What Hell Is Not

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  ‘You should be thanking me for all the translations I gave you. Dumbass!’

  ‘The world’s champion of dead languages! It’s no wonder you have so many girls swooning at your feet. Maybe you should study hieroglyphics and date a mummy!’

  ‘To the crows with you!’

  We both burst out laughing and remember all of our cursing as we searched through the pages of the Rocci Greek Dictionary, a tome that has left generations of Italian adolescents shortsighted. In Greek, when you tell someone off, you send them to the crows who will devour your cadaver.

  Giulia kisses Gianni. Or Gianni kisses Giulia. I don’t know which. I can forget about cruising around next year with my best friend on his moped now he’s dating Giulia.

  If I had to define what love is in this moment, I would describe it as nothing more than something that comes between you and your best friend. From Gianni’s point of view, love is just like friendship except for the fact that it comes with kisses, caresses, and hugs . . . A qualitative difference, but I would also contend that it’s quantitative as well, just like the quantity of kilometers that I will be forced to cover on foot or at the mercy of public transportation.

  Especially the 102 bus. It’s a bus that resembles providence because of how it mixes up the destinies of poorly assorted individuals: Palermitan matrons with monstrous shopping bags; pickpockets who are the same age as me; students spread out over the seats like butter; a glance from a girl who quickly turns her head as soon as she notices a book in my hands; and sleeping senior citizens who have been on the route who knows how many times. And this is why I had to get a bicycle. It’s much more responsive when it comes to the needs of my anarchic inner self.

  Nearly everyone in my grade is dating someone. Over the course of my seventeen long years, I’ve only ever had one kiss. And it was probably by mistake. I’m holding out for Petrarchan love and I still haven’t found it. What are the ingredients for such love? I’ve written them out in one of my lists. Schematically.

  – A woman: No need for explanations here. The right woman.

  – A name: The right name that has multiple metaphorical and metaphysical meanings. For example: Laura.

  – A good heart: Something that has to do with what my brother says.

  – Eyes: Love is always made with the eyes; its roots are in the heart.

  – Fire: Blood is highly flammable.

  – War and peace: The oxymoron is the most common literary figure in love, even though I don’t really know what this entails except for the self-evident contradictions. I’m not sure how they can be reconciled.

  – Pain: Nourishment for any true love. It manifests itself in the form of crying. If I could, I would do without it. But from Sappho onward, it seems that the two things can’t be separated. Bittersweet.

  – Luck: That’s what I’m going to need to meet the woman in the number-one spot on this list.

  – Words: All the words needed to talk about it. Including books, stories, and poems.

  And, I’m not sure why, but a declaration of love for Petrarch has also tumbled out of me. Poets are the guests of honor in life.

  And this confirms my suspicion that I am in need of a specialist.

  When I come back into contact with reality, I realize that not everyone around us shares our triumph. There’s a girl sobbing, head in hand, with her boyfriend comforting her. Her summer has been ruined, probably by math or Greek.

  Now all that’s left to do is head to the beach. After finding out our grades, we always go to Addaura beach and dive from the rocks, five meters high, into the sea. As we hit the water, we shout out insults intended for our teachers and we encourage them to head to the most ancient place in the world.

  ‘When are you leaving?’ asks Agnese.

  ‘In ten days.’

  ‘Are you excited?’

  ‘I can’t wait. Off to conquer the Brits, just like Julius Caesar. Better yet, off to conquer some pretty British girls.’

  Agnese’s mouth twists as she smirks.

  ‘Can you give me a ride?’

  ‘I’m on my bike.’

  ‘That’s why I’m asking. Otherwise I have to take the bus.’

  ‘From here to Addaura with two of us on my bike?’

  ‘Come on! School’s finally over. If you don’t do it now, when will you ever?’

  This has got to be one of the most titanic undertakings of my life. As soon as she gets up on the handlebars, she leans back onto my shoulder.

  Luckily, she’s on the smaller side. Her hair smells good. As her skin comes up against mine, I know it’s trying to deceive me. But I know that Agnese doesn’t live deep inside of me. She lives – case in point – on my skin.

  By the end of the trip, I’m exhausted and sweaty. She gives me a kiss on the corner of my mouth.

  ‘You’re my hero.’

  I think I’m blushing. It’s a luxury I allow myself despite my better judgment. I take refuge in the sea.

  The slender body. The bare feet. The vertigo brought on by a dive into the water from up high. Certain things require courage. The sea above and below and the world could fit in my pocket.

  Chapter 14

  The children are expecting a question because that’s his style.

  ‘What does love mean to you?’

  They watch him in silence. Not because the question is too much for them but because the answer is too big to fit into a single sentence.

  ‘Give me an example.’

  Francesco decides to answer.

  ‘When someone loves you, they say your name in a different way. It’s like your name is safe in their mouth.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘What about your father? Where’s he?’ asks another child as he starts laughing meanly.

  Francesco wishes he could punch him. But luckily a little girl says something to distract him.

  ‘Love is when your mom gives your dad the best piece of chicken.’

  ‘I think love is when your dad comes home from work and he’s all stinky and your mom tells him that he’s more handsome than Tom Cruise.’

  ‘Who’s Tomkroos?’ asks another little girl.

  ‘An actor.’

  ‘I think love is when your grandpa puts nail polish on your grandma’s fingernails because her arthritis is so bad that she can’t bend them anymore. But then grandpa got arthritis, too.’

  ‘What’s arthritis, Don Pino?’

  ‘When you get older, your muscles aren’t as flexible as they once were. Your bones get stuck together and it gets harder to bend them.’

  ‘Do you have arthritis?’

  ‘Am I so old?’

  ‘Yeah, because you have gray hair.’

  ‘But I don’t have any hair!’

  ‘That’s even worse.’

  ‘Well, either way, I don’t have arthritis.’

  ‘Thank goodness!’

  ‘I think love is when my dad buys me a new ball and we play with it together. And it’s also when he tickles me.’

  ‘Wow, you know a lot about love! You certainly know more than I do. Think about how God is the sum of all this love put together,’ says Don Pino with a smile.

  ‘That’s a super love,’ concludes Francesco.

  A little girl stands in the corner as she squeezes her doll and rocks from one foot to the other. She’s wearing a red dress and it’s surprisingly clean and ironed.

  ‘What does it mean to you?’ Don Pino asks her.

  She remains silent. Everyone is watching her. Francesco moves toward her and takes her hand. He sits her down with the group. She keeps biting her nails. Without lifting her head, she starts to form her words.

  ‘When my dad teaches me to swim where the water is deep.’

  ‘Can I come, too? I don’t know how to swim,’ asks another little girl with glasses resting on cheeks that are as big as tomatoes.

  ‘Damn, you don’t know how to swim? Just like a girl,’ sa
ys Francesco, but without being mean.

  ‘I’m not a very good swimmer either,’ mumbles Don Pino as if he were talking to himself. He remembers that time he took a swim during high tide and he was so scared that he sank like a balatone, the Sicilian word for rock.

  ‘What does love mean to you?’ asks Francesco.

  ‘You.’

  Chapter 15

  The train crossing goes up. The bicycle bounces over the tracks and slices through Brancaccio’s thick air. It knows the road well. There are certain places where you mustn’t ever reveal hesitation. His saliva no longer moistens his lips and it won’t be long before the dryness reaches his mouth as well.

  The heat weakens his knees and burns his lungs. Fear of the unknown takes care of the rest. But he has the innocent, wild courage of a boy who believes that places actually reflect their depiction on the map. Just like people who go to Iceland and then discover that you can’t tell from the map that it’s dark there for half of the year. The uniform light of atlases and maps is something you shouldn’t trust all the way. This boy is about to find out for himself.

  I find the church. I lock my bicycle to a pole and take a look around. As the sun kneads the asphalt, it sinks under the soles of my shoes. The air is still. You need to move slowly so as not to succumb. Occasional passers-by, overwhelmed by the summer heat, stare at me. I feel like a tourist and yet I’m in my own city. My house is just a few kilometers away and my school is even closer.

  I can feel eyes piercing my back as curious blinds are raised. What was I thinking when I decided to come here? And on my bike, to boot! I should have come in an armored car. I keep my head down and look straight ahead in an attempt to hide the clandestine nature of my presence. It’s like when you’re at school and you look for something in your backpack during an oral exam as if looking away would make you invisible somehow. I go into the church and the yellowed walls seem as if they are about to burst into flame. It’s like an oven in here as well. There is no escaping these sweltering days. Every once in a while, a gust of wind from the sea offers hope that the blazing heat will come to an end. White tuff. Lime plaster. Red lamps.

  The church is empty. Scaffolding supports the roof and the area below is cordoned off. There’s just one man with a black shirt sitting in the first pew. His head is bowed. I’m worried that I will disrupt this heated silence and I proceed on tiptoe.

  Don Pino’s eyes are closed. His heavy breathing betrays the fact that he’s sleeping. I sit down near him and the creaking of the bench wakes him. He looks up at me and smiles as if in the dream from a few hours ago.

  ‘What are you doing? Are you sleeping?’

  ‘Umm . . . who’s there? You came! I’m so glad.’

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘I was trying to pray but I must have fallen asleep.’

  He moves toward me and hugs me.

  ‘Thank you for coming. When do you leave for England?’

  ‘Next Sunday. That’s why I came today.’

  ‘Great! You’ll get to enjoy some cooler weather. It never stops raining there.’

  ‘The heat will kill you here.’

  ‘Other things kill here, unfortunately.’

  ‘What can I do to help you?’

  ‘Let’s just sit here in silence for another moment if you don’t mind. Then I’ll show you around.’

  ‘Okay.’

  All around me, there are statues of saints and they don’t have wrinkles. There’s a cross that’s not properly hung and looks out of proportion. Underneath it says: ‘There is no greater way to love than to give your life for your friends.’

  I’m staring at Don Pino: His eyes are closed and he sits there motionless and smiling. His hands are resting on his legs and his back is slightly bent. Who’s he smiling at? He opens his eyes and looks at me as if he could see right through me.

  ‘I am so happy that you are here. I was feeling really lonely today. I needed some help.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I answer.

  I feel embarrassed. He needs me.

  ‘I’m going to pay a visit to a family. Will you join me?’

  ‘You asked me to come lend a helping hand. Well, here it is.’

  I show him the palm of my hand. Don Pino puts his hand in mine for a moment.

  Then we walk slowly down the neighborhood’s sunburned streets. We stick close to the walls, wishing for cover that isn’t there. The homes are low to the ground. Small houses with one or two floors. It’s all very different from Via Notarbartolo and its apartment buildings and its patches of green. Bunches of basil, parsley, and mint, indispensable for cooking succulent sauces, dot the windowsills. But that’s all the color there is.

  We enter an alley where the trash bins overflow with garbage bags. The humidity-soaked air makes the edges of things tremble and liquefies their shapes. There are small buildings that look like garages.

  Don Pino heads toward some half-opened blinds. I’m at his side and I’m hoping his diminutive body will be my shield.

  ‘Anybody home?’

  ‘Don Pino!’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘When have you ever come on time? You know that our door is always open.’

  A woman is putting something away in a corner that appears to be a kitchen. The air is compressed but fragrant. Sauce. Oregano. Wicker furniture. Dignity trumps frugality and is transformed into grace.

  I have my own room where I keep my records, my cassettes, my CDs, my posters, and my books. Here, instead, everyone keeps everything in this one room. In the opposite corner, there is a couch where three children are sitting and watching television. There’s an old man sitting on a chair who’s doing the same thing but he appears to be in a daze while the children seem to be hypnotized.

  This room is everything. Or nearly everything. There’s a scattering of beds, a rickety chair or two, and a cupboard. There’s a table near the kitchen covered by a plastic tablecloth with orange flowers and dewdrops.

  ‘May I get you something?’

  ‘A glass of water. It’s so hot outside!’

  ‘Children, say hello to Don Pino.’

  ‘Ciao, Don Pino,’ they answer in unison without looking up from the screen.

  I’m still standing in the doorway. I don’t know what to do or how to do it. When you go to your friends’ houses, you act a certain way depending on the room in the house. Here, I don’t know what position I should take. There are too many places all in the same space. I don’t even know where to put my hands and what I should be looking at. My pockets turn out to be useful for hiding my hands.

  ‘Come over here and let me introduce you to Gemma. And those juvenile delinquents watching TV who don’t even say hello. What are their names?’

  The children present themselves one by one, shouting out their names.

  ‘Domenico.’

  ‘Caterina.’

  ‘Massimo.’

  Don Pino moves closer to them and knocks on each of their heads. They try to defend themselves as they laugh.

  ‘And this is Signor Mario,’ says Don Pino, speaking more loudly than usual and enunciating every syllable so the gentleman will hear him. ‘One of my parents’ dearest friends. Isn’t that so, Signor Mario?’

  Signor Mario nods and reveals his toothless gums. He smiles a crooked but genuine smile and his dewy old man’s eyes light up. He drools a little from one side of his mouth as he kisses Don Pino’s hand. His visitor retracts it delicately as he gives him a caress on his cheek.

  I decide to come inside and I shake Signora Gemma’s hand. Then I wave to the children and Signor Mario. I can feel my skin bristle the way it does during an oral exam while you’re waiting for your name to be called.

  ‘What can I get for you?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of water as well, thanks.’

  ‘Is tap water okay? We only have tap water.’

  ‘Of course, that’s fine.’

  Gemma fills a carafe with
water from the faucet but she lets it run for a little bit first.

  ‘The water’s not very cold. It’s too hot outside. I’m sorry.’

  We sit down at the table with her.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘What can I tell you, Don Pino? We’re getting by. Giuseppe’s working construction. And now Giovanni is giving him a hand, too.’

  ‘What about Lucia?’

  ‘Lucia helps out when she comes home from school. And she’s looking for babysitting jobs. She loves reading. I don’t know how she manages to read so many books. I don’t know how to read, but I have a daughter that can read all the books I should have read.’

  ‘I’ll ask around to see if I can find a family that needs someone to help out with their kids. And I have plenty of books to lend her. I have too many! Lucia needs to go to college, Gemma.’

  ‘You’re right. She’s a special girl. The guy who marries her will be one lucky fellow.’

  I listen to their conversation like someone watching a documentary about an exotic country. You can see the goodness in her eyes and in her tired face the sacrifice of someone who has never kept anything for herself.

  I drink the water to keep my mouth busy. I have no idea what to say. Words fail me, when I’m usually the one who can’t keep his mouth shut. Not even Petrarch comes to my aid.

  The children laugh and banter over Tom and Jerry’s misadventures.

  ‘And what about you? What do you do?’

  ‘I . . . I’m a student. I’m in Don Pino’s class at Vittorio Emanuele High School. Near the cathedral.’

  ‘Damn, you’re in the right place! Don Pino knows everything. And he has a heart as big as a house.’

  Don Pino smiles.

  ‘He’s younger than your boy, you know? No mother in Brancaccio can even touch Gemma! And her sauce! No one can make it like her. How’s your father doing?’

  ‘Just look at him. He’s like a baby. Sometimes he drives me crazy.’

  ‘Just like your babies.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s like having another child to take care of. Except he’s eighty years old!’

  Gemma gets up from the table and wipes the drool from Mario’s mouth.

  At that moment, a girl walks in. She’s maybe sixteen years old. Her skirt has flowers on it and she’s wearing a thin white blouse. She has wavy, shoulder-length hair. Her skin is dark and her green eyes sparkle against her oval, tanned face. She is a melting pot of Norman and Arab ancestries. Grape. Topaz. Dates. Centuries of Mediterranean history live within her. I always let words get the better of me when I see a girl I like. Maybe it’s just to make her less inaccessible.