Rosina released him and sat down. ‘People of Papà’s age believed in things that nobody talks about anymore.’
‘Or wants to talk about,’ Ernesto said.
‘That’s because they don’t know who is listening to them, you see?’
‘Eh?’
‘They don’t want to stir things up. That’s why he got so strange when Sergio said some kids had been into that house. Because if it was true, and I hope it wasn’t. . . .’
Through the kitchen window, the boy and his mother could see the old man coming up the path with Sergio and it was enough to cause Rosina to stop talking. Ernesto laid his head on the kitchen table and closed his eyes for a minute. He could see in his mind every detail of the building he wanted to draw. His design had been inspired by the cathedral in the centre of Cefalù; the building Grandfather’s weird man and his woman had walked into.
He got his chance to talk to Grandfather again one evening when he knew he’d been out drinking with his friends and had come home happy. ‘How old were you in 1920, Nonno?’ he asked.
Grandfather was sitting on the bottom step of the veranda, and Ernesto had slid down beside him and handed him his tobacco pouch and Zippo that he’d dropped on the path. ‘1920—that was a long time ago, why would you be interested in those times, kid?’
‘Maybe for school,’ Ernesto suggested, feeling his face redden with his lie.
Grandfather laughed. ‘I’m glad you’re still in school, Ernesto. You have a good brain. Don’t go dropping out like your brother.’
‘I won’t, Nonno. But Antonio Puglisi stares at me all the time.’ He hadn’t meant to say that; it just tumbled out of him.
‘Ah, the Puglisis. Don’t look at him; that’s what he wants you to do.’
‘It’s hard not to, but I’ll try. Were you older than Sergio is now in 1920?’
‘I was a young man. Twenty-four, I think,’ he said, reaching his hand out to touch Ernesto’s head briefly.
‘Were you married to Nonna then?’
Grandfather’s face turned stone-like for a second and his eyes seemed about to well up with tears. ‘Yes, Angelina and I were married and we were living in this very house.’
‘The football stadium wasn’t here then, was it?’ Ernesto asked, knowing full well the answer.
‘No, no. I was sixty-four when that stupid thing was built.’
They could hear crickets singing, and there was the smallest of breezes that came and went through the olive trees. Grandfather was trying to roll a cigarette and he was smiling to himself, so Ernesto risked his next question. ‘Why is the stadium stupid, Nonno, is it because it’s cursed?’
‘Who told you that?’ Grandfather asked, leaning away from the boy and frowning.
‘You said it was. Ages ago.’
‘Well it isn’t. Not exactly. But it’s overshadowed by the house. Influenced, I mean.’
‘How do you mean?’ Ernesto persisted.
‘Being that close to the white house, The House of Ghosts . . . young men didn’t want to walk back along the track after nightfall.’
‘They were frightened when it was dark?’
‘They were nervous any time of day or night if they found themselves too close to that place.’
‘Where the weird man lived with the women and children, right?’
‘Oh, but he’d gone by 1923 and taken his people with him, men with bald heads and women with short red hair. Mussolini threw them out of Sicily, you see.’
‘Mussolini? We learnt about him at school.’
‘Yes, of course you did. He was very famous, and so was the man in that house; famous all over the world, I believe.’
‘Wow, Nonno. They must have been really bad people to get thrown out like that!’
‘Evil more like, at least he with the tiny hands was,’ Grandfather muttered. ‘Roll me a cigarette, will you, Ernesto, my fingers are clumsy tonight.’
Ernesto did as he was asked, making it as perfect as he could, flicking back the heavy Zippo and lighting the cigarette before he handed it over. ‘So, the weird man was up in that house when you and Nonna lived here?’
‘Yes. He once tried to hire my old goat shed off me. He wanted to make a nursery for the poor little kiddies they had with them. I almost let him have it out of pity; at least that’s what I’ve always told myself. The truth is a bit different, though.’
‘What do you mean, Nonno?’
‘It doesn’t matter now, Ernesto.’ Grandfather looked away and took a drag on his cigarette that made it burn furiously for a second.
‘The truth is a bit different?’ the boy repeated.
‘Okay, what I mean is that Angelina and I were struggling for money in those days, and we could’ve rented that man our goat shed for good money, but we were both terrified of him.’
Ernesto let him smoke in peace for a while. ‘But those guys who played football shouldn’t have been frightened—I mean the man left Sicily a long time before the stadium was built, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, of course the bastard did, but what would you know about fear, Ernesto, where it comes from and how it hangs about?’
He’d been too cocky; Grandfather was irritated now, and Ernesto knew he’d tell him no more, but he did at least have a couple of things he could tell Sergio.
Nine days later it was Ernesto’s birthday, although when he got up that morning, no one said a thing in acknowledgement: it was like a normal day. Then just as he was beginning to feel his misery turning to tears, Grandfather laughed and started clapping and his mother and Sergio came over to kiss him.
‘Somewhere on this table something is hidden,’ Rosina said, ‘it’s from us all, Ernestino, but you have to find it.’
It was inside the empty coffee pot—a slim package that he drew out in great excitement. The joy he felt stayed with him for a long time when, on removing the paper, he discovered a real drawing-pen, a heavy dark metalled beauty with the finest nib you can imagine.
‘I found it in Palermo,’ Grandfather said. ‘It’s very precious, and every morning before you go to school, I want you to hold it up and show it to me so I can see you haven’t lost it.’
The difference the pen made to his drawings was indescribable and he considered himself the luckiest kid alive. And knowing that finally his grandfather had accepted what he’d once thought of as strangeness was like having a second wonderful and secret present. Every morning from then on, for as long as he was in school, he showed his grandfather the pen and the old man would say, ‘Hold it up, Ernestino, where I can see it properly.’
‘It’s here Nonno; in front of you,’ the boy answered each time, saddened by the fact that his grandfather’s eyesight was getting worse.
***
There was only one spot of blight on Ernesto’s life in 1968. Antonio Puglisi was restless for an enemy now that Sergio was no longer at school. The natural choice was Ernesto Cavallero as he had the right name, and even though he was smallish and three years younger than his brother, Antonio began to taunt the boy. Ernesto thought of telling Sergio, but he had the idea that it might make things worse, so he suffered in silence, and instead found ingenious ways of avoiding the bully on the way home from school.
Each morning, Ernesto walked to school worried about what might happen that day. The Puglisi kid had kicked, punched and squeezed him. He’d told him he had a knife that he kept under his bed for special occasions. He breathed cigarette smoke in Ernesto’s face. He made jokes about him that other boys laughed at, even though Ernesto could see that some of them didn’t want to laugh. He was shielded to some extent by not being in Antonio’s class, but if ever he dropped his guard for one second, it was as if by magic the bully knew it, and it caused him to come after Ernesto with extra vigour and meanness.
On one occasion, Antonio had pulled the boy’s bag off his shoulder, taken out the contents and found some of his precious smaller drawings—and those he’d torn into pieces. Ernesto imagined he could do no worse. H
e kept his pen in the lining of his bag so that nobody would know it was there, and he only took it out in quiet moments in his classroom when the children were allowed to read or draw. But Antonio Puglisi discovered the beautiful pen that made the exact lines and curves Ernesto desired, and he took it from him.
Ernesto wept in front of him on his knees; he had no shame whatever. He felt that all his grandfather’s growing pride and affection for him was at stake if he went home without that pen. If he’d told his grandfather what had become of it, the old man would’ve expected him to fight the Puglisi kid as Sergio would’ve willingly done. Ernesto cared equally about the pen and his grandfather’s opinion of him, and he was in terrible despair. It seemed that even Antonio was taken by surprise at the depth of feeling he’d managed to arouse in the younger boy. ‘What a baby. That’s nothing to cry about; it’s only an old pen,’ he said, as if, perversely, trying to comfort him.
They were in the school corridor, and Ernesto had come out of his classroom with the pen in his hand in the process of slipping it down behind the lining of his bag again. A group of large boys were with Antonio Puglisi, and they inched closer to Ernesto as he knelt before his enemy and beseeched him to return the pen. Ernesto could see the beginnings of worry creeping across Antonio’s brutal face. ‘Look, if it means that much to you, I’m going to give it back, but you’ve got to do something for it, okay, something really big?’ he announced.
Ernesto could feel the relief moving through him like wind. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll do whatever you want, Antonio.’
The bully smirked. ‘You have to swear on the Virgin Mary that you’ll do what I ask.’
Ernesto stood up then and held his hand out for the pen. ‘I swear on the Virgin Mary that I will do what you ask,’ he said quickly. Not everyone will understand the gravity of the moment; but back then and in that culture, having once sworn in such a way, Ernesto had no choice; he could not renege on it—he’d carry his enemy’s bag home for him if that’s what he wanted, he’d give him his lunch, or the few coins he had about him. And so Ernesto Cavallero left school that day holding his pen in his hand tightly, horribly grateful and badly frightened.
***
On Saturday morning he was sent down the hillside to wait for the vegetable van to arrive on the beach road. Grandfather had killed one of the older chickens and Rosina was busy preparing a big meal. Ernesto was to return with potatoes, broccoli and some carrots if they didn’t look too knobbly.
There, on the piece of waste ground near the old hut and the burnt out car, was Antonio Puglisi with three of his friends. By the time Ernesto had spotted him, he’d already been spotted himself, and he knew the bully wouldn’t forgo the opportunity of getting him on his own out of the sight of his school mates. He thought of running, but he knew Antonio would come for him in the end anyway, driven as he was by pride and vanity, and so, although they were too far away for him to hear what they were saying, he waited and watched while the four boys huddled together talking.
Ernesto was thinking that if the van would just appear on the road, he’d be able to get what his mother needed and scoot back up the hill fast. He saw one of the boys fling his arms up and step out of the group, and then he watched him kick a stone around on the ground before he wandered away and began walking back towards Cefalù town. Ernesto thought again of running, but he’d be making a fool of Antonio if he did that and it’d anger him further; he knew that the wisest thing to do was to face him.
As the three boys approached, Ernesto stepped back into the grass beside the road and bit down on his lip.
‘We were just talking about you, Stone Boy,’ Antonio said. ‘What are you doing up here, alone?’
‘Waiting for the vegetable van.’
‘He’s waiting for the vegetable van,’ Antonio repeated. ‘How’s your stupid brother?’
Although Ernesto was well aware of the peril he was in, he began to smile when he remembered that Sergio used to call Antonio the walking torso, or Gambino, because while his chest was broad, like that of a man, his arms and legs seemed to belong to someone far smaller. The two other boys, standing either side of Antonio, were tall and well-built, one had black oily hair, and the other was wearing sunglasses. They looked as if they could harm him.
‘Sergio’s on his way down here now,’ Ernesto announced.
‘No he’s not, you little liar.’ Antonio glanced down at Ernesto’s bare feet. ‘Anyhow I didn’t ask you where he was. I asked you how he was.’
‘He’s happy.’
‘Happy?’
‘Yes, Antonio. Happy. He’s happy now he isn’t in school anymore.’ Ernesto looked for as long as he dared at Antonio’s face, then lowered his head and waited for whatever was to come.
‘Is your family too poor to buy you shoes?’ one of the other boys asked.
‘I couldn’t find them,’ Ernesto explained, staring at his dusty feet. ‘I lose things a lot.’
‘Got that old pen back though, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, thank you, Antonio.’
‘And now it’s payback time, Stone Boy.’
Ernesto could feel blood thundering in his ears, and wished Sergio had come down with him to wait for the van. ‘I have to get vegetables for my mother, but I’ll meet you later if you like,’ he offered.
‘No. We’re going this minute. Salvatore has to be home soon, or he’ll be in trouble, and I want him with us.’
‘Where’re we going, Antonio?’ Ernesto asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling very fearful as he could see how troubled and pale Salvatore looked even though he was wearing sunglasses.
The Puglisi kid pointed upwards towards La Rocca and the four of them set off, walking fast and in silence. By glancing at their faces from time to time, Ernesto hoped to guess where they were taking him. He feared that they were going to make him jump off something high, or climb down into the ancient cistern half way up La Rocca. Older boys had gone down into that cistern from time to time—into the cold shiny water as a dare—but it was dark down there and the handholds were few and far between.
'Please can we not go past my house,’ Ernesto asked. ‘Grandfather will call me in if he sees me, and I’ll be in trouble.’
He felt Antonio’s hot and heavy hand clamp onto his shoulder. ‘Then we’ll go by the long way,’ he said, ‘’round the other side of the stadium.’
Why Ernesto had insisted on imagining that they were going to climb up La Rocca, he did not know; they were taking him to the stadium to frighten him there, he realised. When they arrived at the road that would take them to the entrance, Ernesto’s breathing had quickened and he sensed that now it was not only he who was afraid, the others were clearly frightened too. As they moved forward, walking close together and cautiously, Ernesto’s legs seemed to lose strength. Finally as they drew near to the monstrously lonely stadium with its rusted wire fence, Antonio stopped again and stared at his captive.
‘Are there snakes in there?’ Ernesto asked quickly, hoping to escalate the fear that was now palpable between them all, so that they could turn and run home.
‘In the stadium, you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s what I heard. Black ones. Lots of them. Whip snakes and things.’
Antonio squinted and his scar of a mouth turned down in derision. ‘Well, they aren’t going to bother us, Stone Boy, even if they are there.’
‘I’m not doing it,’ Salvatore said. ‘Nobody should. My uncle told me stuff. I’m going home.’ He took several steps backwards, looked pitifully at Antonio, then turned and left.
They watched him go, and as Antonio gazed closely at his other friend, Ernesto thought he saw a shudder pass through the boy’s body. ‘That’s what I was talking about, Donato,’ Antonio said, ‘nobody around here has got any guts. You can go too if you want, but me and Stone Boy are going to do it. So are you still up for it or not?’
‘Sure, why not, since we’ve come this far. But shouldn’t we blindfold him now, like we said?’
Donato asked, running the tips of his fingers through his oil-drenched hair.
‘Yeah, maybe we should; it’d make things easier,’ Antonio replied, and taking his tee-shirt off, he wound it round Ernesto’s face and tied it at the back.
The sour smell of the blindfold made the boy instantly sick and panicky. ‘Hey, you don’t need to do that!’ he shouted. ‘I said I’d do what you wanted; I swore it, so I must do it. Please . . .’
‘You’ve got to be blindfolded so you don’t see the entrance,’ Donato explained pointlessly.
‘What entrance? I won’t tell anyone!’ Ernesto shouted back.
‘Shut up Stone Boy, you’ll wake the dead,’ Antonio whispered, and taking him by the arm he walked him forward slowly and carefully.
‘Please don’t let me tread on glass or thorns, Antonio, I can’t go back home with cuts.’
‘Just relax, kid, you’re making it worse for yourself,’ Donato told him.
A short while later Ernesto discovered that he was strangely calm. He’d be late home anyway and in trouble there, but when his debt was paid, he’d be free, and he longed for that. Antonio got hold of his arm again and urged him forward. The earth beneath his feet was warm and crumbly and he leant in towards the Puglisi kid as he crept along, afraid of stubbing his toe on a rock. After a short while, they came to a halt, and he felt himself released.
‘He won’t be able get down there unless we take the thing off,’ Donato whispered.
‘Sit on your bum, Stone Boy, and move downwards slowly, holding onto the grass and stuff on your way,’ Antonio instructed him. ‘There’s nothing with thorns on.’
Ernesto did as he was asked, but his fear was returning. He could smell soil and pungent scented leaves, and he was aware of tall grasses either side of him as he inched his way down a steep slope. The other two were behind him and when they reached the bottom, Ernesto was hoisted to his feet by his trouser belt and glad to be standing again.
‘Can I see now please?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. Walk forward again,’ Antonio whispered, and once more, Ernesto felt fingers gripping his arm. For a while they were in dense undergrowth and walking through dry leaves. Ernesto was still thinking about snakes, he realised, and he was close to whimpering now.
Seven Strange Stories Page 18