At home his mother, as in the past, did not conceal herself from his gaze, nor did she notice any change in it. Agostino felt as if she were provoking and pursuing him with her maternal immodesty. Sometimes he would hear her calling him and find her at her vanity, in dishabille, her breasts half naked. Or he would wake up and see her leaning over him for a morning kiss, allowing her dressing gown to fall open and her body’s outlines to appear through the transparency of her light, wrinkled negligee. She walked back and forth in front of him as if he weren’t there. She would pull her stockings on and off, slip into her clothes, dab on some perfume, apply her makeup. All of these gestures, which had once seemed so natural to Agostino, now seemed to take on meaning and become an almost visible part of a larger, more dangerous reality, dividing his spirit between curiosity and pain. He repeated to himself “She’s only a woman” with the objective indifference of a connoisseur. But one moment later, unable to bear his mother’s un-awareness or his own attentions, he wanted to shout, “Cover yourself, stop showing yourself to me, I’m not who I used to be.” Anyway, his hopes to see his mother only as a woman failed almost immediately. He realized quickly that, although she was now a woman in his eyes, she remained more a mother than ever. And he realized that the sense of cruel shame, which he had briefly attributed to the novelty of his feelings, would never leave him. He suddenly grasped that she would always be the person he had loved with pure and unencumbered affection; that she would always mix with her most womanly gestures the affectionate acts that for so long had been the only ones he knew; that he would never be able to separate his new perception of her from the wounded memory of her former dignity.
He did not doubt that his mother and the young boatman were engaged in the type of relations that the boys had described under Saro’s tarp. And he was strangely amazed by the change that had taken place in himself. His heart had been filled with jealousy of his mother and dislike of the young man, two vague and almost dormant feelings. But now, in the effort to remain calm and objective, he would have liked to feel understanding toward the young man and indifference toward his mother—except his understanding was little more than complicity, and his indifference indiscretion. Rarely did he accompany them out to sea anymore, always finding a way to escape the invitations. But every time he did go with them, Agostino realized he was studying the young man’s behavior and words, as if waiting for him to overstep the boundaries of his usual urbane gallantry; likewise, he studied the mother’s actions, as if hoping to see his suspicions confirmed. These sentiments were unbearable for him because they were the exact opposite of what he desired. And he almost missed the compassion he used to feel for his mother’s clumsiness, so much more human and affectionate than his cruel attention to her now.
From those days spent struggling with himself, he was left with a murky sense of impurity. He felt as if he had bartered away his former innocence, not for the virile, serene condition he had aspired to but rather for a confused hybrid state in which, without any form of recompense, the old repulsions were compounded by the new. What was the use of seeing things clearly if the only thing clarity brought was a new and deeper darkness? Sometimes he wondered how older boys, knowing what he knew, could still love their mothers. He concluded that this awareness must have gradually killed their filial affection, while in him one had not succeeded in expelling the other, and their coexistence had created a turbulent mix.
As can happen, the place of these discoveries and conflicts—his home—soon became unbearable. At least when he was on the beach, he was distracted and numbed by the sun, the crowd of bathers, and the presence of so many other women. But at home, between four walls, alone with his mother, he felt prey to every temptation, trapped by every contradiction. On the beach the mother blended into all the other naked flesh, while at home she appeared singular and excessive. Like a private theater in which the actors seem larger than life, her every action and word stood out. Agostino had a sharp and adventurous sense of family privacy. As a child he had seen the halls, closets, and rooms as strange mutable places to make the most curious discoveries and live out the most fantastic adventures. But now, after the encounter with the boys under the red tarp, those events and discoveries belonged to a realm so different that he couldn’t tell whether they attracted or frightened him. He used to imagine ambushes, shadows, presences, voices in the furniture and in the walls. But now, rather than the fictions of his boyish exuberance, his imagination focused on the new reality that seemed to permeate the walls, the furnishings, and even the air of the house. The innocent fervor that his mother’s kisses and trusting sleep used to calm at night was replaced by the burning, shameful indiscretion that was magnified in the dead of night and seemed to feed his impure fire. Everywhere he went in the house he detected the signs, the traces, of a woman, the only one he happened to be near, and that woman was his mother. When he was close to her, he felt as if he was monitoring her, when he approached her door it was as if he were spying on her. And when he touched her clothes he felt as if he was touching the woman who had worn them against her skin. At night he conjured up the most troubling nightmares. Sometimes he felt like the child he used to be, frightened of every noise and shadow, the child who would suddenly get up and run to the safety of his mother’s bed. But the instant he set his feet on the floor, even amid the confusion of the dream, he realized that his fear was nothing more than a maliciously disguised curiosity and that, once he was in his mother’s arms, his nocturnal visit would quickly reveal its true, hidden purpose. Or he would suddenly wake up and wonder whether the young boatman chanced to be on the other side of the wall, in the next room, with his mother. Certain sounds seemed to confirm this suspicion. Others allayed it. For a while he would toss and turn in his bed and then, without knowing how he arrived there, find himself in his nightshirt, in the hall outside his mother’s door, in the act of listening and spying. Once he even yielded to temptation and entered without knocking. He stood in the middle of the room without moving. Through the open window the moonlight shone, indirect and white, and his eyes focused on the bed where the dark hair and long bulging shapes wrapped in the sheets revealed the woman’s presence. “Is that you, Agostino?” the mother asked, roused from her sleep. Without saying a word, he quickly returned to his room.
His repulsion at being near his mother led him to spend more and more time at Vespucci beach. But the other, different torments that awaited him there made it no less hateful than home. The boys’ attitude toward him after the boat ride with Saro had not changed. Indeed, it had taken on a definitive aspect, as if based on unshakable conviction and judgment. He was the boy who had accepted that fatal, notorious invitation from Saro, and nothing would change their minds. So their initial envious contempt motivated by his wealth was compounded by a scorn based on his supposed deviance. In a sense, to their brutish minds, the one seemed to explain, to give rise to the other. He was rich, they insinuated through their cruel, humiliating behavior—was it any wonder he was deviant as well? Agostino quickly discovered how close the correlation between the two accusations was, and he came to the vague realization that this was the price he had to pay for being different and superior: a social superiority that was displayed in his finer clothing, his talk about the comforts of his home, his tastes, his speech; a moral superiority that drove him to reject allegations of his relations with Saro, and that constantly appeared in his obvious loathing for the boys’ behavior and manners. Consequently, more to express the humiliating state in which he found himself than out of conscious desire, he decided to be the person he thought they wanted him to be, one identical to them. He deliberately started wearing his ugliest and most worn-out clothes, to the great dismay of his mother, who no longer recognized in him any sign of his former vanity. He deliberately stopped talking about his house and his wealth. He deliberately pretended to appreciate and enjoy the behavior and manners that still horrified him. Worse still, and after a painful struggle, one day when they were teasin
g him, as usual, about his ride with Saro, he deliberately said that he was tired of denying the truth, that the things they were saying about him really had happened, and that he had no problem telling them about it. These assertions startled Saro, but he carefully avoided contradicting them, perhaps out of fear of exposing himself. This open acknowledgment that the rumors which had tormented him were true initially created great amazement, since the boys didn’t expect such boldness from someone so timid and bashful. But then a torrent of indiscreet questions followed about what had actually happened, and these completely overwhelmed him; flustered and upset, he refused to say another word. The boys interpreted his silence in their own way, of course, as the silence of shame rather than what it really was: ignorance and the inability to lie. And the brunt of their usual teasing and contempt grew even worse.
Despite this failure, however, he really had changed. More from his daily association with them than by any act of will, he had grown more like the boys without realizing it, or rather, he had lost his former pleasures without managing to acquire any new ones. More than once, when he’d had enough, he avoided Vespucci beach and sought out the simple companions and innocent games of Speranza beach with which his summer had begun. But there was something so bland about the polite children who awaited him there; their amusements ruled by parents’ warnings and nannies’ supervision were so boring, their talk of school, stamp collections, adventure books, and other such things, so insipid. The truth was that the camaraderie of the gang, their foul language, their talk about women, stealing from the fields, and even their violence and harsh treatment of him had transformed him and made him adverse to the old friendships. Something that happened during that period confirmed his belief. One morning, arriving later than usual at Vespucci beach, he found neither Saro, who was off doing errands, nor the gang. Despondent, he sat down on a boat by the water. While he was staring at the beach, hoping that at least Saro would appear, he was approached by a man and a boy who was perhaps two years younger than Agostino. The man was short with fat stubby legs beneath a protruding belly and a round face with a pince-nez clamped to a pointed nose. He looked like an office worker or a teacher. The pale skinny boy, wearing bathing trunks a couple of sizes too large, was hugging to his chest an enormous, brand-new leather soccer ball. Holding his son by the arm, the man came up to Agostino and looked at him for a while, undecided. Finally he asked if they couldn’t go for a boat ride. “Of course you can,” replied Agostino without hesitation.
The man looked at him skeptically, peering over his eyeglasses, and then asked how much an hour would cost. Agostino knew the fares and told him. Then he realized the man had mistaken him for the boatman’s son or helper, which somehow flattered him. “All right, let’s go,” the man said.
Without a second thought, Agostino took the raw pine log that served as a roller and placed it under the stern of the boat. Then, grabbing hold of the corners with both hands, in an effort redoubled by a strange surge of pride, he pushed the boat into the water. After helping the boy and his father climb in, he jumped aboard himself and took command of the oars.
For a little while, on the calm and deserted early-morning sea, Agostino rowed without saying a word. The boy hugged the ball to his chest and looked at Agostino with a wan expression. The man, seated awkwardly, his belly between his legs, twisted his head around on a fat neck and appeared to be enjoying the landscape. Finally he asked Agostino whether he was the boatman’s son or helper. Agostino replied that he was the helper. “And how old are you?” the man inquired.
“Thirteen,” said Agostino.
“You see,” said the man to his son, “this boy is almost the same age as you and he’s already working.” Then, to Agostino, “Do you go to school?”
“I wish . . . but how can I?” replied Agostino, taking on the deceitful tone he had often heard the boys in the gang adopt to address similar questions. “I gotta make a living, mister.”
“You see,” the father turned to his son again, “this boy can’t go to school because he has to work, and you have the nerve to complain because you have to study?”
“We’re a big family,” continued Agostino, rowing vigorously, “and we all work.”
“And how much can you make in a day?” the man asked.
“It depends,” replied Agostino. “If a lot of people come, as much as twenty or thirty lire.”
“Which you naturally give to your father,” the man interrupted.
“Of course,” Agostino replied without hesitation. “Except for tips, of course.”
The man didn’t feel like holding up this particular remark to his son as an example, but he made a grave nod of approval. The son was quiet, hugging the ball to his chest more tightly and looking at Agostino with dull, watery eyes.
“How would you like to have a leather ball like this for yourself, boy?” the man suddenly asked Agostino.
Agostino already had two soccer balls, and they had long been sitting in his bedroom, discarded along with his other playthings. But he said, “Yes, I would like that, of course, but how could we manage? We have to take care of basics first.”
The man turned toward his son and, more to tease, it seemed, than to express his actual intentions, said to him, “Come on, Piero, give your ball to this poor boy who doesn’t have one.” The son looked at the father, then at Agostino, and with an almost jealous vehemence hugged the ball to his chest without saying a word. “You don’t want to?” the father asked softly. “Why not?”
“It’s mine,” the boy said.
“Don’t worry,” Agostino interjected at this point with a phony smile, “it’d be no use to me anyway. I don’t have any time to play, but he . . .”
The father smiled at these words, pleased to have presented a moral example to his son in the flesh and blood. “You see, this boy is better than you,” he added, patting his son on the head. “He’s poor and he still doesn’t want your ball. He’s letting you keep it, but every time you start acting up and complaining, I want you to remember that in the world there are boys like this who have to work for a living and have never had a soccer ball or any other plaything.”
“It’s my ball,” the son replied, obstinate.
“Yes, it’s yours.” The father sighed distractedly. He looked at his watch and said, “Let’s head back, boy,” in a changed and domineering voice. Without saying a word, Agostino turned the boat toward the shore.
As they came close to the beach, he saw Saro standing in the water observing his maneuvers, and he was afraid the boatman would embarrass him by revealing the trick he had played. But Saro didn’t open his mouth. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he didn’t care. Quietly and solemnly, he helped Agostino pull the boat onto the beach. “This is for you,” said the man, giving Agostino the agreed sum plus something extra. Agostino took the money and brought it to Saro. “But this part I’m keeping for myself. It’s the tip,” he added with smug and deliberate impudence. Saro didn’t say a word. With a crooked smile he put the money in the black sash around his waist and walked away slowly across the sand toward the shack.
This small incident left Agostino with the feeling once and for all that he no longer belonged to the world of children like the boy with the soccer ball, and that, anyway, he had sunk so low that he could no longer live without deceit and vexation. But it pained him not to be like the boys in the gang either. There was still too much delicacy in him. If he were like them, he sometimes thought, he wouldn’t be so hurt by their crudeness, their vulgarity, their bluntness. So he found that he had lost his original identity without acquiring through his loss another.
4
ON A LATE-SUMMER day, Agostino and the boys in the gang went to the pine grove to hunt for birds and mushrooms. Of their various feats and exploits, this was the one he liked best. They entered the grove and walked for a long time on the soft soil through a natural corridor formed by the red columns of tree trunks, looking toward the sky to see whether high above them, between
the towering branches, there was anything moving or stirring between the pines. When there was, Berto, Tortima, or Sandro, the best of the three, would pull back the rubber band of his slingshot and shoot a sharp rock at the spot where he thought he saw movement. Sometimes a sparrow would plummet to the ground, its wing shattered. Fluttering and chirping pitifully, it would hop and flail about until one of the boys grabbed it and crushed its head between his fingers. But the boys usually caught nothing and had to content themselves with long wanderings through the dense grove, their heads tilted back and their eyes staring upward, venturing farther and deeper to where the underbrush between the pine trees started and the soft barren ground of the dried pine needles gave way to a tangle of thornbushes. This was where the mushroom picking began. It had rained for a couple of days, and the underbrush was still damp with resin-coated leaves and marshy green soil. Amid the thickest bushes, there were large yellow mushrooms as well as small clusters of tiny ones, lustrous with mucous and moisture. The boys picked them delicately, poking their arms between the briars, sliding two fingers beneath the caps and pulling up carefully so they would also get the dirt- and moss-covered stems. Then they stuck them one by one on long pointed sticks. As they worked their way from thicket to thicket, they gathered a few pounds—dinner for Tortima who, as the strongest boy, confiscated the day’s haul for himself. The harvest was bountiful, for after a long hike they found a virgin patch, so to speak, where the mushrooms sprouted densely, one beside the other, on a bed of moss. By sundown the patch had still been only half explored, but it was late and, with several skewers of mushrooms and two or three birds, the boys slowly made their way home.
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