White Like Milk, Red Like Blood Read online

  He pauses for a bit, as if the first segment of his romantic film had ended. At that moment, I wake him.

  “And then?”

  Dad takes a deep breath and answers in a single breath, scratching a cheek in order to somewhat hide his face behind his hands.

  “Afterward, I gave her a star as a gift.”

  “You did what?”

  “Yes, I gave her a star, the most luminous in that moonless night: Sirius, the only star visible from any inhabited place on Earth and able, in a night without a moon, to project shadows of bodies. We promised each other that we would each look at it every night, wherever we found ourselves, and we would think about each other.”

  I start laughing. Dad, the man who gives Sirius to Mom as a gift. … I give him a pat on the back.

  “So romantic … And what about her?”

  “She smiled.”

  “And you?”

  “I would have given anything to have such a woman really exist in my life, not just on a cruise.”

  Dad is silent. He doesn’t seem to want to add anything more. I have the impression that he is about to blush, so he wipes the crumbs of the croissant from his mouth in order to hide this. Then he looks at me and says, “I am proud of you, Leo, for what you have done.”

  My ears open up, as if until this moment I have been deaf.

  “I believe that today you have begun to become a man: you did something that nobody suggested to you or decided for you. You chose to do it.”

  I remain silent and take advantage of the situation, “Well, then, can I choose another pastry?”

  Dad shakes his head with knowing resignation and smiles at me.

  “You are your father’s son. … ”

  It has been centuries since I had spent so much time with my father. “I am proud of you” is today’s motto. For all the rest of the day, I rest. I have to renew my strength. I am extremely tired but equally happy.

  I didn’t see Beatrice again. She is no longer recovering in the hospital. She went back home. She has completed her first round of chemotherapy. A sort of antibiotic against the cancer. I’m sure that it’ll help her. Beatrice is strong and too young and full of beauty not to make it. I would like to go see her, but Silvia says that Beatrice doesn’t feel up to seeing anybody. She is worn out by her illness and doesn’t feel like talking. But I would still like to see her. Anyhow, she has my blood, and it will be like keeping her company closer than ever. From inside. United. I hope my blood will do her good.

  I feel happy and tired. Such is love.

  30

  “What’s up with you? Do you want to run? You’re not hitting the mark even once. … ”

  I am dead tired. I wasn’t supposed to play after donating blood. The nurse had warned me to rest and stay calm. I didn’t say I was going to play, but I couldn’t miss the game. Now I am out of breath. We are tied 2–2 with some shitty second-years who are playing the game of the century. I blew a scandalous number of goals, worse than Iaquinta on one of his worst days.

  “You are as white as the Dead Girl. … ”

  The Dead Girl is in the last year at school and she’s super emo. Only one black spot on otherwise white skin, almost transparent. I feel like throwing up, and I am out of breath. I have to stop at the field’s edge. My head is spinning. …

  I put my head between my hands and roll over, hoping that some blood will go back to my brain. My skin is itching and I’m cold.

  “I can’t make it, Niko. … ”

  Niko looks at me with contempt.

  The game ends in a tie.

  When Curly, Rod, and Sponge go back to the locker room, they are bad-mouthing me.

  “Vandal’s team lost. We could’ve overtaken them. Now we are still a point behind. And all because you became a wimp. … You couldn’t even manage one game. … ”

  “I donated blood today. … ”

  “And you had to do it today? Today, when we had a game?”

  I don’t even answer.

  I leave the locker room and let the wind dry the angry tears streaming down my face. When you do a good deed, you always pay for it in this world. … People don’t know shit about love. They think only about soccer and don’t even ask why in the world you decided to donate blood. …

  31

  Beatrice has come back to school. She is thinner. Whiter. Short hair, with its red color more opaque and subdued. Her eyes are still green but almost hidden. I would like to cross her path and tell her I am here, that I donated my blood to her, that I’m very happy to see her, but then I understand that it’s better to keep quiet. I limit myself to a smile when I see her during the break. She looks at me for a second as if she recognizes me, and she smiles back. Her smile is not the red smile of before but a whiter one. She is the heart of my dream. My dream is red, and I must turn that white back to the purplish-red I saw gushing from my arm. I don’t have any more doubts. In that smile, there is the meaning of all that I am seeking.

  I won’t let you go. I won’t let that white tumor take you away. I would gladly put myself in your place. I won’t let it happen, because you are needed on this Earth much more than me. I wish you knew this. For this reason, I will write you a letter to tell you that I am here for you, and if you need anything, you can ask it of me at any time. Today, I am returning home and writing the letter. It must be the most beautiful and reddest thing I’ve ever done in my life. It must be perfect.

  It’s strange how dreams give you a kick-start, like a blood transfusion. As if the blood of a superhero has entered your veins.

  32

  I’ve never written a letter, and I can’t download it from the Internet. Everything on the Internet is always old. There isn’t a letter from Leo to Beatrice, I have to write it for the first time. However, I like this, because I’ll write something that nobody has ever written. I am excited. I take pen and paper in hand and begin to write.

  The first problem: paper without lines. I’ll write it on the computer. But as soon as I get started, I let it go because it is white and cold like ice. So I take back the sheet of paper and start writing anew, but the lines come out all crooked, the words fall in a ravine. It’s disgusting: it’s all the fault of the absolute white. I can’t send her the letter of an illiterate. What can I do?

  I get an idea. I print a white page with black lines, nice and thick, so that they seem like the Dad’s pajamas. I put the sheet under the white sheet and use the lines as a hidden guide. Wonderful idea! In order to defeat the whiteness that makes you write crookedly you need some hidden black lines underneath, large and strong. Now, all I need to do is to fill in those lines. This is the hardest part.

  Dear Beatrice,

  How are you? The other day when I saw you in school, I smiled at you, and you smiled back at me. I don’t know if you remember. Well, that’s who I am. The one with the crazy hair: Leo. I am writing because I want to be with you at this moment. I am not really clear on what someone is supposed to say in certain circumstances. If I have to pretend that I don’t know that you are ill, if I need to pretend that I didn’t donate blood to you, if I have to pretend that I don’t like you … In short, I can’t pretend any of these things. So I have already told you everything: you are ill, I donated my blood to you, I like you. Now I can speak to you more freely, since I got the important issues out of the way. Those things that a person has to say out of necessity, because if he doesn’t get them out in the open, if he pretends they aren’t there, then he feels bad. Instead, I want to be truthful with you, because you are part of a dream. Like our prof, The Dreamer, says to us. I mean, Dreamer isn’t his last name, but he’s the one who is substituting for Argentieri. Since he always goes on about dreams, we nicknamed him The Dreamer. I am looking for my dream. The secret is to ask the right questions. The right questions of things we care about and of the people we love, and listen to what our hearts tells us. And you, do you have a dream? Have you ever thought about this?

  I’m sending you a big hug and
hope to hear from you soon.

  Leo, from third year D

  I don’t have Beatrice’s address. I don’t even have an envelope. … Even better: I wouldn’t even know how to address it, where to put the stamp and all the rest. I am too embarrassed to ask Mom. So I go out. I jump on the scooter. I buy an envelope. I place the letter inside. I write on the front, in large block letters, “To Beatrice,” and then I go to Silvia’s home to ask her for the address so I can put the envelope directly in the mail slot at the post office.

  My Bat-scooter is a flying carpet of happiness, soaring to its destination. I certainly can’t entrust the letter of my life to the Italian mail. And so I fly toward the blue, like the messenger of an inheritance of millions of dollars. My heart is beating to the rhythm of the spinning wheels on my scooter. I laugh, I sing, and I don’t hear a thing. I don’t even hear the horn on my right, which screams at me that I should have remembered to repair my brakes. And this isn’t a game of dare, of braking at the last moment; there wasn’t even the time to be afraid, to count to one, to brake …

  Then, white.

  33

  When I wake up, I am on a white hospital bed. The inside of my brain is white. I don’t remember anything. I feel like my head is detached from the rest of my body. I have probably been kidnapped, sedated, and transformed into a superhero. I ask myself what powers I could have acquired: flight, time travel, invisibility, mind reading … I go with time travel, but I realize I can’t move an inch. It’s caused by something rigid I have around my neck keeping my head and torso immobile. For the first time, I understand what Terminator must feel like when I pull on his leash.

  I open my eyes: Mom is at my side. She has red eyes.

  “What happened?”

  Mom tells me a car crashed into me. At least that’s the way it was described by someone who saw the accident. I don’t remember anything, just something that’s a little hazy in my mind. Anyhow, as a result, I have cracked one vertebra, and I have to stay in bed without moving for at least ten days. As if that isn’t enough, I have a broken wrist, the right one, already in a cast: homework is out. But who was responsible for this (near) disaster? Mom tells me that whoever collided into me didn’t stop. He took off. A passerby took down the license number, and now Dad will deal with this. Now, the important thing is that I get better and get back on my feet, but for the rest of this year, I can say goodbye to the winter vacation trip and to snowboarding. … By the time I leave the hospital, it will almost be Christmas.

  I am shaken by a rage so strong I didn’t even know I possessed it. A rage so strong that I could even unleash it on my mother, even though it isn’t her fault. Now I remember. I was taking the letter to Beatrice; I had just come out of Silvia’s house, with the address written directly on the envelope. Then darkness. Who knows where the letter ended up. I had it in my pocket. Now I am wearing some pajamas, a collar, and the cast. … Who knows where the letter ended up.

  Shit. Once again you try to do something good, and for some reason you end up with your ass in a sling. Who the hell invented bad luck? What the fuck do I have to do with it? How am I to blame? I just won’t love anymore, and fuck off.

  At least I understand what superhero I’ve become: Loserman.

  34

  I have slept for at least a century, judging from the headache I have when I open my eyes and from the light that hurts my pupils. As soon as I am able to focus on who and where I am, I see two eyes, blue like that of a pale dawn when it labors to become intense. They are the eyes of Silvia, blue like the sky without clouds. Silvia is the Blue Fairy, and I am Pinocchio. She makes me feel normal, even in my chalky armor. I smile by blinking my eyes. Silvia runs to draw the curtains so that the light won’t bother me.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  She asks me before I am able to connect my dry mouth to my brain, and my brain to my dry mouth so that I can formulate a request. She pours some pineapple juice into a glass that she’s purchased especially for me. My favorite. I haven’t yet had the time to express a desire and Silvia has already satisfied it. If she weren’t only a friend, maybe I could love her.

  But love is something different. Love doesn’t bring peace. Love is insomnia. Love means lifting you to a higher plane. Love is fast. Love is tomorrow. Love is a tsunami.

  Love is blood red.

  35

  Niko comes to visit me. At first he keeps his eyes downcast.

  “Sorry, Leo, for the other day at the game. … Just think, if you’d died … you would’ve left me here alone with that bunch of losers. … No more Pirates, no more dares, no more music … Don’t play any more of these tricks on me. … ”

  I smile. I am happy. I’ve got Niko back again. After the game, we had hardly spoken. Neither one of us wanted to say he was sorry. It was up to the other one to apologize. I just felt bad about it all. …

  “How long do you have to keep it on?”

  “Around a month, more or less, for the cast, fortunately it’s not a compound fracture. … ”

  “Good, so you’ll only miss one game. Let’s hope we can do it without you.”

  “Make Twig play. Even if he doesn’t have good feet, at least he knows how to hold his own on the field. You’ll have to do some overtime. Besides, the next game isn’t a tough one.”

  “Without you, I won’t have a good time, Pirate.”

  I smile.

  “You’ll see, I’ll recuperate quickly and we’ll get that cup. Nobody can stop the Pirates, Niko, nobody. … Not to mention, we still have a score to settle with Vandal.”

  Niko stands up and puts himself in position to sing the Italian national anthem. With his hand over his heart, he sings in a loud voice, and I follow along with him. We sing at the top of our lungs. When the nurse comes in to check what’s going on, we burst into laughter.

  “If you don’t behave, I’ll give total anesthesia to the two of you! And you, even when you’re ill, you still can’t behave?!”

  Niko looks at her, suddenly serious and enchanted.

  “Will you marry me?”

  The nurse, disarmed, starts laughing.

  Niko turns toward me, sighing, “She said yes. … ”

  36

  The rest of the class comes to visit me. I’m happy. Who knows why in order to be the center of attention, you have to find yourself in a situation like this. At times in life, you feel like doing something so upsetting that the others just can’t ignore you: to be in the eyes and on the lips of everyone. Especially in those moments when you feel alone and want to spit your solitude into the face of others. At this point, you imagine throwing yourself from a window, so that all those pieces of shit can understand what you are feeling and what it means to abandon others. Anyhow, suffering and bad luck seem the best way to make the world take note and love you.

  They brought me my favorite comic books. Silvia painted a picture for me. It’s small. There is a boat in the middle of the sea, with the prow pointing toward the blue horizon where sea and sky meet. It’s as if it has been painted from inside the boat. I hang it in front of me. It keeps me company when I remain alone in this hospital room. It’s a room for two, but, for now, I am alone. It’s a good thing. I would be so embarrassed if I had to pee in the bottle in front of somebody else, possibly with the nurse holding it for me. … For a second, I envy Terminator, who doesn’t have any problem peeing in front of hordes of dogs and Filipino women. Dogs don’t even know how to blush.

  Niko brought me a CD. This way I can listen to it and when I’m back on my feet, we’ll play something from it. My other schoolmates also brought gifts. It’s nice to be the center of attention, even if the price to pay is a few broken bones.

  It’s nice to let others love you. …

  37

  As of a few days ago, I’ve had a roommate. A corpulent man. Immense. An urban elephant. He has two broken ribs. He must remain immobile and do everything in bed, even his bodily needs. I hate his smell. He’s continuously looking at the c
eiling or the TV, which is basically suspended from the ceiling. Every now and then we speak. He’s a friendly guy. He’s really bad off yet he is calm. At times, he goes into a rage, when he is in pain and can’t sleep. He has a wife who looks after him. His daughter and son often come to visit him.

  When you are ill, it’s good to have family come and stay close by. How can you go on if you don’t have a family, a wife, some kids? Who takes care of you when you’re sick? Thanks to the elephant, I see what it means to have a family. It’s not that I don’t have one. But I see what I wasn’t able to see before. Because, until it happens to you, you really don’t understand things or see them for what they are. Your parents seem like two professional ball-breakers to you, who are there only to forbid you from doing the things you’d like to do.

  Instead, the elephant, his wife, and their children have shown me clearly: when I am an adult, I want a family as close as theirs. Because, even if you’re ill, you can rest easy, and this is the sense of a life well spent: somebody that loves you, even when you are in bad shape. Someone who can stand your smell. Only the ones who love your smell love you sincerely. This gives you strength and serenity. To me, this seems like a good way to barricade yourself from the suffering life throws your way.

  I have to remember this. I absolutely must remember this, because it’s to be included in my dream when I am an adult. With Beatrice. Even now, I already love her smell. The irresistible perfume of dreams, of life, of love.

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