City

by Alessandro Baricco

  “It seemed plausible.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss Shell.”

  “That’s surprising.”

  “Why, don’t you ever make mistakes?”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “You’re a male and you don’t have a car, that’s what I meant. Isn’t that surprising?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s quite surprising, believe me.”

  “Would a tank do? I have plenty of those.”

  For a moment Shatzy envisioned a trailer pulled by a tank.

  “No, I’m afraid that doesn’t solve the problem.”

  “I was joking.”

  “Oh.”

  “Miss Shell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you kindly tell me what the problem is?”

  Shatzy thought of Bird, the old gunfighter. Strange mechanism, the mind. It works the way it wants to.

  “What is the problem, Miss Shell?”

  Rather, it was that sort of weariness. Like a weariness on you. The same music that Bird danced to. The old gunfighter.

  “Miss Shell, I’m asking you what the problem is—would you mind answering me?”

  Bird.

  Roads on his face, roads walked by innumerable gunfights, said Shatzy. His eyes swallowed up in his skull, and hands of olive-wood, quick hands, like branches in winter. The comb, in the morning, dipped in water, parting the white hair, transparent by now. Tobacco lungs in the voice that says softly: What a wind today.

  Nothing worse for a gunfighter than not to die.

  Look around, every unfamiliar face could be that of yet another fool arriving from far away to become the one who killed Clay “Bird” Puller. If you want to know when you become a legend, then listen: it’s when your enemies always come from behind. As long as they come at you from the front you’re only a gunfighter. Glory is a trail of shit, behind your back. Hurry up, asshole, I said to him without even turning around. The boy wore a black hat, and in his pocket was some piece of crap that was the memory of a distant hatred, and the promise of some sort of vengeance. Too late, asshole.

  With these roads on my face, cowardly old age, peeing on myself in the night, the goddam pain below the belt, like a burning rock between belly and ass, day never comes, and when it comes it’s a desert of empty time to cross. How did I get here?, me.

  The way Bird shot. He wore his holster backwards, with the butts of the guns facing forwards. He would draw with his arms crossed, the right gun in his left hand and vice versa. That way, when he came towards you, his fingers touching the gun butts, he seemed like a condemned man, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, with his arms crossed in front. A second later he was a bird of prey opening its wings, a whip in the air, and the straight flight of two bullets. Bird.

  What is that, creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to count the hours, I who knew instants, and that was the only time that existed for me. The swerve of a pupil, the whitened knuckles around a glass, a spur in the side of the horse, the shadow of a shadow on the blue wall. I lived an eternity where others saw seconds. They saw a flash where I saw a map, a star where I saw heavens. I looked within the folds of time that for them were already a memory. There was no other way, I had been taught, to see death before it arrives. What is that, creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to spy on the cards of others, searching for cues from my seat, always in the second row, in the evening throwing rocks at the dogs, in my pocket an old man’s money that the whores don’t want, a mariachi player will take it when he comes, may your song be long and sad, boy, sweet your guitar and slow your voice, I want to dance tonight, until the sunset of this night, I’ll dance.

  They said that Bird always carried a dictionary with him. French. He had learned all the words, one after another, in alphabetical order. He was so old that he had already been around once and now was in the Gs for the second time. No one knew why in the world he did it. But once, in Tandeltown, they say that he went up to a woman, she was beautiful, tall, green-eyed, you had to wonder how she had ended up there. He went up to her and said: Enchanté.

  Clay “Bird” Puller. He’ll have a wonderful death, said Shatzy. I’ve promised him: a wonderful death.

  “Miss Shell?”

  “Yes, hello.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, very well.”

  “The line was interrupted.”

  “It happens.”

  “It’s hell, with these telephones.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it would be easier to send a bomber there and hit my son on the head than to succeed in talking to him on the telephone.”

  “I hope you won’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “No, nothing, I was joking.”

  “Is Gould there?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  Gould was in his pajamas, even though it was only 7:15. He had caught a flu that the papers called Russian. It was nasty, and the worst part was that, besides the fever, it emptied out your insides. So you had to spend hours on the toilet. It gave the career of Larry Gorman a sudden and, as we will see, decisive impetus. Within a few days he had sent to the canvas Park Porter, Bill Ormesson, Frank Tarantini and Morgan “Killer” Bluman. He beat Grey La Banca on account of an injury, in the third round. Pat McGrilley did himself in on his own, slipping and hitting his head on the mat. By now Larry Gorman had a record that could not go unnoticed. Twenty-one fights, twenty-one victories before the distance. The papers were beginning to talk about a world championship.

  DIESEL: Mondini found out from Drink, his assistant. Drink told him that the newspapers were talking about Larry. He had clippings, he’d gotten them from his nephew. Mondini took out his glasses and began to read. It made an odd impression on him. He had never seen the name of a student of his mentioned alongside the names of real champions. It was a little like buying Playboy and finding a photo of your wife inside. Some of the papers were dismissive, saying that of those twenty-one wins only a couple were against true fighters. One paper, in particular, claimed that it was all a scam and explained that Larry’s father, a wealthy lawyer, had spent a pile of money to get his son there, even though it didn’t say exactly how he had spent it. The article was clever, and made you laugh. Because of his father being a lawyer, Larry was referred to as Larry “Lawyer” Gorman. Mondini found that it made him laugh quite a lot. Apart from that, though, the papers took the idea very seriously. Boxing put Larry in sixth place in the world rankings. And in Boxing Ring there was a short piece about him entitled “Heir to the Crown.” Mondini realized while he was reading it that his glasses were misting.

  “Hey, Larry . . . Larry! A word or two for the radio audience . . .”

  “I’m not fighting tonight, Dan.”

  “Just a couple of words.”

  “I’ve come to see some good fighting, and that’s it, this time I’m going to enjoy myself outside the ring.”

  “Do you have anything to say with regard to certain articles that have appeared in . . .”

  “I like that nickname.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lawyer. I like it. I think I’ll use it.”

  “Let’s remind our listeners that a tough article on Larry appeared in one of the dailies, written by . . .”

  “Larry Lawyer Gorman, sounds good, doesn’t it? I think I’ll use it. Do me a favor next time, Dan . . .”

  “What’s that, Larry?”

  “On your radio show call me Lawyer. I like it.”

  “Whatever you want, Larry.”

  “Larry Lawyer.”

  “Larry Lawyer, all right.”

  ‘You have a spot on your collar, Dan, a grease spot.”

  “What?”

  “You have a grease spot, on
your collar . . . there, see it? . . . it must be grease.”

  POOMERANG: Mondini finished reading and realized that things had taken a bad turn. The way he saw it, it was a bad turn. The world of boxing was a strange one, it had everything, from the guy who liked to hit a punching bag to guys who earned a living in the ring, trying to get out alive. There were clean fighters and fighters who played dirty, but it was for the most part a true world, and he liked it. Boxing. As he had known it. He liked it. But the title, the world championship, the crown: that was another story. Too much money in it, too many people who were hard to understand, too much fame. And heavy punches, punches of a different type. The way he saw it, it was something to steer clear of.

  He realized that things were escalating when a fellow with dark glasses and new teeth walked into the gym. He was from the world of the casinos, where the important fights were arranged. Mondini remembered him as a fighter—there had even been talk once of their fighting, then nothing had come of it. He didn’t like him: the fellow was one of those fighters who last two rounds, then begin to wonder what the hell they’re doing up there, with so many good movies to see. A programmed loser. Now he had grown fat, and had a slight limp. He had come to “say hello.” They had a little chat. Larry wasn’t there.

  DIESEL: Larry was in training, and he never mentioned the title. Mondini worked him hard, and he didn’t let up. It was as if he were in a bubble, where nothing could touch him. Mondini had seen that before: it was something champions had. A mixture of indisputable strength and utter solitude. It sheltered them from defeat, and from happiness. Thus, unbeaten, they would waste their whole life. One day Larry arrived at the gym with a girl, a small thin brunette called Jody. She wore a tight sweater and shoes with a lot of laces. She looked pretty to Mondini and, in a way, nice. She sat in a corner and watched Larry work out, without saying a word. Before the workout was over, she got up and left. Another day Larry was sparring with a kid who was younger than him, a brave kid but young, and at one point he began to go down on him a little too hard. Mondini didn’t wait for the clock to sound the three minutes: leaning on the ropes he said: That’s enough. But Larry wouldn’t stop. He kept hitting with a peculiar brutality. And he went on till the end. Mondini didn’t say anything. He let Larry come out of the ring. He saw how Drink dried off his back and took off his gloves: with respect. He saw him walk by the mirror, before going back to the dressing room, and pause for a moment, right in front of it. Then he remembered the silent girl, for some reason, and a lot of other things. He cursed in a low voice, and realized that the moment had arrived. He waited for Larry to come out, in his elegant cashmere overcoat. He unplugged the clock. Then he said

  “I’ll take you home, Larry, OK?”

  POOMERANG: They drove across town without saying a word. Mondini’s old sedan would run only with the choke pulled out as far as it would go. Stopping at traffic lights the car looked like a pressure cooker three hours into the minestrone. When they got there Mondini parked and turned off the engine. An exclusive neighborhood, with low lights on the broad lawns.

  “You trust me, Larry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m going to explain something to you.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ve had twenty-one fights, Larry. Sixteen of those I could have won myself. But the other five, those were real fighters. Sobilo, Parker, Morgan Bluman . . . That’s a type that makes you lose the will to fight. And they couldn’t even go the distance with you. You have a way of boxing that they have never dreamed of. Every so often, when you’re up there, I look at your opponents, and it’s crazy how . . . old they seem. They’re like black-and-white movies. I don’t know where you learned, but that’s what it is. Boxing like that wouldn’t exist except for you. You believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then listen carefully. There are two things you have to understand.”

  “OK.”

  “First: you have never taken a real punch in your life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everybody throws punches, Larry. Then there are three, four fighters in the world who are capable of something more: they can hit. Theirs are true punches. You have no idea what they’re like. Those are blows that could redesign the body of a car. They’ve got it all: coordination, power, speed, precision, brutality. They’re masterpieces. Schoolchildren should be taken to see them, like museums. And it’s great to see them when you’re sitting in front of the TV, with a beer in your hand. But if you’re up there, Larry, it’s fear, no way around it, it’s pure fear. Terror. You can die from a punch like that. Or be a vegetable for the rest of your life.”

  Larry didn’t move. He looked straight ahead, through the windshield. He said only:

  “And the second thing?”

  Mondini said nothing for a while. Then he turned the rear-view mirror towards Larry. What he would have liked to say was that world champions don’t have a face like that. But the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to say that to risk your life in the ring you have to have a black hole ahead of you instead of the future, otherwise you’re just a crazy young fool, in love with yourself, and that’s all. Perhaps he also wanted to say something about that silent girl. But he didn’t know what, exactly.

  Larry looked at himself in the mirror.

  He saw a lawyer’s face. World champion of boxing.

  Mondini found something to say. It wasn’t much, but it gave the idea.

  “You know how to recognize a great fighter? He knows when the time has come for him to stop. Believe me, Larry: your time has come.”

  Larry turned towards the Maestro.

  “I should stop?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should stop?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean to tell me that Larry Lawyer Gorman should stop?”

  “You, Larry, you have to stop.”

  “Me?”

  DIESEL: Everybody knows that rich people don’t understand a damn thing about the rest of humanity, but what no one realizes is that the rest of humanity doesn’t know a damn thing about rich people, hasn’t got a chance of understanding them. You have to have been there, to understand, you have to have been rich when you were six, when you were in your mother’s belly, when you were a gleam in your wealthy father’s eye. Then maybe you can understand. If not, all you can do is shoot off your mouth. How do you know, for instance, what’s important for them? What really counts? Or what frightens them? You could say it about yourself, maybe. But them, what does it have to do with them? They’re in another ecosystem. Like fish, so to speak. Who can understand what they want, or where they’re going, and why. They’re fish. And they can die of what for you is life. A breath of air and they’re gone, a breath of ordinary air, the air that for you is life. Dead. Larry was a fish. He had his own sea around him, and gills that were almost invisible, and you can’t understand the air he breathes if you’re standing here on the shore and looking at the sea.

  POOMERANG: Larry didn’t even think about it too long. He put the rear-view mirror back in place, looked straight into the eyes of Mondini and said

  “I want to get there, Maestro. I want to know what you see, from up there.”

  Mondini shook his head.

  “Not much if you’re lying on the canvas with your eyes rolled up in your head.”

  He didn’t say it to bring bad luck, he said it just to say something, to keep things from becoming too serious. But for Larry it was serious. Larry, who joked about everything, now he was totally serious.

  “I want to try, Maestro. Will you take me?”

  Mondini wasn’t there expecting to answer questions. He was there to make that kid get out of the ring.

  “Please, will you take me?”

  Mondini wasn’t expecting that.

  “Yes or no, Maestro?”

  The winter of 1989 was extremely cold, and the soccer games, behind Gould’s house, were often called off because of the state of the field. At
times the teams resigned themselves to playing in impossible conditions, just so that the schedule wouldn’t be completely shot. One day Gould, Poomerang and Diesel happened to see them play in the snow. The ball bounced, and so for the referee it was all regulation. One team wore red shirts, the other purple-and-white-checked stripes. Some of the players wore gloves and one of the two goalies had put a Cossack hat on, with the ear flaps lowered and tied under his chin. He looked like an Antarctic explorer rescued from the pack ice by a cruise ship from Club Med. Halfway through the second half Gould left the house and went to his usual place, behind the right-hand goal. Prof. Taltomar wasn’t there. It was the first time. Gould waited a while, then went home. The reds won, with a lucky goal in the twelfth minute of the second half.

  The professor no longer showed up at the field, and so Gould went to look for him. Finally he found him, in an old people’s home, with pneumonia that might be cancer, no one was sure. He was in bed, and looked as if he’d got smaller. In his mouth was an unfiltered cigarette, unlighted. Gould moved the chair next to the bed and sat down. Prof. Taltomar had his eyes closed, maybe he was sleeping. For a while Gould sat in silence, then he said:

  “Nothing-nothing at two minutes from the end. The center forward runs into the penalty area, the referee blows the whistle. The captain protests, starts screaming like a madman. The referee gets angry, pulls out a gun, and shoots him point-blank. The gun misfires. The captain hurls himself on the referee and they end up on the ground. The players run over and separate them. The referee gets up.”

  Professor Taltomar didn’t move. For quite a while, he didn’t move. Then he slowly removed the cigarette from his lips, tapped off a little of the imaginary ash, and murmured softly:

  “Red card for the captain. Penalty enforced. Play resumes until the expiration of regulation time plus time added on for the scuffle. Expulsion of the referee according to Rule No. 28 of the handbook that goes as follows: Dickheads are not permitted to referee.”

  Then he coughed and put the cigarette back in his mouth.

  Gould felt good, inside.

  He stayed a bit longer, in silence.

  When he got up he said:

  “Thank you, Professor.”