On Earth as It Is in Heaven (43 page)

Being with you was a hell of a lot of fun.

You had a wonderful flavor.

Ceresa retreated to the corner.

The wind was bottled up, now it couldn't gust, couldn't rage.

My left fist smashed once more into his face.

Ceresa couldn't seem to keep his guard up anymore.

Maestro Franco was clutching at the ropes. Carlo was torturing the towel in his hands. Umbertino had come back to life and was now miming a resurgent attack. With one hand, my grandfather was pointing to the ring; with his other he was lifting Gerruso's head: look, the shark fish is savaging his opponent.

My fists were pounding faster than they ever had before.

Anguish had appeared on the horizon.

Il Negro
would have been proud of me.

My father would have looked on with love in his eyes.

I was in the state of grace of one who wreaks havoc.

Bentu Maìstu
was a wind that had stopped gusting.

He'd stopped hitting back.

Well, all the better.

My fists centered his face seven times.

Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left.

I wanted it to never end.

I was as calm and unruffled as the wrath of God.

“It's a way of acquiring a structured movement: you feint to the right and then let fly with a right hook.”

“And then you do it over again?”

“For thirty minutes at a time.”

“You repeat the same dance step for thirty minutes at a time?”

“It's called a sequence and yes, I repeat it.”

“But don't you get sick of it? What's the point?”

“Gerruso, let me remind you that, in order to learn to write, you filled whole pages with
a
's and
e
's and all the other vowels, right? Well, it's the same thing. The same way that your hand learns the motions required to draw a vowel, so the body learns the movements needed to punch and feint through repetition.”

“Are you telling me that the hand can learn things?”

“The body has an intelligence all its own. It's a piece of paper you can write on.”

“Oh sure, I'll bet.”

“Everything is writing.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“Even pasta with sardines?”

“Yes.”

“And women's hips?”

“Yes.”

“And bombs in the city?”

“Yes.”

“And just what do these words of punches and feints write down?”

“The story of my family.”

My mother had woken up feeling uneasy. She missed my father terribly. Without him, the house was empty. Provvidenza was out, shopping for groceries. My mother got out of bed, without asking for help, and went into the bathroom all by herself. In front of the mirror, she came to terms with her own face, postpregnancy. She looked tired, her hair was unkempt and sweaty, there were dark circles under her eyes. She turned on the cold water and slowly rinsed her face. She listened alertly for any sounds that might come from the cradle. That short walk had exhausted her. She walked out of the bathroom and back down the hallway, bracing herself against the wall with one hand. She found Umbertino and Rosario in her bedroom. They'd crept in without making a sound. They were looking at me and talking in an undertone.

“But, are they always so little? Or is it just that this one's a midget?”

“They're small at first, then they grow.”

“Me? My mother, God rest her soul, told me that when I was born I weighed eleven and a half pounds. These modern kids come into the world all sickly, if you ask me. But who does he look like, now? Your wife says he looks like Zina. To my eyes, he just looks like every other kid in the world. Oh, Zina, there you are, quiet now, the little one's asleep, let us help, here.”

As soon as Rosario pulled the sheets aside, Umbertino slid her into bed.

“Now get some rest. The baby boy is doing fine. You just go to sleep. Later, Rosario will cook some fish, you need to eat something, there's a fabulous white sea bream, practically still alive, I told him to cook it
all'acqua pazza
, in water with tomato and garlic, mmmm, it drives me crazy.”

He caressed her hair, brushing it out of her eyes.

“We can't lose, Zina
mia
.”

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and she let her eyelids sink shut.

When my mother woke up again, she couldn't be sure whether or not she'd been dreaming, but it seemed to her that, the whole time she'd been asleep, Umbertino and Rosario had stood outside the half-closed door, watching me as I slept in my cradle.

His legs had folded beneath him.

Ceresa tried to brace himself, hold himself up with his back against the ropes.

He failed.

He cradled his head between his elbows, leaving his stomach open to attack.

I let loose with a series of low uppercuts.

He bent over even further.

He almost seemed to be on his knees.

When I hit him with my right hook, I leaped straight up on the spot, both feet in the air.

Ceresa fell to the canvas, right in front of his own corner.

The audience responded with a roar.

Gerruso, overwhelmed, gesticulated to everyone in the audience—his stump-finger held up in front of his mouth—to be quiet. His eyes were red with crying, his cheeks were on fire, his hair was matted with sweat. He was quivering. Standing next to him, my grandfather's gaze ricocheted obsessively from the ring to my uncle's eyes; my uncle's gaze mimicked the same motion.

Ceresa wasn't getting up.

I started to hop in place.

The referee took a stance in front of the Sardinian and, raising one hand straight into the air, exclaimed: “One.”

Outside the ropes, Maestro Franco crammed three sticks of gum into his mouth, while Carlo bit down on the sponge.

My opponent's trainer and second both urged their boxer to get to his feet.

They were cupping their hands in front of their mouths to amplify the sound of their cries.

The referee said, “Two.”

My feet came and went, flying back and forth, barely brushing the canvas, just so much water to walk across.

Ceresa wasn't getting up.

“Three.”

My gloves spun through the air, in front of my pelvis.

Umbertino was clenching his fists.

“Four.”

Gerruso had pulled out the sheet of paper he kept in his pocket.

He kissed it and crossed himself.

“Five.”

Ceresa's manager did his best to encourage his boxer; his second kept saying “Come on, come on, come on,” like someone reciting a rosary.

“Six.”

Ceresa wasn't getting up.

Grandpa was clenching his teeth.

“Seven.”

Umbertino was throwing punches into the empty air in front of him.

“Eight.”

My breathing was calm and unhurried.

Inside my glove, my fingers still thirsted.

“Nine.”

Franco gripped Carlo's arm.

The hall was filled with whistles and applause.

Umbertino and Rosario were taking turns leaning on each other and supporting each other's weight.

Gerruso called my name.

Ceresa hadn't gotten up.

Maestro Franco released his grip on Carlo.

Umbertino and Rosario looked each other in the eye.

“Ten.”

The crowd was screaming.

Umbertino burst into tears and Rosario threw his arms around him.

The referee walked up to me, seized my wrist, and raised my right arm high.

Gerruso kissed his sheet of paper, yelled out “Suck it, losers!” to the guys in the third row, made his way through the crowd, and ran out of the auditorium. He found a phone booth and called my mother.

“Signora! Something fabulous has happened! I just won five hundred thousand lire on a bet! My mother would be so proud of me!”

The funeral was held in the church of San Michele.

Gerruso spent the night in my apartment, in my bed, with the trophy by his side.

“That way, if nightmares come, I can deck 'em.”

I wanted to call Nina, tell her that I'd won.

I fell asleep, fully dressed, on the couch, with that thought in my mind.

My mother didn't wake me up.

“Signora, what should I wear for my mother's funeral?”

“The outfit you like best, my dear.”

“That would be my pajamas, is that okay?”

“Well, let's go to your house and we'll pick it out together, don't worry.”

A statue of the Archangel Michael looked down on us from on high, at the far end of the church. A long tunic, sandals on his feet, a sword unsheathed, gripped firmly in one hand. The light of the sun touched him, but it was absorbed, no reflection played into our eyes.

“What do you think?”

“
Scintillation
is a wonderful word, it accelerates from start to finish, jamming on the brakes when it comes to the end, on the
la
and then letting the
tion
gape in amazement at the spark of light that appears.”

Every funeral ought to reveal a spark of light. It should remind those who are still on this side of the light that though we're caught in a fleeting stream of time, it's possible to glitter with intensity.

“What other words do you like?”

“
Quinquennial
, it sounds like a series of years clinking past in armor, the tongue has to make lots of movements just to get it pronounced, but the lips never even touch.”

“I like mozzarella, it's good to eat.”

“Gerruso, that's not how it works.”

“No, that's exactly how it works for me, in fact it's better that way. My words are tastier:
burrata
,
sfincione
,
arancina
. Your words are different:
quinquennial
, there's nothing to eat. You may like your words in your mind, but I like mine in my tummy, too, so that means I win.”

Gerruso had chosen to put on a very shiny suit, something that reminded him of Nina's birthday parties. That's how he always dressed for important occasions.

“You like it, Poet? It's the twin brother of the suit I was wearing at the fair, you remember? We all got arrested.”

My mamma ironed his shirt. Gerruso put it on still warm from the iron.

“Br-r-r-r, signora, now I've got the shivers. Too bad my mother's dead, or I would have told her always to give me my shirts warm like this, these shivers are wonderful, they make me laugh.”

My grandparents got out of their sky-blue Fiat 500. Rosario was clean-shaven, with a dark suit, a black vest, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. Provvidenza, dressed in a dark brown skirt and a dark gray blouse, wore a black shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes were less lively than usual. Funerals were an uncomfortable reminder of things she wished she'd never had anything to do with. My mother had an easier time putting up with them. At the hospital where she worked, she encountered death on a regular basis.

Grandpa shook hands with Gerruso, Grandma gave him a hug and two kisses, one for each cheek.

Gerruso waited on tiptoe for the hearse to arrive: his right hand cupped against his forehead, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. His father, leaning against the front door of the church, was unshaven and red-eyed; no sooner had he crushed out one cigarette than he lit another. He was clutching at something to do to keep from collapsing.

Umbertino climbed up there, too, in his tracksuit.

“How do you feel, champ? Do you have a nice fat hard-on?”

He went over to Gerruso and laid both hands on his shoulders.

“Anything you need, you just ask.”

“Truth be told, Signor Uncle, there is one thing.”

“Go ahead and tell me.”

“I'm all dressed up but I forgot my tie, could you find me one?”

Grandpa was already there. He untied his and knotted it around Gerruso's neck.

“You see? You only have to ask.”

Umbertino shook hands with Rosario, who was rebuttoning his shirt and sliding off to one side again.

Gerruso's face lit up.

“You see that, Poet? Now I'm an old man.”

He thrust out his chest, proud of his dark blue necktie.

A white Fiat Panda pulled up and parked. Gerruso's aunt and uncle got out, with Nina.

At last, I saw her again.

I didn't know whether to bless the sorrowful loss or curse the thought of it.

Nina's mother, who was Gerruso's mother's sister, wore black and could hardly stand upright. Her legs kept giving out at the knees. Her husband had to all but carry her by force into the church.

Gerruso greeted them with a wave of his intact hand.

Nina made an effort to stanch her tears, and was successful.

She was even prettier.

“Your whole family came, Davidù.”

“And you're here, too.”

“You won yesterday.”

She knew.

She'd asked about me.

The hearse appeared, carrying the coffin.