Anna

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  ‘I’ll break your neck,’ she shouted, and stamped on his big toe. The boy screamed and started hopping about.

  ‘That dog is nothing to do with me,’ said Anna.

  Meanwhile the two girls had got up and were staring at her. One was tall and thin, the other short and plump. The thin one was wearing a long sleeveless dress decorated with little flowers. Her two stick-like arms ended in disproportionately big hands. The plump girl had short shapely legs under a large bottom, which was squeezed into a purple miniskirt. A green and blue striped T-shirt encased three rolls of fat and two large breasts. They looked like a pair of cartoon characters.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Anna asked them.

  They didn’t reply, but whispered to each other.

  The rat pointed to the dog, who was lying in the dust enjoying the sun. ‘If he’s not yours, kill him.’

  ‘Him?’ Anna burst out laughing. ‘Kill him yourself! I tried and failed. He nearly tore me apart, down on the autostrada. If you don’t believe me, I don’t give a damn.’

  The Maremma yawned loudly, bent his back and stretched his legs.

  ‘I bet it was you that told him to attack the horses.’ The tall skinny girl turned to the boy. ‘My father had a dog. His name was Hannibal. He hated sheep.’

  The fat girl rolled her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake, Fiammetta, don’t start going on about Hannibal again.’

  ‘Several days’ work wasted.’The rat was disconsolate. ‘What are we going to do now? How are we going to break it to the Bear that we’ve lost the bones, and the horses too?’

  ‘He’ll be furious. He’s got a foul temper …’ added Fiammetta.

  ‘We can forget about the necklaces.’The plump girl shook her head. ‘We’ve got no chance now.’ She threw her arms round her friend.

  The thin girl burst into tears; it sounded like a lamb bleating. ‘He said he’d let us go with him …’

  The rat shrugged. ‘He’ll give me a necklace anyway … He won’t give you one, though. Nobody likes you.’

  Fiammetta didn’t understand. ‘Why will he give one to you?’

  The plump girl shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because he’s already got a necklace. And he hasn’t told us.’

  ‘Is that true, Katio?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ The boy gave a treacherous smirk. ‘Angelica gave it to me.’

  ‘Damn you!’ The squat one charged at him, grabbed him by the hair and started pulling it.

  ‘Let go of me, you bitch!’ shouted Katio, kicking her in the shins; but the plump girl didn’t relax her grip.

  ‘Help me, Fiammetta!’

  ‘I’m coming, Chiara.’The thin girl took three strides with her long skinny legs and she too grabbed hold of Katio’s hair like a bat. The three of them started a strange game of Ring a Ring o’ Roses, shouting and pushing each other.

  Anna gazed at them open-mouthed.

  The fight was interrupted by a voice. ‘Excuse me …’ A boy was standing in the middle of the road. He was carrying an enormous watermelon between his shoulder blades and neck. ‘Could you tell me something?’

  He was wearing a long beige overcoat which trailed behind him like a cloak. Underneath it he was naked. On his feet he had a pair of lace-up shoes made of moulded leather, which must once have been very smart. ‘Is this the way to the hotel?’ His skull looked as if it had been put under a press which had distorted his features. His eyes were out of line: one was lower, half-closed and hidden by his cheekbone. Above his high, lumpy forehead were some tufts of fair hair which looked as if they’d been stuck on with glue.

  The three kids had stopped fighting and were peering at him incredulously. The watermelon must have weighed at least twenty kilos. Chiara was the first to regain her composure: ‘Where are you going with that?’

  The boy paused for a few seconds, as if searching for the best answer, then put the watermelon down on the ground. ‘It’s a gift for the Little Lady. They say she’ll cure you if you take her a special present.’ He took a cloth out of his pocket and started polishing the scratched skin. ‘It won’t be long now.’

  ‘What about your face?’ asked Fiammetta.

  ‘That’ll stay the way it is.’ He shrugged. ‘Soon after I was born my father shut my head in a drawer.’

  Katio went over to the boy. ‘Where did you find the pumpkin?’

  ‘It’s not a pumpkin, it’s a watermelon. There’s not another one as big and sweet in the whole world.’ He patted his chest proudly. ‘I grew it myself. With plenty of fertiliser.’

  Fiammetta craned her vulture-like neck, examining it. ‘It’s huge.’

  ‘Are you guys going there too? We could go together.’

  The rat stroked the fruit with his fingertips, as if checking it wasn’t made of plastic. ‘Can we have a bite?’

  ‘No, it’s for the Little Lady.’

  ‘Go on, just a mouthful.’

  ‘No!’ The boy wrapped his arms round his treasure. ‘I’m taking it to the hotel.’

  Katio slapped him on the back. The slap was too hard to be friendly. ‘You reckon one melon’s enough to persuade her to cure you? You’re crazy.’ Then he suddenly turned serious. ‘If you let me have some, though, I’ll put in a good word for you with the Bear …’

  Anna seemed to see the thoughts running through the head of the poor boy in the overcoat. Long, straight thoughts, running one behind the other, like the coaches of a slow, rattly train. Some ended in a question mark, some with a simple full stop. He couldn’t keep them all to himself: ‘Who is the Bear?’

  Katio smiled, displaying a row of rotten teeth. ‘Don’t you know anything? He’s the boss at the hotel. His real name’s Rosario Barletta. He’s a friend of mine. He organises the parties and he’s the leader of the blue kids. If you let us eat some of the melon, I’ll have a word with him. Then you’ll be able to eat the ash and be cured.’ He kissed his index fingers. ‘That’s a promise.’

  The boy squatted down on the watermelon like a hen on an egg.

  ‘Will you share it with us?’ said Katio.

  The poor boy looked at Anna and Fiammetta, begging for help with his eyes.

  ‘What if it’s gone bad?’ the rat pressed him. ‘What if Rosario cuts it open and finds it’s rotten? He’ll throw you off the hotel roof.’

  The boy’s voice was hoarse. ‘It’s not rotten …’ Finally, with a pained grimace, he gave in. ‘Go on then, take it.’

  Katio punched the air, as if he’d scored a goal.

  Anna spoke almost without realising that she was doing so. ‘Leave him alone. Let him take his melon to the hotel if he wants to.’

  The rat shot her a sly glance, then turned to the boy, as courteous as could be. ‘I’m so sorry, she’s perfectly right.’ He gestured towards the road. ‘Go ahead.’ And with a joyful whoop he rammed his heel into the watermelon, which split open, pouring its red pulp and black seeds onto the asphalt.

  The boy gave a strangled sob and threw himself down on the juicy remains of his only possession. Chiara and Fiammetta jumped on them too, like a pair of maniacs, picking up pieces of melon and stuffing them into their mouths.

  ‘You bastard.’ Anna rushed at Katio, who was watching them guzzle with great amusement, and gave him a hearty slap on the ear.

  The boy quivered, his eyes bulging like a tree frog’s. He opened his lips in a silent scream, clapped his hand to his ear and fell on his knees, blubbing.

  The girls were too busy stuffing themselves to his give him a glance. Anna took aim at Chiara’s backside and shoved her forward with the sole of her foot. The plump girl fell nose first on the asphalt. The thin girl, her face smeared with red juice, hopped backwards like a wader bird and ran away.

  ‘Come on, let’s go. Forget about it.’ Anna took the unfortunate boy by the wrist. He wouldn’t budge. He sobbed, hanging his misshapen head. ‘Okay, please yourself.’ She turned towards the dog, which was lying in the dust. She tried to whistle, but all that came out was a br
eathy raspberry.

  The Maremma raised his head, looked at her apathetically and flopped down again.

  ‘Okay, you can go to hell too!’

  6

  The silhouette of the Grand Spa Hotel Elise came into view a couple of kilometres away. It lay long on the horizon, like a cruise ship beached on a hill. Columns of smoke rose from its roof.

  Anna passed under a blackstone arch which surmounted the road. Rain-bleached thighbones hanging on strings tinkled like bianzhong bells. Some large gold letters were set on a pillar: ‘SP TEL ELI’. The others had fallen off. On either side of the narrow road were some ancient olive trees, now half dead. Swirls of dust danced among dark rocks and prickly pears. The wind carried a smell of sulphur and burnt plastic.

  She sat down, her windpipe so tight she could hardly breathe. Her anxiety had been steadily growing. Every metre that brought her closer to the hotel had been more of an effort, and now that it was there in front of her she wasn’t sure that she could go through with her plan.

  What if he’s been killed?

  A hundred metres away from her, some children were moving among the bushes. They seemed to be picking things up from the ground.

  She left the road, passing among dark boulders which surrounded the hotel like sentries; she hid between two smaller rocks, resting her chin on her knees. Her forehead was hot, but she couldn’t stop shivering. She sat looking at the desolate land, tinged with red by the setting sun.

  Maybe she could wait till tomorrow.

  Her mother waded through the undergrowth. She wore low-waisted jeans with a black belt, leather sandals and a T-shirt made of thick white cotton. Anna saw her sit down cross-legged in front of her. A cigarette filter between her lips, a slip of paper with the tobacco between her fingers.

  What’s the matter?

  I’ve got a temperature.

  Her mother took the filter and placed it at the end of the paper. The tip of her tongue slid across the glue. A rapid movement of thumbs and forefingers made the cigarette. She lit it.

  What about your brother? Are you just going to leave him there?

  No, I’ll go in tomorrow. I need to sleep now.

  The paper sizzled, wreathing Maria Grazia’s face in smoke. Glistening, ringed eyes, the eyes of the final days, stood out among locks of blonde hair.

  I knew I couldn’t trust you …

  She was back in her room, lying among crumpled sheets in a pool of sweat.

  You’re weak, just like your father.

  Anna clenched her fists, drying her tearful eyes with her wrist.

  The dog appeared among the brambles. He looked at her with mournful eyes, his tongue hanging out.

  Anna stretched out her hand towards him. ‘You’re back.’

  The Maremma took two steps, lowered his neck, sniffed her fingertips with his chapped nose and gave her two gentle licks.

  ‘We’re friends, you and me,’ she said to him, swallowing what felt like a tangle of thorns.

  The dog lay down beside his new mistress, rested his large head between his paws and went to sleep.

  Anna sat motionless, his dirty, foul-smelling coat brushing her thigh. Then, tentatively, she started stroking him. On contact with her fingers the dog’s muscles quivered. One hind leg twitched with pleasure.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He arched his back and yawned.

  ‘You’ve got such a soft, fluffy coat.’ She smiled. ‘That’s what I’ll call you: Fluffy.’

  And so it was that, after Dopey and Manson, the dog took the name of Fluffy.

  *

  Anna switched on the torch. The beam of light was instantly filled with clouds of midges. The dog’s eyes gleamed electric blue.

  ‘Stay, there’s a good boy.’ She stroked his forehead. ‘I’ll be back soon.’The animal watched her closely and didn’t move.

  The hotel was enveloped in clouds of smoke tinged by the reddish glow of fires. A regular metallic drumming noise could be heard in the distance. Anna joined a small group heading in the same direction as her, dark figures laughing and chattering amongst themselves. She caught snatches of incomprehensible words, wheezy intakes of breath, fits of coughing.

  Further on, the crowd was thicker. Many were resting, sitting on walls at the side of the road or lying on the ground in makeshift bivouacs.

  Progress was rapid for a while, then the flow slowed to a straggling queue which moved forward in waves. Flashes from distant bonfires lit up blotched faces, toothless mouths. It was a procession of the lame, the hunchbacked and the scarred. Most had bulging plastic bags, or were pulling crammed trolley cases.

  Two children were sitting away from the rest, smoking.

  ‘I’ve got two tins of meat. What have you brought?’ said one.

  ‘This …’ replied a female voice. The flame of a cigarette lighter flickered in the darkness and was reflected in the glass of a bottle with a red label.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wine.’

  ‘That’ll never get you in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The other laughed. ‘Because I’m going to drink it first.’

  They started quarrelling, but in a friendly way, with no real conviction.

  You have to give them something if you want to get in.

  What did she have in the rucksack? An empty bottle. A lighter. A knife. The only thing of any value was the torch, but she didn’t want to give that away. It was of good quality, very powerful, and had never broken down. The batteries were still working too.

  As the queue moved forward along the walls of the hotel, quarrels broke out and there were shouts and shoving.

  It was the first time since the epidemic that Anna had been among so many human beings, and with all those people pressing against her, touching and pushing her, she felt suffocated and just wanted to run away. But she gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay in the queue.

  Half an hour later she reached the gates.

  Hundreds of candles were dripping on a row of barrels, and three boys behind the barrier checked the incomers. All three of them wore necklaces made of human fingerbones.

  ‘What have you got for the Little Lady?’ asked a thin boy whose hair was slicked down with green sludge.

  Anna handed him the torch.

  The boy checked that it worked and passed it to the boy next to him: ‘Okay …’

  His companion, who was small and fair-haired, dropped it into a box along with the other offerings, then peered at her breasts and let her through, while the rest of the queue jostled outside.

  She went along a dark, draughty, covered passageway which led to the gardens. The walls were daubed with drawings and graffiti. On either side of the stone paving were piles of broken crockery, plastic, boxes and crushed tin cans.

  She came out onto a podium which overlooked an amphitheatre. Rough concrete terraces sloped down to a pool full of rubbish and rainwater, on the other side of which, behind six Corinthian columns, the boarding of a building site was still visible. Long flames rose up from five piles of burning tyres, filling the theatre with pungent black smoke. Everything was in ruins and crumbling. Orange corrugated pipes containing electric cables ran along weed-choked channels round the semicircle and down towards the pool.

  There were crowds everywhere. Those on the terraces seemed to be sleeping. Others were moving up and down the stairways. On one embankment a group of ragged children were beating a slow monotonous rhythm on some barrels.

  Towering up at the top was the hotel, surmounted by a glass dome in the middle. One wing was just a skeleton of concrete columns. On the other side work had progressed further, and there were windows and roll-down blinds.

  Anna ventured uncertainly down the steps, but couldn’t bring herself to go on. She stopped on a tier littered with empty tins of tuna, beans and chickpeas. She picked up a couple of tins, found a free corner and scraped them out with two fingers. In her famished state, even chickpeas, which she’d always dete
sted, tasted delicious.

  Not far away, on a terrace, a girl wearing a black hood and a bone necklace held a basket full of plastic bottles. People were pushing and shoving towards them. Anyone who succeeded in grabbing one had to fend off the others.

  Soon after drinking, they’d begin to sway about, head bent forward over their chest, arms hanging loose, lulled by the sound of the drums. One, walking along with his eyes closed, didn’t realise he’d reached the end of the terrace, stood for a moment with one leg stretched out into the void, and then fell down – to gales of laughter.

  Anna looked around. The tension evident outside the gates seemed to have vanished. Wild figures appeared among the billows of smoke, writhing about as if they were at a party or a rock concert. But there was nobody of Astor’s age.

  Beside her she noticed a girl’s back: shoulder blades splayed like chicken wings, skinny legs.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She touched one shoulder. ‘Do you know where they keep the little kids?’

  There was no reply.

  She pulled her arm and the girl fell back against her. Her cheeks were hollow, as if a parasite had sucked her away from the inside. Her eyes were glassy, her mouth contracted in a silent scream.

  A gust of wind swept across the amphitheatre. A sea of bodies gyrated in flickering firelight.

  Anna jumped up abruptly and rubbed her arms, trying to brush off the death that clung to her skin. She tripped over a boy’s ankle. An acrid smell of urine filled her nostrils. The poor wretch was shivering convulsively. His face, neck and chest were covered with sores. His arms were stiff, his fists clenched, as if he were fighting.

  This is a waiting room.

  That’s what these places were called. In Palermo there was said to be one in the stadium and another in Mondello. People who were beyond hope, close to death, would summon up their last strength just to go there and die together.

  ‘I … I haven’t got the Red Fever,’ she stammered. She took two steps and was enveloped in a cloud of gas that filled her lungs.

  She ran back up the steps, coughing. Under the skeleton of a small tree, from which pieces of cloth and plastic bags were hanging, was a cement mixer. She hid behind it and curled up on her side, her head resting on the rucksack.