What Hell Is Not Page 22

  When he sticks his key into the keyhole, he feels like a man lost at sea but who’s now safe after having been washed up on shore. He opens the door and before he can close it again, two hooded men come in and throw him to the floor. One lands a punch on his mouth. The other holds a knife to his eyes. He’s shaking with fear and doesn’t dare move.

  ‘Now do you see how this ruckus is going to end? Those parties of yours? The interviews? The sermons? If you still don’t get it, we’ll come back and explain it better!’

  Don Pino doesn’t say a word. Before they leave, they punch him again and leave him on the floor.

  He feels like a worm. It’s as if his heart is screaming between his temples as he covers his ears in vain, trying to keep the sound out. His body has been reduced to a primordial tremble.

  Before that evening, he didn’t really know what loneliness was. Lying prostrate on the ground, face down and with blood dripping from his busted lips, he hopes that everything will be over quickly. But it won’t pass. From that moment onward, he won’t be able to smile like before. Pain isn’t erased so easily.

  Riccardo counts the money. He’s never seen so much money before. All he had to do to get it was slash a tire and run to give the signal that Don Pino was about to get home.

  The light from the television screens in other homes tells of moments of peace and tranquility. But it’s dark at Don Pino’s house. The wounds of the night mustn’t be illuminated too hurriedly. Fear won’t allow it. He lies there in the dark, looking for a little company. Little by little, the noises of the night quiet down until they are silent. A few hours later, he fights the lethargy that has set in and slowly he pulls himself up. He turns toward the window that looks out at the dark night in Palermo.

  My God, why have you abandoned me? I am so tired, my Father. I can’t see you. I am afraid. I want to live. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave like a seagull that flies too far out to sea and then drops into the water exhausted in a last dive.

  I know that I need to die. But I’m not ready.

  Why did you abandon me?

  Why, among infinite possibilities, did you pull this one out?

  I know that the world can be no better than what we allow it to be. But I am too small.

  You are asking too much of me.

  He can hear what he calls ‘the pi of life’ calling inside of him. Exodus 3:14. When God, in the form of a flame impossible to reach and impossible to extinguish, declares His name in the presence of an unarmed and barefoot man.

  I am that I am.

  God reveals His identity only to the naked man, an orphan of tenderness who has been reduced to a puff of his trembling existence.

  My Father.

  He repeats it like a breath.

  He lifts himself up and gets closer to the window. It’s turned white because of the salt deposits left by the nighttime breeze. Everything is quiet. No one is awake, like him.

  A flood of tears wells up in his eyes and soul.

  Words are finished. He’s been left with nothing of his own. The only riches he can offer are his crying and his tears, which flow over him and all things.

  Chapter 20

  In the days that follow he goes about his life with a sense of detachment. The usual things that come in the summer are reassuring. Friends, the sea, chats with his father and mother. Rowing on the water with Manfredi in their dinghy. Cold beers and ice creams. Days separated from their usefulness and donated to the temple of the local divinities: Beauty and Abandon.

  It’s a night of stars and sea like the Night of the Shooting Stars in 1993. One of those nights in which there should be light, since the universe is full of galaxies that know the time before ‘once upon a time.’ But all we see is the dark because the light isn’t fast enough to reach our weak eyes. But in truth, in reality, everything is light in the night.

  There’s no wind to deviate the trajectory of the stars that drop from the firmament. These are stars full of ordinary memories that come back to life like unearthed fossils.

  The boy remembers his science teacher. She was obsessed with the fact that half of the chemistry course could be learned by looking at the stars, since our solar system was born from a stellar explosion.

  The elements were dispersed or aggregated in unique conditions on our planet.

  The fires of the sky precipitate and in the fragments of each star that decays, the elements of life are blended into new and unpredictable shapes: Lucia, the children, Don Pino, pain, escape, fear, blood . . .

  Riccardo counts the stars the same way he counts money.

  Even Nuccio is looking at the stars. He remembers when he was a child and his mother would show them to him. But his mother has been gone for too long.

  That night, it seems that nothing can erase everyone’s swooning in the city of the stars.

  Every day has its waiting and every day has its swooning.

  But who, among the infinite destinies and desires, will take care of them? Who keeps track of them these days, so that nothing will be lost?

  Chapter 21

  The shoes are always the same ones. There’s no limit to how many times he will repair them. That’s what his father taught him: If the material is good, there is no shoe that can’t be reborn. Don Pino will continue to walk the soft asphalt in Brancaccio with those shoes. The street is his home and his shoes are well aware of that. They’ve seen their share of dust.

  His gait has become more cautious but no less determined. He’s just like his shoes: Once he’s been repaired, he keeps on going and never stops. His strength rises up again, renewed by the difficulties he’s faced. It is reborn from up high and it drops over the streets every day. The street takes him to his destination.

  ‘I found an elderly lady who needs a caretaker. You could do it if you wanted.’

  ‘No. It’s not for me.’

  ‘But why, Maria?’

  ‘I have security here. At least I have a roof over our heads and a bed for Francesco. And I have all the money I need.’

  ‘But how long do you think this will last?’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m living from day to day.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re dying from day to day.’

  Don Pino puts his hand on her cheek and closes his eyes.

  When he opens them, they shine.

  He leaves without saying another word.

  The street is still there waiting for him, certain of itself. It’s up to him to decode the maze.

  Lucia has asked him to meet with her at Serena’s house. They need to speak to him.

  ‘What should I do, Don Pino? What should I do?’

  Don Pino doesn’t search for a humane answer because he has no humane answer. He stares at Lucia’s hand as she grasps her friend’s hand in her own. It’s as if she’s trying to absorb some of her pain by osmosis.

  ‘You could put the child up for adoption. I know a place where the child would be safe. I understand that you don’t want to keep it. But you can give birth.’

  ‘How am I supposed to keep this pain in my belly? It’s cruel!’

  ‘It’s the cruelty of men. But it isn’t the child’s fault. And you would be inflicting more pain after the violence that you’ve endured.’

  ‘I just can’t go to hell like this. The nausea, every inch of skin that stretches. It all reminds me of the evil that was done to me. It’s awful. It’s my life, my future. And I am supposed to choose this sentence? I have to give life to a baby that will look like the person who has destroyed me?’

  ‘Take some time to think about it. Whatever you decide to do, I will be here for you. And remember that if you add love where there is none, you will receive love. To repair is much more heroic than to build, Serena.’

  Lucia hugs her friend as she buries her head in Lucia’s chest.

  ‘I don’t have the strength,’ she keeps saying as she sobs.

  ‘One step at a time, Serena. If you try to illuminate the entire valley with the li
ttle light that you have, you will only be more afraid. Illuminate the next step and then try to make that next step. One at a time. You have the strength. We have the strength.’

  Chapter 22

  August belongs to mythological times. It’s not part of the calendar. And the rules of utility do not apply.

  The Hunter’s son comes out of the water with an octopus in his hand.

  ‘I got it, Dad! I got it!’

  The Hunter goes over to him, proud of his son. He grabs it from the boy’s hands swiftly so as to keep it from wrapping itself around him. He grabs it by its tentacles and beats its head against a rock with sharp, violent blows.

  ‘You have to do it right away so that the flesh becomes soft and tender.’

  The boy watches with a serious look on his face.

  Then his father puts his thumbs into the cavity of the octopus’s head and turns it inside out. He cleans off the dark material that sticks to the walls as the octopus continues to tremble.

  ‘Turn it over and then beat it some more. Hold it by the tentacles. You’ll see how the flesh becomes more and more relaxed.’

  The son does as he is told.

  ‘Do you feel how soft it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The tentacles dangle inert. It’s one of the most delicious antipasti you can make: Octopus legs with lemon.

  ‘Do you see how you do it? You have to crush its head.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Next time, you’ll do it by yourself.’

  The boy nods and looks down at the ground.

  He wanted to build some sandcastles.

  Chapter 23

  Then, suddenly, the time has come for the story. The time for the city. September announces its arrival.

  As soon as I get back from the beach, I want to tell Lucia everything. And then I want to hear her stories. And more than anything else, I want to hear her voice. We are going to meet at Spasimo. It’s sufficiently close but prudently far enough away from Brancaccio. The wind is blowing a bit harder than usual, as if the scent of the impending night had emboldened it.

  When I enter the space, which connects earth and sky by confining them to just a few square meters, everything is made right.

  Tell me everything. The beach. Friends. Bonfires. And then? And then? And then books and more beach. And you? Now you tell me everything. The kids. The heat. The beach, me too. Books, me too. Petrarch, read cover to cover. There are a thousand words you need to explain to me, if you don’t mind. I underlined every one of them. I don’t mind. And my grandfather Mario. He’s alright, even though the heat is a bit hard on him. My parents are fine. Mine, too. School will start again soon. What a drag!

  That is a drag. But it won’t be long before it’s time for our show for Don Pino. We need to get ready. I wish you could come back. I miss you. But I’m afraid they will hurt you. Over the last few weeks, it feels like I can only see half of what there is to see. After a while, you get tired of seeing things in halves. It makes you feel like you’re missing out on the rest of your life. And we only have one life to live. How’s Don Pino? I’m worried about him. He seems tired. It’s up to us to take care of him. You’re right. Is everything here as beautiful as you are, Federico? Where were we when we weren’t together? I’ve asked myself that. I took you with me everywhere I went. Here we are, under this blue-stone sky, and everything is contained in this single instant, unthreatened by time.

  More words. And when we reach the limit, then comes a kiss, like the natural fulfillment of our words and their self-evident inadequacy.

  I’d like to learn how to play the piano. It’s an instrument that resembles me. Everyone is similar to an instrument. I understood this at a rehearsal for a classical music concert to which our middle-school music teacher had taken us. He had a friend in the Massimo Theater symphony orchestra. They explained each instrument by having us listen to each of them one by one. The teacher clearly enjoyed comparing them to different types of people. And each one of us had to choose our own instrument. The flute person is sweet, sometimes pained and gloomy, but then suddenly happy and carefree. The clarinet person is meticulous and careful. The saxophone person is sensual, fickle, and hard to pin down. The cello person is open, calm, and quiet.

  I’m a piano person. So far, I’ve only known my white keys. Then someone comes along who knows how to play my black keys and I discover a part of myself I didn’t know, a part that is capable of playing semitones. I remember that the harp was close to the piano, or maybe vice versa.

  I don’t want to remain a mystery to myself. I need to accept that other hands can reach inside my heart. I need to arm them myself, against me, to show where they can strike me at my weakest. Is loving not loving the hands of another? Tampering with one’s soul is the price that must be paid for love. Then, perhaps, that hand will play a score that we never thought we’d hear inside of us. I thought that I already was when, in fact, I barely am.

  Did Love have to come looking for me here? In the darkness?

  Chapter 24

  September is summer’s epitaph. It finds its way into everything, even the hardest to reach places. The enormous building next to the cathedral shines like a flayed bone on the beach.

  A boy dances jubilantly in the hallway as if he had scored a goal in a World Cup final.

  ‘I did it!’

  He’s referring to his summer-school exam. He hugs Don Pino, who happens to appear in the hallway at that moment.

  ‘Professor, I swear: I am beginning to believe in God. You’ve performed a miracle!’

  Someone else is heading in for an exam. She envies the jubilation of her schoolmate who’s managed to save himself.

  ‘Don Pino, say a prayer for me.’

  ‘With a face like that? You look like you are going to a funeral . . .’

  ‘I will be going to a funeral if I don’t move up a year. My parents will kill me.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  The priest sees the teachers sitting at the table waiting for the next oral exam. They regret that they flunked the kids. Not because the kids aren’t smart. But because they could be at the beach instead of questioning the students about Cicero and Homer with their clothes sopping wet from their sweat. He says hello to his colleagues with a smile and heads to the principal’s office.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it this year. My workload at the church just keeps getting bigger, and they also need me at the seminary, where I serve as a spiritual director. It looks like I’m going to have to leave you, Antonio. Five days a week at school are too much. And the other things I’m doing are important.’

  Antonio watches Don Pino’s face carefully. What he is saying doesn’t seem like him. He remembers the long walks they used to take in the evenings in Mondello in the late 1960s, when he was a university student working as a teacher and Don Pino was the spiritual assistant at the Roosevelt Institute, where he worked with orphaned children and kids that came from broken homes. His friend would listen to him for hours. Antonio was just twenty years old.

  The evenings were cool back then. And cooling off was the whole point of taking walks. Friends do that as evening comes. They head into the night as if mocking its arrival because there are two and not one of them. Then they would get to the tavern where they would eat a hard-boiled egg with salt and drink a glass of wine. Antonio remembers the time when they thought he was the priest’s brother. Don Pino got a hearty laugh out of that.

  They saw the world through different eyes. One saw it through the eyes of utopia. The other through the eyes of faith. He had been close to him during difficult moments, for example when he was finishing his university thesis. He had gone to his graduation party. Not even his parents had attended. He had never had a friend like Don Pino. Never. His charisma was owed in great measure to his knowing how to be a good friend, but also knowing how to be a father when needed.

  ‘Pino, you know even better than I do that these kids are as important as the
parish and the seminary. That’s the reason you’ve never quit teaching. How many years has it been?’

  ‘Since 1978. My goodness. We’re getting old.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  The principal of Vittorio Emanuele High School grins, but his lifelong friend seems absent in a way that he’s never seen before.

  ‘You’ve already reduced your hours. Let’s try to concentrate them into fewer days so that you have more time for the rest . . . But I’m not letting you off the hook.’

  ‘You’ve always been hard-headed.’

  ‘I had a good teacher. What’s going on with you? Are you tired?’

  ‘Nothing. Just some nonsense. How are things with your wife?’

  ‘Not great. Damn, you still remember about that.’

  ‘You are my friend, Antonio.’

  ‘Is something troubling you? You look a little down. I would have never imagined that you would even hypothetically give up teaching.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing. It’s probably the sirocco. Or maybe it’s because I’m really getting old.’

  ‘Well, that’s true. Your birthday is coming up in a few days. How old will you be?’

  ‘One-tenth.’

  ‘So, seventy?’

  ‘Bonehead. Five point six. I count one year for every ten. That way I never grow old,’ Don Pino says, laughing like a child.

  ‘Okay, let’s see what we can do. I’ll talk to the scheduling office.’

  ‘Thanks, Antonio. Say a prayer for me.’

  ‘Don’t you know that we’re not on the best of terms,’ the principal answers, pointing to the ceiling with his eyes and grimacing.

  ‘Well, make the effort for a friend!’

  ‘I’ll make an exception for you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m going to need it.’

  Chapter 25

  The beach is the point of friction between the land and the sea. And it’s at that border that children and their fathers construct castles that will be threatened by the waves. In the same way, a busted lip is the collision point between submission and truth. The strange war in which violence tries to oppress truth will never end. Violence does everything it can to beat it, sweep it away, and to annihilate it. But in doing so, all it achieves is the strengthening of its resistance. For its part, truth eggs it on as if it were a rabid dog. In nature, when one force battles another, the greater destroys the lesser. But the rules of physics don’t seem to apply to violence and truth, nor do the rules of men: Violence and truth cannot do a thing to each other.