What Hell Is Not

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  Nuccio tucks his pistol in his jeans and walks away as if nothing has happened. He’s a quick learner and he knows how to get creative when it comes to following orders. He’ll go far and it won’t take him long to get there. The thing about the girl was his own idea. He knows which methods to use with people like this. He’s had his eye on her for a while anyway. He wouldn’t mind taking her out for a ride. Just like a wolf, he devoured his prey too quickly to savor it. But the blood has lit a greater hunger within him and a greater instinct for a new hunt. He can smell his victims’ scent in the air and he begins to track them. And so it’s done: Take to the hunt, chase down your prey, and then rip its guts out.

  Chapter 26

  ‘What’s going on in that sieve of a brain of yours, Poet?’

  When I go back to my room, Manfredi is lying on my bed, leafing through one of my books. I don’t answer him.

  ‘Just be thankful that I have abs like Tiger-Man’s. Otherwise I would have had to kick your ass. I should have made you into a posthumous poet.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So, what’s going on with you? Did you decide to become a cursed poet? Did you go from Petrarch to Rimbaud without telling me?’

  ‘No, that’s not it.’

  ‘It’s time to start talking. Otherwise I’m going to give you a dead leg and set your books on fire.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Brancaccio?’

  ‘I’m actually fond of my skin and would like to keep it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m fond of my balls.’

  ‘You’ve definitely become a cursed poet.’

  Silence. My brother knows that my silence is a sign that says ‘ask me a question.’ I’ll never start talking out of the blue but if you ask, if you ask questions that require only the briefest answer possible, I will answer.

  ‘Did they give you that fat lip?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘My religion professor asked me to give him a hand.’

  ‘Which professor? Father Puglisi? I remember him from school. During break, he would walk up and down the halls and answer the kids’ questions. He didn’t like the teachers’ lounge. He said it had too many teachers. Is he still at Vittorio Emanuele?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The idealist poet stood his ground and took one to the face like a man.’

  I pick up a book and start leafing through it aimlessly, as if the words I read could suggest something to say.

  ‘Who did that to you?’

  ‘A child.’

  ‘A child?’

  ‘Yes. They even stole my bike.’

  ‘How did a child manage to bust your lip?’

  ‘Are you done yet?’

  ‘You poets always manage to surprise me.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘I’m not joking either. Thank goodness you’re going away to England. Hopefully that’ll make you get your head on straight again. Do something useful and stop getting into trouble. The next time they’ll bust your head, not your lip. You don’t know a fucking thing about that world and you think you can be their savior? Stay where you belong. This city wouldn’t even know what to do with a hero. Heroes come here to get blown up.’

  ‘I have no intention of being a hero. I’m not sure about anything anymore. I feel like I’m following a script that has already been written. Everything’s just like you: The trip, learning English, university, career . . . The talented second son who follows in the footsteps of the first son and achieves the same success. I’m not like you!’

  ‘It’s not much, but it’s for sure. Perfection can only be achieved once in any given family. You’re the leftovers. All that was left for you were air and dreams.’

  ‘You’re the one who is dreaming. You, with your perfect little world, your perfect little girl, your perfect little future. You think you know what reality is. But what you see in that reality, where is it?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in the greenhouse where we live. We grow like plants in a greenhouse and when we stick our heads outside, the best thing that can happen is that we get a busted lip.’

  ‘So now you want me to feel guilty for people who choose to be delinquents?’

  ‘Do they really choose to be delinquents? Are you so sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, then, take your fancy motorcycle and go with your hot girlfriend to get a drink there!’

  ‘Why are you getting so worked up? One of these days, they need to do some scientific research on poets’ brains. I’d like to understand what part of that cranial box is full of dreams and what percentage of reality has remained intact in there.’

  ‘No, my brain is calm. It’s my heart that’s so worked up.’

  ‘Well, when things calm down, we can talk about it again if you want. Go tell Mom you’re sorry. I’m just trying to get you to use your brain. The reality you think you’re changing isn’t what you think it is. Next time, it won’t end so well.’

  ‘Just worry about Costanza. I’ll take care of myself.’

  ‘Man up, then. You deserve to get your lip busted by a bunch of kids. You’re the same mental age.’

  He slams the door as he leaves.

  My rage lasts for exactly twenty-two minutes. Then the self-imposed feeling of loneliness fills me with bitterness. I don’t have the physique for being an idealist.

  Chapter 27

  ‘What is it?’ asks Mother Nature.

  ‘This kid has something to tell us,’ answers the Turk.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘My name is Riccardo.’

  ‘And do you know who I am?’

  ‘Of course I know. Otherwise why would I have come here?’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you that there is a priest who is saying things he shouldn’t be saying. Dishonorable things.’

  ‘And how do you know this?’

  ‘Because I go to his center. I play soccer with them. I listen and I see.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘The other day he made us read “The Young Mafioso’s Our Father.” ’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘It’s a sort of prayer that’s supposed to make you laugh. First he made us learn the real Our Father, the one that you read in church. And then he gave us a piece of paper that said “The Young Mafioso’s Our Father,” and he said that it was the opposite of the real Our Father.’

  ‘And what does it say?’

  Riccardo takes a crumpled sheet of paper out of his pocket and offers it to Mother Nature.

  ‘You read it.’

  The terrified child uncrumples the sheet and begins reading.

  My Godfather and Godfather of my family,

  You are a man of honor and valor,

  Your name must be respected

  And all of us must obey you.

  All must do what you say unless

  They want to die because it’s the law.

  You are our father and you provide us with food,

  Food and work, and you’ll never stop

  Taking from those who have,

  Because you know that the young must eat.

  Those who err must pay.

  Forgive them not. Otherwise you’d be wicked

  And wicked are those who spy and betray.

  This is the law of our people!

  Please take me, my Godfather,

  Free me from the police and their jail,

  Free me and all your friends.

  It has always been like this and always will.

  Riccardo stops reading and then adds: ‘But I don’t think these things.’

  ‘What do you mean? This is exactly what you need to think. Don’t you want to become a good soldier?’

  ‘Of course I do! That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘You did the right thing. And you are doing the right thing by telling me what that priest is up to. Come t
o think of it, let’s make a deal. Come to me again and tell me what that priest is doing, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Word of honor?’

  ‘Word of honor.’

  ‘Good boy. You’re a good soldier. You’ll go a long way with me.’

  Mother Nature hands him a 10,000-lire bill.

  ‘Go get yourself a pizza. If you play your cards right, there’ll be a lot more of those.’

  Riccardo squeezes the money in his hand and he seems a bit taller as his chest puffs out.

  Mother Nature messes up his hair and gives him a little slap on the cheek. As he leaves, the boy rolls the prize between his fingers. He’s a smart one and he’s already become Mother Nature’s ears and eyes. He’s a born natural when it comes to playing this game.

  ‘This priest better say a few Our Fathers,’ says Mother Nature sarcastically, ‘the real one. Then we’ll see which one works better.’

  Chapter 28

  ‘What’s college like?’ asks Lucia.

  ‘It’s hard. It makes high school seem like a walk in the park. But it’s great to study only the things you want to study.’

  Serena puffs up her cheeks and then lets out the air as she purses her lips. Then, suddenly, her face lights up in a mischievous smile.

  ‘And you, with all the furniture you’ve seen at your family’s store, you must be a fantastic interior designer.’

  ‘It’s true. And my mom was so proud when I started studying at the university. She didn’t have the opportunity to go to college and so she got caught up in those interior design magazines that she loved so much.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘All the time. Sometimes more than others. Whenever I start working on something new, I wish she were with me. I feel so alone. You are so lucky with that big family of yours!’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could kick them out of the house. It’s so crowded there!’

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do? Are you going to sign up for university?’

  ‘I’m going to go to teacher’s college even though what I really dream of is becoming a director. But it’s better not to get carried away with dreams . . .’

  They stroll silently back home from the sea. Their smooth tan skin is made only more beautiful by the indomitable summer light. The two friends smile and say goodbye. Lucia heads out over the streets where the asphalt is bumpy, where the sidewalks are full of cracks, where the exposed bricks give the houses the definitively temporary feel that defines them. The great sea that lies just a few steps from the heartache of a small crowded house makes her journey all the more painful. The sea is bad for you. Not for your skin but for your heart. Too much future comes from there, from the horizon, and it breathes down your neck as you seek to limit it to those streets and to the relative possibilities. How can you love the sea when it puts so much desire into your heart? How can you love the light when you must abandon it once you’ve turned the corner?

  ‘Just look at how beautiful this one grew up to be,’ exclaims Nuccio when he sees Lucia’s face. She looks at the ground and tries to move past him. It takes just a second for fear to sweep away the stupid dreams of a sixteen-year-old girl and remind her of the reality of her flesh. Her legs stiffen.

  He doesn’t give up. He follows the trail of her scent.

  ‘One of these days, you and I will go for a nice walk. What do you say, Lucia?’

  She speeds up.

  ‘What? You don’t like me? You should give me a spin. You have the mouth of a girl who likes . . .’

  Nuccio is on top of her. His words sting her shoulders like the tentacles of a jellyfish.

  ‘We’d make a handsome couple, you and me. We’d really be something to see. I would protect you. Nobody would ever bother you.’

  Lucia stops in her tracks. She musters the courage that she lacks and looks him in the eye as her lips tremble.

  ‘Leave me alone. Understand? Leave me alone.’

  ‘And if I don’t? Then what will you do?’ answers Nuccio as he grabs her by the arm with his sweaty hand.

  The girl breaks free and runs away.

  Nuccio bursts out laughing. The fear he strikes in women almost arouses him more than fucking them.

  ‘You’d better take it easy. You’ll see. I take what I want when I want it.’

  She can’t hear him anymore. Her ears have been deafened by the fear and her eyes burn from the tears. Hell is not made of promises not kept. It’s made of promises denied.

  She is terrified by her womanly body. Her beauty condemns her to violence. She needs to take all those hopes and place them in the palm of her hand and blow them away.

  When she gets home, she hugs her mother and cries on her chest.

  ‘Why is Lucia crying?’ her little sister asks.

  Gemma strokes her hair to soothe her but doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Not now. Not when she can feel the pain of her daughter’s flesh.

  Tonight, even the roses in the vase are bitter in the sweet light of their home. The escape routes are blocked, even though this city is a never-ending port.

  Chapter 29

  ‘I’ll give you the money.’

  Maria looks at him with her tired eyes while Don Pino places an envelope with 50,000 lire on the table.

  ‘What do you want me to do with this? Don Pino, they would kill me.’

  ‘You need to look for a job, and in the meantime you need to stop selling your body.’

  ‘A job? I don’t know how to do anything.’

  ‘We’ll find you something.’

  ‘There’s no way, Father. They’ll take my house away if I don’t do what I’m supposed to.’

  ‘Do you really want to force Francesco to live like this?’

  Maria opens her mouth and the sound that comes out is transformed into a blood-curdling wail. Her eyes brim with mascara and her hair covers her face as she sobs.

  ‘Help me. I’m begging you, help me. I can’t take it anymore! The only reason I don’t jump out of the window is little Francesco.’

  Don Pino hugs her and fixes her hair behind her ears the way you do with a child. Tears continue to stream down her cheeks as she sops them up with her hair.

  ‘Everything will be okay, you’ll see, Maria. Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I don’t have the courage.’

  ‘Think about it a little. Take Francesco to the beach. And think it over.’

  Don Pino’s black shirt is spotted with her tears.

  ‘Would you consider cleaning an older lady’s house? Maybe doing her shopping?’

  ‘But everyone knows who I am . . .’

  ‘We’ll look for something somewhere else.’

  ‘Why are you doing this, Father?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  ‘Your smile.’

  For just a second, Maria lets him have a look at that smile. That’s the first-ever smile that Francesco saw. That’s the smile that a boy she liked saw for the first time. And that’s the smile that she wishes she could wake up to someday after a night of giving away her love.

  As the door closes behind him, Don Pino runs into Nuccio, who’s on his way to collect from Maria.

  ‘You, too, Father? Good for you. You have good taste!’ Nuccio looks Don Pino up and down with those cigarette-yellowed teeth of his.

  ‘Leave this girl be.’

  ‘What are you saying, Father? You can and I can’t? What kind of justice is that?’

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you saying?’

  ‘Father, there’s nothing wrong with you getting laid. We’re all men here.’

  ‘No, you are an animal. I am a man.’

  ‘Let’s take it easy with the talk. You’re already way out of line here.’

  ‘You’re the one who talks too much. Maria is a mother and she needs a job. And you need to leave her be!’

  ‘Father, get out of the way or you are really going to piss me o
ff and then things will get ugly.’

  ‘I’m not getting out of the way. Get out of here and don’t come back!’

  Don Pino stands in front of the door, immovable, with eyes that tremble with determination and fear at the same time.

  ‘Move or I’ll kill you.’

  Don Pino moves toward him slowly, with his hand outstretched and his palm facing upward, like someone begging for alms. He puts his hand on Nuccio’s arm.

  ‘Please, go away.’

  He says this with a smile and his meekness reminds Nuccio of his mother’s eyes. Something inside of him (he doesn’t know what) or someone inside of him (he doesn’t know who) compels him to stop.

  ‘Father, this is not the end of this. You need to start minding your own business. Do you understand me?’

  Don Pino watches him leave. Suddenly, he notices that his shirt is dripping wet with sweat.

  The door opens and Maria comes out.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing happened. I just felt a little dizzy. That’s all. I just need to sit down for a moment.’

  ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

  ‘No, no. I’m already better.’

  ‘You work yourself too hard, Father. And with this heat!’

  ‘You need to get out of here, Maria.’

  ‘You’re so hard-headed, Father.’

  Chapter 30

  An open suitcase. Only the dragon from The Hobbit is worse. It has wide jaws and devours all in its path. If only I knew what to put into it . . . I stand there paralyzed for twenty-two minutes. There, I said it. How am I supposed to know what I’m going to need when I’m in England forty-five days from now?

  I start to toss things into it on a purely poetic basis: Books that I want to read in the original language; sunglasses that belong to Manfredi, who’s already got himself a new pair, even though I don’t really know if there will be enough sun in England to merit wearing them; one or two pairs of jeans and thirty or so t-shirts; a Swiss Army knife that they gave me when I was nine and that I take on every trip, although I’ve never used it; a few comics in case I get sick. This is my magic suitcase.

  My mother is going to check anyway and repack my bags from scratch.