God's Mountain
Page 9
IT BURNS in my hand. It does it deliberately. Otherwise at the last second I won’t throw it. It scalds my fingers to make me throw it. I breathe on it. This only makes it worse. I tense up, my mouth snaps at the air, I take a deep breath, cock the boomerang back behind my shoulders, close my good eye, peer at the sky sparkling with light like an August sea shimmering with anchovies, the burning in my fingers forces the air out of my lungs, and with a crunching of bone the boomerang breaks away, its tail on fire, a thrust like never before, the wood burns, floats, flies, whips through the air, there’s nothing in my hands. Behind me bedsheets are flapping in the wind, but there are no sheets. I turn around, it’s Rafaniello, his wings spread wide, his naked feet rising above the ground, they fall back down, once, twice, the wind rises, beaten by his wings, the spirits do their part to get up under him and push, and on the third jump Rafaniello rises and follows the blazing trail of the boomerang and the din of firecrackers, whistles, sending breezes spinning across my face, a celebration, and I raise my arms for one final push farewell.
I TOUCH my hand. It’s stopped burning. It’s new again. On the ground are Rafaniello’s blanket, two feathers, and a pair of shoes. In the air are the fireworks, the rockets, echoing off the walls. Montedidio thunders, I open my good eye, Maria screams at a shadow, I run to the bulwark, grab the shadow by its shoulders, my arms burning with energy. I tear the shadow away from Maria and throw it away, throw it away so hard that it flies, flies from the terrace of Montedidio, flies through the deluge of old vases and plates thrown from the balconies, everything is flying from Montedidio, but not the two of us, the two of us hugging each other under Rafaniello’s blanket, Maria shaking, me coughing up a hot clot of air from my throat. It’s a voice, my voice, a donkey’s braying that rips from my lungs. I shout, and there isn’t enough room for my shout on my whole scroll of paper or even in the sky above Montedidio.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Erri De Luca was born in Naples in 1950. He is a columnist for Il Manifesto and a novelist whose work has been translated into seven languages. He lives outside of Rome.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Michael Moore is a New York–based writer, translator, and teacher. His previous translations include The Silence of the Body by Guido Ceronetti.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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