I need to catch my breath. Too much future can be tiring. I begin to leaf through my atlas with its nearly worn-through cover. It’s a map of just islands. When I was in elementary school, I would spend all my time drawing maps that led to islands with buried treasure. And so my parents decided to give me a map of all the islands in the world.
I dug for treasure among its pages. I was captured by chimerical creatures. I learned the thoughts of men very different than me. Some of them had four ears. Others had heads where their chests should be or arms so long they touched the ground. That atlas taught me that the map is more important than the treasure itself.
I used to love searching and searching and searching. And sometimes, when I would find a treasure chest, it merely contained another map that sent me to another island a few pages ahead. And my journey would begin again. I had a ship that could sail any sea. On maps, the seas are all the same. The only thing that changes is the blue of their depth. But there are always calm waters and my ship, which I called the Magellan, slid along on that blue only to dock in semicircular bays shaped like an arm, in fjords as sharp as sea urchins, on endless deserted beaches. Sometimes I think that my natural inclination toward being a dreamer began then.
I would rechristen the islands with names I had invented myself. This is Paradise Island, my favorite. I called it that because I wanted to create my very own paradise. The islands’ treasures were the embodiment of what I loved and a promise of what I lacked. In the former category, for example, there were infinite reserves of kids’ games and toy soldiers. In the latter category, there were things like a pool, a wolf, a hat that makes you invisible. The treasure was the island itself and it was capable of generating all the elements of my desire in every adventure. I hadn’t looked at it for a while but there it was, fixed in time and surrounded by the blue-colored paper.
What would I put there today?
Of the things I love, I would like to have a mountain of books.
Of things I don’t have, I would like to have love, courage, and all the stars that have fallen into the sea.
England will be the island where I will find it all.
Tomorrow I leave.
The time for imaginary islands is over.
Chapter 31
We are at dinner. Costanza, Manfredi’s girlfriend, is there, too. Mom cooked for fifteen even though there are just five of us. But everyone knows that here, love is multiplied by three and it manifests itself in the excess calories.
My brother and I have made peace. I don’t think we’ve ever been mad at each other for more than twenty-four hours in a row. After a while, we both feel ridiculous, no matter whose fault it is.
‘All ready to go?’ asks Costanza. You’d think her body were inhabited by the most elegant animals on the planet. She has a swan in her neck, a greyhound in her torso, a Persian cat in her eyes, and a thousand species of butterfly in her hair.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to have a great time. You absolutely have to go to Harrods and to Fortnum & Mason. They have every type of tea, biscuits, essence, spice, perfume . . . It’s a paradise.’
‘Costanza is right,’ says Mom, ‘and bring back some of that Royal Blend tea you can only get there. It’s on the expensive side but it’s worth every penny,’ she adds, clearly excited about my trip.
‘I want a nice vinyl record by the Beatles, but it has to be an original,’ says Manfredi. ‘And I also want a photo of Abbey Road, on the crosswalk.’
My brother is obsessed with the Beatles. There was a time when he looked so much like Lennon that I used to call him John.
Dad contemplates his family and remembers his disappointment at not having had a girl. But it was probably better this way. At least for her. I don’t know how she would have survived with me and Manfredi.
‘Dad, what would you like me to bring you from England?’
‘Whatever you want, Federico. Surprise me. I just want you to have a good time and to learn English like a pro.’
‘Is there a professional way to learn English? What if I learn a little slang as well? You’re all so obsessed with English!’ I say, poking a little fun.
‘You know how much this trip is costing us, Federico. You need to rise to the occasion.’
‘I will, Dad. In fact, I’m planning to save you some money.’
Everyone looks at me intently.
‘I’ve decided not to go.’
‘Are you scared, Poet? I knew it. The same thing happened to me. The night before I was supposed to leave, I didn’t want to go either,’ says Manfredi, smiling.
‘I’m not afraid. I have other things I need to do. I’m not afraid, and that’s why I’m staying here.’
‘What on earth are you saying?’ my mother asks.
‘I’m going to stay so that I can give a hand to Don Pino Puglisi in Brancaccio. What point is there in going to England if I don’t even know half of the city where I live? How can I learn a new language if I don’t even know how to speak my own? What good would that do me?’
‘Federico, it’s not up for discussion. The money has already been spent. When you get back, you can help your teacher as much as you want. It doesn’t seem to me that the two things are incompatible.’
‘But they are incompatible. You just can’t understand. It’s not a question of organization. I’ll earn the money and will pay you back.’
‘This conversation ends right here. You’re leaving tomorrow. Period.’
My father never raises his voice but when he does, it’s a sign that the conversation really is over. There’s no longer any room to negotiate. And so I need to use a loud voice as well.
I get up from the table. I lock myself in my room and I won’t come out until after it’s time to go catch the plane.
Between being right and being courageous, I have chosen the latter. And whatever the price, I’ll pay it.
Chapter 32
During the night, the sea craves the embrace of the port and it impregnates it as if in an amorous ritual in which the hands seem to multiply.
The smell of the jasmine bushes mixes with the darkness. The hotter the newly extinguished day, the more intense the aroma will be. Two silhouettes rise above a lonely street.
Dario is speaking with a girl whose lips promise the reward of flesh. Dario is barely ten years old and his face is that of a child who will become a handsome boy. His arms and legs are slender but proportionate to his prepubescent body. The sweetness of his gaze is thanks to a bitter melancholy. His curly hair droops down his forehead like sea foam over the rocks.
‘What are you doing here with these wise guys?’
‘I buy a lot of clothes thanks to these wise guys. A lot of things that I like. And I feed my family. And you?’
‘I’m going to buy a gun.’
‘What for?’
‘To kill the person who put me here. So that I can leave.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Where the wind takes me. On wings that I will build myself.’
For a moment the silence makes space for the faraway din of the city. A television sputters out voices and bits of light from open windows here and there.
At this point, the sea should rise and cover the entire port and wash away all human detritus. But the sea is too ignorant of what happens along the coast that it rubs up against.
A car comes down the street and crushes shards of glass sprinkled across the asphalt. It approaches slowly. A man of about fifty with an unkempt beard and sweaty hair looks Dario over and motions to him to get in the car.
Dario smiles at the girl and mimics a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. He gets into the car and disappears into the dark among the shrubs and abandoned objects: Refrigerators, old cars, sofas.
Dario puts the money in his pocket and leaves on foot. He trots along like a sleepwalker.
It won’t be long before he buys his gun and before his wings are ready.
In the dark, he lies down along t
he shore and falls asleep as he thinks about the story that Lucia told him. It’s the story of that boy who flees a monster by using his father’s wings made of feathers and wax to fly away. He will fly away like that boy but he won’t get too close to the sun. That last effort to dream trumps even the hope that keeps him awake and he falls into a deep sleep. He dreams of a woman who emerges from the sea and holds him between her arms as she carries him into the water. The sea approaches with the nighttime undertow, and it’s almost as if the sea wanted to make him happy and hide him within its waters and by doing so, save him from the bitter light of another day.
Chapter 33
‘If you don’t come out of your room right away, I promise you, you won’t ever come out again.’
That’s what my father said this morning. I kept the door locked until long after my flight took off. And I only opened the door again after I had triumphed. I only realized that I had won the battle but not the war when my father came into the room without saying a word, took the key, and locked me in.
I never would have dreamed that I would one day be a prisoner in my own house, in my own room, no less. My little bedroom-port has now become a bedroom-jail. My father feels that I need this time to macerate in my sense of guilt. But the real senses that are being compromised are other ones, since I am now forced to stay in here without being able to eat or go to the bathroom. I hope that, at least, they will give me some bread and water in a pail. Even political prisoners are entitled to that.
Thank goodness for Manfredi. When my parents go out, he opens the door and lets me gather the basic necessities.
‘Poet, you’re becoming epic! Sit down for a minute so we can talk. I want to understand better. Did you suddenly grow balls?’
‘If I’m not mistaken, I was quite clear.’
‘Listen, I’m your only ally and you’re not going to do yourself any favors by pissing me off. They’ve decided that you’re not allowed to set foot in Brancaccio anymore. What did you expect?’
‘What do you think they’ll do to me? You think they’ll keep me locked up at home? I’m seventeen years old. I’ll call the police!’
‘Yeah, go for it. And I’ll call the nuthouse. You’ve got to cool off. Remember: I’m the rational one. Now, you need to tell me what really happened.’
‘When you see certain things, you can’t ignore them. I can’t just turn away and pretend that they don’t exist.’
‘Don’t you think you’re going a little too far with this? Just because you see a documentary about children in Africa doesn’t mean you need to go to Africa to solve the problem.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. We have become so dumbed-down that we see things without feeling them. I know that I have to do the little I can do. I can’t ignore what I saw.’
‘What did you see?’
‘A man who needs help. A man who risks his skin every day and boys and girls whose lives depend on that man. And that’s not an exaggeration. I wasn’t born just to think of my own future.’
‘And what else should you be thinking about? Other people’s futures? I think you’re being a little self-righteous.’
‘I’m not. I want to give what I have to give. And then I saw . . .’
‘What?’
‘I saw Lucia.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A girl.’
‘That much I can gather. Just like every other poet: You think all you need to do is see a girl once and that’s all it takes to fall in love with her. When will you stop being seventeen years old?’
‘I don’t need your approval. I’m the one who’s lived these seventeen years. Not you.’
Manfredi doesn’t say anything.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘My seventeen years of life?’
‘No, I mean her.’
‘She’s beautiful. Strong. Real.’
‘Real?’
‘Yes, real. She’s one year younger than me but she lives in the real world, unlike me. She was born and raised in the real world.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘Yes, but in a totally different reality. A reality made of lights and shadows.’
‘Are you sure that this is the right thing to do?’
‘I am sure that this is what I want to become. If I don’t just dive in now, it will never happen. It’s like a day for a seaside stroll when there is no beach to walk on.’
‘Who wrote that line?’
‘I did. You’re either on land or at sea. There is space only for coming and going, there is no threshold between the two, sea and land.’
‘Sometimes you actually get to me with your poetry. I’ll try talking to Mom and Dad.’
‘In the meantime, I need you to do me a favor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I need you to cover for me. I want to go to Brancaccio today.’
‘No, wait until I talk to them. You don’t want to sabotage your negotiations before they even start.’
‘Cortés burned his ships on the beach when he landed in the New World. That made it so he could only move forward with his plans. There was no room for remorse. Better regret than remorse.’
‘Fede, you are no Cortés.’
‘Cortés wasn’t Cortés until he burned those ships.’
Manfredi smiles.
‘There’s something that I need to do. I’ll go and come back. You pretend that I’m in my room and that I want to be alone. I’ll leave the music on.’
‘Hurry. And by the way, there’s something that I need to give back to you.’
I look at him quizzingly. He punches me in the stomach. I bend over to defend myself but it’s too late.
‘Now we’re even, Don Quixote. Be careful. I’m not kidding. Watch out for kids who know how to do Jeeg Robot’s hell-slap. Which reminds me. It’s been a while since we watched Tiger-Man. You might want to study up on some of his techniques so that you don’t end up laid out on the floor . . . by those kids.’
Reeling in pain and unable to catch my breath, I try to articulate a syllable or two but nothing comes out.
‘You thought you were going to get away with it? Remember: Order must be respected.’
Little by little, I manage to breathe again.
‘Go back to the cave where you came from. I never gave you permission to leave.’
‘You’re still my favorite poet even though you’re a cursed poet.’
‘Damn you! Get the hell out of here!’
‘Come on. Get going.’
This is how males resolve their disputes. It’s something that women will never understand. Without my brother, I’d only be a hypothetical male.
Chapter 34
Shoes. Yes, shoes. With books, you can go wherever you want without ever leaving your room. But shoes will take you and your body and everything in it to faraway places. Now it’s clear to me how important my shoes are. Thanks to my shoes, I’m going to be able to navigate the maze of life. You can’t avoid the maze of life but you have to be careful to follow the thread.
And I know that the person holding the thread is Lucia. I want to see her, even if just for a moment. Apologize to her. Tell her that I am still here. I want to read the manual for using the night. In the end, you can never really escape life. It might be stuck to the soles of your shoes. It might lie in the words you use.
I manage to find the house. I knock and she opens the door. She has ‘White Nights’ in her hand and she’s using her finger to mark her place about halfway through. There is a mix of dreams and words in her eyes. She struggles to figure out which world I belong to.
‘I’m back. Do you like the book?’ I ask her.
‘Yes, I do. You’re as discombobulated as the main character.’
‘I was supposed to leave for England but I ended up not going. I wanted to see you again.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a pain.’
‘How old are you?
‘Seventeen.’
> ‘You don’t look it.’
I look down at my shoes as I try to muster what few resources I have left. My shoes traveled all this way thinking this was going to be easy. They have many roads to travel before they will show the age of the person who wears them.
‘What I meant was that you have a child’s face.’ Lucia smiles.
All is not lost. I smile as well.
‘I’ll be back soon. I have to run.’
Lucia looks at me and continues to smile, without saying anything. I don’t know where to look. I focus on my shoes and I watch them as they turn back in the direction from which they came. Gauging from how warm I feel, my face must be bright red.
As I make my way down the street, I see the boy who beat me at juggling the soccer ball.
I juggle an invisible ball and say hi to him.
‘Remind me, what’s your name?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’d like to remember the name of the kid who beat me at juggling.’
‘Riccardo.’
‘Okay, see you next time.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Federico.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘And you?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Wow! You’re already really good at soccer. You could be a pro.’
‘My father said that he’s going to have me try out for Palermo.’
‘That’s how it’s done.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘No reason in particular. I have friends here.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m a friend of Don Pino’s.’
‘Don Pino’s a good man. He knows everyone.’
‘That’s right. Are you a friend of his?’
‘Of course. He promised me that he would teach me the way to heaven.’
‘He even knows the way to heaven!’
‘Yeah.’
‘I need him to teach me, too.’
‘I’m first.’
‘Sounds good. Bye, Riccardo. I’ll see you next time.’
‘Bye. But where do you live?’
‘In another part of town.’
What Hell Is Not Page 13
