White Like Milk, Red Like Blood

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  Terminator is our old dachshund. He eats, drags himself on his belly for a yard and a half, and pees a million gallons. I take him to do his business only when I don’t feel like doing my homework, and in this way, I allow for a two-hour pissing time. With this excuse, I roam around, eyeing the shop windows and the girls. Who knows why men buy dogs. Maybe it’s to give a job to the Filipino girls, who then take the dogs to pee. The park is full of Filipinos and dogs. Since we don’t have a Filipino maid, I’m the one who gets stuck with the chore. Anyway, the animals are only film extras. Terminator knows how to pee, and that’s it: a dog’s life.

  I am unable to fall asleep. I am in love, and when you are in love, the least that can happen to you is that you get no sleep. Even the darkest night becomes red. So many things crowd your head that you would like to think about them all at once and yet your heart won’t stay still. And then it’s strange, because everything appears to be beautiful. You lead the same life as always, doing the same boring things. Then, you fall in love and that same life becomes wonderful and different. You know that you live in the same world as Beatrice, and so what does it matter if the oral exam has gone badly, if the scooter’s tire has gone flat, if Terminator wants to pee, if it starts to rain and you don’t have an umbrella? You don’t care, because those things go away anyway. But love does not. Your red star is always shining. Beatrice is here, love is inside your heart and it is immense, it makes you dream and nobody can tear that away, because it is in a place that no one can reach. I don’t know how to describe it. I hope it never goes away.

  With these thoughts, I have fallen asleep, thanks to this hope in my heart. As long as there is Beatrice, each day life is renewed. It is love that makes a life new. How true this is; I must remember it. I forget so many important things after I have discovered them. That is, I realize that in the future, they could be of use to me, but I forget them, like adults do. And this is the origin of at least half the evils of the world. In my time, these problems did not even exist. Precisely, in your time!

  Maybe if I write down what I discover somewhere, I won’t forget, and I won’t make the same mistakes. I have a terrible memory. My parents’ fault: shoddy DNA. There is only one thing I won’t forget: tomorrow’s soccer tournament.

  It’s not true. There is one other thing I won’t forget: Beatrice did not answer my message. I have no hope. Cover me in white, like a mummy.

  9

  Gandalf is a man made of wind: you have the impression he could fly away like a small balloon, and you ask yourself how he can keep the barbaric horde of high school students in line. However, he is always smiling. He has seeded the marble corridors of the whole school with his smiles. When you meet him, he smiles, even when he enters school, in contrast to the other profs. It almost seems that his smile isn’t his own.

  He enters our class, smiles, and falls silent. Then we all await that moment when he writes a phrase on the blackboard. Today, he comes in and writes, “Wherever your preciousness lies, there your heart will also be … ”

  The usual game begins.

  “Jovanotti!”

  “No.”

  “Max Pezzali?”

  “No.”

  “Elisa?”

  “No. Further back. … ”

  “Battisti?”

  “No.”

  “Here I am!” I scream from the back of the classroom, spreading out my arms in a grand gesture that comes before triumph, “Uncle Scrooge!”

  The class bursts out in laughter.

  Gandalf smiles, too, then falls silent. He stares at us and then says, “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s always a trick,” I intervene. “You just can’t live without Jesus.”

  “Do you think that I would go around dressed like this if I could avoid it?”

  He smiles.

  “So what does the phrase mean?”

  He smiles.

  “In your opinion?”

  “Like Gollum, who always says, ‘My preciousssss.’ He doesn’t think about anything else; his heart is there,” explains Nun. Usually she is quiet, but when she speaks, she only says something profound.

  “I don’t know who this Gollum guy is, but if you say so, I trust you.”

  It seems absurd, but Gandalf doesn’t know Gollum, that’s just the way it is. Then he adds, “It means that when it seems to us that we are not thinking of anything, in reality, we are thinking of that which is closest to our heart. Love is a kind of force of gravity: invisible and universal, just like the physical world. Inevitably, our hearts, our eyes, our words, without our even realizing it, all end up there, on that which we love, like the apple with gravity.”

  “And if we don’t love anything?”

  “Impossible. Can you imagine Earth without gravity? Or space without gravity? It would be a continual crashing into one another. Even he who thinks he loves nothing loves something. And his thoughts lead him there, without his even realizing it. The point is not if we love or not, but what we love. Men always adore something: beauty, intelligence, money, health, God … ”

  “How can someone love God, if you can’t even touch Him?”

  “One touches God.”

  “Where?”

  “His body, with the Eucharist.”

  “But, Prof, that is just an expression … an image … ”

  “And do you think I could bet my life on just an expression? And you, Leo, what do you love? What do you think of when you are thinking of nothing in particular?”

  I remain silent, because I am embarrassed to answer out loud. Silvia stares at me with the eyes of someone who is waiting for the right response during an oral exam, or like someone who wants to suggest one. I know the answer. I would like to shout it to the whole world: Beatrice, my force of gravity, my weight, my blood, my red.

  “I think about red.”

  Someone laughs, pretending he caught on to a joke I didn’t make.

  Gandalf understands that I am not joking.

  “And what is red like?”

  “Like her hair … ”

  The other kids look at me as if I had smoked a joint before entering class. The only one who seems to get it is Silvia, who watches me and keeps my secret.

  Gandalf looks me in the eye, or, rather, into my eyes. He smiles.

  “It is that way for me, too. … ”

  “And how is it?”

  “Like His blood.”

  Now we are the ones looking at him as if he has smoked some weed.

  He goes to the blackboard and writes quietly: “My love is white and vermillion.”

  And the game starts all over again.

  That’s the way Gandalf’s lessons are; they are built on the spot, and it seems like he always has a phrase ready to pull out from his magic book. …

  Nobody knows this phrase, and when he reveals to us that it comes from the Bible, nobody believes it, and this is why we get stuck with more homework: read the Song of Songs.

  Nobody does Religion homework anyway.

  In life, the only thing that counts is what you get a grade for.

  10

  There is nothing better than the following agenda with Niko.

  A light lunch at Mickey D’s and burping contests on the scooter.

  A relaxing challenge on the PS3 at his house: two hours of Grand Theft Auto. With the chainsaw, we have sliced apart at least fifteen cops. You get such a burst of adrenaline that you then need to unload on your soccer opponents; they don’t stand a chance.

  Preparing for the game with a homemade doping cocktail: a banana shake to which only Niko’s mother knows the secret. Niko’s mom is our diehard fan who procures the powerhouse banana shakes.

  Then, finally, the game. Today we are playing against the team called FantasySoccer. They are tough—a team of fifth year students. We beat them last year, but that’s exactly why they are pumped, and they want payback. You can already see that in the look of Vandal, their captain. He keeps glaring at me. He has no idea what is in store
for him.

  There is no one cheering for us today. It must be because we have Biology homework due tomorrow. I decided to skip it. I decided to ignore the assignment.

  We warm up Sponge’s rusty hands with some killer, low-to-the ground shots. Today, Curly seems kind of down. Niko and I will take care of that. We are pumped up with the banana shake, and the unreleased adrenaline charge from the GTA game. The grass is sitting there waiting to be caressed by our shoes.

  The game is tied at 0–0 all during the first half. Vandal has been on Niko’s back the whole time. He’s got it out for him. He doesn’t let him breathe. We have to change something, but I don’t know what. I only know that when Niko feels him on his back again, nipping at his heels, going at him like a Neapolitan mastiff, it doesn’t leave him time to think or kick; the GTA adrenaline takes over, and Niko comes from behind, hammering him, right on his heels. Vandal goes down with an anguishing cry. It’s a miracle he didn’t break his leg. He twists one foot, as if bitten by a tarantula, like Gollum. Everyone gathers around. Before I can even reach him, a punch lands on Niko’s nose, which folds in two; his hands fill with blood. Without thinking, I rush toward the guy who punched Niko.

  “What the fuck are you doing, retard?”

  It’s not just a look he has in his eyes, but a sort of glazed demonic fire, and he strikes out against me like a coiled spring. The blow sends me flying two yards into the air before I land on my butt, my breath cut off.

  “What did you call me?”

  I smell his stinking breath penetrating my nostrils. I don’t have the courage to react. He could massacre me. Luckily, at this moment, the referee intervenes and expels both Niko and the hotheaded brute.

  Without Niko, the game is lost. Vandal bounces back, and with unbridled wrath, he scores: 1–0, in favor of FantasySoccer.

  When I go back to the locker room, Niko is already gone.

  Vandal, with his barbarians, is waiting for me at the exit. This is going to end badly.

  “Your buddy got away today. Next time he won’t leave the field alive. … Go comfort him … faggot!”

  The Pirates, with all their cutthroats, are reduced to the silence of defeat and humiliation by a pissed-off horde of barbarians.

  11

  Niko came to school with two black eyes. The guy who hit him is going to be suspended from the tournament.

  “The one who did this is going to pay for it. You can’t imagine what I’m going to do to him. You just can’t imagine. … ”

  Niko is really black with fury, like his bruises.

  “Come on, Niko, he has been disqualified. Your meddling with Vandal wasn’t exactly a gentle nudge. … ”

  Niko flashes me a look of burning anger from his half-closed eyes. “You’re telling me he was right?! You’ve become a faggot. … Where did you leave your balls, at home?”

  “If you had kept your cool, maybe we wouldn’t have lost yesterday. … ”

  “Ah, now it’s my fault. … Fuck off, Leo. … ”

  He turns his back on me, without giving me the time to react. The day is off to a great start.

  The Dreamer comes to class with a small book in hand, about a hundred pages.

  “A book that can change your life,” so he says.

  I never thought books could change anything of relevance, much less life. That is, they change it because you are forced to read them when you would much rather do something else. The Dreamer, however, is a dreamer, and he can’t help but dream. But what has that book got to do with History? The Dreamer says that in order to understand the period we have to study, we must enter into the heart of the men of that time, and he begins to read pages from a book by Dante Alighieri. Not The Divine Comedy, which is a cosmic brick. A tiny book, a love story by Dante.

  I can’t believe it; Dante has actually written a book for a woman named Beatrice. In love, just like me. The book is entitled Vita Nova—just like I had discovered by myself, love renews everything. And what if I become the next Dante? What if The Dreamer is right, at least for once? Anyway, Dante’s book is about his meeting with Beatrice and the change in his life after that moment. It is incredible: someone from the Middle Ages who experienced the exact same feelings that I do! Maybe I am the reincarnation of Dante?

  Yeah, why don’t you try to tell all this to Prof Rocca, who defines my style of writing as flat and distorted, and never gives more than a failing grade of “five minus minus” … which is worse than the other disguised fours. … Therefore, I am not the reincarnation of Dante! Although, nowadays you can’t even understand Dante, so maybe what I write is not understood because I have a future ahead of me like Dante. … Whatever it is, even if I am no Dante, Beatrice remains Beatrice, and I cannot help thinking about her, speaking about her, like Dante says:

  “I’ vo’ con voi della mia donna dire,

  Non perch’io creda sua laude finire,

  Ma ragionar per isfogar la mente.”

  “I am going to speak to you of my lady,

  Not because I seek to sing her praises,

  But to reason is to vent the mind.”

  Dante is always right! Therefore, I must read his book. Maybe I can copy a few poems for Beatrice and dedicate them to her. Even better, I’ll write her a message with some really famous passage from the book. She will surely answer then. I won’t look like a total idiot. She will understand how serious I am, like Dante. I cannot surrender; a lion who surrenders is not a lion. A pirate who retreats is not a pirate. She will understand, because she studied these things last year, and if she doesn’t remember, she will ask me. … Beatrice is a class ahead of me. She is brilliant. I’ll send her the message: “Incipit Vita Nova … ” What inspired use of Latin, giving it that elegant touch. Not everybody will get the use of the Latin, but Beatrice will.

  Only one thing bothers me. In the eyes of everyone, The Dreamer is coming out of his prior condition as loser-storyteller-bringer-of-misfortune and gaining self-assurance and poise. Unfortunately, even in my eyes, and it’s driving me crazy. … We have to do something to redefine him: discover his weak point and there unleash the Pirate’s attack. …

  12

  T9, the predictive text software, is the invention of the twenty-first century. It saves you a lot of time and it gives you the gift of a couple of laughs, because when you want to write a certain word, it intuits another, which often is quite the opposite. For instance, when I have to write the word excuse, the word that appears is fear. It’s a strange coincidence, because when I have to make an excuse for something, I always feel intense fear.

  I like T9. Who knows if Dante, in order to compose all those rhymes, had something similar to T9. There are people who make you wonder where they come up with their ideas. They are predestined. I can’t do anything in grand style yet, but I am hopeful. The English prof says, “He has the capability, but he does not apply himself.” Here it is: I have capability, I can do everything, but I haven’t yet decided to be serious about it, to apply myself. I could be the next Dante, Michelangelo, Einstein, or Eminem, or a pop star like Jovanotti, I don’t know yet. I need to try to find my thing.

  If I listen to The Dreamer, then I have to find my dream and transform it into a project. I should ask him how I can find my own dream. I would ask him, but I feel embarrassed, and he would be right. … Besides, this mania of having a dream when you’re only sixteen doesn’t convince me. No matter what, I am sure that Beatrice is also in my dream.

  By the way, she didn’t answer my message, and I feel bad. I thought that at least Dante would make an impression on her. My stomach is all knotted up, and my heart is white. It’s as if Beatrice herself wanted to erase me from the face of the earth with White-Out. I feel like I am an error, a spelling mistake. A double letter where it does not belong, a her’s with an apostrophe when there shouldn’t be one. A brush of correction fluid and I disappear, like all errors. The paper remains white, clean, nobody can see the pain hidden behind that white layer.

  Poet
ry is a joke with rhymes. Dante, go fuck yourself!

  13

  Beatrice has red hair. Beatrice has green eyes. Beatrice has what it takes. In the afternoon, she lingers with her friends in front of school. Beatrice doesn’t have a boyfriend. Last year, I went to her party: it was a dream. I spent my time hiding behind something or someone so I could stare at her and chisel her each and every gesture into my memory. My brain transformed into a camcorder so that my heart could see again, at any moment, the most beautiful film ever shot on the face of the earth.

  I don’t know where I found the courage to ask for her number. In fact, I didn’t find it. … After summer vacation, her friend Silvia gave it to me. But I don’t think she told her she had given it to me. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t answered me. Maybe she doesn’t know that I’ve been the one writing to her. On my cell phone, she is “Red.” Red star, sun, ruby, cherry. Still, she could answer, at least out of curiosity.

  Was I or was I not a lion in my former life? This is why I insist. I lay in ambush in the forest, and, at the right moment, I jump out of the bush and capture my prey, cutting off its every means of escape by forcing it into a clearing without any place to hide. I will do the same with Beatrice. She will find herself face-to-face with me, and she will be forced to choose me.

  We are made for each other. I know it. She doesn’t. She doesn’t know that she loves me. Not yet.

  14

  Today, I spoke with Terminator—that’s right—because when I have serious problems to be solved, I know it’s useless to talk with adults. Either they don’t listen or they tell you, “Don’t think about it; it will pass.” But if I am here speaking about it, it means it hasn’t passed, right? Otherwise, they come up with the magic “One day, one day you will understand, when you will have children of your own you will understand, one day you will have a job and you will understand.”