On Earth as It Is in Heaven (34 page)

They spent a month together.

A week before her wedding, Libera asked him why he'd never returned to professional boxing.

Umbertino took a long pause before loosing his answer on the world.

“Everything has a price.”

“Love has no price.”

“Sure it does, you pay for it with your life.”

Libera got married. Their affair came to an end the same way it started: without any parting words, without the regret of broken promises.

She really looked a lot like Giovannella.

“You had feelings for her.”

“I was in love with her.”

“Really.”

“I've been with plenty of women, and you know it, but some of them, for the time I was with them, I was truly in love. And Libera is one of those women.”

“Then why did it end between you?”

“Are you kidding? It never even got started.”

“If she had wanted, she could have decided not to get married.”

“It's not that simple.”

“Explain.”

“Being in love and being happy aren't the same thing, and often they have nothing to do with each other.”

The wall thermometer read 109 degrees. Grandma, in her dressing gown, stood up, moving the chair without a sound. She mopped her forehead with her handkerchief.

“Have you seen my pack of cigarettes?”

“You're holding it in your hand.”

She lit one, took a drag, and set it down on the ashtray.

“Did you hear the shooting?”

“Yes, I was in class, and they were shooting right outside our window.”

“I don't like it, I don't like it a bit.”

“Palermo?”

“There's the same whiff of poverty in the air I remember from when I was a girl. But back then the world was at war, whereas now everyone pretends nothing is happening, while brother murders brother all over the city. The Mafia has unleashed a bloodbath inside individual families.”

“Weren't you all killing each other during the war?”

“Not like this.”

She stubbed out her cigarette and started loading the Moka Express coffeepot.

“Everything all right at school?”

“Yes. I'm top of the class in Latin.”

“So you see that teaching you Latin served a purpose?”

“Sure, it ruined three whole summers.”

“You dope.”

She put the coffeepot on the flame and sat back down.

“Come on, tell me something about yourself. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Grandma!”

“You're seeing a girl, aren't you?”

“Grandma!”

“I know, I know, I wasn't trying to pry into your business.”

“Sure, of course you weren't.”

“No, really, it was just a test. There's no two ways about it: you're the spitting image.”

“I'm as close-mouthed as Grandpa?”

“Not at all. Rosario isn't close-mouthed, he's just quiet, but he talks. You talk all the time, maybe you even talk too much, and you hide behind that wall of words. You're the spitting image of your father, he held his cards close to the vest, he never gave anything away.”

“Is that wrong?”

“It's unique. Do you have a friend you can talk to?”

“Yes.”

“And do you confide in him?”

“Yes.”

“What do you tell him?”

“Things.”

“What about with your uncle? And with your grandpa?”

“I talk to them, too.”

“And do you tell them things? I'm not talking about the things you say to fill the silence, Davidù. Confiding in someone, establishing a relationship means sharing the weight of the day, every day, for as long as it lasts. Do you ever talk about yourself with someone else, about the things you really feel, your joys and your sorrows? Do you know what struck me in particular about your father's nickname? That it fit him perfectly. Perfectly. He really was a paladin, but not because of the way he fought—what would I ever have been able to understand about that? It was perfect because of the armor he wore around himself, the perennial suit of chain mail that he placed between himself and the rest of the world. He never took it off. Of course his opponents couldn't understand his moves. He was completely inscrutable. In the ring and in his life. Now drink your coffee before it gets cold, coffee's just disgusting cold.”

“So the championship fight is really going to be held in Palermo?”

“Yes.”

“Absurd.”

“Not really.”

“But it's the same exact thing that happened to your uncle! Now don't tell me that you're going to lose, too, and then wind up opening a boxing gym of your own, just like he did?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gerruso.”

“You're welcome. But don't you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“Training, running, waking up super-early and breaking off your dreams midway through the second half, only being able to eat certain things, push-ups, pull-ups. I eat as much as I want, I get lots of sleep, and my dreams never involve sweating.”

The idea of not wanting to wake up already on your feet, outside it's raining and before you know it both shoes are already laced, fifteen push-ups,
fio
,
fis
,
factus sum
,
fieri
, and home is already far back in the distance, hook uppercut feint,
tollo
,
tollis
,
sustuli
,
sublatum
,
tollere
, cross feint cross again, every day until the minute you collapse into bed, until the next time the alarm goes off, at 5:30 in the morning.

“It's what I know.”

“And you've never skipped a session?”

“Rarely.”

“And when you did, did you tell them why you hadn't shown up, or did you tell them a little white lie?”

“First of all: if I skip a training session, there's always a perfectly valid reason, and in any case I'm training for the nationals and so no, I never skip a session. Second: What's a white lie?”

“They taught us about it at catechism. A white lie is what you say to keep from hurting a person's feelings. Sister Emilia explained it to us at catechism. She was nice, she always told me how handsome I was.”

“White lie.”

“Really?”

“Gerruso, what do you think? The nun was telling you that to buck you up.”

“And it worked, actually. Do you know any stories about lying?”

I told him a story about the truth.

Once upon a time, a king was born with donkey ears. The only person who knew the truth was the doctor. The queen mother had died in childbirth. The doctor gave the following order: for the rest of his life, the king was to wear a headcovering that would conceal his ears. It was vital to his own health and the future of his kingdom. Far better to keep the truth quiet. The doctor, crushed by the weight of the secret he kept, abandoned the court and the kingdom. He fled overseas and fetched up in distant lands, living among people who ate bread without salt. There he dug a hole in the ground and whispered into it: “The king has donkey ears.” At last, he felt freed of his burden. He covered the hole with dirt and that was the end of his part in this story. That field was sown with crops. A single tree grew in the field, broad and strong. Its wood was perfect for carving flutes. Word spread everywhere about the mellifluous tone of the flutes made from the wood of that one tree. News made its way to court. A concert was scheduled, the finest flutist in the kingdom would play the finest flute made from the wood of that tree. The populace gathered around their king to listen to the wonderful sound. The flutist picked up his flute, lifted it to his lips, and blew into it. The flute sang out: “The king has donkey ears.”

“Are you telling me that little white lies are eventually revealed by the flute of time? Like the white lie Sister Emilia told me?”

“Would you rather she had told you that you were ugly?”

“I'd rather she'd told me the truth, for her to say that in her opinion I'm very handsome, maybe I just happen to make an especially good impression on nuns, what do I know? Anyway, can I tell you something about truth?”

“If you absolutely have to.”

“I made a fool of myself today.”

“With who?”

“Eliana.”

He'd gone to meet her when school let out, with a flower in his hand. The Dumas came over to him, trailing an entourage of girlfriends behind her. She'd asked who the flower was for and acted dumbstruck when Gerruso gave it to her. Then she burst out laughing. She hadn't taken it. She hadn't thanked him. She'd asked about me.

Gerruso had told her that I was winning all my fights, that I was aiming for a shot at the national title, that I was getting good grades in school.

Amid a chorus of snickers from her girlfriends, she interrupted him, saying that she'd just remembered she had to be somewhere, and turned to go without another word. Then she stopped short, turned around, and shot him a glance: “Give the boxer a kiss from me,” she said, and left him standing there, forlorn in the middle of the street, with a flower in his hand.

“Do you have any idea why Eliana would have sent you a kiss?”

“No.”

“If you did know, would you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a white lie?”

“No.”

D'Arpa had lowered his voice.

“All right then, we agree?”

“Yes, we won't say a thing to Nicola.”

They both thought the same thing: it was Vincenzo Melluso who had hidden the scorpion in D'Arpa's blanket.

He was getting worse every day.

He'd clobbered La Mantia from behind with a rock. If four guys hadn't pulled him off, he'd have crushed La Mantia's skull. Melluso had accused him of being a card cheat, La Mantia must have marked the cards, that's why he always beat him.

“Randazzo thinks Melluso is delirious because he's sick,” said D'Arpa.

“Nicola is a good man, and Melluso is a bad seed,” Rosario replied.

“If we lose our ability to feel pity, we'll be just like him.”

Rosario said nothing.

“All the same, we're going to do what we decided to do,” D'Arpa concluded. He was well aware of the risks he was running, but the concrete threat that Melluso constituted made extreme measures necessary. The piece of wood that he'd slipped into his shoe was stiff and sharp. He'd have to use it like a nail and strike deep. Before going out, thinking of the danger involved, that he might be searched by the guards, he hesitated a moment. If he was caught, he'd be exposing Rosario and Nicola even further: Melluso would understand and he'd take revenge, that much was clear. D'Arpa weighed his options and decided to act as they'd agreed. He headed for the exit; the guards, crossing their rifles, ordered him to halt.

“
Boxer
,” they called him.

His victories had made him popular.

They told him to empty his pockets.

D'Arpa complied.

“
The jacket
.”

D'Arpa stood there bare-chested.

“
The shoes
.”

D'Arpa bent over slowly and began working on the knot, but instead of untying it he only knotted it tighter.

“
Help me
,” he asked the soldiers, pointing to the knot to show that it wouldn't come undone.

They gave him a look of irritation, then they waved him through, saying he was free to go without removing his shoes. D'Arpa walked toward the soldiers and, his hands held high, mimed a pair of uppercuts, one for each soldier. The guards broke into laughter and saluted him. D'Arpa found Rosario and the two of them asked Randazzo to accompany them to the latrine.

“If Melluso tries something at night, use this to defend yourself.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Don't worry about that. Just make sure you keep it well hidden, and within easy reach.”

“But what about you?”

“Just worry about hiding the stick, don't worry about us.”

Nicola went back to the barracks alone, weighed down with unasked questions.

It was Rosario who first recognized the potential for confusion.

“He wouldn't know how to use it.”

“I know that.”

But they hadn't done it for him. Knowing that he had some small weapon with which to defend himself was really just a way to put their own minds at ease.

They stopped for a few minutes and looked up at the sky.

The light of the stars spread out in all directions.

“The African sky is beautiful,” said D'Arpa, laying one hand on my grandfather's shoulder.

“It's endless.”

They went back to the barracks.

They agreed to take turns standing guard to prevent Melluso from attacking them by night, and they said goodbye with a handshake, for the last time in their lives.

That piece of wood was never used.

The following day, the inferno descended on the prisoner-of-war camp.