As God Commands (54 page)

Beppe put on some hideous bug-eye sunglasses. "Schools. People
who've come for the funeral."

Cristiano thought that either Fabiana Ponticelli had known half
the nation or some people were going to the funeral without having
known her.

The streets of the center were closed and guarded by the police
and nobody could enter without special authorization.

"The mass is in the church of San Biagio," said Beppe.

Trecca was watching him like a hawk.

Like you do with a dog the first time you let it off the leash.

He must have guessed something.

There were a lot of people walking in silence toward the church
in Piazza Bologna. Along the way Cristiano noticed that all the shops
were closed and had black bows tied to their lowered shutters.

He had never seen so many people, not even the previous summer
when that TV satire show had come to the village with the life-sized
puppet and the dancing girls, but when he reached the piazza he
was amazed.

It was an immense human carpet, broken only by the roofs of
the minibuses of the TV stations with their satellite dishes, the statue
of the marble horse and the lamp posts with clusters of loudspeakers
clinging to them. Other people looked out from the windows of the modern blocks that encircled the piazza. Hastily prepared white banners linked the balconies. They said: FABIANA YOU WILL BE FOREVER
IN OUR HEARTS. FABIANA TEACH US TO BE BETTER. FABIANA NOW YOU
LIVE IN A BETTER PLACE.

"Give me your hand, or we might lose each other in this crowd."
Trecca held out his hand and Cristiano was forced to take it.

They went around the edge of the piazza and finally reached the
church. A modern building made of gray concrete, with a pointed
roof covered with long strips of tarnished copper. In the center of
the facade was a huge stained-glass window depicting a scrawny
Christ. The steps, too, were crammed with people pushing to get in.

"Let's go away. They won't let us in," said Cristiano, trying to
break free of the other's grasp.

"Wait ... You're a schoolmate of hers." Trecca spoke to the officials on the door and they let them through. They crossed the right
nave, threading their way through the crowd. There was a strong
smell of incense, flowers and sweat.

Cristiano found himself face to face with Castardin, the owner
of the furniture factory, whose dog he had killed.

Castardin looked him up and down for a moment. "Wait a
minute. You're Rino Zena's son, aren't you?"

Cristiano was about to deny it, but Trecca was beside him.

He nodded.

"I heard about your father. I'm very sorry. How is he?"

"Okay. Thank you."

The social worker intervened. "He's still in a coma. But the doctors are optimistic."

Castardin was shouting as if he was in a seaside discotheque at
Riccione. "Good. Good. Well, when he wakes up give him my best
wishes, will you? As soon as he comes out of his coma tell him old
Castardin sends him his very best wishes." He patted him on the
back of the head.

Cristiano imagined his father waking up and being told that
Castardin sent him his very best wishes. He'd go straight back into
a coma and never come out of it again.

A few yards further on was Mariangela Santarelli, the hairdresser,
who had gone out with his father when Cristiano was small. She
was wearing a veil and a miniskirt. And Max Marchetta, the owner of Euroedil. He was dressed up as if he was going to his own wedding, and was talking into his cell phone. Old Marchetta was there,
too, on a wheelchair pushed by a Filipino.

They reached the area where his schoolmates were sitting. As
soon as they saw him they started whispering, nudging each other
and pointing at him.

Cristiano had to restrain himself from turning around and fleeing.

The Italian teacher pushed her way through the crowd, came up
and hugged him and whispered in his ear: "I heard about your
father. I'm so sorry."

The very same words Castardin used.

The Carrion Man entered the hospital.

His heart seemed to be trying to escape from his chest. And he
was dying for a pee. He held one hand pressed against his stomach,
with the fingers touching the steel of the pistol concealed in his
underpants.

At last he had managed to get there. He didn't know how he had
done it. He had even started the scooter at the first attempt.

The village seemed to have gone mad. All the shutters of the shops
were down. All the roads closed to traffic. The parking lot full of
buses. The streets packed with people walking toward the center.

He wanted to ask them where they were all going and what on
earth was happening, but didn't have the courage. There were guards
and traffic police everywhere.

Maybe there was a Laura Pausini concert or a political rally.

He would have liked to rush upstairs to Rino, but before he did
anything else he needed to pee. His bladder was bursting.

He entered the toilet next to the bar. At that moment, thank God,
there was no one around. The Carrion Man hurried over to the
urinal and let it out, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

He had to rest one hand against the wall to stop himself collapsing
on the floor with the pain. It was like pissing out fire mingled with
fragments of glass.

When he opened his eyes he saw that the white ceramic walls of
the urinal were splashed with red and that his pecker was dripping
urine and blood. The acidic reek of ammonia blended with the
metallic tang of blood.

"Oh, shit!" he muttered in despair.

At that moment the spring-operated door of the toilet opened
and closed with a creak.

The Carrion Man moved closer to the wall and stared at the hole
into which the red piss was falling.

He heard behind him a sound of heels clicking on the floor tiles.
Then out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure take up a position three urinals down from his.

"Ahhh! They say it's bad for you to hold it in. Especially after a
certain age," said the man, and at the same time there was a trickling noise.

The Carrion Man turned.

It was Ricky. The angel sent from God.

He was wearing the same gray flannel suit and the same checkered shirt. The same blond comb-over which looked as if it had just
been licked by a cow. The same everything.

"Ricky..." he blurted out involuntarily.

The little man turned, looked at him and raised his eyebrows.
"Who are you, my friend?"

"It's me. Don't you recognize me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You must. You gave me this." The Carrion Man pulled out from
under his cardigan the crucifix he wore on his chest.

Ricky seemed unsure whether to say he knew him or to deny
everything and run for it. "Yes. Of course... Now I remember. How
are you?"

The Carrion Man sniffed. "I'm dying..."

Ricky zipped up his fly. "So the crucifix was for you?" He went
to wash his hands. "You should have told me ... I would have given
you something else. Why didn't you tell me?"

The Carrion Man shrugged and admitted: "I don't know. I know
I'm dying and that God has abandoned me."

Ricky took two steps backward, drying his hands with a paper
towel: "Have you prayed to the Lord?"

"God doesn't talk to me any more. He's chosen someone else.
What have I done wrong?" The Carrion Man limped over to the
little fellow and grabbed him by the arm.

Ricky stiffened. "I don't know. But you must keep praying. With
more conviction."

"But is it up to me to kill Rino? Or has God already done it?"
He started stamping his foot on the floor as if trying to squash an
invisible cockroach.

Ricky broke away from his grasp as if he'd been touched by a
leper. "Look, I'm sorry but I really must go. Good luck."

The Carrion Man saw him disappear through the door and
then screwed up his lips into a grimace of terror, dropped to his
knees, hugged himself, bent forward and started crying and
moaning: "Tell me what I have to do. Please ... Tell me. And I'll
do it."

Beppe Trecca was leaning against a column in the side nave with
his arms crossed.

He had left Cristiano with his schoolmates and could now see
his blond head of hair, prominent among the others.

He looked like an alien, there in their midst. He had completely
ignored them.

He's got character, that kid. And he's tough.

He would recover, of that Beppe was certain. He had never complained, he had never seen him shed a tear. That was the way to
face difficulties.

Beppe himself, however, felt tired and weak.

He was longing to go home, to take a shower, shave and write
his resignation letter. The next day he would close his bank account,
gather together the few things he possessed and drive down to
Ariccia.

He took off his sunglasses, cleaned them and put them back on
again. He screwed up his eyes and saw Ida sitting in the pews of
the central nave. Next to her, Mario and the children.

He should have started, choked or hidden away, but instead he
stood there, spellbound, gazing at her. During the past few days he
had imagined this moment a thousand times and he had never
thought he would react like this. He felt peaceful, calm, because he
only had to look at her for all his anxieties and fears to dissolve
like tempera in water. He knew he was seeing her for the last time,
and wanted to fill his memory with her so that he could hold her
there for ever.

She wore a black pantsuit and a gray cardigan. Her hair gathered
back behind her head. Her neck long and slender. She looked stunning. She was brushing a lock of hair off her forehead with her hand.

What in the name of heaven made me make that vow?

Who said the African was dead, anyway? He was on the ground,
but maybe he had only fainted. He hadn't even felt his heart. What
a fool he was! It had been his own guilty conscience that had decided
for him. In his panic he had written him off. But there had been no
doctor there to verify his death.

He was in perfect health. I even bought those socks off him.

Besides, miracles don't exist. They're just an illusion designed to
spread the faith. The Lord isn't a merchant you can barter promises with in exchange for favors.

How could I been so stupid as to think you could just say a
prayer and God would revive the dead? If that was true nobody
would ever die!

There hadn't been any miracle. And if there hadn't been any miracle there wasn't any vow. If he was wrong and had to pay for being
happy, he would pay.

I'm in love with Ida Lo Vino and I don't want to lose her for
anything in the world.

He felt a sensation of warmth spreading through his body, and
his limbs relaxed. It was like being born again. Someone had removed
from his chest those thousand pounds that had been crushing the
breath out of him.

He filled his lungs, breathed out again and ran his fingers through
his hair. He smoothed down his jacket and straightened the knot of
his tie.

He strode decisively through the crowd and entered the pew
where Ida was sitting.

He smelled the sweet scent of her perfume. He squeezed her arm.
"Ida?"

She turned and saw him. Astonished, she breathed: "Beppe?
Where have you been?"

"I've been closing my account with God," he said. Then he
motioned to her to wait and turned to Mario Lo Vino, who was
looking at him and smiling: "After the service I must talk to you."
He sat down and took hold of Ida's hand.

Cristiano had had to embrace all his schoolmates. Some had kissed
him. Even that pathetic little shit Colizzi, the geek, who had always
hated him. The only one who had completely ignored him was
Esmeralda Guerra, Fabiana's friend.

At first he hadn't recognized her, so smartly dressed and with her
long black hair gathered into a plait. She had removed her piercing.
She seemed taller, and was breathtakingly beautiful. She was holding
a sheet of paper which she kept reading. A group of girls sat around
her, trying to comfort her.

Cristiano sat down next to Pietrolin, whom he had once beaten
up in the mall with a cardboard cut-out of Brad Pitt.

Pietrolin nudged him. "Esmeralda's going to read a poem she's
written for Fabiana. And tomorrow at three thirty she's going to be
on Real Life Stories on TV."

On the other side, standing by a confessional, was Tekken with
his whole gang-Ducati, Nespola, Memmo and three or four others
whose names Cristiano didn't know. He was so covered in plaster
he looked like the Michelin Man.

So that whack I gave you was on target. I hurt you. You deserve
it. After what you did to Quattro Formaggi ...

Suddenly a general murmur arose.

Cristiano looked around.

Fabiana's father, mother and little brother had entered. The crowd
parted to let them through. The Ponticellis clung tightly together
and made their way forward, looking lost. Some people raised their mobile phones to snap them or make videos. In the dim light of the
church the screens of the cell phones lit up like funeral candles.

They put them in the front row, next to the mayor, a lot of important people and the policemen in their uniforms. The mother took
her son on her lap while the television cameras zoomed in for a
close-up.

"After the funeral there's a procession to the cemetery. I don't
know if we have to go too."

Cristiano stared at Pietrolin, not knowing what to say. Since
entering the church he had avoided looking toward the altar, but
he couldn't restrain himself any longer.

The white coffin lay on a red carpet. Around it, thousands of
irises, tulips and marguerites. Dozens of wreaths and little soft toy
white rabbits.

A long procession of people went up to lay down more flowers
or simply stroke the coffin.

Fabiana is in there and I was the last to touch her.