White as Silence, Red as Song

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  Chapter 25

  “Where the heck are you?”

  Niko’s voice bellows out of my phone and wakes me from my slumber. It takes me a split second to realize it’s 5:00 p.m. and that our match against the X-Men is in a half hour.

  “I had to clean up my room, or Mom wouldn’t let me go anywhere . . .”

  Niko doesn’t believe me for a second.

  “Move it. We need to reclaim first place in the tournament.”

  He ends the call.

  For the first time in my life I forgot about a match.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. I must be sick. I take my temperature, but I’m fine.

  I join in the Pirate battle cry that we yell before every match:

  “Beach that whale, Pirates!”

  We humiliate the X-Men 7 to 2, and I score three goals.

  But inside something prevents me from being truly happy about it. I can imagine that whale. It’s huge. It’s white. And I’m terrified that it will swallow me up.

  Chapter 26

  The Dreamer has come up with another impromptu lesson. They’re the best!

  He starts reading an extract from a book that impressed him, something he is studying or researching on his own time. He reads it with his eyes shining, like someone who can’t help but share his joy with whomever he meets on the street. Like when I say “Beatrice” out loud without realizing it, or when I want to tell everyone that an oral test has gone well, which rarely happens . . .

  This time he reads us a story from the book Decisive Moments in History, which talks about three sieges and three pillages.

  “Rome, Alexandria, and Byzantium. Three cities packed with treasures, beauty, and art. Three cities with libraries full of books that preserved the secrets of centuries of literature and research. Buildings brimming with scrolls and codices covered in those men’s dreams, that could have been useful for the dreams of so many others yet to come. But those dreams went up in smoke amid the blazing attacks of the Barbarians, Arabs, and Turks. In one flaming gesture they destroyed floors and floors full of papers containing the secrets of life. They burned the spirit and its wings. They stopped it from flying as it had done for centuries, freeing themselves from the confinement of history. The pages of books burned like those in the marvelous novel by Ray Bradbury, which you should read . . .”

  These are The Dreamer’s words. I don’t know exactly what they mean but they sound good, even though I’ve never heard of that Bradbury guy.

  At the end of his passionate speech The Dreamer asks us, “Why?” None of us is able to answer. He tells us to think about it and then write something down for homework. The Dreamer is nuts. He thinks we are capable of such thoughts. We have to solve much simpler and more concrete problems. Things that are immediate and useful: like where to copy a Greek translation, how to get a date with a cute girl, how to squeeze money out of your parents to top up your cell phone after you’ve run out of credit in just two days by sending text messages no longer than five or six words each . . . That kind of stuff. We’re not used to answering the profound questions The Dreamer poses. We’re not ready for those things. We don’t even know where to find the answers.

  Because the answers to the questions he asks aren’t the kind you find on Google. If you type in Rome, Alexandria, Byzantium, fire, dreams, causes, books, you get no results. Because there is nothing on the internet that brings together such disjointed words. You need to come up with the connection yourself somehow. That’s why it is so difficult.

  I don’t know if I’ll do this assignment. It’s really difficult, but there is something mysterious about it because, for the first time, you can’t copy the answer from somewhere. You need to find it yourself. Perhaps there is more at stake too. I’ll give it a shot. I hate The Dreamer because he always makes me curious.

  Ignorance is the most comfortable thing I know, aside from the sofa in my living room.

  Chapter 27

  I try to talk to my mom about the blood I would like to donate to Beatrice, but she doesn’t get it. To her it seems like some kind of vampire story, like those that are popular right now. I explain the situation. She says we’ll talk about it later, that it seems like a nice idea, but that surely plenty of others will have already thought of it. I insist.

  “Talk to your father about it.”

  The magical phrase for passing the buck since the dawn of time. That’s what I’ll do. I call Niko and go to see him. I am supposed to do The Dreamer’s homework, but I can’t think of anything. Maybe music will help. Sometimes in music you find the answers you’re looking for, almost without looking for them. And even if you don’t find them, at least you find the same feelings you are experiencing. Someone else has felt them. You don’t feel alone. Sadness, solitude, rage. Almost all the songs I like talk about these things. Playing them is like tackling those monsters, especially when you can’t even give them a name.

  But then, when the music is over, those feelings are still there. Sure, perhaps now you can recognize them better, but they haven’t been magically swept away. Maybe I should get drunk for them to disappear. Niko says it works. Beatrice is still sick, and before getting drunk I want to give her my blood. I wouldn’t want the alcohol to hurt her because she is pure. I need to speak to Dad.

  Now.

  Chapter 28

  Dad didn’t come home for dinner. When he got back it was so late that I didn’t have the courage to ask him anything. It wasn’t the right moment. He would have flared up at me, and I couldn’t blow my only chance. I am still awake because I’m trying to do my homework for The Dreamer. I’ve never given a flip about difficult assignments. When I can’t do them, I just go to sleep and copy them the next day. I don’t know why, but in this case there is something more at stake, something that is pushing me to accept the challenge. As if throwing in the towel means betraying The Dreamer or myself.

  I am in front of the computer screen. I type out the title of the assignment: “Why were Rome, Alexandria, and Byzantium burned down by their conquerors? What motivated the pillagers? What made them similar despite being so different?” White. My mind is blank. White like this stupid screen. White like Beatrice’s blood. I call Silvia. She doesn’t answer. Silvia always leaves her phone on because she wants me to be able to call her anytime I need help. Silvia is my guardian angel. The only difference is that she sleeps at night and sometimes, like now, she doesn’t feel her phone vibrate. Guess I need to solve this myself.

  It’s late. Outside is the black of night and my mind is white. I try to turn into one of those pillagers and ask myself what I want to achieve by burning those books. I wander through the dusty streets of Rome, Alexandria, and Byzantium, which I later discover became Constantinople and then Istanbul, and in the midst of the shouts and screams of people, I set fire to thousands of books. I put an end to all those paper dreams, turning them into ash. I turn them into white smoke.

  That’s the answer. To incinerate dreams. To burn dreams is the way to definitively defeat our enemies so they no longer have the strength to get up and start again. To ensure they no longer dream about the beautiful things in their cities, about the lives of others, about the stories of others so laden with freedom and love. To ensure they no longer dream anything. If you don’t allow people to dream, you turn them into slaves. And, as a pillager of cities, I now need only slaves in order to reign happily and undisturbed. And so words upon words should no longer exist—only the white ash of ancient dreams. This is the cruelest form of destruction: to steal people’s dreams. Camps full of people burned along with their dreams. Nazis were robbers of dreams. When you have no dreams yourself, you steal them from others so that they don’t have any either. Envy burns in your heart and that fire devours everything . . .

  When I finish writing it’s as dark outside as it was before, and it’s from the black of night that I have stolen the marks that now fill my white screen. I have discovered something: by studying, by writing. It’s the first
time this has happened, but I’m not going to make a habit of it . . . And of course the black ink in the printer has run out, so all I can do is print it in color.

  Red.

  Chapter 29

  The Dreamer wanders around the desks to check out our research. Apparently everybody did the homework. Anyone who wants to read it out loud is called up, one by one. It’s like being immersed in the dust and fire of centuries ago, and yet we are in class. Everybody has written something they are proud of, at least those who have the courage to read aloud. Naturally I’m not one of them. Reading out loud is like singing. The bell rings. We rush to hand our papers in, but The Dreamer doesn’t want them. Unbelievable! He’d rather we keep the answers we have found. Keep them for ourselves.

  The Dreamer really is nuts. He gives you homework and then doesn’t grade it. What kind of teacher doesn’t grade your work? He did get everybody to do it though. Even me, in the pitch-black middle of the night. So maybe a grade isn’t necessary to make you study. The Dreamer just sits there, even though the class is emptying. He is smiling and his eyes are shining. He trusts us. He thinks we are capable of doing beautiful things. Perhaps he isn’t a complete loser.

  I won’t let the pillagers burn my dreams and turn them into ash. I will not allow anybody to. I risk not getting up again. Because Beatrice needs me and not a groaning heap of rubble. I don’t want to forget what I have learned. I don’t want to because it is too important, but I have a shoddy memory. I must write everything down, otherwise I’ll forget. Maybe the only way to save myself from my memory is to become a writer.

  I want to talk to Silvia about it because she is the only one who wouldn’t tease me. As if she has read my thoughts, she walks up to me, squeezes my arm, and rests her head on my shoulder.

  “What did you want yesterday? I didn’t see your missed call until this morning.”

  “I wanted some help with my research.”

  Silvia lifts her head and stares at me sadly:

  “Of course. What else would you want?”

  She lets go of my arm and walks away.

  I stare at her as she walks away, feeling that I’ve missed something—like when Dad says one thing but really means another. Speaking of which, I should talk to Dad before I forget . . .

  Chapter 30

  If there is one thing I’m crazy about, it’s doing super-dares with Niko. They’re dangerous dares: the kind that give you a rush of adrenaline, that pump your blood so fast you can almost feel it galloping. One of the dares I like best is sudden braking. We race along on our scooters at full speed, braking only at the last second. The winner is the one who stops closest to the car in front of him without hitting it. That’s how I wrecked the brakes on my Batscooter. Niko has no chance in this dare, because in the end he always gets scared, whereas I always brake a second after my survival instinct tells me to. Just one second makes the difference. This is the secret to winning the dare: do what you have to, but a second later than you should.

  When we saw the flaming black Porsche Carrera at the traffic light, we looked at each other and took off on our scooters at full speed. Side by side. The air is the only thing that tries—but fails—to slow us down. The road crunches under our tires as they grip the crumbled pavement. The rear end of the Porsche gets closer and closer, and we’re side by side, at full speed.

  I glance at Niko, the last time before the final stretch. I can’t lose the dare. Only ten yards separate us from the shiny black rear of the Porsche, and Niko brakes. I wait a second, enough time to say, “One.” If you don’t brake, you’re dead. And I don’t brake: for a second that feels like a century. Blood whirrs in my ears. My front tire kisses the rear bumper of the Porsche, like a mother with her newborn baby. I turn toward Niko, my windswept hair over my eyes, a rush of adrenaline blurring my vision. I smile like they do in films after winning a duel. Niko owes me the umpteenth ice cream. There is no dare without ice cream.

  “How do you do it? My hands pull the brakes even if I don’t want them to. The force is stronger than me.”

  I lick my strawberry-and-vanilla-flavored ice cream.

  “Fear is white. Courage is red. When you see white, you have to focus on red and count to one . . .”

  Niko looks at me like you’d look at a mentally ill person who thinks they’re talking rationally.

  “The match is tomorrow. We have to get back into first place. We need to win and hope that Vandal’s team ends in a tie.”

  “Vandal . . . We’ll make him pay . . .”

  Niko gives me such a hard slap on the shoulder that my nose ends up in my ice cream.

  “That’s my boy.”

  He runs off and I chase after him like a clown with a white face and red nose.

  Chapter 31

  Dad and I walk into the hospital where Beatrice is being treated. They check my blood type. It’s the same as Beatrice’s. I was sure of it, that we have the same blood type, that we live from the same blood. There are things that one just feels. My life is linked to Beatrice’s through our blood. They ask me if I take drugs. I say no. I say no because Dad is there and he would blast me and make his favorite threat: “I’ll reduce you to the dust of your shadow.” You’ve got to give it to him. It isn’t a bad expression.

  Afterward, though, when I’m with the nurse, I tell her I smoked a joint a month ago. But only one, just to try it. There was a group of us. I didn’t want to be a wimp. And anyway, it was just to try it. The nurse reassures me. Just one doesn’t matter. But if I were a regular user I couldn’t donate. My blood wouldn’t be any good.

  End of the chapter on joints. If Beatrice were still to need it, my blood must be perfect, pure, immaculate. As red as my love for her.

  They draw quite a bit. It’s much darker than I imagined. It’s reddish-purple and dense, like my love for Beatrice. The sight of blood coming out of my arm makes me light-headed, and for a moment I feel like fainting—but I resist. Blood, like love, makes your head spin, but it also gives you the strength to overcome your limits. I feel like I’ve given my life for Beatrice. I’m half dead and as pale as a vampire in reverse: instead of sucking blood to survive, I’ve given it.

  Chapter 32

  Dad takes me to get breakfast.

  “You’re as pale as the froth on your cappuccino. I’ll get you another croissant. What filling do you want?”

  “What a question. Chocolate.”

  Dad goes to the counter and gets a croissant dripping with Nutella. He sits back down in front of me and smiles, as he only does in the mornings. In the evenings he’s too tired to smile after a day’s work.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks, pointing to the arm where my blood was drawn from.

  “It stings a bit, but it’s fine.”

  “Tell me about this girl, what’s her name . . . Angelica?”

  I’ve always said that memory is not a strong point in our family.

  “Beatrice, Dad. Her name is Beatrice, like Dante’s beloved.”

  “Is she special to you?”

  I don’t want to talk to him about Beatrice, so I sidestep the question.

  “Who’s special to you?”

  “Mom.”

  “When did you realize it?”

  “The first time I saw her, during a cruise that my parents had given to me as a graduation gift. She had a way of moving, of tilting her head when she smiled, of arranging her long hair when it covered her eyes . . .”

  Dad seems to be daydreaming, his gaze lost in a past that passes in front of his eyes like the beginning of a romcom, the kind of movie I can’t stand.

  “And then?”

  “Then I approached her and said, ‘Are you also on this ship, miss?’ realizing only at the end of my question that it made no sense. In fact, it was pretty ridiculous, given I had just laid eyes on her for the first time.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She smiled and gazed around, pretending she was looking for someone, and said, ‘So it seems . . .’ And then she
laughed.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then we talked and talked and talked.”

  “You did nothing but talk back then.”

  “Hey, boy, show your father some respect!”

  “And what did you talk about?”

  “About the stars.”

  “The stars? And she actually listened to you?”

  “Yes, I had a passion for stars. I had bought my first telescope during high school and I could recognize the constellations. So I told her the history of the stars that we saw from the ship’s deck. On that cool, clear night, you could see clearly without the use of a telescope. And, unlike other girls, she listened and asked questions.”

  He stops, as if part one of his romantic movie has ended. So I nudge him.

  “And then?”

  Dad takes a deep breath and answers in one go, rubbing his cheek to try to hide his face slightly behind his hands.

  “Then I gave her a star.”

  “You did what?”

  “I gave her a star. The one that shone brightest in that moonless night: Sirius, the only star that is visible from any inhabited place on earth and that can, on a moonless night, cast the shadow of your body. We promised each other that we would look at it every night, from wherever we were, and would think about each other.”

  I start laughing. Dad giving Sirius to Mom . . . I pat him on the back.

  “How lovey-dovey. And Mom?”

  “She smiled.”

  “And you?”

  “I would have given anything for a woman like her to exist in my real life, not just on a cruise.”

  Dad says nothing more. He doesn’t seem to want to add anything else. I get the impression he’s about to blush, so he wipes some croissant crumbs from his mouth in order to hide it. Then he looks at me and says: