I pull out my penknife and start carving something in the trunk of the nearby tree. As I do this mechanically, I think about my next move, my checkmate on destiny, the move toward happiness. Occasionally I look up at the sky, and my fingers linger on the century-old creases of the tree that is strong, solid, and happy in the heart of that park. It is a tree and it acts like one; it sinks its roots into the water of the nearby river and grows. It follows its nature. That is the secret to happiness: being yourself and that’s it. To do what you are called to do. I’d like to have the strength of that tree: rough and hard on the outside, alive and tender on the inside, where the sap runs. I don’t have the courage to go see Beatrice. I’m scared. I’m embarrassed. I have myself, and it isn’t enough. It’s never enough. I continue carving the bark without thinking . . .
“What are you doing?”
I don’t even look at the park ranger’s face and reply:
“Scientific research . . .”
“Come on. You’ve never even taken science!”
It’s not the voice of a warden. I turn around.
“Silvia?”
She looks at me with eyes I don’t recognize. Silvia is really good at school. She’s never unprepared, has never skipped a day, except for serious diseases like scurvy or leprosy and not for some generic condition indicated by a thermometer that has been warmed up on a lightbulb. Silvia is here, in front of me. Silvia is skipping school with me and because of me. Silvia would even come to find me in hell, just to make me happy. Silvia is a blue angel. I knew it. Or maybe she’s an angel who looks like Silvia, who will punish me with her flaming sword for skipping school.
“We had a deal. We have to go and see Beatrice together. When I saw you disappear this morning, I knew you were coming here.”
I make space on the bench where dreams come true.
“You too? I guess everybody saw me today. Have I been cast on Big Brother without knowing it?”
Silvia smiles. Then she stares at the bark on the tree. The trunk has been wounded by my penknife with a mathematical formula: H = B + L. Silvia turns serious, her face straining for a moment in a grimace of pain. But it quickly disappears and she says, “So, shall we go and solve the equation of happiness?”
Silvia is the lymph of my courage. Hidden but alive, she gives me the strength to overcome my limits. I take her hand.
“Let’s go. There will be no blaze today. Just dreams.”
Silvia looks at me, confused.
“Nothing, nothing. The genius of T9 . . .”
Chapter 79
Outside Beatrice’s block I am overcome by the grasshopper syndrome: like in The Blues Brothers, where any excuse is good enough to run away. But Silvia is inflexible. She squeezes my hand tightly and we go upstairs. We are let in and we find ourselves in the living room, sitting in front of the red-haired lady I had first seen at the hospital and then in the photograph: Beatrice’s mother. She knows Silvia, but not me. Fortunately. She tells us that Beatrice is sleeping. She’s very tired. Her strength has diminished lately.
I tell her about giving blood, about the accident, and about everything else. She’s a lady with a calm voice. Her face is tired and has aged, and her youthfulness in the photo seems to have stayed on the photographic paper. She offers us something to drink. As usual in these cases, I don’t know what to do and accept. As we talk to her, I feel like I’m seeing Beatrice as an adult. Beatrice will be even more beautiful than her mother, who is a wonderful woman.
While she goes to get drinks, I try to memorize all the objects in their home. All the things that Beatrice sees and touches every day. A glass vase, a row of small stone elephants, a painting of a glistening marina, a bowl filled with iridescent and colored oval stones set on top of a glass table. I take one: it is every shade of blue, from early dawn to the dead of night. I put it in my pocket with the certainty that she must have touched it. Silvia glares at me with her piercing blue eyes. Beatrice’s mother comes back.
“How come you’re not at school today?”
Silvia says nothing. It’s up to me:
“Happiness.”
The lady looks at me, confused.
“Beatrice is paradise for Dante. So we came to see her.”
Silvia bursts out laughing. I remain serious and turn red, almost purple. But when I see Beatrice’s mother laugh, I start laughing too. I’ve never felt so ridiculous and happy at the same time. The lady smiles with a kindness that I’ve rarely seen on the face of an adult: only Mom smiles like that. Even her copper-colored hair, in parts shiny and in others opaque, appears to smile. She gets up.
“I’ll call Beatrice now. Let’s see if she’s up to it.”
I remain still, paralyzed with terror. I now realize what we are actually doing. I’m in Beatrice’s home and am about to talk to her face-to-face for the first time. My legs aren’t trembling; they’re flapping like a flag, and my saliva has completely disappeared somehow, leaving my mouth feeling like a mini Sahara. I gulp down a sip of Coke, but my tongue stays as dry as firewood.
“Come with me.”
I’m not even remotely prepared for this. I got dressed randomly. I have only myself, and I don’t think it’s enough. I’m never enough. But Silvia is here.
Chapter 80
I find myself face-to-face with Beatrice’s smile. It’s a tired smile, but it’s a genuine smile. Her mother left the room, closing the door behind her. I sit down in front of the bed, and Silvia sits at the end of it. Beatrice has a short layer of red hair that makes her look like a soldier, but she’s still a perfect mix of Nicole Kidman and Liv Tyler. Her green eyes are green. Her face is worn but delicate and full of peace, with her gentle cheekbones and elf-shaped eyes. Her whole being is a promise of happiness.
“Hi, Silvia. Hi, Leo.”
She knows my name! Her mother must have told her, or else she recognized me as the author of my text messages. Now she’ll think that I’m stalking her, that I’m the loser who was trying to make it with text messages. Whatever the reason, she has pronounced my name—and that “Leo” coming from Beatrice’s lips suddenly becomes real. Silvia takes her hand but stays quiet. Then she says, “He wanted to meet you. He’s a friend of mine.”
I’m on the verge of tears from sheer happiness. My lips are moving by themselves, despite not knowing what they should say:
“Hi, Beatrice, how are you?”
What an idiotic question! How do you think she feels, you moron?!
“I’m fine. Just a little tired. You know, the treatments are intense and they wear me out, but I’m okay. I wanted to thank you for giving blood. My mother told me all about it.”
So it’s true that my blood is nourishing Beatrice’s red hair. I am happy. Extremely happy. The thin red hair that is growing back is thanks to my blood. My blood-red love. I think about this so intensely that I let something ridiculous slip out:
“I’m happy that my blood can flow in your veins.”
Beatrice breaks into a radiating smile that could make a million frozen fish sticks defrost in a second. My heart rate doubles, to the point that my ears become hot and I think they have turned red too. I immediately apologize. I’ve said something ridiculous and tactless. What a fool! I want to disappear into the darkness of that room where I haven’t yet set fire to anything because I’m so concentrated on Beatrice’s face: the center of the sphere of my life.
“Don’t worry. I’m happy to have your blood in my heart. So, you missed school today to come and see me. Thank you. It’s been so long since I went to school. It all seems so far away.”
She’s right. Compared to what she’s going through, school is a cakewalk. How can you be convinced at sixteen that life is school and school is life? That teachers are hell and holidays are heaven? That grades are the final judgment? How can it be that at sixteen the world has the diameter of the schoolyard?
Her green eyes dance on her pearly face like fires in the night, revealing a gush of life inside her like a mountain sprin
g, hidden, silent, and full of peace.
“I’d like to do so many things, but I can’t. I’m too weak. I get tired so fast. I dreamed of learning new languages, of traveling, of playing an instrument, but no. Everything has gone to pieces. And my hair . . . I’m embarrassed to be seen like this. Mom had to persuade me to let you come in. I’ve even lost my hair, the most beautiful thing I had. I’ve lost all my dreams, like my hair.”
I look at her and I don’t know what to say. In front of her I have become a drop of water that evaporates in the August sun, and my useless words are breaths that dissipate in the air. And as timely and inappropriate as the school bell, I say:
“It will grow again, as will all your dreams. One by one.”
She smiles wearily, but her lips are quivering.
“I hope so, I hope so with all my heart, but it seems like my blood won’t decide to get better. It just keeps rotting.”
A pearl in the shape of a tear flows from Beatrice’s left eye. At that point Silvia strokes her face and wipes the tear away as if Beatrice were her sister. A moment later she too leaves the room. I’m left alone with Beatrice, who half closes her eyes, through tiredness and concern about Silvia’s reaction.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I use words that are too strong.”
Beatrice is worried about us, and it should be the other way around. I’m alone with her now and have to share with her the secret of her road to recovery. I am your cure, Beatrice, and you are mine. Only when we both know this and agree will anything be possible, forever. I concentrate on telling her I love her. I prepare myself within, as if my body is an athletic track, but I feel like my back is against the wall. I love you. I love you. I love you. Just three words. I can do it. Beatrice can tell I’m struggling.
“We shouldn’t be afraid of words. That’s what I’ve learned through my illness. Things must be called by their name, without fear.”
That’s why I want to tell you what I am about to tell you . . . That’s why I am about to scream out that I love you.
“Even if that word is death. I’m no longer scared of words because I’m no longer scared of the truth. When your life is at stake, you get sick and tired of roundabout ways of saying things.”
And that’s why I must tell her the whole truth, and now. The truth that will give her the strength to get better:
“There’s something I’d like to tell you.”
I hear these words coming out of my mouth and I don’t know where that sentence came from or who had the courage to pronounce it. I don’t know how many different Leos there are inside me, but sooner or later I’ll have to choose one. Or perhaps I’ll get Beatrice to choose the one she likes best.
“Tell me.”
I stay silent for a minute. The Leo who had the courage to say the first sentence has already disappeared. He should say “I love you” now. I find him hidden in a dark corner, his hands covering his face, as if something horrific is about to attack him, and I convince him to speak. Go on, Leo, come out of there, like a lion coming out of the forest. Roar!
Silence.
Beatrice waits. She smiles at me encouragingly and rests her hand on my arm.
“What is it?”
Her touch turns into a rush of blood and words.
“Beatrice, I . . . Beatrice . . . I love you.”
My face takes on the typical expression you have during an oral math test, in which you fumble along and hope the teacher makes some gesture to let you know whether you’re getting things right or not, so you can backtrack as if you had said nothing. Beatrice’s fragile hand, as white as snow, is resting on mine like a butterfly. She keeps her eyes closed a few moments, then takes a deeper breath and reopens them.
“It’s lovely of you to say that, Leo, but I don’t know if you’ve quite understood. I’m dying.”
Like a hurricane of swords, that piercing cluster of syllables leaves me bare in front of Beatrice: bare, wounded, and defenseless.
“It isn’t fair.”
I say it like someone waking up in the middle of a dream after a long night, when he is still unable to distinguish reality from nighttime. I whispered the words, but she heard them.
“It’s not a question of fairness, Leo. Unfortunately it’s a fact—a fact that has happened to me. The question is whether I’m ready for it or not. And I wasn’t before. Now, perhaps, I am.”
I’m not following her anymore, I don’t understand her words. Something is rebelling inside me and I don’t want to listen. Is my dream taking me back to reality? The world has definitely turned upside down. Since when do dreams show you reality? Something invisible is thrashing me and I am left without defenses.
“All the love I have felt around me in these past few months has changed me. It has allowed me to touch God. Little by little, I have stopped feeling scared, stopped crying, because I believe I will close my eyes and I will reawaken near him. And I will stop suffering.”
I don’t understand her. In fact, she’s making me really mad. I climb mountains, I cross oceans, I submerge myself in white up to my neck and she rejects me like this. I did everything possible to have her, and when she’s within reach I find out she’s miles away. My fingers clench into a fist, and my vocal cords tighten up, ready to scream.
Beatrice draws closer and holds my clenched hands, which soften as my vocal cords relax. She has warm hands, and I feel life flowing out of my fingers as they stroke hers, as if through our hands we could exchange souls, or as if our souls can no longer find the boundaries within which to contain themselves. She then lets my hands go, delicately, giving time for the soul to return into its shell, and I can feel her sail off again, far away from me, toward a harbor I don’t know.
“Thanks for visiting, Leo. You should go now. I’m sorry, but I’m really tired. I’d like you to come and see me again though. I’ll give you my number, so you can let me know if you’re coming. Thank you.”
I’m so confused and stunned that I act without thinking. I play dumb, though in truth I already have her number, but as she says it out loud I realize it’s different from the one Silvia gave me awhile back. I can’t ask questions, but all those unanswered messages are now clearer. Beatrice doesn’t think I’m a loser, then, and her silence wasn’t on purpose! I still have some hope. Maybe Silvia made a mistake, maybe she has the wrong number too, or somehow I wrote it down wrong. My memory for numbers is worse than my ninety-five-year-old grandmother’s. I bend down and kiss her on the forehead. Her delicate skin has a subtle scent of soap, none of that Dolce & Gabbana or Calvin Klein stuff. It’s her smell, and that’s it. Beatrice, and that’s it. No cover-up.
“Thank you.”
She lets me go with a smile, and when I turn toward the door I feel a white giddiness behind me that wants to chew me up and swallow me.
Chapter 81
Beatrice’s mother thanks me and tells me that Silvia is waiting for me downstairs. I make an effort to seem relaxed.
“Thank you, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I’d like to come and see Beatrice again. And if you need anything, please count on me. You can call me anytime . . . even in the mornings.”
She laughs openly.
“You’re a smart guy, Leo. I will.”
When I walk out of the front door, Silvia is there waiting for me, leaning against a streetlight as if wanting to become part of it. She keeps her eyes fixed on mine, which barely see her as they float in pools of tears. She holds my hand, and as fragile as leaves, we walk in silence for all the remaining hours of the day, hand in hand, each finding strength not from within, but in giving strength to the other.
Chapter 82
When I get home, my mother is sitting in the living room. My father is sitting beside her. They look like two statues.
“Sit down.”
I put my backpack between my legs to defend myself from the fury that will be unleashed at me in a moment. My mother is the first to speak.
“School called. You’re at risk of failing. From today
until the end of the school year, you’re not leaving the house.”
I look at my father to figure out if it’s one of Mom’s usual speeches that then leaves room for a series of negotiations until it is reduced to withholding my allowance or getting grounded for a Saturday. But my father is dead serious. End of conversation. I say nothing. I pick up my backpack and go to my room. What do I care about this kind of punishment? If need be I’ll sneak out, and there’s no way they can keep me at home. And what can they do if I sneak out? Punish me for a year? I’ll just keep sneaking out until they punish me for life, at which point it would be pointless to add any more punishments because they would all overlap. I lie on my bed. My eyes stare at the ceiling, where Beatrice’s face appears like a fresco.
I don’t know if you’ve quite understood. I’m dying.
Her words pierce my veins like a thousand needles. I haven’t understood anything about life, about suffering, about death, about love. Me, who thought that love could conquer everything. How deluded. Like everyone: we all recite the same script in this comedy, only to be destroyed at the end. It’s not a comedy; it’s a horror story. As I turn to stone on my bed, I realize my dad has come into my room. He’s looking out the window.
“You know, Leo, I skipped school once too. My classmate’s brother had just been given a convertible Spider, and that morning we went to the seaside to try it out. I still remember the wind muffling our shouted conversations and the motor that pierced through the air like a bullet. And then the sea. And all the freedom of the sea that seemed to be ours. Everyone else was shut between the four walls of school and we were there, fast and free. I still remember that horizon, vast and without reference point, where only the sun was a limit to infinity. At that moment I realized that what was important when faced with the freedom of the sea was not having a ship to sail it, but a place to go to, a harbor, a dream for which it was worthwhile to cross all that water.”
White as Silence, Red as Song Page 12