Steal You Away

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  And that wasn’t all. To reach the hiding place she would have to swim across a stretch of lagoon, because the boat (boat … pieces of sodden wood held together by a few rusty nails) probably wouldn’t be there, Pietro would certainly have taken it.

  And so it proved. When she reached the edge of the marsh, covered in scratches, insect-bites and flecks of mud, she found only the thick pole sticking out of the water with no boat attached.

  You bastard! You bastard! Don’t ever tell me I’m not your best friend.

  She steeled herself and slowly, like a lady-in-waiting reluctant to get her robes wet, she sank into the the warm water. From there the lagoon widened out into a lake where metallised dragonflies skimmed across the surface and divers and geese swam about in formation.

  Swimming a slow breaststroke, so as not to disturb anything, and keeping her head well up because if one drop of that water came into contact with her mouth she would die, Gloria set off for the other shore. Her gym shoes weighed her down like ballast. She musn’t at all costs think about the sunken world that lived down below. Salamanders. Fish. Disgusting creatures. Larvae. Insects. Water-rats. Snakes. Crabs. Crocodiles … no. Not crocodiles.

  Only a hundred metres to go. On the other shore, among the reeds, she could make out the low prow of the boat.

  Come on, you’re almost there.

  Now she only had a few dozen metres to go and was already beginning to see the longed-for dry land above her when she felt, or thought she felt, a creature, something animate, brush against her legs. She screamed and thrashed wildly towards the bank like a thing possessed. Her head went under the water and she drank that revolting liquid, re-emerged, spluttered and in four strokes reached the boat and leaped up onto it like a performing seal. She sat there gasping, picking seaweed and leaves off her body and repeating: ‘Ugh! How revolting! Ugh, how disgusting! Ugh!’ She waited till she got her breath back, then jumped onto a strip of land that emerged from the lagoon. She looked around.

  She found herself on a tiny little island skirted partly by reeds and partly by the brown waters of the lagoon. There was nothing on the island, except a big gnarled tree whose branches shaded most of the ground and a small hut where, before this area had become a nature reserve, hunters used to come to shoot the birds.

  This was ‘the place’. That’s what Pietro called it.

  Pietro’s place.

  As soon as the weather turned fine in spring, and sometimes even in winter, he would spend more time here than he did at home. He had organised everything. A hammock swung from a low-hanging branch. In the hut he had left a cooling bag, in which he would put sandwiches and a bottle of water. There were also some comics, an old pair of binoculars, a gas lamp and a small radio (which you had to keep turned down very low).

  Only now Pietro wasn’t there.

  Gloria went right round the island without finding a trace of him but then, inside the hut, she saw his T-shirt hanging on a nail. The same one that Pietro had been wearing that morning.

  And as she came out again, she saw him emerge from the water in bathing trunks. He had a mask over his face and looked like the monster of the silent lagoon, covered in all that seaweed and holding …

  ‘Ugh! Throw away that viper!’ Gloria shrieked like a frightened child.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a viper. It’s a grass snake. I’ve never caught such a long one before,’ said Pietro seriously. The snake had coiled round his arm, trying desperately to escape, but Pietro’s grip was firm.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll study it for a while, then I’ll let it go.’ He ran into the hut, picked up a fishing net and put it inside. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her, then pointed at her T-shirt, smiling.

  Gloria looked at herself. The wet T-shirt was clinging to her breasts and she was practically naked. She pulled it forward. ‘Pietro Moroni, you’re a filthy pig … Give me yours at once.’

  Pietro handed her his T-shirt and Gloria changed behind the tree and hung hers up to dry.

  He was kneeling down by his grass snake and looking at it impassively.

  ‘Well?’ Gloria asked him, sitting on the hammock.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for me at school?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like it. I wanted to be alone.’

  ‘Would you rather I left? Am I bothering you?’ asked Gloria sarcastically.

  Pietro was silent for a moment, still contemplating the reptile, but then said in an earnest tone: ‘No. You can stay …’

  ‘Thank you so much. We are kind today.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Don’t you mind about failing any more?’

  Pietro shook his head. ‘No. I couldn’t care less. It’s all the same to me.’ He picked up a twig and prodded the snake.

  ‘How come, when only a couple of hours ago you were crying your eyes out?’

  ‘Because it had to be. I knew it. It had to be and that’s that. And if I feel bad it won’t change anything, I’ll just feel bad.’

  ‘Why did it have to be?’

  He glanced at her just for a second. ‘Because now everyone’s happy. My father, because, as he puts it, I’ll do something useful and start working. My mother – no, not my mother, she doesn’t even remember what class I’m in. Mimmo, because now we’ve both failed and he’s not the only dunce in the family. The deputy headmistress. The headmaster. Pierini. Miss …’ he broke off for a moment and then added: ‘Miss Palmieri. The whole world. And me too.’

  Gloria swung gently to and fro and the rope tied to the branch began to creak. ‘But there’s one thing I don’t understand, didn’t Miss Palmieri promise you they wouldn’t fail you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pietro’s voice cracked, breaking the fragile indifference.

  ‘Why did they fail you, then?’

  Pietro snorted. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Just drop it, will you?’

  ‘It’s not fair. Miss Palmieri’s a bitch. A real bitch. She didn’t keep her promise.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. She’s just like all the others. She’s a bitch, she tricked me.’ Pietro said this with an effort and then put his hand to his face to stop himself crying.

  ‘She probably didn’t even go to the teachers’ meeting.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  During the last month and a half Miss Palmieri hadn’t come to school. A supply teacher had appeared, saying that their Italian teacher was ill and that they would finish the year with her.

  ‘No, I bet she didn’t go. She didn’t care. And it isn’t true what the supply teacher said. She’s not ill. She’s fine. I’ve seen her lots of times around the village. The last time was only a few days ago.’ Gloria was getting really worked up. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘And …?’

  Why was Gloria torturing her? It was all over and done with. ‘And I went up to her. I wanted to ask her how she was, if she was coming back to school. She barely said hallo to me. I assumed she had something on her mind.’

  Gloria jumped to the ground. ‘She’s the nastiest bitch I’ve ever met. Nobody’s worse than her. It’s her fault you failed. It’s not right. She’s got to pay for it.’ She knelt down beside Pietro. ‘We must make her pay for it. We must make her pay dearly.’

  Pietro didn’t reply and watched the cormorants slipping into the silver waters of the lagoon like black shuttles.

  ‘What do you say? Shall we pay her back?’ she repeated.

  ‘I don’t care any more…’ said Pietro, dejectedly, sniffing.

  ‘That’s typical of you… You mustn’t just accept everything. You must react. You must, Pietro.’ Gloria was furious now. She felt like telling him that that was why they had failed him, because he had no balls, if he’d had any balls he wouldn’t have gone into the school w
ith that bunch of idiots, but she restrained herself.

  Pietro looked at her. ‘How would you pay her back, then? What would you do to her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Gloria began to pace round the island racking her brains. ‘We ought to frighten her, scare her out of her wits … What could we do?’ Suddenly she stopped and raised her eyes to the heavens as if she’d been possessed by the truth. ‘I’m a genius! I’m an absolute genius!’ She slipped two fingers into the net containing the grass snake and raised it in the air. ‘We’ll put this dear little creature in her bed. So when she goes to bye-byes she’ll have a heart attack. What do you say, aren’t I a genius?’

  Pietro shook his head pityingly. ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘What do you mean, poor thing? She’s a shit. She failed you …’

  ‘No, I meant the snake. It’ll die.’

  ‘So what? Who cares? This swamp’s full of lousy snakes. If one of them dies it doesn’t matter a bit, do you know how many get killed on the road, run over by the cars? Anyway, it won’t necessarily die. Nothing will happen at all.’

  And she kept on at him until he finally gave in.

  126

  The plan was simple. They’d worked it out carefully on the island. It came down to a few points.

  1) If Miss Palmieri’s car wasn’t there, it meant that she wasn’t at home. In that case, you skipped to point three.

  2) If Miss Palmieri’s car was there, it meant that she was at home. In that case it was no go, and they would try again another day.

  3) If Miss Palmieri was not there, they would climb onto the balcony and get into the house from there, put the little surprise in her bed and run away, swifter than the wind.

  That was it.

  Miss Palmieri’s car was not there.

  The sun had begun its slow, inevitable descent. It had fired its best arrows, and now the heat, though still torrid, was less than a few hours before. It was no longer that scorching heat that drives people mad and makes them capable of terrible deeds, filling the summer newspapers with gruesome murders.

  The faintest breath of wind, a wish for wind, perhaps, gently stirred the scorching air. The coming night was going to be sleepless, muggy, starlit.

  Our two young heroes, on their bikes, had hidden behind the laurel hedge that surrounded Miss Palmieri’s house.

  ‘Why don’t we just forget it?’ Pietro said for the umpteenth time.

  Gloria tried to snatch away the plastic bag containing the snake, which was tied by a string to Pietro’s waist. ‘I see, you’re shitting yourself. I’ll go, you wait here…’

  Why did everybody, good and bad, friend and foe, always end up accusing him of shitting himself? Why is it so important in life not to shit yourself? Why, in order to be considered a man, do you always have to do the last thing in the world you want to do? Why?

  ‘All right, let’s go then …’ Pietro squeezed through the hedge and Gloria followed him.

  The building was at the side of a narrow secondary road that started from Ischiano, cut across the fields, passed over a level crossing and joined up with the coast road. It was little used. Five hundred metres away, in the direction of Ischiano, were a couple of greenhouses and a garage. The house was an ugly cube covered in grey plaster, with a flat roof, green plastic blinds and two balconies full of plants. The ground floor windows were shuttered. Miss Palmieri lived on the first floor.

  To climb up they chose the side facing the fields. That way, if anyone came along the road, they wouldn’t see them. But who was likely to pass by? The level crossing was closed at this time of year.

  The drainpipe was in the middle of the wall. It ran within a metre of the balcony. The balcony wasn’t very high up. The only difficulty would be reaching out to get hold of the railing.

  ‘Who’s going first?’ Gloria asked in a low voice. They were pressed flat against the wall like a pair of geckos.

  Pietro shook the pipe, testing its strength. It seemed pretty solid. ‘I’ll go. It’ll be better like that. I’ll be able to help you up onto the balcony.’

  He felt a sense of foreboding, but tried to suppress it.

  ‘Okay.’ Gloria stepped aside.

  Pietro, with the snake wriggling in the plastic bag tied to his belt, gripped the pipe with both hands and put his feet against the wall. Plastic sandals weren’t ideal for this sort of thing, but he hoisted himself up nonetheless, trying to get them on the brackets that held the pipe to the wall.

  Once again he was entering where he shouldn’t. But this time, according to Gloria, he had right on his side.

  (But what about you, what do you think?)

  I think I shouldn’t go in but I also think that Miss Palmieri’s a bitch and deserves to have this trick played on her.

  The climb was proceeding without difficulty, the edge of the balcony was only a metre away, when the drainpipe, suddenly and silently, came away. Who knows, maybe the bracket had been badly cemented in or had rusted. The fact remains that it came away from the wall.

  Pietro’s weight pulled it outwards and if he hadn’t made a sudden twist that would have done credit to a gibbon and let go just in time, he would have fallen on his back and… well, never mind.

  He was left clinging on to the edge of the balcony.

  ‘Oh my God…’ he muttered frantically, and kicked out, trying to support himself with his feet on the drainpipe, but only succeeded in bending it further.

  Keep calm. Don’t panic. How many times have you hung from the branch of a tree? You can hang on for half and hour like this.

  No, he couldn’t.

  The marble edge of the balcony was sawing at his fingers. He could last five, ten minutes at most. He looked down. He could let himself drop. It wasn’t all that high. He shouldn’t do himself too much damage. The only problem was that he would fall right on the tiled path. And tiles, as everybody knows, are renowned for their hardness.

  But if I fall properly I won’t get hurt.

  (Any sentence beginning with but is wrong from the outset.) He could hear his father’s voice.

  Gloria was standing below, watching him anxiously.

  ‘What shall I do?’ he called out in a whisper.

  ‘Jump down. I’ll catch you.’

  Now that really was a stupid idea.

  That way we’ll both get hurt.

  ‘Get out of the way!’

  He shut his eyes and was about to let go, when he saw himself lying on the ground with a broken leg and spending the summer in plaster. ‘Like hell I’m going to jump down!’ He made a big effort and with one hand grabbed hold of a bar of the railing. He strained to stretch out his leg and got his heel on the edge of the balcony, then got a grip with the other hand too, pulled himself to his feet and climbed over the railing.

  What now?

  The french windows were closed. He pushed at them. They were bolted.

  This hadn’t been foreseen in the plan. But who would have thought that in this stifling heat anyone would keep the windows shut as if it were January?

  He cupped his hands against the glass and looked in.

  A sitting room. There was nobody there.

  He could try to force the lock, or break the glass with a flower pot. Then find his way to the front door and get out that way. The plan would have failed (But who cares about that?), or he could hang down off the balcony again and drop down.

  ‘Go in!’ Gloria was calling to him and gesticulating.

  ‘It’s locked! The door’s locked.’

  ‘Hurry up, she might come back at any moment.’

  It’s easy to talk down there.

  Just think what a fool I’d look! Miss Palmieri finding me trapped on her balcony.

  He looked over to the other side. Less than a metre away there was a small window. It was open. The shutter was rolled down but not so far as to stop him getting in.

  There was his escape route.

  127

  It was very warm.

  But t
he water was beginning to get cold. She’d lost all feeling in her legs and bottom.

  How long had she been in there? She couldn’t say for sure because she’d been asleep. Half an hour? An hour? Two?

  What did it matter?

  She would get out in a while. But not now. All in good time. Now she must listen to her song. Her favourite song.

  REW. Srrrrrrrr. Stoc. PLAY. Ffffff.

  ‘What a strange man I had, with eyes as soft as velvet, I would tell him over and over I still belong to you and I floated in the air when he slumbered in my arms … and I remembered the days when I was innocent, when the red light of coral lit my hair, when starry-eyed and vain I would gaze into the moon and force her to tell me, You’re beautiful… You’re beautiful! Ahhh! Ahhh!’

  STOP.

  That song was the truth.

  There was more truth in that song than in all the books and all the stupid poems about love. And to think she’d found the cassette in a newspaper. Italian pop classics. She didn’t even know the singer’s name. She was no expert.

  But it expressed some great truths.

  She should make her pupils learn that song.

  ‘By heart,’ murmured Flora Palmieri, sliding her hand across her face.

  PLAY.

  ‘You’re beautiful!… Ahhh!’ she began to sing along with the cassette, but it was like having flat batteries.

  128

  ‘You’re beautiful.’

  She opens her eyes. Lips kissing her.

  Little kisses on her neck. Little kisses on her ear. Little kisses on her shoulders.

  She runs her fingers through his hair. Hair that he’d had cut short to please her. (Well, do you like me better like this? Of course I do.)

  ‘What did you say?’ she asks him, rubbing her eyes and stretching. A ray of sun stains the dark carpet and makes the dust dance in the air.

  ‘I said you’re beautiful.’

  Little kisses on her throat. Little kisses on her right breast.