White as Silence, Red as Song Page 6

  “I’m proud of you, Leo, for what you’ve done.”

  My ears pop, as if I’d been deaf until that moment.

  “I think that today you’ve started becoming a man. You’ve done something that nobody suggested or decided for you. You chose it.”

  I say nothing and take advantage of the situation.

  “So can I choose another croissant?”

  Dad shakes his head resignedly and smiles at me.

  “You’re just like your father.”

  It’s been centuries since I spent so much time with my dad. “I’m proud of you” is today’s motto. For the rest of the day: relax. I need to regain my strength. I’m extremely tired but just as happy.

  I didn’t see Beatrice again. She’s no longer in that hospital. She’s gone back home. She’s finished her first round of chemotherapy. A kind of antibiotic against cancer. I’m sure it’ll do her good. Beatrice is strong: too young and full of beauty to not make it. I’d like to go and see her, but Silvia says that Beatrice doesn’t want to see anyone. She is very tired and drained by her illness and doesn’t feel like talking. But I’d like to see her. Anyhow, she’ll be given my blood now, and it will be like keeping her company from even closer. From inside. United. I hope my blood will do her good.

  I feel happy and tired. Such is love.

  Chapter 33

  “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you run? You’re not doing anything right . . .”

  I’m exhausted. I shouldn’t have played after giving blood. The nurse told me to rest and take things easy. I didn’t tell her I was planning to play soccer, but I couldn’t miss the match. Now I’m out of breath, and the score is 2–2 against a bunch of terrible second years who are playing their game of the century. I missed an embarrassing number of goal attempts, worse than Vincenzo Iaquinta on one of his worst days.

  “You are as pale as Miss Death.”

  Miss Death is an über-emo girl in our school. A mass of black surrounding a patch of almost translucent white skin. I feel like throwing up and I’m out of breath. I need to rest on the sidelines. My head is spinning . . .

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

  “I can’t do this, Niko.”

  Niko looks at me with contempt.

  The game ends in a tie.

  When Curly, Beanpole, and Sponge get back to the locker room, they bad-mouth me.

  “Vandal’s team lost. We could have overtaken them. Now we’re still one point behind. And all because you’ve turned into a wimp who can’t even stick out one match.”

  “I went to give blood today . . .”

  “And you had to go and do that today? The day we had a match?”

  I don’t bother answering.

  I leave the changing room and let the wind dry the tears of anger streaming down my face. Whenever you do good in this world, you always pay for it. People know nothing about love. They only think about soccer and don’t even ask why the hell you decided to give blood . . .

  Chapter 34

  Beatrice has come back to school. She’s thinner. Whiter. Her hair is short, its red color duller and more opaque. Her eyes are still green, but more concealed. I’d like to bump into her and tell her I’m here, that I gave blood for her, that I’m thrilled to see her, but then I realize it’s better to keep quiet. I limit myself to smiling at her when we cross paths during break. She looks at me for a moment as if she recognizes me and smiles back. Her smile is not red like it usually is. It’s whiter. But she’s the heart of my dream. My dream is red, and I must turn that white back to the purple-red I saw coming out of my arm. I have no more doubts. That smile contains the meaning of everything I am searching for.

  I won’t let you go, Beatrice. I won’t let that white cancer take you away. At the cost of putting myself in your place. I won’t let it happen, because you are far more needed on this earth than I am. I want you to know that. For this reason I’m going to write you a letter, to tell you that I’m here for you and if you need anything, you can ask me anytime. I will go home today and write the letter. It has to be the most beautiful and reddest thing I’ve ever done in my life. It has to be perfect.

  It’s strange how dreams can give you a kick, like a blood transfusion. As if the blood of a superhero is entering your veins.

  Chapter 35

  I’ve never written a letter and I can’t even find one on the internet. Things on the internet are always old. There can’t be a letter from Leo to Beatrice. I have to be the first to write it. But I like this because I’ll write something that nobody has ever written. I’m excited. I’ll get pen and paper now and start writing.

  First problem: paper without lines. I’ll write it on the computer. But I give up as soon as I start because it’s as white as ice. I go back to my sheet of paper and start writing again, but my lines come out all crooked, the words falling into a ditch. It’s terrible: all because of the total whiteness. I can’t send her an unreadable letter. What can I do?

  I get an idea. I print a white page with thick black lines, a bit like Dad’s pajamas. I position it under the plain white sheet and use the lines as a hidden guide. Great idea! To defeat the white that makes you write crookedly, you need hidden black lines that are thick and strong. Now it’s just a question of filling those lines. That is the hardest part.

  Dear Beatrice,

  How are you? I saw you back at school the other day. I smiled at you and you smiled back. I don’t know if you remember. Well, that was me. The one with wild hair: Leo. I’m writing because I want to be here for you right now. I’m not quite sure what one is supposed to say in certain circumstances. Whether I have to pretend that I don’t know you’re sick, whether I have to pretend that I didn’t give blood for you, whether I have to pretend that I don’t like you . . . Basically, I can’t pretend. So there you have it, I’ve already said it all: you’re sick, I gave blood for you, I like you. Now I can speak more freely because I’ve said the important things. The things that need to be said—because if you don’t, you’re pretending, and if you pretend, you feel bad. Instead, I want to be honest with you, because you are part of a dream. Just as Mr. Dreamer tells us. I mean, Dreamer isn’t his last name, but he’s the one who is replacing Mrs. Argentieri, and as he always goes on about dreams, we’ve nicknamed him The Dreamer. I’m searching for my dream. The trick is to ask the right questions. Ask the right questions to the things and to people we care about, and listen to what our hearts say in return. And you—do you have a dream? Have you ever thought about it?

  Sending you a big hug and hope to hear from you soon.

  Leo, from 3D

  I don’t have Beatrice’s address. I don’t even have an envelope, which is probably for the best. I wouldn’t even know how to write the address, where to put the stamp, and all the rest. I’m too embarrassed to ask Mom. So I go out. Get my scooter. Buy an envelope. Put the letter inside it. I write “To Beatrice” on the front of it in giant letters, then I go to Silvia’s place to ask her for the address so I can put the envelope in Beatrice’s mailbox.

  My Batscooter is a flying carpet of happiness, hurtling toward its destination. I can’t possibly entrust the letter of my life to the Italian postal service. And so I fly off toward the blue, like the messenger delivering a million-dollar inheritance. My heart beats to the rhythm of my scooter’s spinning wheels. I laugh, I sing, and I hear nothing. Not even a horn beeping loudly on my right to remind me that I should have fixed my brakes. And this isn’t a last-minute-brake dare. I didn’t even have time to be scared this time, to count to one, or to brake . . .

  Then, white.

  Chapter 36

  When I wake up I’m in a white hospital bed. My mind is white. I can’t remember anything. It feels like my head is detached from the rest of my body. I’ve probably been kidnapped, sedated, and turned into a superhero. I wonder what powers I have acquired: flight, time travel, invisibility, mind r
eading . . . I try to time travel but realize I can’t budge an inch. It’s because there’s something rigid around my neck that is keeping my head and chest blocked. For the first time I understand how Terminator must feel when I pull on his leash.

  I open my eyes. Mom is by my side. She has red eyes.

  “What happened?”

  Mom tells me I was hit by a car. At least, that’s what those who witnessed the accident said. I don’t remember much, and if anything, just something hazy and confused. Anyhow, the fact is I have a cracked vertebra and have to stay in bed without moving for at least ten days. As if that weren’t enough, I have a broken wrist, my right one, and it’s already in a cast—so no homework. But who caused this near disaster? Mom tells me that whoever crashed into me didn’t stop. He fled. A passerby made a note of the license plate, so Dad will deal with it. The important thing now is that I’m okay and will be back on my feet quickly, but I can say goodbye to ski week and to snowboarding for the rest of the year. By the time I get out of here it will practically be Christmas.

  I’m overcome by a surge of anger I didn’t know I was capable of. A rage so strong I could even take it out on my mother, even though she has nothing to do with it. Now I remember. I was taking the letter to Beatrice. I had just left Silvia’s house after writing the address directly on the envelope. Then darkness. Who knows where the letter ended up. It was in my pocket. Now I’m wearing pajamas, a neck brace, and a cast . . . Who knows where the letter ended up.

  Hell. Once again you try to do something good, and for some reason you end up on the pavement. Who the hell invented bad luck? And what do I have to do with it? How am I to blame? I’ll just quit loving and to hell with everyone.

  At least I’ve realized which superhero I’ve turned into: Loserman.

  Chapter 37

  I’ve slept for at least a century, judging by the headache I have when I open my eyes and by how the light hurts my pupils. As soon as I manage to focus on who and where I am, I see a pair of eyes as pale as dawn when it struggles to break. They are Silvia’s eyes, as blue as a cloudless sky. Silvia is the Blue Fairy and I am Pinocchio. She makes me feel normal, even in my plaster armor. I smile, squinting. Silvia runs to close the curtains so the light doesn’t bother me.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  She asks me even before I’ve managed to connect my dry mouth to my brain and my brain to my dry mouth so it can formulate the request. She pours me a glass of pineapple juice that she bought especially for me. My favorite. I haven’t yet had the chance to say what I want, and Silvia has already satisfied it. If she weren’t just a friend, perhaps I could love her.

  But love is something else. Love doesn’t bring rest. Love is insomnia. Love is to the nth degree. Love is fast. Love is tomorrow. Love is a tsunami.

  Love is blood-red.

  Chapter 38

  Niko comes to visit me. At first he keeps staring at the ground.

  “Sorry, Leo, about the other day at the match. Just think if you’d died . . . You’d have left me on my own with that bunch of losers. No more Pirates, no more dares, no more music . . . and no more of our tricks.”

  I smile. I’m happy. Our friendship is restored. After the match we had barely spoken to each other. Neither of us felt like apologizing. It was up to him. I was hurt, and that’s it.

  “How long will you be in limbo?”

  “Around a month in a cast. Thankfully it’s a small fracture . . .”

  “Great, so you’ll only miss one match. Let’s hope we manage without you.”

  “Get Twiggy to play. Even if he doesn’t have such good feet, he knows how to act on the field. You’ll need to do some extra work with him. Anyhow, the next match isn’t a hard one.”

  “But it’s no fun without you, Pirate.”

  I smile. “You’ll see. I’ll get better quickly and we’ll go and win that trophy. Nobody can stop the Pirates, Niko. Nobody . . . Besides, we still have a score to settle with Vandal.”

  Niko stands up in Italian national anthem mode. With his hand on his heart, he sings out loud, and I follow suit. We sing at the top of our lungs. When the nurse comes in to see what’s going on, we burst out laughing.

  “If you don’t behave, I’ll give the pair of you a general anesthetic! And you—can’t you behave even in your condition?”

  Niko looks at her, suddenly serious and enraptured.

  “Will you marry me?”

  The nurse, won over, starts laughing.

  Niko turns toward me with a sigh.

  “She said yes . . .”

  Chapter 39

  The rest of the class comes to visit me. I’m happy. I wonder why to be the center of attention you have to reduce yourself to this state. Sometimes in life you feel like doing something so disconcerting that others can no longer ignore you: You want to be the center of attention. Especially in moments when you feel alone and want to spit your solitude into the face of others. You imagine throwing yourself out a window so that all those jerks understand what you’re feeling and what it means to be left alone. In any case, suffering and having bad luck seem to be the best ways to make the world look after you and love you.

  They brought me my favorite comics. Silvia painted a picture for me. It’s small. There’s a boat in the middle of the sea, its bow pointing toward the blue horizon where the sea and the sky meet. It’s as if she painted it from the boat. I’ve hung it in front of me to keep me company when I’m left alone in this hospital room. It’s a two-person room, but for now I’m on my own. Thank goodness. I’d be really embarrassed to pee in a urinal bottle in front of somebody else, perhaps even with the nurse holding it for me . . . For a moment I envy Terminator, who has no qualms about peeing in front of hordes of dogs and dog-walkers. Dogs can’t even blush.

  Niko brought me a CD so I can listen to it and then we can play something from it when I’m better. My other classmates also brought me things. 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 people love you . . .

  Chapter 40

  I’ve had a roommate for a few days. A huge man. Immense. An urban elephant. He has two broken vertebrae. He needs to remain immobile and do everything in bed, even using the toilet. I hate his smell. He stares constantly at the ceiling or the TV, which is basically on the ceiling. Occasionally we speak. He’s friendly. He’s in a bad way, yet he’s relaxed. Sometimes he flares into a rage, when he is in pain or can’t sleep. He has a wife who looks after him. His daughter and son come to visit him a lot.

  When you’re sick it’s nice to have family around. How can you manage 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’ve seen what having a family means. Not that I don’t have one. But I can see what I couldn’t see before. Because until you experience things yourself, you don’t really understand or notice them. Otherwise your parents just seem like a pair of professional ball-breakers who are there to forbid you from doing the things you want to do.

  Whereas The Elephant, his wife, and their children have shown this to me clearly: when I grow up, I want a family that is as close as theirs. Because even if you’re sick you can feel at peace, and that is the point of a well-spent life: having somebody who loves you even when you’re feeling bad. Someone who can stand your smell. Only those who love your smell love you truly. It gives you strength, it gives you peace of mind. And this seems like a good way to hold back the suffering that happens in life.

  I have to remember this. I absolutely must remember this because it needs to be part of my dream for when I grow up. With Beatrice. I already love her smell. The irresistible scent of dreams, of life, of love.

  Chapter 41

  The Dreamer walks in. I can’t believe it. A teacher visiting a student in hospital. Well, a substitute teacher, actually. I feel like a king who is touching the sky with his finger, or something like that. The Dreamer sits next to the bed and tells me
about school. The oral exams, homework, and something about the program. The term is drawing to a close, and Christmas holidays start soon. Silver tinsel has appeared on the blackboard, and BeardFace—the janitor with a beard so long and thick you could hang Christmas lights and ornaments on it—has put up his scraggly tree. I can visualize it, and I’m sorry not to be there for one of those rare moments when school becomes fun.

  The Dreamer tells me that he also broke his arm playing soccer when he was my age. He shows me the scar left over from the operation. Luckily I haven’t needed surgery, and I wasn’t conscious when they put my bone back into place. You’re spared so much pain by sleeping. The problem is waking up.

  Anyway, The Dreamer is really good fun because he tells stories just like anyone else would. I mean, he’s normal. He has a life just like mine. He even tells me a joke that isn’t actually funny, but I pretend it is so he doesn’t feel bad. He asks me how my dream is coming along, and I tell him where I am with it. And I tell him that everything went to pieces with the accident, and anyway, I don’t know if I want to pursue it, because every time I put effort into it, something bad happens. First Beatrice, now me. The Dreamer smiles and tells me this is part of true dreams.

  “True dreams are built amid obstacles. Otherwise they don’t turn into projects; they just remain dreams. The difference between a dream and a project is precisely this: the blows. Dreams don’t come ready-made. They reveal themselves bit by bit, perhaps in a different way from that in which we first dreamed them . . .”

  The Dreamer is saying I’m lucky to be in bed with a broken back! I don’t believe him and I say so.