White Like Milk, Red Like Blood

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  I am keeping my feet on the ground, and I am stomping on my dream. The Dreamer says that desires have to do with the stars: de plus sidera: desidera (to desire), which means “stars” in Latin. It’s all a bunch of crap! The only way to see the stars is not to desire, but to get hurt.

  23

  “Where the hell are you?” Niko’s voice comes thundering out from my cell and wakes me from my lethargic stupor. It takes me a nanosecond to realize it’s five o’clock, and in half an hour we have the game against the X-Men.

  “I had to straighten up my room, otherwise my mom wouldn’t let me go out. … ” Niko doesn’t believe me even for a minute.

  “Move your ass, we’ve gotta get back first place in the tournament. … ”

  He hangs up.

  For the first time in my life I had forgotten a game.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. I must be sick. I take my temperature, but it’s fine.

  I join in on the Pirate’s war cry before every game: “Arrrrgh, let’s break a fucking peg leg on the white whale!”

  We humiliate the X-Men, 7 to 2; I score three goals.

  But something within me prevents me from truly rejoicing.

  I see that great white whale. Enormous. And I am terrorized it might really devour me.

  24

  The Dreamer has invented another one of his off-the-cuff lessons. They are the best!

  He starts reading an excerpt from a book that has made a great impression on him, which he is studying more deeply for his own personal passion. While reading it, his eyes are shining, like someone who can’t help but share his joy with the first passerby. Like me when I say, “Beatrice,” out loud without being aware of it, or I want to tell everybody that I did well on my oral exam, which is a really rare occurrence. …

  This time he is reading us a story from the book Decisive Moments in History, which deals with three sieges and three sackings.

  “Rome, Alexandria, and Byzantium. Three cities loaded with treasures, beauty, and art. Three cities with libraries full of books, libraries that protect the secrets of centuries of literature and research. Buildings brimming with scrolls and codices, containing the dreams of all those men that could be useful to so many other men yet to come. But those dreams went up in smoke under the burning flames of barbarians, of Arabs and of Turks. With one incendiary gesture, they erased rooms and floors full of papers that contained the secrets of life. They burnt the spirit and its wings. They forbade it to fly as it had done for centuries, freeing themselves from the prisons of history. The paper in those books burned just like it did in that marvelous novel of Bradbury’s, which you should read. … ”

  These words of The Dreamer, although I don’t know exactly what they mean, they sound good, even though I’ve never heard anyone speak of this Bradbury guy before.

  At the end of his passionate speech, The Dreamer asks us, “Why?” None of us is able to answer. He tells us to think about it and then write an essay on it for homework. The Dreamer is off his rocker. He thinks we are capable of such thoughts. We have to solve problems of a much more simple and concrete nature. Of an immediate and useful nature: like where to copy a Greek translation, how to land a date with that really hot girl, how we can come up with the money to recharge our cell phones after spending all our credit on two days’ worth of text messages consisting of five or six words each … and other things like that. No one is used to pondering such deep questions from The Dreamer. You just don’t have the head to tackle some of these things. You don’t even know where in the world to go to find such answers.

  Because these questions that he asks are not the kind to which answers can be found with Google. If you type in Rome, Alexandria, Byzantium, fire, dreams, causes, books … nothing comes of it. Because on the Internet, there isn’t a text that puts together words that are so disjointed. You need to come up with the connection. This is why it’s so complicated.

  I don’t know if I’ll do this homework assignment. It’s so hard, but it has something mysterious about it, because, for the first time, the answer is nowhere to be copied. You need to find it yourself. Maybe that is the added challenge. I have to give it a shot. I hate The Dreamer because he’s got me once again, piquing my curiosity.

  Ignorance is the most comfortable thing that I know, besides the couch in my family room.

  25

  I tried to talk to my mother about the blood I would like to donate to Beatrice. She doesn’t understand; to her it seems like a vampire story, like those that are trendy right now. I explain the whole thing to her. She tells me that we’ll think about it, that it seems like a nice idea, but surely many others will have already thought about it, too. I insist.

  Speak to your father about it.

  The magical phrase for passing the buck since the beginning of time. That’s what I’ll do. I give Niko a ring and go to see him. I was supposed to do The Dreamer’s homework, but nothing comes to mind; hopefully the music will help. Sometimes, in the music, you find the answers that you’re looking for, almost without looking for them. And even if you don’t find them, you at least find those same feelings that you are experiencing. Someone else has felt them, too. You don’t feel all alone. Sadness, solitude, rage. Almost all the songs that I like speak about these things. Playing them is like confronting those monsters, especially when you aren’t even able to give them a name.

  Then, when the music is over, those things are still there. Certainly, maybe now you can recognize them better, but no one has magically swept them away. Perhaps I should get drunk in order to chase them away. Niko says it works. Beatrice is still sick, and before getting drunk, I want to donate my blood to her; I wouldn’t want the alcohol to harm her, because she is pure.

  I’ve got to speak to Dad.

  Right away.

  26

  Dad didn’t come back home for dinner. When he came back, it was so late that I didn’t have the courage to ask him anything. It wasn’t the right moment. My father would blast me, and I would blow my only chance. I am still awake, because I’m trying to write my homework for The Dreamer. I have never given a damn about hard assignments. When I can’t do them, I calmly go off to bed and fall asleep, copying them off someone else the next day. I don’t know why, but in this case, there is something more at stake that compels me to accept the challenge. As if I would betray The Dreamer or myself by throwing in the towel.

  I am in front of the computer screen. I write out the question of the assignment: “Why were Rome, Alexandria, and Byzantium burned down by their conquerors? What motivated the barbarians, Arabs and Turks? What did they have in common despite being so different?” White. Nothing comes to mind. White, like this damn screen. White, like the blood of Beatrice. I call Silvia. She doesn’t answer. Silvia always leaves her cell on, because she wants me to be able to reach her anytime I need help. Silvia is my guardian angel. The only difference is that at night she sleeps and sometimes doesn’t feel the vibrations of the phone, like now. I must resolve the problem by myself.

  It’s late. Outside there is the black of night, and my mind is white. I try to transform myself into one of the pillagers and ask myself what I could hope to gain by burning books with all the treasures they contain. I am wandering through the dusty streets of Rome, Alexandria, and Byzantium, which I later discover had become Constantinople, then Istanbul. In the midst of the shouts and screams of people, I put fire to thousands of books. I destroy all those paper dreams and transform them into ashes. I transform them into white smoke.

  Here is the answer. To reduce dreams to ashes. To burn dreams is the secret to defeating our enemies once and for all, so that they will not be able to find the strength to get up and start over again. They are no longer able to dream beautiful dreams of their cities, of the lives of others, of stories full of freedom and love. They are unable to dream of anything. If you don’t allow people to dream, you turn them into slaves. And I, pillager of cities, now need only slaves in order to reign se
renely and without disturbance. To achieve this, words on paper cannot remain, only the white ashes of ancient dreams. This is the worst cruelty: to steal people’s dreams. Concentration camps full of people incinerated along with their dreams. Nazis stealing dreams. When you don’t have dreams of your own, you steal them from others so that they won’t have them either. Envy burns in your heart, and that fire devours everything in its path. …

  When I finish writing, it is dark outside, just as it was before, and from the black of night I have stolen the marks that now fill up my white screen. I have discovered something: studying, writing. It’s the first time, but I will not make a habit of it. … And, naturally, the black ink in the printer has run out, so my only choice is to print it in color.

  Red.

  27

  The Dreamer wanders around the desks, to check on the results of the research. It seems like everybody did it. Taking turns, whoever wants to read it aloud is called upon. It’s like being immersed in the dust and fire of centuries ago, and yet we are in class. Everybody is proud of what they have written, at least those who have the courage to stand up and read. Naturally, I am not one of them; reading out loud is like singing. The bell rings. We hurry to turn in our papers, but The Dreamer doesn’t want them. Incredible! He prefers we keep the answers we found. He prefers we reserve them for ourselves.

  The Dreamer is truly nuts. He gives you homework to do and then he doesn’t give you a grade. What kind of professor doesn’t give you a grade? You can be sure, though, that he was successful in getting all the students to do their research. Even me, in the dark heart of the night. So maybe a grade is not necessary to oblige you to study. The Dreamer remains sitting, although the classroom is emptying. He is smiling, and his eyes are shining. He trusts us. He believes we are capable of doing beautiful things. Maybe he is not a total loser after all.

  I will not allow the pillagers to burn my dreams and turn them into ashes. I will not allow anybody to do it. I risk not getting up again. Beatrice needs me, not a weeping pile of ruins. I don’t want to forget what I have discovered. I don’t want to because it is too important, but I have a bad memory. I have to write down everything, otherwise I forget it. Maybe the only way to save myself from my memory is to become a writer. I want to talk to Silvia about all this; she is the only one who wouldn’t mock me. As if she has heard my thoughts, she approaches me, holds on tightly to my arm, and rests her head on my shoulder.

  “What did you want yesterday? I saw your call only this morning.”

  “I wanted some help with my research.”

  Silvia lifts her head and looks at me with a sad expression, “Sure. What else?”

  She lets go of my arm and walks away.

  I stare at her while she walks away, feeling like I didn’t get it, like when Dad tells me one thing when he really means another. By the way, I must speak to Dad before I forget about it. …

  28

  If there is one thing that drives me mad, it is crazy “dares” with Niko. These dares are very dangerous. Each one causes a rush of adrenaline to pump your blood so fast you almost hear it galloping. One of the crazy dares I like is playing chicken with our brakes. We ride on our scooters at full throttle, breaking only at the last second. The winner is the one braking closest to the car in front of him without hitting it. This is how I’ve practically ruined the brakes on my Bat-scooter. With this dare, Niko can’t get the best of me, because, in the end, he always nearly pisses himself from sheer fright. I, however, brake one second after my survival instinct tells me to. One second is all it takes to make a difference. This is the secret to winning the dare: do what you should, but do it a second later.

  When we see the flaming black Porsche Carrera at the red light, we look at each other, and we launch the scooters at full speed. Right next to each other. Only the air is trying to slow us down, without success. The asphalt is crackling under the tires that bite the crumbling tar. The rear end of the Porsche comes closer and closer. We are neck in neck, at maximum speed.

  A quick glance at Niko, the last one before the final phase. I can’t lose the dare. With only thirty feet separating us from the shiny black tail of the Porsche, Niko brakes. I wait an instant, just enough time to count to “one.” If you don’t brake, you’re dead. And I don’t brake: a second that seems like a century. Blood hums in my ears. My front tire kisses the rear bumper of the Porsche, like a mother with her newborn baby. I turn toward Niko, hair flying in my face, blocking my vision, a burst of adrenaline blurs my sight. I smile like they do in the films after a duel is won. Niko owes me the umpteenth ice cream. There is no dare without ice cream involved.

  “How do you do it? My hands hit the brakes, even if I don’t want them to: it’s stronger than me.”

  I lick my strawberries-and-cream ice cream.

  “Fear is white, courage is red. When you see white, you have to focus on the red, counting till one … ”

  Niko looks at me like you’d look at a mentally ill person who thinks he is speaking rationally.

  “Tomorrow we have the game. We have to get back first place. All we have to do is win, and hope that Vandal’s team ties.”

  “Vandal … We’ll make him pay. … ”

  Niko slaps me so hard on my shoulder that my nose ends up in my ice cream.

  “I like that look on you.”

  He runs off as I chase him like one of those clowns with a white face and red nose. …

  29

  Dad and I enter the hospital where Beatrice has been admitted. They check my blood type. It’s the same as Beatrice’s. I was sure of it; we have the same blood type, we live from the same blood. There are things that you just feel. My life is bound to that of Beatrice’s by blood. They ask me if I use drugs. I say no. I say no because Dad is there and he would incinerate me and shout his favorite threat: “I’ll ground you into the dust of your shadow.” You’ve got to give him credit, as a phrase, it isn’t bad.

  Later, however, when I am with the nurse, I tell her that a month ago I smoked some weed. But only one joint, just to experiment. There was a group of us. I didn’t want to look like a dork. And, besides, it was just to try it out. The nurse calms me down. One joint doesn’t count. But if I were a regular user, I couldn’t donate. My blood wouldn’t be of any use.

  The chapter on weed is finished. If Beatrice should still need it, my blood must be perfect, pure, immaculate. It must be as red as the love I have for her.

  They draw quite a bit. It is much darker than I thought. It is a reddish-purple and dense, like my love for Beatrice. The sight of blood gushing from my arm makes me lightheaded, and for a moment I fear I’ll pass out, but I fight it. Blood, like love, makes you lose your head, but it also gives you the strength to go beyond your limitations. … I feel like I’ve given my life for Beatrice, but in actuality, I’m half dead and pale like a vampire: instead of sucking blood, I’ve given it for the living.

  Dad takes me to breakfast.

  “You’re as pale as the foam on your cappuccino. I’ll get you another croissant. What kind do you want?”

  “What a question … with chocolate.”

  Dad goes to the bar and gets a croissant dripping with Nutella. He sits down in front of me again and smiles, as he does so well in the morning. In the evening, he is too tired to smile after a day’s work.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks, pointing to the arm from which they extracted the blood.

  “It burns a little, but it’s okay.”

  “Tell me about this young lady, what’s her name … Angelica?”

  I’ve always said that in our family, memory is not our strong point.

  “Beatrice, Dad, her name is Beatrice, like the beloved of Dante.”

  “Is she a special girl for you?”

  I don’t feel like talking to him about Beatrice and sidetrack the question.

  “Who is special for you?”

  “Mom.”

  “When did you know?”

  “When I saw h
er for the first time, during a cruise that my parents had given to me as a gift for graduation. She had a special way of moving, of tilting her head when she smiled, and when she fixed her long hair that covered her eyes … ”

  Dad appears to be daydreaming, with a lost look, dreaming of a past that passes in front of his eyes like the beginning of a romantic film, one of those I can’t stand.

  “And, then?”

  “Then, I approached her and asked, ‘So, you’re on this ship, too, Miss?’ realizing by the end of my question that it didn’t make any sense and was actually rather ridiculous, since I had just seen her for the first time.”

  “What about her?”

  “She smiled and answered, looking around, pretending she was trying to find someone, ‘So it seems. … ’ and she laughed.”

  “And then, what happened?”

  “Then we talked and talked and talked.”

  “Back in your day, you didn’t do anything else but talk. … ”

  “Hey, boy, don’t show a lack of respect for your father!”

  “And what did you speak about?”

  “About the stars.”

  “About the stars? And did she listen to you?”

  “Yes, I was passionate about stars. I had bought my first telescope during the first year of high school, and I knew how to identify the constellations. So I told her the stories of the stars, and from the bridge of the ship, in that cool, clear night, there was no need of a telescope to see them clearly. And she, unlike other girls, listened and asked questions.”