City

by Alessandro Baricco

  “Then in fact he did make a comeback, he went ten rounds with Bradford, quite a sad show.”

  “You people out there call it sad . . . you . . . but it’s not sad . . . what does sad have to do with it . . . it’s not like that, Dan, you know? . . . it’s not sad, it’s beautiful . . . maybe they fight and it’s painful, and you remember when they were quicker and not so fat, and you say How sad, but . . . if you think about it . . . they’re only trying to steal a little more luck out of life . . . they’ve got the right, it’s like two people who love each other and after years and years of living together, say after thirty years they’ve been living and sleeping together, there comes a night when they’re in bed and . . . maybe they turn out the light, maybe they’re not even completely naked, but there comes this night when they make love again . . . and is that sad?, just because they’re old and . . . to me it seems beautiful, if you’ve been a fighter fighting seems beautiful to you, and I saw that fight . . . Miller, my God, he was fat like . . . but I thought OK, it’s all right like that, the punches were real, they had nothing to be ashamed of, if they wanted to do it why shouldn’t they, I hope they were paid properly, they deserved it . . .”

  “But you yourself never went back to the ring.”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been tempted?”

  “Oh God, ever . . . hard to say . . . but . . . no, I never really considered going back.”

  “After the victory over Miller . . . after five years of professional boxing, with a record of thirty-five wins and only one loss, you became Butler’s official challenger, for the world championship. What do you remember of that period?”

  “Those were the days: we ate well and the time flew by. You know who said that? Drink, Mondini’s assistant . . . he fought for two years, two years only, when he was young, but for him it had been paradise, still was . . . I think he had been beaten in every fight, but he was young and . . . I don’t know what else, anyway it seemed that they were the only two notable years of his life, and so everyone was always asking him Hey Drink, what was it like? And he’d say: Those were the days: we ate well and the time flew by. Quite a guy.”

  “You have always said that you had great admiration for Butler. Were you afraid of him, before meeting him, the first time, in Cincinnati?”

  “Butler was intelligent. He was a particular type of fighter. You would have said he was cut out for . . . pool or something like that . . . something that required nerve, precision, calm . . . something without violence . . . you know what Mondini said about him, when we watched his fights? He said: Learn: he writes the letters with his head: the fists merely deliver the mail, that’s all. I watched and I learned. At the time, I recall, many people said he was a dull fighter, there was all this talk about how he made boxing dull, it was dull, like watching someone read a book, they said. But the truth is that he was giving a lecture, every time he fought he was giving a lecture. He was the only one stronger than me.”

  “In Cincinnati, that time, you took the world championship crown away from him, sending him to the canvas thirty-two seconds from the end of the match.”

  “The best round of my life, all in one suspended breath, amazing.”

  “Butler said that at a certain point he would have liked to go into the audience so he could enjoy the sight.”

  “Butler was a gentleman, a true gentleman. You know, the other year, in Madison, before Kostner-Avoriaz, we saw each other, he and I, and some other old champions, the usual parade of former champions before the match, up in the ring, with everyone clapping, well, anyway, it was a long event, endless, yet another former champion kept appearing, and at one point Butler, who was next to me, turns to me and says Do you know what a boxer’s worst nightmare is? And I say No, I don’t . . . I thought it was a joke, so I said No, I don’t . . . and yet he was serious. He said to me: To die without money for the funeral. He wasn’t joking. He was serious. To die without money for the funeral. Then he turned away and didn’t say another word. Well, now it may seem silly, but I thought about that, and you know, it’s true? If I think of all the fighters I’ve talked to, sooner or later that business about where they’re going to be buried comes up, and the funeral—it seems ridiculous but it’s true, as Butler says, and . . . it’s something that made me think, because . . . Me, for example, it never occurred to me, I don’t think I’ve ever once thought about my funeral, I don’t know, it’s not the sort of thing that occurs to me . . . you know? no, even that, it didn’t seem to have much to do with me, with . . . it’s like it’s not my world, the ring and all . . . I think that was the idea Mondini had, that I had nothing to do with that world, with boxing, and that it didn’t matter if I had talent or anything, I had nothing to do with it and that was all, I think that was the reason he never believed in me, truly believed, that, ultimately, was the reason, he thought it wasn’t my place, he always refused to change his mind, about that, and . . . never . . . so.”

  “Eight months after the match in Cincinnati, you conceded the rematch to Butler. And you went to the second loss of your career.”

  “Yes.”

  “Many people said that you weren’t prepared for that match, some even spoke of a fix, they said that the Battistas were already planning the third fight, and a huge amount of money . . . it was said that they had forced you to lose . . .”

  “I don’t know . . . things were very weird around that time. . . they never asked me to do anything, I promise you . . . but then the Battistas never told me anything . . . I don’t know, it was sort of like we all had it in mind that the right thing was to have a final bout, to determine who was the stronger. I think that even I in some way would have liked that, not so much for the money, that wasn’t so important, it was that . . . it seemed more fair, I don’t know, it was like things just ought to go that way. So I went into the ring without knowing very well what I wanted . . . I think I wanted to box . . . to put on a show . . . and, look, if he had been afraid, or even if he’d thought only for an instant that he could lose . . . well, he would have lost, it would have been over for good, for him . . . I certainly wouldn’t have dragged myself back . . . only that . . . the fact is that he went up there with a single idea, pounded into his head, a single, precise idea, and that idea was to knock me out of there. And he did it. He saw everything a moment before I did, he knew what I would do, and where I would go, it was like he was figuring out my moves before I did. And meanwhile he hammered. At some point I realized that it was over, and then I vowed that I would at least stay on my feet till the end, I vowed to myself, while I was sitting in the corner, and Battista was giving me I don’t know what bullshit that I wasn’t even listening to, I said to myself Fuck you, Larry, you will come out of this fight on your feet, if it’s the last thing you do. Then the bell rang, there were four rounds till the end, I decided to throw all the strength I had into my legs and put on the best dance Butler had ever seen. I didn’t even think about throwing punches, only about flying around him, yes. I could manage it, for four rounds I could manage it. So I started dancing and I began to take Butler for a walk. He fell for it for a minute, a little more than a minute. Then I saw him smile and shake his head. He planted himself in the center of the ring and left me to do my number. Every so often he feinted, but in reality he was waiting, that was all. When he went in with the jab I almost didn’t see it coming, I only felt that my legs were gone, and without legs you’re not much of a dancer . . .”

  “You know that many people said it was a phantom punch, that you threw yourself down?”

  “People see what they want to see. At that point they were convinced that the fight was fixed, and so . . . that was a real punch, I’m telling you . . .”

  “Have you ever sold a fight, Larry?”

  “What sort of question is that, Dan? . . . we’re on the radio . . . you don’t ask questions like that . . .”

  “I only wondered if you’d ever sold a fight . . . it’s been years now . . .”


  “Come on . . . what sort of question is that . . . why should I have sold a fight . . . what difference does it make now anyway . . .”

  “OK, as if not said.”

  “You know how things go, right? . . . you yourself . . . come on . . .”

  “OK, listen, now that you’ve left and . . . have another life . . . I’d like to know if you miss the ring, and the public, and the headlines in the newspapers, and the gym, that world, those people.”

  “If I miss them? . . . oh God, it’s . . . it’s hard to say, things are different, that’s over, that . . . it’s not that I think about it every day . . . I miss it, yes, I miss something, of course I miss it . . . there were some wonderful things, you know boxing makes you experience some truly unique things, there’s nothing like . . . anyway it’s something special, truly, I often was . . . I found that I was happy, it gave me a lot of happiness, maybe in odd ways, it’s not easy to explain, but . . . how to say . . . it was . . . it made me a happy man, that’s it, for example, I remember once, in San Sebastiano, I can’t even recall now who I was supposed to fight, well, I had some weight problems, every so often it happened, and so to get me back to my weight Mondini woke me, at five in the morning, when it was still dark . . . I put on the heavy track suit, and on top of that my robe, with the hood over my head, and the idea was to jump rope for a solid hour and sweat like a pig, and that’s what I’d do, it was the only sure method for losing weight in a short time . . . but . . . the problem was that we were in a hotel, and Mondini said he didn’t want me to jump rope in my room, I’d wake everyone up, and so we went downstairs to look for a place, and there was no one around, at that hour, so we opened doors at random and ended up in a big ballroom, you know, the sort of place that’s used for weddings, parties, and so on, there was a long table and a little stage for the orchestra, and big windows looking out onto the city. I remember that the chairs were stacked upside down on the table and there was also a drum set, on the stage, you know?, but covered with a sheet, a pink sheet, just imagine. Mondini turned out the light and said to me Jump, and don’t stop until you see the color of the cars in the street. Then he left. So I stayed there, alone, all wrapped up, the hood pulled over my head, and I began to jump rope, alone, in the dark, with the whole sleeping city around me, and there I was, with the rhythm of the rope, and the sound of my feet on the wood, and the hood over my head, and my eyes staring straight ahead, and . . . the heat, and then the dawn, little by little, through the big windows, but slowly, delicately, Christ, it was like being . . . I don’t know, it was wonderful, I remember I was jumping, and my thoughts moved to the rhythm of my feet, and what I was thinking was I am unbeatable, I am safe, just that, I am safe, I am safe, while I was jumping, and I was thinking, I am safe . . . like that.”

  “. . .”

  “I imagine that’s what it is, to feel happy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “. . .”

  “. . .”

  “How is life now, Larry?”

  “Life?”

  “Yes, I mean, how are things going for you?”

  “That’s a personal question, Dan, not a question to ask on the radio.”

  “No, sincerely, it was my own curiosity, I’d like to know, how things are going . . .”

  “OK, but turn off that tape recorder, what’s the public got . . .”

  “Maybe they’d also like to know . . .”

  “Come on, don’t give me that bullshit, turn the thing off . . .”

  “OK, OK.”

  “Then you can turn it on again, all right?”

  “OK, if you pref—”

  Click.

  Gould turned off the light in the men’s room. He looked up at the clock. Three minutes before seven. He opened the locker, and took off his white shirt and hung it on the plastic hook. He picked up from the table the card that said “Thank you” and put it away, on the shelf above. Then he looked at the glass jar with the tips in it. He had worked out a system for predicting the total before he counted the money: it was a system that involved many variables, such as the atmospheric temperature, the day of the week, and the percentage of children who had used the toilets. So he began to calculate as usual and at the end he fixed the figure in his mind. Then he emptied the jar onto the table and started counting. Generally he had a margin of error no higher than 18 percent. That day he was very close to hitting the exact figure. Seven percent over. He was improving. He picked up the money and put it in a nylon bag. He tied the bag and stuck it in his briefcase. He gave a look around, to see that everything was in place. Then he took his jacket from the locker, and put it on. In the locker there was a pair of rubber boots, an atlas, and a few other things. There were also three photographs, attached to the door. There was one of Walt Disney, and one of Eva Braun. Then there was a third.

  Gould closed the locker. He put the chair away, pushing it under the table, picked up the briefcase, went to the door, turned back to give another glance around, then switched off the light. He went out, shutting the door behind him, and went up the stairs. The supermarket, above, was also closing. Half-empty checkout counters and workers pushing trains of carts. He went over to give the keys to Bart, in the little office.

  “Everything all right, Gould?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Take care, OK?”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  He left the supermarket. It was dark and a cold wind was blowing. But the air was clean, of clean glass. He pulled up the collar of his coat and crossed the street. Diesel and Poomerang were waiting for him, leaning on a garbage can.

  “How was the shit?”

  “Abundant.”

  “It’s the season, shitting is a pleasure in winter,” Poomerang didn’t say.

  All three had their hands in their pockets. They hated gloves. If you think about it, of all the nice things you can do with your hands there’s not one you can do if you’re wearing gloves.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Alessandro Baricco

  City

  Alessandro Baricco was born in Turin in 1958. The author of three previous novels, he has won the Prix Médicis Étranger in France and the Selezione Campiello, Viareggio, and Palazzo del Bosco prizes in Italy. His third novel, Silk, became an immediate bestseller in Italy and has been translated into twenty-seven languages. It is the basis of a forthcoming opera by André Previn and a film to be produced by Miramax.

  INTERNATIONAL

  Also by Alessandro Baricco

  Silk

  Ocean Sea

  FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, JUNE 2003

  Translation copyright © 2001 by Alessandro Baricco

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International

  and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:

  Baricco, Alessandro.

  [City. English]

  City / Alessandro Baricco; translated by Ann Goldstein.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  I. Goldstein, Ann, 1949– II. Title.

  PQ4862.A6745 C5813 2002

  853’.914—dc21 2001050727

  www.vintagebooks.com

  www.randomhouse.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-42527-0

  v3.0