White Like Milk, Red Like Blood Page 2
Silence. I am losing the duel. I don’t know what to say.
“No. In fact, we are not interested.”
In reality, I am interested. I want to know why someone dreams of becoming a loser, then works to make it happen. He even seems happy about it. The others are giving me dirty looks. Not even Silvia approves: “Tell us, Prof, we’re interested.”
Abandoned even by Silvia, I sink into whiteness, while the prof begins his story, with the eyes of one possessed:
“Mohammed el-Magrebi lived in Cairo, in a little house where there was a garden with a fig tree and a fountain. He was very poor. He fell asleep, and he dreamed of a man soaked with water, who was pulling a gold coin out of his mouth and saying to him, ‘Your fortune is in Persia, in Isfahan. … You will find a treasure there. … Go!’ Mohammed woke up and left in a hurry. After a thousand perils, he arrived in Isfahan. Here, while he was looking for some food, dead tired, he was mistaken for a thief.
“They beat him with bamboo canes and almost killed him. Until the captain asked him, ‘Who are you? Where do you come from? Why are you here?’ He told him the truth. ‘I dreamed of a soaking-wet man, who ordered me to come here in search of a treasure. Nice treasure I get! Some beatings!’ The captain laughed and told him, ‘Idiot! And you believe in dreams? Oh … I dreamed three times about a poor house in Cairo, where there is a garden, and beside the garden, a fig tree and beside the fig tree a fountain, and under the fountain an enormous treasure! But I never moved from here, idiot! Go away, you credulous fool!’ The man went back home, and, digging under the fountain of his garden, unearthed the treasure!”
He tells the story with all the pauses in the right places, like an actor. My classmates fell silent, with the pupils of their eyes dilated, like those of Curly when he takes a drag of weed: a bad sign. Just what we needed! A mesmerizing storyteller! I greet the end of the fable with a snicker.
“Is that it?”
The substitute stands up, silent. He sits down on the desk.
“That’s all there is. That day, my grandfather explained to me how we are different from the animals that do only what their nature commands of them. Instead, we are free. It is the greatest gift we have received. Thanks to that freedom, we can become something different from what we are. Freedom allows us to dream, and dreams are the blood of our life, even if it often costs us a long journey and some beatings. ‘Never give up on your dreams! Do not be afraid to dream, even if others laugh at you.’ This is what my grandfather told me. ‘To do so would be to deny yourself.’ I still remember his bright eyes underlining his words.”
Everyone remains silent, in admiration, and it bothers me that this guy here is at the center of attention, when it should be me who is at the center of attention during sub-time.
“What does this have to do with teaching History and Philosophy, Prof?”
He stares at me.
“History is a big pot full of projects realized by men who became great because they had the courage to transform their dreams into reality, and Philosophy is the silence in which these dreams are born. Even if sometimes, unfortunately, these dreams of men were nightmares, especially for those who had to pay a steep price. When dreams are not born in silence, they become nightmares. History—together with Philosophy, Art, Music, Literature—is the best way to discover what Man is. Alexander the Great, Caesar Augustus, Dante, Michelangelo … all men who put their freedom at stake for something better, and, changing themselves, they changed the course of history. In this classroom, perhaps, there could be the next Dante or Michelangelo. … It could even be you!”
The eyes of the prof shine while he speaks of the deeds of small men who became great, thanks to their own dreams, their own freedom. This throws me for a loop, but it upsets me even more that I am listening to this fool.
“Only when Man has faith in that which is higher than his own limits—and this is a dream—does humanity take those steps forward that help it to believe in itself.”
As a line, it’s not bad, but it looks to me like the typical sentence of a young prof who is a dreamer. One year from now, I want to see where you and your dreams will be. This is why I have dubbed him “The Dreamer.” It’s great to have dreams, great to believe in them.
“Prof, to me this is all talk.”
I wanted to understand if he was serious or had simply built his own little world, in order to hide his loser life. The Dreamer looked me in my eyes, and, after a moment of silence, said, “What do you fear?”
Saved by the bell! Just when my thoughts had suddenly become mute and white.
5
I fear nothing. I am in my third year of classical studies in high school. This is what my family wanted. I had no idea what I was doing. Mom attended Classical Lyceum. Dad attended Classical Lyceum. Grandma is the personification of Classical. Only our dog hasn’t gone there.
It opens your mind, it broadens your horizons, it gives structure to your way of thinking, it makes you more flexible …
And it breaks your balls from morning to night.
That’s the way it is. There is no reason for establishing a school of this kind. The profs, for sure, never explained it to me. First day of the new school year: introductions, orientation, and meeting the profs. A kind of excursion to the zoo—the profs, a protected species you hope is going to become definitively extinct. …
Afterward, some required entrance exams to verify the placement level of each student. And after this warm welcome … hell: turned into shadows and dust. Class assignments, explanations, oral exams like I had never seen before. In middle school, I would study about half an hour, if at all. Then, off to soccer anywhere that resembled a field, from the hallways of our house to the parking lot below. When worse came to worse, soccer on the PlayStation.
At school, it was a whole different story. If you wanted to pass the year, you had to study. Still, I really didn’t study much at all, because you only do things if you really believe in them. And no professor had ever convinced me otherwise. And if someone who dedicates his life to studying can’t convince you to do so, then why should I do it?
I go on the blog of The Dreamer. Yes, the substitute for History and Philosophy has a blog, and I am curious to see what he writes on it. Profs do not have real lives out of school. Out of school, they do not exist. So I wanted to see what somebody who had nothing to speak of would say. He spoke about a film that he had already seen for the umpteenth time: Dead Poets Society. He was talking about how he shared the same passion for teaching as the protagonist of the film. He was saying how this film had shown him what his role was on this earth. He went on like that, with a phrase both mysterious, but beautiful: “To grasp beauty wherever it may be, and give it to whoever is beside me. This is why I am in this world.”
You’ve got to admit that Prof Dreamer knows how to say things. In two sentences, anyone can see that he has understood his life. Sure, he is thirty, and, therefore, it is understandable that he has. But it isn’t often that someone says it with such clarity. At my age, his dream had ripened. He had a vision of his goal, and he has reached it.
I am sixteen, and I have no particular dreams, unless they are those I have at night but don’t remember in the morning. Erika-with-a-k maintains that dreams derive from reincarnation, from what we were in another life. Like that professional soccer player who says that in his past life he was a duck, and this perhaps has helped him develop his soccer finesse. Erika-with-a-k says that she was jasmine, and this is why she always smells so good. I like Erika-with-a-k’s perfume.
I do not believe in ever having been reincarnated. Anyway, if I could choose, I think I would prefer an animal to a plant: a lion, a tiger, a scorpion … Sure, reincarnation presents a problem, but it’s too complicated to think about now, and besides, I don’t have any memory of having been a lion, even if I have retained the mane and I can feel all the strength of a lion in my blood. This is why I must have been a lion, and that’s why my name is Leo. Leo in Latin
means “lion.” Leo rugiens: “roaring lion.”
Anyhow, I am in the first year of Classical Lyceum, and I have passed the fourth and fifth terms of the school year almost intact. In the first year, Greek and math are obligatory. Second year, only Greek. Greek is like the vegetables of school. Bitter, and useful only for bowel transit, which means shitting your pants on the day of oral exams. …
But it is all Massaroni’s fault. The most nitpicky and merciless prof of the whole school. She wears dog fur—always and only that. She dresses in two styles: with a heavy dog-fur coat in winter, autumn, and spring; in summer … a lighter dog-fur coat. How can someone live like this? Maybe she was a dog in a past life? I have fun assigning past lives to people, because it helps me understand their character.
For instance, Beatrice must have been a star in her past life. Yes, because stars have a blinding luminosity all around them; you can see them from millions of light-years away. They are a concentration of red matter, incandescent and luminous. Beatrice is like that. You can see her from hundreds of yards away, and she shines with her red hair. Who knows, maybe one day I will be able to kiss her. By the way, in a short time, it is going to be her birthday. She might invite me to her party. This afternoon I am going to the bus stop in front of school—this way I’ll see her. Beatrice is red wine. She inebriates me: I love her.
6
When you have a soccer tournament in the afternoon, there is no time for anything else. You have to prepare yourself mentally and savor the emotion calmly. Every gesture becomes important and must be perfect. The moment I love best is when I put on the thick socks, which slowly caress your shins, like an ancient suit of armor, like the leggings of a medieval knight.
The opponents today are from the fourth year, the B squad, a class of spoiled brats. We must bury them. Pirates against the FlyBoys. The outcome is certain, but the body count is still unknown. We will slaughter as many as we can. The Astroturf on the field that has seen three generations of players titillates every fiber of my being. And here we are shining, on this autumn afternoon, still warm, in our red jerseys bearing a skull in the center with Pirates written underneath. We are all here: Niko, Curly, Rod, and Sponge, who looks more like a bulletproof door than a goalie. We have the right attitude. This makes all the difference in the world. The others are full of pimples, and more than FlyBoys, they look like CryBoys.
They don’t even have time to realize who they are dealing with when we have already left them in the dust by two goals. Niko scores a goal, and I the other one. Two real pirates inside the penalty zone! One of us always knows where to find the other, even with our eyes closed, back-to-back, like two brothers. While I feel thrilled by my precise kick to the unreachable corner of the goal, I notice that Silvia is seated, watching the game with other schoolmates: Erika-with-a-k, Electra, Simo, Eli, Fra, and Barbie. They are talking among themselves, like always. Girls couldn’t care less about the game. Only Silvia applauds my goal. I send her a kiss, like the champion players who thank their fans. One day, it will be Beatrice sending me that kiss. I will dedicate my most beautiful goal to her, and I will run toward the spectators to show everybody my jersey that declares, “I belong to Beatrice.”
7
Argentieri’s husband passed away. We will not see her anymore; she has decided to retire early. She is taking it really hard. Of course, she has two children that she is very close to, but her husband was her reason for living, because History and Philosophy haven’t been for a long time. The Dreamer will take charge of us; substitutes decidedly bring bad luck. … Just to get jobs, they cause poor teachers’ husbands to die.
In any case, we have to go to the funeral of Argentieri’s husband, and I really don’t know how people can do these things. I don’t know what to wear. Silvia, the only woman I can trust in matters of style, tells me that I have to wear something dark, like a dark blue shirt and sweater. Jeans are okay, too, since I don’t have slacks. In church, there are a whole lot of people from school. I sit in the last pew, since I don’t even know when I should stand or sit. And, if I run in to Prof Argentieri? What should I say in this situation? The word condolences—how is it pronounced?—it sounds rather inappropriate to me. It’s better to remain in the dark, hide myself in the group: invisible and insignificant.
The funeral is officiated by the priest who is also my prof of Religion: with his tiny body, almost pocket-size, and a million kind and vivacious wrinkles, which have caused everybody in school to call him Gandalf, like the wizard in The Lord of the Rings.
Prof Argentieri is seated in the first pew, black on the outside, white on the inside. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief, her two children seated at her sides. A man of about forty and a slightly younger woman, not bad-looking. Her children have always been something of a mystery, because you never know if they have normal children or not; they probably teach them lessons all day long. What a disastrous life. …
However, Argentieri is weeping, and I feel sorry for her. At the end—not that I did so on purpose—we pass in front of each other. She looks at me as if expecting something. I smile at her. It’s the only thing I can do. She lowers her eyes and follows the wooden coffin. I really am a pirate. The only thing I can do when facing a woman whose husband has died is smile. I feel guilty. Maybe I could have said something. But in certain situations, I don’t know how to behave: is it my fault?
Once at home, I don’t feel like doing anything. I would like to be alone, but I can’t deal with whiteness now. I put on some music, and I get on the Internet. I chat with Niko about the funeral.
Argentieri’s husband, who knows where he is.
Has he been reincarnated?
Is he only ashes?
Is he suffering?
I hope he doesn’t suffer anymore, because he has already suffered a lot. Niko doesn’t know. He believes that there is something after death. But he doesn’t like the idea at all of being reincarnated into a fly. Why into a fly? He tells me that it’s because everybody at home tells him that he breaks their balls even more than a fly does.
By the way—actually, not really by the way—I must not forget Beatrice’s birthday. Even better, I’ll send her a text now: “Hi Beatrice, this is Leo, from your class, the one with the crazy hair. Your birthday is coming up. Will you be doing something special? See you soon, Leo :-).”
She doesn’t answer. I feel bad. I made an ass of myself. Who knows what Beatrice is thinking now. The usual loser who tries to flirt with a text. That silence penetrates my heart like a house painter who wants to paint my heart white, canceling out the name Beatrice and covering it with a uniform layer of white. Claws of pain, fear, solitude come out of my mute cell phone and tear out my guts. …
First a funeral, then Beatrice who doesn’t answer. Two large, steel white shutters are closing with a grating white sound, a sign reads: “Vehicle access, do not block.” It’s closing and you must move aside. You must not even think about it. And how can I manage that?
I call Silvia. We are on the phone for two hours. She understands that I only want someone near me, and she tells me this. She understands me right away, even when we talk of other issues. Silvia must have been an angel in another life. She catches everything on the fly, and it seems that angels are like this, otherwise they wouldn’t have wings. At least, this is what the Nun (Anna, one of our very Catholic schoolmates) tells us: “Each one of us has a guardian angel nearby. All you have to do is speak to him about what is happening to you and he will understand the cause.” I don’t believe it. However, I believe that Silvia is my guardian angel. I feel relieved. She has lifted the two steel white gates. We say good night, and I fall into a tranquil sleep, because I can always talk with her. I hope Silvia will always be there for me, even when we are adults. However, I love Beatrice.
Before falling asleep, I check my cell phone. A message! It’s probably Beatrice’s answer; I am saved. “If you cannot fall asleep, I am here for you. S.” How I wish this S were a B. …
Give me a scooter, even a 50cc Bat-scooter, and I will lift up the world. Yes, because when you pass by the front of the school and Beatrice is there with her friends, there is nothing better. I don’t dare stop, because she could tell me in front of everybody that she doesn’t want to receive any more of my loser messages. So I only pass by with my hair flying in the wind from under my helmet, giving her a casual look, like an arrow from Cupid, which only she can receive. This is enough to give me an extraordinary jolt. Yes, because without this charge I would end up on porn sites and jack off. But then I would feel even more depressed and I need to call Silvia, and since I cannot tell her the truth, I have to talk about something else. But is there anyone I can speak to about this?
It’s a good thing that the glowing, red starlight turned around to look at me. She knows I am the author of the message, and with her look she confirms that my presence on earth is still here for a reason. I am saved!
This is why I am flying on my scooter along streets thronged with a million cars that seem not to be there. All the air of the world caresses my face, and I drink it in as someone drinks in freedom. I sing, “You are my first thought upon waking in the morning,” and when I really wake up, it’s already dark.
I wandered aimlessly through space on my flying carpet, without realizing the flow of time. When you are in love, time should not exist. However, my mother exists, and she is not in love with Beatrice, and she is furious because she didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. But what can I do? It’s love. The red moments in life are like this: without a watch. “So, can you tell me where your head is?” Adults do not remember what it is like to be in love. What sense does it make to explain something to someone who no longer knows what it is? What sense does it make to describe the color red to a blind man? My mother doesn’t understand, and furthermore, she wants me take Terminator out to pee.