City

by Alessandro Baricco

  It was all so sudden and, in a certain sense, natural.

  The bus driver saw the boy from a distance, but didn’t think he would actually cross the street. He thought he would at least turn his head, would see the bus and stop. Instead the boy walked into the street without looking, as if he were in the driveway of his own house. Instinctively the bus driver pressed the brake pedal, gripping the steering wheel in his hands and leaning back into the seat. The bus began to skid, its rear heading toward the center of the street. The boy kept walking, looking at something in front of him. The driver let up a little on the brake so that he could regain control of the bus, saw the few feet he had to go, and thought that he was killing a boy. He swerved violently to the right. He heard the shouts of passengers thrown forward from the seat behind him. He saw the side of the bus pass a few feet, no more than a few feet, from the boy, and felt under his hands the friction of the tires scraping the curb.

  Gould reached the other side of the street, bent over, and picked up the ball. He turned, looked to see if any cars were coming, then crossed the street again. A bus had come to a halt there, slightly angled against the sidewalk: it was honking its horn madly. Gould thought it was saying hello to someone. He stepped up onto the grass and got to the bench. He looked at the fence, at how high it was. Then he looked at the ball. On it was written Maracaná. He had never seen a ball so close up. In fact he had never even touched a ball.

  He glanced at the fence again. He knew the move, he had seen it a thousand times. He went through it mentally, wondering if he would ever manage to transmit it to all the parts of the body that were needed. It seemed unlikely. But it was so clearly necessary, that he make the attempt. He went through it all carefully, in order. The sequence of moves wasn’t complicated. You had to get up speed, that would be difficult, synchronize the timing, and put all the pieces together into a single movement, without interruption. You couldn’t stop halfway through, it was clear. It had to be a thing that began and ended, without your getting lost on the way. Like the refrain of a song, he thought. The children, on the other side of the fence, were still shouting. Sing, Gould. Anyway, go on to the end, it’s the moment to sing.

  The bus driver’s legs were trembling, but he climbed out and, leaving the door open, headed towards that idiotic boy, who was standing there motionless, staring at the ball he was holding in his hand. He must be a real imbecile. The driver was about to shout to him, when finally he saw him move: he saw him raise the ball in the air, with his left hand, and then send it into flight with his right foot, nailing it over the fence into the school playground. Just look at this imbecile, he thought.

  The curve of black-and-white leather meets in the air the catapult of foot leg calf, inner right instep, perfect soft impact that goes back along the flesh to the brain—pure pleasure—while the body rotates around the matador’s flag of the left leg intent on keeping its balance during the rotation in order to restore it to the right leg as soon as it touches earth again, returning from the great flight with a thud, keeping the body from rolling forwards while the eyes instinctively look up to see the ball that is scaling fences and doubts, rolling out in the sky a trajectory like a rainbow in black and white.

  “Yes,” Gould said softly. It was the answer to a whole lot of questions.

  The bus driver came up a few feet away from the boy. His legs were still shaky. He was angry.

  “Are you completely out of your mind or what?, hey you, what is it, are you nuts?”

  The boy turned to look at him.

  “Not anymore, sir.”

  He said.

  25

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Shatzy Shell.”

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yes, it’s me, General.”

  “Everything all right down there?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Good.”

  “I said: not exactly.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I called to tell you that there’s a problem.”

  “The fact is, you did telephone me. Why?”

  “To tell you there’s a problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “It depends.”

  “It’s not the moment, you know?, to have serious problems.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just not the moment.”

  “Will you listen to me?”

  “Of course, Miss Shell.”

  “Gould has disappeared.”

  “Miss Shell . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Gould left for Couverney.”

  “That’s true.”

  “That’s not the same as disappeared.”

  “True.”

  “He only left for Couverney.”

  “Yes, but he never got there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “And where on earth did he go?”

  “I don’t know. I think he decided to disappear.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He’s gone, General, Gould is gone.”

  “Something must have happened to him, did you call the university, the police, did you telephone everywhere?”

  “No.”

  “You must do so immediately, Miss Shell, call me back in five minutes, I’ll take care of everything, in fact I’ll call you back, in five minutes . . .”

  “General . . .”

  “Don’t lose your head.”

  “I’m not losing my head, I’d just like you to listen to me.”

  “I am listening to you.”

  “Don’t do anything, please.”

  “What on earth are you saying?”

  “Listen to me, don’t do anything, don’t say anything to anyone, and, please, come here.”

  “Me, come there?”

  “Yes, I’d like you to come here.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Gould must be found, there’s no point in my coming there, will you please do me the favor of . . .”

  “General . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Trust me. Take one of your airplanes, or whatever, and come here.”

  “. . .”

  “. . .”

  “. . .”

  “Believe me, it’s the only useful thing you can do. Come here.”

  “. . .”

  “Then I’ll expect you.”

  “. . .”

  “General?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  26

  Somebody lights a cigarette—maximum volume, noise of feverish tobacco, loud as the crumpling of a mile-long sheet of paper—his cheeks hollowing as they suck in the smoke, cheeks beneath eyes like oysters floating in a ruddy face that turns to the woman beside him, a blonde who laughs with a hoarse strong laugh like a promise of bed which bathes the minds of the men packed in, each in his place, within a ten-yard radius, and little by little fades over men and women sitting in close rows, bodies touching, minds speeding, rows and rows that descend gradually from the top, penetrating the air pierced by waves of rock music expelled from giant speakers, by shouts that rising up call out names from one side of the arena to the other, traveling through the mottled light and FLASH bulbs, among the odors of tobacco, expensive perfume, aftershave, armpits, leather jackets, popcorn, advancing in the big collective roar, lap belly of millions of words, excited foolish dirty drunk of love that swarm like worms over that earth of bodies and minds, that plowed field of lined-up heads, sloping down concentrically, inevitably, towards the dazzling well that at the center of it all concentrates eyes fears blood pressures, focusing on the blue of the carpet where a red legend shouts out PONTIAC HOTEL and will do so throughout the excitement of this night, God bless it, now that it has finally arrived, coming from afar and riding up to

  . . . here in the ring at the Pontiac Hotel, wh
ere at the Radio KKJ microphone Dan De Palma welcomes you to this marvelous night of boxing. Everything ready here FLASH for the challenge which has inspired rivers of ink and thousands of bets, a challenge that Mondini wanted desperately, and achieved, perhaps even against the wishes of his favorite FLASH of course between the general surprise FLASH and the skepticism of the media, skepticism that, we must say, has been transformed into an agonizing wait, to judge from the size of the crowd and the tension that you can breathe FLASH here beside the ring, where it’s only a few seconds now to the start of the match FLASH the referee will be Ramón Gonzales of Mexico, we have 8,243 paying spectators, twelve radio feeds, in the red corner FLASH in white shorts with gold trim, thirty-three years old, fifty-seven fights, forty-one wins FLASH fourteen losses, two ties, twelve years in the ring, twice challenger for the world championship, retired two years and three months ago in the ring at Atlantic City, a controversial fighter, loved and hated FLASH bookmakers’ nightmare, a lefty, a formidable boxer, a fighter of rare power, Stanleeeeeey “Hooooooooooooker” Poreeeeeeeeeda FLASH in the blue corner, black shorts, twenty-two years old, twenty-one fights, twenty-one wins, twenty-one inside the distance FLASH and knocked to the canvas only once, one of the hopes of championship boxing, boxes both orthodox and southpaw FLASH he can move FLASH in dizzying rhythms, he’s got spectacular agility, young, unpredictable, arrogant FLASH hateful, the kid who maybe in a few years we’ll call the greatest, Larrryyyyyyy “Laaaaaaaaawyer” Gooooooooorman

  (feel Mondini’s fingers moving up and down my neck loosening the knots of fear, I’m not scared Maestro, but do it anyway, it feels good)

  “Don’t be in a hurry, just forget the bullshit, Larry.”

  “Right.”

  “Back up, watch out for his head.”

  “Right.”

  “Do the easy things and you won’t have any problems.”

  “You promised, Maestro.”

  “Yes, I promised.”

  “I win and you take me to the world championship.”

  “Think about the fight, stupid.”

  “You’ll like it, you’ll see, the world championship.”

  “Fuck you, Larry.”

  “Fuck.”

  BOX cries referee Gonzales, and it’s on, Poreda takes the center of the ring, Lawyer uses the right defense, moves around Poreda . . . Poreda goes with a very close defense, with his gloves together in front of his face, he prefers to leave his body exposed, blank gaze and . . . fierce behind the red gloves, he is apparently the FLASH Poreda of old, not pretty but like a rock . . . solid, Lawyer flies around him, keeps changing direction FLASH very loose, for now he’s using his legs, doesn’t even throw a jab . . . the two seem to be studying each other, feint by Lawyer FLASH another feint . . . Poreda doesn’t work much with his legs but seems agile enough with his body, another feint, and again from Lawyer FLASH Poreda doesn’t back up, he keeps to small upper-body movements . . . there still hasn’t been a single punch, a very cautious start on the part of the (you’re so ugly, Poreda, hasn’t anyone ever told you?, he doesn’t have legs, either he’s pretending not to or he doesn’t have the legs anymore, with those he can’t get away, and hit him on the arms, I ought to hit there, are the arms broken or not?, yes they are son of a bitch and so) USE THE JAB, LARRY, THE JAB, IN THE AIR, LIKE THIS very graceful around the center of the ring, but Lawyer doesn’t draw punches, he seems to mock his opponent FLASH typical of Lawyer, though, he likes to put on a show . . . even too much some of his detractors say (is this what you want, huh, Poreda?, want me to get tired out running around you, beautifully, while you wait there for the right moment to screw me, you think I fell for it, huh, fine, end of the show, it was just for) FLASH FLASH RIGHT FROM POREDA an unexpected right hook FLASH not even prepared, but he took Lawyer by surprise, got him in the face, the tension rises here at the Pontiac Hotel (fucking bastard) LARRY, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? (I’m here, I’m here, Maestro, OK, end of the dance, you bastard) feint from Lawyer, another feint, changes defense, jab ANOTHER JAB, AND LEFT HOOK FLASH POREDA SWEPT AWAY FROM THE FLASH CENTER OF THE RING, Poreda on the ropes, LAWYER, FLASH TWO-HAND COMBINATION, IMPRESSIVE SERIES FLASH TO THE BODY FLASH Poreda doesn’t lower his hands, he protects his face FLASH Lawyer hits then regains his distance, now he goes down, keeps hitting his body GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE, Lawyer back and then forward again, Poreda still on the ropes, Lawyer with two hands, Poreda’s body sways, he doesn’t come out of his defense, OUT OF THERE, Lawyer perseveres, UPPERCUT FROM POREDA, AND HOOK, RIGHT HOOK TO THE FACE, LAWYER STAGGERS, POREDA GOES TO THE CLINCH, MOUTHPIECE FLIES, LAW-YER’S MOUTHPIECE HAS FALLEN OUT, REFEREE INTERVENES, that powerful hook from Poreda shook Lawyer’s head, tore out his mouthpiece, the referee picks it up, now hands it to Lawyer’s cornermen, Lawyer can breathe, he seems to have really felt Poreda’s one-two, Poreda seemed trapped on the defensive, then with an uppercut he surprised Lawyer, hitting him again right away, great timing, Lawyer puts back the mouthpiece, BOX, they start again, there’s blood on Lawyer’s face, maybe a little cut above the eyebrow, the two fighters are studying each other again, rather, it seems to be a cut on his mouth, a lot of blood right now, dripping down Lawyer’s neck, maybe the referee should THIRTY SECONDS, LARRY (OK, thirty seconds, stay cool and) THIRTY SECONDS, GET AWAY, LET THEM GO, THIRTY SECONDS it’s Lawyer now who’s looking for the ropes, Poreda presses him but cautiously, he moves in close, in his characteristic position, head forward between his shoulders, Lawyer tries to push him back with the jab, the referee stops, warning to Poreda for low head, fight resumes, GONG, end of the first round, a round that passed practically in a single flash, action that

  “He’s a son of a bitch.”

  “Let me see.”

  “He did it with his elbow . . . the elbow right in the mouth as soon as he saw the mouthpiece gone, fucking . . .”

  “Shut up and let me see.”

  “. . .”

  “OK, WATER, GET THAT WATER OVER HERE . . .”

  “It hurts, Maestro.”

  “Don’t talk crap.”

  “My mouth is . . .”

  “SHUT IT and listen to me. LARRY!”

  “Yes.”

  “Start again from the beginning. Forget everything, start again, as if it were the first round . . . no hurry and a clear head, OK? It’s all like before, you’re stronger, you’re confident, get up there and do your job, that’s it.”

  “How many did he screw me out of?”

  “Two or three, nothing serious.”

  “TWO OR THREE?”

  “I have the number of a good dentist, no problem. Get up, come on, breathe, are you thirsty?”

  “I’ll kill that great big son of a bitch, I swear I’ll . . .”

  “LARRY, GOD DAMN IT, NOTHING HAPPENED, START AGAIN FROM THE BEGINNING, DO YOU UNDERSTAND OR NOT, FROM THE BEGINNING, everything from the beginning, nothing happened, clear head, Larry . . .”

  “OK, OK.”

  “First round, right?”

  “First round.”

  “Nothing’s happened.”

  “OK.”

  “You know something, you’re missing three teeth, there in the front.”

  “Baseball bat, years ago.”

  “OK, fuck you, Larry.”

  “Fuck.”

  Second round here in the ring at the Pontiac Hotel, we’re live for the listeners of Radio KKJ, Larry “Lawyer” Gorman took an ugly blow to the mouth, he now holds the center of the ring . . . Poreda not too quick on his legs, but keeps his arms up and ready to strike, straight right from Lawyer, again a straight, Poreda doesn’t lower his arms, Lawyer moves around him, seems to be looking for the HARD JAB, FOLLOWED BY ANOTHER JAB AND HOOK TO THE BODY, POREDA ON THE ROPES, Poreda in the corner, moves out on the left, Lawyer doesn’t stop him (pay attention to the head, and the uppercut, he’ll certainly try that again) Poreda again in the corner, tries an uppercut, misses, Lawyer works him on the body, quick punches to the ribs, Poreda still protecting his fa
ce, bends his body, tries to go out on the right, DOWN, POREDA DOWN HAS SET ONE KNEE DOWN (what are you doing you bastard?) THE REFEREE PUSHES LAWYER AWAY, IT WAS PROBABLY A PUNCH TO THE LIVER, A PUNCH AT CLOSE RANGE, POREDA’S RIGHT LEG BUCKLES, AS IF BROKEN IN TWO, NOW POREDA GETS UP, breathing hard while referee Gonzales counts, he seems lucid, nods his head that everything is all right LARRY! (eyes the same as before, nothing happened, it’s a trap) LARRY LEAVE HIM ALONE! (I understand, Maestro, I know, I’m not going in there, I’m not going there, I’m dancing now, hey?, a little dancing will do him good) while Lawyer moves around him, changing direction, he seems to have no intention of attacking, or maybe he’s waiting for the moment . . . Poreda moves in, Lawyer isn’t there, he backs up, he slips away gracefully to the right, moves around Poreda, now he changes direction, Poreda tries again to shorten up, Lawyer leans on the ropes, hook from BUT IT’S A STRAIGHT COUNTER FROM LAWYER AND POREDA STAGGERS, STILL UP, LAWYER WITH TWO HANDS, POREDA IN TROUBLE, POREDA, POREDA LANDS A HOOK, ANOTHER, NOW HE’S THE ONE PUNCHING, A VIOLENT EXCHANGE, LAWYER TAKES ONE, LEANS ON THE ROPES (where the fuck) AGAIN POREDA ON THE ATTACK, OUT OF THERE LARRY, POREDA AIMS LOW AND THEN WITH A HOOK MISSES WILL YOU GET OUT OF THERE LARRY? (when he breathes) POREDA KEEPS GOING, GAP CLOSING, LAWYER TRAPPED AT THE ROPES, POREDA, POREDA LARRY! (when he breathes) POREDA LANDS THE RIGHT, AGAIN WITH THE RIGHT, MISSES THIS TIME, POREDA LETS GO, two steps back (go on) LAWYER LIKE A CATAPULT, STRAIGHT RIGHT, STRAIGHT AGAIN, POREDA IN THE CENTER OF THE RING, CURLED OVER, SAVAGE HOOK FROM LAWYER, POREDA STAGGERS, LOOKS FOR THE ROPES (the hook, he doesn’t see the hook), POREDA ON THE ROPES, LAWYER KEEPS HIS DISTANCE, SEARCHING FOR AN OPENING, POREDA’S BODY SWAYS (there you are, boy), Lawyer with the jab, again with the jab, Poreda doesn’t respond, he’s still looking for HARD JAB AND RIGHT HOOK, POREDA DOWN, LIGHTNING ONE-TWO, POREDA DOWN (get up, you clown) POREDA TAKING THE COUNT, HE STANDS UP (get up, I haven’t finished), JUMPS UP AND DOWN, SIX . . . SEVEN . . . EIGHT . . . makes a sign that he wants to keep going, the fight starts again, and Lawyer immediately takes off, shortens up, gets Poreda jab, another jab, COUNTER-PUNCH, POREDA ANTICIPATED HIM, STRAIGHT COUNTER-PUNCH, LAWYER SWAYS, LEGS BUCKLE, STRAIGHT COUNTER, LAWYER HURT BUT STANDING (what the fuck . . .), looks for the clinch, now (fuck your head, you bastard), this is an extraordinarily intense moment here, audience on their feet, referee orders the break, Lawyer is breathing with his mouth open, it was the counter-punch that got him (that piece of crap, Larry) still in the clinch, Poreda works the sides, hook from Lawyer on the mark, uppercut misses, Poreda still on the sides, head to head (what’s he doing, talking?) Poreda seems to move better in the clinch (shut up, you bastard, shut up), the referee separates the two fighters AND WHAT IS THAT, REF? On the way out Poreda punches him in the body, Lawyer protests REF, WHAT WAS THAT? OPEN GLOVE!!! Hard to judge from here (thumb in the diaphragm, I know it, you bastard), it looked like a clean hit, Lawyer now catches his breath, Poreda doesn’t persist, he takes the center of the ring, gets his legs going, it’s the Lawyer GONG we know, end of the round, a round that in my personal opinion sees the two fighters essentially