‘That doesn’t seem like such a bad thing to me.’
‘But it’s impossible to do. You can’t control everything.’
‘Maybe it’s just because I’m a little scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘There you go with your “I’m not sure.” It always comes to that. You make me laugh.’
‘It’s beats crying.’
Lucia smiles.
‘What are your favorite five words, Lucia?’
She doesn’t seem to be surprised by the question. She thinks about it. She takes one of my books and opens it. She writes something with a pencil. Then she turns suddenly and mixes the book in with the others.
‘You’ll have to find it. Now can we get to work? I have a problem with the finale, and some of the rhymes aren’t working. Let me show you.’
I try to commit to memory the area where she hid the book. And then I focus on Lucia’s handwritten script. My mother comes in with a pitcher of iced tea.
‘Who is this pretty girl?’
‘Lucia.’
Lucia gets up and shakes her hand and smiles.
‘You have a beautiful home, ma’am. It has so many different rooms, and it’s full of things and light.’
‘Thank you,’ says my mother. She seems uncertain as to whether or not she understands what Lucia is saying.
‘Do you go to school with Federico? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.’
‘No. We’re just friends. We met in Brancaccio.’
‘Ah, you’re from Brancaccio. Federico never tells us what he does there. All we know is that he gave up a trip to England so he could go give a hand there. So what do the two of you do there?’
‘You should ask your son,’ says Lucia dryly.
‘Ah. Okay, I see. I’ll leave you two to your work. I hope I didn’t interrupt you.’
Neither one of us says anything.
‘Why do you think you’re better than us?’
‘What?’
‘Did you hear what she said? “He gave up a trip to England.” As if we were sick people who needed help.’
‘I don’t think that’s what she meant to say. She just wanted to . . .’
‘She wanted to point out that you came to Brancaccio because we were begging for help. We were doing just fine before you arrived, you know?’
‘You’re getting carried away. You told me not to judge others but now you’re doing just that.’
‘I’m not getting carried away. We are too different, Federico. It takes more than having a big house and plenty of money to be better than someone else. If I ever go to England, it will be with my own money. And God only knows how much money it will take. Life for you has always been a piece of cake. And now you want to teach others how to live? It’s not as easy as that.’
‘I don’t want to teach anyone anything. It’s hard enough to know what I should do myself. I came because Don Pino asked me to. He needed someone to help him.’
‘I know that. And you did the right thing when you told him you would. But I don’t ever again want to hear about how you “gave up” your trip to England.’
The Lucia of my literary dreams is turning into a piece of raw reality. But I can’t hate her for what she just said. I’m ready to change, to improve myself, to transform myself.
‘I don’t need anyone’s help, Federico.’
I put my finger on her lips so that she will stop talking. Then I put my finger on her cheek. She stops, surprised. And for a moment she rests her face on my hand. It’s the first time in my life that I have experienced a caress. And no caress ever described in a book comes even close to this contact.
As if right on cue, like a jellyfish when you go swimming, Manfredi pokes his head in. I knew he would do this.
‘Sorry, Federico, but I need my guitar. Oh, sorry! I interrupted you. I didn’t know you were busy.’
‘This is . . .’
‘Lucia, I imagine.’
Manfredi’s dramatic entrance and his contagious grin make Lucia smile.
‘All my brother does is talk about you. And I bet when he’s not talking about you, he’s thinking about you.’
‘Cut it out.’ I’m trying to get him to leave. I can feel my blood welling up in my cheeks. And I can see it in Lucia’s as well.
‘So what about my guitar?’
‘Yes, your guitar.’
‘Yeah, my guitar. You know? The one with the oval thingy and the neck and the strings. Do you remember it? I used to have one and then I lent it to you. I’d like to play it a bit now.’
‘Sure. It’s not available right now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I lent it to that kid I was telling you about.’
‘You lent it? My guitar? Are you crazy?’
‘Yes, he is crazy. I told him so. But your brother has too big of a heart and when he saw how happy that boy was, he just couldn’t take it away from him.’
Manfredi seems taken aback by Lucia’s easy-going confidence.
‘In the end it’s just an oval with a neck and some strings, right?’ she adds, smiling.
‘Yes, that’s true. But it happens to be my oval.’
‘That’s just another reason you should be proud! Just think how great it will be when Totò discovers how talented he is, thanks to your guitar. Isn’t that great?’
‘I guess so.’
I can’t understand if what is happening is real or if I am part of one of the best films possible. Lucia has won Manfredi over. You can tell from the little dimple that just appeared on my brother’s right cheek. If he likes her, then game over.
‘What do you do? Are you a student?’
‘I’m studying neurology.’
‘What’s your specialization?’
‘I want to become a neurosurgeon. To study and cure cerebral pathologies. Illnesses of the brain.’
‘Does that include Parkinson’s disease?’
‘Of course.’
‘My grandfather has Parkinson’s. He has to use a wheelchair. And he drools all over his bib. Lately we can’t understand anything he says. I can’t tell you what I wouldn’t give to see him get a little bit better.’
‘What therapy does he do?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that he takes a lot of pills.’
‘They’re experimenting with new cures that will help people to better manage their paralysis.’
‘Maybe you could take a look at him. You might have some ideas for how we could help him get better.’
‘I’m still doing my specialization. I’m not a doctor yet.’
‘But you will be a doctor one day. I don’t see what the big difference is.’
‘In some ways . . . What do you do?’
‘I’m going to teacher’s college to become a schoolteacher. But there are so many other things I’d like to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Theater.’
‘Do you want to be an actress?’
‘No. I want to direct. Which reminds me. You’re invited to come see the show that your brother and I are working on in Brancaccio together with the kids.’
In just five lines, Lucia has explained what I haven’t been able to explain in weeks.
‘Is he in it, too? He didn’t say a thing.’
‘He’s playing the part of Charlemagne. He’s great.’ She enunciates the last words solemnly and then she looks up at the ceiling.
My brother bursts out laughing.
‘Him? He’s still afraid of the dark,’ says Manfredi, really pushing it.
‘Every king has his weakness,’ answers Lucia.
They both smile. I watch them, speechless.
‘So I’m just going to have to come myself to get my guitar back.’
‘Sounds like it,’ says Lucia.
‘Sounds good. I’ll leave you two to your work. And you and I will settle up later.’
As he leaves, he takes advantage
of the fact that Lucia has her back to him: With eyes wide open, he gives me a sign of his approval as if I had just scored a goal at the World Cup.
‘So where were we?’ asks Lucia.
‘Here.’
I put my hand on her cheek and then she puts her hand over mine.
Chapter 7
The girl screams into his hand as he squeezes her neck. He lunges her body toward the darkness and it swallows her up.
In another time, bandits would lay in wait for merchants. They would stop their carts in the dusty streets and demand the pizzo, payment for protection. They knew full well that they were robbing working fathers from poor families, and they would only take a small portion of their wares.
The pizzo was always the most hidden and most precious part of the wagon. It was a heavy plank of engraved wood that was placed under the strong box to protect its weakest side. It was often decorated with a sacred image so as to ward off bad luck and bandits. Without it, the axle could easily break and the weight could break the wagon and the merchant’s back. And without the wagon, there would be no income.
‘If you don’t give us money, we’ll make you pay with the pizzo.’
They did not kill. They were men of principle. But they needed to make a living like everyone else. They just had to be paid. Otherwise they would smash your pizzo and your wagon would be ruined.
The merchant would pay and continue on his journey. It was a tax and it came with guarantees. It was always the same bandits and so there wasn’t any room for others who wanted to take your life.
The owner of the shop hasn’t paid. And Nuccio has come to take what he’s owed.
The suffocated screams are those of a girl whose spirit is being broken by Nuccio.
He leaves, struts out with justice in his hands. He’s proud of having done what needed to be done, even though no one asked him to do it.
He can’t feel a thing. Hell is deaf and dumb.
Chapter 8
The days roll by in a calendar of light and darkness.
The preparations for the July 25 event have reached a feverish pace.
Dario, with his deft and steady hands, is helping Lucia to hang banners. Every once in a while, with his brush in his hand, he stops and stares into the distance. It’s as if he has forgotten which letter to add.
‘Come on, Dario. We don’t have a lot of time,’ says Lucia as she wakes him up again.
He watches her with a serious look on his face.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Can you give me a hug?’
Lucia goes over to him and wraps her arms around him, and he buries his face into her chest. He sobs uncontrollably and hugs her so tightly that it hurts.
‘What’s the matter, Dario? What happened?’
He slowly breaks away but can’t bear to look up at her. Then, brimming with shame, he runs away.
‘Daddy, can you put me on your shoulders?’ asks the child.
‘Why?’
‘So that I can see better. I don’t want to miss anything from here. I’m too little.’
‘Right you are. When you’re not tall enough, your daddy is plenty tall.’
He picks him up and puts him on his shoulders. The child grabs his forehead. Suddenly, the blue expanse reveals itself before him. It had been hidden by the beach cabins that transform the Mondello shore every summer into a colorful and impregnable fort.
‘Wow! It’s great! You can see the entire sea.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes, Daddy. It’s really great. I wish I could always see everything like this.’
‘All you have to do is ask and you got it.’
‘Would you buy me an ice cream?’
‘Only if you’re a good boy.’
‘I’m always a good boy.’
‘Well, not always. You fuss sometimes, too.’
‘But I’m a little kid and little kids fuss sometimes. Didn’t you when you were little?’
‘Every once in a while. That’s true.’
‘So will you buy me an ice cream?’
‘You’re sharp, aren’t you? Okay, let’s go. Do you want yours made with cream or not?’
‘With cream! What kind of ice cream would it be if it wasn’t made with cream?’
The boy bounces on his father’s back as if he were riding a horse.
The Hunter lets his son keep on bouncing and holds his legs together using his strong ‘dad’ hands.
Lucia asks another kid to take over and she starts looking for Dario. She finds him sitting by himself and staring into the distance.
‘What’s going on?’
He doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head, almost without realizing he’s doing so.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘They do bad things to me, Lucia. They always do bad things to me.’
‘Who?’
‘Grownups.’
Dario looks down at the ground and silence wraps itself around him yet again.
Chapter 9
July 25 is one of those Sundays when the sun roars. But an unexpected breeze blows from the sea and cools things down a bit. It’s the day that Don Pino and his team have organized their event in honor of Borsellino, one year after his murder. Brancaccio for Life. A day of track and cycling competitions, all kinds of games, and a big feast. The Region of Sicily had promised financial support but they didn’t even pry a single lira from their coffers. Everything was paid for by donations from people who live in the neighborhood. No help was received from any of the local politicians. They only show up for official occasions to scrounge around for votes. They don’t lift a finger for Brancaccio.
In the late afternoon, Don Pino’s friend Roberto, a professor, reads the speech that they have written together:
It’s seven in the morning on a July day just like this one, July 19 last year. Even though it’s Sunday, Paolo Borsellino wakes up early like always. His daughter Lucia is sitting in the armchair in the room where he is working. The morning light is still cool. He doesn’t notice her, though. He’s preoccupied with that letter, the last page the magistrate would write.
It’s the answer to a teacher who has invited him to speak to a group of young people. After a series of mishaps, the judge wasn’t able to participate nor was he able to write back. And so the teacher sent him another letter in which she complained about his silence. Mortified, Borsellino apologizes for not being able to attend the event, and he answers some of the questions that the teacher had asked him.
His work over the last few months hasn’t allowed him to spend time with his children. They are always still sleeping when he leaves the house and he gets back so late that they are already in bed. That Sunday, he is determined to spend the day with his family. That’s why he’s already at his desk at dawn. Lucia says that her father was interrupted by a telephone call and only then did he notice that she was sitting in the armchair in the corner of his study.
He asks her if she would like to go to the beach. She’s been studying for an exam at the university and, until now, she hasn’t been able to lie out in the sun.
‘Maybe I’ll get to see you with a little suntan.’
He suggests that they go for a swim and then to her grandmother’s house before coming back home. He will work and she will study. Lucia turns him down because it’s her friend’s birthday and she’s been invited to lunch. They will do their last bit of studying together for the exam.
While studying in her friend’s room, Lucia will hear the bomb explode outside her grandmother’s house. The bomb that kills her father and would have killed her as well. It was the Sunday when he was determined not to work and he had taken his wife to the beach. Then he disappeared with a friend of his to spend some time on the water in his boat. His bodyguards watched apprehensively from the shore. That would be the last time he saw his city and its immense port from the sea. It’s the same sea from which this cool, refreshing breeze is blowing today.
Today, it’s
up to us to remember this man, who used to say to his wife: ‘Italy would be so great if everyone made a little dream come true and then shared it with everyone else.’ And it’s up to us to forget instead the word written in the last line of his last letter to the teacher: ‘Consensus.’
‘The power of the Mafia lies in consensus,’ wrote Borsellino.
Today we are here to remember a man who tried to erase this word. And he paid for it with his life.
That’s why our homeowners’ association, together with the support of the Holy Father Center, has officially asked that Via Brancaccio be renamed Via Falcone e Borsellino. Because, as 3P always says, every great change starts with small things.
There are a lot of people there. A journalist is taking notes. The article he will publish will cost him his job at the newspaper where he works. And he’s not the last person who will commit a similar error: Telling the truth.
When the professor finishes reading, for a few seconds silence fills the piazza and the balconies and the windows and the sky. Then applause washes away the silence. It chases it out together with the fear.
I’m watching the kids’ sweaty faces. Francesco has a medal around his neck. He won it in a foot race. Totò has a Donald Duck hat on to protect his skin from the sun. Dario’s eyes are lost in the sky. A harmony of faces and smiles. Among them, there’s one too familiar to be real.
Manfredi. For a moment, our eyes lock: He’s proud of me. Brothers who share battles and defeats, who share laughter and tears: They will always have something to talk about over the course of their lives. No organism is capable of preserving memories like a couple of brothers who love each other. Manfredi nods as he watches me, and now I am sure that I did the right thing.
‘My brother is here,’ I whisper to Lucia as I wipe away a shiny bead of sweat from her left cheek before the sun and wind can grab it for themselves.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
She leans on me imperceptibly and that moment becomes a perfect memory. I don’t have that sensation of incompleteness that I usually feel when I experience something beautiful. The contact is light but that’s all it takes because she and I know, without saying a word to one another, that it was contact that I had desired.
What Hell Is Not Page 19
