An “oh” of astonishment rose from the crowd.
I raised my guard, lifting my gloves in front of my chest. Ceresa lunged and I weaved, forced into continuous movement.
Bentu Maìstu
persisted, relentlessly. It was almost as if the guy never got tired. It was only in the last few seconds of the round that his attacks subsided slightly in intensity and I was able to catch my breath. We ended the round in a standoff, cautiously reducing our risks, breathing deeply. Not a minute too soon.
In the corner, Carlo was massaging my arms.
“My eyes, clean up my eyes.”
Carlo's hand stopped massaging.
“My eyes are tired.”
He took the sponge and ran it over my face, slowly, with care.
Maestro Franco had taken his cap off his head.
He was clutching it in his hands.
“He's not as tired as I am, Maestro.”
He said nothing.
The guys sitting in the third row had started to needle Gerruso with insults.
“Now watch the Sardinian tear your friend a new asshole.”
Gerruso leaped to his feet to block their view, but the two guys' four hands thrust him vehemently back into his seat. After a silence that lasted a few seconds too long, Gerruso resumed shouting my nickname, without a glance behind him. His voice was altered; he sounded more like someone yelling as they fell.
Umbertino hadn't noticed a thing.
But my grandpa had turned to stare at the pair of friends with his usual indecipherable gaze.
They were at Randazzo's home in the countryside. Provvidenza was talking to Nicola's wife, Gigliola, while the two old friends, their husbands, were talking about aromatic plants. My father was five years old and in a hurry to discover the world. He walked into the rabbit hutch. He'd figured out that if he wanted to pet a rabbit he had to move slowly, a calm but continuous gesture, until he could feel the soft fur on his fingertips. After that, he decided he wanted to feel the textures of the rooster's comb, but the rooster was fast, it kept outrunning him, and in the henhouse the chickens were screeching and pooping out eggs.
My grandmother kept calling him back, but Randazzo reassured her.
“Don't worry, he's just playing.”
Rosario's son was as dear to Randazzo as if he were his own. The boy thought of him as his uncle, and called him “Zio Nicola,” something that filled him with pride. For that reason, when he heard the boy scream he rushed to his side, blindingly fast, almost as fast as Rosario. The little one had been bitten by the dog. The child had tried to touch his tongue and the dog, Filippo, had sunk his fangs into him.
“Davidù, I felt like I was dying,” Randazzo told me, “âFilippo,' I yelled at the dog, âwhat are you doing?' As soon as Filippo heard my voice, he immediately lowered his ears. He'd always been a good dog, I couldn't get over the fact that he'd turned on the child.”
Randazzo was trembling with fury. He picked up his stick and strode angrily toward the dog.
“Stop.”
Rosario stepped between Randazzo and the dog. He took the stick. His son's hands had only the faintest of bite marks, no blood, his fingers all moved properly: he was sobbing out of fear more than anything else. Rosario handed the stick to my father.
“You do it.”
My father ran both hands over the knotted surface of the stick. The dog Filippo, sitting obedient, whined in terror.
“Or else, forgive.”
My father stared at his father. Rosario was seraphic, his gaze never wavered. Francesco leaned the stick against the wall, bent over the dog Filippo, and petted him. Calm returned to the scene. Francesco spent the rest of the afternoon throwing sticks that the dog Filippo retrieved for him. Rosario and Nicola watered the vines and their wives gathered blackberries. They ate shelled beans and drank Zibibbo wine: the grown-ups a whole glass, my father just two fingers.
An instant after the sound of the bell marking the beginning of the second round,
Bentu Maìstu
was in the center of the ring. His legs still possessed agility and power. My offside position forced me to keep moving around him, continuously, like a moth around the flame.
I landed a double left punch right in his face.
He absorbed the blow without showing any ill effects.
He could take some punishment.
Just like the boxer who beat Umbertino in the finals.
I tried everything on him: uppercuts, hooks, and crosses, but Ceresa retaliated every time, punch for punch.
The crowd was braying.
Gerruso was begging me to take care.
The Sardinian was clearly gaining the upper hand.
The northwest wind had started to gust again.
He attacked from all directions.
I lunged at him, wrapping my arms around him, trying to halt his fury.
He was inexhaustible.
Maestro Franco was holding his breath.
Umbertino was biting his lips.
Grandpa was sitting bolt upright, rigid in his seat.
Gerruso was screaming “Poet,” but by now there was a shadow of gloom in his voice.
The referee separated us.
In the morning, on our way to the sports arena, Gerruso counted aloud all the roadblocks we passed. There were twelve of them.
In the auditorium, I showed him where he'd be sitting.
“That way, you'll be next to my uncle and my grandpa. Gerruso, what's wrong?”
“Nothing, I was just thinking of something about my mother.”
His voice had once again become little more than a faint wisp of wind, feeble and frightened.
“Tomorrow, when we take my mother's coffin to the cemetery, do you think the police might stop us at a roadblock and open the coffin?”
“How on earth do you come up with these things?”
“By observing Palermo.”
“Why don't you get a little sleep?”
“After you've weighed in.”
“It'll be a little while longer.”
“I'll tough it out. We're strong in my family. Even if I have to admit: my mother broke, truth be told.”
“Gerruso, come on, stop thinking about it.”
“But life, it's all just one long story about breaking: when you're born, the water breaks. And as people grow, sooner or later they break, just like toys. My mother's heart broke. Sometimes it works differently, and people are interrupted, like your father, who was perfectly fine inside, but who broke when he ran up against the outside world, it wasn't his time yet, have you ever thought about that?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, though, the toy is so well made that it lasts all the way to the end, to where it was supposed to go.”
“Like my uncle.”
“Actually, I was thinking of your grandfather.”
“Gerruso, come on, get some rest now.”
“You know what, Poet? We ought to speak in colors. We'd save ourselves so many words if you could tell everything you need to know from the color. All you'd need to know would be the color of all the feelings.”
“That's not a bad idea.”
“It's colorful, right? Anyway, Poet, don't worry, I'm here with you.”
“But in the ring I'll be the one taking all the punches.”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your body takes all the punches in the flesh, but we take the invisible punches to the soul. Let's just hope that Caterino Gerruso remembers to keep his dukes up, because invisible punches land square on your heart and they hurt just as bad as the other kind.”
Umbertino was alone in the locker room.
Soon, he'd be climbing into the ring for the finals.
Il Negro
wouldn't be there to watch him fight.
He tried out a series of jabs to warm up his arms, he stretched his back, grabbed the jump rope and jumped rope for a while.
He'd always liked warming up before a fight.
The silence that comes before a battle.
It reminded him of what it was like to swim in the sea, far from everyone else, with no one there to take part in that intimacy.
Igniting his body.
Ready to inflict mayhem right from the start.
This would be the last time he did it.
He had to avoid mistakes.
He threw a series of violent, very fast punches.
He could sense every muscle, every tendon, every inch of skin.
He was at the height of his strength and there was desperation in his eyes.
He opened the door, slipped on his gloves, left the locker room, and strode off to lose his championship bout.
Nina continued to weep.
Her breathing was labored.
She sniffed.
And still she went on talking to me from the other end of the line.
“Go on.”
The receiver was as heavy as a boulder.
I had three coins in my hand.
They were enough for what I had to say.
“Nina.”
She did her best to cry quietly, trying to keep from drowning out my voice.
“Tell me what I need to know.”
When the beep indicating I was out of credit sounded, it was followed by the click of a coin I'd just inserted into the slot.
“I'm sorry.”
The sobbing came more frequently.
I still had two coins in my hand.
Bitter words flew.
“Kid, you don't know shit about boxing.”
“I'm in front of you and I understand before you even get a chance, piece-of-shit traitors.”
“The show's over, you idiot, take your seat.”
Neither Umbertino nor Grandpa turned around to offer Gerruso moral support. They were focusing on the ring.
The referee signaled for us to resume the fight and Ceresa returned to the center of the canvas, as if it belonged to him by right.
He wasn't as tired as I was.
He lunged at me, pushing me into the corner.
The northwest wind was capable of slashing my face.
I raised my guard to protect my face, leaving my abdominals, my elbows, and my ribs unprotected.
“Tell me what happened next.”
Forcing my calves to leap, I escaped that maelstrom of punchesâjabbing and hooking randomly as I went.
“After the kiss?”
My opponent never seemed to fall.
“Yes.”
I needed to move quicker, as quick as I could.
He was outflanking me.
I had to retake the initiative or I was fucked.
“You want to know if the blonde and I . . .”
None of my attacks were succeeding.
All of my attempts were proving to be failures.
I couldn't seem to score a single point.
“Yes.”
When did breathing become so labored?
When had giving an answer become so degrading?
When did mortification wound more deeply than the act itself?
“What do you want to know?”
Nina had no fear.
She uttered the words I had been unable to pronounce.
The question had been spoken.
The whole time I was giving her my answer, I kept my eyes shut.
I welcomed with relief the beep announcing that the call was about to come to an end.
“That was the last coin, Nina.”
She didn't answer.
She just cried, nothing more.
That was the end of our phone call.
I looked at my reflection in the glass of the phone booth.
It wasn't over yet.
I inserted the coin that remained in my hand and I called the blonde.
Nicola Randazzo didn't understand how it was possible. Rosario had been digging for hours, without rest. He was just a walking skeleton, but still.
There were so many people missing. They must still be trapped under the rubble. Only when someone was certain that they'd found a living person did they call out to the others for help. It was vital to husband what strength remained, focusing only on survivors for the moment. There would be plenty of time to extract the dead later.
From the minute Rosario had left D'Arpa's grave, he hadn't stopped working for a second. He went on moving rubble, wooden beams, body parts. Nicola couldn't keep up with him.
“I can't keep it up, Rosario.”
“Lie down here, so I can find you later.”
It was still at least two hours till sunset, but Nicola curled up all the same, next to the kitchen wall, where my grandfather had directed him. Exhausted, he fell asleep right away.
Dust and smoke had made the air unbreathable.
Every now and then, someone passed out.
Everyone was starting to run out of strength.
“We were Christs of mercy.”
The following day, the Allied troops would arrive.
“Grandpa, who else knows that all this happened?”
They would take care of everyone, even the prisoners.
“No one.”
Eight months later, when the war was over, they'd repatriate them all.
“Not even Nicola?”
There was still two hours of light to dig by, before darkness fell over everything.
“No one knows what I'm about to tell you, but you.”
The moaning was faint, like the sound of a hair being plucked, but Rosario had heard it.
On that spot, a few hours ago, the barracks had stood.
The sound of the lament guided my grandfather's fingers. His hands needed to move the rubble preventing the extraction of the survivor, and only that rubble, in order to prevent new collapses.
By digging and clearing, Rosario had carved out a channel through the debris. He made his way in, picked up a piece of stone, a handful of dirt, a length of wood, then he emerged, discarded what he was carrying, and went back in. Sometimes he'd remove something that caused so much dust to fall that it forced him out of the tunnel so he could catch his breath. The air outside, smoke-filled though it was, was still better than the dust-saturated air down there.
The voice went on moaning. There was just one more obstacle in his way: the canvas of a military cot. Rosario armed himself with a sharp shard and cut through it.
He reached out a hand and touched a face.