What Hell Is Not Read online

  How is it that writers think our thoughts? Is it because we think their thoughts? Lucia puts down the book after having read only the first few lines . . .

  The sky was so starry and so bright that, when looking at it, one could not help but ask oneself whether ill-humored and capricious people would be able to live under such a sky.

  She moves toward an open window that reveals just a sliver of the sky and she rests her arms on the windowsill. She thinks about her siblings. About her parents. About the kids at Don Pino’s center and the show she is working on.

  She thinks about all the good and all the bad that exist under that sky. It’s under that very sky that there are men who do bad things – despite that sky. For an instant, she wishes she could leave sixteen behind and be twice as old. Who can guess where she will be by then? Under an equally beautiful sky but with gentler men. She thinks of the boy she met by chance. He seemed so ingenuous considering the neighborhood he comes from and the world he lives in.

  Her father peers into the room and sees her there. He caresses her head softly to remind her that it’s late. She lays her cheek in his rough construction worker’s hand and gives into its motion as if her father could cradle her face.

  ‘Why are you still up?’

  ‘I was reading but then I started thinking.’

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing. Just thoughts.’

  ‘It’s okay. Everything will be alright. Now get to bed.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That everything will be alright?’

  ‘When you do right, everything will be alright. And you are a good girl. Everything else will work itself out on its own.’

  Lucia smiles with melancholy-speckled eyes. She wishes she believed him. But she knows, all too well, the limits of the world into which fate has placed her. Being good isn’t enough in this city.

  Dreams are a luxury afforded only by the books she reads.

  I’d like to read a million books, visit a thousand cities, learn hundreds of languages, and grasp the essence of the world around me. If there is truth, there is only one truth. I want to be strong and courageous, like Falcone and Borsellino, or at least like Manfredi. But where will I find courage? Maybe I should talk with Don Pino. But I’m worried that he will talk to me about God and I don’t care about God because I want to be a free man who lives without the Ten Commandments, the Seven Sacraments, and however many Beatitudes there are.

  All I need is a little bit of truth. A woman to love and something good that I can do for my friends. You don’t need God to do these things. I’ll worry about God posthumously. Posthumously is a word that fascinates me: Being published after death, just like my beloved countryman Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa. My grandmother used to see him every morning eating a pastry and a granita for breakfast while he was already writing new pages of his book. What in the world were they thinking when they turned down the greatest novel of the twentieth century? Posthumous.

  If people could hear what I’m thinking, I’d probably end up being committed to a psychiatric ward. Manfredi explained the following to me but I’m not consoled by it: Recurring thoughts are our most frequently used circuits. They are well-worn pathways and well-oiled synapses. I must have oiled the wrong gears. Science explains how it all works. But I need something more.

  The only science subject I like is chemistry, especially the periodic table. It looks like the letters for the alphabet. That’s probably why I like it. Words help me to relax and so does the periodic table. Despite its apparent multiplicity, it’s a finite list of elements all positioned in the correct order. Our chemistry teacher explained the most important ones and the strangest ones. The one I identify with the most is francium.

  It’s the most unstable element of the entire periodic table. Twenty-two minutes. It has a half-life of twenty-two minutes. And that’s if everything goes well. At this very moment, there are only twenty-eight grams of francium on the face of the planet. And then it decays.

  I’m like francium. The certainties of my life are constantly decaying. They don’t ever last more than twenty-two minutes. And they have a rough density of twenty-eight grams. I’ve rechristened francium as ‘federicium’ because I am the bearer of those twenty-eight grams.

  I wish I were more stable, like the carbon in diamonds. But it was my destiny to be more like francium, I mean, federicium.

  There are some kids who think silent thoughts at night. And unlike the sea, it always takes a long time for those kids to understand the changes that are happening inside of them.

  Chapter 18

  There’s a table and there’s Mother Nature. There are others seated around the table. A knife and a pistol have been placed in the middle of the table. And there’s a card with a drawing of St Mary of the Annunciation next to the pistol.

  ‘Will you be loyal?’

  ‘Like a shadow.’

  ‘Are you ready for anything?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Even killing?’

  ‘I’ve already shown that I’m ready to kill.’

  ‘And remember: We never touch women who belong to made men. If you change territory, you have to let your capo know. Don’t ever do anything that you haven’t been told to do. And always be available. If you end up inside, we’ll take care of you and your family. The important thing is that you are loyal.’

  As the list continues, every command is accompanied by an eloquent glance at the pistol and the knife. Then Mother Nature takes his hand, pricks his finger with a needle, and lets the blood drip on the card with the sacred image of St Mary. He takes out a lighter and he lights the card. It curls as it burns on the table. He takes the man’s hands and presses them against the flame, holding them like a vise. The flame burns his skin and it begins to peel away. Standing still, he grits his teeth.

  ‘Like the card, I burn you. Like the saint, I adore you. And just like the card burns, my flesh must burn if I ever betray Cosa Nostra.’

  He recites the formula that evokes hell. Actually, he creates it for the first time.

  ‘If you fail, your skin will burn by my hands.’

  He squeezes his fingers to let him know that what he is saying is the law. They stare each other in the eyes. Now he belongs to Cosa Nostra and Cosa Nostra will guarantee his livelihood and protection.

  In the banquet that follows, an hour passes between each course. Everyone compliments him and shakes his hand, reminding him each time why it burns. And they give him two kisses. Finally, after a long period of observation, he has been presented to and accepted by the family. It’s not something that happens to everyone. Only to those who are ready for anything, those who are obedient and devoted. And those who are, above all, silent.

  He heads back home. A breeze rises from the sea as he flails through the streets like an untamed animal that’s been mortally wounded. The humidity evaporates from the asphalt, giving shape to mirages as if it were the desert. When he was a child he would try to touch the water in those images on the pavement. When he was a child. But the water would disappear as soon as he drew near. He’s no child anymore. Even though he would love to run after those mirages for a moment or two and watch the water cool the heat. He remembers how his mother used to take him to the beach. ‘Curly’ is what she used to call him. He was really happy then. But happiness belongs only to children. Life is something entirely different. You can be happy enough. But no more. He could even be happier if it weren’t for that ball-breaking priest that makes his bile rise. His blood boils at the thought of those five minutes. Priests should stay in church. They should lead processions, not revolutions. Live and let live is what they should do. This priest just can’t stop himself from going out, talking to people, and making waves. But he’ll teach him how to take it easy. And he’ll get over his love of making waves, talking to people, and not staying put. It’s not for nothing that they call him the Hunter.

  Chapter
19

  I’ve been staring at my book collection for a half-hour and I’m still looking for something for Lucia. I want to lend her one of my books but I’m not sure which one. It will be the book that chooses her. I close my eyes and spin around, three times toward the right, twice to the left, another four times to the right, and one more turn to the left. With eyes still closed, I raise my right arm and I point it toward my bookshelves. My index finger lands on the spine of a book. I open my eyes. It’s my Petrarch. The Canzoniere. Who better than him? I slip it into my bag and head out toward Brancaccio. Petrarch’s never been to Brancaccio. That’s for certain. At least I hold one record in the history of literature. I was the first to bring him there.

  The afternoon passes slowly, like a goodbye. Minutes roll into one other, running over each other like an undertow. Don Pino asked me to referee a soccer game so that he can take care of some unfinished business at the church. He should be here in no time. Nothing galvanizes these kids like being refereed.

  ‘No one ever looks after them,’ Don Pino said to me. ‘And a child not looked after is a child lost,’ he added.

  The only thing I need to do is get the game started.

  The lopsided, sunbaked soccer field is teeming with restless boys. I have a referee’s whistle, an object that wields catalytic power.

  ‘Dark shirts versus light shirts!’ I declare, confident in my experience from playing soccer at school.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m one of Don Pino’s students. I’m reffing the game today.’

  I must have screwed something up. I can tell by the sullen looks on their faces.

  I still haven’t told them my name.

  ‘We want Don Pino. What the fuck are you doing here?’

  I try to hide my annoyance at their warm reception. But the tone of my voice betrays me.

  ‘He asked me to sub for him. Come on! Don’t be like that!’

  ‘Take a look at this guy. He’s a nobody who thinks he can come in here and boss us around,’ one of them says in Sicilian. ‘And listen to the way he talks. Seems like Italian.’

  My instincts tell me that I should find a way out of this tight spot. I start messing around with the ball, juggling it on my feet, head, chest, and knees. They seem to be impressed.

  ‘Did I forget to mention that I’m a star player?’

  ‘Wow! You’re good! Who learned you how to play like that?’

  I keep going.

  ‘No one did. That makes fifty. Let’s see who can top that!’

  One of the younger kids steps forward and grabs the ball from me. He starts juggling. His hair is as straight as a rake. His legs and arms are so slender it doesn’t seem possible that he can perform such extraordinarily smooth moves.

  He gets to fifty and does one more. Then he stops and gives me the ball back.

  ‘Take that.’

  ‘You’ve got me beat. Good for you! What’s your name?’

  ‘Riccardo.’

  ‘Okay, great. Riccardo’s a captain. Who wants to be the other one?’

  Another boy steps forward. He’s wearing goalie gloves. No one dares get in his way.

  ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Gaetano. And we will choose teams. None of this “dark shirts versus light shirts” business. That’s for girls.’

  They end up picking teams by taking turns at choosing players. They’re so serious they might as well be World Cup coaches. The only thing missing is the Italian national anthem.

  ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Tails.’

  ‘Tails. Kick-off or pick sides?’

  ‘Kick-off. Picking sides sucks.’

  I blow the whistle and the air plunges into chaos under a bitter sky yellowed by sand and sirocco. Their t-shirts are immediately impregnated by sweat and dust. The children follow the ball mirage in the seaside light of a June afternoon. The racket of their cursing and blasphemies deafens the piazza.

  I watch them and I see their smiles, scabs, and frenetic legs; arms, tackles, and steals.

  The boy still doesn’t know the stories of these kids with their names as short as biography titles. Those biographies already contain hundreds of pages of pain and a few lines of joy. The boy sees them play soccer, just as he has done thousands of times. He still can’t see everything. It’s too early.

  There’s Dario, with eyes lined by sadness. He doesn’t say a word. His father is in jail and his mother has to work to feed him and his brothers. And his mother doesn’t know what happens to Dario when he doesn’t go to school, nor does she want to know. Nobody knows. Nobody wants to know. Dario turns out to be the one who scores a goal. They all hug him and he hugs them back. And he laughs in a sincere embrace.

  Then there’s Riccardo. The smartest kid in Brancaccio. He’s the one with sculpted black hair sticking straight up like a rake. He’s quick-witted and light on his feet. He always has a zinger ready to go. Always on the lookout, he knows everything that’s happening in the neighborhood. Just ask him who deals drugs and who takes them, who goes to school and who doesn’t, and who does it with whom. The other kids always do what he tells them to because he is a sharp-tongued merchant of information. He’s destined to be somebody in this life. But he’s going to be the one to decide who that will be. His family is well known to be involved in the Mafia.

  He once saw a boy who had overdosed. He was lying in his own feces in a lonely alleyway, with his eyes rolled back in his head and a blood-soiled syringe by his side. He saw hell for at least ten minutes before he started trembling as he sat there alone. Don Pino had found him that way, curled up and shaking. And he had told him everything.

  He had asked where the dead boy would end up. Don Pino spoke to him about heaven and hell and he admitted that he didn’t really know. Riccardo insisted that he wanted to go to heaven and Don Pino suggested that they go together.

  ‘Do you know how to get there, Don Pino?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  That’s why Riccardo goes to the Holy Father Center to play soccer. Because Don Pino knows the way to get to heaven. He even knows which bus you need to take. That’s what he said.

  Then there’s the shy kid. His name is Totò. No one knows if his name is short for Antonio or Salvatore. But his name is Totò, just like his grandfather. His father works in a factory and his mother is a hairdresser. They’re one of those couples who quietly work and try to educate their children the best they can. Totò has good table manners, unlike the better part of his friends. And he goes to school every day.

  He gets teased a lot for the schoolboy smock that he wears. And the other kids have it in for him because he wants to be an orchestra conductor. He decided that’s what he wanted to become after he saw a man dressed in black on TV who was waving a baton and all the musicians did what he told them to do. That man had wind-swept hair and his eyes were closed as if he were lost in something truly beautiful. The musicians obeyed this beautiful thing. Music is a beautiful thing for Totò. He’s hopeless when it comes to soccer. But he’s the best at music. They make fun of him because of his girly dreams.

  ‘When I grow up, I’m going to buy a gun and kill all the cops in Palermo,’ said one of his classmates one day. Baton and music just don’t really cut it.

  He watches them play, and oblivious to their stories, he sees what’s missing in Brancaccio compared to the neighborhood where he lives: It’s the space for imagination. The space for wishes that burst open during those August nights when the stars fall but the sea seems to return them to the sky as each moment passes. That fragment of pavement, sized to fit a lopsided soccer field, just isn’t big enough for storing their wishes.

  The team that’s behind scores and ties. But the opposing team protests, claiming that the attacker got control of the ball thanks to a foul. The boy confirms the goal and the kids start attacking him with curse words.

  ‘You’re a sell-out, ref!’

  ‘Cuckold!’

  ‘Your mother is
a whore!’

  It doesn’t take long for there to be a shift from joy to panic.

  I can feel my blood churning under my skin. Who do they think they are? I eject the kid who insulted me. He walks away in silence but as soon as I turn my back on him, he surprises me by suddenly appearing in front of me and punching me in the face, just below my nose. This kid is barely ten years old.

  My chin is not even eye-level for him. So when the punch lands from below with the strength of his jumping up at me, it busts my lip open. I run my hand over my mouth and it gets covered in blood. Something like this has only ever happened to me once. It was a basketball that was hurled accidentally at my nose. And from that day onward, my nose has been slightly crooked.

  I always thought that punches in the face were something you only saw in the movies. I wouldn’t even know how to punch someone in the face. And getting punched in the face? I never thought it would happen to me. The other kids push in around me. The pain stings my soul and my lips. But my rage has the upper hand. Something inside of me is deciding to do something without asking me first. More kids come onto the field, the ones who were waiting for their turn to play. They want to see how this ends up.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are? You come here, from your nice house in Palermo, with your fancy shoes . . . and you kick me off the field in the neighborhood where I was born? Why don’t you go back to that whore of a mother of yours?’

  Something inside of me starts to act. I grab the kid’s t-shirt and begin to shake him as I push him to the ground. I put my knee on his chest and I threaten him with my fist. I watch myself as I do this. The boy flails under my knee and tries to kick me. He spits on me.