Not a single cigarette survived.
Gerruso's father burst into a flood of tears.
Gerruso didn't know what to do, whether to walk toward the coffin or his father. My mother and my grandmother both hurried to his aid, each taking him by one hand. My grandmother wound up on the stump-finger side. First they walked him over to the coffin, and then into the church. With three strides, Umbertino was at Gerruso's father's side, one hand on his pack of cigarettes, the other on his lighter.
“Have a smoke, trust me.”
Rosario, standing next to him, offered a handkerchief so he could dry his eyes and blow his nose.
Once again, Nina's eyes looked into my own.
“I'm sorry, Nina, for everything.”
“What should I do now?”
“What we have to do.”
We entered the church together.
There was no one in the church but us.
When we left the church, the sun was as intense as the traffic. Nina embraced Gerruso, my uncle and my grandfather were helping Gerruso's father along, Mamma and Grandma were walking alongside his uncle and aunt. I was walking several steps behind them, with my hands in my pockets and an urge to whistle.
In the church courtyard, we found the Dumas waiting for us.
“Eliana! You came! I'm the happiest man in the world.”
For a moment, Gerruso had managed to forget about his mother's death.
The blonde went over to him.
“My condolences, Paride.”
She touched his face; a long, intense caress.
In silence, she embraced Nina.
Then she came over to me.
“You were handsome in the ring yesterday, covered with sweat.”
“You were there?”
She planted a kiss on my cheek, moist and delicate.
“Ciao, boxer.”
She went over to her scooter, kick-started it, and left.
“Did you call her?” Gerruso asked me.
“I told her,” Nina replied.
“Now, as long as we make it to the cemetery without running into any bombs or roadblocks, everything will be perfect.”
Nina bit her lip to keep from crying.
Getting the coffin into the hearse was more complicated than expected. The hearse was parked perpendicular to the lanes of traffic, and cars started forming a line. A few drivers felt entitled to honk furiously. Umbertino's response was indignant.
“Who lit a fire under your ass? Come on, step out of the car and let's see if you feel like crossing that line again.”
A religious silence descended.
After a few minutes, the hearse pulled away and the traffic jam unknotted itself.
We all got in our cars and drove to the graveyard.
The Rotoli cemetery, perched high on Mount Pellegrino, offers the dead a view of the sea.
I don't think I would like to be buried in the ground. I was in agreement with Umbertino on this point.
“To hell with being worm food: I'm for cremation and tossing my ashes into the sea.”
Grandpa wanted to be buried in the earth.
“That way I can look up at the sky.”
The coffin containing Gerruso's mother was sealed and interred. It was the first burial I'd ever witnessed. It was quick.
“Ciao, Mamma, the sun is out today, don't worry, I'm not all sweaty.”
He waved goodbye to her with his stump-finger hand, while his right hand caressed his necktie.
His father poured water into a vase and filled it with a bunch of fresh flowers purchased by Grandma Provvidenza.
Gerruso came over to me.
“Jesus, Poet, now we're even, our score is one-to-one, we're each short one parent.”
This time, Nina couldn't hold back her tears.
Gerruso stroked her hair with the care one would use with a newborn puppy.
“It's strange. We live on an island. Why don't we put our dead into boats, in the middle of the night? That way, the sea could carry them away into the distance, and we could stay behind, watching the flames as they vanish over the horizon of life.”
“Cemeteries exist because it's a source of consolation to know that our dead are in a specific place.”
“Fine, but what more specific place can there be than in our heart?”
It was midday.
Without a word, my whole family and I headed over to where my father lay.
Nina and Gerruso trooped along with us.
Mamma and Grandma removed the old flowers and replaced them with new ones, yellow and red.
My grandparents held hands; Umbertino wrapped an arm around my mother's shoulders.
“Poet, why don't you give your father the news, maybe he hasn't heard about it yet.”
So many things had happened.
And I hadn't come to see him in such a long time.
I was bigger, I'd made it through another year at school, the bombs had come back.
My hands had won the battle.
In the photograph on the headstone, the Paladin was smiling.
“Ciao, Papà , this is Nina.”