What Hell Is Not Page 23

  There are certain hands that enter into a soul to expand it. Others to crush it. The former are strong but delicate. The latter are hard and ferocious. These are the hands that still threaten Don Pino and that beat his face in during an ambush, in a church building late in the evening. These hands function like words. They bless and they curse, they caress and they strike, they sew and they rip apart. Pain causes flesh to contract and the soul curls up in a corner. But not Don Pino’s soul: It expands even in pain because it’s pain that a father must suffer to nourish and protect his children. His suffering is the origin of the solution.

  ‘What’s this?’ asks Don Pino as he takes the envelope.

  ‘The spending money for my English visit. It will do more good here,’ I answer.

  ‘Do your parents know?’

  ‘It was a gift. I’m the one who decides what to do with my money.’

  ‘It arrives just in the nick of time, as always. Thank you.’

  He gets up from the table where he was attempting unsuccessfully to organize some papers and documents. He comes over to me to hug me and I notice that he has a busted lip, a bruise near the upper part of the wound, and rings under his eyes, more pronounced than usual, the type of rings under your eyes that you get from fear and not just from being tired. I recognize those signs and instinctively touch my own lip. But it’s completely healed.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask, pointing to his mouth.

  ‘I cut myself shaving.’

  Don Pino smiles at me. But it’s a smile furrowed by the pain that stops him from fully extending his lips.

  ‘That’s not a cut. It’s a bruise. What happened?’

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway? What will your parents say?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘You are so hard-headed. I hurt myself while walking in the dark as I was going to the bathroom. It’s nothing. And you?’

  ‘I’ve returned from exile. I was able to talk some sense into my parents. I can come to Brancaccio as long as Manfredi comes with me.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘He couldn’t come today. But I really wanted to bring you this envelope. Nobody saw me. Don’t worry.’

  ‘No, Federico. You mustn’t come by yourself. You mustn’t ever do this again. Promise.’

  Don Pino is clearly upset. I thought it would be a nice surprise. But he has a stern look on his face.

  ‘Promise me!’

  ‘Okay. I won’t come again by myself. But what happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing happened. I have too many things to do. Now go. Come on. Forgive me, but I have work to do.’

  ‘Was it them?’

  He looks me in the eyes and the mask that he’s put on starts to soften.

  ‘The Mafia is powerful. But God is all-powerful.’

  I’ve heard him say that many times.

  ‘This God had better get to work.’

  We look at each other in silence.

  ‘How’s it going with Lucia?’

  I know that this is just a way to change the subject but I also know that there’s not much else to add.

  ‘She was right. I don’t ever want to go away from here anymore.’

  ‘It’s where you found love. That’s what always happens when you give it your all or when you don’t allow yourself to be imprisoned by fear.’

  He smiles. But he seems sad.

  ‘She always says that sadness can kill you much more quickly than a virus. You’re making me worried, Don Pino. Here I am and you almost seem unhappy to see me.’

  ‘No, I’m not sad. Just a little tired. Forgive me if I’ve been rude. I’m nervous because we’re in a hurry to collect the money we need to finish paying for the classrooms at the center. We need to get to 300,000. But if everything goes well, we’ll make it, with the help of God and people like you.’

  The old Don Pino smile suddenly surfaces and his eyes, now calm again, reassure me.

  ‘Don’t worry, Federico. Everything will be okay. But I’ll feel a lot less worried when you come back with someone else.’

  ‘I promise. But will you promise me you’ll get some rest?’

  ‘There will be eternal life for resting. I just need you to do me a favor: When my time comes, don’t let me die alone.’

  ‘What?’

  The answer doesn’t come. Don Pino has already left. For a moment he reminds me of those solitary seagulls who glide across the gray sea on a windy day fruitlessly searching for food.

  Chapter 26

  The day’s colors remind the boy of the maps of islands he had when he was little. It happens on those last days of summer.

  Everything becomes primary and elementary: The colors, the perimeters, the shapes, the happiness. Lucia and the boy stroll through the grounds of Villa Giulia in the quasi-seaside splendor of Kalsa. They arrive at the Genie of Palermo statue and admire its features, unaware of its bittersweet essence. An ancient, pagan god, with his scepter and crown and a serpent that feeds from his chest where his heart is. He ambiguously evokes both renewal and ruin, as he sits with the eagle of the city on his right and the dog, a symbol of loyalty, curled up at his feet. And then there is the Triskelion, the head of Medusa with three legs, which represents Sicily as the Trinacria, and a horn of plenty accompanied by an inscription that summarizes the city: ‘Palermo, regal and loyal, has the gifts of Pallas and Ceres.’

  It’s a flattering definition, especially if you compare it to the awful motto that appears in an inscription that you find in ancient representations of this patron God: Panormus, conca aurea, suos devorat alienos nutrit (‘Palermo, the golden shell that devours her own but feeds strangers’). The Genie of Palermo, the never-ending port and the swooning, summarized in a single sentence.

  ‘Even the genie of the city says it: The gifts of life are here.’

  ‘You’re too much of an optimist.’

  ‘No, I’m a realist like Don Pino. Do you know who the water-diviners were? They were dowsers, ancient noble dowsers.’

  ‘What does dowser mean?’

  ‘They were men who had a talent for feeling the water in the bowels of the earth. They would defy the siroccos and droughts as they would search for water. They were not optimists. They were realists. That’s what we need to do for our city.’

  They continue to travel through the maze of streets, unafraid of getting lost.

  They happen upon a market that has the solemnity of a cathedral. That’s the way it is in Kalsa, one of those places where the profane becomes sacred through the excess of feeling and feelings.

  The stands are laden with goods and the sellers’ hawking drowns out any conversation. You need a trained eye to see the carts in the market. You need to view them without searching for folklore. You need to view them without searching for pain. The goods rear up. Fruit and flowers dance like a flamenco of colors between sky and earth. Watermelons explode, red as if they contained the juice of the entire earth. Wrinkled as the bark of a tree, the lemons shout out their yellowness. The pale green zucchini slither like harmless snakes. The baskets of cod look like they are full of dead moons. The mullets enflame the white of the ice they rest upon. The cuttlefish and octopus are so fresh that they seem like they are about to melt. The carcasses of animals appear crucified as they hang from their hooks. The garlic wreaths dangle as if hanging from gallows as they ward off witches and the evil eye. Bundles of peppers together with hump-shaped broccoli, bunches of aphrodisiacal oregano, tins full of unmentionable entrails. Spiny but sweet artichokes and prickly pears. And baskets that brim with olives of every color and texture. The aromas blend together as they rapidly pass over the nostrils heading straight to the heart.

  The history of Palermo is preserved in those crates and those stands. The city of every sweetness, Ziz, as the Phoenicians called it, the Flower. Panormus, the Never-Ending Port for the Greeks and the Romans, who found its sweet and mercantile essence in the union between sea and land created by its endless pier. The Ar
abs called it Balarm. They didn’t stop calling it the port that it was. They just adapted the name to the sounds that came from their own mouths. Balermus, Pearl of the Mediterranean for Frederick II. And that’s what he made it.

  It was too rich and colorful and fragrant to not be plundered. The aroma and the pain of this city are one and the same thing. The scales of oxidized brass continue to weigh all of those goods and all of that history. You can’t help but visit those streets like a museum of curiosities. Otherwise it would be just a bright but ephemeral memory. Those who look carefully will discover an Eden of harmony and paradoxes, a continuous swooning that is sometimes self-victimization and sometimes self-sacrifice.

  Their hands graze one another as they walk side by side. Her dress is guided by the rare puffs of air that slip through the alleys as they rise up from the sea.

  ‘I’m worried about Don Pino.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s been saying the strangest things lately.’

  ‘He’s always said strange things.’

  ‘He’s really tired.’

  ‘Did you see the cut on his mouth?’

  ‘Yes. He told me that he cut himself shaving. Then he said he bumped into . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe it. I’m afraid.’

  ‘He asked me not to leave him alone.’

  ‘I hope that he doesn’t leave us alone.’

  Chapter 27

  A row of mandarin oranges on the bookshelf would seem to be out of season. But it’s actually what remains from a pastime, or something that has passed with time. Lucia learned it from him.

  Using a knife, you slice the peel in half without cutting into the fruit. Then you remove the upper half of the peel. And then you extract the wedges one by one without ruining the stem, which you soak in oil. You make a hole at the top of the peel you previously removed, you light the stem, and then you put the upper half of the peel back on the fruit. It appears to be a whole mandarin orange with a hole on top. But it’s actually a little lamp.

  She likes watching Don Pino’s slow, precise movements. With the smell of mandarin oranges in the air, they seem full of magic. He’s making those same movements now as he eats the fruit that she brings him together with the sandwiches. Those sandwiches help to remind him that he does, indeed, have a body. The fragrance of the lamps is just a memory, but such a powerful one that his essence seems to emanate from it.

  ‘Don’t forget that you women have 300 grams of extra heart. That’s why you suffer more and why you fall victim to the egotistical calculations of men. They have 300 grams of extra brain. But not because they are more intelligent. It’s because they are more rational and more calculating.’

  ‘Is that so?’ answers Lucia. ‘Then I shouldn’t trust any of them. But I like Federico, Don Pino. It’s your fault for bringing him here!’

  ‘Lucia, falling in love is like looking out of a window. At first, it’s too high for you and you can’t even reach the windowsill. But then the moment arrives when you look outside and you are attracted by the world. And then, little by little, you feel the need to open the window and then to lean out of the window and then to go out through the window onto the balcony. Until you are ready to run downstairs and walk into that panorama that you saw from up high. It’s one of the most beautiful passages in life. But remember: They are moments of great change and therefore great instability. Often, the expectations that you form from up high are excessive. That’s what happens with anything you see from far away. And this can cause serious pain. Don’t forget it. You shouldn’t lean too quickly from the balcony. Otherwise you’ll end up falling and hurting yourself. You need to go down to the street and walk together.’

  ‘I’ll be cautious when I look out the window. And besides, you’ll be there to give me advice.’

  ‘Who knows where I’ll be?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying. We priests, one day we’re in one place and the next we’re on the other side of the world. When you don’t know what to do, pray. Prayer helps you to remain faithful to the truth. And only the truth can set you free. It’s opening that window every day. Today, people think they are free because they have millions of possible choices. But freedom isn’t having a lot of choices. It’s choosing the truth. Prayer is the best way to not forget to choose the truth, even when you have to pay a price for doing so.’

  ‘But sometimes I get bored when I pray.’

  ‘Even the people who love each other get bored. But their love never stops being true.’

  ‘I don’t get bored when I’m with him.’

  ‘He is your prayer. Remember that all love works incognito.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that they work undercover, on God’s behalf. Federico is a good boy. I have a lot of faith in him. You need to protect him a little, you know? He has a big heart and sometimes he risks getting carried away.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I like about him. Love is a revolution, Don Pino!’

  ‘Love is a revelation, Lucia.’

  He smiles and touches her cheek.

  Chapter 28

  Works and Days is an epic title from an ordinary epic that transforms lines of poetry into everyday prose. And this month of days and works is an epic one, without respite. Time is made out of grains of longing. And it’s no coincidence that man chose sand for keeping time. Sand is what remains of materials exhausted by the sun, sea, and wind. Don Pino fills his days with works and his works with days. His thoughts aren’t easy to inhabit. And yet, his indomitable heart continues to hope. And to tremble.

  September 13 is a grain of sand, an unusually gloomy day for the season. The sky is filled with yellowish clouds yearning to pour sand on the city and to sully car bodies and the windows of homes by reducing the summer to a dusty memory.

  Don Pino underlines passages in his breviary, something he’s never done before. The lines are from St John Chrysostom, who wrote aboard a ship that was carrying him into exile. As the ship pushes off, he watches the port with its trembling fires from the stern. And from the bow, he sees the sun setting as it spots the horizon with blood.

  The waters have risen and severe storms are upon us, but we do not fear drowning, for we stand firmly upon a rock. What are we to fear? Death? Life to me means Christ, and death is gain. If Christ is with me, whom shall I fear? We brought nothing into this world, and we shall surely take nothing from it.

  He will meet his death during the voyage and his last words will be: Glory to God for all things!

  September 14 is another grain of sand, the Feast of the Holy Cross. It commemorates the discovery of Christ’s cross by St Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great. She unearthed it in the ruins of the Temple of Venus, which had been built by Emperor Hadrian a few years after Christ’s death at Golgotha. By erecting the temple on this hill, Hadrian was attempting to substitute Christians’ bitter love with the sweet wine of pagan Eros.

  Don Pino celebrates Mass for the community of teen mothers that he works with. In the chapel, there’s a copy of Antonello da Messina’s Virgin Annunciate with her face suspended between a smile and fear. She is framed by that blue veil. To call it ‘blue’ would be blasphemy: It was painted with the color of the sea stuck directly onto the canvas, with the golden shimmer that the sea has on sunny days.

  Don Pino explains to them that Mary was seen by the people, and even by Joseph, as a teen mother. Her conception had no human author and so it certainly wasn’t something easy to explain. That’s why you can see fear and peace on her face at the moment of the annunciation. It’s a paradox that only those who know God can experience. It’s the most beautiful paradox of faith.

  Don Pino scans the faces he sees before him and he recognizes the girl from the painting: One hand held out before her in a sign of defense, the other clutching her dress closed, because love has already flowed through her and the fruit of her womb needs to be protected. He s
ees her in one girl’s black hair; in the dark skin of another; in the tired and fearful eyes of all of them; in the eyes full of hope belonging to Serena.

  Yes, that’s her. She arrived late and sat at the back. She smiles at him from afar, with her hands fidgeting in her lap.

  Reinvigorated, Don Pino can hear the words flow even more powerfully.

  ‘Look at where Maria is looking when she knows she must face her shame. Look where she is looking in this painting. Look at God. And have faith. He will not leave you alone.’

  Then he talks about the celebration that day and how it transforms every defeat into victory, every minus sign into a plus sign, just like the shape of the cross from which Christ forgives his persecutors, who are unable to comprehend what they are doing. He reminds them of the blood that Christ shed in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  ‘Christ felt lonely and he asked three men to stay with him. But they fell asleep and the fear that flowed through him was so great that he began sweating blood. Death and love dueled inside of him. Love won but the fear of death made him bleed. That is why we are never alone in fear and in pain. Because he had to go through fear and pain, and he triumphed. They are a passage toward a greater life and infinite love. We invented the cross and it belongs only to us. It’s not what he carries. He invented love: Love for those around us, for the persons whom life has entrusted to us. A sweet burden, just like that of your womb. You, too, are called upon to do this every day. The cross is not pain. It’s not suffering. It’s just love that cures and heals through its gift.’