I'm Not Scared (11 page)

He started touching me. ‘How old are you?' He ran his hands over my nose, my mouth, my eyes.

I was paralysed. ‘Nine. What about you?'

‘Nine.'

‘When's your birthday?'

‘The twelfth of September. And yours?'

‘The twentieth of November.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Michele. Michele Amitrano. What year are you in at school?'

‘The fourth. What about you?'

‘The fourth.'

‘Same.'

‘Same.'

‘I'm thirsty.'

I gave him the bottle.

He drank. ‘That's good. Do you want some?'

I drank too. ‘Can I lift the blanket a bit?' The heat and smell were stifling me.

‘Only a bit though.'

I pulled it away just far enough to get some air and look at his face.

It was black. Filthy. His fine blond hair had mingled with the earth to form a hard dry mat. Clotted blood had sealed up his eyelids. His lips were black and split. His nostrils were blocked up with snot and scabs.

‘Can I wash your face?' I asked him.

He craned his neck and raised his head and a smile opened on his battered lips. All his teeth had gone black.

I took off my T-shirt, moistened it with the water and started to clean his face.

Where I washed, the skin became white, so white it seemed transparent, like the flesh of a boiled fish. First on the forehead, then on the cheeks.

When I bathed his eyes he said: ‘Careful, it hurts.'

‘I'll be careful.'

I couldn't loosen the scabs. They were hard and thick. But I knew they were like the scabs dogs get. When you take them off, dogs can see again. I kept bathing them, softening them, till one eyelid rose and immediately shut again. Just an instant, enough for a ray of light to strike his eye.

‘Aaaahhhaaa!' he shouted and stuck his head under the blanket like an ostrich.

I shook him. ‘See? See? You're not blind! You're not blind at all!'

‘I can't keep them open.'

‘That's because you're always in the dark. But you can see, can't you?'

‘Yes! You're small.'

‘I'm not small. I'm nine years old.'

‘You've got black hair.'

‘That's right.'

It was very late. I would have to go home. ‘But now I've got to go. I'll be back tomorrow.'

With his head under the blanket he said: ‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

When the old man came into my room I was just getting organized to foil the monsters.

When I was small I always dreamed about monsters. And even now, as an adult, I sometimes dream about them, but I can't foil them any more.

They would just be waiting for me to fall asleep so they could frighten me.

Till, one night, I invented a way of not having night-mares.

I found a place where I could lock those misshapen terrifying creatures up and sleep serenely.

I would relax and wait for my eyelids to get heavy, and when I was on the point of dropping off, just at that precise moment, I would imagine I could see them walking, all together, up a slope. Like in the procession of the Madonna at Lucignano.

The Wicked Witch, hunchbacked and wrinkled. The four-legged werewolf with his torn clothes and white fangs. The bogeyman, a shadow who slithered like a snake among the stones. Lazarus, a corpse-eater, devoured by insects and enveloped in a cloud of flies. The ogre, a giant with small eyes and the goitre, great big shoes and a sack full of children on his back. The gypsies, foxlike creatures that walked on hens' feet. The man with the circle, a guy with an electric-blue tracksuit and a circle of light that he could throw a long, long way. The fish-man, who lived in the depths of the sea and carried his mother on his shoulders. The octopus boy, who was born with tentacles instead of legs and arms.

They all advanced together. Towards some indeterminate point. They were terrifying. And indeed nobody stopped to look at them.

Suddenly a bus appeared, it was all golden, with bells and little coloured lights. On its roof was a megaphone that blared out: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, come aboard this bus of desires! Come aboard this magnificent bus, it'll take you all to the circus and you won't have to pay a lira! Free trips to the circus today! All aboard! All aboard!'

The monsters, delighted at this unexpected opportunity, got on the bus. At this point I imagined that my stomach opened up, a long cut gaped apart and they all walked happily into it.

Those suckers thought it was the circus. I closed up the
wound and I'd got them. Now all I had to do was go to sleep with my hands on my stomach and I wouldn't have any nightmares.

I had just got them trapped when the old man came in, I lost concentration, took my hands away and they escaped. I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

The old man made a lot of noises. He rummaged in his suitcase. He coughed. He puffed.

I covered my head with one arm and watched what he was doing.

A ray of light lit up one segment of the room. The old man was sitting on Maria's bed. Thin, hunched and dark. He was smoking. And when he inhaled I saw the beaky nose and sunken eyes become tinged with red. I could smell the smoke and the cologne. Now and then he shook his head. Then he snorted as if he was arguing with someone.

He started to get undressed. He took off his half-boots, his socks, his trousers, his shirt. He was left in his underpants. He had flaccid skin that hung from those long bones as if it had been sewn on to them. He threw his cigarette out of the window. The stub disappeared into the night like a burning fragment of volcanic rock. He untied his hair and he looked like an old, sick Tarzan. He lay down on the bed.

Now I couldn't see him any more, but he was near. Less than half a metre from my feet. If he stretched out his arm he could grab my ankle. I curled up like a hedgehog.

I mustn't sleep. If I fell asleep he might take me away. I must think of something. Put nails in my bed. That would stop me sleeping.

He hawked. ‘It's stifling in here. How can you stand it?'

I stopped breathing.

‘I know you're not asleep.'

He wanted to get me.

‘Crafty little devil, you are … Don't like me, do you?'

No, I don't like you! I wanted to reply. But I couldn't. I was asleep. And even if I'd been awake I would never have dared to say it.

‘My kids didn't like me either.' He picked up from the floor a bottle mama had put there for him and took a couple of swigs. ‘Warm as piss,' he grumbled. ‘Two, I had. One's alive, but he might as well be dead. The other's dead, but he might as well be alive. The one who's alive's called Giuliano. He's older than you. Doesn't live in Italy any more. Went abroad. To India … five years ago. Lives in a community. They've filled his head with crap. He's shaved his head. Wears orange clothes and thinks he's an Indian himself. And thinks we have lots of lives. Dopes himself like a dog and he'll die like a dog out there. I'm certainly not going out there to bring him back …'

He had a fit of coughing. Dry. Lung-bursting. He got his breath back and went on. ‘Francesco died five years ago. Would have been thirty-two next October. Now he was a good boy, I loved him.' He lit another cigarette. ‘One day he met a girl. I saw her and didn't like her. Right from the start. Said she was a gym teacher. Little tart … skinny blonde … half Slav. The Slavs are the worst. Wrapped him up like a toffee, she did. She was down on her luck and she saw Francesco and she latched on to him because Francesco's a good boy, generous, always getting taken for a ride by everyone. God knows what she did to get him eating out of her hand like that. Afterwards I heard the bitch was in cahoots with some kind of magician. A piece of shit who must have put a spell on him. The two of them together fucked him up. Sapped his strength. He'd grown as thin as a rake. Big strong lad he was, turned into a skeleton, could hardly stand upright. One day he comes along and says he's getting married. Wouldn't listen to reason. I tried to tell
him she'd ruin him, but what can you do, it was his life. They got married. Went off on honeymoon by car. Heading for Positano and Amalfi, on the coast. Two days go by and he doesn't call. That's normal, I say to myself, they're on honeymoon. He'll call. And who does call? The Sorrento police. They say I've got to go there at once. I ask why. Can't tell me over the phone. I've got to go there if I want to find out. They say it's about my son. How the fuck could I go? There was no way I could. If they checked up on me I was in the shit. I was on the wanted list because I'd skipped parole. They'd slam me straight back inside. So I got a guy I know to ring them. Guy with a bit of pull. And he tells me my son's dead. What do you mean dead? He tells me he killed himself, threw himself off a cliff. Fell two hundred metres and smashed onto the rocks. My son? Francesco kill himself? Who were they trying to kid? I couldn't go. So I sent that fool of a mother of his to see what had happened.'

‘What had happened?' I blurted out.

‘They said Francesco stopped along the road to look at the view, she stayed in the car, he took a picture of her, then climbed up on the wall and jumped off. A guy takes a picture of his wife and then jumps off a cliff? He says they found him lying with his dick sticking out of his trousers and his camera round his neck. You reckon a guy who wants to kill himself takes a photograph, pulls out his dick and then jumps off a cliff? Bullshit! I know what really happened … Admire the view, my arse! Francesco stopped because he needed a piss. He didn't want to do it in the middle of the road. He's a well-bred young man. He climbed on the wall and relieved himself and that tart pushed him off. But nobody believes me. One shove and he's gone. Murdered.'

‘But why?'

‘Good question. Why? I don't know. He didn't have a lira.
I just don't know. I can't sleep at nights. But that bitch paid for it … I gave her … Well, never mind that, it's late. Good night.'

He threw the cigarette out of the window and lay down to sleep and in two minutes he was asleep and in three he was snoring.

W
hen I woke up the old man had gone. He had left the bed unmade, a packet of Dunhills crumpled up on the window sill, his underpants on the floor and the bottle of water half-empty.

It was warm. The cicadas were singing.

I got up and looked into the kitchen. Mama was ironing and listening to the radio. My sister was playing on the floor. I shut the door.

The old man's suitcase was under the bed. I opened it and looked inside.

Clothes. A bottle of perfume. A flask of Stock 84. A carton of cigarette packets. A folder with a little pack of photographs in it. The first was of a tall thin boy, dressed in blue mechanic's overalls. He was smiling. He looked like the old man. Francesco, the boy who had jumped off the cliff with his pecker out.

There were some newspaper cuttings in the folder too. Articles about Francesco's death. There was a picture of his wife too. She looked like a television dancer. I also found a lined school exercise book with a coloured plastic cover. I opened it. Written on the first page was: This exercise book belongs to Filippo Carducci. Fourth C.

The first few pages had been torn out. I leafed through it. There were some dictations, some summaries and an essay.

Describe what you did on Sunday.

On Sunday my papa came home. My papa lives in America
a lot and he comes back every now and again. He's got a
villa with a swimming pool and a diving board and there
are little
wash-bears
there. They live in the garden. I must
go there. He lives in America because of his job and when
he comes back he always brings me presents. This time he
brought me some tennis racket things that you put under
your feet so you can walk on the snow. Without them you
sink in and you might even die. When I go to the mountains
I will have to use them when I walk on the snow. Papa told
me these rackets are used by the Eskimos. The Eskimos live
on the ice at the North Pole and they have ice houses too.
Inside they don't have a fridge because it wouldn't be any
use. They eat a lot of seals and sometimes penguins. He said
he will take me there one day. I asked him if Peppino can
come too. Peppino is our gardener and he has to cut all the
plants and when it is winter he has to take all the leaves off
the lawn. Peppino is at least a hundred years old and as soon
as he sees a plant he cuts it. He gets very tired and in the
evening he has to put his feet in hot water. If he comes with
us to the North Pole he won't have to do anything there,
there are no plants there, only snow and he can rest. Papa
said he'll have to think about whether Peppino can come
with us. After going to the airport me, my papa and my
mama went to eat at the restaurant. They talked about
where I will have to do middle school. Whether I'll have
to live in Pavia or in America. I didn't say anything but
I prefer Pavia where all my friends go. In America I can
play with the little
wash-bears
. After lunch we went home.
I had another meal and went to bed. That's what I did on
Sunday. I had already done my homework on Saturday
.

I closed Filippo's exercise book and put it in the folder.

At the bottom of the suitcase there was a rolled-up towel. I opened it and inside there was a pistol. I stared at it. It was big, it had a wooden butt and it was black. I lifted it. It was very heavy. Maybe it was loaded. I put it back.

‘Over the field I chased a dragonfly, forgetting all the cares of days gone by,' they were singing on the radio.

Mama was dancing and meanwhile she was ironing and singing along. ‘Just when I thought that all was well I fell.'

She was in a good mood. For a week she had been worse than a mad dog and now she was singing away happily in her hoarse, masculine voice: ‘A foolish phrase, a vulgar pun, alarmed me …'

I came out of my bedroom buttoning up my shorts. She smiled at me. ‘Here he is! The boy who wouldn't sleep with guests … Good morning! Come and give me a kiss. A real smacker. The biggest kiss you can.'

‘Will you catch me?'

‘Yes. I'll catch you.'

I took a run-up and jumped into her arms and she caught me in mid-air and planted a kiss on my cheek. Then she hugged me and whirled me round. I gave her lots of kisses too.

‘Me too! Me too!' shrieked Maria. She threw her dolls in the air and clung on to us.

‘It's my turn. It's my turn. Get off,' I said to her.

‘Michele, don't be like that.' Mama picked up Maria too. ‘Both together!' And she started dancing round the room singing at the top of her voice. ‘The store has many boxes in a stack, some red, some yellow, and some others black …'

From one side to the other. From one side to the other. Till we collapsed on the sofa.

‘Feel. My heart. Feel my heart … Feel your mother's … heart … die.' She was out of breath. We put our hands on her bosom, there was a drum underneath.

We lay close together, slumped on the cushions. Then mama straightened her hair and asked me: ‘Didn't Sergio eat you last night then?'

‘No.'

‘Did he let you sleep?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did he snore?'

‘Yes.'

‘How did he snore? Show me.'

I tried to imitate him.

‘But that's a pig! That's the noise pigs make. Maria, show us how papa snores.'

And Maria imitated papa.

‘You're no good, either of you. I'll do papa for you.'

She did a perfect imitation. Whistle and all.

We laughed a lot.

She got up and pulled her dress down. ‘I'll warm the milk for you.'

I asked her: ‘Where's papa?'

‘He's gone out with Sergio … He said he's going to take us to the seaside next week. And we'll go to the restaurant and eat mussels.'

Maria and I started jumping up and down on the sofa. ‘The seaside! The seaside! To eat mussels!'

Mama looked towards the fields then closed the shutters. ‘Let's hope so, anyway.'

I had breakfast. There was sponge cake. I had two slices dunked in milk. Without letting anyone see, I cut another slice, wrapped it in my napkin and put it in my pocket.

Filippo would be pleased.

Mama cleared away. ‘As soon as you've finished, take this cake to Salvatore's house. Put on a clean T-shirt.'

Mama was a good cook. And when she made cakes or maccheroni al forno or bread, she always made some extra and sold it to Salvatore's mother.

I cleaned my teeth, put on my Olympic Games T-shirt and went out carrying the baking tin.

There was no wind. The sun was beating down on the houses from directly overhead.

Maria was sitting on the steps with her Barbie, in a patch of shade. ‘Do you know how to build a dolls' house?'

‘Sure.' I had never done it, but it couldn't be difficult. ‘In papa's truck there's a big box. We can cut it up and make a house out of it. And then paint it. I haven't got time now, though. I've got to go round to Salvatore's house.' I went on down to the street.

There was nobody around. Only the hens scratching about in the dust and the swallows darting under the eaves.

Some noises were coming from the big shed. I went towards it. Felice's 127 had its bonnet up and was tilted on one side. A pair of large black army boots stuck out from underneath.

When Felice was at Acqua Traverse he was always tinkering with the car. He washed it. He oiled it. He dusted it. He had even painted a wide black stripe on top of it, like the ones on American police cars. He would take the engine to pieces and then not be able to put it back together again or he would lose a bolt and then make us go to Lucignano to buy him one.

‘Michele! Michele, come here!' Felice shouted from under the car.

I stopped. ‘What do you want?'

‘Help me.'

‘I can't. I've got to do an errand for my mother.' I wanted
to give the cake to Salvatore's mother, jump on the Crock and dash off to see Filippo.

‘Come here.'

‘I can't … I've got to do something.'

He growled. ‘If you don't come here, I'll kill you …'

‘What do you want?'

‘I'm stuck. I can't move. A wheel came off while I was underneath, fuck it. I've been under here nearly half an hour!'

I looked inside the bonnet, from above the engine I could see the grease-blackened face and the red, desperate eyes. ‘Shall I go and call your father?'

Felice's father had been a mechanic when he was young. And when Felice messed about with the car he always flew into a rage.

‘Are you crazy? He'd beat the shit out of me … Help me.'

I could go off and leave him there. I looked around.

‘Don't even think it … I'll get out of here and I'll snap you like a stick of liquorice. All that'll be left of you will be a grave for your parents to take flowers to,' said Felice.

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Get the jack from behind the car and put it by the wheel.'

I put it there and turned the handle. Slowly the car lifted.

Felice moaned with joy. ‘That's the way. That's right, so I can get out. Well done!'

He slid out. His shirt was smeared with black oil. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I thought I'd had it. I've done my back in. All because of that fucking Roman!' He started doing press-ups, swearing all the while.

‘The old man?'

‘Yeah, I hate his guts.' He got up and kicked the sacks of corn. ‘I told him I can't get up there by car. That road ruins my shock absorbers, but he doesn't give a shit. Why doesn't
he
go up there in his fucking Mercedes? Why doesn't he stay up
there? I can't take any more of this. And it's don't do this and don't do that. He chewed my balls off because I went to the seaside a couple of times. It was much better when that piece of shit wasn't here. But I'm getting out …' He punched the tractor and vented his anger by smashing up the wooden crates. ‘If he calls me an idiot one more time I'm going to hit him so hard he'll stick to the wall. And now how the fuck am I going to get up there …' He stopped short when he remembered I was there too. He grabbed me by the T-shirt and lifted me up and shoved his nose in my face. ‘You tell no one what I've told you, got it? If I find out you've breathed one word of this I'll cut off your cock and eat it with broccoli …' He took a knife from his pocket. The blade flicked out to within two centimetres of my nose. ‘Got it?'

I stammered: ‘Got it.'

He threw me down on the ground. ‘No one! Now get lost.' And he started pacing round the shed.

I picked up the cake and got the hell out of there.

The Scardaccione family was the richest in Acqua Traverse.

Salvatore's father, the Avvocato Emilio Scardaccione, owned a lot of land. Large numbers of people worked for him, especially at harvest time. They came from outside. From far away. On trucks. On foot.

Papa, too, for many years, before he became a truck driver, had gone to do seasonal work for the Avvocato Scardaccione.

To enter Salvatore's house you went through a wrought-iron gate, crossed a courtyard with square bushes, a very tall palm tree and a stone fountain with goldfish in it, went up a marble stairway with high steps and you were there.

As soon as you entered you found yourself in a dark, windowless corridor, so long you could have cycled down it. On one side was a row of bedrooms that were always
locked, on the other was the hall. This was a big room with angels painted on the ceiling and a large shiny table with chairs round it. Between two pictures with golden frames there was a display case containing some valuable cups and glasses and some photographs of men in uniform. Near the front door stood the medieval suit of armour holding a mace with a ball bristling with nails. The Avvocato had bought it in the town of Gubbio. You couldn't touch it because it was liable to fall over.

In the daytime the shutters were never opened. Not even during the winter. There was a musty atmosphere, a smell of old wood. It was like being in a church.

Signora Scardaccione, Salvatore's mother, was very fat and barely five foot high and wore a net over her hair. Her legs were swollen like sausages and always hurt and she only went out at Christmas and Easter to go to the hairdresser's in Lucignano. She spent her life in the kitchen, the only well-lit room in the house, with her sister, Aunt Lucilla, amid the steam and the smell of ragù.

They were like a pair of seals. They bowed their heads together, laughed together, clapped their hands together. Two large trained seals with perms. They sat all day long in two armchairs which they had worn out checking that Antonia, the maid, wasn't making any mistakes or taking too long rests.

Everything had to be neat and tidy for when the Avvocato Scardaccione came back from town. But he hardly ever did come back. And when he did he couldn't wait to get away again.

‘Lucilla! Lucilla, look who's here!' said Letizia Scardaccione when she saw me enter the kitchen.

Aunt Lucilla raised her head from the sewing machine and smiled. On her nose she had some thick specs that made her eyes
as small as a fisherman's sinkers. ‘Michele! Michele, darling! What have you brought, the cake?'

‘Yes, Signora. Here it is.' I delivered it to her.

‘Give it to Antonia.'

Antonia was sitting at the table stuffing peppers.

Antonia Ammirati was eighteen, she was thin but not excessively so. She had red hair and blue eyes and when she was small her parents had been killed in a road accident.

I went over to Antonia and gave her the cake. She stroked my head with the back of her hand.

I was very keen on Antonia, she was beautiful and I would have liked to go out with her, but she was too old and she had a boyfriend in Lucignano who put up television aerials.