White as Silence, Red as Song

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  Thankfully the red-beamed star turns to look at me. She knows it was me who wrote that message, and her look reassures me that there is still a reason to live. I’m saved!

  I sail along on my scooter, passing a million traffic-jammed cars as if they aren’t even there. All the air in the world caresses my face, and I take it all in as one takes in freedom. I sing out, “You’re the first thought that wakes me in the morning,” and when I finally come to my senses, it’s already dark.

  I’ve roamed about aimlessly on my flying carpet, without noticing the time passing. When you’re in love, time shouldn’t exist. But my mother exists. She’s not in love with Beatrice, and she’s furious because she had no idea where I was. What can I do about it? It’s love. The red bits of life are like that: timeless.

  “What were you thinking?” she says.

  Grown-ups can’t remember what it’s like to be in love. What’s the point in explaining something to someone who no longer remembers it? What’s the point in describing red to a blind person? Mom doesn’t understand, and what’s more, she wants me to take Terminator out to pee every day.

  Terminator is our retired dachshund. He eats, slides around on his elongated belly, and pees hundreds of gallons. I only take him out to pee when I don’t feel like doing my homework; then he can pee for hours on end while I use the opportunity to look at girls and window shop. Why do people buy dogs? Perhaps to provide work for cleaning ladies who then have to take them out for walks. Parks are full of cleaning ladies with dogs. But if you don’t have a cleaning lady you’re screwed, like me. Anyway, pets are just stand-ins. Terminator only knows how to pee. Life as a dog.

  Chapter 10

  I can’t sleep. I’m in love, and when you’re in love, the very least that happens to you is not sleeping. Even the blackest night can turn red. So much stuff fills your brain, you want to think about all of it at the same time and your heart is restless. And it’s strange because everything seems okay. You’re living the same life, day in, day out, with the same things and the same boredom. Then you fall in love, and your life becomes great and different. You’re living in the same world as Beatrice, so who cares if you get a bad grade, if your scooter tire gets punctured, if Terminator wants to pee, or if it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella? You don’t care, because you know that those things pass. But love doesn’t. Your red star always shines. Beatrice is there, love is in your heart, and it is amazing. It makes you dream, and nobody can take the dream from you because it is somewhere nobody can reach. I don’t know how to describe it: I hope it never goes away.

  That’s how I eventually fall asleep, with hope in my heart. As long as Beatrice is there, life starts over every day. It’s love that gives new life. That’s so true. I have to remember it. I forget so many important things that I have discovered. I realize they could be useful to me in the future, but then I forget them, like adults do. And that is the reason for at least half of the world’s evils. “In my day, these problems didn’t even exist,” they say. Precisely. In your time!

  Perhaps if I make a note somewhere of the things I learn, I won’t forget them and won’t make the same mistakes. I have a terrible memory. It’s my parents’ fault: dodgy DNA. There’s only one thing I haven’t forgotten: five-a-side soccer tournament tomorrow.

  That’s not true. There’s something else I haven’t forgotten: Beatrice never replied to my message. There’s no hope for me. Shroud me in white, like a mummy.

  Chapter 11

  Gandalf is a man made of wind. He gives the impression he could fly away any minute like a balloon, and you wonder how he manages to put up with hordes of barbaric schoolkids. Yet he is always smiling. He has scattered his smiles along the school’s marble floors. When you bump into him he smiles, even when he arrives at school, unlike the other teachers. It almost seems like that smile doesn’t belong to him.

  He walks into class, smiles, and says nothing. We all wait for the moment when he writes a sentence on the blackboard. Today he walks in and writes, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

  The usual game starts.

  “Jovanotti!”

  “No.”

  “Max Pezzali?”

  “No.”

  “Elisa?”

  “No. Older . . .”

  “Battisti?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got it!”

  I shout from the back of the classroom, spreading my arms theatrically as a prelude to my triumphal moment:

  “Uncle Scrooge!”

  Everyone bursts out laughing.

  Even Gandalf smiles and says nothing. He stares at us and says, “Jesus Christ.”

  “There’s always a catch,” I say. “You really can’t live without Jesus, sir.”

  “Do you think I would go around dressed like this if I could live without him?” He smiles.

  “But what does it mean?”

  He smiles. “What do you think?”

  “Like Gollum, who always talks about ‘my precious.’ He thinks of nothing else, so that’s where his heart is,” says The Sister. She doesn’t say much, but when she does it’s usually something profound.

  “I don’t know who this Gollum is, but if you say so, I trust you.”

  Gandalf doesn’t know who Gollum is. Crazy but true. Then he continues:

  “It means that when we believe we’re thinking about nothing, in actual fact we’re thinking about what is dear to us. Love is a kind of gravitational force: invisible and universal, just like the earth’s gravity. Without us realizing it, our hearts, eyes, and words are inevitably drawn to it, like the apple to the ground.”

  “What if we don’t love anything?”

  “Impossible. Can you imagine the earth without gravity? Or space without gravity? Everything would be in constant collision. Even those who think they love nothing love something. And that’s where their thoughts end up, without them even realizing it. The point is not whether we love or not, but what we love. Man always loves something: beauty, intelligence, money, health, God . . .”

  “How can you love God if you can’t touch him?”

  “You can touch him.”

  “How?”

  “You touch his body during the Eucharist.”

  “But, sir, that’s just a way of saying it’s symbolic.”

  “You think I’ve put my life at stake for a symbol? What do you love, Leo? What do you think about when you think about nothing?”

  I don’t say anything, as I’m too embarrassed to say it out loud. Silvia gives me the look of someone expecting to hear the right answer during an oral test, or as if wanting to give me a clue. I know the answer. I’d like to scream it to the whole world: Beatrice is my force of gravity, my weight, my blood, my red.

  “I think of red.”

  Somebody laughs, pretending to have understood a joke I haven’t actually made.

  Gandalf has realized I’m not joking.

  “And what kind of red is it?”

  “Like her hair . . .”

  The others look at me as if I’ve gotten high before class. The only one who seems to understand is Silvia, who gives me a knowing look.

  Gandalf looks me in the eyes, or even inside my eyes. He smiles and says, “Me too.”

  “And what kind of red is it?”

  “Like his blood.”

  Now it’s our turn to look at him as if he’s smoked a joint.

  He goes to the blackboard and silently writes out, “My beloved is white and ruddy.”

  And the game starts over.

  These are lessons with Gandalf. They are devised at the spur of the moment, and he always seems to have a phrase on hand in his magical book.

  Nobody knows this one, and when he tells us it’s from the Bible, nobody believes him. So we end up being given religion homework too: read the Song of Songs.

  Nobody does religion homework. The only things you need to do in life are the ones that get you a grade.

  Chapt
er 12

  There is nothing better than hanging out with Niko doing the following:

  Light lunch at McDonald’s, followed by a burp contest on our scooters.

  A chill PlayStation session at his place: two hours of Grand Theft Auto. We must have massacred at least a dozen police officers with the chain saw. It gives you a massive adrenaline rush that you are forced to release onto your soccer opponents. They don’t stand a chance.

  Prepping for the match with homemade drugs: a banana smoothie that only Niko’s mom knows the ingredients of. Niko’s mom is a die-hard fan of ours, and she supplies us with banana dope.

  Then, finally, it’s time for the match. Today we’re playing against the Fantacalcio team. They’re good, they’re in fifth year. We beat them last year and because of that they’re fully charged, ready for revenge. You can tell by the look on Vandal’s face. He’s their captain. He does nothing but stare at me. He has no idea what’s in store for him.

  No one is there to cheer us on today. It must be because we have a biology test tomorrow. Being sensible, I planned ahead: I decided to skip the test.

  We start by warming up Sponge’s rusty hands by kicking him some wicked low shots. Curly seems under the weather today. Niko and I take the lead, brimming with banana smoothie and pent-up GTA adrenaline. The field is waiting for our shoes to skim across it.

  The match is stuck at zero-zero for the entire first half. Vandal has done nothing but break Niko’s balls. He’s on his back constantly. No breathing space. We need to change something we’re doing, but I don’t know what. All I know is that when Niko next has him nipping at his ankles like a Neapolitan bulldog, leaving him no time to think or shoot, the GTA adrenaline takes over and Niko hammers down on Vandal’s heels, who has meanwhile managed to steal the ball from him. Vandal keels over with a cry of pain. It’s a miracle if he hasn’t broken a leg. He’s doubled over and possessed, like Gollum. Everyone gathers around. I’ve barely had the chance to approach when a punch lands on Niko’s nose, making him double over too, blood pouring into his hands. Without thinking twice I run up to the guy who punched Niko.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, idiot?”

  The look in his eyes isn’t normal. It’s more of an evil glare that lunges against me like a compressed spring. A violent shove takes my breath away and throws me into the air before I land on my backside.

  “What did you call me?”

  I can feel his rotten breath filling my nostrils. I don’t have the courage to react. It would be the end of me. At this point, fortunately, the referee finally intervenes and sends both Niko and the hotheaded brute off the field.

  Without Niko the match fizzles out. Vandal recovers and scores a goal with his incontrollable anger.

  When I head back to the locker room, Niko has left. Vandal is waiting for me at the exit with his thugs.

  This is going to end badly.

  “Your pal was lucky today. Next time he won’t leave the field alive. Go and comfort him, you queer!”

  The Pirate and his entire crew are reduced to the silence of defeat and humiliation by a horde of angry tyrants.

  Chapter 13

  Niko has come to school with two black eyes. The guy who punched him is being suspended from the tournament.

  “He’ll pay for it. You’ve got no idea what I’ll do to him. No idea . . .”

  Niko is fuming.

  “Come on, Niko. He was disqualified. You didn’t exactly tackle him gently.”

  Niko glares at me with his half-closed eyes. “You’re taking his side? Did you leave your balls at home?”

  “If you had calmed down a bit, we wouldn’t have lost yesterday—”

  “Ah, so it’s my fault now. Screw you, Leo.”

  He turns his back without giving me the chance to react. Great start to the day.

  The Dreamer has walked into the classroom with a booklet in his hand. A hundred or so pages long.

  “A book that will change your life,” he says. I never thought that books could change anything, let alone your life. I mean, they change it in the sense that you’re forced to read them when you would rather be doing something completely different. But The Dreamer is a dreamer and he can’t avoid dreaming. Anyhow, what does that book have to do with history? The Dreamer told us that to understand the era we’re studying, we have to truly get into the hearts of the people of that time. Then he starts to read from a Dante Alighieri book. Not The Divine Comedy, which is a cosmic bore. A little book, Dante’s love story.

  I can barely believe it: Dante has even written a book for Beatrice. He was totally in love, like me. The book is called The New Life. Just as I had already figured out for myself, love makes everything new. What if I could be the next Dante? What if The Dreamer were right for once? Anyhow, Dante’s book is dedicated to his encounter with Beatrice and to how his life changed after that. Unbelievable. Some prehistoric guy feeling exactly the same things as me! Am I the reincarnation of Dante?

  But try to tell that to Ms. Rocca, who describes my writing as “sloppy and contorted” and never gives me a grade higher than a D minus minus, which is the worst kind of fail in disguise. So I’m not the reincarnation of Dante! Though not even Dante is comprehensible now, so maybe if what I write is incomprehensible it is because I have a Dantesque future. Whatever. Even if I’m not Dante, Beatrice is still Beatrice and I can’t stop thinking about her and talking about her. As Dante says, “I wish to speak with you about my lady, not because I think to end her praises, but speaking so that I can ease my mind.”

  Dante is always right! But I should read his book. Maybe I can copy out a few poems and dedicate them to Beatrice. Actually, I’ll send her a message with a famous quote from the book. She’ll surely respond to that text, because I won’t come across as an idiot. She’ll realize I’m serious, like Dante. I can’t give up: A lion that gives up is not a lion; a pirate who retreats is not a pirate. She’ll understand because she studied these things last year, and if she doesn’t remember them she’ll ask me. Beatrice is in fourth year. She’s very clever. I send her a message: “From Vita Nova . . .” It sounds so cool in Latin and adds a touch of class. My T9 can’t read Latin, but Beatrice will understand it.

  There is just one thing that’s annoying me. To the eyes of everyone, The Dreamer is coming out ahead of his loser-storyteller-jinxer persona. It’s happening before my very eyes and I can’t stand it. I have to do something to put him back in his place: I need to find out his weak spot and launch a Pirate attack . . .

  Chapter 14

  T9 is the twenty-first-century invention. It saves you a load of time and also makes you chuckle when you want to write a word and it thinks you want to write something else that means something completely different. For instance, when you have to write “sorry,” the word that comes up first is “soppy.” It’s really quite a coincidence because when I have to apologize for something I really do feel a bit soppy.

  I like predictive text. I wonder if Dante had something like T9 to help him write all that prose. It’s hard to understand how some people can do what they do. They must be destined for it. I don’t know how to do anything well yet, but I’m hopeful. My English teacher says I “have the skills but don’t apply them.” That’s me: I have the skills, I could do anything, but I haven’t decided to take things seriously yet. I could be Dante, Michelangelo, Einstein, Eminem, or Jovanotti. I still don’t know which one. I should try to find out.

  According to The Dreamer I need to find my dream, then turn it into a project. I should ask him how you find out what your dream is. I would ask him, but I’m embarrassed and would end up agreeing with him . . . And anyway, this obsession about having a dream when you’re just sixteen doesn’t really convince me. Whatever the case, I’m absolutely positive that Beatrice fits into it somewhere.

  Speaking of Beatrice, she didn’t answer my text, and I’m upset because I thought Dante would impress her. My stomach clenches and my heart turns white. As if Beatric
e herself wanted to delete me from the face of the earth with Wite-Out. I feel like a mistake. A spelling mistake. A misplaced apostrophe or a redundant letter. A drop of Wite-Out and I will disappear like any old typo. The sheet of paper becomes crisp and clean again, and nobody can see the pain hidden behind that layer of white.

  Poetry is garbage in rhyme. Take that, Dante!

  Chapter 15

  Beatrice has red hair. Beatrice has green eyes. Beatrice has. In the afternoons she hangs out with her friends outside school. She’s not dating anyone. I went to her birthday party last year, and it was a dream come true. I spent the entire time hiding behind something or someone so I could stare at her, so I could record her every gesture and movement in my head. My brain turned into a video camera so that my heart could rewatch the best movie ever made on the face of the earth whenever I wanted to.

  I don’t know where I found the courage to ask for her number. In fact, I didn’t. Silvia gave it to me—they’re friends—after the summer break. But I don’t think she told her it was me who wanted it. Perhaps that’s why she’s not replying. Maybe she doesn’t know it’s me writing. I’ve listed her as “Red” in my contacts. Red star: sun, ruby, cherry. She could at least answer out of curiosity.

  But wasn’t I a lion in my previous life? That’s why I don’t give up. I lurk in the forest, and when the moment is right, I jump out from the trees and seize my prey, cutting off all escape routes by forcing it into a clearing with nothing to hide behind. That’s what I’ll do with Beatrice. She’ll find herself face-to-face with me and will be forced to choose me.