. A bit of shade and a drink of water was what I needed. I went into the wood.

But there was something different from usual. I stopped.

Under the birds, crickets and cicadas you could hear the sound of music.

I dived behind a tree trunk.

I couldn't see anything from there, but the music seemed to be coming from the house.

I should have got out of there fast, but curiosity drove me to take a look. If I was careful, if I stayed among the trees, I wouldn't be seen. Hiding among the oaks I moved in closer to the clearing.

The music was louder. It was a well-known song. I had heard it dozens of times. It was sung by a blonde lady with a smartly dressed gentleman. I had seen them on television. I liked that song.

There was a boulder covered with green tufts of moss right at the edge of the clearing, a good shelter, I crawled up behind it.

I craned my neck and peered over.

Parked in front of the house was Felice's 127, with the doors and the boot open. The music came from the car radio. It wasn't very clear, it crackled.

Felice came out of the cowshed. He was in his underpants. He had army boots on his feet and the usual black bandanna round his neck. He was dancing with arms outspread, grinding like a belly dancer.

‘You never change, you never change, you never change …' He sang in falsetto, with the radio.

Then he stopped and went on in a deep voice.

‘You are my yesterday, my today. My always. Anxiety.'

And in the woman's voice: ‘Now, at last, you can try. Call me tormentress, sigh. While you're about it.'

He pointed at someone. ‘You're like the wind that brings the violins and the roses.'

‘Words, words, words …'

‘Listen to me.'

‘Words, words, words …'

‘I implore you.'

He was very good. He did it all on his own. Male and female. And when he was the man he acted tough. Narrowed eyes and barely parted lips.

‘Words, words, words …'

‘I swear to you.'

Then he threw himself on the ground, in the dust, and started doing press-ups. Two-handed, one-handed, with clap, and he went on singing, jerkily.

‘Word, words, words, words, words, only words, words, between us.'

I left.

In Acqua Traverse they were playing one-two-three-star.

Skull, Barbara and Remo were standing still, under the sun, in strange positions.

Salvatore, with his head against the wall, shouted. ‘One, two, three, staaaaar!' He turned and saw Skull.

Skull always overdid it, instead of going three steps he went fifteen and got caught. Then he wouldn't take it. You would tell him you had seen him, but he wouldn't listen to you. In his eyes everybody else cheated. Not him, he was a saint. And
if you said anything he would start shoving you. One way or another he always won. Even with dolls he would have found a way of winning.