White Like Milk, Red Like Blood

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  I only hope that this day never comes, because it will all come crashing down together: graduation, children, jobs … and it seems absurd to me that to understand you have to be struck by all these things, like a bolt of lightning. Couldn’t we start from now, little by little, without waiting for that cursed day? Today is when I want to understand, not “one day.” Today. Now. But no: that day will sweep you away, and it will be too late, because you, who wished to think about it at that very moment, could never find anybody who deigned to explain it to you. You found only someone to foresee that the day of understanding would come, like a prophecy of death and destruction. …

  Not to mention the profs. When you try to ask them something serious, they answer with “not now,” which means “never.” Profs will tell you bad things immediately —grades, oral exams, progress reports, homework— … it’s the beautiful things they don’t tell you about. Otherwise, they maintain that “you are resting on your laurels,” which I don’t believe are that comfortable. Regarding other things, there is nothing more to say to them.

  My parents? Don’t even mention them. I feel ashamed just thinking about them. It seems like they were never my age. Anyhow, Dad is always tired when he comes back home and wants to watch soccer. Mom? With her, I feel ashamed. I’m a big kid now; I certainly can’t still go running to her! The profs are excluded, the parents eliminated, Niko hasn’t spoken to me since the game against FantasySoccer—so who is left? Terminator. At least he sits in silence, listening to me, especially if, afterward, I give him the doggie biscuits he likes, with the flavor of fried cat.

  “You see, Terminator, ever since The Dreamer spoke about dreams, it keeps coming to mind, like an itch, but deeper. And you, Terminator, what did you want to do as a grown dog? You can only be a dog: eat like a dog, sleep like a dog, pee like a dog, and die like a dog. Not me. I like to have grand desires. A great dream. I still don’t know what it is, but I like to dream of having a dream. Stay in my bed, in silence, dreaming my dream. Without doing anything else. Considering dreams and seeing which ones I like. Who knows if I will leave a mark. Only dreams leave marks.”

  Terminator tugs me forward—even he can’t concentrate. Who knows what he wants. We keep on walking.

  “Don’t interrupt! I like having dreams! I love it! But how can I find my dream, Terminator? You’ve got it made. After all, I’m not a dog. For The Dreamer, his grandfather with his fables and a film were enough. Maybe I should go to the movies more often since I don’t have a grandfather, and every time I speak to Grandma, I am forced to shout, because she doesn’t hear well. Besides, she has that smell of old people I can’t stand; it makes me sneeze. Maybe I should read more books. The Dreamer says that our dreams are hidden in the things we really come in contact with, with those things that we love: a place, a page, a film, a painting … The great creators of beauty show us these dreams.

  This is what The Dreamer says. I am not sure what it means, but I know I like it. I need to try. I have to seek some advice, but without putting too much stock into it, because I am a person with his feet on the ground. A life without dreams is like a garden without flowers, but a life of impossible dreams is a garden of fake flowers. … What do you think of all this, Terminator?”

  Terminator’s only answer is to go up to a pole and pee on it. The length of his pee is in proportion to that of my discourse.

  “Thank you, Terminator, you’re the only one who understands me. … ”

  15

  Beatrice must be sick. The flu is going around, but I’ve never gotten it, not even once. I haven’t seen her for two days. Without the reflection of her red hair, the days seem more than empty. They become white, like days without sun.

  I go back home with Silvia. I give her a ride on the Bat-scooter, and she keeps asking me to go slower. Women. We speak at length, and I ask her if she has a dream, like The Dreamer says. I tell her that Niko has a clear-cut dream. He says that he will follow his father’s path. His father is a dentist. Niko has loads of money. He will take orthodontics and then go to work in his father’s clinic. He says this is his dream. But in my opinion, as a dream, it does not count. Because we already know everything. The dream—if I have understood correctly—must have a dimension of mystery to it, something yet to be discovered. And Niko already knows it all.

  I don’t have an exact dream yet, but that’s the beauty of it. It is so unknown that just thinking about it thrills me. Silvia has a dream, too. She wants to become a painter. She’s really good at painting. It’s her favorite hobby. Once, she even gave me a painting. (She makes copies of famous works.) It’s a beautiful picture of a woman protecting herself from the sun with a white parasol. This is a special picture because the clothing, the face, the colors of the woman are so light they blend in with the sunlight beating down on them. It’s as if the lady were made of the very light she is trying to protect herself from. And this is the only instance when I am not fearful of white. Silvia has outwitted white in this picture. I like it.

  After avoiding at least fifteen deadly accidents from brakes that are in much need of a mechanic’s attention, we are at Silvia’s place.

  “My parents, however, don’t want me to pursue it. They say that it can only be a hobby and certainly not my future; it is a difficult road, only very few find success, and then you risk starving if you don’t make it big.”

  Decidedly, parents exist in this world to remind us of the fears we don’t have. It’s they who are afraid. Instead, I am happy that Silvia has this dream. When she speaks about it, her eyes sparkle, like The Dreamer’s when he explains something. Like the eyes of Alexander the Great shone, and Michelangelo’s, Dante’s … Eyes blood red, full of life … In my opinion, Silvia’s dream is the right one. I ask her to watch my eyes and to let me know when they shine; maybe this way I can discover my dream while talking to her about something, without being distracted, without me really noticing when it happens. She agrees.

  “When I see your dream shining in your eyes, I’ll tell you.”

  I ask her to paint another picture for me. She says yes. Her eyes are on fire, and it almost seems as if they are burning my skin. They are bright blue. That’s her dream. I don’t have one yet, but I feel like it is coming. How will I recognize it? My eyes, with dark circles under them? Yes, I have bags under my eyes, and I carry my dreams there. When I find mine, I will empty these bags, and my eyes will shine brightly.

  I accelerate toward the blue of the horizon, and it almost seems like I am flying, without brakes and without dreams. …

  16

  Beatrice is still not back in school.

  She isn’t even at the bus stop in the afternoon.

  My days are empty.

  They are white, like those of Dante when he didn’t see Beatrice anymore.

  I have nothing to say, because when there is no love, words are over.

  The pages become white, there is no ink to life.

  17

  Finally, I spoke with The Dreamer.

  “How can a person find his own dream? And prof, don’t make fun of me.”

  “Look for it.”

  “How?”

  “Ask the right questions.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Read, look, be interested … in everything … with great enthusiasm and passion, and study it all. Question everything that strikes you and makes you feel passionate, asking each one why that is so. Therein lies the answer to your dream. It is not our moods that count but our loves.”

  That’s what The Dreamer told me. Only he can answer how he gets such ideas in his head! I have to find what I really care about. But the only way to discover it is to put in the time and effort, and I don’t know if that’s really the answer for me. …

  I try to follow The Dreamer’s method: I need to start from what I already know. I care about music. I care about Niko. I care about Beatrice, I care about Silvia, I care about my scooter, I care about my unknown dream. I care about Mom and Dad whe
n they aren’t driving me crazy … I care about … maybe that’s enough … these things are too few; there need to be more of them. I must give it my all to discover them and ask the right questions of each one.

  I asked myself why I care about Silvia. I said to myself that I love her like a sister, that I want her to fulfill her dreams; when I am with her I feel at peace deep down, like when Mom used to take my hand in the crowded supermarket. Why Niko? The answer is that I feel good with him. I don’t need to explain anything. I don’t feel judged. By the way, I must do something; I can’t go on with this silence. We have another game together soon, and if the two of us don’t get back to being friends, the Pirates will be shipwrecked.

  Afterward, I questioned my music and it answered me that I feel free with it. I asked my broken-down Bat-scooter and it gave me the same answer. I’ve got some pieces to the puzzle: I like people’s affection, and I love my freedom. These are some ingredients of my dream. At least I have discovered a few of them. But still, they are too few.

  Why does Beatrice have a place in my heart? This is more difficult. I have not yet found an answer to that question. There is something mysterious in her. Something more that I can’t seem to understand. A red mystery like the mystery of the sun that rises makes the night darkest right before dawn. She is my dream and that’s it, I can’t explain it any other way. This is what keeps me awake at night.

  I watch a horror movie. This also keeps me awake at night. All-nighter, squared.

  18

  This was the only Greek homework that interested me in school. From a few words taken from Greek, we had to write the definition and the Italian derivatives that would make it easier to remember the Greek terms. This way, I learned two words well.

  Leukos: white. From this, we derive the Italian word luce, light.

  Aima: blood. From this, we get the Italian word ematoma, hematoma (blood clot).

  If you put those scary words together, you get one even more terrible: leukemia. A cancer that strikes the blood. A name derived from Greek (all the names of diseases come from Greek. … ) and it means “white blood.”

  I knew that with white you are screwed. How can blood be white?

  Blood is red and that’s that.

  Tears are salty and that is that.

  Silvia told me this in tears:

  “Beatrice has leukemia.”

  And her tears became mine.

  19

  That’s why she wasn’t coming to school. That’s why she had disappeared. Just like Argentieri’s husband. Actually, worse: a blood cancer. Leukemia. Maybe, however, she will get well. Without Beatrice, I am done for; my blood will become white too.

  That stuff about dreams is colossal bullshit. I knew it. I always knew it. Because then the pain comes and nothing has any meaning anymore. Because you build, build, build and then, suddenly, someone or something comes along and sweeps it all away. What use is it to you then? In my dream, there was Beatrice, and Beatrice was part of the mystery of the dream. She was the key that opened the door. If she disappears, the dream disappears. Then only night is left in its pitch darkness, because there will not be another dawn.

  Why the fuck does such a terrible disease like this, one that can change red blood into white, exist? Dreamer, you are a liar of the worst kind, of the type that believes the lies he spews! Tomorrow, I am going to slash your loser bicycle tires. Now I am hungry. Text message: Niko, I need to see you.

  20

  At McDonald’s in the afternoon: the saddest thing in the galaxy. There is only the smell of Big Macs and the middle school losers. But who gives a damn; whatever … I’ve never spoken to Niko about Beatrice. Beatrice has always been a secret of mine. A Caribbean island surrounded by the crystalline sea where I alone take refuge. With Niko, we talk about pussy, random chicks … Beatrice is not a chick, she doesn’t belong in any set category. She doesn’t belong to the category of “radiography” that is, those girls whose hot bodies we like to inspect. You don’t touch Beatrice, not even with words. No, they don’t come near to defining Beatrice. Not even in this circumstance do I speak about Beatrice, keeping all my rage and pain inside. Niko arrives and sits down, upset.

  “What’s up?”

  “Come on, let’s cut the crap. Pirates don’t fight like little girls. … ”

  Niko wasn’t expecting anything different. He smiles and his look relaxes. He gives me a big shove.

  “We really are two assholes. … ”

  “Speak for yourself. … ”

  We laugh. While we are sipping two giant cokes and Niko rips some burps, we speak. We talk. We pick up exactly where we left off. Like only true friends can.

  “We should play some music. It’s been a while since we’ve let loose.”

  “Yup, and we also need to get psyched up for the next game.”

  “Who are we up against?”

  “Against the same zombies from the third-year A class.”

  “The X-Men?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A walk in the park.”

  “Niko … ”

  He stares at me.

  “Are you afraid of dying?”

  “What the fuck has death got to do with us when we have a Coke in front of us at McDonald’s? You’ve become a real idiot, Leo. I think it’s the hair, you should chop it off; the air isn’t reaching your brain anymore. … ”

  I burst out laughing, but in reality I have turned to ice.

  “What have I told you a thousand times?”

  I imitate his metallic voice.

  “You shouldn’t think about white!”

  “Come on, let’s go downtown and hook up with some babes. … ”

  “No, I gotta go home … and study. … ”

  Niko laughs.

  I pretend to laugh.

  “See ya tomorrow.”

  “See ya. We’ll shred ’em!”

  It’s not easy to be weak.

  21

  I find out from Silvia that Beatrice is in the hospital. Only Silvia has the right to tell me certain things. Beatrice needs blood. Transfusions of blood from her same blood type. They need to fight the white blood and hope that the blood changes into pure, new, red blood. They have to fight the white blood to save her. I don’t know which blood type I have, but I do know that I have so much red blood in my body that I would give it all to her, just to see it transform into the red of her hair. Blood-red hair.

  I fly on my Bat-scooter without saying anything to anyone. Everything has become white: the street, the sky, people’s faces, the façade of the hospital. I enter and am submerged by an odor of disinfectant that reminds me of the dentist’s office. I look for her room. I don’t ask where she is, because I have a compass in my heart that always points straight to her—North: Beatrice. In fact, I find her on the third attempt. I approach her and look at her from afar; she is sleeping. Like Sleeping Beauty. Nearby, there is a lady with red hair, maybe her mother. She has her eyes closed, too. I don’t have the courage to approach her. I am afraid. I don’t even know what to say in these circumstances. Maybe Silvia would know what to do, but I can’t keep calling her. …

  Then I remember about dreams and that Beatrice is my dream. So I go to the reception desk of the hospital and say that I am there to donate my red blood to substitute the white blood of Beatrice. The nurse on duty looks at me, annoyed.

  “Listen, we don’t have time to waste here.”

  I give her a dirty look. “Neither do I.”

  She realizes that I am being serious.

  With a look of disgust, she asks, “How old are you?”

  With a look of disgust, I answer, “Sixteen.”

  She says that I need my parents’ permission, since I am a minor. That’s great! Someone wants to donate blood to someone who needs it and then needs permission to do so. Someone wants to build a dream, or save someone, and must ask for permission. How fucked up the world is! They encourage you to dream and then block you from doing it when you’ve barely b
egun: they’re all envious. And then they pull out the argument that you need their permission in order to dream, and to not ask permission you must be of age. I go back home. I feel like I am floating in a sea of white, without ports, without landings. I didn’t accomplish anything. I didn’t speak with Beatrice, nor did I donate my blood for her. I need to call Silva, otherwise it will end badly.

  “How’s it going?” I ask her.

  “So-so, and you?”

  “Bad. They didn’t let me donate any blood for Beatrice.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you’re a minor, your parents’ permission is required.”

  “That seems normal to me; it could be dangerous. … ”

  “When it’s a question of love, everything is possible! There is no need for permission!”

  “Right. … ” answers Silvia, falling silent.

  “What’s the matter? You seem strange today. … ”

  She mechanically repeats my previous sentence, as if she weren’t listening to me: “When it’s a question of love, everything is possible. … ”

  22

  I can’t concentrate on anything. My dream is crumbling like a sand castle when high tide comes in and reduces it to rubble only a few inches high. My dream has become white, because Beatrice has cancer. The Dreamer says that I have to pose the right questions to discover my dream. Well, then, let’s try it with this fucking leukemia! What the fuck are you doing in the middle of my life and in Beatrice’s? Why do you poison the blood of someone leading such a full life that has barely begun? There is no answer to this question. That’s just the way it is, and that’s that. And, if that’s the way it is, it’s a waste of time to dream. Or at least, it’s better not to even bother, because it just hurts more. It’s better to have Niko’s dreams, the safe ones, those that you buy. I’m going to go buy some new shoes, some elite Dreams—at least that way I can wear my dream on my feet and stomp on them.