White as Silence, Red as Song

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  We’re made for each other. I know it. She doesn’t. She doesn’t know she loves me. Not yet.

  Chapter 16

  I talked to Terminator today. Yes, because when I have important issues to resolve, I know there’s no point in speaking to grown-ups about them. They either don’t listen or they say, “Don’t worry about it. It’ll pass.” But if I’m telling you about it, maybe it hasn’t passed, duh! Or they come out with the classic: “One day you’ll understand, one day when you have children you’ll understand, one day you’ll have a job and you’ll understand.”

  I just hope that day never comes, because everything will weigh you down at once: adulthood, children, work . . . And to me it seems crazy that all those things have to hit you, like some kind of flash of lightning, just so you can understand. Wouldn’t it be better to start now, a bit at a time, without waiting for that stupid day? Today. I want to understand today, not one day. Today. Now. But no: that day will descend on you and it will be too late, because you, who wanted to be prepared for it, found nobody who could be bothered to give you an answer. You just came across someone who warned you about it, as if it were some kind of prophecy of death and destruction.

  Not to speak of teachers. When you try to have a serious conversation with them, they always say, “Not now,” which translates as “Never.” They’re quick to tell you the bad news: grades, tests, write-ups, homework . . . but they never tell you the good things otherwise. They say, “You’re resting on your laurels,” which doesn’t sound that comfortable. Other than that, there’s not much else to talk about with them.

  Mom and Dad? No way. The mere thought makes me shudder. They act as if they’ve never been my age. And anyway, Dad always comes home tired and wants to watch soccer. Mom? I feel awkward with her. I can’t be talking to Mom at my age! So, teachers are out, parents are out, and Niko hasn’t spoken to me since the match against Fantacalcio. Who does that leave me? Terminator. At least he just listens and says nothing, especially if I give him fried cat-flavored biscuits afterward.

  “You see, Terminator, ever since The Dreamer talked to us about dreams, the subject keeps coming back to me, like an annoying itch, but much deeper. What did you want, Terminator? What did you want to be when you grew up? I guess all you can be is a dog: eat like a dog, sleep like a dog, pee like a dog, and die like a dog. Not me. I like big ideas. A great dream. I don’t know what it is yet, but I like dreaming and having a dream. Just lying in bed in silence and dreaming my dream. Nothing else. Going through all my dreams and seeing which ones I like. I wonder if I will leave a mark. Only dreams leave a mark.”

  Terminator tugs on his leash. Even he can’t concentrate, and I wonder what he wants. We keep walking.

  “Don’t interrupt me! I like having dreams. I like it. But how can I find my dream, Terminator? Yours came ready-made, but I’m not a dog. The Dreamer had his granddad with his stories, and that film he wrote about on his blog. Maybe I should go to the movies more often, seeing as I haven’t got a granddad, and Grandma smells funny. She has that musty smell that I hate, and it makes me sneeze. Plus I have to shout things at her because she’s a bit deaf. Or maybe I should read more books. The Dreamer says that our dreams are hidden in things we come across in real life, things we love: a place, a book, a page, a movie, a painting . . . Dreams are loaned to us by the great creators of beauty.

  “That’s what The Dreamer says. I don’t quite know what it means. But I know I like it. I should try. I need some advice, but without believing it too much, because I’m the kind of guy who keeps his feet on the ground. A life without dreams is like a garden without flowers, but a life full of impossible dreams is like a garden full of fake flowers . . . What do you think, Terminator?”

  Terminator replies by peeing on a lamppost. The length of his pee is proportional to the length of my ramblings.

  “Thanks, Terminator. You really understand me . . .”

  Chapter 17

  Beatrice must be sick. The flu’s going around, but I never seem to get it. I haven’t seen her for two days. Days seem emptier without the red shimmer of her hair. They become white like days without sunshine.

  I go home with Silvia. I give her a lift on my Batscooter, and she constantly asks me to slow down. Women. We talk at length and I ask her if she has a dream, like The Dreamer. I tell her that Niko has a very clear dream. He says he will follow in his father’s footsteps. His father is a dentist. Niko has a ton of money. He’s going to study dentistry and then work in his father’s surgical office. He says that’s his dream. But I don’t think that counts as a dream. Because he already knows everything about it. Dreams—if I’ve understood correctly—need an element of mystery to them: something yet to be discovered. And Niko already knows it all.

  I don’t have a clear dream yet, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s so mysterious that I get excited just thinking about it. Silvia has a dream too. She wants to become an artist. Silvia is very good at painting, her favorite hobby. She even gave me one of her paintings. She copies famous works of art. It’s a lovely portrait of a woman shielding herself from the sun with a white umbrella. It’s a special painting because the woman’s clothes and skin are so pale they blend into the sunlight shining on her. It’s as if she’s made of the light she is protecting herself from. And it is the only case in which white doesn’t scare me. Silvia managed to fool the white in this painting. I like it. After at least a dozen near misses, thanks to my brakes that need work, we stop outside Silvia’s house.

  “But my parents don’t want me to. They say it can only be a hobby and certainly not my future. They say it’s a hard road to take, only very few manage to succeed, and you risk an impoverished life if you don’t have a breakthrough.”

  Grown-ups exist solely to remind us of fears we don’t have. They are the ones with fears. Me, on the other hand, I’m glad Silvia has her dream. When she talks about it, her eyes shine, like The Dreamer’s eyes when he explains things. Like the eyes of Alexander the Great, Michelangelo, Dante . . . blood-red eyes, full of life . . . I think Silvia’s dream is the right one. I ask her to look into my eyes and tell me when they shine. That way I might discover what my dream is while I’m talking to her about something and maybe am distracted and don’t realize it on my own. She agrees.

  “When I see your dream shining in your eyes, I’ll tell you.”

  I ask her to paint me another picture. She says she will. Her eyes light up, and I can almost feel her gaze warming my skin. They shine deep blue. That is her dream. I still don’t have one, but I can feel it is on its way. How do I know? My dark circles. Yes, I have bags under my eyes to carry dreams in. When I find the right one I will empty the bags, and my eyes will become light and sparkly.

  I ride off into the blue of the horizon, and I feel like I am almost flying, without brakes and without dreams.

  Chapter 18

  Beatrice still hasn’t come back to school. She doesn’t even go to the bus stop in the afternoons. My days are empty.

  They are white, like Dante’s were when he no longer saw Beatrice.

  I have nothing to say because words end when there is no love.

  Pages become white. Life’s ink has run out.

  Chapter 19

  I finally spoke to The Dreamer.

  “How does someone find their dream? And don’t tease me, sir.”

  “Look for it.”

  “How?”

  “Ask the right questions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Read, look, be interested . . . and do everything with enthusiasm, passion, and hard work. Pose a question to each of the things that rouse your interest and excite you. Ask each one why it does so. That’s where the answer to your dream lies. It’s not how you feel that counts, but what you love.”

  That’s what The Dreamer told me. How he comes up with these things, only he knows. I need to discover what’s important to me. But the only way of finding that out is by dedicating time and effort to it, and th
at doesn’t convince me . . .

  I’ll try to follow The Dreamer’s method: I should start from what I already know. I care about music. I care about Niko. I care about Beatrice. I care about Silvia. I care about my scooter. I care about the dream I don’t know yet. I care about Mom and Dad when they’re not annoying. I care about . . . Maybe that’s all. Those aren’t enough things. I need more. I have to make an effort to find them and pose each one the right question.

  I ask myself why I care about Silvia. I tell myself it’s because I’m fond of her, I want her dream to come true, and when I’m with her I feel at peace deep down, like when Mom used to hold my hand in the supermarket. Why Niko? I answer that it’s because I like being with him. I don’t have to explain anything. I don’t feel judged. Speaking of which, I need to do something about him. This silence has to end. We have another match soon, and if we’re not in step with each other, the Pirates will end up shipwrecked.

  Then I ask the question about my music, and the answer is that I feel free with my music. I ask my Batscooter without brakes and get the same answer. I have some pieces of the puzzle: I care about people’s affection, I care about freedom. My dream has those ingredients. At least I’ve found some of them. But it’s still not enough.

  Why do I care about Beatrice? That’s tougher, and I haven’t found an answer. There’s something mysterious about her. Something more that I can’t work out. A mystery as red as the sun that rises and makes the night darker just before dawn. She is my dream, period. That’s why it can’t be explained. Stuff that keeps me awake. I watch a horror movie. Stuff that keeps me awake. Sleepless night to the nth degree.

  Chapter 20

  This was the only Greek homework I enjoyed in school. We had to take a few words from a Greek text, then write in our exercise book their meaning and an Italian derivative word that would help us remember the Greek term. That’s how I learned two words really well.

  Leukos: white. The Italian word luce derives from this: light.

  Aima: blood. The Italian word ematoma derives from this: blood clot.

  If you join those two frightening words together, they form an even more terrifying one: leukemia. That’s what blood cancer is called. A word derived from Greek (all the names of illnesses come from Greek), and it means “white blood.”

  I knew that white was a rip-off. How can blood be white?

  Blood is red, period.

  And tears are salty, period.

  Silvia told me in tears:

  “Beatrice has leukemia.”

  And her tears became mine.

  Chapter 21

  That’s why she hasn’t been coming to school. That’s why she disappeared. Like Argentieri’s husband. Worse, in fact: blood cancer. Leukemia. Maybe it can be cured though. Without Beatrice, I’m finished. My blood will turn white too.

  That stuff about dreams is pure garbage. I knew it. I’ve always known it. Because then pain comes, and nothing makes sense anymore. Because you build, build, build, and then suddenly someone or something tears everything down. So what’s the point? Beatrice was in my dream, and Beatrice was the mysterious part of the dream. The key that opened the door. And now this thing arrives that wants to take her away from me. If she disappears, my dream disappears. And night remains in the darkest of darkness because there will be no dawn.

  Why the hell does an illness like this exist, one that turns blood white? Dreamer, you’re a liar of the worst kind—one of those who actually believe the lies they tell! Tomorrow I’ll slit the tires of your loser bicycle. Now I’m hungry. Text message: “Niko, I need to see you.”

  Chapter 22

  Afternoon at McDonald’s : the saddest thing in the galaxy. It smells of Big Macs and of the loser kids from middle school. But who cares? This’ll do. I’ve never mentioned Beatrice to Niko. Beatrice has always been my secret. A Caribbean island with crystal-clear water, where I can seek refuge alone. With Niko I talk about hot babes, about chicks . . . Beatrice isn’t a chick, and even if she’s hot, she doesn’t belong in that category. She isn’t part of the “X-ray group”—the ones you size up to check out what they’ve got. No, you don’t touch Beatrice, not even with words. I don’t talk about Beatrice this time either, and I keep all my anger and pain inside. Niko arrives and sits next to me, annoyed.

  “What is it?”

  “Come on, let’s stop acting like idiots. Pirates don’t squabble like girls.”

  Just what Niko was hoping for. He smiles and his eyes seem to melt. He gives me a poke.

  “We really are a pair of jerks.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  We laugh. As we guzzle two giant Cokes and Niko modulates a few burps, we talk. We talk some more. We pick up exactly where we had left off. Like only true friends know how to do.

  “We need to play some music. We haven’t let loose in a while.”

  “Yeah, and we need to get ready for the next match.”

  “Who are we playing?”

  “Those slow coaches from 3A.”

  “The X-Men?”

  “Yes.”

  “Easy.”

  “Niko?”

  He stares at me.

  “Are you scared of death?”

  “What the hell does death have to do with sitting in a McDonald’s with a giant Coke in front of you? You’re nuts, Leo. I think it’s your hair. You should cut it. It’s keeping the oxygen from reaching your brain.”

  I burst out laughing, but in truth I’ve turned to ice.

  “What have I told you a thousand times?”

  I imitate his metallic voice: “You mustn’t think about white!”

  “Come on. Let’s go and pick up girls in town—”

  “No, I need to get home . . . and to study . . .”

  Niko laughs.

  I pretend to laugh.

  “See you tomorrow. We’ll crush them!”

  It’s not easy being weak.

  Chapter 23

  Silvia tells me that Beatrice is in the hospital. Only Silvia has the right to tell me certain things. Beatrice needs blood. Blood transfusions of her same type. The white blood must be fought in the hopes that new, clean, red blood forms. Fighting the white blood can save her. I don’t know what her blood type is, but I know I have so much red blood in my body that I would give it all to her to see hers turn as red as her hair. Blood-red hair.

  I fly on my Batscooter without saying anything to anyone. Everything has turned white: the road, the sky, people’s faces, the front of the hospital. I go in and am overwhelmed by a smell of disinfectant that reminds me of the dentist’s office. I look for her room. I don’t ask where it is because I have a compass in my heart that always points toward her North: Beatrice. Indeed, on my third attempt, I find it. I peer in and look at her from a distance: she’s sleeping. Like a sleeping beauty. There’s a lady next to her with red hair. Her mother, maybe. Her eyes are closed too. I don’t have the courage to get closer. I’m frightened. I don’t even know what to say in these circumstances. Silvia might know, but I can’t always call her.

  Then I remember about dreams and that Beatrice is my dream. So I go to the hospital reception desk and tell them I’m there to give my red blood to replace Beatrice’s white blood. The nurse on duty looks at me, perplexed.

  “Look, we don’t have time to waste around here.”

  I glare at her. “Neither do I.”

  She realizes I’m being serious.

  “How old are you?” she says with a look of distaste.

  With a look of distaste: “Sixteen.”

  She tells me that minors need permission from their parents. That’s a good one! You want to give blood for a person who’s sick, but you need permission. You want to build a dream, or save one, but you need permission. What a world! They push you to have dreams, then stop you in your tracks. They’re all envious. So they claim you need permission to dream, and in order to not need permission, you must be an adult. So I go back home. I feel like I am floating on a sea of whit
e, with no harbor, with no haven. I’ve accomplished nothing. I didn’t talk to Beatrice, and I didn’t give her my blood. I’ll call Silvia, or this will end badly.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “So-so. You?”

  “Bad. They didn’t let me give blood for Beatrice!”

  “How come?”

  “If you’re a minor you need permission.”

  “That makes sense. It could be dangerous—”

  “Love makes everything possible! You don’t need permission!”

  “I guess . . . ,” Silvia replies, then says nothing.

  “What’s up? You seem weird today.”

  She mechanically repeats my second-to-last sentence, as if she weren’t listening to me:

  “Love makes everything possible . . .”

  Chapter 24

  I can’t concentrate on anything. My dream is disintegrating like a sandcastle when the tide comes in and reduces it to a pile of rubble just a few inches high. My dream has become white because Beatrice has cancer. The Dreamer says I must pose the right questions to discover my dream. So let’s try with this damned leukemia! Why the hell did you come between my life and Beatrice’s? Why are you poisoning the blood of a life that is so full and just beginning? There is no answer to this question. It’s the way it is—end of story. And if that’s the way it is, there’s no point in dreaming. Or at least it’s better not to, because it hurts more. It’s better to have Niko’s kind of dreams, the safe ones, the ones you can buy. I’ll go and buy myself some new shoes, a pair of dreams. At least I can wear my dream on my feet and trample it.

  I keep my feet firmly on the ground and trample my dream. The Dreamer says that desires have to do with stars: de più sidera, which means “stars” in Latin. All bollocks! The only way to see stars is not by desiring, but by hurting yourself.