Sandro hangs back a minute. And another minute. Then opens the door a sliver and peers into the room where he finds Rambo, his eyes wet with tears, and Marino, who had forgotten all about Sandro in the bathroom, and who, upon seeing him, panics and screams.
Sandro rushes over and grabs his arm, and he probably shouldn’t shake him so hard or shout so loud, but he can’t help it if in the darkness of that crapper a light had come on.
“Listen, Marino. To hell with Mother Greta. I’m you’re new catechist.”
METAL DETECTOR
Today is Monday and no one comes to the beach on Mondays.
Just as no swallows appear in January, just as flowers don’t bloom in the snow. Nature has its rhythms, and following those rhythms, every species on Earth dances to its tune. That’s why upstanding, normal people come to the beach during the weekend. A pinch on Friday and all day Saturday through Sunday afternoon. Then they queue up on the turnpike and head back to Milan, Parma, Florence—wherever they have a job and a life with schedules and clear-cut responsibilities.
Summer is over, the holidays have come and gone, but it’s still warm and only fair that on the weekend they soak up as much sun as they can before winter comes and it gets dark at five, when it’s time to turn in as soon as you leave the office. So on Friday these upstanding people, men and women who work and may be married or living together and have kids—or dogs—haul their SUVs out of the garage and come to Forte dei Marmi for the weekend to lie in the sun, stroll on the shore, write their names in the sand with underneath the date of these feel-good days, which they photograph with their cell phones while awaiting sundown, the magic hour, which has happened every day since the beginning of time yet for the tourists remains a miracle with the power to stun, to compel them to snap an extra thousand photos of that overwhelming, fiery magnificence dominating the sky and pacifying the sea. All that appears on their cell phone screen is a bright little ball and yet they still rush to send the photo to relatives, friends, and acquaintances who have stayed home, so that they can feel as if they haven’t stayed home, that they’re in Forte dei Marmi, where every night the sun sets just for them.
Every night till Sunday. Then the upstanding people go home and the sun only sets for the crabs and the crows combing the shoreline, hunting for leftovers, and for Sandro and Rambo who, like the crabs and crows, also scrounge for leftovers, but with metal detectors.
“I don’t think they work,” huffs Sandro. They’ve been waving these clunkers over the sand for an hour to no avail.
“They work like gangbusters,” says Rambo, “listen to this.” Rambo lifts his metal detector to his stainless steel Navy SEAL watch and it gives a loud wavering beep. “See? Like gangbusters.” And he goes back to swinging it this way and that over the sand, beaming with pride. Because he built these things himself. Three, to be exact, but now, with Marino in the hospital, for a while it’ll be just the two of them hitting the beach every Monday.
It all began in the spring. One day Marino found some beach marbles with photos of cyclists inside, and they gushed about how fun it used to be to play on the beach, building racetracks with curves and ramps and sand traps. Gradually they began to grouse about how, at a certain point, life presents you with changes so big you quit playing. Then they wondered when that had happened to them, and what changes life had wrought for them, and they realized that it was perfectly fine for them to continue playing marbles. So they began squaring off on Monday afternoons at the empty beach, along with the Graziani brothers, one of whom had cooked his brain on ecstasy in the nineties and now receives disability benefits both brothers live off.
It was a kind of championship league, replete with a ranking system Marino would update every Monday evening and email to them. But on the third weekend, while they were dragging their butts over the sand to design the track, Marino let out a wail. Something had poked him. He started running around, clutching his thigh, hollering, “AIDS! AIDS! I got pricked by a syringe and now I’ve got AIDS!”
Turned out not to be a syringe but a brooch one of these upstanding citizens had lost in the sand during her golden weekend. The brooch was golden too. Literally, it was made of gold.
Marino kept it as compensation for the fear it put in him. He lit a candle for the Virgin Mary of Montenero, gave the brooch to his mother, and never spoke about it again. That is, until the week after, when playing had resumed and it was Sandro’s turn to roll. When Sandro knelt down, he felt something hard and flat under his shin, which he discovered was a silver bracelet. He lifted it up and blew on it to take a closer look. Then he looked past it at Marino and Rambo, and that was it for marbles and the Graziani brothers. Now they spend their Mondays combing the beach with metal detectors.
Which Rambo built himself. He found instructions in a survival kit manual, assembled three broom handles, and attached an old pocket radio to the end of each along with a complimentary calculator from Esselunga. Absurd as it sounds, when there’s something metal under the sand that radio goes off. Then they stop, set down their detectors, and start digging. It’s easy, dirt cheap, and efficient.
Only the radio never goes off.
“Son of a bitch,” cries Sandro. Holding this contraption makes his arm ache, his back too, and they haven’t found shit. “All those people here yesterday and not one of them lost something? Son of a bitch, Jesus H—” he stops himself. Taking the Lord’s name in vain would work wonders right now but he’s got to start practicing restraint.
“Not even a catechist yet and already afraid to blaspheme?” ribs Rambo.
Sandro doesn’t answer. He keeps swinging the broom and watching Rambo do the same, except more credibly and with greater oomph, thanks in part to his fatigues and combat boots.
“You know this catechist business is bullshit,” says Rambo. “You know that, right?”
Sandro keeps his mouth shut. Maybe it is bullshit, but what else is he supposed to do? It’s like that night when he was little and his dad took him gigging for garfish. From the pier Sandro pointed a super powerful flashlight down at the water, and soon the garfish arrived, all curious and circling around and around it, then his dad took aim and launched the gig with all his might. Except garfish are small, long, and skinny, like fingers, whereas the gig had a pointy end attached to a wooden handle—a log, really—so instead of skewering the fish, it split it in half, the head one way and the rest the other, and Sandro freaked out while shining a light on that silver thing, now two things, one slowly sinking into the dark water and the other, the tail, for some incredible reason still moving, thrashing this way and that. “Why is it doing that?” he asked his dad, trying not to drop the flashlight off the pier. His dad laughed. “What’s he supposed to do, Sandro? You have a brighter idea?”
No, Sandro didn’t have a brighter idea that night on the bridge, nor does he now. So it makes sense that the garfish tail would try every which way to escape and that he should become the new catechist for Luna, that little white-all-over girl.
He has to get to know her, talk to her, find out how she and her beautiful mom are faring. He hasn’t a clue what he’ll say or if he’ll be capable of looking her in the face. All he knows is that he can’t move on this way. Partly because for the past six months he hasn’t moved at all.
His life has stalled. Ever since Luca died, the days come and go, and instead of building upon each other, they stack up into an empty heap of same old, same old.
Sandro had been swimming in the dark, confused, when a gig swung down and tore off his head, and now the only thing he can do is try every avenue of escape. Not because it will work or because there is somewhere to go, but because no better option exists. He simply has to become a catechist and see what comes of it.
“I don’t think it’s so hard,” he says.
“What’s that?” says Rambo, having paused in a place where the radio isn’t beeping so much as making a noise like ra
in on a metal roof.
“Being a catechist. It can’t be so hard. They’re little kids, right? I might not know anything about that stuff, but they know even less. Plus if Marino can do it—”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, eh. Marino’s more equipped than you.”
“Why’s that?”
“For one, he goes to church.”
“Whatever.”
“For another, he believes in God.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I believe in God.”
“You do?”
“I do. I mean I could. Why not?”
Rambo answers with a laugh that makes him jiggle all over, then turns from their conversation as well as the spot setting the radio off and resumes swinging his metal detector around.
Toward the shore, where a colorful group of kids—clearly foreigners—have gathered. Germany, Holland, farther north, places so cold that on a day when the residents of Forte dei Marmi won’t leave the house without an overcoat, these kids are diving in the water as if it were the middle of summer, returning to the shore and standing around in their swimsuits, laughing and running in the wind, sopping wet.
“What the fuck are they laughing about?” says Rambo.
“Why? What’s the harm in being happy and laughing?”
“You don’t think they’re laughing at us, do you?”
“They couldn’t care less about us. They’re laughing because they’re happy. That’s normal, isn’t it?” Sandro stops talking. In part because, as always, he thinks of Luca and the fact that he’ll never laugh again, and in part because as he was talking his radio finally made a loud whistle.
Rambo stops what he’s doing, runs over, dives on the ground, and begins digging, plunging his hands in the sand. He comes up with nothing but continues to dig; the radio whistles again, shouting to them to believe, that now is their time.
The sound attracts the attention of the Dutch kids, who clamber for a look, and, dripping wet, form a line to see what’s going on. Sandro and Rambo keep digging. They try to play it cool but their desire to discover something overwhelms them, so they start screaming, cursing, egging each other on.
“Come on, Sandro, come on. It’s huge. I can feel it. Fuck is it huge!”
Sandro nods. Sand lodges under his fingernails and they begin to hurt but he keeps at it while the radios continue to whistle and the foreign kids look on.
Finally Sandro feels something solid deep below, some treasure buried by the shore. He gets a hand on it and, out of breath, a smile trembling on his lips, pulls it up into the light of day.
But it’s a nail, the large kind you’d find embedded in a beam or the hull of a ship. And it’s completely covered in something soft, sticky, dark. Sandro sets it down on the sand, closes his eyes, rubs his hands together and lifts them to his nose.
Dog shit.
RELATIONS WITH ANGELS
Me and the others are sitting on these low little chairs assembled in a circle, all filled except for the one normal chair, which is still empty. In fact Mother Melania just stuck her head in the room and told us to sit tight, that the catechist was on his way. But you can’t lie to us. She might as well have said her way, since we all know that what would be appearing from behind that door was Mother Greta’s mean mug. That’s why I didn’t want to come here.
I’d returned from school with Zot. It used to be that on Saturdays Mom would come home from work for five minutes, since the shop was open all day, make us each two grilled cheeses and a glass of milk, and then skedaddle. We’d eat then Luca would go surfing and I’d go to catechism. But that was then. It doesn’t work like that anymore. Nothing works anymore.
Yet today I had stopped at Teresa’s deli, picked up some white bread, ham, and Kraft Singles, and charged it to Grandpa’s account. He might not be around any longer but his account at Teresa’s is still active. Only Mom pays it. I mean she used to. Nowadays, beats me. And even though I was trying to concentrate on grilled cheeses, on how good they taste with two slices of Kraft and cooked right—dark on the outside so that it looks burnt but isn’t—I couldn’t get Mother Greta out of my head, her crossed eyes and that massive hairy jaw, and as I rode my bike, my legs shook from fear.
She says we’re Satan’s spawn and hates the lot of us, me most of all after what happened the day of Luca’s funeral. We’d come out of the dark church and started walking behind the coffin with my brother inside. There were a million people. The line was so long that halfway to the cemetery the caboose was still in the square outside the church. But Mother Greta shoved her way to the head of the line where Mom and I stood and told Miss Gemma to step aside so she could be next to us. What she really wanted was to be out front, for the whole town to see her as the one who prayed and consoled and loved everybody. She kept saying real loud: “What a golden boy. He’ll be missed. But we have to stay strong. Life goes on.” False as Judas. At one point I turned and saw her taking Mom by the shoulders and insisting she say the “Requiem Aeternam” even if she couldn’t remember it—she didn’t even know where she was—and Mother Greta was saying, “That’s it, that’s it, ‘Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,’ go on!” Then I felt something inside me that I’d never heard before, something hot, swelling, and really powerful reaching my lungs, clawing at my flesh and bones to get out, and in the end it found my mouth, shot past my teeth, and made me scream at Mother Greta to go away, that she wasn’t wanted: “I hate you and Luca hated you and the whole world hates you! Go away! Go away!” I swear that’s what I screamed, and everyone heard.
Miss Gemma put her arms around me, hugged me hard, and with her mouth to my ear said, “Luna, Luna, Luna, that’s enough. Calm down. That’s enough.” But I wasn’t listening. All I heard was Mother Greta looking around and telling people, “It’s not her fault, the poor girl. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Yet I’m positive that ever since that day she’s been waiting for the right time to make me pay.
And that time is now, at catechism. You bet I didn’t want to come. I had already devised a plan: I would tell Mom that I was coming here and instead I’d go to Zot’s house. He’d skip catechism too and we would hide out in the woods of Ghost House. Sure it scares me, but not as much as Mother Greta.
Anyway, it’s not like I really needed a plan. When I told her I was going to catechism, Mom looked at me weird for a minute, like she does in the morning when I tell her I’m going to school. To her, just my going out of the house seems ridiculous, so today I could have easily eaten my grilled cheese and stayed in my room without making up excuses, and I’d never have to go to catechism again.
That had been my dream. Had it happened last year I would have jumped for joy so high I would have hit my head on the ceiling. Yet today, well, dang it, today it’s not fair. Ever since I was a baby they’ve forced me to come here on Saturday, memorize the Ten Commandments, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Three Theological Virtues, and a zillion other things to do and especially not do. I did baptism and first communion and every May I follow the Stations of the Cross. And of all years this is the year, the last year, after which I’m set for eternity, that no one cares if I go or not?
No way, Jesús. We’ve made it this far. Why stop now? It’s like that joke Zot told me this morning. There’s this crazy guy. One night he tries to break out of the insane asylum. But in order to escape he has to climb a hundred super tall fences, one by one. He climbs the first then the second. The whole night he’s climbing fences. He grows more and more tired but he keeps going. And when he’s climbed the ninety-ninth fence and arrives at the last one, he stares up at it breathlessly, shakes his head, and says, “No way, man, I can’t go on.” Then he turns around and climbs the others all over again.
Which is why I ate my grilled cheese, said goodbye to Mom and came here. And I’m quietly staring at the empty chair in front of me, waiting for Mother Greta’s big butt to fill it. Becaus
e I’m at the ninety-ninth fence. Turning back now would be crazy-people stuff. And I’m not crazy, I don’t think. I nod yes, I nod no, and hug my knees harder and harder as I hear the footsteps approach from outside, someone enter the room, and a voice greet us. And once again everything suddenly changes.
“Good morning, children,” says Sandro, entering the room. “Peace be with you.”
He’d given it some thought and the phrase sounded right to him. That’s what the priest used to say back when he attended mass, i.e., not since he was their age. But these kids fix their X-ray machines scanning him from his busted sneakers to his face, and while he tries to maintain a smile, Sandro senses a querulous tone in their voices as they answer in unison: “And also with you?”
There are about twenty of them sitting in a circle and staring. Blondes and brunettes and two with their hair hidden under hats. And off to his right Sandro lands on the only reason he threw himself into this absurd situation, a bright white reason staring at him from behind a huge pair of sunglasses with her mouth gaping open.
Luna. She’s the reason Marino did him the favor of calling the parish priest and telling him that he was worried about the kids, that he had had a plan for their spiritual and human growth that was now at risk of being ruined because of his nasty accident. But he had a friend, a dear devoted friend, with whom he had spent many nights in Christian reflection. This friend doesn’t attend the parish church often but he is a man of faith and it would ease Marino’s pain to know the kids were in his hands. The hands of Sandro, that is.
Beautiful and moving as his words were, they’re not the reason the priest said yes. Credit goes to the fact that ever since he was sixteen Sandro hasn’t been able to sleep without the TV on. He flips to the documentary channel and falls asleep while specials about nature and history and science flicker on the screen. In his opinion, they function like those courses on tape they used to advertise in magazines: you put on your headphones and listen to them in your sleep and in the end, without even realizing it, you’d learned English, quantum physics, whatever your heart desired.
The Breaking of a Wave Page 17
