On Earth as It Is in Heaven (19 page)

The minutes had passed, and no one had come out. He felt he was ready to make his move.

As he'd calculated, he began chewing three sticks of gum simultaneously. It had cost him a world of trouble to procure three sticks from his wealthy friends, the ones who could afford to buy gum themselves. For the first stick, he'd had to capture no fewer than twelve lizards, alive and with their tails still on: it was difficult, he'd spent a whole afternoon on it, the damned tails always seemed to come off. For the second, he'd had to beat a certain Pasquale Mistretta silly: that was easy. For the third, he'd had to catch a live fly in a glass. The lawyer's son wanted to pull the wings off a live insect: really hard, it had taken him two whole days.

Franco felt important and invincible. He couldn't lose. He drew a nice deep breath, started walking, and entered the den of the Beast, bent on obtaining satisfaction. Without hesitating he threw open the door and damn, the last thing he expected, there was the Beast sitting in a chair, easy and comfortable, legs stretched out and both hands crossed behind his head.

“Oh hey, how long did it take you? I've been sitting here waiting forever.”

Franco's unforgettable entrance had been ruined. He decided to raise the stakes. Clenching his teeth, he glared at the Beast, looking him straight in the eye the way grown-ups do before beating each other to a pulp. To augment that fearsome effect, he swallowed fiercely right in his face, with conviction. Forgetting he had three sticks of gum in his mouth. He gulped them down whole, all but drowning himself on dry land. He bent over, coughing helplessly. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, this wasn't the scenario as he'd imagined it. The scene was supposed to be one of tears and abject fear and the Beast shrunk to a whining puppy, a helpless little beastie he could kick freely without fear of consequences. Instead, there the Beast sat, mocking him at his ease. He had to regain control. With one last powerful burst of coughing Franco finally managed to propel the chewing gum down into his stomach. He dabbed at his eyes with his right forefinger to see whether they had filled with tears: his credibility would be fatally undermined if it looked as though he'd been crying. His eyes seemed to be gratifyingly dry. He was a tough customer, a citizen of the Zisa. Pride in his native quarter set him back on his feet. Now he could proclaim the reason he was there, thus stirring abject terror in the heart of the Beast. With a tone of contempt that outdid even the scorn that dripped from his father's voice whenever he talked about the cops, he said: “I'm going to kill you.” And there he stood, glowering, his head tilted forward, his mouth curled in a sulky sneer. He felt like a warrior. His pose conveyed strength and self-respect. It was all working out just as he'd imagined. So it came as a bitter disappointment when one last, unexpected scorpion sting of coughing spoiled his fine dramatic pose, forcing him to bend over double again. Damned chewing gum, those bastards gave me defective gum, the minute I catch up with them back at Piazza Zisa I'll slit their throats, one by one. Once he managed to stand upright again, gaze elevated and body erect, he saw to his genuine astonishment that the chair was empty. He looked around and saw the Beast standing close beside him. How had the Beast managed that? The man was enormous and Franco hadn't heard a thing. He couldn't let himself be intimidated. He still had the soap licker in his pocket.

“Sure, you're going to kill me. Of course you are! Maybe someday, but not today. Do you want me to tell you why?”

He walked over to the heavy bag. In the presence of the kid's ten-year-old eyes, he slaughtered it bare-handed. Franco felt a chill. The Beast's arms were so fast that it was impossible to fully glimpse their movement, he just heard one punch sink into the heavy bag, followed by another and then yet another.

My great-uncle, the Beast, walked back over to Franco. Was this the right moment to stab him? The plan didn't seem as foolproof as it had at first. There was even the concrete possibility that the knife would just snap off at the handle; the Beast looked as if he were carved out of marble. Still, Franco didn't retreat, he stayed there and didn't take to his heels. It was a point of pride with him.

It almost came as a relief when Umbertino finally spoke.

He pointed to the heavy bag.

“If you want, I'll teach you.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, my ass, if you want me to teach you, first you have to dodge the slap.”

“You're on.”

Face-to-face, Franco's child's hands in Umbertino's grown-up hands. The first slap caught him on the back of his left hand. Hard. Franco hadn't even moved his hand, instinct had made him dodge a slap to the face, not the hand. My uncle waited for the pain to be felt in its entirety.

“You wanna keep going or do you wanna to go home and cry?”

“I wanna keep going.”

For twenty days in a row, every day, for an hour each day, he pounded Franco's hands, shattering capillaries and veins and still beating away at them, pitiless, and as soon as Franco started to react properly and move his hands in time, he pulled a change-up and landed a serious smack to his face, with an ample and resounding report.

“Dickhead, keep your guard up.”

And the torture would start all over again.

“But why, Maestro?”

“My hands were slow, Davidù, and do you know why?”

“No.”

“My eyes were slow.”

Suddenly his face lit up with a brilliant idea.

“Kid, here's what let's do, let's make a bet: if you manage to bring me a live fly inside this glass, then tomorrow you can go to the fair.”

“Is that the truth, Signor Maestro?”

“The truth.”

“Can I go get it now?”

The maestro burst out laughing. He held his belly with one hand and clapped his cap down onto his head with the other. He looked like a roughly sketched picture of joy.

“You want to go get it now? But you have the whole day tomorrow to try to get permission to go on the rides.”

“Can I go into your office?”

“Be my guest.”

I walked in, I picked up a glass, I headed for the locker room, and I reemerged less than a minute later. Inside the glass was a live fly.

“But . . . but . . . but how'd you do it?”

“I put a little chunk of bread in the bottom of the glass.”

“And the fly went right in.”

“Yes.”

The maestro looked first at the fly and then at me. He caressed my head with his stout hands.

“You're just like your father.”

I smiled at him even though I didn't understand.

“But why are you so intent on going to the fair? Don't lie to me, kid.”

“Nothing, Maestro, it's just that there's a girl . . .”

“Women, I knew it. I was wrong, youngster: you're not just like your father, you're the spitting image of your uncle Umberto.”

“So why did you want to see all three of us together?”

Franco didn't answer. The sun was so high over Piazza Zisa and the dead silence at three in the afternoon was so fine, why ruin with words the ineffable moment preceding a wholesale slaughter? The lawyer's son, the doctor's son, and the professor's son seemed to differ: when asked a question, they felt, one ought to reply. Their patience exhausted, they exchanged a knowing glance and turned to leave.

“Your chewing gum,” Franco said in a grave voice.

“What about our chewing gum?”

His hands no longer hurt. The Beast had stopped hitting him ten days ago or so. Now he just made him run and jump, nothing more.

“Your gum was defective.”

And he felt like using his hands.

The three looked at one another in astonishment, and then burst into laughter, the kind that crescendos, where you have to hold your belly from the pain of the abdominal contractions. They couldn't possibly know that they were about to experience one of those memorable afternoons, an afternoon they'd never forget, when they'd buckle under a clubbing the likes of which they'd never received before, a clubbing they'd always been spared because of the fear their fathers struck into the hearts of one and all.

Franco decided to follow the Beast's advice.

After all, now the Beast was his maestro.

“Let's go, assholes, come on.”

He spread his arms wide, offering up his solar plexus, embracing for the first time with eyes wide open the anticipation of a fight.

He felt free and happy.

My grandfather witnessed his second boxing match at Passau, in Germany. In the neon-lit hall, the audience was smoking and guzzling beer. The boxers wore professional gloves and shoes, the referee wore a white shirt and black slacks. In Africa it had been different. When my grandfather saw the first fight of his life, Lieutenant D'Arpa was barehanded, he wore ragged shoes, and there was no referee: he and the other boxer were expected to murderize each other at will, until one of them either was flat on his back on the canvas or else gave up.

In Germany, Rosario sipped a beer as he watched the boxers. Under his arm he held the wood he had bought to build a rocking horse. His son had just turned one. He hadn't seen his son since leaving for Germany. The two boxers rarely dodged and both landed most of their punches. Rosario couldn't bring himself to cheer. He was a stranger to both sides.

Two days before his departure for Germany, Rosario had gone to see Nicola Randazzo in the countryside where he lived, just outside of Palermo.

“I swear I'll be back.”

“When?”

My grandfather didn't answer.

Nicola said that he'd stay there, he'd go on taking care of the plants in the countryside, he'd never stop plunging his hands into the dirt, and, when things stopped going the way they ought to, amen, he'd just remember the happy times. He hadn't read books in his life. All he knew was the meaning of his own work, which all lay there, summed up in the process of watching a sown field. He felt sure in the knowledge that, not today, and not tomorrow, but in a while, if cared for and cultivated, the plants would bloom and bear fruit. And then at nightfall: unlacing his shoes, washing his hands, sitting in his good chair, and pouring himself a glass of wine to savor slowly.

He leaned over and picked up a cactus. It was so small that the pot fit into the palm of his hand.

“This is a gift. It will bloom for you in twenty-two years. It's strong, it's like you, it needs nothing, not even water, just a sip every three weeks in the summer, and, if you take care of it, there you are.”

Twenty-two years for a blossom.

It forced you to look beyond the natural horizon presented by daily events.

Rosario caressed it.

The thorns of the cactus didn't prick him.

After the boxing match was over, D'Arpa had no interest in sleeping. Stretched out on his cot, a wet bandage covering his left eye, he talked about how a car works: one pedal accelerates, the other pedal brakes. About how film takes an impression from light and becomes a photograph. About the rivers Kemonia and Papyretus, which were buried by the Arabs and now run beneath Palermo.

“You have to learn to read and write, Rosà, it's important. No, listen, as soon as we get back home, I'll teach you myself and you can pay me back by fixing me a few of your finest treats.”

All of the Italian prisoners, except for Melluso, went to see him, as if in a religious procession. Just a few hours earlier, he'd beaten a German boxer, a prisoner just like them. The Italians hailed that victory as a collective personal triumph. They'd come to pay him the proper tribute. A short chat, a quick farewell, the dignified silence of those who express their thanks with their mere presence. Sports had succeeded in bringing together people who spoke a variety of dialects, cementing the idea of the group.

“And after all, let's face it, Rosà. Ours is the comradeship that slaves feel for one another; you saw for yourself that they congratulated the German, too, didn't you? Beating another prisoner isn't the same as beating a guard. Still, victory is important for its own sake, it helps to create a sense of belonging. Just like playing games—I'm playing on this one's side, you're rooting for that one. Games teach you how important it is to take a position and stick to it.”

“You need to know how to pick sides, too.”

“Certainly. But there's only one way to learn that: by losing.”

In Germany, my grandfather worked for forty-four days as a mason, for sixteen days as a stevedore at the fruit and vegetable market, after which he was put to the test in a fake-Italian restaurant and hired the same day. The restaurant belonged to a Calabrian who had emigrated to Passau before the war. It seated fifty-nine. The vegetables were no good. The meat was no good. The flour for the pasta dough was no good. The pay, though, was good. Rosario stayed on there, working as a cook, for thirteen months. He did what he was told, head bowed, working in silence. It was pretty much the way it had been in Africa. The diners ate anything. Once, he'd made a change to one of the dishes on the menu, improving it. He'd been subjected to an offensive tongue-lashing by the owner, a dressing-down that he accepted without so much as blinking an eye. The Calabrian didn't like new things. He owned a long black four-door German automobile. When he drove down to Italy on vacation, everyone else was forced to sit down and shut up as they mutely admired his big black car, admitting that he had become a success.