The teacher resumed her questioning of Giannini and Puddu, who were standing on either side of her desk, expounding their project: butterflies and their life cycle.
Pietro sat down and nudged Tuna, his neighbour, who was revising his project on grasshoppers.
Antonio Irace, known to all as Tuna, was a tall lanky boy with a small oval head, a studious boy with whom Pietro had never really made friends but who left him in peace.
‘Tuna, has anything unusual happened today?’ he whispered, with his hands in front of his mouth.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, anything… Have you seen the deputy head or the head around?’
Antonio didn’t look up from his book. ‘No, I haven’t seen them. Let me revise, please, she’s going to pick me soon.’
Gloria meanwhile was waving her arms trying to catch his attention. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come,’ she called out in a low voice, leaning right over. ‘It’ll be our turn soon. Are you ready?’
Pietro nodded.
At that moment the class test was the least of his worries.
If it had been any other day, he would probably have been shitting himself, but today his mind was on other things.
Pierini threw him a ball of paper.
He opened it. It said:
DICKHEAD WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED DID YOU CLOSE THE PADLOCK PROPERLY? WHEN WE ARRIVED EVERYTHING WAS NORMAL. WHAT THE FUCK AVE YOU DONE?
Sure he’d closed it properly. He’d even tugged at the chain to check. He tore a page out of his exercise book and wrote:
I CLOSED IT TIGHT
He screwed it up and threw it to Pierini. His aim was awry and it landed on the desk of Gianna Loria, the tobacconist’s daughter, the nastiest and most spiteful girl in the class, who grabbed it and with a malicious smirk put it in her mouth and would have swallowed it had Pierini not made a timely intervention by giving her a well-placed slap on the back of the neck. Gianna spat the note out on the table and Pierini, quick as a ferret, whipped it away and shot back into his place.
None of the three had noticed that old Rovi, behind her bulletproof lenses, had seen it all.
‘Moroni! Has all that rainwater rotted your brain? What’s the matter with you? You arrive late, you talk in class, you throw balls of paper, what the devil’s got into you?’ Miss Rovi said all this without any anger, she seemed merely curious to understand the extraordinary behaviour of that little boy who was usually neither seen nor heard. ‘Have you done your project, Moroni?’
‘Yes, Miss …’
‘Who did you do it with?’
‘Celani.’
‘Good. Well, come here, both of you, and entertain me.’ Then she addressed the two pupils standing beside her. ‘You may go. Make room for Moroni and Celani. Let’s hope they do better than you did and at least merit a pass.’
Miss Rovi was like a huge, slow petrol tanker which ploughs through the sea of life, come fair weather or foul. A thirty-year career had made her proof against the billows. She could get the children to work while retaining their respect, with very little effort.
Pietro and Gloria stood on either side of the teacher’s desk. Gloria began, describing the life habits of mosquitoes and the acquatic larval phase. As she talked, she sought out Pietro’s eyes. See? I learned it well in the end.
Science was Pietro’s favourite subject and he had to force Gloria to study it. With infinite patience, while her attention was constantly wandering, he would repeat the lesson to her.
But now she’s going really well.
And she was breathtakingly beautiful.
There’s nothing better than having a beautiful girl as your best friend. It means you can look at her whenever you like without her thinking you’re trying to get off with her.
When it was his turn, he began without hesitation. Perfectly calm. He talked about the draining of the marshes and DDT and, as he talked, he felt euphoric and happy. As if he were drunk.
The danger had passed and there WAS school and they could talk about mosquitoes.
He made a long digression on the best methods for keeping mosquitoes out of the home. He explained the advantages and disadvantages of mosquito coils, electronic repellents, ultraviolet lamps and Autan. Then he talked about a cream he himself had made out of basil and wild fennel, which you spread over yourself and which was so effective that when mosquitoes smelled it they didn’t just go away, they fled for their lives and became vegetarians.
‘All right, Moroni. That’s enough. You’ve both done very well. What more can I say?’ Miss Rovi interrupted him approvingly. ‘Now I just have to decide what mark to give y …’
The door opened.
The caretaker.
‘What is it, Rosaria?’
‘Moroni is to go to the headmaster’s office.’
The teacher turned to Pietro.
‘Pietro …?’
He had turned pale and was breathing through his nose and kept his lips tightly shut. As if he had been told that the electric chair was ready. With bloodless hands he gripped the edge of her desk as if he wanted to snap it off.
‘What’s the matter, Moroni? Are you all right?’
Pietro nodded. He turned and without looking at anybody walked towards the door.
Pierini got up from his desk and grabbed Pietro by the neck and before he could leave whispered something in his ear.
‘Pierini! Who told you to get up? Go back to your place at once!’ shouted Miss Rovi, slamming the register on the table.
Pierini turned towards her and smirked impudently. ‘Sorry, Miss. I’ll go back to my place straight away.’
The teacher looked round for Pietro again.
He had vanished behind the door with Rosaria.
Italo recognised me.
When the caretaker had announced that he had to go and see the headmaster, Pietro had seriously contemplated jumping out of the window.
But there were two problems. First, the window was shut (I could always smash my way through it head first) and second, even if he had managed to open it, his classroom was on the first floor and if he landed on the volleyball court he would be paralysed, at worst break a leg.
He wouldn’t die, in other words.
And what he needed was to be killed outright.
If there had been a just God, his classroom would have been on the top floor of a skyscraper so high they would have found him down there, smashed to a pulp like a rotten tomato, and the police would have investigated and discovered that he was innocent.
And at his funeral the priest would have said that he was innocent and that it wasn’t his fault.
He walked towards the headmaster’s office and felt physically sick.
‘If you split on us, if you mention any names, I’ll cut your throat, I swear on my mother’s head,’ that’s what Pierini had whispered in his ear. And Pierini’s mother had only recently died.
He felt a desperate urge to pee. To crap. To vomit.
He looked at that pitiless jailer who was about to hand him over to the executioner.
Can I ask her for permission to go to the bathroom?
(No. Out of the question.)
When the head’s expecting you, you can’t go anywhere, and besides she would certainly think he intended to slip out through the window.
(You shouldn’t have come to school. Why didn’t you stay at home?)
Because I was born stupid. He was disconsolate. I was born stupid because they made me that way. A perfect idiot.
Italo had recognised him. And had told the headmaster.
He recognised me.
He had never been summoned to the head’s office before. Gloria had, twice. Once when she had hidden Loria’s bag in the toilet cistern, and the other time when she had fought with Ronca in the gym. She had been given two black marks.
I’ve never even had one. Why did he only recognise me?
(You hid between the mattresses. Why did you hide between the mattresses? If y
ou’d hidden with them … He saw you.)
But he didn’t have his glasses on, he was too far away …
(Now calm down. You’re scared shitless. They’ll notice at once. Don’t say anything. You don’t know anything. You were at home. You don’t know anything.)
‘In you go …’ The caretaker pointed to the closed door.
Oh God, how terrible he felt, his ears … his ears had caught fire and he felt streams of sweat trickling down his sides.
He opened the door slowly.
The headmaster’s office was a stark room.
Two long neon lights bathed it in a wan, morgue-like yellow. To the left was a paper-strewn wooden desk and a metal bookcase containing some green files, to the right a small leatherette sofa, two shabby armchairs, a glass coffee-table, a wooden ashtray and a rubber plant which leaned precariously to one side. On the wall, between the windows, a lithograph of three men on horseback driving a herd of cattle.
All three were there.
The head was sitting in one of the armchairs. In the other was the deputy head (the nastiest woman in the world). Miss Palmieri was sitting slightly further back, on an upright chair.
‘Come in. Sit here,’ said the headmaster.
Pietro shuffled across the room and sat on the sofa.
It was nine forty.
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Disturbed children.
That was the teachers’ jargon for kids like Moroni.
Kids with problems integrating into the class group. Kids with difficulties in establishing relationships with their classmates and communicating with teachers. Aggressive kids. Introverted kids. Kids with personality disorders. Kids with serious family problems. With fathers with problems with the law. With fathers with drinking problems. With mothers with mental problems. With brothers with learning problems.
Disturbed children.
As soon as Flora saw him enter the headmaster’s office, she realised that Pietro Moroni was about to go through a very nasty experience.
His face was as white as a sheet and he was …
(guilty)
… terrified.
(as guilty as Judas.)
He oozed guilt through every pore.
Italo was right. He broke into the school.
65
By nine fifty-seven Pietro had confessed to breaking into the school and was crying.
He cried as he sat up straight on the leatherette sofa in the headmaster’s office. Silently. Now and then he would sniff and dry his eyes with the palm of his hand.
Miss Gatta had succeeded in making him talk.
But now he wasn’t going to say anything else, even if they killed him. They had tricked him.
The head was the good cop. Miss Gatta the bad cop.
Together they broke you down.
First the head had put him at his ease, then Miss Gatta had confronted him with the truth. ‘Moroni, Italo saw you in the school last night.’
Pietro had tried to deny it but his words didn’t sound convincing even to him, let alone to them. The deputy headmistress had asked him: ‘Where were you at nine o’clock yesterday evening?’ And Pietro had said at home, but then he had made a mistake and said at Gloria Celani’s house and Miss Gatta had smiled. ‘Right, we’ll just call Mrs Celani and ask her to confirm that.’ And she had picked up the desk diary with the phone numbers and Pietro didn’t want Gloria’s mother to talk to Miss Gatta because Miss Gatta would tell Gloria’s mother that he broke into schools and was a vandal and that would be terrible, so he had confessed.
‘Yes, it’s true, I broke into the school.’ Then he had started crying.
Miss Gatta was unmoved by his tears. ‘Was anyone else with you?’
(If you split on us, if you mention any names, I’ll cut your throat, I swear on my mother’s head.)
Pietro had shaken his head.
‘You mean to say you chained up the gate and broke in and smashed the television and then wrote the graffiti and hit Italo all on your own? Moroni! You must tell the truth. If you don’t, you can forget about passing the end-of-year assessment. Do you understand? Do you want to be expelled from all the schools in Italy? Do you want to go to jail? Who was with you? Italo says there were others. Tell us, or there’ll be serious trouble!’
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That’s enough.
The whole situation was becoming unbearable.
What was this, the Spanish Inquisition? Who did that harridan think she was, Torquemada?
First Italo. Now Moroni.
Flora was upset, she felt terribly sorry for that little boy.
The cunning Miss Gatta was terrorising him and Pietro by now was in floods of tears.
So far she had sat there in silence.
But enough is enough!
She stood up, sat down, stood up again. She went over to Miss Gatta, who was pacing from one side of the room to the other, puffing at a cigarette.
‘Can I speak to him?’ Flora asked in an undertone.
The deputy headmistress blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Why?’
‘Because I know him. And I’m sure that this isn’t the best way of asking him things.’
‘Oh, you know a better way, do you? Well, show me, then … Go ahead, let’s see you in action …’
‘Could I speak to him alone?’
‘Let Miss Palmieri try, Mariuccia. Let’s leave them alone. We’ll go to the bar …’ the head intervened in a conciliatory tone.
Miss Gatta irritably stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and went out with the headmaster, slamming the door.
At last they were alone.
Flora knelt down in front of Pietro, who was still crying and covering his face with his hands. For a few seconds she did nothing, then she stretched out her hand and stroked his head. ‘Pietro, please. Don’t cry. Nothing irreparable has happened. Don’t worry. Now listen, you must tell them who was with you. The deputy headmistress wants to know, she won’t let the matter rest. She’ll get it out of you.’ She sat down beside him. ‘I think I know why you won’t say. You don’t want to tell tales, do you?’
Pietro took his hands away from his face. He had stopped crying but his breath still came in gasps.
‘No. It was me …’ he stammered, drying away the snot with the cuff of his pullover.
Flora squeezed his hands. They were warm and sweaty. ‘It was Pierini, wasn’t it?’
‘I can’t, I can’t …’ He was begging her.
‘You must say. Then everything will be easier.’
‘He said he’d cut my throat if I sneaked.’ And he burst into tears again.
‘No, he’s just a loudmouth. He won’t hurt you.’
‘It wasn’t my fault … I didn’t want to break in …’
Flora hugged him. ‘There, there, stop crying now. Tell me what happened. You can trust me.’
‘I can’t …’ But then, with his face buried in his teacher’s cardigan, Pietro, in between sobs, told her about the chain and about how Pierini, Bacci and Ronca had forced him to go into the school and write that Italo had smelly feet and how he had hidden between the mattresses in the gym and how Italo had shot at him.
And as Pietro talked Flora thought about how unjust this world they lived in was.
Why do mafiosi who turn state evidence and talk get offered a new identity, a lot of guarantees and a reduced sentence, when a defenceless child gets nothing but terror and threats?
The situation Pietro found himself in was no better than that of the mafia informers and a threat from Pierini was no less dangerous than one from a Cosa Nostra boss.
When Pietro finished his tale, he raised his head and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘I didn’t want to break in. They made me. Now I’ve told the truth. I don’t want to fail the year. If I do my father will never send me to high school.’
Flora felt a surge of affection for Pietro which took her breath away. She hugged him tightly.
She wished she could take him away with her, adopt him. She would
have given anything for him to be her son, so that she could have looked after him and sent him to high school, somewhere miles away from that village of brutes and make him happy. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t fail. I swear to you. Nobody will hurt you. Look at me, Pietro.’
And Pietro directed those red-rimmed eyes at hers.
‘I’ll say it was me who put to you the names of Pierini and the other two. You just said yes. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do all that damage. Miss Gatta will give you a few days’ suspension, and so much the better. Pierini won’t think you sneaked on him. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re a clever boy, you’re doing well at school and you won’t fail the year. Do you understand? I promise.’
Pietro nodded.
‘Now go to the bathroom, wash your face and return to your class. I’ll sort it out.’
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Five days’ suspension.
For Pierini. For Bacci. For Ronca. And for Moroni.
And the parents must accompany the children on their return to school and speak to the headmaster and the teachers.
So decreed Miss Gatta (and Mr Cosenza).
The technical education room was hastily repainted. The remains of the television and video recorder were thrown away. Permission was requested from the board of governors to use school funds to buy new video-didactic equipment.
Moroni had confessed. Bacci had confessed. Ronca had confessed. Pierini had confessed.
One after another they had been summoned to the headmaster’s office and had confessed.
A whole morning of confessions.
Miss Gatta had a right to feel pleased with herself.
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Now there was another problem.
Telling Papa.
Gloria had given him some advice. ‘Tell your mother. Send her to talk to the teachers. And tell her not to mention it to your father. During these five days you can pretend to go to school, but in fact you’ll come over to my house. You can stay in my room and read comics. If you’re hungry you have a sandwich and if you feel like watching a film you put on a video. Easy.’
That was the great difference between the two of them.
Steal You Away Page 25
