Yok (7 page)

Octopus Callemaro had expended both money and time
on his house in the sky. The best way to picture the result was to imagine a
lopped-off variation of the Savings Banks Bank headquarters in Lanceheim, or
possibly a shrunken National History Museum, and then exchange brick and masonry
for wood and cardboard. It was an impressive but lightweight building Octopus
had erected at the top of his tower.

The furnishings were nonexistent in the outer rooms
where stuffed animals of all sorts gathered and stood around, while in the inner
rooms it was cozier. The innermost room, where Callemaro took his meals alone,
was sumptuous, with wall-to-wall carpet, oak paneling, and a ceiling painting
that told the story of the creation of the building. Once a month the octopus
invited one of the crew who had particularly distinguished himself—the most
brutal, the greediest, the worst—to have dinner with him in this innermost room.
It was a gift that all coveted, but few got to experience.

The gangster boss otherwise had a simple attitude
toward his followers: the more, the better. In the innermost circle Octopus
counted two dozen loyalists, and beyond that there were just as many who would
willingly take part if Dragon Aguado Molina went on the attack. Another couple
dozen stuffed animals lived in the building. They hardly knew who Octopus was,
even though they exploited his hospitality to avoid the chaos of Sors for a calm
time in the sky. These parasites were Callemaro's best recruitment base.

O
rtega
and I came up to the radio tower at midnight, and began the long climb up the
apparently fragile ladder.

“There are thix hundred thirty-thixth thtepth,” I
panted. “They thay it wath jutht to annoy me.”

I knew that Fox Antonio Ortega could have run up
the ladder without getting out of breath; he could have gone hand over hand if
he wanted to. But he was a considerate animal, and so he rested when I was
forced to rest.

“Do you think I'll get to meet him tonight?” he
asked during one of the breaks.

“Perhapth,” I speculated. “If he'th in a good mood.
We'll make a try. Whatever it ith you want to thay to him, it'th jutht as well
to get it thaid.”

I was entrusted to the inner rooms. I had worked
with Callemaro for more than a year, so when we entered the building I left
Ortega to himself. It took a few hours before I was able to set up an audience
with Octopus, and during that time the fox investigated the strange
building.

Despite Fox Antonio Ortega's mental shortcomings he
was fascinated, like anyone else who was up in the tower for the first time, by
the view. The windows were not equipped with glass or mesh; the large,
rectangular holes in the facade were cut directly out of the wall panels. From
the top of the tower the labyrinthine street network and the colors of the
streets in the illuminated night were silhouetted like a poetic, imaginative
pattern in a kaleidoscope.

Everywhere in the outside rooms there were piles of
trash and stuffed animals. The occasional armchair and mistreated sofa testified
to a long-abandoned ambition to give the various rooms different functions.
Since the stove had broken down, in the big kitchen—which was an extension to
the other rooms—three portable butane stoves had been set out on a table. Once a
week the pantry and refrigerators were refilled, usually on Monday. The food
often ran out the same evening, so there were mostly empty packages on the
shelves. From the three toilets there was a horrible stench because no one ever
cleaned up after themselves.

Fox Antonio Ortega was not spoiled, but even he
felt uneasy about how things were organized in this building.

When late that night Ortega was granted entry to
the inner rooms, he was surprised at the difference. There were three living
rooms in a row and a corridor bordered by bedrooms, where I lived among others,
and things were very nice for us. Fifteen of us shared a well-equipped kitchen
and two smaller bathrooms. Even if we were not meticulous, we kept our things in
order. The octopus was careful not to soil the wall-to-wall carpets, made sure
the oil paintings on the walls stayed free of burn marks, and ordered that we
drink our liquor out of glasses. For Callemaro the image of success was
important, and he associated it with a certain degree of manners and
cleanliness.

Fox Antonio Ortega was led into the end living
room, where Callemaro as usual was enthroned in his black leather armchair. I do
not think the fox had any expectations, but like everyone who met Octopus for
the first time, he must have wondered why the gangster was dressed in a tuxedo,
why he wore all those clumsy—if glittering—ruby rings, and why he had a white
silk scarf around his head. The answer was vanity. Octopus's most prominent
attribute and most powerful motivating force was vanity. It had taken him all
the way up the radio tower, and it would take him farther than that.

Around the boss on two leather couches sat, and
stood, his closest stuffed animals: a tiger, an elephant, a toad, and a somewhat
smaller koala. They were competing to see who could look the meanest, and it was
impossible to name a winner. I was standing right behind Octopus's armchair. I
nodded carefully to Ortega as he was led up to the gang leader, but we had
agreed to pretend not to know each other. Amidst all the animals coming and
going, I was the one who had wormed his way into the Octopus's inner room; for
the moment I did not want to take more risks.

Ortega still had his big, ugly, foul-smelling coat
on; the cap was pulled low down on his forehead so that no one could see his
sparklingly beautiful eyes; and a dog who I only knew superficially led him
forward. Fox stopped at a respectful distance, bowed shortly, cleared his throat
and said, “Octopus Callemaro, I am a simple animal, and I come to you with a
simple question.”

“That's what they all say,” Octopus rumbled,
whereupon his crew laughed.

“In order to get the female my heart has chosen,”
the fox continued with no concern for the laughter, “Dragon Aguado Molina has
decided that I must give him one of your arms.”

It became dead silent in the room. No one moved, no
one dared breathe. Had they heard correctly? Who was this idiot? Mentioning
Molina's name here? Asking for one of Octopus's arms? There were furtive glances
at the windows, because everyone was certain that the pitiful figure in the
overly large coat would soon take that route back to the ground. I didn't dare
breathe.

Callemaro had turned pale at first, but now his
blackness returned, blacker than before.

“This female you're talking about, is it Dragon
Aguado Molina's daughter?”

“That's right,” Fox answered.

“Has he promised you his daughter?”

“In exchange for one of your arms,” Fox
confirmed.

Callemaro burst into loud laughter. It reminded Fox
of Molina's hilarity a few days earlier. And just as the Dragon's henchman had
chimed in with Dragon's laugh, Octopus's crew now joined in with Octopus's
hoots. The stuffed animals on the black sofas laughed louder and meaner than
those who were standing around the fox on the floor.

When the laughter subsided, Octopus began to
speak.

“I see, it's the cursed Aguado Molina who sent
you.” Octopus chuckled. “We'll see what we can think of to answer him!”

And again salvos of laughter were heard in the
room.

 

My Story

M
y whole
body was shaking. I needed a drink, a pick-me-up—whether it was a lukewarm beer
or vodka didn't matter. I was in a cold sweat under my heavy coat and the nausea
was taking an elevator ride up and down my throat. I hadn't washed in more than
a week, and even I could smell how I stank. The headache was pounding in my
temples, it drowned out my thoughts, and every time a car engine accelerated
nearby it was as if someone was pushing my skull into a pepper mill.

We were on the square at linen yellow Piazza di
Bormio. Commerce was in full swing, in the stands the sellers were shouting out
offers to outdo one another: bananas for a five-spot. Sunglasses for ten. Fried
pineapples for fifteen bucks. Every time someone shouted I felt my forehead.
Hurried stuffed animals passed us at a trot in all directions, and I wanted
nothing more than to go lie down. First a pick-me-up, then lie down.

There were four of us, and at this time we had been
together for several months. Days and nights followed each other, but our little
group remained intact. Our leader was named Riccardo Spider, and he was the one
who ordered us to the piazza. I didn't know then that Riccardo was working for
Octopus Callemaro; I didn't even know who Callemaro was.

“Vole,” said Riccardo. “I need a smoke.”

I struggled to force back the vomit, and with the
back of my paw I tried to dry the sweat from my forehead but was shaking so
severely it must have looked like some kind of choreography.

“I don't have any,” I said.

“Find some,” said Riccardo.

With a gesture he indicated the asphalt on the
square.

I looked at him perplexed, and there was a smile on
his lips. He meant that I should crawl around on the square on all fours and
hunt for butts. I knew just what he was up to. To maintain his absolute power,
he was sometimes forced to degrade us so the hierarchy would not be disturbed.
As we stood there on Piazza di Bormio we had been going for over twenty-four
hours and had made two failed attempts to break into apartments; sold hash to
teenagers who would be disappointed when they found out it was only resin; and,
just that morning, had left a bar whose location I couldn't recall without
paying the bill—but I do remember we drank up a couple of bottles of vodka
before we split. I didn't have the energy to question Riccardo, and I didn't
have the strength to argue. I got down on my knees and crawled slowly off toward
a flower stand. After a minute or two I had forgotten why I was crawling around
on the filthy square. The effort meant I wasn't able to hold back any longer,
and I threw up behind a bucket of tulips. I got to my knees and wiped my mouth
off with the sleeve of the coat, and at that moment I met his gaze.

My dad, Harry S. Bulldog, was standing six feet
before me. Under his arm he held a package of gift-wrapped flowers that he must
have just bought, and he stared. We had not seen each other for almost a year. I
tried to say something, tried to explain why I was there on my knees, with vomit
on my coat and my body shaking, but I could not make a sound. And before I could
make another attempt, Dad's gaze glided past me and he went on.

T
hat
evening we fell asleep as we usually did in a garbage room somewhere in Sors. It
was always possible to find unlocked trash rooms, and as long as you didn't stay
two nights in a row there was seldom anyone who complained. You could sleep
outdoors, and sometimes we did, but there were lots of rabble prowling around
the streets at night, and you were always afraid of waking up without clothes
and possessions. The trash rooms were safer, and we could lock ourselves in.

When my friends—even if I hesitate to call them
“friends”—fell asleep and were snoring in their respective corners in the
stinking, windowless room, I was lying there wide awake, staring into the
darkness. The expression on my dad's face, the pain in his eyes, left me no
peace. Every time I closed my eyes I was looking right into his eyes, and I saw
disappointment. I imagined that I even saw his attempt to come up with an
excuse, to smooth things over. Most agonizing was seeing how he forced himself
to look away, to leave, because I knew he had done it for my sake. I knew that
in his whole body he wanted to sink down on the square and embrace me and save
me from a life that was unworthy and wasted. But he knew it wasn't possible, and
for my sake he forced himself to pretend as if he hadn't seen, as if he didn't
see.

I lay there the whole night, and the night after
that and again the following night, staring into the darkness. Only when I drank
myself blind drunk could I relax and fall asleep.

M
y dad
lost his beloved peacock—and I lost my adored mom—when I was four. The notorious
Chauffeurs, the ones who pick up stuffed animals who are worn out and used up
and end their lives in Mollisan Town, will always strike me as capricious and
merciless. Why did they take my mother when she was in her prime and had just
gotten her longed-for son? No one can explain it, and I learned early on that
life is cruel.

Dad became a single parent, and I assume that in
the eyes of the world around him he was an improbable one. Six days a week he
had breakfast down at the boxing club Fresco, which was at the far end of the
east strip of mold green Rue d'Uzès. On Wednesdays he stayed away, because that
day the club's youth sparred against a zebra named Carlos early in the morning.
Carlos was one of the city's most promising, a featherweight boxer with a
lightning-fast right hook. A few years earlier he and Dad had ended up in a
conflict that neither of them could sort out, so Dad avoided Carlos.

When I was little, Dad had not boxed professionally
for several decades, but he was far from the only veteran who continued to hang
around the club even though he'd hung up his gloves. The familiar odors of fear,
sweat, arrogance, and leather; and the mute, confident mutual understanding
between the boxers were his survival strategy and a way to chase away the
incomprehensible challenges of existence.

He left me at day care when the sky turned dark,
and then took the bus two stops to Fresco, where he always sat at one of the
small tables by the entrance. He always had before him a glass of orange juice,
a hard cheese sandwich on a chipped plate, and a cup advertising car tires—that
were no longer manufactured—of the steaming strong, bitter coffee that Dad could
not live without. He took a bite of the sandwich and read the sports pages in
the
Daily News
. At regular intervals he snorted out
loud at the journalist's stupidity. He read the sports pages every day, so he
knew that the whole lot of them were idiots.