“I get it, she fainted.”
“No, no, no, she didn't faint. She collapsed like a . . .”
“Like a boxer?”
“No, like a dam collapsing.”
“You've never seen a dam collapse.”
“No, but I've seen my mother collapse.”
The stump-finger continued to slide over the wall, covering it inch by inch, with a painter's tender care. In that room, Gerruso's world bore the stigmata of destruction.
Except for me, he had no one with whom to share the anguish of the present.
“Do you want me to call Nina? She's your cousin, should I call her?”
He seemed not to have heard me, or else he was unwilling to reply. He kept on tracing imaginary figures on the wall.
“Well? Should I call her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she never wants to see you again.”
“Don't worry about me. When you like, if you want, we can always call her, I know the number by heart.”
Gerruso had stopped moving his stump-finger, it was motionless on the wall, at nose height.
His voice was a fragile thread, about to snap.
“Will you tell me what I should do? You tell me what to do and I'll do it.”
“Me? What?”
“You know what I should do.”
“Why?”
“You've already collapsed once.”
Trapani, second round of the fight against Mauro Genovese, the boxer without a nickname. He landed a hook square to my temple. Gerruso was there. I hit the canvas. My eyes were closed and I could taste blood in my mouth. Except for the time that Carlo hit me when I was nine, I'd never fallen to the canvas before. Never.
“What are you thinking?”
“My father never once hit the canvas. And neither did my uncle.”
“But you did, eh? Still, you got back up.”
“Yeah.”
“Teach me how to get back up.”
When the hook caught me in the temple, the second round had just started. Everything turned white, soundless, silent. The red flavor of blood. The immediate sensation of effort, fatigue. The urge to vomit.
“So if I get to my feet I'm like the mulberry bush underneath my window that survived the fire and is covered with leaves again.”
Nails were crucifying my pride, there was an unfamiliar and inconsolable despair in my heart.
“Leaves fall, Gerruso.”
The weight of guilt never fades. It comes back when you least expect it, a shard puncturing your bare foot. It always cuts you.
“But the tree is still standing.”
“Three.”
The referee was counting, holding Mauro Genovese off at a distance. He looked toward my corner.
“Four.”
I could smell the sweat inside my nose.
I was biting my mouthguard to keep from retching.
“Five.”
A buzzing in my ears.
Why get back up? Why take more punches?
“Six.”
Better to stay on the floor, just four more numbers and it's all over, right?
On “Seven” I was up on my knees.
At “Eight” I was back on my feet.
At “Nine” I had regained my fighting stance, guard up.
I nodded my head at the referee.
I was ready to fight to the death again.
It was the sound of a blast that tore open the curtains of the disaster. There was an enemy air raid under way. Explosions went off in quick succession. The airplanes must have been flying so low that they darkened the sky. Randazzo was about to run when he saw Rosario sitting motionless, a cup of coffee in his hand, with no intention of going anywhere.
Grandpa swore to me that, really, there'd been no hunch, no voice inspiring that decision.
“Right then and there, the most important thing was to drink my coffee, even if that was the last thing I ever did in my life.”
Randazzo was agitated.
“Let's go to the infirmary, that's never been bombed.”
Rosario shook his head and took another sip of his coffee.
Nicola, oddly, calmed down.
“Rosà , come on, we don't have much time.”
“That's not true.”
“No?”
“No. We have all the time that's left.”
Every damn time that Nicola Randazzo told that story, he would emphasize that exchange.
He took another sip of his own coffee.
Explosions all around them. He thought of the countryside back home, he felt an overwhelming desire to prune his apple tree and graft a branch onto the almond tree. There was just one more sip, the last sip that would reveal the grounds that had sunk to the bottom: that was when he heard the loudest noise he'd ever heard in his life. It tore away all hearing in his left ear, stripped him of his other senses. When he regained consciousness, he was in hell.
“Sometimes I think back on stories and tell them over to myself.”
“Which stories?”
“The ones you tell me.”
“Why my stories?”
“No one else tells me any. Do you know a story about getting up?”
“No.”
“If you did know one, would you tell it to me?”
“Who knows, I don't know, maybe I would.”
“Will you tell me another one? Any story you like.”
I told him the story of this old guy, a mystic, a saint. He lived on a donkey's back, facing back to front. Why do you always sit the wrong way around? people would ask him. The future is in the hands of God, the ascetic replied, all I care about is knowing where I come from.
“And then what happened?”
“That's all.”
“This is a story about looking.”
“Yes.”
“And also about riding.”
“Yes.”
“And also about asking and answering. Still, in the story I'd like to have been the donkey. If God appeared, I'd be the first to see Him.”
He felt pain in his back, so he was still alive. He tried moving his fingers and toes. He could feel all twenty of them, so they were still attached. He opened his eyes and found himself crushed into the ground. The pantry's wooden cabinet had fallen over onto his back. Without all that much effort, he managed to lift it off his body. The cabinet was riddled with shrapnel. The wood had shielded him and had saved his life.
Rosario.
The thought of Rosario shook him awake like a whip crack. He started to let his gaze wander. Under a layer of ashes, he glimpsed Rosario's leg. He'd been pinned to the floor by the table and other pieces of furniture. He hurled everything aside: plates, sheet metal, boards. Rosario wasn't moving. Nicola Randazzo bent over him and began imploring God, the Madonna, Saint RosaliaâI pray to you all, save this friend of mine. With a cough, my grandfather opened his eyes. Nicola immediately asked him how he felt. Rosario tried to answer but no sounds came out of his mouth. Nicola felt infinite pity for his friend.
“You understand, Davidù, I was convinced that your grandfather couldn't speak, but it wasn't him, it was me, I was the one who was permanently deaf in my left ear. He was speaking, I didn't hear a thing, and I thought: poor guy.
Randazzo paused. He'd revisited those few moments, the despairing silence into which he and Rosario emerged to try to understand what had happened. They saw flames, smoke, and ashes. Practically nothing was still standing. The kitchen was the only place that had been left intact. It was the only structure visible.
“Saved by a cup of coffee, can you imagine? That's the way it is in war, completely senseless.”
They went out in search of survivors' voices. Nicola Randazzo saw an arm sticking out of the rubble where once there had been latrines. He and Rosario worked to push aside heavy beams, mounds of dirt, and rocks, but there was nothing attached to the arm. Randazzo started crying.
My vision was blurred, but I could feel my legs, my feet, my fingers inside the gloves. Earn a little time, keep my guard up, keep my distance. As soon as the referee signaled that the fight was back on, Mauro Genovese lunged at me. I leaped backward, a fish under attack by a bigger fish. Open my guard, let him hit me in the head again, collapse, and stop worrying about things. A weave to the left, a feint to the right, another leap backward. Just one punch, and it would all be over. A shift in direction, backward again, less and less room in the ring to escape. I feinted backward again, but my feet leaped forward.
“That's it,” Umbertino yelled from the seats.
I furiously punched the air in front of me. Trying to win back a little room. Small, fast jabs, syllables of movement. Writing new words to put an end to my anguish.
“Ciao, boxer.”
“Ciao, blondie.”
“There's no point looking around, she's not here.”
“I wasn't looking for her.”
“But you're wandering around the party like a damned soul in hell.”
“I was looking for the bathroom.”
“Aren't you going to ask me how I'm doing?”
“It's been a while.”
“Just a couple of years. I was expecting a phone call.”
“You could have made that call yourself. Are you still playing the cello?”
“Yes, I'm still playing the cello and yes, you're still good at changing the subject.”
“What subject am I changing?”
“We haven't spoken since then, two years ago now, evidently neither of us cared all that much. What are you doing here?”
“I was invited.”
“How do you know Eva?”
“Do you want the nice version or the nasty one?”
“Spare me the nasty one.”
“She's an old classmate.”
“Are you still in school? You haven't been expelled yet?”
“No.”
“Held back a year?”
“Never.”
“Teachers these days just aren't what they used to be.”
“That's the damn truth, but the best teachers still seem to be in the elementary schools.”
“Let's drop it. What about the nasty version?”
“Already changed your mind?”
“I was hoping it might be less boring than the first one.”
“Eva and I used to date, and we made out a lot.”
“And she invited you to her party?”
“We stayed good friends.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“No, it was all years ago.”
“Years ago? Before me or after me? Or at the same time? Or do you not fuck because you're still a virgin?”
“I don't talk about stuff like that.”
“You're talking about it right now.”
“I answered a question, out of courtesy and honesty.”
“You? Honest? Please.”
“I am honest.”
“No, you're not.”
“No, I'm not?”
“No. And that's why you've always fascinated me.”
“I don't understand.”
“Nobody's asking you to understand. By the way, are you still boxing?”
“Of course.”
“And do you lose often?”
“Always, I always lose.”
“When's your next fight?”
“In a couple of weeks: my opponent's called Mauro Genovese and he'sâ”
“Boxer, do you think that I actually care about your world in the slightest? Too much sweat. Listen, though, are you allowed to drink?”
“Sure, in moderation.”
“God, you're boring.”
The smoke made it impossible to see more than a couple of yards. The buzzing in his ears had subsided, and was now almost gone. Rosario was certain that he'd heard voices. Someone was still alive, somewhere under the rubble. He leaned over his friend and tried to help him up, but Randazzo was a limp rag, shattered by the pain. He took his old friend's head in his hands.
“Come on, Nicola, get up.”
Randazzo started shaking his head.
“I can't hear you, Rosà , I can't hear you anymore, I'm deaf.”
Rosario stilled his friend's face and pushed his own forehead closer until it was almost touching Nicola's. When Nicola stopped shaking, he let go of his face. Rosario was alive only because Randazzo had seen him. His eyes were necessary.
Rosario held out his hand to him.
Come on, Nicola.
We need to keep looking.
Your eyes are needed.
We have to find D'Arpa.
Rosario's hand was steady.
It wasn't shaking.
Nicola took the hand and got to his feet.
“Where should we start?”
Rosario pointed to the carpentry shop. It no longer existed.
They started walking around it, slowly, careful not to miss a thing, a shoe, a moan, any sign of life, ready to destroy their fingernails, their fingers, their hands in order to find their friend. Rosario heard a moan, Nicola saw a movement in the rubble, they lunged at the collapsing heap and pulled away detritus, stones, and dirt at frantic speed.
Gerruso was wearing a pair of dark brown pajamas with a little breast pocket over his heart where his name was written in bold.
“Did you mother embroider that?”
“Yes.”
“It looks very nice. Gerruso, what are you thinking?”
“Is there something I can do for my mother?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Let's clean everything up.”
“Will that help? Is it useful?”
“You know how you win a fight?”
“No.”
“One punch at a time.”
“Are you teaching me how to get back up?”
“Yes.”
“Then wait a second.”
He went into the kitchen and came back wearing a white apron and a pair of pink rubber dishwashing gloves.
“This is what my mother always wears when she cleans house.”
I took care of the dining room while Gerruso washed dishes in the kitchen. He told me about the mulberry tree he could see from his window. He'd named it Sergio.
“The names with an
r
in them are the strongest ones, they snarl.”
“Sure, like Gerruso.”
“No, it's true, your uncle's named Umbertino and your grandfather's Rosario, both names with an
r
in them.”