Pietro petted the peach fuzz that was starting to grow on his upper lip.
“I think he has a nice little pussy between his legs, too . . . That’s why he doesn’t want to play . . .”
Matteo burst out laughing and Rita copied him.
“You do, don’t you!” Pietro pressed on.
He tried to strike my testicles with the back of his hand. I managed to dodge him and I retreated a few feet away. Rita was shivering from the cold. Pietro kept teasing her.
“What nice little tits!”
Matteo reached out to grab her. She shielded herself and asked them to stop, but they jumped on top of her. I tried to get between them but Pietro—who was stronger than me—shoved me aside. Although she was thrashing and screaming like an animal, they managed to take her pants off, too. Then Matteo, from behind, pulled off her T-shirt.
“Give me back my clothes,” Rita shouted. “Chino, help me!”
Matteo dared me, “Go get them, if you can . . .”
He rolled her clothes into a ball and threw them as high as he could up into the skeletal branches of the magnolia tree.
Rita didn’t know what to do. She covered her breasts with her arms while Matteo squeezed her around the waist, restraining her and egging on his buddy, who fondled her however he pleased, just to humiliate her, without showing any display of pleasure. She begged them to stop with a tiny voice.
“Leave me alone! Please!”
While I was struggling to recover her clothes, climbing from branch to branch, the two boys were dragging her away.
By the time I reached them, Matteo was already bending Rita over the fountain. A few locks of her hair—which had come loose from her headband—floated in the water like algae above the dormant fish. But she resisted with a passive energy that would have been unimaginable only a few minutes earlier, while pressing her hands against the edge of the pool.
“Pietro, goddammit, help me out here!” Matteo shouted.
I grabbed him by his belt and tried unsuccessfully to pull him away.
Pietro, who at that point was standing back enjoying the show with his arms crossed, came over and punched Rita’s neck. Her feet slipped on the gravel and in a second she sank into the fountain, head, torso, legs. From the look of surprise that humanized their features for a brief moment, not even her assailants had expected her to fall all the way into the water. The second she resurfaced, blue and dazed, they fled as fast as they could, as if a sea monster were emerging from the pool.
“I’m cold . . .” she sobbed, “I’m cold . . .”
I handed her clothes back to her.
To keep my mother from seeing her, I made her crawl past the window on all fours. Luckily the lobby was deserted. I withdrew to the bedroom and started counting. How long would it take Signora Zarchi to call on the intercom?
Mantegazza still hadn’t left. She was energetically singing Giovinezza giovinezza while cradling a portrait of Mussolini. Once she had finished the fascist anthem, she started up with a Milanese folk song. My mother sang along with her, in a broken imitation of the local dialect. “What does the song mean?” she asked.
“Eh,” Mantegazza replied, “the southerners are always going on and on about how great Naples is. But look at them here, lazy good-for-nothings, stealing our jobs.”
The intercom rang, interrupting the song.
*.
The priest opened the door. Without uttering a word, he accompanied me to the kitchen, where Signora Zarchi and her daughter were waiting. Against all my expectations, Signora Zarchi welcomed me with a benevolent smile. She didn’t seem at all angry or threatening. Her clothes—quite colorful, as usual—conveyed an air of cheerfulness. She wore a purple tunic and around her neck she had tied an orange silk kerchief. Her blond hair was gathered behind her neck and held in place by a rose-shaped pin. An assortment of strangely-shaped brooches, crosses, long necklaces, giant rings, jingling bracelets, and anklets adorned every part of her body. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted black, as were her fingernails.
Rita was sitting with a cup of hot milk, neatly dressed, and happy as a clam, in front of a wall-sized poster of snow-capped mountains—she could not have looked more different from her mother.
The priest opened a cupboard door, as if he were in his own home, took out a bottle of Johnny Walker, and poured himself a glass. Signora Zarchi invited me to have a seat. Then she withdrew to a corner of the kitchen. Padre Aldo suddenly raised his bald head and glared at me with two accusatory eyes. I quickly told him I had nothing to do with it—he should be talking to the other two boys. They were the ones to blame . . .
“I’ll take care of them later,” he interrupted. “For now I want to speak with you. You were there, right? When Matteo and Pietro threw Rita into the fountain . . .”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t you do anything to stop them?”
I explained that I had gone to retrieve her clothes from the magnolia tree. I begged Rita to back me up, to tell him that I didn’t want to play their game and that I had defended her as best I could . . . if I had done any more they would have beaten me up!
Padre Aldo silenced me with a solemn gesture of his hand, to the delight of Signora Zarchi, who was hanging on his every word. He tossed down a gulp of whiskey and resumed his inquisition.
“The only reason we called you here was for you to apologize to Rita. The good Lord knows everything, it is beyond our powers to understand how and why. What is clear is that an innocent creature has been the victim of injustice. I imagine you must feel deeply ashamed about what happened, whatever did, in fact, happen . . .”
I repeated that I had climbed the tree to retrieve her clothes, but my explanation mattered little to the priest. He said I had allowed myself to be an accomplice to a deplorable act, which tarnished my name and the good name of my family.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” thundered Padre Aldo, lifting his glass.
He came so close to my face that I inhaled the whiskey on his breath and, for a second, I saw myself reflected in his glaring eyes.
“Taking advantage of a defenseless creature! Flaunting your physical superiority! . . . Like an animal! God gave us reason—it’s our duty to use it, starting in childhood. There are no excuses! Violence is even worse when it is exercised over the weak, over a representative of the fair sex . . . Don’t you know that women are the most fragile creatures in the entire universe? All it takes is a single episode to ruin her . . . Women are delicate flowers, the most delicate . . .”
He cast a knowing glance at Rita’s mother, who was observing him dreamily.
“Any attack on a woman is an attack on life. By offending little Rita in that manner, you have offended yourself, you have profaned the most beautiful gift that has been given to you—the gift of being here, of being on this earth, of breathing this air. By the act you committed, you have become unworthy of this gift. Come now, ask for forgiveness! And with sincerity, with total love, otherwise it doesn’t count! Rita, good girl that she is, might even find it within herself to forgive you. But it is far more difficult to receive forgiveness from the Almighty, who can look into your heart and recognize a lie . . .”
I could feel myself suffocating. I gave a supplicating gaze to Signora Zarchi: exhausted, drunker than the priest, I begged for forgiveness. The Signora emerged from her corner, as light as a butterfly. She grabbed the glass of whiskey from Padre Aldo’s hand and took a sip.
“I forgive you,” she said to me. And to him, sweetly, “Aldo, that’s enough. It’s obvious that Chino is sorry.”
The priest ordered me to apologize directly to Rita. She was the offended one. But rather than offended, Rita seemed amused: for her the whole scene had been nothing more than another game. I bowed my head and told her I was sorry. She repeated the same formula her mother had used. “I forgive you.�
�� The tension immediately eased up. The priest smiled at Signora Zarchi and she smiled back. Rita smiled, too. I was the only one to maintain a grave look on my face, which Signora Zarchi tried to erase by offering me a nice cup of milk. I mumbled that I had to go home to finish my homework. Rita insisted I stay. She dragged me to her bedroom and showed me her new television. A gift from Padre Aldo. It was a Telefunken, she explained, the best brand, as light as a feather. Even she could lift it and carry it around the apartment. Sometimes she even took it with her into the bathroom.
*.
My mother was beyond the forgiveness of God. While I was in Rita’s bedroom watching the portable Telefunken, the priest was telling her everything. When was I going to get it through my thick skull that I, the custodian’s son, had to behave better than everyone else? I had to set an example! Instead of acting the same as all the others!
She was still carrying on when father got home. He heard the reason why, and burst out laughing: “When we were kids do you know how many times we fell into the water? One kid even drowned . . .”
“There’s nothing to laugh about,” she shouted. “I want you to get on the intercom and say a couple things to the fathers of those two juvenile delinquents. Our son shouldn’t have to pay for their actions! I take it back—it’s not right that I should have to pay!”
My father continued to downplay what had happened. To him it was just kid’s stuff. She should forget about it. What did the parents have to do with it anyway?
“It’s not kid’s stuff, for crying out loud!” my mother retorted. “They’ll say: ‘Well, who is the doorwoman to talk? She doesn’t even know how to raise her own son.’ I can already hear them. I have a reputation to defend. And you, if you’re a real husband, you should stand up for me!”
“You’re crazy! You can stand up for yourself! Isn’t that what the feminists always say? That you don’t need us men? That we’re useless?”
“Don’t even start with politics—I’m talking about me!”
“Who do you think I’m talking about?”
“There you go again, changing the subject. I tell you I want to move away from this place and you always complain about real estate agents . . .”
“Alright already . . .” my father gave in before she could start up again about wanting a house.
He went to the intercom and called down the fathers of the two boys.
They came immediately and loudly explained that Signora Zarchi had already met with Pietro and Matteo and that the boys had apologized. The Zarchi business was over. Irritated by their tone, my father demanded that they go straight back to Zarchi and lay the full blame on their sons. Rovigo turned pale. Paolini shoved my father and told him to worry about his own son. In a minute all three were in the lobby fighting like dogs. The stairwell was quickly crowded with curious heads peering over the railings. Rovigo called my father an idiot. Paolini aped his frenzied gestures, and looked around for spectators. My father argued that it had nothing to do with me and shouted that Pietro and Matteo were juvenile delinquents who were only going to get worse. Today they torture a playmate, tomorrow they rob a store and kill innocent bystanders . . . My mother stared at him with an air of approval and a clear desire to be avenged once and for all . . . Paolini and Rovigo traded contemptuous looks and left my father in the lurch with a loud “Fuck You!” My father made as if to chase after them but mother stood in front of him, crying “For the love of Pete.” My father tried to break away, shouting “Fascist pigs!” while she put her hand over his mouth and pushed him into the house, drenched in sweat.
“What did I tell you?” my father gasped. “They were even swearing at me. They made a fool of me! We should have dropped the whole matter . . . Fuck! . . . But you? No!”
“Calm down!” she repeated. “Calm down!”
But he didn’t want to hear it. He locked himself in the bedroom and started punching the walls.
“This year, come Christmas, there’s going to be three fewer people who leave tips, you wait and see,” my mother sighed, ladling the soup into bowls.
*.
My father noticed the sign before coming through the front door.
NO COFFEE DRINKING IN THE LOGE
“Bastards,” said my mother as she removed it from his hands.
She tore it into little pieces and explained that Mantegazza had come downstairs to the loge a couple of times. Yes, she had offered her a cup of coffee. What was the harm in that?
She was lying. Now the old crone was coming downstairs every blessed day. She would stay for hours until the sun went down. Soon we no longer needed to ring her on the intercom. She came on her own, as certain as death and taxes, and she also brought along her dog, Bella, who would curl up under the table, drooling.
“She’s a fascist!” my father was indignant. “Once I heard her in the service room singing Faccetta nera!”
Mother’s patience ran out. “So what! There you go again, putting politics into everything! . . . This is my house and I can invite whoever I want to come in!”
My father gave her a look as if to say, “Talking with you is a waste of time.”
Saturday, on her way back from vespers, Signorina Terzoli stopped by the loge. After an unusually cordial hello, she started talking about how the recent rains had damaged the roof of the church. Padre Aldo needed money to repair it and she and some other women from the neighborhood had taken it upon themselves to raise the necessary funds from the parishioners.
“God bless you,” said my mother. “When you’ve got money, it’s great to use it to help other people.”
Terzoli, ever the good Christian, wondered, “And who doesn’t have a few liras to spare, Elvira? As long as its donated with a pure heart. Being rich isn’t a matter of quantity. It’s the gesture that counts. Isn’t a child’s sacrifice of a piece of candy worth more than a rich man’s gift of a jewel to his mistress?”
“I can barely make it to the end of the month,” my mother quickly protested.
Terzoli gave her a condescending look. “It’s simply a question of good will, Elvira. We human beings are capable of putting up with the most grievous situations. All you have to do is want it. I’m thinking of you, Elvira . . . I’m thinking of how much your generosity must cost you!”
My mother defended herself. “I wouldn’t put it that way. This is my job and I’m trying to do the best I can . . .”
“Elvira, generosity is a good thing, but you shouldn’t let other people take advantage of you . . . Not even God himself would want that!”
“You’re right! Let’s hope that one day God rewards me for everything I’m doing . . .” She inspected the scars on her wrists.
Signorina Terzoli changed color. Her honeyed voice turned sharp. “Let me get straight to the point: the residents do not approve of the fact that every day you receive Signora Mantegazza in the loge. If everyone were to stop by Elvira’s for a cup of coffee, what would the loge turn into? It’s also a question of security . . .”
Mother suddenly realized the treachery of Terzoli and the women who had sent her. “Signora Armanda is a lonely old woman,” she stated with a saccharine smile. “Can’t we just humor her? It doesn’t cost me anything, and I feel as if I were helping my own poor mother, who passed away so many years ago . . .”
The wrinkle lines on Terzoli’s forehead smoothed out.
“Good for you, Elvira! Please don’t get me wrong. I was just passing on what I heard, but I know, it’s empty gossip. Some people think we should live with security guards at the gate! For heaven’s sake, things aren’t that bad, are they? We have to trust our neighbors. Padre Aldo himself said it in his sermon this evening.”
*.
When Signora Bortolon the seamstress invited me up for a snack, we knew she was up to no good.
“She’s the worst of the lot,” my mother warned.
I had certainly not forgotten what Bortolon had done a few years earlier to the Rossanos, the family from Messina who lived next door. I can still see their lovely little girl, who was born with long locks of hair. “Our Lady’s braids” is what the Sicilians used to call that blessing from God. They would all worship her. I can still hear the shrieks of her mother when her daughter came home one day after Signora Bortolon had invited her over for a treat. Her locks were gone! Not long after the mother died from that act of sacrilegious violence. The widower was forced to return to Messina with his orphaned little girl to live with an old aunt.
The seamstress welcomed me with open arms, making a big fuss over me. She was alone. Her daughter Rosi had gone to the zoo with her father, as she did every Sunday.
“Come in, come in, Chino, you handsome boy,” she cooed, “I’ve made you some nice zeppoles.”
Following the trail of fried food, we went into the kitchen, where, on the table, as sticky and greasy as a skillet, a tray of piping hot zeppoles was waiting for me.
“Eat, eat! Not even your mother makes zeppoles this good. Have you seen the nice hole in the middle? They’re all for you. Eat, you handsome boy!”
I obeyed, knowing it was some kind of trap. I didn’t have the “Our Lady’s braids” on my head, in any case. What in the world did she have up her sleeve? . . . Death by poisoning?
The zeppoles were exquisite: aromatic, soft, dripping with oil that trickled onto my chin and fingers. For a napkin the seamstress handed me one of the many fabric remnants lying all over the kitchen floor. Everywhere you looked there were traces of her work, mixed in with household items: threads, scraps, pieces of tracing paper . . . The rest of her apartment was a junkyard. The sink overflowed with trash. The floor was speckled with rotting vegetables.
The seamstress observed me with satisfaction and encouraged me to eat to my heart’s content. She was sitting in her chair, near the window, next to a dress dummy whose torso was pierced with pins. Like us, in the winter she used as much natural light as possible.
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