White as Silence, Red as Song

by Alessandro D'Avenia

  “Time.”

  “Time?”

  “The time I have wasted.”

  “Wasted how?”

  “With pointless things . . . time I didn’t use for others. I could have done so much more for my mother, for my friends . . .”

  “But you still have your whole life ahead of you, Beatrice.”

  “It’s not true, Leo. My life is now behind me.”

  “You mustn’t say that. You don’t know . . . You can still get better!”

  “Leo, my surgery went badly.”

  I’m left speechless. I can’t imagine the world without Beatrice. I can’t bear the silence that would exist. All the cities to visit would instantly disappear, pointless beauty if I were alone. Everything would lose its meaning and would become white like the moon. Only love gives meaning to things.

  Beatrice, if we had fifteen ways to say I love you—like the Inuit do for snow—I would use them all for you.

  Chapter 90

  Outside Beatrice’s house the May light drips down on me, like the shower water after soccer matches with Niko. And when I turn the water off, I’ve already made it to Silvia’s house for the dreaded, never-ending Italian revision before the big test on the whole second-semester syllabus.

  We carry on until late. It’s already eleven when her mother timidly comes into the room to ask if we want something to drink. While we sip a glass of Coke that wakes us up a bit, Silvia suggests we go out on the balcony to get some air. The Milky Way seems to have given itself a polish for the occasion. I start showing Silvia some of the constellations. I repeat what Dad has taught me, possibly adding a few creative details . . . I point to the stars that are almost invisible in the glare of the city lights and that make up my favorite constellations: Perseus, Andromeda, and Pegasus.

  I tell Silvia, who slowly moves her gaze from my fingertip to the sky as if I am drawing the sky myself, the story of Perseus defeating Medusa despite her petrifying gaze, from whose blood the winged horse takes flight, as white as the foam of the sea: Pegasus, who still floats freely along the Milky Way. Perseus, who runs into Andromeda, imprisoned on a rock, waiting for a sea monster to devour her, and frees her. He frees her from the monster.

  “My father made me realize that the sky is not a screen. I used to think of it like a television, with a few colored dots scattered here and there on its surface. Instead, if you look at it carefully, the sky is like the sea. It’s deep. You can almost perceive the distances between stars, and it’s scary to think of how tiny you are. And you fill that depth of fear with stories. You know, Silvia, I didn’t realize it, but the sky is full of stories. I couldn’t see them before, but now I read them like a book. My father taught me to see the stories—otherwise they slip away, they hide, they stretch out like invisible threads of a plot between one star and another . . .”

  Silvia listens to me, staring at the luminescent dots on the uniform backdrop. Next to her the smell of the city lessens and even the streets seem scented. Silvia has peace in her heart. Silvia smiles.

  “People are a bit like stars: maybe they shine far away, but they shine, and they always have something interesting to say . . . But it takes time, sometimes lots of time, for those stories to reach our hearts, like light to our eyes. And anyhow, you also need to know how to tell stories. You’re good at it, Leo, you put passion into it. Perhaps one day you’ll become an astrophysicist or a writer.”

  “An astro what? No, I can’t tell the future . . .”

  “What are you talking about, you dope? An astrophysicist is someone who studies the sky, the stars, the celestial orbits.”

  “Who knows . . . Maybe I’d like that. But I guess there’s too much math to learn. Although the Milky Way is one of the few white things that doesn’t terrify me.”

  “How come?”

  “Maybe because the whiteness is actually made of lots of small bright dots that are linked to each other, and each of those links holds a story to remember.”

  “I guess only beautiful stories deserve constellations . . .”

  “You’re right. Look at how Perseus frees Andromeda and Pegasus glides about white and free.”

  “It takes some imagination, but—”

  I interrupt Silvia’s words, which float in the clear air up to the stars. It almost seems like the stars can hear us.

  “I’d like to free Beatrice from that monster, like Perseus did. And fly away on a winged horse.”

  “It would be nice . . .”

  “Do you think I could be a writer too?”

  “Tell me a story.”

  I remain silent. I stare at a flickering star that is redder than the others.

  “Once upon a time there was a star, a young star. Like all young stars she was tiny and white like milk. She seemed fragile, but it was only the effect of the light she radiated that turned her into pure light, almost transparent. They called her Dwarf because she was small. White, because she was bright like milk: White Dwarf, Dwarf for short. She loved wandering around the sky and meeting other stars. With the passing of time, Dwarf grew and became red and large. She was no longer Dwarf but Giant, Red Giant. All the stars envied her beauty and her red rays, like infinite strands of hair. But the secret of Red Giant was to remain Dwarf within. Simple, radiant, and as pure as Dwarf, even if she appeared giant and red. For this reason, Red Dwarf continues to flicker in the sky, from white to red and vice versa, because she is both. And there is no beauty more beautiful than her in the heavens. Or on earth.”

  I turn silent. My story is not a story. There is no story, but only what was suggested to me by a glowing star. I point to the star.

  “I want to dedicate that star to you, Silvia.”

  A white and red smile lights up Silvia’s face, as if her face is a mirror capable of reflecting the glow of her star from millions, perhaps even billions, of light-years away.

  Silvia leans her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes. And I stare silently at Perseus, Andromeda, and Pegasus. The sky has turned into a huge dark cinema screen, about to show all the movies we could wish for, while something small and bright nestles soundlessly in a corner of my heart, like a grain of sand hiding in an oyster waiting to become a pearl.

  “I love you,” Silvia’s eyes say.

  “Me too,” say mine.

  Chapter 91

  My Italian teacher gives me an oral exam and asks me why I only just started studying. I look at Silvia who is gently shaking her head, and I swallow the words I am about to say—but I know who I must thank. Only one thing goes badly in the test: I get my subjunctives wrong.

  “Why do you get all your subjunctives wrong, Leo? It’s almost like you do it on purpose. Even the simplest ones.”

  Again I say nothing and curse the day when, to be accepted by the group I hung out with in middle school, I decided to give up the subjunctive case because none of them used it. You can give up the subjunctive to be part of a gang, but not if you want to speak Italian. And so I get a seven instead of an eight.

  Tomorrow I’m going to start repeating sentences with the subjunctive, whether I like it or not. There, I just did it. I like it, even if it means having to correct it in everything I write. If I want to become a writer, I need to learn to use the subjunctive tense. Sure, the subjunctive isn’t essential to life, but thanks to it you live better: life becomes filled with nuances and possibilities. And this is the only life I have.

  Chapter 92

  I go see Beatrice, and she’s writing in her diary. Like Silvia does. She greets me with a smile and asks me to help her write. Nobody reads her diary, but she will give me permission if I write it for her.

  “If you help me write I’ll let you read it,” she says, and it feels like I’m stepping into the room that holds all the world’s secrets.

  It has a red cover and white pages. White and unlined. The worst thing that could happen to me . . .

  “Beatrice, I can’t write on unlined pages. I might spoil everything.”

  I s
ay this while staring at Beatrice’s immaculately tidy handwriting. The date in the upper right-hand corner and the thoughts formulated in her delicate, elegant, and precise handwriting. It looks like a white dress on a windy day in spring. I read the paragraph that she’s writing: “Dear God . . .”

  What does she mean, “Dear God”?! Yes: “Dear God . . .” Beatrice writes letters to God. Her entire diary is made up of brief letters to God, in which she describes her days and confides in him with her fears, joys, sadness, hopes. I reread the last part of today’s letter out loud because she asks me to, so we can pick up from where she had left off.

  “I’m really very tired today. I’m struggling to write to you, yet there are so many things I’d like to say. But I take comfort in the fact that you already know everything. Despite this, I still like telling you about things. It helps me understand them better. I wonder if up in the sky I will be able to have my red hair again . . . If you made my hair red, it’s because you liked it like that, full of life. So maybe I will get it back.”

  As I read, my voice is on the verge of cracking, but I manage to stop myself.

  “Now, Leo, you can write: ‘I was getting really worn out by writing today, and my hand was hurting. Fortunately, you sent me Leo, one of your guardian angels.’”

  I’ve never thought of myself as a guardian, let alone an angel, but I don’t dislike the thought at all. Leo the guardian angel. It sounds good. In the meantime Beatrice has stopped to think. She stares blankly, her green eyes appearing like a forgotten seabed from which an ancient treasure is about to emerge any moment now. I interrupt her trance.

  “Are you happy, Beatrice?”

  She continues staring into space and, after a pause, says, “Yes, I am.”

  When I look up from her diary, she has drifted off to sleep. I stroke her and it feels like I am stroking her weakness. She doesn’t notice. She’s sleeping. I sit there looking at her for half an hour without saying a word. By looking at her I see beyond. I sense something that frightens me because I am unable to give it a name. I read over what we wrote. This time it is me who has made someone’s soul visible. Beatrice’s soul, with my skewed, slanted handwriting . . . Every line I have written points downward. I only realize that now. I don’t know how to write on a white page. It’s as if the words were rolling down a cliff until shattering.

  Then her mother comes in and I leave. She kisses my forehead and I, not knowing what to do, give her a hug. From the way she thanks me, I realize I have done the right thing. Since I’ve been trying to live for Beatrice too, I seem to have come up with all sorts of good things. This too is love, I guess, because afterward I’m happy—and the secret to happiness is a heart filled with love. I’ll take Terminator out for a pee today, even if I have to do it for the rest of my life. Beatrice can’t, but I can. This too is life.

  If Beatrice writes to him, God surely must exist.

  Chapter 93

  I waste time writing my MNS (messages never sent) on my cell phone. The truth is that T9 is smarter than me. T9 can think of seventy-five thousand words and I can only think of a thousand. And it’s true. There are so many words I don’t know, can’t think of, words I’ve never heard of and that T9 suggests to me. I don’t know if the plural of luggage has an s or not, but T9 knows. I don’t know if conscience has an i in it, but T9 knows. I don’t know if acceleration has one l or two. And when I want to cuss out someone, by the fourth letter it has changed the word to something else, forcing me to reconsider and find a less offensive synonym.

  Who invented T9 anyway? Goodness knows how much money they made with it. I should also invent something that will make me a load of money. Maybe if I applied myself more I could do it. Maybe not. And if I write a novel I’ll write it using T9. Why do I waste time thinking about stuff like this?

  Whatever it is, I find myself having written—goodness knows how—“Dear Fin” because the word God doesn’t come up on T9. And to me Fin doesn’t seem a bad nickname for God. The name God scares me. I carry on writing, just like I did with Beatrice, except at least the lines stay straight on my cell: “You say you are our father, but you seem a bit too laid back up there in heaven. I don’t know your name, so if you don’t mind I’ll call you Fin, because that is what T9 calls you. I can’t accept your will because what you are doing to Beatrice makes no sense. If you are almighty: save her. If you are merciful: make her better. You put a dream in my heart: don’t take it away from me. If you care about me: show it. Or are you too weak to be Fin? You say you are life, but you take life away. You say you are love, but you make love impossible. You say you are truth, but the truth is that you don’t care about me and you can’t change things. It’s no surprise then that nobody believes in you. Perhaps I’m being presumptuous, but if I were in your place, the first thing I’d do—and you don’t need to be Fin to get this—is to make Beatrice better. Amen.”

  A message interrupts me as I’m writing and I read it out loud.

  “Always remember that I’m here. I care about you, even though you don’t deserve it. ;-) S.”

  Silvia is an angel and is in direct contact with God, so maybe I should ask her if she has Fin’s cell phone number so I can send him the message. Fin, I’m sure that you’ll make Beatrice better! I would if I were in your place, and I hope you’re better than me . . .

  Chapter 94

  I’m back at Beatrice’s. I was beginning to get worried, but then her mother sent me a message. I find her asleep, thinner, opaque. An IV counts the passing seconds, drop by drop. She opens her eyes and her smile seems to come from somewhere far away, the way old people smile, with melancholy.

  “I’m so tired, but I’m happy you’ve come. I wanted to write in my diary, but I can’t hold my pen. I feel like such an idiot.”

  I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and secretly put it behind the page I must write on: a piece of lined paper to write straight lines on the white page. When I want to, I really do apply myself! I write what Beatrice dictates. Occasionally she stops, her voice breaks, she has shortness of breath. Then she dozes off. I wait and watch her drift away like a boat without a motor, without a sail, without oars, carried by the current. She opens her eyes again.

  “I am too tired . . . You tell me something, Leo.”

  I don’t know what to talk about. I don’t want to tire her with my nonsense. I tell her about school and about my struggles, about what happened this year, about The Dreamer, about Gandalf, about Niko, and about the soccer tournament that the Pirates are about to win. I tell her about Silvia, about the times she saved me from trouble, about the day she skipped school with me and then encouraged me to come and see her . . . Then Beatrice suddenly interrupts me.

  “Your eyes shine when you talk about Silvia, like a star . . .”

  Beatrice can say incredible sentences with the simplicity of a child asking for yet another cookie. I remain silent like someone who has been subjected to great injustice but can do nothing to defend himself. I can’t love Silvia. I can and want to only love Beatrice, yet she is the one telling me that my eyes shine like stars when I talk about Silvia.

  “Have you ever fallen in love, Beatrice?”

  She answers yes with a gentle sigh and says nothing. I realize it would be inappropriate to ask her anything else, but I also know that only she has the right answers.

  “And what was it like?”

  “It was like a home to go back to whenever I wanted. Like when you go scuba diving. Down there everything is still and motionless. There is absolute silence. There is peace. And maybe when you resurface the sea is rough.”

  I listen in silence and get the feeling that the words I’ve used in my life need to be reexamined for their definition of love, even though as things currently stand if I search for that word the only thing written there is “see under Beatrice.” While I’m absorbed in these pointless thoughts, Beatrice becomes startlingly drowsy, as if fading. Or perhaps she’s just keeping her eyes closed, but I realize that it’
s time for me to go.

  Silvia is blue, not red. Yet my eyes shine in her blue.

  Chapter 95

  When you don’t know the answer to a question, there’s only one solution: Wikipedia. However, Wikipedia says nothing about whether Silvia could be more than a friend to me. The question plagues me like the summer cicadas and I can’t drive it away. I try to split the question in two. Does Silvia love me? Do I love Silvia? I take at least eleven tests on Facebook to find out if someone loves you. The result is clear-cut: Silvia does everything with me that a person in love does, but who doesn’t have the courage to say it. My turn now. But I don’t want to find out with a test. It’s too important. I need to verify in person.

  “Silvia, can we study together? I need help with Greek poets.”

  Poetry definitely has no purpose. It is just an excuse to fall in love.

  Chapter 96

  While Silvia is repeating the translation of some very difficult verses by Sappho—“Immortal Aphrodite, on your intricately brocaded throne”—I stare at her without listening to the words, following the movement of her lips.

  “And you, O Blessed Goddess, asked what had happened this time, why did I call again, and what did I especially desire for myself in my frenzied heart . . .”

  I follow the waves of her black hair fluttering as she pronounces the words. Wings of a seagull effortlessly gliding in the wind.

  “Come to me now once again and release me from grueling anxiety. All that my heart longs for, fulfill . . .”

  I stare at her blue eyes, full of life and attention for me. For the second time I don’t look at her eyes, but into her eyes. I dive into a calm and refreshing blue sea.

  “What’s the matter, Leo?”

  I shake myself out of the reverie I had plunged into without realizing and from which I have no desire to be awakened.